Jerusalem Inn

by Martha Grimes

  “I? Oh, no, my dear, not a sou.” She laughed artificially. “I’m right down to my diamonds and, ah — ma devise.”

  Since the diamonds were entirely his mother’s, she would at least snatch at her share of the family coat of arms.

  3

  “DON’T stick your hand in the flames,” said Melrose, wandering into the drawing room after luncheon to see Tommy Whittaker sitting by the fire. “You wouldn’t be able to play the oboe.”

  Tommy looked up and smiled. There was not a blotch on his handsome face, yet he seemed oblivious of mirrors, certainly the ornate one above the fireplace. “I am dreadful, aren’t I? I should practice more.”

  “Not here, please.”

  Tom Whittaker’s pervasive gloom was broken by his laughter. “Sorry you’ve been subjected to my music.”

  “Don’t apologize.”

  “Do you read?”

  “I know how, yes.” Melrose lit a cigar.

  “I wonder if I ever shall again.” He looked over his shoulder. “All these writers . . . ”

  “Ah, but you’d be denying yourself the delights of The Third Pigeon, and very possibly the entire Elizabeth Onions canon.” Tom looked puzzled, and Melrose said, “Just a thriller writer. Don’t worry, the Onions woman won’t show up. Mr. Seaingham probably draws the line at thriller writers.”

  Tommy sighed. “Maybe a murder’d be a good idea. They could make me the victim.” Cupping his chin in his hands, he looked like he might commit himself to the flames.

  “Such sacrifice is noble, but unnecessary. I understand what you mean, though.”

  “I’m glad somebody understands.”

  Melrose was not sure he wanted to be thought “understanding.” It could lead to all sorts of complications.

  Tommy got up. “Look, let’s have a walk round, what do you say?”

  “Walk? Where?”

  Impatiently, he shrugged. “Well, outside. We could walk round the ruins.”

  “How delightful. Haven’t you noticed the snow’s nearly to our knees?”

  “We could walk about the cloisters, or what’s left of them. We could sit in the chapel, or something.”

  Cloisters, chapel, how jolly. Melrose had simply thought to go back up to his room and be ill again with The Third Pigeon.

  “I wanted to talk to you about tonight. Where no one can overhear us.”

  “Tonight? Is something happening tonight?”

  “Yes.” Tom Whittaker was already going for their coats.

  • • •

  Even the walk down the long gallery, at the near end of which was Charles’s study, found the temperature dropping by degrees. The gallery lay in the East Wing of the main building, once the abbot’s home, and its end had been converted into a sort of solarium, pleasant enough in summer, Melrose imagined, but a depressing surround of glass in winter. One felt the snow coming up to the tips of one’s shoes. The Lady Chapel where Grace Seaingham said her nightly prayers was down a covered walk to their right and the cloister-ruins off to their left. At least the cloisters were covered, what was left of them. Nothing at all was left of the basilica, so from where they now stood, it was a clean sweep of snow to the main entrance, broken only by the narrow road made by the plow over which Seaingham had driven his Land Rover the night before and which was now half-buried again.

  The air was fresh, the wind died down, and one could have found in his surroundings a whole creaking history of the Cistercian Order. It simply made Melrose colder to imagine cloaked monks on their way to morning matins.

  Melrose’s attention was soon riveted, however, not on history but on what Tommy had just said: “Skis! You expect me to put on skis and go down to the Jerusalem Inn with you?”

  “Oh, come on. It’s a lark. You could have snowshoes if you’d rather. There’s a whole arsenal of sports equipment in the gun room. It’s just this end of the gallery, next to the solarium, and Mr. Seaingham’s got all that stuff—”

  “Hold on! I have never skied, and certainly never snowshoed, in my entire life.”

  “Neither had I until I got slapped up here. Look, we may be here for the rest of our lives—”

  Melrose looked up through a hole in the stone and uttered a mute prayer. “Don’t say things like that.”

  “It’s quite simple really, the skis,” said Tommy, eminently rational, even if Melrose wouldn’t be. “You said you’d read Skier. That book is practically a manual on skiing. That’s how I figured it out how to work them. MacQuade’s an expert cross-country skier. And that’s what we’re talking about: cross country.” Tommy pointed out the country ahead of them, as if Melrose were snowblind.

