“What?” Melrose surged from his chair.
“Yes. Miss Flood? That her name?” said Strether, still holding up his glass and waiting for the world to fill it.
Melrose gave him a lethal look. That such news should be delivered by such a person made him want to grab the poker. “Are you saying Miss Flood has been shot?”
It was clear neither of them knew what he or she was saying. Melrose still stood. Jury pushed him down. “Listen: you’re staying here. I’ll go to Watermeadows and let you know what’s happened. But you stay here.”
The doorbell rang again, and Ruthven ushered in Sydney Cooke.
Sydney looked around at the faces registering varying degrees of shock and took a step backwards. “Have I come at a bad time?”
Since Melrose could only sit there looking stupefied, Richard Jury went to Sydney.
“I’m so sorry, Miss Cooke. My name’s Richard Jury. And you’ve walked in on a little village crisis. Not to worry, though. It’ll all be resolved shortly. And as I, myself, am supposed to help out this resolution, I now must leave for a little while. In the meantime, Lord Ardry!”
Melrose saw that snap-out-of-it look and snapped out of it as Jury said good-bye and took his leave.
“Sydney. I’m so sorry … Let me introduce you.” Which he did. “What will you have to drink?”
Sydney, not much of a drinker, said, “What do you have on offer?”
They all thought that very rich indeed.
10
As promised, Jury rang Melrose from Watermeadows:
“Now listen, friend: I’m giving you the bare bones; you will wait on the details until I get back. Understood?”
“But—”
“Understood?”
“All right.”
“Flora Flood was not shot. She’s not the victim.”
Melrose heaved a sigh of relief.
“She’s the perp.”
“Wha—”
“Flora Flood was the shooter. A man’s dead. You’re having dinner, right?” When Melrose said yes, they were, Jury went on. “When you’re finished, see that everyone goes home. I’ll be back straightaway and I don’t want to make a report in public.”
“I’ll be damned,” said Melrose as he dropped the receiver, with a little thud, back in the cradle.
When he went back to the dining room, he faced a barrage of questions from everybody but Sydney Cooke, who was sitting on his right. “You know as much as I do, so feel free to fire away.” He regretted the expression the moment it was out of his mouth.
It made no difference to his guests that Melrose could supply no details. The bare bones were enough to keep them talking away through the roast beef, the pudding, the cognac, the coats, the good-byes.
But Jury did not return straightaway; he was too busy soaking up the crime scene.
“She claims she didn’t do it,” said Ian Brierly, the DCI with the Northamptonshire police, “even though the gun was in her hand, according to the cook, who’d come through from the kitchen to find out what was going on, what all the disturbance was about.” Brierly shrugged and flipped a notebook shut. “Go figure.”
“I’d rather not have to. Is the identity of the victim equally ambiguous?”
Brierly grinned. “No. It’s who she described as her soon-to-be ex-husband. Name of—” He flipped the notebook open again. “Servino. Tony Servino. Her story is that Servino turned up by surprise very angry over having received the divorce papers. Although they’ve been separated for nearly two years, according to her, and he knew he’d be served those papers very soon. Mad as a hornet, she said. Threatened her, yelled at her. Rolled up the papers and took a swing at her with them. She was scared and went to the desk where her uncle keeps a .35 in a locked drawer—hardly adequate safety precautions, he’ll find out—and aimed it at Servino, but not at his chest, more at his feet, as she just meant to back him off. Shot it, and that’s where the shot came from. But someone—she claims someone else must have come in through the French door back there—” Brierly pointed his notebook at the glass doors behind him that were more or less in line with the body of the victim, only farther away “—and fired the shot that must have killed him, she claims.”
“Another gun—”
“Well, that’s the thing. It would have to have been another .35, which would be a hell of a coincidence. Because forensics is saying even before they dig the bullets from the floor and from the body, the casings are both .35s. No second gun has been found and no one saw anybody near the French door or anywhere else. Quite a yarn, right?”
