The Five Bells and Bladebone

by Martha Grimes

  Quickly, she turned, absorbing herself in gazing at a robin that had lit on the bowl of the statue. The fabric was crumbling; she had said too much. A normal reaction would have been confusion, almost stuttering confusion, a not knowing what to say, an inability to get beyond the blind horror of even the suggestion that one’s husband and lady-friend had plotted one’s cold-blooded murder. She would hardly have approached it as an exercise in policework.

  So she attempted to curtail further discussion. “It’s rubbish. It wouldn’t have worked.”

  “You’re fond of your grandfather’s collection of antique metal soldiers, aren’t you?”

  She looked at him for a moment. “Yes, I am. What on earth’s that to do with it?”

  He drew the carefully wrapped soldier from his pocket. “Recognize this?”

  She held it clumsily in the gardening glove. “It’s part of the display in Eleanor’s sitting room. Why’ve you got it?”

  “A better question is: Why was it in Sadie Diver’s rooms?”

  On the outstretched glove, she handed it back, regarding it as one might an artifact from a dead past, something that ought to have been buried in the tomb with the deceased.

  “Can’t you make the connection? An object from Watermeadows taken to a flat in Limehouse. For what reason? Other than to have something there — together with a few other carefully chosen pieces — with Hannah Lean’s fingerprints on it.”

  She looked at him queerly. “Stop talking about me in the third person. As if I’m not here. I’ve had enough, Superintendent, in the last two days to do me a lifetime. And this new theory —” She shrugged it off in disdain. “I’ll say what I said before: it wouldn’t have worked.”

  “But it did, didn’t it?”

  He had surprised her into an expression that told him she took his meaning, immediately. Instead of total disbelief there was total comprehension.

  • • •

  In the cavernous kitchen, Crick was working over a copper double-boiler, tricked out in a white apron. He was, he said, making the junket for Lady Summerston’s supper. On the counter were a container of milk and some Burgess’s rennet essence.

  “I’ve got the guest list right here for you, sir, the addresses, too.” He wiped his hands down his apron and scrutinized the list. “Now this Mrs. Brill, she’s moved to Clacton. Awful place, I think, but she wanted the sea air, she said.” He looked at Jury. “Gouty, she is. I’ve never held with sea air if you’ve got a lung condition —”

  Jury smiled. He did not honestly expect to get from these scattered friends of Lady Summerston any useful information; still, it had to be done. “Thank you, Crick.” Jury pocketed the list. “Tell me, have you a set of dishes or dinnerware with gold edging?”

  “The Royal Doulton? Or the Staffordshire? Then there’s the Belleek.”

  “The set with gold edging.”

  Crick tried not to appear surprised. “They all have gold edging, sir.”

  Jury smiled. “Then could I just have a look?”

  “Certainly. Most of it is in the dining room. Here are a few pieces of the Belleek. Her ladyship likes her luncheon on this.”

  It was the same pattern as the several plates in Sadie Diver’s flat. “Thanks. Incidentally, Lady Summerston tells me she likes a hot drink before bedtime.”

  “That’s right, sir. Likes her cup of cocoa or Horlick’s. Or hot buttered rum.” He turned a tiny, knowing smile on Jury, then went back to stirring his milk.

  “Would you make sure you fix it and take it up yourself?”

  This earned Jury only a slightly raised eyebrow, but no question. Crick believed in carrying out instructions to the letter. “Certainly, sir.” He was testing the milk with his French tasting spoon, letting it run from the stirring end of the bowl to the smaller end. “A bit too hot, that is.”

  Jury put away notebook and pen and said, “I used to love that stuff as a boy. The milk’s got to be just right.”

  Crick had turned the gas flame off beneath the pan. “Oh, yes, sir. Blood heat.”

  “Yes. Blood heat.”

  Thirty-two

  TREVOR SLY parted the curtain and stood for a moment as if he’d been called for an encore. “Ah! Gentlemen, gentlemen. So pleased.” He minced down the bar, worrying his long fingers, lacing and unlacing them. He squirmed up on his stool and coiled his legs round the legs.

  “Before you get comfortable, he wants a lager and I’ll have anything else.”

