The Five Bells and Bladebone

by Martha Grimes

  This bustle might have made him feel like a sluggard had he not been a sensible man who had got his priorities straight some years ago. Having swept out his titles of Earl of Caverness, fifth Viscount Ardry, and all the rest, he could settle down in his well-aired family seat of Ardry End and enjoy his fortune.

  Well, it was spring! he thought. Just smell that air —

  • • •

  Unfortunately the air that Scroggs had ushered in when he opened the door had also ushered in Melrose’s aunt, being extremely ostentatious with her crutches, which she leaned first here, and then there, groping her way to the chintz-cushioned bench. That Melrose made only the smallest gesture toward assisting her was not because he wasn’t a gentleman, but because he knew the bandaged ankle was pure trumpery, something she’d got the local doctor to do with many a painful and laborious sigh on both parts.

  “I rang the house. You weren’t there,” she said, thumping herself down at his table with a practiced moan.

  “That’s very observant of you, Agatha,” he said, filling in D-O-L-T where T-O-L-D was called for. This was fun.

  “Thought you said he was coming today, Melrose.”

  “Jury? He is.”

  Never the one to kowtow to the needs of others, Lady Ardry wound out the little window behind her, sending down a shower of petals from the climbing roses, and called to Dick Scroggs to bring her her shooting sherry.

  “Can’t see why the man isn’t in here tending to business rather than slapping on that bilious blue paint.”

  A three-letter word to use in place of tin. Melrose pondered. “Well, since the Blue Parrot is doing such a whale of a business, Scroggs is afraid it’ll snap up all the tourist trade.”

  “What tourists? That’s why we like it here. No strangers running amok tossing iced-lolly wrappers on the pavement, no screaming kiddies. What’s happened to him, then?”

  Melrose looked up quizzically.

  “To Superintendent Jury.” You stupid nit, the sigh said.

  Ah! That was it! thought Melrose, his pen poised over the crossword. “He’s had a flat tire,” lied Melrose while filling in N-I-T. Since she seemed to think he was equipped with radar for tracking Richard Jury’s movements, it would only encourage her to guess at Jury’s arrival time.

  “I knew something would happen. Always does. This is the third, no, the fourth time he’s been supposed to visit —” She broke off and demanded her glass of sherry as Dick came in with his paint tin. Dick kept on walking.

  Melrose changed the subject. “What are you doing in here when you are supposed to be in your cottage resting your foot?”

  “I’m making quite sure my witnesses will stick to their story. Miss Crisp is already wavering. And here comes Vivian, who certainly is no help at all.”

  • • •

  Vivian Rivington, looking like the harbinger of spring in a pale pink frock, told Agatha that she was being ridiculous, that she should forgive and forget. Vivian added, “Actually, it’s Mr. Jurvis who should forgive. You’re the one causing the trouble, Agatha. Where’s Superintendent Jury?” Any interest in Agatha’s “case” was forgotten in the light of an event that came round less often than an eclipse of the sun.

  “He’s had a breakdown. No, not a nervous one. He’s had a flat tire on the M-1. Called me from one of those Trusthouse Forte restaurants.” Gleefully, Melrose found another four-letter word: fool. It ran through the O and L for dolt. Perhaps he had a talent in an unsuspected quarter, making up puzzles for the Times. Eagerly he filled it in and awaited the next challenge.

  • • •

  That might have been found in the appearance of Marshall Trueblood, looking like a maypole. Today a flame-red scarf was twisted in the neck of a tea-rose-yellow shirt in such a way that the ends hung like streamers.

  Agatha, already in a fit of pique over Vivian’s ignoring her plight, apparently found her archenemy’s entrance a bit too much for human endurance. “Well, one knows who one’s friends are when it comes to a legal battle.” She reached, as if painfully, for her crutches.

  “Old sweat,” said Trueblood, “I couldn’t agree more. If I hear the odious bookshop owner villify me again, I’ll sue and have you beat him to death with your crutch. And where is Richard Jury? Thought he was supposed to be here by now.”

  Without looking up from his paper, Melrose said, “He’s had a flat on the M-1 and called to say he might be late as he’s waiting for the garage to fix it.” (Idiot would just pick up that T in nit.) “Met an old chum there, he said, and he’s having a nice long natter.”

  Vivian asked with suspicion, “Old chum? What sort?”

