The Man with a Load of Mischief

by Martha Grimes

  “Let me ask you a question, Inspector Jury. I assume you must have discovered that I murdered my wife. But how on earth — ?”

  “Stupid of you, Mr. Matchett, to make that assumption. And to confess in the meantime. I’ve been wondering all along, though, exactly what your commitment to Miss Rivington was?”

  Matchett was silent for a moment, and then said, “Which Miss Rivington?”

  “I imagine that answers my question.” Jury was still gauging distances. “And did Small — I mean Smollett — get the other two here? Or did you?”

  “I did. Smollett’s voice was easy enough to do after I’d discovered from him he’d told Hainsley and Creed. I simply called them, told them — as Smollett — they’d got to come immediately. I told them to book rooms at the Jack and Hammer and the Swan — well, I couldn’t have them all dying at the Man with a Load of Mischief, could I?”

  “So you actually got to the Swan, not at eleven, but at ten-thirty. Parked your car in the woods . . . you must have known we’d discover that window. And the tracks.”

  “Yes, of course. I wanted you to; since I was sitting in the Swan with Vivian at the time of the murder — or near enough — I didn’t care who you thought came through that window. Outsized boots and a coverall to keep my clothes clean — nothing to it.”

  Jury wanted to keep him talking. “How did you ever manage to get behind Creed?”

  “He thought — rather, I convinced him — that I was merely checking the plumbing. The coverall helped there. And I am an actor, Inspector—”

  “I’ve noticed. Why in heaven’s name didn’t you meet Creed in some other place rather than bringing him to Long Piddleton?”

  “Well, now, you wouldn’t let us leave, would you? What choice had I? And I was beginning to enjoy the inn motif the newspapers had worked up.”

  “I see.” Jury was too busy judging the amount of leverage he’d need to waste emotion on this invisible man in the inky darkness whom he couldn’t see. “Does murder get to be a habit after a while?”

  “Perhaps. But I really must insist on having that diary, now, Inspector. And if you would be so kind as to move very slowly down those pulpit steps —”

  “Not much choice, now, have I mate?” Jury suddenly switched off the light and ducked behind the pulpit as the first shot splintered the wood above his head. Then he jumped to its edge and heaved his weight toward the rood loft. The now-total darkness was his only cover and it took every ounce of strength to grasp the edge of the loft. His hands grabbed and held and he dangled momentarily, until his last burst of strength pulled him up and over. Another shot landed in the general direction of the ceiling boss above his head and then there was stillness, which he tried not to break by breathing, though his lungs seemed about to burst. From the loft, he could easily swing over to the gallery — how ironic, Jury thought, that the church resembled a theater — but at the moment his mind was engaged in trying to figure out what sort of gun Matchett had and how many shots were left. Matchett was not fool enough to waste them by continuing to fire into the dark.

  Jury heard feet scraping off to the left, and he knew that Matchett must be ascending the rood-loft staircase, which had been cut into the wall off to his left. He made his way, crouching, over to the other end, and jumped from the loft to the gallery on his right just as Matchett reached the top of the stairs, and there was another flash and a shot that Jury could have sworn barely missed his ear. Crouching still, he made his way between the benches, down the gallery, and then stopped. Another silence. Slowly, he took the electric torch from his raincoat pocket, set it on the gallery ledge, flicked it on, and darted down the west side of the gallery while another shot rang out. The torch rolled and crashed into the nave below.

  What Jury had felt when he brought out his torch was the inside pocket of his raincoat with the box of cough drops Wiggins had given him. If he could just get the cellophane off without giving away his position — for in the other pocket was the catapult the Double boy had given him. Bless you, James. He dislodged a sticky cough drop from the others in the box, placed it in the rubber band, and aimed at the nearest window. There was the pinging sound of glass, followed by another shot. He tried to keep up this reflex action on Matchett’s part by quickly pulling back the band and aiming another cough-drop missile below, into the nave. He fired into the dark recess and heard a shattering sound. Possibly winged the plaster statuette of the Virgin. Jury prayed. Oh, how he prayed.

  But instead of an answering shot, there was the sound of running feet moving down the rood-loft steps and into the nave.