  “Cairo Flame?” Trevor Sly rubbed his hands like a moneylender.

  “A cup of tea, I think.”

  Jury placed the snapshots on the bar. “Have you seen her before?”

  Trevor Sly left the drink to drip beneath the pull, and looked at the photos. “It’s Mrs. Lean. Come in with her husband a fortnight ago, like I said before.”

  “Can I count on your discretion, Trevor?”

  “May the Lord strike me blind if you can’t, Mr. Jury.”

  “Not before you look at this.” He put the police photo of the dead woman on the counter. “Do you recognize her?”

  Trevor Sly obviously thought he did. “God help us, it’s Mrs. Lean. From up at Watermeadows.”

  “This woman?”

  He looked at the picture of Sadie Diver, was about to say something, looked again. “Never saw ’er, but she does look like Mrs. Lean. I’m very good on faces, like I said. One reason I get so much custom.”

  “What if her hair was down? Not so heavy on the makeup?”

  He shook his head. “Never seen that one, I’d remember ’er.”

  As Trevor Sly made his way back to fetch the tea, Jury slipped the photos back into the envelope, retied the string, and said, “He might be long on memory, but he’s short on imagination. So Agatha’s actually been some help to us.”

  “Good grief, you’re not depending on her, I hope.”

  “It makes sense. I think Simon Lean had Sadie visit in Northampton for the purpose of making sure that, if the question ever did come up, there’d be two or three eyewitnesses.”

  “Trevor Sly can’t tell the difference, though he thinks he can. It fits your theory; he’d probably be wonderful on the witness stand, he’s so positive about things. Why’re you looking morose?”

  Jury sipped at the lager, played with a book of matches. A blue-and-green parrot perched against a backdrop of dunes and sun on the outside; the matches on the inside were cut in different lengths, the top designed to look more or less like a camel’s profile. “I take back what I said about imagination.” He struck a match and lit his cigarette. “I hope I’m trying to get at the truth, not just trying to prove my theory. Charles Pratt thinks I’m spending a hell of a lot of time defending a woman I’ve never met. I believe those were his words.”

  “What’s wrong with that? What they attempted to do — what she might still be attempting — is diabolical. Especially, since the ultimate object is Lady Summerston.”

  “I told Crick to be sure he himself took up her nightcap. He prepares her food, anyway. I don’t think she’s in any immediate danger; it would be extremely unlikely that Sadie Diver would try anything now. And Hannah Lean . . . she wouldn’t have any reason to kill her grandmother.”

  “You didn’t meet her, remember?”

  Jury rubbed his forehead. “I’m going on what Eleanor Summerston tells me, and there’s no reason to doubt that. She said she sometimes felt that Simon actually wanted to —”

  “— Kill her. That was it; the thing I’ve been trying to remember, only why would Sadie Diver make a statement like that?” The door to the Blue Parrot opened. “Sergeant Wiggins!”

  Wiggins entered sneezing, gave Melrose Plant a hearty, if handkerchief-muffled greeting, and said to Jury, “Good God, sir, what is that stuff out there?” He nodded behind him, toward the alien outdoors, which, like the poor (he had once said), was always with us.

  “It’s hay, Wiggins, Probably a few cows here and there.”

  “Hay is hell, especially
in all of that wet . . . .” But then he took a look round a pub that had never seen rain and forgot about his allergy. He unwound his spring-weight scarf (Wiggins called no season friend) and removed his anorak, gawking all the while. “Always wanted to go to the desert, I have. I always did think that a proper dry climate would straighten me out. Tommy Diver gave me a good recipe for crawfish broth. The best thing he knows for swollen legs.”

  Jury looked at him. “Your legs aren’t swollen.”

  “No, sir. But it’s always best to be prepared, I say.” From the pocket of his coat he drew forth a small plastic bag with dark crumbs in it. “I hope you don’t mind, Mr. Plant, but Ruthven was most obliging about charring me up some bread . . . . Could I have some of that hot water in a cup?” This he asked of Trevor Sly, who’d appeared through the curtain with cups, cutlery, and a pot covered with a cosy in the shape of a camel.