  “Female sort. He’s having tea with her in the Trusthouse Forte at the Woburn turn-off.”

  Melrose smiled round the table and went back to his puzzle.

  Three

  IT WAS JURY, but he was not finishing tea in a Trusthouse Forte on the M-1. He was in his Islington flat, trying to finish his packing. His packing and his argument. Tossing socks and shirts into a duffel bag, he was trying to talk the tenant from upstairs out of her latest harebrained behavior.

  The tenant from upstairs, Carole-anne Palutski, was paying precious little attention, for she was too busy making small adjustments to her exotic costume in front of Jury’s mirror.

  As she applied more Poppies-from-Heav’n lipstick, Jury said, “He wants a shop assistant, love, not a belly dancer.” He held up a Shetland sweater, inspecting it for mothy bites. He frowned.

  “That’s what you know. Andrew’ll love my outfit. Add a bit of sparkle and shine to the shop.” She put her arms out straight and spun briefly like a top.

  And some outfit it was: gold netting over cerise silk for the brief top; the same silk for the pantaloons; gold braiding round the bottom of the halter and the top of the pants, allowing an even stronger definition of the naked torso in between. Not completely naked, no: something filmy covered the skin there, serving the illusion that it was even more skinlike. And round her coppery hair, Carole-anne had affixed a band of crushed gold lamé, a fake sapphire embedded in the center.

  Talk about gilding a lily. Carole-anne was too beautiful in a chenille bathrobe for her own good, much less in her new harem costume.

  There was a tiny tinkle as she rose on her toes to get in one or two stretching exercises before going off to work. Jury looked over the top of the sweater where he had found a moth hole big enough to put three fingers through. “Do I hear bells?”

  She was huffing a bit as she did her jumping jacks. “It’s just these,” she said, sticking out her foot. Tiny bells were strung round her ankle below the layers of pantaloon.

  “I hope the camel train makes it,” said Jury. “If the Riffs don’t carry you away, you’ll be able to get to your lessons.” It was her missing her acting lesson that had caused the argument. She had whined and whined about Jury’s arguing her out of that all-night job in a Leicester Square club because it interfered with her acting career. Now the reverse was true; she loved her daytime job at the little shop in Covent Garden so much, she wasn’t finding time for her acting. And it hadn’t taken long for Jury to believe that Carole-anne was an extraordinary actress. To say nothing of those knock-’em-in-the-aisle looks.

  She flopped on the sofa, sprawling like a ten-year-old, musical ankles resting on the coffee table. “I’ve only got that little-bitty part in Camden-bloody-Town. It’s not even speaking.”

  She made such a meal of the word, and such a face with it, Jury wanted to laugh. “You don’t need to speak. As Mrs. Wassermann says, ‘She walks down the street, it’s an entire conversation.’ I thought you wanted to be another Shirley MacLaine. Or was it Julie Andrews? Although I can’t see you running downhill in a dirndl. Besides, you can’t sing.”

  “I don’t want to be them. I wish to play Medea.”

  He looked up from his duffel bag. “You wish to play who?”

  Having cadged one of Jury’s cigarettes, she was now wrapping her toes round the tele
phone receiver, trying to lift it. “I saw it on the telly, Zoë Caldwell, you ever seen her?”

  Sorting through mismatched socks, Jury said, “Take your acting lessons for maybe two millennia and you might get to understudy her understudy.” He nodded at her costume. “If you take off those rags.”

  “Well, I agree, the costumes in Medea should be changed. I was thinking maybe updating it and wearing my red.”

  “Your ‘red.’ I can just see Medea in Chinatown red. And get your foot off my telephone.”

  It chose that moment to ring.

  “Don’t answer,” said Carole-anne, in a stagey whisper. “It’s probably only SB-stroke-H.”

  The telephone brred. “I hear seldom from Miss Bredon-Hunt. You took care of that. Who it is, is probably C-stroke-S Racer. Damn.” Jury strangled his socks.

  Carole-anne bounced up. “Let me answer, say you’ve gone. Oh, do, do, do.”

  It was hideously unprofessional, but then so was the chief superintendent’s calling him on the first day of his holiday to delay him at best, or to keep him in London at worst. Jury nodded.

