“I should have known you’d take that tone.”
As he once again reminded her it was either no case at all or, at most, a small claims case, the telephone rang. He nearly jumped to answer it and was relieved when Jury’s voice came on the line. “Immediately,” said Melrose, nearly dropping the receiver in his haste to collect his walking stick and raincoat.
• • •
“Pub near a church,” said Melrose. “Pub near the church.” He and Constable Pluck were leaning over the blackened letter. “That should narrow it down to about a thousand possibles.”
Jury told Pluck to get a facsimile of the letter from Northampton and said, “Maybe not. It’s either E-one or E-fourteen, so we’ve narrowed it to Wapping, Stepney, Whitechapel, Limehouse.” He put the letter away and said to Melrose, “That new pub you mentioned. Let’s have a go at the manager, shall we?”
Twelve
THE SIGN of the Blue Parrot hung hawklike over the Northampton road. Anyone out for a cheerful carouse might have taken its artwork for a band of gypsies dancing on top of a caravan. Up closer, the figures were clearer, but still life-sized. The Blue Parrot (the eastward-pointing arrow told the driver) was located down a furrowed dirt road that no one would be tempted to investigate except a farmer searching for strayed cows.
“ ‘The Blue Parrot.’ Wasn’t that Sydney Greenstreet’s pub, the one in Casablanca? And the only parrot I can make out is in the background there, sitting on someone’s head,” said Melrose.
“How does he do any business, then, out here?” Jury studied the huge, bizarre sign, meant to represent one of those cafés full of smoke and beaded curtains, flimsily draped ladies and swarthy-faced men with eye-patches or knives in their teeth — the sort meant to suggest Tangier and the Casbah — that probably never existed, anyway.
Melrose accelerated and the Silver Ghost ran smoothly down the dirt road as if it were spinning on satin. “He does quite well. He’s got all of the youth of Dorking Dean and many from Northampton convinced it’s an opium den. No, no, he doesn’t push the stuff. It’s just a self-fulfilling prophecy, that’s all. They go there and smoke whatever they smoke and drink some of his home brew and think they’re in Cairo, or one of those places Peter Lorre was always turning up in in dark glasses. The place was empty, nearly derelict for years. I’m sure Sly bought it for tuppence, tarted it up out here in the fields, and joined the campaign for real ale.”
The pub lay ahead, a bright-blue-washed, but otherwise undistinguished building, poking out of acres of stubble turned gold by the setting sun. In the strange light, and without the screen of trees through which they had just passed, the Blue Parrot shimmered like a mirage.
Plant stopped in a circular courtyard consisting of almost-buried bricks around a dry basin in which birds were having a dust bath. The silver sheen of the Rolls, a ray of sun sparking its roof, contributed to the mirage-effect. Above the dark-beamed doorway was another sign, this one appreciably smaller, but no less suggestive, depicting a veiled lady with a jeweled forehead and a turbaned man in bloomers about to enter what was surely meant to be a den of drug-laced iniquity. A camel, like an afterthought, was tethered to one side, as if they’d just tied it up for a bit while they went shopping.
“Is this Mr. Sly an Arab or an Alexandrine?”
“He’s from Todcaster. Years ago this used to be the old Pig and Whistle. He took down the pig and stuck up the camel. He appears to favor the desert.”
An understatement if there ever was one, thought Jury, who was almost ready to believe everyone came here on camels. In the shadowy environs of the Blue Parrot, ceiling fans churned creakily in the cool darkness, fake palm trees were stuck in the deserted corners, and a camel train threaded its way in gold across the top of the long mirror over the bar. Each of the cane tables spotted down the length of the room was adorned with a small, plastic camel that held a box of matches on its back like a tiny howdah. There was also a large cardboard cutout of a camel just inside the door, its hump a chalkboard on which was written the day’s menu. Jury wondered if Miss Crisp had a strong sideline going of plaster and cardboard animals. The only thing missing, oddly enough, was the blue parrot itself.
“Maybe he sent it out for stuffing,” said Jury.
“Just so long as it’s not the special of the day,” said Melrose. “Look at that —” Melrose tapped the tip of his walking stick on the chalked-up hump. “It’s written in Arabic — well, let’s say something that vaguely resembles Arabic.”
