The Old Success

by Martha Grimes

They were sitting in the doctor’s office in his home in St. Just.

  “I’m not trying to violate your confidentiality obligations, Dr. Park, but I think there might be a few things you could tell me. The baby was kept at the Summerston shelter with her mother for two weeks, you said, then released to a friend of the mother. Someone I imagine you knew.”

  “Why would you think that?”

  “Because Summerston is a private hospital that operates, or certainly did at the time, for the personal benefit of the Summerstons, consequently for people connected with them.”

  “That’s not true; it takes in homeless, ill, or otherwise-in-need people.”

  “It’s the ‘otherwise-in-need’ I’m talking about. The friend, the woman who took the baby, was well known on Bryher: Daisy Cooke.”

  Park’s expression was a dead giveaway.

  “And as both of these women now are dead, I don’t think it would be violating confidentiality to tell me about the child. And as you know, this child’s mother, Manon Vinet, was murdered. So any information at all you could give me would help us find her killer.”

  The doctor went back to his chair. “Inspector, all that I know is that the child was given over to Mrs. Cooke. But after that, I can’t say what happened to her. Perhaps Mrs. Cooke formally adopted her.”

  “No, she didn’t.”

  “If you’re sure of that, why, then, don’t you know—?”

  “Mrs. Cooke was my daughter.”

  38

  On his way from St. Just to Land’s End, Tom rang Jury on his mobile. “Where are you now?”

  “Just about to board the plane back to Land’s End.”

  “I’ve been in St. Just, so I’m nearly there. Let’s meet at the Old Success and compare notes.”

  “Haven’t got any notes. I do have a theory, though it’s a bit of a black swan theory. Hold on.” Tom waited. “Plant also has his idea on this, with which I disagree, although he says it’s better than mine, more of a grey swan.”

  “Really? And Jerome?”

  “Who?”

  “Your giraffe. Doesn’t he have a theory?”

  “Oh, we left Jerome with Zillah. She was ever so happy.”

  “Well, she better watch it. He’s bigger than she is. See you soon.”

  In the Old Success, the three of them had just got their pints set before them when Tom said, “Dr. Park was not giving much up. But when I mentioned Daisy, his silence told me I was on track. Turns out she took the baby from the foundling hospital.”

  “Lines up, we know it was Daisy who left the baby in Hilda Noyes’s care. But never really left her. Daisy was checking in with Hilda for years. The years before—” Jury stopped, not wanting to say “she died.”

  But Tom remained unflappable. “She would do. Daisy would do that for a woman in Manon Vinet’s position, even though she barely knew her. Daisy was like that.”

  “I know,” said Jury. When Tom looked at him dubiously, Jury merely repeated it. “Believe me, I know.”

  Tom dropped it and said, “Let’s hear these theories. He looked at Jury. “Your theory?”

  “Zoe Noyes.”

  “My God! That’d definitely be a black swan event. She’s what? Fourteen years old?”

  Jury nodded. “It wouldn’t be the first time a kid had killed somebody, Tom. And she had a hell of a motive. Manon Vinet was coming to take Zillah away. For Zoe, that would be like taking her own child away. She said as much. Zillah had been with her since she was a baby. And Zoe substituted her own note for her aunt’s that got Manon to the beach. Zillah was scared to death. Zoe as good as admitted that she had a gun.”

  Tom held up his hand. “Wait a minute. Where would Zoe get a gun?”

  “Zoe had her father’s old SIG Sauer. There’s a collector on Bryher, Jack Couch, who really wanted it. They could have orchestrated a little trade.”

  “No halfway responsible adult would make an exchange like that.”

  “Maybe Jack isn’t all that responsible.”

  “Then you’re settling on two shooters, because I see no way Zoe could have shot Tony Servino. Or Moira Quinn. Even if there were a motive, which I can’t see, either.”

  “I agree. There must have been two shooters,” said Jury.

  Tom looked at Melrose. “And yours?”

