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

by Martha Grimes

  “Well, go on, Melrose. The train’s going to leave.”

  “Me? I’m not going to Paris—”

  “No? Then what’s this?” Vivian flicked a polished nail at the bit of cardboard in his breast pocket.

  Melrose took it out. “I never saw this before. Where’d it come from?”

  Vivian just looked at him. “Your pocket. You’re a liar, to boot.”

  “To boot what? You should talk! What about your new French friend?”

  “Who?”

  “Don’t play dumb.”

  Patty Haigh had shouldered her way through the passengers and was standing listening to this conversation. Again the whistle sounded and again the porters called out that the train would be leaving in one minute.

  Melrose said, “Well, climb aboard, you don’t want to keep Alain waiting.”

  “Alain?”

  “Don’t go, Vivian. Listen, he’s a bad lot, I can tell just from the name: Alain Resnais, for God’s sake! Talk about an invention!”

  Just as he bent toward her, a voice called out, “Good-bye, Lord Melrose.”

  He changed the direction of his look. Patty Haigh! She threw her arms up in a bid for him to bend down. He couldn’t believe Patty Haigh was gesturing for a hug, but he bent down and she hugged him.

  He straightened as the train started a slumbrous move, as if it couldn’t make up its mind which one of them was going. Vivian? Melrose?

  They looked at each other as Patty Haigh melted into the thinning crowd on the platform.

  “I’m not going to Paris! Who’s Alain? What about your woman from Kenya?”

  The British Pullman had finally woken itself up and was leaving.

  “What woman? And I don’t know where in hell this ticket came from!” He stuck his fingers into his pocket and felt around. “It’s gone! It’s—where is she?”

  “Where’s who?”

  “The girl—” Melrose made a dash down the platform. He was back in a few moments and grabbed Vivian. “Come on.”

  Jury stood outside the barrier with Jimmy, who asked him, “Okay, guv?”

  “Sublime,” said Jury. “Absolutely sublime.”

  Melrose, Vivian in tow, rushed up to him. “Patty Haigh got on that train. Your ticket!”

  “Patty Haigh? My ticket? I don’t know what the bloody hell you’re talking about.”

  “She’s gone to Paris!”

  Jury laughed. “Why am I not surprised? Well, not to worry, in a few days we’ll get a phone call.”

  “Patty Haigh?” said Vivian, staring at Melrose. “Your Parry Haigh has nicked your ticket?”

  Images of Kenya and Tanzania tumbled through Melrose’s mind: Mbosi Camp, the long walk from Kibera, the veldt, the Merelani Hills, Nairobi, Abasi, the leopard, the cub—he smiled as he watched the last car of the Orient Express disappear into smoke. “Actually, she’s nobody’s Patty Haigh.”

  New Scotland Yard, London

  Nov. 11, Monday morning

  47

  When Jury got to the Yard, Wiggins was there in his new gray suit, bright as a freshly minted ten-pence piece. “Fiona called just a minute ago. The guv’nor wants to talk to you.”

  “And for once, I want to talk to him. I’m getting two warrants, Wiggins—for Howard and Benn. I’m going to want you to go to Maggie Benn’s flat in Clerkenwell when I do.”

  “Another warrant?” said Chief Superintendent Racer, in a tone that suggested Jury asked for a search warrant every time he entered Racer’s office.

  “Two warrants: Claire Howard and Maggie Benn.”

  “Evidence to suggest a warrant?” said Racer. “You know what I mean by ‘evidence’?”

  Jury ignored the sarcasm. “That’s why I want a search warrant. To gather evidence: passports, paintings, photographs.”

  “God, man, you’ve got a killer at large and you’re spending your time on two women—”

  “They are.”

  Confused, Racer said, “This Banerjee or Buhari is the goddamned shooter!”

  “I’m leaving him to the Nairobi police.”

  “And why aren’t you leaving this to the City Police, Jury? It’s their case.”

  “Since I knew the Moffits, DCI Jenkins was happy to get any help I could give.”

  As it was clear Racer was going to quash that notion, Jury went on: “We don’t want to encourage the myth that City Police and the Met are rivals, do we? Or that the City Police are somehow superior?” This was illogical, of course, but Racer wouldn’t attend to the logic, only to any hint of City Police being superior. “Benjamin Buhari was the actual shooter, yes. But I think there was a good deal of manipulation by these women.”

  “And in the shooter’s case, we have rather abundant evidence, don’t we? Like eyewitnesses? Like that taxi driver who carted him around London for an hour? It’s with the others—your two women—we’re coming up a bit short, aren’t we?”

  “That’s the whole point. I want to see their passports and anything else I can find as evidence of their relationship. They’re both lying.” Jury pulled out his single piece of evidence, the picture taken in the Nairobi art gallery.

  “I don’t see how this proves anything.”

