The Old Success

by Martha Grimes

  “If it was all them years ago, you never even seen—saw—three of us kids—” Gerrard turned to Agatha with that bit of divvying-up-the-inheritance news, and then made it worse: “There’s six altogether.” Back to Melrose. “Let me tell you, to live in a place like this—oh, no disrespect, Cousin Melrose. We ain’t lookin’ forward to—you know—none of us wants to see you—” He put his hand to his neck in a throttling gesture. “You know.”

  Wrong. One of us does and she’s sitting right opposite you.

  Gerrard went on to talk about the size of Ardry End, how grand it was, all of these big windows and fires and mantel-places. If horror could be said to double, triple, quadruple, like vodka and vermouth in a Demorney martini—if horror could move in waves coming more quickly upon them like the walking dead—Agatha’s expression moved from abject to absolute to all-engulfing as she drank what must have been her fourth sherry. Ruthven stood with the decanter ready with refills.

  Melrose was gazing through the top of the high window at a moon that looked newly minted, wanting only a starry bow tie to join the party.

  “And to think,” Gerrard went on happily, “we each of us gets his own toilet!”

  Agatha choked.

  Moonlight and marble and toilets. Melrose marveled. It was wonderful not to have to do the work himself, to have someone else make it all up. Gerrard, he decided, should get another grand. Maybe two.

  “And not to worry, Mr. Ruthven, you and your fam’ly, they’ll be all right.”

  It came out “fambly.”

  Delightfully, Ruthven took it up. “Master Gerrard, my own fambly consists of just myself and my wife, Martha.”

  “Yeah, but there must be other maids and stuff in a place like this. And all that big garden out back.”

  “Indeed, there are maids and stuff. There’s the groundskeeper. There’s even a hermit. I expect you’ll want him to stay.” Ruthven laughed a little as he poured Agatha another sherry.

  Had she still been sober, Agatha would have grabbed up the cigarette-lighter gun and shot the kid where he sat. Then reloaded and made her way to London to pick off Ben and all the other Gerrards.

  Gerrard was starting in again, and Melrose interrupted to avoid having to call Medical Alert and all of them having to go to the ER. “Well, Ruthven, I expect dinner must be about ready.”

  “Indeed, sir. I’ll just see Martha.”

  Who will not be out of a job when I pack it in, I’m glad to hear.

  “Oh, boy, what’s for din-dins?” said Gerrard.

  “The best food you’ve ever eaten.” He rose when Ruthven returned to announce dinner. “Gerrard would like to know what we’re having, Ruthven.”

  “Beef tenderloin, m’lord.”

  “Roast, is it?” said Gerrard.

  “Indeed, Master Gerrard. With browned potatoes.”

  Gerrard grinned and rubbed his hands together as he rose from his chair.

  Agatha remained locked in her seat. Melrose wondered if they’d have to pick up the chair to get her into the dining room.

  But, no. It was a struggle, but she made it to the best food Gerrard had ever eaten in the best dining room he would ever inherit.

  PART V

  Comeback

  32

  When Melrose walked into the dining room for breakfast the following morning, Gerrard was already seated at the table, his plate full of the offerings from the silver dishes lined up on the buffet. Indeed, judging by the heaped-up plate, Melrose wondered if there were any offerings left. Not that he really cared, as he didn’t himself eat most of the stuff there.

  “Mornin’, Mel,” said Gerrard, happily.

  Mel? “Good morning, Gerrard. I see the breakfast is to your liking.”

  This flight into sarcasm was as present to Gerrard as a first-class flight on Emirates. “Lemme tell you, that Mrs. Ruthven cooks up the best breakfast I ever seen—saw. This here’s my second helping.”

  Ruthven entered with Melrose’s tea. “Thanks, Ruthven. Gerrard was just complimenting Martha’s breakfast.”

  “Indeed. Would you care for some more tea, Master Gerrard?”

  “I would that, Mr. Ruthven, ta very much.” He shoved his cup forward. Ruthven poured.

  “Tell me something, Gerrard,” said Melrose. “It’s ‘Mr. Ruthven,’ when technically it should be just ‘Ruthven’; it’s ‘Mrs. Ruthven,’ when technically it should be ‘Martha.’ But it’s just plain ‘Mel,’ when technically it should be ‘Mr. Plant.’”