  Melrose said, “Eleanor Summerston. Don’t look like that,” he said to Jury. “She’s the one with the most motive I’ve heard so far. It’s Gerald Summerston’s reputation. Lady Summerston would do anything to protect that, certainly get rid of Tony Servino, whom she hated anyway, and who’d probably been hired by Gerald to fix whatever needed to be, including this demand about the gallantry medal. It wouldn’t have aroused anyone’s suspicions if they’d seen Eleanor at Watermeadows that evening; after all, she owns the place. Eleanor was a keen shooter, better than the men who came to the weekend shooting parties. You didn’t notice the pictures on the wall of the library?

  “As to shooting Manon Vinet, of course she could have done. Anyone who could wield a shotgun as she could, could certainly manage a handgun. I’d say she saw the Vinet woman at the hotel and for old times’ sake had a little drink with her, then suggested a little walk. Shot her on the beach.”

  Tom grunted. “That’s possible. But then what about Moira Quinn? She was only the Summerstons’ maid. I suppose pregnant maid, as it turns out.”

  “Eleanor was so convinced of her husband’s egalitarianism, and she knew of his special fondness for maids, maybe she suspected …”

  “That doesn’t sound likely, though,” said Tom.

  “And she was there at the same time Manon Vinet was there. Lady Summerston could have feared that she’d discovered that relationship.”

  Tom shook his head. “Aren’t both of you ignoring the obvious?”

  Jury and Plant exchanged looks. “Such as?”

  “The white swan. Flora Flood.”

  When both of them just stared at him, Tom said, “Flora Flood was the one holding the gun, after all. Wouldn’t she have had even more reason than Eleanor Summerston to kill Tony Servino? She adored Gerald and hated Tony for leaving her for Daisy. Flora is not a person to accept rejection.”

  “But the second shot—” said Melrose.

  “She takes a few steps back toward the French door and fires the gun again and then claims an “intruder.”

  “But Bryher? Why didn’t police suspect her?”

  “For what reason? What was her motive for shooting Manon Vinet? What it was, of course, was the baby; but police had no knowledge of that. She feared that Manon would expose Gerald Summerston, and Flora couldn’t have that any more than could her aunt.”

  “And you think,” said Jury, “she also shot Moira Quinn?”

  “Yes. She probably knew that Summerston was Moira Quinn’s lover, too.”

  “But he was a sick man in his seventies,” said Melrose.

  Tom’s laugh was a short bark. “How sick do you have to be and since when has age ever stopped a man as sexually obsessed as Gerald Summerston? How many women did Summerston seduce? By her own admission, Eleanor Summerston had to let a maid go because she showed too much interest in Gerald, and Betsy Quinn seconded that. And those were only two they knew about. How many over the years could there have been that Eleanor didn’t know about? He was a man of unquenchable thirst and no more control over it than a raging alcoholic. A sex addict. No woman was out of bounds.”

  “Including Flora Flood?”

  “Absolutely including Flora Flood. I think she was in love with Summerston and I think Eleanor suspected it and it put her in a hell of a bind. After all, she could fire the maids and the kitchen help; but she could hardly throw out her own niece. Also, she was probably never sure about Flora.”

  “Manon’s baby was in line for a fortune,” said Jury. “According to Gabrielle Belrose, ‘she had it in writing.’ Manon, who was nobody’s fool, got Gerald Summerston to sign something about the baby’s being his; otherwise she’d have
gone to his wife and laid the whole thing out. All he had to do was sign over a small fortune to this child which would be arranged as a pay off after his wife died. Something like that. Otherwise, she wouldn’t have allowed him to leave her in Paris, himself unfettered and with no obligation. And that’s a document Gabrielle has in her possession.”

  “But any decent legal team could blow that out of the water,” said Melrose.

  “I’m sure, but would Gerald have wanted Eleanor around to watch its being blown?”

  “So that would show that Zillah is his daughter, but what about all the rest of this: there’s no evidence, Tom. How do we prove that Flora shot all these people? Where’s the evidence?”

  “We’ll go and get some.” Tom rose. “Tomorrow morning. Too late tonight, so let’s have another.” He raised his pint. “Cheers.”

  39

  “Where are we going?” said Melrose the next morning as they left the Old Success.

  “Watermeadows,” said Tom.

  “That’ll take six hours to drive.” They were bundling themselves into Melrose’s car.

