The Old Wine Shades

by Martha Grimes

  ‘Yes. Just go through.’ She gave him a disconcerted smile.

  Jury took an armchair covered in a cheap-looking material, rough feeling, with a pattern of monstrous sunflowers. The ruffled curtains at the two windows opposite were also printed with sunflowers.

  Mathilda’s aunt sat on the edge of the sofa, a dark, depressing gray. ‘Well, then—’

  ‘You know Winterhaus?’

  ‘That big place with all the woods? I’ve never been in it but yes, I know where you mean. Nobody lives there. I think they’re trying to let it.’

  ‘You’re about the closest neighbor, other than the Shoesmiths in Lark Cottage.’

  ‘Well, but I’ve hardly spoken half a dozen words to them over the years.’

  ‘It’s not the Shoesmiths I’m interested in. It’s Winterhaus.’

  ‘Oh? But I don’t know anything about it. The family who owned it or maybe still owns it had a kind of Italian name—’

  ‘Della Torres. Italian. The father of the present owner, that is. His wife was English, though. I assume that’s the reason they bought that house. It’s not about the Della Torreses that I’ve come. It’s about the disappearance of a woman nine months ago—’

  ‘Disappearance? Why, no, I don’t know anything about that. Why? What happened?’

  ‘A woman named Gault was last seen in this area. That was about nine months ago. The last people we know to have seen her are the Shoesmiths. Police would have been round asking questions—’

  She sat up stiffly. ‘Not of me, they weren’t. I don’t know anything.’

  She was so adamant about her ignorance. Jury had to wonder. ‘Anyway,’ Brenda Hastings went on, ‘it’s been a long time, hasn’t it, since it happened?’ She raised her eyebrows as if wondering why Jury was so tardy.

  ‘It might have been a kidnapping, Mrs. Hastings, but any information you might conceivably have—Do you recall seeing anyone back then? She would have been with a little boy and a dog.’

  She was shaking her head before the question was out of his mouth. ‘No, I never did.’ And she was handing back the picture he had brought out almost without looking up at it.

  As he took the picture back he heard a door open and a little voice fluting, ‘Mum-my!’

  The little girl’s hair was nearly as yellow as her mother’s, only brighter and lighter. The child crowded up to her side and gave Jury a wide blue-eyed look. Pleased as could be. Like the curtains, Caroline was ruffled. Even her play clothes: pink overalls and bright pink shirt had ruffles on the sleeves and at the bottom of the legs.

  ‘This gentleman is a police officer, Caroline, so you’d better be good.’ The ‘good’ was trilled around and the child wrinkled her button nose and giggled. Then she commenced giving Jury flirty glances. It was one characteristic of coming adolescence that he was always sorry to see already attaching its sticky self to childhood.

  Jury asked, in a friendly way, in response to the charge of being good, ‘What do you do when you’re bad?’

  This threw both mother and daughter. Brenda Hastings looked suspicious and Caroline rather nasty, as if Jury had blown her cover. ‘I’m not!’

  ‘No, not all the time, of course.’

  Caroline didn’t know how to take this, so she turned on her flirty look again. ‘Tilda’s the one that’s bad.’ She said this with a measure of passion that rather surprised Jury.

  ‘Tilda’s your cousin?’

  She did not verify this, eager as she was to get to Tilda’s misbehavior. ‘She goes into the woods all the time’—here she pointed in that direction—’and she’s not supposed to. Mum told her never to go there.’

  Her mother stepped in. ‘Oh, now, love, she doesn’t do that anymore.’

  ‘Oh, yes, she does! She’s there now.’ This declaration was brought out with a measure of triumph.

  ‘How do you know?’ Jury asked.

  ‘What?’

  ‘How do you know?’ It was doubly irritating to her that he simply repeated the question rather than explaining it.

  Then Caroline came away from her mother’s side. ‘I-I-I knew she wasn’t supposed to, so I followed her!’

  ‘Never mind, Caroline,’ said the mother, giving her an indulgent smile, which she then turned on Jury. Kids will be kids, won’t they? the smile said.

  ‘Caroline,’ said Jury, ‘do you remember seeing a woman, a stranger, at Winterhaus last year?’

  Caroline rose to the challenge, ‘Maybe I did.’ Simpering, she went back and stood beside Brenda Hastings.

