The Man with a Load of Mischief

by Martha Grimes

  “Meaning?”

  “That roads man wasn’t really taking much of a chance of having someone see him from the inn, here. Nor on the road, either. It’s really pretty flat; you can see for a good quarter mile either way. There’s that bad dip in the road, of course, where the black spot is, but all the same . . .”

  “Meaning the workman was not really a workman, I take it? Yes, the ground would have been easy enough to dig up again the night of the fifteenth. And if anyone had seen him, had passed that way, they would have taken him for a worker come back perhaps to finish up something. He could even have safely worked by lantern-light.”

  “Ready-made grave, just waiting there,” said Plant. “A bit of a change of clothes, a cap, and so on, and no one would really have thought much about it.”

  “There was always the chance that he’d be seen dragging the body from — where? let’s say that stand of oak — the short distance to the ‘dead man.’ But by whom? From here one might see a man working on the road, but if the body were tarpaulined, or covered somehow, it’s just too far off to be distinguishable.”

  “And if he had enough nerve to bring this off, he’d not stick at waving a car round the shoulder, if one happened to pass.”

  “Or she, Mr. Plant.”

  “I can’t believe all this was done by a woman.”

  “But it’s possible. A woman could as easily dress up as a road worker.”

  “Very well. She could have done.”

  Mrs. Keeble had banged in from the kitchen with a tray and deposited the food on the table. The three of them took the table against the wall by the cold fireplace where a deal table had been laid out with cutlery, napkins, and three white crockery plates, each with the same portions of fish, potatoes and mushy green peas.

  Melrose Plant took one look and shoved his plate away and reclaimed the pint of bitter which Keeble had topped up. Jury looked disconsolately at the fish, fried, he was sure, in one of those batter mixes that comes in paper packets. Only Wiggins seemed to be digging in with relish, pounding the malt bottle on the bottom to shake the vinegar through the tiny holes.

  “The wine,” said Plant, “will be along any minute. I only hope she remembers to let it breathe.”

  Wiggins let out something somewhere between a giggle and a snicker. Jury was so unused to hearing Wiggins laugh, he couldn’t quite identify the sound. “Incidentally, sir,” Wiggins was saying around a mouthful of chips, “Superintendent Racer says you’re to call him immediately. I told him you hadn’t hardly had a moment to even sit down since you got here, sir.” Wiggins was undoubtedly feeling guilty for the morning he had spent in bed, but it seemed to have done him good; it certainly had made him more voluble. He was shoveling in the fish and chips, and scarcely hesitated at all when both Plant and Jury slid their own food onto his plate.

  The front door of the Cock and Bottle opened and three men, one of them Superintendent Pratt, came in. Jury could spot reporters a mile away, and sighed.

  They were equally adept at spotting the police. Over they came, the photographer clicking pictures right and left at different parts of the saloon bar as if it were a fashion model doing naughty poses for him.

  “You’d be Chief Inspector Jury, C.I.D. I’m from the Weatherington Chronicle. (Small potatoes, thought Jury, and not hard to shake off.) The other didn’t bother identifying himself, just stood with his pad and pencil at the ready. They asked their standard questions and got their standard answers. No, the police hadn’t got their man, but investigations were proceeding . . . Jury thought he might have that stamped on his headstone: Investigations Are Proceeding. Yes, they’d have something to tell the press in a day or two. One of the reporters made a snide comment about Jury’s having his pint at this particular moment, which drew an angry word from Pratt: if they worked half as hard as the chief inspector, they’d not have time to ask damnfool questions. The newspaper crew packed up their gear and left, coattails flying.

  Jury introduced Melrose to the superintendent. “It was Mr. Plant here who discovered the body.”

  “Just imagine,” said Melrose, “how Aunt Agatha will take that. It’s going to ruin her Christmas.”

  • • •

  Just before they left the Cock and Bottle Constable Pluck was before them, proudly displaying a piece of luggage which he set on the table in front of Jury.

  It was a dark blue, cheap, vinyl overnight case, the sort usually reserved for cosmetics and nightgowns. A removable plastic tray held plastic bottles and jars. The bottom of the case contained only some fresh undies, a nightgown, and an extra blouse. There were also some gaudy bangled earrings. Jury took out the clothes, looked inside the jars, smelled the bottles. “Nothing else lying about the woods?”