  “We go to Exeter airport then to London City. M1 to Northampton takes less than two hours. That is, if you don’t mind leaving this car at the airport.”

  Melrose started the Rolls. “I’ve got others.”

  It took about an hour to get to London City Airport from Exeter.

  Once they got their hired car onto the M1, Jury said, “How do we know she’s alone?”

  “We don’t, but I’d bet she is. She doesn’t go out much,” said Melrose. “However—mobile, somebody?” When Jury pulled out his, Melrose said, “Call Ardry End.”

  Ruthven answered and Jury said, “Lord Ardry wants a word, Ruthven.”

  Melrose said into the mobile, “Is Gerrard there? I want to talk to him.”

  It sounded as if there was a bit of a scuffle in this transfer of news, but Melrose assumed there was always a scuffle by way of getting Gerrard. “There’s something I want you to do. Go to Watermeadows … what? Oh, just make up some excuse. I simply want you to get Bub out of the way … no, nothing’s going to explode. Keep Bub out of the library for a couple of hours; keep him out for as long as we’re there … no, we’re not there yet, but we will be in less than an hour and we want to talk to Flora Flood alone. Right.” Melrose was about to hang up into the chatter on the other end and then said, “But if anyone comes in before we get there, call me back on Mr. Jury’s number.” He passed the mobile back to Jury, who gave Gerrard the number and added. “We should be there in another forty, fifty minutes. Okay.”

  Tom took the phone, said, “Listen Gerrard, when you get there find out where Flora Flood is and if anyone else is on the premises. Call back.”

  In another twenty minutes, Jury’s mobile tweeted. He answered, listened. “Okay, thanks.” He turned to the others. “Flora’s in the kitchen. Cook’s gone to the Waitrose in Northampton. There’s nobody else around. Gerrard’s got Bub up in his room playing some game.” He said to Gerrard, “Just keep him out of the library, which is where we intend to be.”

  Tom took out his own mobile and put in a call to Brierly, who wasn’t there. “Get him to call me, Brownell. It’s important.”

  Twenty minutes later they were pulling up in front of Watermeadows. In another minute, the door was opened by Flora Flood herself. Seeing the three of them, she looked startled, then made a try at looking pleased, and failing at that, settled for composure. “Come in, though I can’t imagine—”

  “You can’t?” said Tom. Then to Jury, “Hold on. It’s Brierly.” He smiled at Flora. “I wonder, could we go into the library?” He turned away for a moment to speak to Brierly. “Watermeadows? No, now. Really. Bye.”

  Looking even more uncertain, she ushered them into the library, which was colder than the foyer, its fire as yet unlit.

  “What’s this all about? What’s it to do with Inspector Brierly?”

  “We’re just waiting for him.”

  “Again, why? What’s this about?”

  “We needed to have another look at the scene. You know, the crime scene.”

  “Why? Has something else happened?”

  Tom gave a short laugh. “I’d say quite a lot has happened since the night your husband was shot.”

  “It’s cold in here. I’m going to light the fire.” She started to kneel by the grate, but Jury pulled her up. “We can do that.”

  “I’m perfectly capable—”

  “I know you are.”

  “Do you mind if I get the whisky? Or do you want to do that too?”

  “No, go ahead. Just don’t open any drawers.” Jury smiled, watched her as he got the fire going in the grate.

  At the drinks table, she pulled over heavy tumblers, picked up the bottle of Glenlivet and turned, saying, “This suit you?”

  “Admirably,” said Melrose.

  She pulled the stopper from the bottle, and when Flora turned again, she had a gun in her hand.

  “I don’t know what game this is, but I’m not playing. When Inspector Brierly’s car pulls up, we’ll all of us walk to the door, only one of us will have a gun in his back. You,” she said to Melrose. She crooked her finger. “Come on.”

  Melrose heard a familiar clicking, not the safety on the gun, something else. When he heard it again, he started walking toward her. “Why don’t you put that down, Flora. You’re only making things worse for yourself.”

  “For myself. That’s very funny.”

  “You’ve already shot three people. We know about Manon Vinet and Moira Quinn.” Melrose took two more steps forward.

  Jury called, “Melrose! Don’t—!”