Jury loved the old-fashioned Americanisms. He hadn’t heard the word “yarn” since he was a kid. “It is, indeed.” Jury looked toward the body. “Is that Dr. Keener doing the exam?”
“Yep. But hold off talking to him, will you, until we’re done?”
“Absolutely. Sorry to be messing about in your crime scene, Ian. It’s just that her next-door neighbor, Lord Ardry, is extremely anxious about her. We were about to have dinner when one of the guests said there’d been this shooting. I’ll be off.”
“No, no, I didn’t mean for you to go. Look around as much as you want. Talk to the alleged shooter if you want, too. She’s over there.”
Jury saw Flora Flood, looking as if she were trying to disappear into the deep down-cushioned chair in which she sat, pressing a tissue to her eyes. One of many, for her lap was full of them.
“No; she looks too distressed to be talking to anyone except the man who’s in charge, which would be you. I’ll be going. Thanks, Ian.”
Brierly walked with him to the door, saying, “Even just knowing what we do, I’d say her story sounds, well, fishy, wouldn’t you?”
Fishy. Jury smiled. “I’d say it sounds impossible. ’Night.”
And it was this fishy story that Jury relayed to Melrose when he got back to Ardry End, after making sure the dinner guests had left.
“Except for Sydney Cooke,” said Melrose. “She’s spending the night so she can check up on Aggrieved tomorrow.”
Despite Jury’s trying to convince him that he knew nothing else, no further details about the shooting, Melrose continued to press him for details.
“Husband? I didn’t even know she was married.”
“You don’t really know Flora Flood very well, do you?”
“No, but still well enough to be pretty sure she didn’t shoot him, even though her account of this sounds peculiar. But I expect anything’s possible, isn’t it?”
No, it isn’t, Jury didn’t say.
11
The next morning at Ardry End, after one of Martha’s sumptuous breakfasts, Jury was drinking his third cup of coffee and admiring the Christmas tree. My Lord, where had these fabulous ornaments come from? The little owl, the horse and rider made to look as if they were following the hounds round the tree looked to Jury like Belleek china, they were so delicate and finely formed.
The front doorbell sounded and Jury heard Ruthven and the visitor, whose voice was familiar.
He walked into the foyer to find Tom Brownell. “Tom! What are you doing here? Not that I’m not glad to see you.”
“Hello, Superintendent! I discovered Sydney was here seeing to a horse and just decided to barge in. I hope that’s okay.”
“Of course. Where is she, Ruthven?”
“She’ll be in the stable, sir, seeing to Aggrieved.”
Ruthven liked to say “stable,” thinking it more befitting Ardry End than “barn,” which it was. However, as it had been partitioned off for Aggrieved and Aghast, one could, Jury supposed, call it a stable.
“Let’s go round the side,” said Jury to Tom Brownell. “Thanks, Ruthven.”
They found her forking hay into the holder in Aggrieved’s part of the barn. The horse was eating oats and the very fact of his eating at all was testimony to Sydney’s having helped him.
She looked wide-eyed at Tom and dropped the fork. “Grandad! Where’d you come from?”
“I went to the hou
se, sweetheart, and your Aunt Ruthie told me you’d gone to Northampton to see to a sick horse. I drove here. How are you, Syd?”
Stiffly, Sydney met his embrace. There seemed to be a lot of ambivalence there. “I’m fine, Grandad.” She broke away and went back to Aggrieved, smiling broadly at Jury. “Look how much better he is. Where’s Mr. Plant?”
“He’ll be back soon. Had to go into Northampton. He’s going to be very happy about the horse.”
“Much to my surprise,” said Tom, “I ran into Mr. Jury here. I met him in Cornwall at the Old Success. You remember that inn?”
“Yes.”
“Do you remember that friend of your mother, the one who nursed Gerald Summerston for a while before he died? Manon Vinet?” He told her what had happened.
“She’s dead?”
He nodded. “I’m trying to work out why she was on the island. Did Daisy ever talk to you about her?”
She shook her head as Aggrieved moved from oats to hay. “Not much. I remember she said something about wanting to help her. Mum always loved Bryher … Sorry, Grandad.”