Jury squinted, trying to make out the translation. “ ‘Kifta Mishwi’; what the devil’s that?”
“I’m having the camel custard myself,” said Melrose, wandering to the bar.
“That’s ‘caramel custard,’ ” Jury called after him, noting that macaroni cheese was safely there, as were a few sandwiches. He followed Melrose to the bar.
From beyond the beaded curtain at the far end, a tall gentleman had emerged. Not so much tall as long, perhaps. Trevor Sly had associated too long with camels, for he had a face a little like the dromedary back there — long and lantern-jawed, and with a brown, ubiquitous eye whose focus was slightly off-center, giving the eerie impression that it could take in everything at once. His thin hands flopped at the wrists, for he carried his forearms slightly raised, in that sleepwalking way of some people. Jury could imagine him in one of those fields out there, a scarecrow keeping limp watch over his acre. Though from the sharp look, Jury doubted Sly’s head was stuffed with straw.
“Gentlemen, gentlemen. So glad. Ah, it’s Mr. Plant from Ardry End. Delighted, delighted. We don’t see enough of you, do we?” Sly could waggle and tut his words as well as his long finger.
“No,” said Melrose.
“And whose acquaintance might I have the pleasure of here?” asked Trevor Sly, offering a dead-fish handshake.
“Mr. Jury,” said Melrose, looking straight in Sly’s eye as if he meant to correct its alignment with the rest of the world.
Jury smiled. He imagined that Plant’s own penny-wise speech was meant to weigh against Sly’s overspending, thus keeping a balance. “I’m with Scotland Yard C.I.D., Mr. Sly.” He showed his warrant card.
The man threw up his long hands and said, “Oh, God! Isn’t it awful? A murderer right here amongst us?” His expression did not reflect the awfulness of the situation. It seemed to make him feel quite spry.
“Just a few questions,” said Jury.
“And food,” said Melrose. “I’m starving.”
“Certainly, certainly, my dear people. Now, our special this evening is —”
“Something I’ve never heard of.” Melrose was studying the bar menu. “I’ll have it. And an Old Peculier. Mr. Jury would probably like the Kibbi Bi-Saniyyi.” Melrose slotted the menu between the mustard pot and the napkin dispenser.
“Roast beef sandwich and horseradish sauce,” said Jury. “And a pint of your Tangier.”
Melrose frowned. “Then bring me both of them.”
“Good choice; I like a man that’s adventurous. Are you sure, Mr. Plant, you won’t try the Cairo Flame?”
“No, thanks. That’s one adventure I can do without.”
Trevor Sly was obviously enjoying this badinage, probably soaking it up like his own strong brew, to tell his customers Scotland Yard drinks on the job with the nobs of the county. “I’ll just get your food, then.” He drew their pints, the stout rising to its feathery heights, the Tangier with only the barest trace of bubble looking flat as death.
Jury took a long drink and nearly fell off the stool. “Strong stuff.”
As Melrose studied the mirror-camels, Jury turned to look at the wall opposite. Among the pictures there was one of the handsome profile of Lawrence of Arabia, closely placed to a big poster of the equally handsome Peter O’Toole, a montage that showed him in one scene walking across the tops of a black line of train cars against an endless waste of sand and sky. Trevor Sly must have thought Arabia and India were hand-in-glove, for the second fil
m poster was an advertisement for A Passage to India, showing the long caravan with Dame Peggy Ashcroft seated in a howdah wearing that expression of empathy and invincibility that only Peggy Ashcroft could. The posters were side-by-side, the camel-train oddly resembling the line of boxcars; yet though the dark caravan and train seemed to be moving inexorably toward one another, the lines were so placed on the posters, it was clear that Peggy and Peter would never meet.
Jury found this terribly sad and turned back to the bar.
At that moment, Trevor Sly came down the bar with their plates of food and condiments held on his arms in lieu of a tray. Long as they were, the arms could probably have accommodated a service for six. He set it before them, with napkins and cutlery, and drew himself a Cairo Flame. When he sat on the high stool, he could twist and twine his legs round each other like rope. His writhing and churning made Jury think of a restless spoon in a stew pot. Melrose frowned at his plate. “This is nothing but beef mince and chips. This is what they eat in the Sudan? And this other one —” He poked moodily at the second plate. “— is just like this.” He prodded the first plate.
