The Man with a Load of Mischief

by Martha Grimes

  When she had gone off with that, Jury said, “That was a very generous gift, Mr. Plant.”

  “I think she missed the red and green symbolism. Christmas colors. I thought it would be nice.” He studied the tip of his cigar, and blew on it to make it burn.

  “Excuse me for asking, but what did she give you?”

  “Nothing.” Plant smiled. “She never does. Says she’s saving up for a specially nice gift — something she’s been considering for years. Wonder what it is. A new car fitted out by the I.R.A.?”

  Jury grinned, and then said, “There are a few ideas I’d like to toss around with you regarding these murders.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “Well, what intrigues me is their flamboyance. What sort of mind would think them up?”

  “A very cool one. He might be a psychopath under it all, but I’ll bet it’s well hidden. I agree, though. The killer is being horribly public about it all. If you want to kill someone, why not arrange a private meeting?”

  Jury drew a folded copy of the front page of the Weatherington Chronicle from his jacket pocket. “I can give you a good reason, I think.” He flicked his finger against the banner: “Inn Murders Continue.” There was a long account of the murder of Ruby Judd, followed by a review of the Creed murder. “It’s the pattern. Either this inn business means something, or it doesn’t —”

  Melrose Plant blew a smoke ring. “That statement, Inspector, has probably unraveled a million years of philosophical speculation. ‘Either it means something, or it doesn’t.’ ”

  “Mr. Plant, there are times when I’m happy I’m not your aunt.”

  “Keep talking as you just did, and I’ll soon be unable to tell the difference.”

  “Mr. Plant, be careful. I could break your alibi.”

  “You wouldn’t.”

  “If there were more than one murder—? How about that? You’re only covered for the Creed murder.”

  “Let’s get back to our theories: now, is the murderer trying to get at something in these inns? What about gold in a press table? Or perhaps Matchett has the original Hogarth sign and doesn’t know it — well, that sounds rather improbable. Or this inn business is a smoke screen.”

  “I see you thought of that, too. Also: sometimes the most public way of committing a crime is the most private. The ‘purloined letter’ idea. You hide something in plain sight. And since the murderer isn’t hiding the bodies, well, maybe he’s trying to obscure the motive.”

  “Except for the body of Ruby Judd. There are two variations from the pattern. She was buried and she wasn’t a stranger.”

  “It’s the variations that are interesting. Although it must have made no difference when the others were discovered, it did make a difference in the case of Ruby Judd.”

  “But why murder Ruby Judd anyway?” Melrose twirled his port glass.

  “Perhaps because she knew something about someone in the village.”

  “Blackmail? Good heavens, what have we all been up to?”

  Jury answered this obliquely. “There is some indication that Ruby had something going with Oliver Darrington.” Plant looked astonished. “Yes, I think the Judd girl really got around.”

  “That chubby little farm girl?” Plant shook his head. “Some men have strange tastes.”

  “Including Marshall Trueblood.”

  Melrose nearly dropped the port bottle. “You’re kidding.”

  Jury smiled. “Trueblood does seem to be the standing butt of Long Piddleton’s jokes, I admit.”

  “Yes. But I’ve always felt jokes about another man’s race, religion, or sexual persuasion to be in deplorable taste. Those are generally things one can’t do much about. Not that I like him. If he walked down the High Street standing on his hands he couldn’t be sillier.” Melrose shook his head in disbelief. “And Trueblood was actually sleeping with the Judd girl?”

  “Only once, he claims. But there are things in Trueblood’s past, as there are in Darrington’s, that neither one might want known and that Ruby Judd might have found out. Then we have the Bicester-Strachans —”

  “I’d plump for Lorraine, myself. She’d murder to protect her holy reputation —”

  Agatha popped back into the dining room just then to hear what was going on, her excuse being she needed a drop of brandy for her splitting headache. “Just get me some, won’t you Ruthven?”

  Ruthven, who had just come in at that moment to clear the sideboard, turned haughtily and said, “My name is pronounced Rivv’n, madam. Rivv’n, as his lordship has so often told you.”

  “Then why don’t you spell it Rivv’n?”

