The Knowledge: A Richard Jury Mystery (Richard Jury Mysteries)

by Martha Grimes

  She shifted the brush and held out her hand.

  “Your mother gave it to you?”

  “About the only thing she ever did.” Carole-anne took back her hand and ring.

  “You never talk about her.”

  “If you knew my mum.” Any knowing of her would, apparently, have decided things.

  “I take it you didn’t get along. Why?”

  Carole-anne shrugged. “I think maybe she didn’t like having a daughter around prettier than her and the older I got the more she didn’t like it. Made her look less good, I expect, by comparison.”

  “You’d make anyone look less good by comparison.”

  She didn’t take the compliment, apparently made unhappy by memories. “Times I think she really hated me, wanted me gone. So I went.” She shrugged again.

  “Oh, surely—” Jury stopped himself before he said, “Surely not.” He despised that sort of easy attempt at consolation. He thought of Paula Moffit, and that he hadn’t called her.

  Who was he to say, after all, whether her mum wanted Carole-anne gone or not? Had he forgotten the love-starved mothers of Greek mythology, like Medea?

  He looked at her and thought she looked, somehow, older. “Come on, Carole—” But at that moment his landline rang.

  “Churchill, sir. Stroke of luck!”

  “You mean you found it? Him?”

  “It. Not him yet. But not to worry. I’m pretty persuasive.”

  “That I believe. Good man. The destination is Boring’s—”

  “Right. Mayfair. Well, I could hardly take fifty quid and not deliver, sir.”

  “A lot could have. Well done, Churchill. Thanks.” Jury rang off.

  He turned to Carole-anne. “Listen, love, I’ve got to go out right now. But word of honor, first chance I get I’m taking you to any restaurant you want to go to. How about this place with the monthlong waiting list?”

  “Bruschetti? But how’d we—?”

  “Get in?” He took out his warrant card. “You seem to forget where I work.”

  Instantly, whatever years she’d suddenly added had just as suddenly fallen away.

  Boring’s, London

  Nov. 8, Friday night

  36

  Jury walked up to the desk behind which stood an ancient porter.

  But weren’t they all? Only, this one was unfamiliar.

  “May I help you, sir?”

  “Yes. I’m meeting a friend of mine here, Lord Ardry—”

  “Ah. Of course I know Lord Ardry.” The man’s smile was more of a simper.

  “I’ll just wait for him in the Members’ Room, shall I?” Jury started away.

  “Pardon me, sir! I’m awfully sorry, but we don’t permit anyone in the Members’ Room unless they are, you know, members. Or unless a member is here to vouch for them. You understand.”

  Jury could easily have produced his warrant card, but he didn’t want to make the elderly porter any more nervous than need be. Instead he said, “Oh, but I am a member. I’m Tweedears.”

  “I beg your pardon? Tweedears, sir?”

  “Lord Tweedears.” Jury’s raised eyebrow suggested that doubt was not an option. “And you are—?”

  The old porter stepped back from the desk. “Uh, Aubrey, sir. My name is Aubrey.”

  Jury smiled. “Well, Aubrey. Let me augment my information. Although the Tweedears title was forfeited in the sixteenth century, there was a long line of barons de jure—fifth baron de jure, sixth baron de jure, up until the twelfth baron de jure.” How he remembered these details of his sergeant’s pedigree, he couldn’t imagine. “I am the fifteenth baron de jure. Feel free to look me up in Burke’s.”

  Aubrey still hesitated. “Well, I … I … it’s not usually—”

  Jury sighed. “I could have Lord Ardry verify this if you like, only he isn’t here at the moment. That’s why I’m waiting for him.”

  Trained to give in gracefully, if giving in at all, Aubrey said, “Certainly, sir. I’ll be happy to show you to the Members’ Room.” He started out from around the desk.

  “Don’t trouble yourself. I know where it is. Thank you, Aubrey.”

  Jury walked into the Members’ Room and sank down into a chair by one of the fireplaces. When a young porter moved to his chair, Jury ordered a whisky. He wished Colonel Neame and Major Champs would put in an appearance; at least, they could vouch for him. Aubrey, Jury noticed, was looking his way with apprehension.