  Again, a long silence, and then a light fanning out over the gallery. Jury ducked down.

  “I admire your diversionary tactics, Chief Inspector,” came the voice from below. “But it was just as unfortunate for you to give up your torch as it was stupid of me not to bring mine. And since it is quite obvious you’ve no gun, and I still have, don’t you think you’d just as well come down now?”

  Since Matchett was not about to fritter another shot away, Jury supposed he hadn’t much choice. Would he simply shoot Jury when he had him in view? Or would he wait until he made sure he had the diary in hand? Jury hoped he would wait.

  “If you’d just step down here into the nave, Inspector? I really must have that diary. And then we can go for a little drive.”

  Jury stopped sweating for the moment. Between here and a grave in the woods he could surely think of something. “I’m coming down, Matchett.”

  “Carefully, now, carefully.”

  Jury walked past the benches to the east side toward the stone steps that Matchett had used a few moments before. Looking down, Jury noticed Matchett was standing about midway in the nave, between the rows of pews. As he passed between the benches he quickly plucked a hymnal from behind its little wooden slat, and held it. Then he descended the steps, and as he reached the bottom, he raised the book above his head, both hands in the air.

  “Now, if you’ll just bring the diary over here —”

  Jury was walking toward him, and Matchett told him to stop when he was about ten feet away. “Close enough, I think —”

  At that moment, Jury opened his fingers slightly and the hymnal fell onto the soft carpeting which covered the brass rubbing. They were both standing on it.

  “Clumsy,” said Matchett.

  Jury started to lean down, knowing full well Matchett would stop him.

  “Uh-uh, Inspector. Just kick it over here, if you don’t mind.”

  It was what he wanted, and he only hoped he had enough strength left in his leg to do the job. Jury jabbed with his heel against the thin covering, jerking it back toward him and doing it just quickly enough to throw Matchett completely off balance. The last shot exploded, grazing Jury’s arm, and then he lunged. It was not a hard job, shouldering Matchett back against the pew, and Jury was so enraged — all of the suppressed anger at this madman coming out now — that the blow to Matchett’s jaw and the other to his stomach were simultaneous and quite effective. Matchett crumpled and dropped onto the stone floor between two of the pews.

  Jury picked up the hymnal. The diary was still up on the pulpit. He had slipped it under the huge, illuminated Bible while he had been talking to Matchett. He looked down at him now, and wondered about a man who could develop a taste for murder as some men do for oysters. Jury said to his unconscious form: “Mr. Matchett, you are not obliged to say anything unless you wish to do so, but what you say may be put into writing and given in evidence. Understood?”

  He turned and walked back up toward the altar and ascended the pulpit once more. He switched on the little light, lifted the Bible, and pulled out Ruby Judd’s diary. His arms spread-eagled over the pulpit — very much like a man of the cloth — he looked down at the book which would put an end to Simon Matchett.

  Once again he heard the heavy door at the rear swing open and softly smack shut. From the dark recess of the vestibule came the waspish, sarcastic voice of none other than
Chief Superintendent Racer.

  “Finally found your vocation, have you Jury?”

  • • •

  Matchett was taken to the Weatherington station. He had been “officially” arrested by Racer and his right-hand man, Inspector Briscowe, who had accompanied his superior to Long Piddleton, to “wind things up,” as Racer put it to the reporters late that night. The very moment the chief superintendent hit town, the case seemed to solve itself. Racer said none of this blatantly, but the cause-effect relationship was not lost on the London reporters.

  • • •

  “The bloody little creep,” said Sheila Hogg, who was, at midnight, pouring Scotch for Jury as if it came out of a spigot. “He’s going to take the damned credit for this after you did all the work. And nearly got yourself killed in the bargain. Here.” She shoved a pint-sized glass in Jury’s free hand, his other arm having been bound up by a considerably chastened Dr. Appleby.

  Within an hour of Matchett’s arrest, all of Long Piddleton knew of it — Pluck’s work, no doubt. (Jury had rather enjoyed watching Pluck try to elbow Briscowe out of the photographers’ camera range.) Sheila had veritably dragged Jury back to the house for a drink. He was to her, certainly, a hero.