  Jury smiled. “Go along with Racer the next time he goes to Antigua on official police business. In the meantime, is Tommy taken care of for now?”

  “Oh, yes, sir. Lady Ardry’s got him right under her wing.” Wiggins had unfolded a small slip of paper. “Where’s the publican?”

  Melrose nearly burned his hand pouring the tea. “My aunt? How on earth did she nail him? You were to take him to Ardry End.”

  “I did, sir. Lady Ardry was there. Was just able to be up and about, she said.” Wiggins took his cup of water and shook some of the charcoaled bread into it. “It was that that brought up the physic, actually. Tommy thought the swelling’d go down. But Mr. Ruthven said you’d no crawfish. The poor woman was attacked by a pig, or something, she was telling Tommy when I left.”

  “You shouldn’t have left a helpless boy alone with her Sergeant Wiggins.”

  “Not to worry about him, Mr. Plant. He’s a polite lad, even insisted on paying for our meal — we stopped at one of those Trusthouse Fortes.”

  Jury was smoking and looking through one of the folders that Wiggins had handed him. “Don’t upset yourself. I know Tommy; he’ll be okay.”

  Wiggins had his head down, rooting through an inter-office envelope. “Here’s the dental chart. But you’re going to be disappointed. Her National Health record shows some work done, some fillings and bonding that didn’t appear in the victim’s teeth. The thing is, though, we found the work was never done. It was reported by a dentist with two dozen or more patients. It wasn’t the only case, either. The chart may not even be Sadie Diver’s.”

  “So all we’ve cleared up is a case of dental fraud.” Jury slapped the folder shut, looked over at Dame Peggy Ashcroft and felt some of the misery of a traveler in a time warp, trying to reach a destination, only to find he’d been frozen in time.

  “Not quite, sir. There’s this from Dr. Cooper. He says the chart from Hannah Lean’s dentist doesn’t match up with the cast they took of the lady on the slipway, except for two or three points of similarity. The bad news is, one of them’s an unusual bit of work —”

  “I can guess: that turns up in both. And a further search will undoubtedly fail to produce the dentist who did the work.”

  “Don’t they have to be identical?”

  “No. It’s the same with prints — the match doesn’t have to be exact. Not only that, prints only prove a suspect was in a certain place. They can’t tell you when the suspect was there.”

  Melrose sat back. “But, good Lord, you mean nothing’s conclusive?”

  Wiggins said, “It’s more a matter of having this lot add up that’s conclusive.” Wiggins took a mouthful of his drink and went on. “There’s the solicitors, Horndean, Horndean and Thwaite. Very reputable firm. Three weeks ago, Simon and Hannah Lean turned up in their offices.”

  “And did Mr. Horndean —?”

  “Thwaite, sir.”

  “Did Mr. Thwaite identify the woman as Hannah Lean?”

  Wiggins paused, morosely. “He was most hesitant to say definitely. Though he didn’t see how the young lady in the photo with the piled-up hair and flashy makeup could be her. It just wasn’t her style at all, he said.”

  “Well, then, what is Mrs. Lean’s style?”

  “From the little he’d seen of her, ‘subdued’ was his word. Mr. Thwaite hadn’t heard from her in years until she contacted him about a bit of land somewhere in Somerset. That was what they were there about. It was a minor matter, but you might be interested in this.” Wiggins drew out several pages, stapled. “They both signed, sir. It was related to the sale of this property.” He took out several more pages. “Here’s the report from the documents expert, comparing the two signatures — the one she signed then and the signature on a will — on Hannah Lean’s will — that had been drawn up several years ago. Unfortunately, his conclusions were indefinite, partly because he had only the one signature as a standard. Also, Mrs. Lean — or the woman with Mr. Lean — was a bit ill with flu, and a bit shaky.”

  “How convenient.” Jury lit a cigarette and studied the report from the handwriting expert. “ ‘The questioned Hannah Lean signature shows both significant similarities and significant differences with exemplar signature, and very possibly is an imitation, although I am disinclined in the absence of other standards to draw a conclusion,’ et cetera.” Jury shook his head. “Swell. He says there’s some awkwardness in the downward strokes, a little patching and some tremor.” He sighed and returned the papers to Wiggins. “Simon Lean had Sadie practice copying Hannah’s signature and, rather boldly, I must admit, took him with her to the firm of solicitors.”