She turned upon her grandfather the same concerned look she’d given to the horse. That, thought Jury, was probably a high compliment. Then she added, “Look, let’s go where we can sit down. Mr. Blodgett told me I could always use his Florida room.” That made her smile.
The three of them made their way to the hermitage and the sunporch Blodgett had added to the little stone structure. He had built it with his own hands, furnished it with wicker stuff that Trueblood had picked up at auction. With the sun high in the sky, it was pleasant.
After they sat down on the love seat and rocking chair, Tom asked her, “Help her how?”
“I don’t know, but they had long conversations about something.”
Tom said, thoughtfully, “I wonder if she could have had anything to do with your mother’s death.”
“Mum committed suicide.”
“No, she didn’t. Not Daisy.”
“You don’t know that, Grandad.”
“But I do.”
“You still think you can solve it, don’t you?” Sydney turned on him with a force that astonished Jury. “You think you can save her. You just can’t imagine you failed this time. Well, you did! She’s dead!” But the look on Tom Brownell’s face stopped her cold and she said, contritely, “I’m sorry, Grandad. I know how hard it was for you. But I think you just don’t want to believe it.”
This struck Jury as a complete misreading of Tom Brownell, to say nothing of its being a strangely defensive reaction. The man might not have wanted to believe his daughter killed herself, but that wouldn’t have stood in the way of his objective judgment.
Jury heard a “Hullo” and saw Melrose Plant coming from the house towards the hermitage. “What are you all doing in the Florida room?” asked Melrose, then to Sydney, said, “I got the salve.” He held up the small package.
“Aggrieved might not even need it. He’s so much better.”
Melrose looked toward the barn. The horse was now outside, munching grass. “You’re a wonder-worker, Sydney.”
Jury turned to Tom. “Here’s the man after your own heart, Tom, the ex-Earl of Ardry.”
“The man who jettisoned his titles? I’m delighted to meet you.”
“Well, I have met you, Mr. Brownell.”
“Where did we meet?”
“Right here.” Melrose pulled a small book from his coat pocket. It was called quite simply Brownell.
“My God, I didn’t think it was still around,” said Tom.
“It’s definitely around in our local book shop. According to the owner, when the book first came out it flew off the shelves. He had to keep reordering. His customers were fascinated. It’s the recounting of a lot of your cases they liked, not too heavy on the technical details. It actually makes forensics both accessible and intriguing. What’s astounding is how broad your knowledge is. You know things in so many different areas—”
“Grandad knows something about everything,” said Sydney. “Except horses.” She smiled.
“My favorite so far,” said Melrose, “is the case about the drummer in the ’90s band called ‘Liftoff.’ The drummer, Johnny Hamm, was found dead in the garage where he did his practicing. Drumsticks thrown against the wall, mixer overturned, speakers upended. A tape recorder was still playing. To the medical examiner, it was clearly suicide: he’d shot himself with the gun in his hand. The SOCO people, the forensics team agreed that all of it indicated suicide. Except Tom Brownell, who pointed out that the tape playing was of a concert that was the only one of Liftoff’s failures, and that particular song was the only one Hamm had written that wasn’t a smashing success. ‘Johnny Hamm would never have killed himself while listening to that tape. Check it for prints.’
“They found several prints on the tape that belonged to Liftoff’s former drummer, Earl Cooper. He’d been let go when Hamm came along. Cooper had been furious for years at Hamm for the loss of the job and his failure at getting a new one with another group. He had failed, of course, because he was a mediocre musician. You—” Melrose was looking at Tom now “—discovered Cooper had form for several incidents of violence, gave him high priority as a suspect. Cooper was finally arrested and found guilty of shooting Hamm. Cooper apparently found it ego-gratifying to play this piece of music. Dumb sod didn’t realize it might point to him.” Melrose shut the book. “That’s pretty good, Tom.”
“There’s one case you won’t find in there, Mr. Plant. My daughter’s. I might have helped with the others, but Sydney’s right, I couldn’t save her.”