  ‘Now you be careful what you say, my girl,’ said her mother. ‘No fibbing, now.’ But she said it with such indulgence. Jury thought she could look forward to many, many years of fibbing.

  Caroline said nothing. She wound a yellow curl round her finger.

  Jury laughed. ‘Come on now, Caroline. You didn’t really see her, did you?’

  With her arms crossed over the bib of her jeans, and her chin raised and that furrowed brow, she looked like a little old lady. This saddened Jury.

  ‘Do you and Tilda play together, then?’

  Violently, she shook her head. ‘No. She’s stupid.’

  Her mother said, ‘Caroline! You oughtn’t to talk about your cousin that way.’

  The reprimand was delivered in such a lilting tone—Brenda all but sang it-—that it had no conviction or force. It was possible that Caroline was getting so many mixed signals, she did not know how or what to be.

  Caroline went on; ‘All she wants to do is play with those stupid dolls and that bear, all by herself.’

  Jury said, ‘I expect Tilda doesn’t mind being alone.’

  Definitely jealous of what she didn’t understand.

  Jury said, ‘One of those times you followed Tilda (and he bet she had done this many times), did you see a strange woman?’

  She nodded, looking unsure of her ground now.

  Brenda Hastings said, indignantly, ‘Well, if she did it was probably only somebody come to look at the property.’

  Jury ignored her. ‘Did she have a boy with her?’

  Caroline crept a little closer, as if divulging confidences. ‘There was a dog. One of those floppy-eared ones. He was with that boy. He didn’t pay any attention to him, though.’

  ‘The boy didn’t?’

  ‘No, the dog. He wouldn’t come when you called or anything. He had to be on a lead or he might run away forever.’

  Meaning, Jury thought, that Caroline was also on a lead and suffering a similar fate. He imagined her there, hiding behind a tree or kneeling in the undergrowth, not daring to come out for that would mean an admission she wanted to be in Tilda’s world of plainer clothes and fewer words and more imagination.

  ‘Anyway, he didn’t want to leave.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘They had to practically pick him up and carry him. He was nice.’

  Her ordinarily heated vocabulary had cooled as she thought about this.

  ‘Caroline,’ said her mother, ‘you know you’re not to go over there! Neither one of you’s allowed!’

  Both Jury and Caroline ignored Mum. Jury asked, ‘Did you ever go into the house?’

  Silence and then a small nod, avoiding Mum’s eyes.

  ‘What?’ This nearly brought Brenda to her feet. ‘I’ve told you never to go—’

  Jury’s upraised palm shut her up. ‘What do you do there?’

  Her answer was another shrug.

  Brenda’s mouth opened and shut when Jury looked at her.

  ‘Did you follow Tilda into the house?’

  Another nod, a bit stronger. ‘There’s one of those glass doors that goes to the outside that doesn’t lock properly. It was easy to get into.’

  ‘It was Tilda who set out the tea things, wasn’t it?’ He smiled about this.

  His approval met with freely offered information. ‘She took them out of that cupboard, the teapot and cups and took spoons and napkins from a drawer.’

  Jury felt sad. There had been
two cups, two spoons and two little plates for pastry. There should have been two little girls having a tea party. ‘But she wouldn’t let you have tea, would she?’

  Caroline said, frowning, ‘She didn’t know I was there.’

  ‘You hid? Outside? Inside?’

  ‘Behind the door or in that little closet with brooms. It was easy. Anyway, she sat that stupid doll on the sofa and she had a cup.’

  ‘You know, I bet Tilda would rather have company she could pretend with.’

  Shrugging again, Caroline said, ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Tell me: Did you like the little boy? His name was Robbie.’

  ‘He was okay.’ Now she was bouncing a bit of balled-up paper on the palm of her hand. ‘The lady was mad at him though, I think. She called and called from the terrace.’

  ‘Why would she have been mad?’

  ‘Because he left the house and went to see what Tilda was doing. He just pretended he didn’t hear her.’

  ‘It sounds like the boy and the dog were in the same boat.’ Caroline turned her head to look at him. The smile was happy, and honest. It fairly glimmered.

  Beneath the fake prettiness was the real thing.

