The Old Wine Shades

by Martha Grimes

  ‘You say that every time. I doubt Boring’s ascribes to a no smoking rule.’ Considering all of the cigars and pipes out in the Member Room, Melrose seriously doubted it. Boring’s wouldn’t dare.

  ‘Can you imagine telling those two over there’—he pointed to a table a dozen feet away where two crusty old codgers were puffing a bale of smoke into the atmosphere—’being asked by Young Higgins to please douse their smokes? No. Boring’s is still back there in the forties and fifties when my father was a member.’ He lit his cigarette just as Young Higgins was coming back with the dessert.

  ‘Fruit and custard,’ said Jury cheerily.

  Melrose stubbed out his cigarette and looked gloomily at the dish. ‘You win again.’

  ‘Harry Johnson searching me out. How did he know I’d be in that pub? He couldn’t. How did he know what I even looked like?’

  ‘How? Your face was plastered all over the paper because of that pedophile bust. As to where you’d be, I expect he followed you.’

  ‘To the City? That’s a distance from Victoria Street. Anyway, why?’

  Melrose’s tone was irritated. ‘Don’t be so literal. I simply mean arranged somehow or other to be where you were. And we always do butt our heads against that ‘why.’ You’re a superintendent—a vulnerable superintendent, given all the publicity and the possible suspension. You’re the perfect target.’

  ‘You mean no one would credit this wild tale coming from me?’ He wanted to preempt an investigation that was sure to follow after he killed Rosa Paston. Bleakly, Jury smiled. ‘He was winding me up.’

  ‘Well, yes, but with a serious purpose. He knew when the fake Glynnis was found, you’d come round to him. He was prepared for that. Just think: a woman, her son and her dog disappear for a year. And the dog comes back.’ Melrose laughed. ‘That’s a corker. He knows you know, but nobody else does. Superintendent, you’re hallucinating. It’s his word against yours—’

  Jury grumbled. ‘Harry doesn’t have a word. It’s like Mary McCarthy saying of Lillian Heilman, ‘Every word she writes is a lie, including ‘and’ and ‘the.’’ Jury thought about that. ‘What about the boy? The supposed son Rosa Paston took along on this venture? Police would certainly want to talk to him. Who was he? Where did she find him? He worries me.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘If Harry murdered Rosa Paston, what’s to stop him killing the boy? The boy knew all this was an impersonation. Is he lying at the bottom of a quarry or drowned in a river somewhere?’

  ‘Maybe it wasn’t necessary to kill him,’ said Melrose. ‘Maybe he didn’t know what Rosa knew.’

  ‘But I think he did. He knew about the impersonation itself.’ Jury finished off his dessert and pulled Melrose’s over. ‘I don’t think this woman was paid. I think she was Harry’s woman— mistress. If it was payment, she’d be satisfied with the money and wouldn’t be a threat, right?’

  ‘No, wrong. She’d always be a threat. Blackmail, a dagger held over his head—always.’

  Jury nodded and spooned up some custard. ‘He knew it was going to end with murdering her. That’s chilling. To think of her merrily larking about with this impersonation and then killed for her efforts. For her love. I think that’s why this woman did it—for love.’

  ‘You’re assuming a lot.’

  ‘But it makes no difference in the long run. Love or greed or ignorance, she’s still dead.’

  ‘And the boy . . . Also, what about Tilda?’

  Sharply, Jury looked up from his custard. ‘Tilda.’ He thought of Harry’s question. What little girl?

  ‘Well, she goes into the house all the time, and it’s just possible she saw something,’ Melrose said.

  ‘Possibly, but she would have said. After all, she ran home to tell her mother when she found the body.’

  ‘What if Harry was still there?’

  ‘If she saw something—’ Jury paused for a moment, then took out his mobile. ‘Does Boring’s have a policy about these things?’

  ‘Probably. They disrupt the general comfort level, so I’m sure they’d be outlawed. Anyway, if you’re finished eating my dessert, we’ll want coffee in the Members’ Room.’ Melrose tossed down his napkin.

  Jury went into the reception area to make his call while Melrose ordered coffee and brandy.

  Jury came back and told him Tilda was fine and had strict instructions not to go onto the Winterhaus grounds.