  “Don’t I know it. If you feel compelled to set out on this venture, why not get MacQuade to go with you?”

  “Because I can’t talk to adults.”

  Then what, wondered Melrose, did that make him? “Well, why must you ski around the countryside anyway?”

  “It’s the match. At Jerusalem Inn. You see, I’ve been playing there for some time; Meares Hall is just the other side of Spinneyton. Didn’t you know that? Aunt Betsy and the Seainghams have always been great friends. Well, there’s no one else about, is there?”

  “The Spinneyton Slasher, maybe.”

  “I’ve never heard of him.” Nor did he, apparently, hold any horror for Tommy Whittaker, who was interested only in his pool game.

  “Not pool! Snooker.” Tommy frowned as if his new friend had made some hideous social gaffe. “Anyway, the Jerusalem’s a great place. Naturally, I’ve had to think up ways to get there and the regulars don’t know who I am, of course.”

  “Neither do I,” said Melrose, as he turned to go in.

  “I can show you about the skis in five minutes. All we have to do is wait till right after dinner. It’ll be dead dark and no one will see.”

  “They will miss me over the brandy,” said Melrose, knowing no one would miss anyone at this point.

  “Lie and say you’re sick. Like you did this morning.”

  By now they had reached the door to the chapel. “I am not a liar.”

  “Sure you are. Listen, you’ve forgotten what it’s like, being young, and not being able to do as you please, no smoking, no drinking, no snooker. I’m not permitted to play at home. We’ve this huge games room, but after Aunt Betsy discovered how much I liked it, she was afraid . . . well, to tell the truth, I think poor Aunt Betsy is afraid I’ll turn out like Father. Though she’d never say it. It’s her one blind spot, really. She’s managed to have Parkin — that’s our butler — serve up all sorts of reasons for keeping the room locked.”

  “That does seem a little severe, I’ll agree. This is a pretty place.” They were standing in the nave. Before the pale blue and gold figure of the Virgin, votive candles burned.

  Tom Whittaker was not interested in heaven. “Severe. You bet it is. If I told you what I go through to get my practice in . . . oh, well, never mind that. The thing is, I’ve got to play every day.”

  “Why on earth do you need me, then? If you’ve been cross-country skiing now for two nights —”

  “An alibi.”

  “What?”

  “It’s chancy for me. I mean, no one’s seen me yet. But if Aunt Betsy were to find out, there’d be hell to pay. This way, I could just say we were out looking about the ruins, or something. You can make up some good lie.”

  Melrose looked at the face of Mary, frozen in time, wearing her inscrutable smile. He could have sworn she was smiling at him, egging him on.

  “Oh, very well,” Melrose said, as crossly as he could, to make sure the young marquess didn’t think he was a pushover, and would be calling him out on other harebrained adventures.

  As Tom gave him a comradely clap on the shoulder, Melrose had to admit that anything would be better than a night with The Third Pigeon, even skiing to Jerusalem Inn.

  FIFTEEN

  1

  ROBBIE was playing Pac-Man and Nell Hornsby was behind the bar. The kitten was
back in the straw of the manger, Alice removed for presumably more interesting pursuits.

  In Jury’s wake, a few of the regulars put in a casual appearance at the bar. Dickie was already there with his leek beside him like a date, still with his teeth out, smiling across at Jury. “Aa’m clammin fer a pint, man. Buy yer one?” Jury thanked him. Dickie was no welcher, that was certain.

  Nell Hornsby threw the bar towel over her shoulder and drew off two pints of bitter, set Jury’s down, took Dickie his.

  “Have one yourself, Nell,” said Jury. She turned to the optics and got herself a small whiskey. “You know where Spinney Abbey is?”

  “Aye. Through Spinneyton, turn right. You too?” She laughed.

  “Me, too? What do you mean?”

  “Last night four people were asking for it. From Northants, Joe said. An earl, one of them was. Walked in right in the middle of one of Nutter’s — ah, awright, ya fond bugger!” She yelled across the room to Nutter. “Oney got two hands.”

  “What did he look like?”