  “ ‘El-lo,” she fluted, reclining on the sofa in perfect harem position. “Sup-er-in-ten-dent Jury’s flat.” Silence. “Oh, it’s you, love.” She had the syllables pouring like syrup. “Just missed him, you did. Gone to Northants.” Her sigh was long and sad, as if both she and the speaker knew how much Superintendent Jury would be missed. “No . . . . His friend’s ex-directory.” Pause. “Oh, love, I wouldn’t, now, if I was you. It’s Lord Caverness or something like that. Very sick, ‘e is.” Carole-anne’s accent was surfacing. “Funeral? Well, he ain’t — isn’t — dead yet, dearie. Just dying is all. That’s right. Lingering illness, yes.”

  Poor Melrose Plant. Ill, dying, dead. She was so convincing, he was almost hoping he’d make it to Northants in time.

  Jury gave her a black look. But Carole-anne was deep into her role. Once she had told Racer she was Jury’s char. Now she was charring it up by polishing his coffee table with his socks. “Oooooohhh.” She made a silly, kissing sound with her Poppies-from-Heav’n lips. “Now that is a shame, dear . . . .”

  And Jury (to say nothing of Racer) was treated to an aching monologue on love, marriage, and mistresses, in which Carole-anne sat, legs crossed, painted fingers arched on knee, eyes raised to ceiling as if there she saw her script.

  Jury was mesmerized; he couldn’t help it. He just stood with two clean shirts he meant to put in his bag, listening. She became her role. For the time on the telephone, she was whatever the situation demanded. When she hung it up, she would immediately be Carole-anne again.

  Plunk went the receiver. “These ones have holes,” she said, holding up two socks that she had slipped over her hands.

  “What the hell did he say?”

  She was up now, trying to do some sort of a wiggle. “Him? Oh, just he hoped you’d have a good time. Is he kinky, or something? Do funerals always make him laugh? Listen, do you think I could do it?”

  “Huh? Do what?”

  “Belly-dance. I mean the real kind. Takes a lot of training, I expect.”

  “Carole-anne, you could be Prime Minister if you wanted to.”

  She stopped grinding away, stood arms akimbo and feet splayed, looking like a gorgeous clown. Her hands still wore Jury’s socks. She was thinking. “I dunno. Maggie’s costumes are so dowdy.” Then she ran at Jury, hugged him, gave him a whopping kiss, and ran out.

  It would never have occurred to her to tell him she’d miss him.

  Just as it would never have occurred to her she couldn’t be Prime Minister, if it hadn’t been for the dowdy clothes.

  • • •

  He’d tried calling in at the basement flat but found it empty. When he went up the stone steps and out to his car, he saw Mrs. Wassermann chugging along the pavement with her shopping bag. Upwards from its rim stuck some celery, behind it a lettuce.

  “Such prices he’s asking, Mr. Jury.” The greengrocer on Upper Street had come in for a good trouncing several times lately. “Oh, thank you.”

  Jury had taken the bag from her, and walked with her down the steps.

  “Now, I know you must be going, but wait here, there’s something for you.” Inside she popped and was back again with a picnic basket. “Your evening meal. I know how men are, they don’t stop. They’re impatient.”

  “Well, thank you, Mrs. Wassermann.” She always fixed him something if she found he was going farther away than Victoria Street. Last year, it had been Brighton, call for two sandwiches. This year, he was going much farther, and staying much longer. That meant a banquet. Half a cold chicken, salad, gâteau, two bottles of Carlsberg. He smiled. “This will last me my whole holiday.”

  “I certainly hope so.” There was the strong suggestion that out there in the bush with strange people, Jury would never get a proper meal. “It is much nicer to have you here. But I’ve Carole-anne to keep me company. So sweet, that child is. She comes in most nights and tells my fortune. And yours.” She was unpinning her small, black hat from her coil of gray hair.

  “Mine? How can she tell my fortune if I’m not here?” He could hardly wait.

  “But you know she’s clairvoyant. A seventh sense she says she has.”

  Not even six were enough for Carole-anne. Since she’d started working for Andrew Starr she thought she could fly off roofs. “How does it look, my future?”

  She rocked her hand back and forth. “Oh, so-so, Mr. Jury. Not bad,” she was quick to add. “But . . . well, not much of anything.”

  “No exotic women on night-trains, that it?”

  “For me, she sees a handsome stranger. Tell me,” she held her arms out and looked up and down the street. “Here, there are handsome strangers?”