  Pluck shook his head. “No, sir. The case was closed, just as you see it. It’d been hid under a pile of wet leaves and twigs and stuff.”

  “Very good. See if you can stir up the Judd family a bit. I’ll want to talk with them this evening, and it may be very late when I get there. But I don’t imagine they’ll be getting much sleep tonight, anyway.”

  • • •

  “I can’t understand it,” said the vicar, looking even grayer than his years. “Why would anyone want to kill that poor, harmless girl. Couldn’t have been more than nineteen or twenty.”

  “Twenty-four, she was, Mr. Smith. And perhaps not quite so innocent as we might like to believe. The point now is that we may have to go over some of the same ground again; her murder throws altogether a different light on matters.” The fingerprint officer was upstairs, the photographers having come and gone, but Jury knew it would be useless. He imagined that when Mrs. Gaunt cleaned, she made a proper job of it, and she had cleaned Ruby’s room some days ago. The fingerprint expert clattered down the stairs, case in hand, saying that there wasn’t a print up there worth spitting at, except the same ones everywhere — probably the Gaunt woman’s, and a man’s — Jury’s own, perhaps, when he looked the room over. Were Jury’s prints on record? The officer snickered.

  “As I told you before, Inspector,” said the Reverend Smith. “It was Daphne Murch who got the girl for me. They were good friends, I think. If anyone would know why she left, it might be Daphne.” The vicar poured himself a glass of port, offering some to Jury and Wiggins, both of whom refused. Then the vicar leaned back, and Jury assumed he was adjusting his mind to the idea of his housemaid’s death. Instead, he said, “The Cock and Bottle: most people assume the word’s some sort of corruption of ‘cork,’ which would make a bit more sense. But it isn’t. ‘Cock’ was a word they used for spigot, the sort which would be found on a keg, you know. So it was really meant to advertise draught beer, with the bottle standing for bottled beer.” Then he blushed, apparently realizing this was no time to delve into the lore of tavern art. “To think this is what it was all leading up to, these murders: the murder of that poor girl.”

  “ ‘Leading up to’?” said Jury. “No, I think you’ve got it the wrong way round, Mr. Smith. Ruby was murdered before any of the others. I don’t mean to say there’s no connection, of course.” Wiggins had searched out some Players from his coat pocket, rooting among the boxes of lozenges, cough drops and nose drops, and he handed them now to Jury. “Did you ever suspect that Ruby knew something about someone in the village here, something they’d rather not have known?”

  “Blackmail? Is that what you’re suggesting?”

  Jury didn’t answer.

  “No. She chattered a lot, but I didn’t always listen. Though there was a bit of talk — I don’t credit gossip, of course — about Ruby and Marshall Trueblood.”

  “Marshall Trueblood?” Jury and Wiggins exchanged disbelieving glances, and Wiggins nearly choked. Jury said, “Vicar, I don’t really think so, now, do you? Trueblood’s a homosexual.”

  The vicar, happy to display his worldliness in such matters, said: “But he could be what’s called bisexual, Inspector.”

  That was true enough, and Trueblood did
seem to overdo his act. “But you don’t know this for a fact?” The vicar shook his head. “And the day Ruby left, she didn’t seem especially excited, or anything?” The vicar shook his head again. Since Jury had already spoken to Mrs. Gaunt and found her also ignorant of any unusual behavior on Ruby’s part, he supposed he had got out of them all he could get. It would have to do for the moment, at least. Jury rose and Wiggins snapped shut his notebook.

  Outside, Jury asked Wiggins if he’d mind going on ahead to Weatherington and preparing the Judds for his visit: no matter how painful this might be for Ruby’s parents, he needed to talk with them that evening.

  • • •

  When Jury walked into the saloon bar of the Man with a Load of Mischief, he found Twig in his leather apron polishing up glasses. Wearily he hitched himself up on one of the oak stools and asked for a whiskey. In the beveled mirror he saw only one other customer — a middle-aged woman who seemed to be ticking off likely possibilities on a racing form.

  “Where’s Mr. Matchett, Twig?”