  Jury left the chair facing the front of the Members’ Room, picked up a newspaper on the other side of the fireplace and, as if that had been his goal, sat down in the chair with its back to Aubrey.

  Half an hour later, Melrose Plant rushed in. “Tweedears!” he exclaimed, and wrung Jury’s hand.

  Jury’s cabbie had finally found him.

  And after he was settled in with a drink, Melrose told the story of his four days in Kenya and Tanzania, accompanied by Patty Haigh.

  “Where in hell is she?”

  “At the Knowledge. Unless they’ve ferried her back to Heathrow, but I think that’s unlikely, given their fear that something might happen to her. Which considerably outweighed their fear something might happen to me.” Melrose drank his whisky.

  “I still can’t believe that she followed this shooter to Nairobi.”

  Melrose said, “And then killed a couple of days mucking about in places like Hemingways Hotel and Kibera until she wound up at the camp.”

  “Moreover—” Jury paused.

  “Moreover?”

  “You know where the Knowledge is.” Jury smiled. “And I don’t. You must be the only non-cabbie in London who knows.”

  “Well, don’t get your hopes up. Because I couldn’t tell you how to get there even if I wanted to.” Melrose drank off his whisky. “So you’ve got the doin’s? I hope you didn’t wheel a supermarket cart in here with all of your earthly possessions. Come on, we’re having dinner.”

  “This late? God, man, it’s nearly eleven o’clock. They’re still serving?”

  “No, but I called ahead. After all, you’re Tweedears.” Melrose looked around for Young Higgins. “Higgins!”

  Young Higgins, the head porter and the oldest one by far, came loping over.

  “What’s for dinner?”

  “I believe the chef has prepared a Dover sole, my lord.”

  In the dining room, their Dover sole before them, Melrose went on: “So you think Banerjee—or rather Buhari—was getting tanzanite into England for Leonard Zane?”

  “I don’t know, but it’s possible, given his position as inspector.”

  “But why would there be a problem exporting it?” said Melrose. “Leonard Zane has a license, so it looks legal.”

  “It’s getting it into the UK. That too is legal, but the VAT on gemstones is twenty percent. You import, say, half a million, you’re stuck with a hundred thousand in VAT. That’s a lot of money lost in taxes. Zane wouldn’t want to pay that. The guy needs money. We had a look at the mortgage on his property. Way overdue. Even though he’s apparently doing a hell of a lot of business, he’s not keeping up with his debts.” Jury frowned. “And that might not be the only thing being brought in illegally. Trueblood found pictures. Shots of three paintings that were hanging in the gallery. We wondered why Zane was keeping pictures in his desk of pictures on his wall.” Jury reached into an inside pocket and pulled out the snapshots Trueblood had furnished.

  Melrose frowned at them. “That is odd.”

  “Only I can’t get to them. Can’t get a warrant. There could be other art behind the art we’re seeing.”

  There was silence for a few moments, and then Melrose said, thoughtfully, “Bea Slocum.”

  “What about her?”

  “You recall our little fracas with the Fabricant Gallery right down there?” Melrose aimed his cigarette in the direction of Albemarle Street.

  “You mean the Siberian Snow scam. The white nothing that was covering up the Marc Chagall painting.”

&nb
sp; “The Chagall stolen by your notorious lady friend from the museum in St. Petersburg, yes.”

  “Never mind, please—”

  “Sorry. I was only thinking that we might have the same thing going on. Could Zane have a bent painter who’s covering something valuable with something else? It wouldn’t be this Masego Abasi, would it?”

  Jury shrugged. “You met him. What do you think?”

  Melrose smiled. “It’s probably more what Patty Haigh thinks. Patty and Abasi connected.”

  “Patty’s ten.”

  Melrose blew that objection away like the smoke from his Dunhill. “That’s why I’m thinking about Bea Slocum. Don’t forget, she’s a very good painter. You can’t get probable cause, you said.”

  “Right.”

  Melrose smoked that objection away, too. “Use your imagination, Richard.”

  “Haven’t got one. Like I don’t have a cognac.” He pulled back in his chair. “Lord, that was good.”