  The shot that didn’t hit him came just as the chandelier swung. The second shot went wild as Gerrard dropped to the floor, just a few feet from Flora, but the short distance was made up when he flew at her. They both fell, and Jury was on the gun as Tom went down on one knee.

  “Tom!” yelled Jury.

  “Nothing, nothing.” He took a bloody handkerchief from his leg. “Told you we’d get the evidence.”

  “My God, Gerrard,” said Melrose. “I thought you could manage the chandelier; I didn’t expect you to come with it!”

  “Yeah? So maybe I can get me a place with the Met?” Gerrard sported a huge grin.

  “Or Cirque du Soleil,” said Melrose.

  PART VII

  Sundowner

  40

  “Bugsy Malone? Who the bloody hell’d you get to ride this horse?

  Danny DeVito? Bloody hell, George! Bugsy?” Gerrard stared up at the pale blue sky.

  “His first name is Burgess. Now, if you were a jockey, would you want to go by ‘Burgess’?”

  “It ain’t any worse than ‘Gerrard,’” said Gerrard, chewing his gum fast. “He ain’t no Lester Piggott.”

  “And this horse ain’t no Nijinsky,” said George.

  Aggrieved wasn’t sure he liked that remark.

  “Sorry,” said George.

  “Oh, that’s—”

  “I wasn’t apologizing to you.” George smiled.

  This argument between Gerrard and George Jenks had ensued weeks before during a fruitless exchange between Gerrard and Sydney over which of them should ride Aggrieved in the Sundown Stakes in March at the Sundowner Racecourse, a little one-mile, three-furlong track not far from Northampton.

  George had sensibly pointed out that neither one of them was a licensed jockey, and no, there wasn’t time enough to get a license in the short while before the race. In any event, the racing authority was unlikely to grant Gerrard the right to ride the horse. Even if he could prove he was sixteen (through whatever shady North London connections he might have), since sixteen wasn’t eighteen and that’s how old he’d have to be to get a license.

  “Bloody hell!” was Gerrard’s response to everything, including Danny DeVito’s next film about corruption at the race track, called Black Track (a film made up by Gerrard, in which Danny would not be appearing).


  Sydney, even after all of her arguing, sympathized, saying it was pretty damned sad that after the heroism Gerrard had shown the night of Flora Flood’s “shooting up Watermeadows,” Gerrard was not to be rewarded.

  George agreed. “But I’m not the BHA; I don’t set the rules. Sorry. You’d make a very good jockey, Gerrard. You should go to racing school.”

  The word school didn’t meet with much approval. But then George went on:

  “You’re old enough right now to do morning workouts if you can get someone to take you on.”

  That compliment had Gerrard chewing his gum a lot faster. “How’d I do that, then?”

  “Oh, I could probably help. But you’d still best go to racing school.”

  Help was met with enough enthusiasm to mitigate the second mention of school. It also restored Gerrard’s faith in a trainer who would take on someone named “Bugsy.” Gerrard even managed a bit of gratitude. “Well, thanks, George. You think you could get me a job? I know you got a lot of clout.”

  George Jenks smiled. “Some. So are we okay, then, about Aggrieved and the Sundown Stakes? In another week or ten days we maybe can go to Cheltenham. Prize money there’s a couple of million.”

  Gerrard was chewing his gum so fast now he was close to breaking a molar. “Bloody hell!”

  “Don’t think we can get into that at this late date, though. Sorry I brought it up.” No, he wasn’t. “So we’ll stick with the Sundown Stakes. Even there, the money’s not bad. Two hundred thousand.”

  A race which was to be run on this new sunny day in early March. It was nearly three months since Flora Flood had been arrested for the triple murder of Tony Servino, Manon Vinet and Moira Quinn. Arrested, indicted and arraigned, she had pled innocent.

  Her defense continued to be that her husband had come to Watermeadows to talk her out of the divorce. “You were the only one who heard what Tony Servino had to say, so you could use that to your own advantage.” Finally, she had admitted that his reason for coming had had nothing to do with the divorce—something he himself had initiated—but to do with Gerald Summerston’s demands that Tony silence Ernest Temple.