  “Ah, come on, Mel. We’re mates, that’s why.” Gerrard winked.

  Melrose, although he was now feeling kind of matey, did not return the wink.

  “So ain—aren’t—you going to get some eggs and sausages?” Gerrard pointed with his fork in case Mel might not know where to find them.

  “My regular breakfast is a little different … and here it comes.”

  Ruthven set down the buttered toast and the boiled egg in an eggcup unlike the usual silver one. This one Melrose hadn’t used since he was a toddler. Melrose asked him, “Did you get hold of Treadwell?”

  “Indeed, sir. Mr. Treadwell said he would be glad to come to Northamptonshire this morning and should be arriving shortly.” Ruthven was looking at the longcase clock.

  “Would ya look at that!” said Gerrard, nodding at Melrose’s breakfast. “That eggcup has some kinda fella holding a hammer and a spoon.”

  “To crack it open and to eat it. Notice, too, the round hat. That keeps the egg warm.”

  “My God, Mel. That’s for a kid-like.”

  “I am kid-like.” He proceeded to cut his toast into oblongs.

  “You ain’t making soldiers?”

  “I always do,” Melrose said as the doorbell gave its dulcet ring. He was trying to use the tiny hammer to crack the egg, but found it clumsy going. There! He peeled the shell down a little and, as Ruthven hadn’t supplied the silver egg-spoon, he had to gouge it with the play-spoon. “Just right,” he said to a fascinated Gerrard, as he dipped into it with one of the toast pieces.

  At that point, Agatha, walking straight through Ruthven’s announcement of her, entered. She was hauling a large book that Melrose recognized as Burke’s Peerage. It was probably his own copy of Burke’s, though he couldn’t imagine how she could have got it out of his library without his knowing. He knew only what it meant and, after she was settled at the table with her cup of tea and a biscuit, butter and jam, she began.

  “As you see, I’ve been dipping into Burke’s—”

  Melrose loved the familiarity of that address.

  “—and was surprised to see that the Ardry–Plant line has no mention of a Gerrard, nor any name resembling it.” Here she cast a smug look at Gerrard, across the table from her.

  Gerrard was unflappable. “O’course not. Me great-great-great-great-grandfather would of changed his own name after that William Bloone got called up before just about ev’ry magistrate in London for things like nickin’ silver, car thieving, impersonating an officer of the law, and who knows what else? Yeah, they was a bad lot, that part of the fam’ly, and my great-great-et-cetera-grandad didn’t want them blotting the fam’ly name, so the ‘Gerrard’ name got added later. Prob’ly too late to get into that book.”

  This reasoning was so inane Melrose knew Agatha wouldn’t be able to question it, but she did ask, “Well, what was the name originally?” She was opening the volume to her bookmarked spot as the doorbell sounded again.

  “Dunno. You don’t expect me to remember that? I can ask me da though and get back to you.”

  Ruthven entered then, his expression suggesting his lordship had never had such a cartload of fun as was to be had right now. He announced the arrival not only of Superintendent Richard Jury but also of Mr. Treadwell, of Yarborough, Seward and Treadwell, Melrose’s law firm.

  “Richard!” Melrose’s astonishment was no match for Agatha’s.

  “Mr. Treadwell!”

  She didn’t care about the police, only about the
possible alteration of wills and subsequent inheritances.

  “Madam,” said Mr. Treadwell. No “Lady Ardry” here.

  Jury was introduced to Gerrard, who, if he hadn’t been in heaven with all his buttered eggs, sausages and kippers, went straight to it now. “Scotland Yard! Wow-ow!” Not only did Scotland Yard beat an earl, it beat a butler.

  As Jury wandered back to the sideboard, he said, “Nice to meet you, Gerrard. I hope you didn’t eat everything.”

  “There’s sausages left, and a bit of that kipper.”

  Jury forked up both and went to the table and took the chair next to Gerrard.

  Melrose, out of respect for the elderly Mr. Treadwell, was still standing. “Mr. Treadwell, could I get you anything? Coffee? Tea?”