“Basically, it is. Too bad, but I ran out of grape leaves, pita bread, and charcoal.”
“Can’t imagine why,” said Melrose, unrolling his cutlery.
“Did you know Simon Lean, Mr. Sly?” asked Jury.
“Yes. He came in here several times. Lends a bit of tone, doesn’t it, someone from up at Watermeadows.”
“By himself?”
“Two or three times, yes. Once with his wife, once with that writer-person, Joanna Lewes.” That he expected this to be quite a meaty morsel was clear.
It was. Melrose stopped pushing his mince around the plate and stared up at Sly. “What? Are you sure it was Miss Lewes he was with?”
“Certainly. I’ve read all her books and her picture’s right on the back.” Sly took another mouthful of his Cairo Flame. “I never forget a face; customers like that.” He hitched his stool a bit closer and rewound himself. “It’d just gone three and no one else was here. They sat way over there” — he nodded toward the far corner to a table by one of the fake palms — “and I couldn’t hear them, but I’d say she was a bit unhappy. Yes, I’d go so far as to say she wasn’t happy at all. Not at all.” He twined his fingers tightly while his high forehead pleated like an accordion in his effort to find the cause of the Lewes woman’s unhappiness. “I’m not saying I heard anything, mind you. It was just the look of her, see; ever so taut she was, sitting there.”
“It was only the one time?” asked Jury.
“That’s right. To tell the truth, I couldn’t help but be surprised. I mean, she’s not exactly dishy, is she? Nice enough, I expect, but he’s the sort — well, you hear things, don’t you?”
“What sort of things?” said Jury, finishing off Plant’s highly spiced dish.
“Mr. Lean likes his women, that’s what.” His smile was like broken twigs, thin and tiny at the corners, spliced in the center.
“Any particular women?” asked Melrose, who had shoved his barely tasted food to one side.
“I’ve heard talk of something going on between him and that Demorney person.”
“Do you know her?” asked Jury.
“To see, I do. Come in here two or three times by herself. But she never come in with him. Awful cold, that’s what I think. Still, I expect that’s what some men like.” Here he smoothed back his thin hair, disturbing the artful arrangement of strands that covered the bald spot, and went on about Watermeadows. “There’s just the three of them, you know. No proper live-in staff, and with that big house. Only that old butler and the gardener that comes in now and again for a taste. Lives down the road, here. Name’s Joe Bream. And then there’s his Jewel that comes in to cook for me when I’m in a bit of a rush. She goes to Watermeadows four times a week and I guess they eat leftovers the rest of the time. Right spooky, she calls it. Mostly she never sees a living soul. The wife keeps to herself and so does the old lady. Jewel, that’s Joe’s missus, told me once it put her in mind of that horror film where everybody talks about Mother but there’s not one. It’s just people’s souls get sucked into this room, or something.”
Jury smiled at the notion of Lady Summerston’s rooms sucking up people’s souls. “Tell Mrs. Bream that there really is a Lady Summerston. You say this Jewel cooks for you?” Jury made a note in his small notebook. When Sly nodded, he asked: “Then did she cook up this tasty dish?” Jury nodded toward the plate and pocketed his pen.
“No, indeed. That’s me does the Kibbi Bi-Saniyyi, and to my mind you’d have to go all the way to Lebanon to get better.”
“I’ll crawl on my hands and knees,” said Melrose.
Jury smiled. “It’s very good, Mr. Sly. Very . . . exotic.”
Trevor Sly writhed a bit at the compliment and slid from his stool. “It’s a treat to serve them that appreciates good food, Mr. Jury. The British stick too much to their roast beef and potatoes. Now, I insist you just try a mouthful of my Cairo Flame.” He was fussing about the beer pulls.
“He’s already paralytic,” said Melrose, pulling out his cigar case and offering it around.
“A mouthful is all we have time for, I’m afraid,” said Jury. “We’ve got to be off.” He picked up his notebook.
The strangely thick-looking brew was set before him and Jury took a swallow too quickly. It felt like Sergeant Wiggins’s description of an asthma attack: instead of a column of air, his throat felt like two boards pressing closer and closer together. He said, somewhat laryngetically, “A wonderful drink for sword swallowers, Mr. Sly.”