  “I do, madam.” Ruthven started for the kitchen, tray in hand.

  “Well!” Agatha turned to Melrose. “Is that the way you allow your servants to talk? And what aspersions have you been casting on Lorraine Bicester-Strachan?”

  Turning round at the kitchen door, Ruthven came close to shouting, “Madam, it is Bister-Strawn! Bister-Strawn!” He wheeled round and went through to the kitchen.

  Agatha was openmouthed.

  Melrose, who thought he caught a whiff of the old malt on Ruthven’s Christmas breath, grinned. “Consider, Agatha: you’ve been shriven by Ruthven.”

  She whirled and stomped out.

  Plant picked up the topic Agatha had interrupted. “I think Bicester-Strachan himself would be my last choice. That nice, chess-playing old man —”

  “I’ve seen nice, chess-playing old men do strange things before. Then there’s Simon Matchett —”

  Plant’s green eyes gleamed. “Isn’t there just! I only wish I knew more about his wife and all that sordid business to toss up to Vivian, the silly girl.”

  “A bit of prejudice operating there, Mr. Plant?” In more than one case, Jury thought, guiltily. “You’re quite dead set against his marrying Miss Rivington, aren’t you?”

  “You know her. Wouldn’t you be?”

  Jury chose to study his plate rather than answer directly. “I don’t understand why the engagement, if there is one, is so undecided.”

  “Nor do I. It’s Isabel’s doing, that so-called engagement. Been pushing them together, though I swear I can’t see why, not the way Isabel looks at Matchett, and the fact she’d lose out if the purse strings transferred, not to Vivian’s hands when she’s thirty, but to his. Damned puzzling.”

  “Not if—”

  “If what?”

  “Nothing. What do you think about that story of the accident to her father?”

  “Funny you should ask, because I’ve often wondered about that. Vivian seems quite convinced that she was a real brat, and that she was continuously fighting with Daddy, and all the rest. I imagine you’d agree it’s difficult thinking of her as having been a hellion as a child. Not only that, but she was only — what? — seven or eight when he died. Don’t we tend to bury the more traumatic incidents of childhood? Yet Vivian paints in all of the details of what happened at that time as if it were yesterday. I’m just wondering, you see” — and Melrose inspected the tip of his cigar before knocking off the ash — “who’s been filling in the brush strokes.”

  “You mean she might have had the picture painted for her by Isabel?”

  “Who else is there? They’ve no relatives left.”

  “Then there might have been some need for Isabel to convince Vivian of the accident. And that might give Isabel a motive for covering up her past.”

  “You don’t honestly think a woman could have done these murders?”

  “You’re such a sentimentalist, Mr. Plant.”

  • • •

  Jury asked to use the telephone, and Melrose went into the drawing room to join the ladies.

  Jury apologized for dragging Constable Pluck from his Christmas dinner, but said he had to speak with Wiggins.

  When the voice said, “Yes, sir?” Jury said, “Listen, Wiggins, when you’re through dinner, I’d like you to get on to the police in Dartmouth and run down a list of names for me. You’
ll probably have to go through Central, eventually.” Then Jury read off the list, all of them either guests or help at the Goat and Compasses sixteen years before.

  Poor Wiggins was not at all happy. “But that’s twenty-three names you’ve given me, Inspector. Those people won’t all be around.”

  “I know. But some of them will be. Perhaps one of them has a good memory.” There was a snapping sound in his ear, and then a crunch. Wiggins must be eating a stalk of celery. He mumbled that he’d get onto the list as soon as possible.

  • • •

  As Jury entered the drawing room, Agatha was arranging her skirts within the confines of the openwork calamander chair. Marshall Trueblood would have gone into a swoon, seeing her large frame thus fitted into it. She adjusted her new bracelet and said, “I imagine it was quite dear, wasn’t it?” Apparently, she had forgotten her earlier insinuation that the gems weren’t real.

  “I can tell you exactly what it cost, Agatha —”

  “Don’t be vulgar, Melrose. It’s quite handsome. Of course, it’s not old, like Marjorie’s jewels.”