  ‘Ha! You know how much that means,’ said Melrose. ‘Although I’d think finding a dead body would be enough to keep a child away from a place.’

  ‘She’s tough, though. She’s been there by herself a lot and, frankly, that house rather spooks me.’ Jury swirled his brandy, liking the way it caught the reflected flames of the fire. Liking the fire, too. ‘You’re such a wimp.’

  ‘Right. Thanks for the brandy. And the dinner.’

  Melrose raised an eyebrow. ‘This is all my treat? Even though you won on all the courses?’

  ‘That’s right. Ah, hello. Major Champs.’

  ‘Thought we saw you over here; the backs of the chairs are so high it’s hard to make out anyone.’ He chuckled.

  ‘Where’s Colonel Neame?’ asked Melrose.

  ‘On his way. He stopped in the dining room to have a word with Young Higgins. Now, I don’t mean to pry, but how are you getting along with your case? Developments—’ he whisked out the Daily News, opened it and pointed to an item, a follow-up relegated to the inside pages, which wasn’t a follow-up so much as a rehashing. The conclusion was that police knew nothing more. They had contacted the owner of Winterhaus, Ben Torres.

  ‘Ben Torres,’ said Melrose. ‘We left Ben Torres out of the roster of suspects.’

  ‘Well, if he’d left Italy, the police will certainly find that out.’

  ‘San Gimignano.’ Melrose sighed. ‘I’d never leave it.’

  45

  He had tried the jardinière but the only way to get Elf into it would be to stuff him in and Mungo didn’t think he should do that. He looked around the living room. Most places had already been used. . . . Ah! The window seat was propped open with a couple of books, for some reason. Could he reach up there? No. Anyway, someone might let the top down and he wouldn’t be able to open it again.

  There was that big copper thing that people once used to spit in. It was low enough that Shöe would be able to see Elf s ears, but it would do; Mungo was weary. That thin, stringlike meewwww was getting on his nerves. And his nerves were not in good shape at all after that affair with the clinic folder and the Uniforms. If he’d wanted to get that Spotter to the clinic, he couldn’t think of any other way of doing it. He could hardly tell the man he was not Hugh’s dog (worse luck). Well, even some kids had it bad there, too. That boy he’d spent the afternoon with a year ago—

  What an afternoon! He couldn’t remember when he’d had one so wonderful. Playing ball, running with his stride as far out as it could go, running across that land, ears flying, tail flying, he himself nearly flying, as the wind whistled and the trees glittered to where the girl was, running back, running forward. And he had liked that woman, Rosa, and now she was dead.

  He thought sometimes of running off. But if he ran, who’d look after Elf and the others? He plunked Elf in the copper pot and stood back to look. Yes, you could just see the ears.

  Even dogs should have a plan instead of running around just stirring up air. Mungo now had a plan. It was better than suddenly putting himself at the top of the stairs just when Harry was stepping down. Too crude. No, his plan had started just this morning.

  On Harry’s desk were the notes he prized so much. He was always going over them, talking over them, as if the notes could answer back. Harry was smart, extremely smart, but not quite as smart as Hugh. He was far more inventive, though. Why couldn’t people be satisfied with what they were? Harry was forever going to the bookshelf to drag down one book or another of Hugh’s and pore over it in the little pool of light the desk lamp shed on the pages.
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  First, Mungo had to push the silver paperweight that held them down and kept them from fluttering apart in a breeze. He shoved the notes off the desk and watched the pages scatter all over the floor. Then Mungo barked. When Mrs. Tobias didn’t come, he barked again.

  She came. ‘Whatever are you barking about? What are you doing on the desk?’ She drew closer and stopped, seeing the pages of notes all over the floor. ‘Oh, my, oh, my, oh, my, you naughty dog. Oh and won’t he be just furious?’ She bent down. ‘I’ll never be able to put these in order; there’s no numbers on the pages!’

  Right.

  ‘All of this math, all these signs and numbers—I can’t tell what’s what.’

  Right.

  Poor Mrs. Tobias was down on her knees gathering up the pages. She got up and tried to neaten them by tamping them on the desk until all the pages were even. Then she put the pile where she thought it had been.

  Paperweight paperweight. Mungo nosed the paperweight around and stared at her.