  “Tall, less than you. Kinda light hair, green eyes. Good-looker,” She might have been going to add another “less than you,” but stopped herself.

  “Who were the others?”

  She shrugged. “Didn’t see them meself. Joe said one looked like he might have been the other’s valet. And an old lady. A young one, too. Good-looker, he said. Reminded him of that film star — what’s her name?”

  “Vanessa Redgrave,” said Jury, more to his glass than to her.

  “That’s it. You know them, then.”

  Jury nodded. “They were going to the Seainghams’?”

  “Aye.”

  He couldn’t imagine what Melrose Plant was doing at Spinney Abbey, but he was certainly glad he was there. Jury would be saved a lot of time and trouble. Plant had certainly helped him out before on cases.

  Nell Hornsby drank her whisky and asked, “You like snooker? There’s a match in the back room. Clive’s there.”

  “Thanks. Maybe I’ll have a look.” Jury was delaying his visit to the abbey. The later, the more the element of surprise.

  And the longer before he’d have to see Vivian Rivington again.

  • • •

  The back of the Jerusalem was one long room, stone-flagged and cold, except for the inadequate heater in the big, cold fireplace. The back was reserved largely for the snooker-matches, the lowlier pool table having been relegated to the front room. The players didn’t seem bothered by the cold; neither did their audience, most of whom had moved from the game in progress on the first table to the new frame about to begin. Clive, in tinted glasses, took a sort of boxer’s stance for the break.

  Jury wondered how he managed with those glasses. Although Jury’s knowledge of snooker was about as heady as his knowledge of Italian opera, he still thought Clive’s stance a little sloppy. His left hand made a very poor bridge for the cue. But then his fingers were stubby, which put him at a disadvantage anyway. Still, Clive appeared to be resident champion, if one could go by the way people gathered to watch him break. He took a long look at the pyramid of red balls, clipped the top outside red, sending the cue ball off the cushion to angle back above the blue and behind the other colors on the balk line. To Jury it looked like a damned good shot, setting up the yellow for a pot in the middle pocket. Clive potted three more reds and colors in turn before he miscued on a red pinched up against the cushion, the tip of his cue running off the top. But he’d built up enough of a break that he could look pretty smug about it.

  Jury walked over to Clive, who was toasting himself with a pint, and showed him his warrant card. “Sorry to interrupt. Mrs. Hornsby told me you talked to this woman in here.”

  Warily, Clive looked at the snap and shrugged. “Had a drink is all. She said nowt.” He looked toward the table. “My torn.” He looked a question at Jury, who nodded, and shoved past him to the table.

  A voice at Jury’s elbow said, “I got the clothes.”

  It was Chrissie, carrying the big doll now wrapped round in strips of sheeting, looking like an accident victim or something ready for the morgue.

  “Fine,” said Jury. “Looks much more like the baby Jesus.”

  She seemed to be waiting for warmer congratulations than that. When none came, she turned to watch the game. “Do you play that?” Her small, bright voice pierced the thick smoke and the air heavy with the smells of different brews.

  Clive was negotiating a difficult cushion shot and Chrissie was quickly shushed.

  Just at that moment, the back door opened, blowing in wind, snow, and two figures who were stripping ski masks from their faces.

  Clive miscued and swore.

  Jury had the edge over Melrose Plant, who, seeing his friend Richard Jury standing there, could only stare, open-mouthed.

  “What’s this,” asked Jury, looking from Melrose to Tom. “The Spinneyton SWAT team?”

  2

  “IT WOULD probably be better if I just didn’t ask,” said Jury.

  “Probably,” said Melrose. “We left the skis outside.”

  “Really?”

  Melrose was watching Tommy talking to the other players as if he’d lived here all his life. “I, ah, suppose you drove?”

  “It’s the way I usually travel, myself. If you’re one of Seaingham’s guests, then you’ve probably met the person I’m looking for — Frederick Parmenger.”

  “Parmenger? What on earth do you want with him?”

  “There was a woman found in the bedroom of Old Hall day before yesterday —”

  “What old hall?”

  “Washington Old Hall. It’s owned by the National Trust . . . don’t you read the papers?”

  “Papers? Delivered how? Look, you don’t know how isolated this Spinney Abbey is. They’ve been snowed in there for three days.” Melrose held up his ski mask. “You don’t think I get kitted out like this every day, do you?”