  Melrose raised a finger to Young Higgins, who came so smoothly he might have been on Aero’s skateboard.

  “Coffee and cognac out there, please, Higgins.” Melrose pulled a silver money clip from his pocket, sheered off notes. “Please thank the chef for staying on and for the excellent sole.” He handed Higgins two small-folded fifty-quid notes.

  * * *

  Back in the Members’ Room with cognac and another cigarette, Melrose said, “But what about Leonard Zane’s connection with Moffit?”

  “I don’t know, except that there must be one.” Jury told Melrose his deduction about Danny Morrissey. “Morrissey’s room was on the twentieth floor and before he was shot he said he was standing at the window, looking at the night sky. The night sky.”

  Melrose frowned. “Why is that significant?”

  “Reno isn’t Las Vegas, but it still has impressive casinos, lit up like fireballs. If you were looking out over Reno, what would you most likely be looking at? The casinos, the lights. And how many people would say ‘night sky’? A person would most likely say, ‘standing at the window looking out.’ Period. But David Moffit was obsessed with the night sky. For him far more impressive than all of the lit-up buildings in the world. Believe me, I know. I took a walk with him. He carried a damn telescope around with him. Night was David’s business.”

  Jury went on. “Yet Zane claims never to have heard of David Moffit. How many winning gamblers are also professors of physics? With a system? He didn’t go in for huge wins, just consistent wins. Of course Zane knew the name, if not the actual person.”

  “This man sounds very canny. Not going in for big winnings, only for consistent ones. But none of this sounds like a reason to shoot him. And certainly not his wife.”

  Jury was quiet for a minute, then said, “That painting in the flat … Zane is the only one who has the right to sell Abasi’s stuff.”

  “But remember, Abasi half-recognized the photo I showed him. So Rebecca Moffit might have got it directly from him.”

  “Her passport shows no visa for Kenya, no visa for any country in Africa.”

  “What about him?”

  “Same thing. Of course, there’s plenty of traffic in fake passports, so that doesn’t actually prove anything. Only … it’s the Moffits. I somehow can’t picture them …”

  “‘The doin’s’,” said Melrose. He snorted. “And where are the ‘doin’s’?”

  Jury removed the brown envelope from his jacket pocket and pulled out the pictures he’d taken from Claire Howard’s flat.

  Melrose put on his glasses. “My word, but mother and daughter look alike.”

  “Don’t they?”

  “Are you saying Abasi could have seen Mrs. Howard?”

  “But he said nothing about her when you showed him the picture taken in the gallery.”

  Melrose frowned. “He was more interested in the dark-haired woman Claire Howard was talking to. He said she reminded him of ‘Little Rita,’ a little girl who liked to come to his studio years ago with her nanny. The nanny was a friend of Abasi. He didn’t seem to recognize the gallery, either.”

  “I’m forwarding the blowup to Kione and asking him to show it to Abasi again.”

  “But if Claire Howard was the woman who bought the painting, that means—”

  “She’s been lying all along.”

  Artemis Club, London

  Nov. 9, Saturday morning

  37

  The next morning, Melrose rang Bea Slocum and asked her if she’d meet him at the Zane Gallery in the City.

  “Where that couple got murdered? That gallery?”

  “That one, yes.”

  “God.” She paused. “But I’ve got my job.”

  “It’s Saturday. I thought you didn’t work Saturdays.”

  “Yeah, I am.”

  Melrose had bought two of her paintings at the Fabricant Gallery and he knew she felt hugely indebted to him. He let her feel it. “Oh, come on. Surely they can manage without you for a couple of hours. And this job will interest you if you still have your criminal bent.”

  “Meaning?”

  “I’m not sure what I mean.”

  “No surprise there. Okay, Fingers. The Zane Gallery.”

  Bea knew every gallery in London, although she had paintings in only two or three. He said, “Right. In an hour; I’ll meet you at the front door. And Bea, come looking rich, will you?”

  “Don’t own rich.”

  “Doesn’t matter. Just drape it or shorten it or wear it round your neck. And bring your portfolio.”

  “What makes you think I got—?”

  Melrose rang off. He knew she’d got.