  ‘What now? Oh, yes.’ She put the weight back on the pile. She stood back and surveyed the notes. ‘Looks as if they never was touched. Only, they’re all out of order. He’ll wonder.’

  He’ll wonder, thought Mungo.

  * * *

  The next morning, as Mungo was transporting Elf to the copper basin, he heard Mrs. Tobias shout. He put Elf down in the middle of the rug and raced to the kitchen.

  ‘Oh, look, oh, look what I went and done!’ She held up her hand, bleeding profusely from a cut along her thumb. Mungo raced around, wanting to help, but not knowing how. Except he had seen bandages in the downstairs loo. He raced to it and saw the gauze up on a little shelf that he couldn’t get to. So he jumped up on the toilet seat, grabbed the end of the toilet paper in his mouth and then jumped down and trailed it into the kitchen where he set it in her lap.

  Mrs. Tobias had to laugh at this effort. ‘Good dog! Good! Thank you. It’ll make do for the moment.’ She wrapped and wrapped it round her thumb and hand. ‘That’ll have to do for now. I think it looks worse than it is. I’m calling Mr. Humphries.’ Mr. Humphries was Harry’s doctor. Mrs. Tobias went out to the telephone.

  There was quite a lot of blood, a pool of it.

  Mungo looked at it. Then he tore out of the kitchen, raced upstairs and grabbed Harry’s slipper, a lightweight leather one. Back to the kitchen he went.

  Mungo placed the slipper over the blood, messed the sole about, then ran back upstairs with the bloody slipper. Then he dropped the slipper on the floor of Harry’s bedroom, pressed it down with his paw, picked it up again, dropped it a little farther along, pressed it down. And so on. The blood lasted a surprisingly long time, through six impressions.

  Bloody footprints. Not bad. The prints looked just like the sole of the slipper. He considered taking the second slipper.

  Mungo looked around the room at the Art Deco wall sconces. He sighed. Oh, for some gaslight. Mungo liked old movies.

  Things had a way of working out, if you were patient.

  46

  Hugh Gault was settled into the same chair he had occupied two days before, looking again at the same police photographs. Then looking at Jury. ‘You’re joking.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘My mistress? That’s what Harry said?’

  Jury nodded. ‘His own, more than likely. She lives—or lived—in Venice; he probably spent time with her in Florence when he went to see Ben Torres, who, according to Harry, he knew. The police there will question Torres to find out what exactly went on, but I have no doubt it will be pretty much what Harry told Chief Inspector Dryer.’

  Hugh handed back the photos. ‘And I thought Harry was quite harmless.’

  ‘Harry’s not.’

  ‘But that whole story he told you—’

  ‘Oh, Harry’s flat out denying it, of course. Not all of it; he was careful that the various people he named did exist, Ben Torres, for one; the estate agent actually did deal with the woman calling herself Glynnis Gault, whom we now know was Rosa Paston. There had to be enough verification of his story that I’d believe it, but not so much anyone else would believe what I told them. The Surrey police were never contacted, for instance.’

  ‘But, why? Why did he do this?’

  Jury laughed. ‘You really don’t know Harry, Mr. Gault. Harry’s got a massive ego. One reason I think he did it was because he wanted control over at least part of your life. I wonder if he resented your wife—’

  ‘Glynnis? Why?’

  Jury shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Maybe she was an obstruction, something he had to get round to get to you.’

  ‘So he murdered her stand-in? That’s mad.’

  ‘He didn’t asphyxiate Rosa Paston because of her, let’s, say, symbolic role; he killed her to get rid of her. Then he saw a way to get your wife in a world of trouble. But again, that was merely—shall we say—one of the ‘perks’ of the operation. My guess is that Rosa Paston was killed because she was giving Harry trouble. She was a nuisance and he wanted to get rid of her. When he hatched this plot, I don’t know, but I imagine it was when she began to be too much of an inconvenience.’

  Hugh shook his head. ‘I’m lost.’

  ‘Here’s a woman who is masquerading as the real Glynnis Gault. How long did it take DCI Dryer to get here and question both of you? Not long. But particularly Mrs. Gault, since you were covered for that afternoon. You’re always here. But your wife had no alibi for that afternoon.’

  ‘Wait. Are you telling me that Glynnis is a suspect?’