  “Tea would be welcome, thank you.”

  “And this is Gerrard. My cousin. Or to be more exact, his father, Benjamin Gerrard, is my cousin.”

  Mr. Treadwell, trained to accept client surprises, said simply, “I wasn’t aware you had relations still living, Lord Ardry.”

  “Nor were any of us!” said Agatha. “Except, of course, for me.”

  “I was speaking,” said Mr. Treadwell as Ruthven poured his tea, “of blood relations.”

  Scripted, it couldn’t have been better. Melrose thought he heard a thunderclap as Agatha regarded Gerrard.

  “Well, I can understand that you might want to make a few changes,” said Mr. Treadwell, careful not to actually refer to Melrose’s will.

  Melrose was close to believing there actually was a cousin. He rose and said, “Mr. Treadwell, if we could just have a word in the library. Ruthven will bring us more tea.”

  “Of course.” Mr. Treadwell rose and they left the table.

  As soon as Melrose had set his solicitor straight, and Ruthven had seen him to his car where he had a driver waiting, Jury left Agatha to Burke’s Peerage and Gerrard and went into the library.

  “That argument—assuming there was one—Flora Flood had with her husband before she shot him—”

  “She didn’t do it.”

  Jury sighed. “All right. What I’m wondering is what Bub overheard but is denying, and whether maybe another kid can get it out of him.”

  “The only kid I know is Gerrard.”

  “That’s what I mean. He’s clever.”

  “Too clever by half.”

  “Take him to Watermeadows, why don’t you, while Flora Flood is in London for a couple days.”

  “You mean now?”

  Jury nodded. Then he told Melrose about his Paris visit and what Gabrielle Belrose had said about Manon and Gerald Summerston.

  “My Lord! That certainly puts a different face upon things, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Indeed.”

  “But Bryher? She comes to England and goes to Bryher? You think it had something to do with the baby?”

  “God knows something had to do with the baby. I’m going to Bryher tomorrow. You can go with me. You’d be helpful in reducing the police presence.”

  “Why doesn’t that sound like a compliment?”

  “Because it isn’t?” Jury smiled. “Oh, come on, you’re really good with children.”

  “What? Are you mad? They can’t stand me. Unless I’m part of their little plot. Where do you think all of this is leading?”

  “I’d say to Tony Servino.”

  Melrose looked surprised. “Servino?”

  “From what we’ve heard about Gerald Summerston, far from being the soul of kindness, I’d say he needed a fixer.”

  Following Jury’s departure, Melrose herded Gerrard into the Bentley and they set off for Watermeadows, Gerrard protesting this excursion to meet “some little kid.”

  “You’re ‘some little kid’ too, so stop complaining.” Melrose braked to avoid hitting a cow that didn’t seem to want to leave the road.

  “You nearly hit that cow, Mel; watch your driving.”

  “I’m close to nearly hitting you, Gerrard. Watch your talk.”

  Watermeadows brought forth numerous wows from Gerrard, and the comment that it was even better than Ardry End.

  “Except,” said Melrose getting out of the car, “you’re not inheriting it. Come on.”

  It was the cook who answered the door, her apron floured and smeared with chocolate, and who informed Melrose that Miss Flora had gone to London, but that yes, little Bub was there, upstairs in his room. “Just run on up,” she said to Gerrard.

  “Run on up” struck Melrose as a rather careless direction, since the cook didn’t know what articles along the way Gerrard might stick under his shirt—nor did Gerrard show any propensity to run to meet Bub. “Third room on the left,” said the cook, taking his hesitation as indication he didn’t know where to run to.

  “Go ahead,” said Melrose. “I’ll wait for you down here in the library.”

  The cook kindly brought him in some tea and he was standing, drinking from his cup, when he heard laughter overhead and saw, up on the little balcony, Gerrard and Bub wielding the pole the maid used to pull the chandelier towards the balcony. Melrose told them to cut it out, and, reluctantly, they did.

  “You ready to go?” he called up to Gerrard.

  “Okay.” Gerrard said a few words to Bub and the next thing Melrose knew, he was in the library. “The kid knows how to have fun.” He was looking up at the chandelier. “I’ll say that for him.”