  * * *

  Why, he wondered an hour later, hadn’t he allowed for the fact that Leonard Zane could easily turn up right where he himself stood outside the gallery’s front door?

  Zane drove up in his Lotus Elan, sunglassed, silk-suited, vicuña-coated and looking as if he owned an island off Antibes.

  Good Lord, Melrose thought; this man needed money?

  Zane was out of his car and walking toward Melrose, when the black cab drove up behind the Lotus. “May I help you?” said Zane.

  “No, thank you. I’m just waiting for a friend.”

  They both watched as the door of the cab opened and a leather boot landed on the drive. This was followed by another boot, a very short and supple leather skirt, a hot pink leather-trimmed top, an angelically pretty face topped by short blond hair. Wow. Beatrice Slocum, who could look like something either the cat or the Queen dragged in, had chosen the Queen.

  “If this is your friend, I envy you.”

  “I’d envy me too, but it isn’t.” Melrose checked the time on his mobile. “I don’t know where he is.” He took out his small silver notebook, knowing that Zane had his eyes on the advancing Bea, and wrote his own mobile number. He tore out the little page and folded it, simultaneously taking one of his peer-heavy cards out of the notebook, as if that had been his purpose.

  Zane was asking another “May I help you?” as she came up to them, carrying her portfolio.

  “I’m looking for Mr. Zane. Would either of you gentlemen—?”

  Melrose marveled that she had the presence of mind not to say hello to him, apparently taking his own non-hello as a sign that they were strangers.

  “I would be,” said Leonard Zane.

  Keeping the black portfolio tightly molded to her side, Bea said, “I wonder if I could have a few minutes of your time.”

  “You certainly could. Come along to the gallery.” Zane turned. “And you, sir—?”

  Melrose said he would continue to wait for his tardy friend but would do so inside, and handed Zane the card that claimed he was the seventh Earl of Caverness, fifth Viscount Ardry, and a string of other things. He had no idea how he was going to pass the note with his mobile number along to Bea, much less the information she needed. How stupid of him.

  Bea and Zane walked toward the staircase and stopped. She’d said something to stop them. She
turned and walked quickly to Melrose, who said, under his breath, “Sorry. Laugh at whatever I say, will you?” And he pulled the three photos out of his jacket pocket, palmed them, fanned them out. “Buy one of these. You’ll be able to tell, they’re not very good—bear, cheetah, roses—on a wall full of very good stuff.” He handed her the number from his notebook, replaced the photos in his pocket. “Ring when you’re through.”

  She’d started laughing at “Sorry,” and kept it up, ending with, “You are a caution,” in a voice loud enough to carry. She returned to where Zane was waiting and again said something Melrose couldn’t hear. Zane laughed, too. They ascended the stairs.

  Melrose went into the library and sank into a down-cushioned chair, thinking, “Buy one,” was hardly an adequate instruction. Would Zane be selling them? Yet, again, why would he have the paintings on the wall if he weren’t?

  How would she handle it? He didn’t see how she could.

  “I’m terribly sorry for intruding and for not making an appointment, Mr. Zane. You must be extremely busy. But I’ve heard so much about this gallery—”

  He smiled. “Before recently?”

  She looked perplexed. “Pardon?”

  “Don’t you read the papers, Miss Slocum?”

  She shook her head. “I haven’t read one in days. I’ve been too busy.”

  “Good for you. Are you represented right now by any gallery?”

  “The Fabricant has sold several of my paintings. And T. Smith’s. I haven’t had a show.”

  “Let me see what you’ve got.”

  She handed over the portfolio and the dozen photographs within it, saying, “Would you mind if I looked at your paintings?” Bea nodded toward the left wall.

  “Mind? Of course not. You do that while I do this.” He opened the portfolio.

  A man walked in, looking like money, said, “Leo.”

  “Max!” said Zane, enthusiastically shaking the man’s hand.

  A minute later, a couple walked in, apparently gem enthusiasts, for they were hovering over the glass display cases.

  While this was going on, Bea took out her mobile, looked at the bit of paper and touched in Melrose’s number. “Mum?” she said when he answered. “Happy birthday!”