  “Who is Marjorie?” asked Jury.

  “My mother,” said Melrose. “She had a fine collection.” He stared up at the ceiling. “I keep them up in the Tower. With the ravens. You can view them for fifty pence, if you like.”

  “Oh, do stop trying to be funny, my dear Plant. It doesn’t suit you.”

  Vivian rose. “Melrose, it’s been a wonderful dinner. But I do have to be going —”

  “Good God, why?” asked Melrose, rising also. “You could stick around and help break my alibi —”

  “Melrose!” Vivian looked at him as if he were a wayward child.

  “But Agatha will need someone’s help —”

  “Melrose, stop it!” Vivian seemed truly disturbed.

  Jury thought she had a way of taking everything a trifle too seriously — not, of course, that these murders weren’t serious enough. But clearly Plant was only trying to lighten their load. Perhaps that was the way of it with poets. And policemen. But, no. He could still appreciate Melrose Plant’s humor.

  “Leaving, are you?” asked Agatha. “Well, I think I must stay for a bit.”

  “But you trudged up here with Vivian, dear Aunt. Are you going to let her go on her own?”

  “I daresay Vivian is old enough to take care of herself,” said Agatha, smoothly. “Inspector Jury can give her a ride.”

  Melrose smiled. “I shouldn’t be too saucy with the inspector, Auntie.” He was standing in front of his marble fireplace, blowing smoke rings.

  Jury helped Vivian into her coat, and Melrose saw them to the door. He said to Jury: “Really, it’s hardly sporting for you to take off Vivian and leave me with Agatha.”

  “I’ve never been known for my sporting blood, Mr. Plant.”

  • • •

  “What can I get for you, Inspector? A drink? Coffee?”

  He was quick to let her know this wasn’t a social call. “Nothing, thanks. I wanted to ask you a few questions.”

  She sighed. “Fire away, Inspector. You seem never to go off duty.”

  At that, Jury bridled: “It’s hard to go off duty with four murders.”

  “Sorry,” she said, rubbing her arms, as if the house had grown suddenly cold. “I didn’t mean to be flippant about it. It’s just . . .” She sat down on the couch and picked up a cigarette box.

  Jury sat on the armchair opposite, the coffee table between them. He was almost afraid to get too comfortable. “First of all. I understand you’re engaged to Simon Matchett.”

  Her look, he noticed, as she passed the cigarettes to him, had something in it of a fox run to ground. He lit her cigarette and then his own, hanging on her answer.

  “Yes. Yes, I suppose that’s true.” She rose. “I’m having a drink. I wish you’d join me.”

  Jury stared at the tiny red coal of his cigarette. “Whiskey.”

  As she went over to a Welsh dresser and got out glasses and bottles, he looked around the room.

  Coming back to him, she said, “About Simon: I’m not really decided.” She put the drink in his hand.

  He looked at it, wondering if the liquid would turn purple. “You mean you don’t know if you’re going to marry him? Why not?”

  She stood before him, looking off at some distance he couldn’t fathom. “Because I don’t think I love him.”

  The furnishings Jury had not really noticed before suddenly began to glow like jewels in the dark. He cleared his throat, wondering if his voice would come out sounding human. “If you don’t love him, why marry him? If you don’t mind my asking,” he added quickly, downing nearly the whole of his drink.

  Seated across from him now, Vivian studied her own glass, turning it in her hands like a crystal ball. Then she shrugged, as if reasons were beyond her. “One gets tired of living one’s life alone. And he does seem to care for me —”

  Jury set down his glass, hard. “What an absolutely insipid reason for marrying.”

  Her eyes widened. “Well, really, Inspector Jury! And what reasons would you allow for marrying?”

  Jury was out of his chair and over at the window now, staring out at the snow sifting down in the light of the street lamp. “Passion! Besottedness! Sex, if you like. Not being able to keep your hands off someone, or think about anything else!” He turned from the window. “ ‘Caring’ — what a bloody washed-out word that is! Haven’t you ever felt any of those other things?”

  For a moment she just looked at him. “I’m not sure. But apparently you have.”

  “Never mind about me. How much money do you inherit?”