  28

  ‘So what you’re suggesting is that each of us put forward a solution to this little mystery,’ said Marshall Trueblood, as they sat in the Jack and Hammer running up a bar bill. None of them had come with money, or at least not folding, which was a laugh, considering the average income of each. Melrose Plant’s and Vivian Rivington’s were inherited. Diane Demorney’s three divorces had been spectacularly fruitful. Marshall Trueblood (affluent antiques dealer) and Joanna Lewes (incredibly affluent writer) actually worked for a living (‘or pretended to,’ was Joanna’s assessment). One could say that Mrs. Withersby and Theo Wrenn Browne also worked for a living, but hadn’t had any success with affluence. (Theo would not be happy at being grouped with Mrs. Withersby.)

  Melrose had spent a good part of the afternoon in here reviewing what Jury had told him about the case. They were fascinated by it. They had insisted upon, and he had gone into, exquisite detail. Joanna Lewes (she being a writer) had importuned him not to leave anything out. Thus Melrose had slogged through quantum mechanics, string theory, the Stoddard Clinic and even what he knew about the mathematician Gödel. He was quite amazed at the way all of them (especially Marshall Trueblood) had drunk these details up, along with their beer, whiskey and martinis. But given that Long Piddleton was not exactly a destination village with a mellow-stoned, pricey country hotel; or a stormy coastline squawked over by scudding gulls; or a couple of restaurants that vied with Les Quatre Saisons (filled with some of Polly Praed’s gourmandise); or a crumbling abbey; or a safari park—well, the disappearance of the Gault woman and son would understandably hold them in thrall.

  ‘A contest!’ said Diane, who judged a day’s loss or gain only in terms of the amusement it had afforded her. She was occasionally entertained by earthquakes, fires, floods and twenty-car pile-ups on the Ml, but they soon turned too grim because they had so little to do with her pursuit of amusement.

  ‘It doesn’t have to-be a contest—’ began Joanna Lewes.

  ‘I’m, in, bloody, ‘ell,’ yelled Mrs. Withersby, Scroggs’s char, as she tossed a ten-p coin onto the table as if it were a poker pot. No one paid any attention to her.

  ‘Why shouldn’t it be a contest?’ said Theo Wrenn Browne, who owned the bookshop across the street and who couldn’t get a seat at their table unless he brought something to it before he sat down. (He claimed not to have brought money either, which was a lie; he didn’t want to get stuck with the tab.)

  Melrose couldn’t stand him. None of them could stand him. Theo had tried like the very devil to shut down the library so he could make more money renting out books; he had sided with the defendant, Melrose’s aunt, in the chamber pot affray; he caused little children no end of grief when they returned their rental books with so much as a thumbprint. No, he was not one of the group, not one of the team. He was the relief player on the bench who the skipper would send in only if all the other players were dead. The execrable corduroy jacket with the leather elbows he was wearing he claimed was Hugo Boss. Having donned this tobacco-brown jacket, he should never have sat next to Marshall Trueblood, who always looked like he was Hugo Boss or Armani.

  Joanna Lewes, who had written two dozen genre novels in the fields of mystery, romance, horror or any combination of them, said, ‘You know, Leo—’

  ‘Theo!’

  She smiled. ‘As I was saying, you will know who wins when the police solve this case.’

  ‘That’s not necessarily true. Police have been wrong. Even Superintendent Jury.’ Theo said this with such a sense of satisfaction, one couldn’t help but ask him.

  ‘When?’ asked Trueblood. ‘When has he been wrong?’

  Theo reddened. ‘Well, I don’t—’

  ‘Right. You don’t.’ Trueblood went back to smoothing the raggedy edge of a fingernail with his little gold clipper.

  Melrose said, ‘It’s not, strictly speaking, a police matter. Jury is doing this kind of on his own, pro bono, you could say, because it intrigues him.’

  ‘We’ve got to have rules!’ Theo Wrenn Browne smashed his femininelike fist on the table.

  Diane stopped the martini on the way to her mouth (a sight seldom seen). ‘Put a sock in it, Theo.’

  ‘Can we just think out loud, then?’ asked Vivian Rivington, looking beautifully calm in blue cashmere, ‘or do we go home and ponder and come back?’

  ‘I’ll ponder here, thank you. If I go home I’ll have to mix my own.’ Diane raised her glass.

  Mrs. Withersby announced, ‘Ya don’t find me thinkin’ out loud, not with you lot around. You’d steal the thoughts right outta me ‘ead.’

  ‘Withers, old trout, I doubt any of us wants to go into your head, not even for a copyright.’ Trueblood pocketed his nail clipper.