Melrose looked down at the book again and looked back up at Tom Brownell. “Maybe you can save somebody else, though.”
12
Jury did not recognize the old Aston Martin parked at the top of the Watermeadows drive. He parked Plant’s Bentley behind it and went to the front door.
The door was opened not by Flora Flood but by the last person Jury expected to see: the old butler Crick.
Crick was no more wasted than he had been years before, yet wasting away he still seemed to be, as if having left yet another fuller outline of himself behind like a shadow on the walk.
If Crick was here, the Aston Martin—Jury glanced back over his shoulder—belonged to—
“Lady Summerston, Crick. Has she come back then?”
“Indeed, sir. Do come in.”
Automatically, Jury’s gaze traveled up the endless staircase, since he had never seen Eleanor Summerston anywhere but in her suite of rooms up there.
Crick said, “She’ll be in the drawing room with Miss Flora, sir.”
And so she was. They were seated side by side, Lady Summerston with her hand on Flora’s shoulder, Flora with her own hands propping up her head.
Lady Summerston looked up in surprise and delight. “Superintendent Jury! Another terrible business,” she said, as if welcoming him to the “terrible business.” “Is there no end to the tragedy this poor house must endure?”
It was as if Watermeadows itself sat crumpled beside her, its head in its hands.
“I’m so sorry, Aunt Eleanor,” said Flora. One would think that she, the hapless tenant, had brought it all down on their heads.
And had she? Jury wondered.
“Oh, please, my dear. I didn’t mean—”
“I don’t know what to do; I don’t know—” Flora kept repeating this as she shook her head back and forth.
“Never mind. I’m sure Mr. Jury will set things right.”
Mr. Jury wasn’t. Thus, he was pleased if a little surprised to see Crick ushering Tom Brownell into the room.
Eleanor was up in a flash. “My dear Tom! How? Why? How did you ever get here? How did you hear—?” Finally she stopped asking herself questions and turned to Flora. “This is Tom Brownell, Flora—he’s an absolute lifesaver. Now I know we’ll be all right.”
Tom said, smiling slightly, “Not quite yet, Eleanor.”
Brownell must h
ave felt every ounce of his success weighing him down, thought Jury. But his response did not dim Eleanor’s smile, nor cast a shadow across the face of Flora Flood. Jury held out his hand to Tom. “I think I agree with Lady Summerston. We’ll be all right. Nice to see you again, Tom.”
“Crick,” said Eleanor, “could we have some tea, please?”
As Crick bowed and departed, she went on: “Tom, how do you come to be here?”
“Your next-door neighbor called me to tell me—but that’s a long story,” said Tom. “I met Superintendent Jury here at the Old Success. In Cornwall. It turned out that my granddaughter was at Mr. Plant’s house seeing to his horse. She’s a farrier. She lives in Bedfordshire.”
“And what do police think, Tom?” She covered Flora’s hand with her own.
“Police in general? Or just me?”
“You’re not at odds, are you?” Eleanor looked from Tom to Jury and around the room as if there might be more policemen lurking.
Tom laughed briefly. “There are always odds, Eleanor.”
“But you believe Flora—”
“Eleanor, I don’t know anything beyond what Mr. Plant told me.”
Flora interrupted. “Aunt Eleanor, this is what they know: My husband was shot. I had a gun. There appeared to be no one else in the room. If that’s true, I shot him. How else would you read it?”
“Well, somehow else, Flora, since I know you didn’t do it.”
“But you don’t. You just happen to believe me. Police don’t happen to.”
Eleanor said, “The man was a rotter. There must have been a dozen people with a motive to shoot him.”
“‘Must have been’ isn’t much of an option,” said Tom.
“And why,” put in Jury, “would someone follow him to Watermeadows to kill him?”
Jury watched Tom Brownell watching Flora Flood. Although Tom was sitting casually in his easy chair, his hand propping his chin, the scrutiny was intense.
Tom shifted his glance to Lady Summerston. “Eleanor, do you remember the woman who looked after Gerald for a short time when he was ill?”
The Old Success Page 5