  ‘Not now she isn’t. But Surrey police might well have had her down as a suspect. And remember, making your wife a suspect wasn’t Harry’s main reason for killing this woman—indeed, I could be dead wrong. Perhaps it didn’t even come into it.’

  ‘Her name was—what?’

  ‘Rosa Paston. Maybe she wanted him to marry her; anyway, she was someone who was probably causing him trouble. Harry doesn’t like trouble; he doesn’t like any threat to his illusory world. Or perhaps I should say ‘delusory.’

  Jury thought about this.

  Hugh laughed. ‘You make him sound mad as a hatter, Mr. Jury.’

  ‘Oh, he is.’ He regarded Hugh. ‘And you’re looking quite skeptical, Mr. Gault. Which is, of course, just the way Harry would want you to look.’

  ‘This whole wild plot simply to get rid of a woman—well, I’m sorry, that sounds awfully callous, but you know what I mean.’

  ‘Yes, I do. Harry is an incredibly clever man. He probably impressed you as quite rational in the months you knew him here. In spite of the fact that he was here.’

  ‘But like me, he committed himself, you know.’

  ‘That’s what he told people.’ Jury shrugged.

  ‘His doctor, Santiago, who’s also mine. He’d know. Have you spoken to him?’

  ‘No. I’m going to see him when I leave you.’ Jury hesitated, looking down at the pattern in the rug. Camels, howdahs, clever-looking monkeys. ‘Mr. Gault, I’m sorry to bring up what must be a painful subject, but your son, Robert, how old was he—at the time of the boating accident?’

  Hugh covered his eyes with his hand, as though light were hurting them. There was no light outside of what was cast by the dimly glowing lamps with fringed damask shades. It was one reason the room was so restful. Through the high windows the night was clear enough to count the stars. In the fireplace, a log fell and sparked, flaming up in unearthly blues and greens.

  ‘Robbie was nine. He was our only child. Not that his death would have been easier if we’d had a dozen children. After the accident, Glynnis and I could hardly—well, this sounds terrible—but we could hardly bear each other’s company. That was when Glynnis went to France. Her father lives there. I thought we were finished, you know, as a couple, but, fortunately, no—’ He shrugged. He smiled as if he’d pulled off a wizard trick.

  Jury slipped forward to the edge of his armchair to close some of the distance between them. ‘Mr. Gault, there was also a
young boy involved last year, that is, at the beginning, on that day a year ago when Rosa Paston was looking at property. The boy was seen by the same witnesses as had seen her. He played the role of her son. I imagine Harry wanted this to make the whole thing even more convincing. Did Harry know Robbie?’

  ‘Oh, no. Robbie died over a year ago. I didn’t know Harry until I came here and that’s been about nine months. What is it about this boy?’

  ‘We don’t know who or where he is. No child was reported missing back then, so the supposition is he went back to his life. But we don’t know what that life was.’

  ‘Who could he be?’

  ‘He must have been important to Harry, because now he has another witness. Did you talk to Harry about Robbie?’

  Hugh nodded. ‘I think I talked to everyone about Robbie.’

  ‘Harry would have wanted the boy to be as much like your son as possible. Is there anything about Robbie that might help us find this other boy?’

  Hugh was silent for a moment and then once again he covered his eyes with his hand. He looked at Jury sorrowfully. ‘Did you know that Robbie was autistic?’

  Jury nodded. ‘Harry told me.’

  ‘Robbie’s was a pretty severe case. He spoke very little. But he was very sweet. He’d been to several experts in the field, but it didn’t help much.’

  Jury wondered. If this stand-in child was autistic, he was probably still alive. Somewhere. He couldn’t be chatting up his mates with stories of this super-adventure, for which he had been paid. Had it been Rosa Paston who’d contacted the boy? ‘Would Robbie enjoy an outing, Mrs. Smith?’ or Jones or Brown. ‘It’s ever so nice a day, the weather holding. And there’s a hundred quid in it—’

  No, too much. Or no money changing hands at all. Wouldn’t want the suspicion that Robbie would be involved in something illegal. ‘A couple hundred pounds my friend will pay to have Robbie as a model for some pictures. ‘ No. There would be other approaches, and it wasn’t important how he’d been enticed.