  In answer to her complaint, Jury said, “Oh, well. As long as things finally got sorted out, it makes no difference, does it?”

  “And lucky for you they did,” said Darrington, jealousy now sparking his usual hostility. “You were about to come a purler there with me, weren’t you?” Darrington smirked.

  Jury raised his eyebrows in mock surprise. “You? Oh, come now. I never suspected you. I thought that was clear. You haven’t the imagination. Look at Matchett’s style. Had he not had that kinky mind, he might have been a writer.”

  Sheila giggled, half with drink, half with delight. Darrington turned red and got up. “Why the bloody hell don’t you just get out? You’ve made my life a misery ever since you came, and you’ve no more business here!”

  Sheila slammed down her glass. “Neither have I!” She got to her feet a bit unsteadily, and at the same time attempted to assume a regal pose. “Oliver, you are also a creep. I’ll send for my things later.”

  Darrington had resumed his seat and scarcely looked at her. “You’re drunk,” he said, staring into the depths of his own glass.

  Jury put out an arm to steady her as she whirled on Darrington. “I’d rather be drunk, you bloody fool, than be . . . be . . . unimaginative! Right, Inspector?”

  Although the words got slurred a bit in the saying, and she leaned toward him as if in a wind, Jury agreed with her, absolutely. He even offered her his arm and escorted her from the room.

  “He thinks I’m kidding. I’m not. I’ll get myself a room at the Scroggses’. Unless . . .” and she looked hopefully up at him from under her thick lashes.

  He smiled. “Sorry, love. The Man with a Load of Mischief is off-limits. No more guests.” As he helped her on with her coat, he saw that her face was crumpling a bit with disappointment, and he winked at her. “But there’s always London. You do go down to London, don’t you?”

  Her spirits restored, she said, “You bet I do, sweetie!”

  As they walked out to the car, Jury saw Darrington silhouetted against the light from the hall. “Sheila? What the bloody hell . . . !”

  • • •

  After seeing to it that Sheila was in the motherly hands of Mrs. Scroggs, Jury made his way, light-headed, back to the Man with a Load of Mischief. As he got out of the Morris, he noticed a light downstairs in the saloon bar.

  It was Daphne Murch, wringing her hands, waiting for him to come in. Jury remembered that she must have been here when they came to gather up Matchett’s things.

  She ran over to him and said “I couldn’t believe it, I couldn’t! Mr. Matchett, sir! Him as has always been so aboveboard, you might say.”

  “I’m truly sorry, Daphne. You must feel awful.” They were sitting at one of the tables now, where Daphne had put out tea things, a cuppa being the true Englishman’s cure for everything, from tired feet to mass murder. Daphne kept shaking her head in disbelief.

  “Listen, Daphne. You’ve no job, right?”

  She was looking very depressed, and Jury added, “I’ve some friends in Hampstead Heath.” He took out his small notebook and jotted down the address and gave it to her. “I don’t know if you’d like London —” (from the expression on her face, it was clear she was thrilled) “— but I assure you they’re very good people, and I happen to know they’re looking for a housemaid.” What Jury also knew was that they had a very presentable young chauffeur. “If you want, I’ll get in touch with them immediately I get back to London, and . . .”

  He was interrupted by Daphne’s running round the table and kissing him. Then she flew from the room in pink confusion.

  CHAPTER 20

  MONDAY, DECEMBER 28

  When Jury woke the next morning, it was with little recollection that he’d even stumbled upstairs and dropped on the bed. He hadn’t undressed. Those drinks at Darrington’s, on top of little sleep in the last forty-eight hours, must have been lethal. It was the rather tentative knock on the door which had woken him. To his “come in,” Wiggins poked his head around the door.