  ‘That’s all you know, ya bloody wanker.’

  ‘Right,’ said Melrose. ‘Who wants to put forth a solution?’

  Dick Scroggs, publican, had come to collect their empty glasses. ‘If one o’ us has a good idea,’ said Dick, ‘will he use it? Mr. Jury?’

  Melrose had heard idiotic questions put in here but this one had bells on. ‘Use it? Dick, this isn’t one of your TV quiz shows. Who wants to start?’

  Joanna held her pen in the air. ‘My money’s on this Hugh Gault lying. He murdered his wife and son and is sucking in his friend Harry Johnson—I admit I don’t know why—and he’s in this clinic just to throw everyone off, saying he’s been driven crazy by his family’s disappearance. Perhaps she had the money and he wants it. I dislike the idea of a parent killing his own child, but—’ She shrugged and applied pen to paper. She had actually said once she could write entire books in here with everybody talking, including herself.

  ‘I’m sure,’ said Diane, ‘Mrs. Browne gave the idea a whirl.’

  ‘Oh, funny!’ said Theo Wrenn Browne.

  Diane gave him a glassy smile.

  Vivian said, ‘There’s got to be an explanation of Harry Johnson’s connection to the story.’

  Joanna thought for a bit. ‘Couldn’t he just be acting out of pure friendship? Or perhaps Hugh is using him to test how much of this strange story a person could take.’

  Melrose nodded. ‘That’s good, Joanna. Anything else to add?’

  ‘Not at the moment.’

  Trueblood sucked in air and began, ‘I’m for the superstring theory, the parallel worlds. The Gault woman and the boy did step into another dimension.’ Happy with his solution, he lit a Sobranie cigarette the same color as his foam-green shirt.

  They all stared at him, or glowered.

  ‘You can’t be serious,’ said Joanna.

  Sniveling laughter from Theo Wrenn Browne.

  ‘Have a martini,’ said Diane, sliding her glass toward Trueblood.

  ‘Wanker.’ Mrs. Withersby plopped her wet mop from buck
et to floor.

  ‘Come on, now,’ said Melrose. ‘Hugh Gault apparently believes that and he’s a respected physicist.’

  ‘But really, Melrose. People actually falling or disappearing into another world?’

  ‘Why not?’ said Marshall Trueblood. ‘Look around you.’ His glance trailed round the room. ‘Anyway, you’ve experienced deja vu, haven’t you?’

  ‘That’s different.’

  ‘Why is the whole past not part of the present?’

  ‘That’s still different,’ said Joanna. ‘So you think the wife and son are wandering around in some godforsaken world—’

  ‘Wait. Maybe this is the ‘godforsaken’ one and they’re in the real one—’

  Theo Wrenn Brown weighed in: ‘Well, my theory is that Hugh is in this clinic, isn’t he? Far from his pretending to be nutty, he actually is crazy and this whole elaborate plan is the result of his fevered brain.’

  ‘But he’s convinced What’s-his-name?—’

  ‘Harry Johnson.’

  ‘—that it’s a true story,’ Joanna went on. ‘I get the impression that Harry isn’t easily persuaded, that he’s very intelligent and knows Hugh well. Surely, he’d know if Hugh was psychotic.’

  ‘Tell us again,’ said Diane, ‘about this clinic visit.’

  Melrose related Jury’s story of that visit in detail.

  Then, with renewed interest, she asked, ‘Does the place serve drinks?’

  Melrose squinted at her. ‘Diane, this is a clinic we’re talking about, not a lounge. Half the patients are probably alcoholics. It would be like ordering a rum collins from a church usher.’

  Said Diane, ‘I’ve often thought it would add to a hospital’s ambience if it stocked a bar, not for the patients, of course; I’m not that crazy. But for visitors; you know, maybe right next to the gift shop. I mean, how many people have you ever heard say liked to visit hospitals?’

  Melrose said, ‘Is this your theory?’

  ‘No, it’s my recommendation.’

  ‘I’ll see it reaches the right ear in Commons.’

  ‘My theory is that Hugh’s sending Harry on a wild goose chase because Harry is in love with the wife, maybe had an affair with her.’ Diane shrugged and reangled her cigarette holder. She was smoking one of Trueblood’s, a shocking pink Sobranie. ‘Imagine how awful it would be if your lover simply vanished.’