  “A quarter-million pounds, if it’s really germane to this discussion.” Now her voice had risen several notches.

  “Has it never occurred to you Simon Matchett might be a fortune hunter?”

  “Of course it has! Any man might be!”

  “That’s absurdly cynical. Plenty of men aren’t. Women like you” — and his mind darted to that little picture in the drawer in his flat — “invite disaster. You wrap your vulnerability like a cloak about you and are amazed when someone takes advantage.”

  “That’s hardly cynicism, you’re describing.” Her voice dropped to its normal pitch. “But I must say it’s rather poetic.”

  “Forget the poetry. How well did you know Ruby Judd?”

  Her hand went to her forehead. “Good heavens. Talking to you is like trying to grab hold of a whirlwind. You make my head spin.”

  “Did you know Ruby?”

  “Yes, or course. But not well. I used to see her at the vicarage.”

  “What did you think of her?” As she hesitated, Jury said, “It won’t do to stand on false sentiment, Miss Rivington.”

  “Well, I didn’t dislike Ruby. But the way she was always listening in when I was talking with the vicar. The girl was just too curious, that’s all. She was always popping in and out. I think Ruby was just a kind of tearaway. I’d heard she’s been after most of the men in the village. Oliver. Simon, probably. Even Marshall Trueblood, if you can believe it. Perhaps Melrose Plant is the only one who escaped.” She paused for a moment, then said, “You spoke of fortune hunters.” She laughed artificially. “At least I’m sure Melrose isn’t.”

  It was the way she said it. Jury stared blindly at the liquid in his glass, the tiny bit left. Couldn’t she have chosen someone else, anyone else, to be in love with? Robert Redford, for instance?

  “Isabel hates Melrose. I’ve never been able to discover why.”

  The reason for that was obvious, if Isabel had Simon in mind for Vivian. But there it was again: Why would Isabel want the money she would most certainly get from Vivian falling into the hands of someone she hadn’t any control over, as she apparently had over her stepsister. Unless, of course, she could control him. The idea that had taken hold of Jury while talking with Plant made his blood freeze in his veins.

  “What difference does it make what your stepsister wants or doesn’
t want?” he asked.

  She answered the question indirectly. “Has anyone told you about my father?” He nodded, and she went on. “It was my fault, you see. I was up on my horse, and he came out to the stables. It was very dark, a moonless night, and he went round behind the horse, and the horse reared up and kicked him.” Vivian shrugged stiffly. “He died immediately.”

  “I’m terribly sorry.” Jury thought for a moment. “This happened in the north of Scotland, I understand.”

  She nodded. “In the Highlands. Sutherland.”

  “There were just the three of you — you and your father and Isabel?”

  “Yes. And an ancient cook. She’s dead now.” Vivian was staring into the untouched liquid in her glass as if she might be seeing old faces in a pool.

  “How did your sister — stepsister — get on with your father?”

  “Not very well. And to tell the truth, I think she’s always been angry about not having got more in her own right. From the will, I mean.”

  “But why should your father have left money to a stepchild he’d only had for — what? — three or four years?”

  “That’s true, certainly.” Vivian took another cigarette from the china box. The first one had turned to a snaky ash in the china tray. She waved her hand, as if to clear away the smoke of the past.

  “You were very fond of your father, weren’t you?” Still looking down, she nodded. He thought she was close to tears. “According to Isabel, you had got angry with him and run out of the house to the stables, and jumped up on your horse. Do you actually remember doing that?”

  She looked puzzled. “Remember? Why, yes. I mean, not exactly.”

  “It’s what you were told happened, isn’t it? By your —”

  “Getting sloshed together?”

  Both of them looked around in surprise. Neither had heard Isabel come in. She stood in the doorway among the melting shadows there, looking mysterious and very handsome — if a bit too rich for Jury’s blood. Velvet hunter’s green pantsuit, Russian amber beads, and that coat of silver mink, which she now had casually hitched over her shoulder. “How are you this evening, Chief Inspector Jury?”

  Jury rose and bowed slightly. “Fine, thank you, Miss Rivington.”