  “I’m really sorry to wake you, sir. But Superintendent Racer’s down in the dining room and he’s been asking for you for the last hour. I’ve been putting him off, but I don’t think I can much longer.” Wiggins’s awful remorse at having let Matchett slip from his grasp had been alleviated only by Jury’s telling him how he had made use of the cough drops. “If it hadn’t been for you, Sergeant —” The implication that Wiggins had just about saved Inspector Jury’s life had infused the sergeant with courage. Wiggins was now four-square in the room and saying in no uncertain terms: “To tell the truth, sir, I think it’s shameful the way he’s been acting. You haven’t had any sleep hardly for a week. You work too hard, if you don’t mind my saying it. So I told Superintendent Racer I’d call you at a decent hour and not before.” Sergeant Wiggins stopped suddenly, as if the words he had spoken might sprout wings and fly off to New Scotland Yard.

  “You really told him that?” Jury propped himself up on one elbow and stared at Wiggins.

  “Indeed, I did, sir.”

  “Then all I can say is, you’ve got a hell of a lot more courage than I, Wiggins.”

  The sergeant, beaming, left Jury to dress. And Jury noticed he hadn’t once pulled out his handkerchief.

  • • •

  “You wanted to see me?” Jury deliberately omitted the sir. “Shall I sit down?”

  Chief Superintendent Racer was already seated in the dining room, the remains of a lavish breakfast spread in dishes about him: crumbs of scone, bits of buttered egg, bare bones of kipper. Light glinted on his onyx ring as he twirled a freshly lit cigar in his mouth.

  “Been catching up on your sleep since you’ve been in the country? It’s a damned good thing this case came to a close when it did, Jury” — Jury noticed there was no mention of who had brought it to a close — “or you’d have had the A.C. down here, never fear.”

  Daphne Murch, blushing on into the morning, set a silver coffeepot before Jury, smiled broadly, and retreated, unmindful of Superintendent Racer’s eyes, fixed on her legs.

  “Not a bad little baggage,” he said before turning to lean across the table and glare at Jury. His chesterfield coat, which had been swankily draped across his back, cascaded from one shoulder, and he rehitched it. “Jury, although I certainly cannot credit every move you’ve made in this case, still, we have managed to wrap it up, so there’s no hard feelings on my part. I never did think you were a bad policeman, although a bit too popular with the other men for my tastes. That feeling the men under you have about you — all that bloody ‘nice chap’ business. You’ve got to make the men respect you, Jury. Not like. It’s not only that. You disobey orders. You were told to call in every day. You didn’t. You were told to keep me informed of every move
. You didn’t. You’ll never make superintendent that way, Jury. You’ve got to know how to deal with the men above and the boys below.”

  To Jury it sounded like the title of a bad American war film.

  “Well, I’m off. You can wind things up here.” Racer tossed a handful of change on the table — he wasn’t, to give him his due, cheap — and looked round the room. “Not a bad place for such a one-eyed village. Had quite a decent meal last night. There’s something to be said for a man who brews his own beer . . .”

  If only Jack the Ripper had brewed his own beer, thought Jury, buttering up a piece of cold toast.

  “What is it, Wiggins?” snapped Racer.

  Sergeant Wiggins had popped up like a cork at their table. “Sergeant Pluck’s brought round the car, sir.”

  “Very well.” As Wiggins turned to leave, Racer called him back: “Sergeant, I don’t especially care for the tone you used with me this morning —”

  Jury’s patience had worn thin. “Sergeant Wiggins just about saved my life.” At Racer’s raised eyebrow, Jury went on: “You’ve heard of the soldier saved because his old mum insisted he carry a Bible in his breast pocket —?” Jury tossed the box of cough drops on the table.

  “And what the hell’s that in aid of?” asked Racer, shoving the box with a tip of his finger, like a dead mouse.

  “Together with a catapult, those cough drops saved me.” Jury drank off his coffee and decided to embroider. “Wiggins knew I hadn’t a gun. As far as I’m concerned it was pretty quick thinking on his part.”

  Absolutely delighted with this unexpected and (he suspected) undeserved praise, Wiggins beamed and looked perplexed in turns. He seemed unsure as to how to decipher this runic message Jury had just delivered to his superior.

  Racer looked from the one to the other and merely grunted. Then he said, with honeyed venom: “If you don’t mind, Inspector Jury, we won’t put the public onto the fact Scotland Yard’s only got catapults to protect itself with, will we?”