  “That they know each other; that they lied about being in Kenya; that Claire Howard had access to Masego Abasi’s paintings; that she probably knows Leonard Zane, though he denies it.”

  “That doesn’t prove she killed the Moffits or had them killed. This Rebecca Moffit was her daughter, for God’s sake!”

  “Of course it doesn’t prove it. Proof is what I’m looking for.”

  Racer was too intent on showing Jury he was a great nit to notice what was going on in his drinks cupboard. Jury had to hand it to him: Racer’s focus, when it came to focusing on Jury, was unshakable. Anyone else within a half mile would have heard the clatter and clink of glass.

  “This other woman,” Racer plowed on.

  “Is even more suspicious than Claire Howard. Maggie Benn has two identities: Leo Zane’s assistant and Benjamin Buhari’s daughter.”

  “What?”

  The fog thickened. “She grew up, though, with his brother—that’s the Banerjee whose passport he used—a rich industrialist and his wife, Elspeth Banado. Banado is the name Marguerite used in Reno, when she worked for Leonard Zane at the Metropole. Now, surely, we can tease probable cause out of that.”

  Racer looked ready to chew nails. Reluctantly, he picked up his pen and signed off on the warrants. Just as reluctantly, he handed the papers to Jury.

  There was a small glug glug sound of liquid pouring. Cyril must be mixing martinis, thought Jury.

  “What’s that?” said Racer, at last alerted.

  When Racer looked in the direction of the bookcase, Jury had a coughing attack. “Sorry. Just me.” He rose and, still coughing, went to the window near the built-in bookcase and raised it, as if he needed air. He quietly shut the cupboard door with his foot.

  “For God’s sake, man, it’s cold in here. Shut the bloody window. Miss Clingmore!” Racer yelled.

  Jury went out the door as Fiona came in. He said, in a low voice, “Cyril’s trapped in the cupboard with the gin. Get him out.”

  Fiona nodded.

  “Find that bloody cat, Miss Clingmore!”

  Chelsea, London

  Nov. 11, Monday morning

  48

  At the same time that Wiggins went to Clerkenwell and Maggie Benn’s, Jury went to Chelsea.

  Claire was wearing her coat and clutching a bag under her arm. Not bothering to hide her impatience, she raised her eyebrows. “Again? What is it this time?”

  “Sorry to bother you, but this time it’s a search.” He held up the warrant.

  “This is ridiculous, Superintendent. And I have an engagement.”

  “You don’t have to stay.”

  Still she stood there. “What on earth are you looking for?”

  “Whatever might be helpful.” He smiled. “It’s in the warrant, if you ca
re to read it.”

  She didn’t. But she did stop blocking the entrance. “Very well. You won’t find anything; there’s nothing to find.”

  “Good. That will simplify things, won’t it?”

  She walked out.

  Jury made his way to the desk and its silver-framed photos. Nothing there. He went into the room she had gone into to retrieve the photo he thought had been in the group on the desk the first time he’d been here. Only a few boxes, and one contained albums and framed photos. He pulled out photo after photo until he came to one of a dark-haired woman in a chased silver frame that looked expensive and antique. To C., Yours, M.

  Hers, indeed, thought Jury, looking at the beautiful face of the woman he supposed to be Marguerite Banado. He wondered what someone like Pete Apted would do with this photo as evidence. Shred it, probably. Nevertheless, it was good enough for the moment. He returned to the living room and searched the desk drawers, looking for the passport, and found it stashed among some legal documents that he let alone. He wondered why people denied having done something so easily checked. But they did, all the time.

  He moved over to the bookshelves, running his eyes over the spines. There were a number on physics, astro and otherwise; a half dozen on astronomy; and a couple on astrology—which surprised Jury if this collection was Moffit’s. There was a book titled Moon Phases that turned out to be fiction. It was very artfully, perhaps showily, arranged, the different parts named for the phases of the moon. He bet that the prose was equal to the show.

  “Oh, James, it’s a new moon!” she exclaimed.

  This banal line was followed by more dialogue of equal banality. The only two people who could get away with exclaiming over a new moon were Nelson Eddy and Jeanette MacDonald. His mum had loved them. He remembered her playing old records on a turntable over and over—

  No, you do not remember your mum doing that. You were only a baby when she died. So what you remember is either the matron at the home where you grew up, or your aunt and uncle who took you in afterward. That, or a fantasy.

  Thus was another memory of his mother stolen away. It had been his cousin in Newcastle, now dead, who had blasted his memory by telling him he’d been a baby when she’d died, so he couldn’t possibly remember seeing her after the bomb had fallen. When Brendan, her husband, had told him he could have anything he fancied of Sarah’s, Jury had asked for the photograph album.

  He had searched it and searched it for even one snapshot of his mother and himself at some later age—six, seven?—and had found nothing.