  “I hope not. Parmenger’s the cousin of the woman who was found. Her name was Helen Minton.”

  “Found how?”

  “Dead.”

  Melrose lit a cigar. “Well, I assumed that. I meant, how did she die, obviously? Who found her? The National Trust?”

  “Tourists,” said Jury, shortly.

  “She was murdered, then. Why else would they have got you up here?”

  “They didn’t, I was up here anyway.”

  “In this wasteland? Whatever for?

  Jury told him about his aborted visit to Newcastle and his meeting with Helen Minton.

  Melrose was silent for a moment. He blew on the coal-end of his cigar and said, “I’m sorry.”

  Jury shrugged and drank his beer. “Nothing to be sorry about. I hardly knew her.” A terrible feeling, almost of betrayal, stabbed him as he looked absently at the frame just ending. Clive had won every frame; apparently his opponent merely gave up, good-naturedly.

  “What about Parmenger?”

  “He’s — he was — Helen Minton’s cousin. It took two days to find him. He keeps himself to himself, apparently.”

  “Ha! I’ll drink to that if you’ll buy. Frankly, he’s the only one with any sense: he’s not at the abbey for pleasure, but for business. He’s done Grace Seaingham’s portrait. Though I’m very much surprised he’d put himself to the trouble of traveling all the way up here to the frozen North to do it. Parmenger’s definitely not the type to put himself out for anybody. And you wouldn’t be going to Spinney Abbey in this beastly weather just to tell Parmenger to go and identify the body of his cousin. So what’s going on?”

  Jury watched as Clive racked the balls for another game. “She was poisoned.” He stared blindly at the three balls Clive was placing on the balk line — yellow, brown, green. “What’ll you have to drink?”

  Melrose just looked at him for a moment. “The usual.”

  • • •

  As Hornsby drew the Old Peculier and the Newcastle ale, Jury looked over to see that the doll, wrapped in its bandages, had
been returned to the manger. It made him feel inexpressibly sad; he thought of Mrs. Wasserman and Father Rourke.

  “Is the only way to Spinney Abbey on skis?” he asked, handing Melrose his drink.

  “Very funny. No, but it’s the quickest. And the only means of escape, if one” — Melrose indicated Tommy Whittaker — “is not supposed to be engaging in such frivolous pursuits as pool.”

  “Snooker,” said Jury.

  “It’s all one to me.”

  “Much more complicated.” He watched Clive chalking his cue. Unless Jury was mistaken, Clive was going to play this lad who had come in with Melrose Plant. He turned to ask about Whittaker, when he heard Plant saying:

  “ . . . road by now is clear, so I intend to pack up myself, Agatha, and Viv —” Melrose stopped and studied the tip of his cigar again.

  “What’s she doing here? I thought she married that Italian duke, or whatever.”

  “Count. No. He’s floating in Venice. I suspect she’s got cold feet. Wet feet, rather.”

  “Oh,” was all Jury said. The last time he had seen Vivian had been for those brief moments in Stratford-upon-Avon. She had been with him, the Italian. Now, this new knowledge washed over him with an intensity that surprised him. Damnit, why couldn’t he go about his business and stop stumbling into people who appeared and disappeared? He stopped thinking about it, pointed his pint toward the second table. “Is he going to play Clive?”

  “Clive who?”

  “The last winner. What are you doing, anyway, skiing about the countryside with him? And what was all of that ‘marquess’ business before he kicked you in the shins?”

  “Don’t miss anything, do you? I’m humoring him.” Melrose’s sigh was sacrificial. “I feel sorry for him, though I should really feel sorry for me, being stuck in that great, cold abbey, treated to amateur piano-and-oboe recitals. But it’s not really his fault. He’s got this aunt —”

  “Now I understand.”

  “Yes. Only I must say that his aunt is genuinely fond of him. Her trouble is, she can’t let him be: she’s afraid he’s going to turn out like his parents — that he’ll be the playboy type and start up another Happy Valley in Kenya and engage in wife-swapping and sodomy and whatever those types do. He’s the Marquess of Meares, and she wants him to uphold the family honor.”