  “Mr. Thwaite said she rang about a week later to ask about progress on the will.”

  Jury looked at Wiggins, frowning. “And how did he know it was Mrs. Lean calling?”

  “Well, there was no reason to assume it wasn’t, I expect.”

  “Have you checked that call?”

  “Not yet, sir.”

  “Just one exemplar signature, one clear set of prints turning up in the wrong place. That’s what we need. Hell.”

  “Superintendent Pratt seems almost convinced you’re right.” Wiggins was unscrewing a small brown vial. “I think he’s ready to charge Sadie Diver with the murder of Hannah and Simon Lean.”

  Trevor Sly, setting down the fresh tea, bobbed and bowed. “Anything else you gentlemen will be requiring? How is your cordial, Mr. Wiggins? My own dear gran had a receipt: corn whiskey and a lot of ginger.”

  “Sounds like the Cairo Flame to me,” said Melrose, watching Wiggins’s tea change color when the sergeant tapped in a tiny pill. “Aren’t you afraid of overmedicating yourself, Sergeant?”

  “It’s always been my theory, Mr. Plant, that if a pinch is good, a pound is better.”

  “I hope you never get hold of arsenic, Sergeant.”

  The rain had stopped; a pale wash of sun came through the window, painting the wall where the posters hung the color of sand. Jury shook his head. He might have been talking about Peter O’Toole and Peggy Ashcroft when he said, “They thought of everything.”

  Melrose had picked up his cane, was sighting along it at the cardboard camel. “No, they didn’t, old sweatshirt, to paraphrase Trueblood.”

  Jury looked over at him.

  “They didn’t think that something would go wrong, did they?”

  Thirty-three

  TOMMY DIVER stopped dead.

  They had just passed the summerhouse, when Jury saw the figure in the distance standing at the lake’s edge, looking out over the water. She had turned as if they had called to her and then started toward them, across the lawn and between banks of japonica. She stopped quite suddenly, perhaps a dozen feet away.

  • • •

  Even though Jury knew the element of surprise was important, he had sat with Tommy, the car pulled into the lay-by, uncertain. Important, yes, but Jury couldn’t do it — have Tommy run into her completely unprepared. Bad enough he’d had to identify the body in Wapping. To find his sister resurrected here at Watermeadows would undo whatever good had been done in the last twenty-f
our hours. Tommy had actually looked pleased with himself in the Five Bells, even more so in the Starrdust. He had begun, Jury thought, to turn his sister back into a memory, which was really all he’d had in the first place.

  Thus, Jury had told him that here at Watermeadows was a woman who looked very much like his sister.

  Tommy had taken in Jury’s meaning instantly, the expression on his face one of mingled hope and despair.

  “Whatever’d Sadie be doing in a place like this?” He had half-risen from the car seat, looked out the window at the wide lawns, gardens, and pools, and shaken his head. “That’s daft.” Tommy was having none of it.

  “Probably. But have a close look, anyway, okay? Then we’ll go have a visit with Lady Summerston.” Jury tried to make it sound as if that were the object of the trip. “I think you’ll like Lady Summerston. She owns all of this, incidentally.”

  After a long silence, Tommy asked: “How old’s that Carole-anne, anyway?”

  The studied indifference of his tone was almost painful to hear. Jury had just glanced at him, and seeing Tommy’s face looked hot as a burning coal, tried to laugh it off: “That’s a secret between Carole-anne, the registry office, and God. My best guess is twenty-two or -three. She changes it like her costumes. Whatever fits the occasion she wears.”

  Tommy’s yawn was as false as his world-weary tone when he said, “Lots older than me, I guess.”

  As if he hadn’t known it all along. Jury could feel the surreptitious look Tommy was giving him, and he kept his eyes on the windscreen. “Mmm. Funny thing about age. In ten years you won’t really notice the difference.”

  That had been a stupid thing to say. Ten days at Tommy’s age already seemed like ten years. So Jury was talking about their meeting out there in infinity somewhere.