Trevor Sly fairly twinkled at that and said, “I’ve always said my Cairo Flame is better than medicine. Clears up the sinuses better than Coleman’s mustard.” He snapped his thin fingers.
“My sergeant’ll love it,” said Jury.
Thirteen
THE WRENN’S NEST BOOK SHOP, according to the gold-leaf cursive beneath the name, specialized in Antiquarian Books and Bindings. It was located in the former premises of an auto-parts shop. The façade of that shop had run to a faded green and greasy garage door, always open; a guard dog, always asleep; a brown tub of petunias, always in their death throes, but put there to spiff the place up by the owner, who had considered himself quite a lad when it came to decor.
Melrose had much preferred it to the prettified black-beamed, whitewashed, bow-fronted look of Theo Wrenn Browne’s renovated shop. For Theo Wrenn Browne’s purposes the placement was ideal, as it was on the High Street and across from Trueblood’s Antiques (also bow-fronted, but nicely mellow and real Tudor), and jimmied right up against Miss Crisp’s secondhand furniture shop, where Browne was planning a takeover. Two doors down on the other side was the butcher shop, the course of whose trials had been the talk of the town until something more interesting had now come along.
Melrose had nearly toppled on the huge tub of cyclamen and now stood looking through the window. Jury said that the antiquarian-shop owner might know his first editions but he also knew where the money was.
“He doesn’t know anything,” said Melrose. “Certainly not books, which is one of the several reasons he loathes Marshall Trueblood.” The display consisted of blockbuster novels, some British and some American whoppers; one or two “literary” volumes that were Booker nominees; and absolutely no Joanna Lewes. The Stephen King looked thick enough to break both of Agatha’s ankles.
“Here’s one of Polly’s,” said Jury, nodding toward the window. “The Nine Barristers. Sounds awfully Sayers-ish.”
“Well, it isn’t. Oh, I think she meant it to be, but Polly’s not exactly a dab hand when it comes to style. She says she’s dried up after that one. I told her to stop being hysterical and get her hair done. There’s the new Elizabeth Onions.” He pointed to a pair of books, lined up so that one could see both the title and the madcap face of Elizabeth, whose pulled-back hair was wound far more tightly than her plots. He had become acquainted with her books at a
snowed-in house-party in Durham and found them delightfully dreadful. He was sure this one wouldn’t disappoint him. Since Polly Praed wrote mysteries, he felt he should keep up with the worst of them, allowing Polly’s to absolutely glitter by comparison.
“There he is, worse luck,” said Melrose as Theo Wrenn Browne emerged from the shadows of his workshop to sit down near the window as if part of the display.
• • •
Theo Wrenn Browne seemed thrilled at the entrance of Melrose Plant and a superintendent of police.
He was perched on a low ladder wearing Italian-leather sandals and a silky patchwork shirt. Smoke plumed from his cigar. “Melrose! I haven’t seen you since the binding of Lady Windermere’s Fan.”
Melrose sighed. The man did not date meetings and events by the dull days of the week or Bank Holidays, but by first editions and endpapers. Melrose nodded and nearly yawned. The affectations of Theo Wrenn Browne always made him feel like sleeping where he stood. “This is Superintendent Jury. He wants to have a little talk with you.” He drifted back to look at the books.
There were two other customers, a woman copying a recipe out of a glossy-fronted cookery book; and Miss Alice Broadstairs, making a shambles of the gardening section. She managed to nick a page here, tear a dust jacket there, as if her hands were gloved in thorns.
Hitting his head on one of the quaint low beams and barking his shin against a protruding metal rack for paperbacks, he went into the mystery section. Nooks and crannies and a creaking staircase all lined with posters and dust jackets were Theo Wrenn Browne’s idea of a bookshop. Melrose would have preferred the old garage. He should have bought it himself; then he could have left the walls perfectly bald and blank, stuck in functional shelves, and called it Basic Books. He could even have trotted Mindy along as a guard dog. Oh, well, too late now. He picked up The Maypole Murders by Elizabeth Onions and found Wing Commander Fisher dead in the opening paragraph. So much for the commander’s career.
The Five Bells and Bladebone Page 10