  “I won’t,” said Melrose. “Let’s go.”

  They stopped by the kitchen where Melrose poked his head round the door and thanked the cook for the tea.

  “Find out anything?” he asked Gerrard.

  “Nah,” said Gerrard. “Except he really liked Tony. And the fight was started not by him but by Flora. Who I kind of get the impression he’s not all that crazy about.”

  33

  A half hour following their return to Ardry End, Melrose looked out of the longcase window facing his drive to see a red Ferrari parked there. He called for Ruthven, who came immediately.

  “Ruthven, whose car is that?”

  “Mr. Rice’s, m’lord. He arrived whilst you were out in the library and asked me not to bother you. He’s come to see Miss Sydney. Or rather, she’d asked him to come.”

  “And where are—”

  “In the stables, sir. Mr. Rice came to the kitchen a while ago to ask me to call—”

  Melrose didn’t wait for the call, but headed toward the rear of the house. “That’s where I’ll be,” he called back over his shoulder.

  “Vernon! Nice to see you. I didn’t know—” He stopped talking when he saw Sydney’s tear-stained face and the handkerchief she quickly applied to it. “What’s wrong?”

  Vernon answered for her. “Sydney’s feeling very bad. She’s waiting for her grandfather. I asked Ruthven to ring him at the farm and to ask him to come, which he said he would do right away.”

  “But what happened?”

  In a choked voice, Sydney said, “It’s nothing to do with you or Ardry End. Can we wait for Granddad?”

  “Of course. But come into the house.”

  She shook her head. “I’d rather be out here with Aggrieved. And Vernon. Please.”

  The wait wasn’t long. Thirty minutes later, Tom Brownell was there in the stable, looking bewildered. “Sydney?”

  She opened her mouth to speak, but nothing came out. She turned to Vernon, gave him an imploring look, but he shook his head. Then, looking at her downturned face, changed his mind and spoke. “It’s about her mum, Tom. She’ll tell you.”

  “About Daisy, sweetheart? What?”

  Sydney began weeping, saying through the tears, “I’m so sorry, Granddad. I’m so—” But the tears overcame the telling.

  In his calm voice, Tom said, “Never mind, Sydney. Nothing’s so bad you can’t tell me.”

  “This is! I killed Mum; I mean, I’m afraid I killed her; no, I know it. Mum hadn’t told you this because she didn’t want you to worry yet, Grandad, but she was quite ill. There was a nurse, Ann
a, who was staying with us to care for her. But that night Anna had an emergency at the hospital and had to leave and told me just as she was going to be careful of giving Mum any pain pills. ‘In another hour, no more than two, Sydney. No more.’ It was less than an hour when Mum asked for more because of the pain. So I gave her two. But then in a few minutes she asked for more, said that the pain was unbearable. I told her I couldn’t; that Anna had said only two. But Mum kept asking and finally begging and holding on to my hand and—well, you know Mummy never complained about stuff, so this was so—I tried to call Anna at the hospital but couldn’t get hold of her and Mum was—” The weeping took Sydney over. “So—”

  “You gave her some more. Sydney, it’s all right; what could you do?”

  “Be stronger! Be able to step back from it. Oh, God! I’m so sorry, Granddad.” She turned not to her grandfather but to Aggrieved and lay her head against his flank.

  Tom put his hand on her shoulder. “We don’t even know if that was enough of an overdose to kill her. But look at it this way, sweetheart, what we do know is that she didn’t deliberately kill herself, and God knows that’s a relief.” He hugged her.

  What he’d just said calmed her. “I didn’t think … Yes, that’s true.”

  Melrose knew that Tom Brownell had always known Daisy hadn’t committed suicide, but it was a good reason to come up with for Sydney’s sake.

  “Thanks, Vernon,” said Sydney. “Thank you.” But it wasn’t Vernon she was patting; it was the horse.

  “I was nothing but a sounding board, Sydney, and not as good a one as your horse.” Vernon laughed.

  The inimitable Vernon Rice, thought Melrose. He remembered how Vernon had handled Nell Ryder. When Nell reappeared that day after having been gone for two years, it was Vernon Rice she had gone to, not her grandfather. He had that effect on people. The one you could always trust.