  “He’s having drinks in the dining room before dinner, sir.” Jury started to get up. “With Miss Vivian, sir.” Jury sat back down again. He stared down at the amber liquid in the glass. He was a policeman. He should be in there, asking questions.

  He forced himself to pick up his glass and head for the dining room.

  At first he thought it was empty. It was, certainly, dark — lit only by the red-globed lights that flickered on the tables and reflected on the walls. Jury was standing in a deep pool of shadow by the door. Then he saw them, Simon Matchett and Vivian. They were nearly hidden by the stone buttress of one of the alcoves. Vivian’s profile was present to him, but all he could see of Matchett was one hand, which now was lying on Vivian’s wrist.

  He was really quite close to them, not more than perhaps twenty feet away. He tried to move his feet to cover that short distance, to walk up and start asking questions. But he didn’t. At that moment he knew the meaning of being rooted to the spot.

  Now Matchett was leaning toward Vivian, and the hand which had encircled her wrist reached round to lie across the back of her chair and across her shoulders.

  Jury moved a bit farther into the shadows, slightly beyond the door, prepared (if need be) to appear to be just then entering the room in case one of them should turn and see him.

  In the brief moments he had been standing there, all three of them had been silent as the grave, a tableau vivant. Then he caught the tag end of something Matchett was saying:

  “. . . where we live, darling.”

  Jury stood motionless in the shadows, his drink like a lump in his hand.

  “. . . couldn’t live here, Simon. Not any longer. Not after all of this. And now — even poor Ruby Judd. My God!” She pulled her sweater closer round her, helped by Matchett, his hand coming to rest on her shoulder.

  “Good Lord, love! No more could I. What you need is to get straight away. We need, I should say. It holds too many unpleasant memories for both of us. Vivian, love —” He ran his fingers from the nape of her neck up to her hair and they seemed caught in its tawny strands as if entangled and entrapped. “Ireland. We’ll go to Ireland, Viv. It would be perfect for you. Have you ever been to Sligo?” She shook her head, staring down. “Well, we must go — it’s right for you, that country. It’s so strange how nothing can disturb that tranquility, not even that forever war they go on having. It’s still one of the most peaceful spots on earth.”

  She folded her arms across the table and looked at him deeply. “You seem just a bit too vital for a place like Ireland. Unless you mean to join up with the I.R.A.”

  His hand had moved from her hair slowly down until one finger was tracing the curve of her cheek. “That’s rot. I want peace as much as you do, my dear. I want to sit in a great, damp room, with a roaring fire and a couple of wolfhounds. Look, this place will fetch a very good price, and I can buy something over there with the profits — a pub, maybe. Or become a gun-runner, anything to keep us going —”

  There was a brief silence. “I shouldn’t really think we’ll have to worry too much about being kept.”

  The hand that had been at her face dropped to her shoulder, then back to the table. “Give it up, Vivian.”

  “Give what up?”

  “The money. Give it to charity or something. You don’t need it, and I don’t want it, and as far as I can see it’s doing nothing but causing misery — at least to me. My Lord, you won’t even let me tell anyone about us. You won’t even share Christmas day with me!”

  She laughed. “Oh, Simon, you’re being childish.” She enclosed his hand with her own. “I promised Melrose ages ago—”

  “He’s probably the only man you’ve ever known you’re sure isn’t a fortune hunter. If I had half his money you’d marry me tomorrow,” he said bitterly.

  As he tried to press himself farther into the darkness, Jury had the unreal sensation he made of an audience of one watching a performance in a theater.

  “— God knows I don’t blame you for the doubts you have,” Simon was saying, “not after your dreadful childhood. Frankly, I think you’d be well rid of Isabel.”

  “I’ve never heard you talk against Isabel.”