  “And me?” Jury stuck his tongue in his cheek.

  “For you, no one.” Mrs. Wassermann sighed. “And I thought that Miss Bredon-Hunt . . . well, you know. I don’t pry, Mr. Jury.”

  “Hmm. That doesn’t seem to be working out very well —”

  “Oh, it won’t work out at all. What a pity. Such a handsome girl. Still . . . you shouldn’t be forever living alone. Nothing’s ever certain with the stars, of course, but it does look like you’ll be living here with us for some time to come.” Mrs. Wassermann turned her head upwards, saying, “That empty flat, so big and sunny. But people look at it and never come back.”

  Of course they don’t, thought Jury. Carole-anne is actually being paid to show it. The landlord hasn’t twigged it yet.

  “Well, to tell the truth, Mrs. Wassermann, I think it’s nice with just the three of us —”

  Shouting down from the top floor came the voice of Carole-anne. She was waving and calling words lost in the spring breeze. Jury saw she’d changed; now she was sporting a dark dress buttoned right up to the neck. Long sleeves, no ornament. The spellbinding hair was pulled back. She could have played the role of the housekeeper in Max de Winter’s burning mansion.

  They both waved upwards, and Jury turned away, thanking Mrs. Wassermann again for the wonderful food.

  Actually, Jury hated eating in the car.

  He was a dreadful dawdler on holiday, and would probably hit every service area with a Trusthouse Forte on the M-1.

  Four

  FOLLOWING A BRIEF and unlovely prayer that the man would burn in hell, Joanna Lewes slapped the carriage return of her Smith-Corona and stared at the scene she was in the middle of writing. Far from springing to life before her, the characters lay there sculptured in concrete like effigies on a tomb.

  Joanna had discovered long ago that the only way to keep from thinking was to write, since her own writing did not even tip its hat to muses who had long past fled the scene.

  She kneaded her shoulder, and wondered how much nudity was allowed. And should Matt push Valerie down on the bed roughly? Or lower her tenderly? These questions were not prompted by any desire on her part to make the novel “good,” or even a snappy read. They were merely points
that had to be borne in mind in light of whichever editor she planned on sending the completed manuscript to. At the moment she had three — three editors, three separate publishing houses, and three pseudonyms in addition to those books written under her own name. Now she was bringing out her fourth, the “Heather Quicks,” a new and innovative series, though in her genre, innovation was unlikely to be looked upon kindly.

  Joanna rustled through the mess of papers on top of her desk, found an apple core in the pencil-holder and a satsuma peel doing duty as a bookmark, but couldn’t find her Requirements List. She yanked out the desk drawer, stuffed like a turkey with balled-up, coffee-stained papers, several cigarette butts, a fruit scone hairy with mold, a vial of Valium, and a small screw of jelly babies. Finally, she found the list of publishers’ guidelines she had compiled. Number one was Bennick and Company. She read: 5 hot lips scns, min; 150 pp. TOPS; nude allwed—brsts expsd hfy. Hfy? What had she meant? Halfway, that was it. Breast exposure. Number two on the list was Sabers. The Big Bang scene midway, three-quarters, and last chapter but one. Nudity, to waist. Two hundred pages.

  There were five other publishers singing subtle variations of those requirements. She decided to write this one for Bennick because it would save her fifty pages of mind-numbing boredom and because she had a stockpile of love scenes, any of them ripe for transplantation into London Love, thereby saving her another possible thirty or forty pages of work.

  As she pecked away at the ancient typewriter, she wondered how these people could have the gall to tell you to read at least thirty of their romances before you even put pen to paper. To read even one or two was a torment beyond imagining; she had got halfway through one. That, plus the last chapter, had given her a complete education in writing romances. Simply looking at the cover of the book would have sufficed.

  Joanna sighed and typed. Like Trollope, she kept a watch on her desk — in her case, a stopwatch. Her goal was the same as Trollope’s, two hundred and fifty words every fifteen minutes. If she was short, the slack would have to be taken up in the next quarter-hour and so on. Thus the end of her writing day was often a race to the death. In these sprints she sometimes forgot the names of her hero and heroine, which didn’t bother her at all, since her characters, except for considerations of age and sex, were interchangeable. If there was one thing Joanna didn’t believe in, it was artistic integrity. Artistic integrity was a luxury for paupers. All she wanted was money.