  “I’m not exactly against her, I just think you should be shot of her. She’s a reminder of old tragedy. And I’m not so sure but what she doesn’t play up to it. You think you owe her too damned much. Darling — you don’t owe anyone a bloody thing. If you refuse to marry me, then just go off with me. Live with me. Then your money will be forever beyond my reach —” She was somewhere between laughter and tears, now. “Listen, love. We’ll buy up some old wreck of a castle over there. Can you imagine what Ireland will be like for your writing? I won’t bother you there. I’ll just go off with the damned wolfhounds, or to the pub, or anything — so long as I have you with me. Yeats country. I’ll buy you a tower, like Yeats did for his wife. Though I’m glad your name isn’t George, I must say.” Now she was laughing. “What did he write? Something about building with a mill forge — ‘I build this tower for my wife, George, / And may these images remain / When all is ruin once again.’ ”

  “Beautiful,” said Vivian. “But he wasn’t really so much in love with her, was he? Wasn’t it Maud Gonne he really loved?”

  “Sorry. Then it’s Maud Gonne you remind me of. Not old George.”

  She laughed. “How very accommodating of you.”

  “Maud Gonne. Or Beatrice, perhaps? Or do you remind me of Jane Seymour — wasn’t she the only one Henry the Eighth loved?”

  “I think so. Certainly one of the few he didn’t kill.”

  “Never mind. Cleopatra, you remind me of —”

  “That’s going a bit far, isn’t it?”

  “Not for you. And Dido — ah! Dido, Queen of Carthage. Remember what she said when she first saw Aeneas?”

  “I blush to say I don’t. Are you casting yourself as Aeneas?”

  “Certainly. ‘Agnosco veteris vestigia flammae.’ She says —”

  • • •

  “ ‘I recognize,’ ” said Jury, looking squarely at Vivian and setting his glass heavily on the table, “ ‘the vestiges of an old flame.’ ”

  They stared up at him, openmouthed. Then both spoke at once: “Inspector Jury!”

  “Sorry, didn’t mean to creep up on you like that. You were . . . engrossed.”

  Vivian gave a little gasping laugh. “Don’t apologize! I’m a bit overwhelmed to be in the presence of such learned men. Sit down, do.”

  Jury pulled out a chair and lit up a cigarette. “Not me. It’s just a great line, that’s all. What man in his right mind could resist it?”

  “Or woman, either, Inspector.” She was smiling at him, but he looked away. “It’s a beautiful line.”

  “Well, we haven’t much time for beauty, have we, then?” he said somewhat overbriskly, shoving his silverware around. “We seem to have another murder on our hands. You may’ve heard by now. News travel
s fast.”

  He saw Vivian look away quickly, and down at the tablecloth, like a chastened child. “Ruby Judd,” was all she said, her voice very small.

  “Ruby Judd, yes.”

  “We were just talking about it,” said Matchett.

  Oh, weren’t you just? thought Jury.

  “We were about to have dinner, Inspector. Won’t you join us?”

  “Yes. Thanks.”

  Twig came into the dining room and was sent to fetch the salad.

  “Isabel went over to the Bicester-Strachans,” said Vivian. “I just didn’t want to stay home alone.” She stared at the stone support behind Matchett’s chair, as if across its ancient surface some warning were written. “Maybe we’ve been expecting it.”

  “What?” asked Jury, surprised. “That Ruby Judd might be killed?”

  “No. But that it would finally be someone in Long Piddleton. Did we really believe these were merely aimless killings?”

  “I don’t know. Did you?”

  She appeared puzzled — understandably, he supposed — by his acid tone. Well, her relationship with Matchett was no business of his, was it? Matchett had poured a generous portion of a white Medoc into the large globe of Vivian’s wineglass; Jury himself refused the offer of wine.

  Matchett said to Vivian, smiling. “Speak for yourself. I think most of us believed just that — that they were aimless, in a way. But why on earth would someone want to harm Ruby Judd? She’d be the last person I could imagine.”

  Jury inferred from this, as Twig rolled in the salad table, that Matchett had an idea of the social fitness of things: if one is going to do murder, one should murder the swells and not the peasants.

  Twig was arranging the wooden bowl of lettuce and small dishes and vials of oil. When he began squeezing lemon juice onto the greens, Matchett got up, saying, “I’ll do that, Twig.” Expertly, he dribbled oil round the bowl and began tossing the contents with a wooden fork and spoon.

  “Where were both of you Tuesday a week ago, in the evening?”

  Matchett went on calmly breaking an egg over the lettuce, but Vivian looked nervous as she said, “At home — I can’t remember . . . Simon?”