  Jury returned Moon Phases to its place on the shelf. He checked the numbers on his mobile and rang the Starrdust.

  “Gibbous moon?” said Andrew Starr. “That occurs when the moon’s a little more than half full. The gibbous moon waxes and wanes and then you get the crescent moon phases, which include the new moon. It takes nearly thirty days for the moon to complete an orbit.”

  “Is it associated with misfortune of some kind?”

  “No, not to my knowledge.”

  “Was there a gibbous moon the night of the thirty-first?”

  “Halloween? Hold on a moment.” When Andrew picked up the phone again, he said, “Nope. Friday night was a full moon.”

  “Thanks, Andrew.” As he was returning the mobile to his pocket the ring tone sounded. It was Wiggins, who had gone with a WPC to Maggie Benn’s flat. He told Jury he’d turned up her passports: “One in her desk drawer. British. But the other one, the Kenyan connection, was secreted guess where?”

  When Jury turned down the invitation to guess, Wiggins said “Behind an Abasi painting. The brown paper used to cover the back? One corner was Sellotaped. I found something thin tucked beneath the paper down in the corner.”

  “Passport-thin, you mean?”

  “Right. That’s basically why I’m calling. Should we take the whole painting, or just the passport?” Wiggins lowered his voice even more. “She’s sitting in the living room, fuming.”

  “Let her fume. Take the passport and see if you can find anything of that size to put in its place. She knows we’re searching her flat so she might look at the painting to see if we discovered the passport.”

  Wiggins said, “But what difference would it make? Like you said, she knows we have a warrant—”

  “But not what we’ve found.” Jury paused. “She knows we’ve reason to suspect something, but what?”

  “I thought maybe the painting should be brought in because a prosecutor might think it would add to the drama.”

  Jury laughed. “Pete Apted would.”

  As he was talking to Wiggins, he was looking again at the eclectic book collection. Wouldn’t David have considered astrology an aberration? Yet he spoke to his mother as if he were superstitious: It’s a gibbous moon again, Mom.

  He held on to the book and walked to the French doors. Opened them and stepped out onto the little balcony and looked up.

  It’s a gibbous moon again, Mom.

  It hadn’t been on the night the Moffits were shot.

  Why had he said it? Had David known he was walking into danger? Again?

  New Scotland Yard, London

  Nov. 11, Monday afternoon

  49

  Wiggins said, “Didn’t find anything else, guv, but the passports.”

  He handed them to Jury.

  Jury opened the one in the name of Marguerite Banado. “Well done, Wiggins. What prompted you to look behind the painting?”

  “The tanzanite. The picture frames. Do you suppose maybe it was Maggie Benn who had that done? Who worked it out with the framer?”

  “In the person of Marguerite Banado, quite probably. I did find this,” said Jury, dropping the photo on Wiggins’s desk.

  Wiggins studied it for a moment, then said, “That pretty much says it, right? What do we do now?”

  “We bring them in, Wiggins. Which one do you want? Claire or Maggie?”

  “Neither, but as I have to, I think I’ll take Maggie Benn. Claire Howard really bothers me.”

  “She does me too, Wiggins. Maybe that’s why I don’t mind shoving her through our door. See if you can dig up two WPCs to go with us.”

  Wiggins was a little surprised. “Now, you mean, sir?”

  “I can’t think of a better time, can you? You’re good at making arrests. Much better than I.”

  Actually, this was true. Wiggins managed to wedge in a layer of empathy when he made an arrest. It was almost soothing to suspects, who seemed to think, given Wiggins’s attitude, that if things got really rough he would step in and take their place.

  Jury was accompanied by WPC Lois Watkins, who was driving the car. After a few minutes of clearly bothered silence, she said, “I hope I’m able to do this, guv. It’s because I’ve been following this whole business and I think this woman must be some kind of monster to be compliant in the shooting of her own daughter. I’ve got a little girl myself, and I just feel—”

  She couldn’t say what she just felt. “That’s okay, Lois. You’ll be fine.” He wondered if he should trot out a few more clichés to make her feel better.

  “It’s horrible, really horrible.”

  “Have you ever read about Medea?”

  “Well, yes, but that’s by Socrates, isn’t it? That’s Greek tragedy!”

  He let Socrates go by the board. “Call this Brit tragedy, Lois.”

  She shook and shook her head. “What kind of world are we living in, sir, when mothers can do this kind of thing?”

  Jury was looking out of the passenger’s window at the flow of people along the King’s Road. “It’s not too late to seek a newer world,” he said.

  “That’s beautiful, sir. To say that.”

  “It’s Tennyson who said it, in his poem ‘Ulysses.’” Jury wondered where that newer world would come from, though. From that couple holding hands and swinging along the pavement? From the baby in that perambulator? From the fellow with the classy-looking poodle? From the group of elderly women clutch
ing at one another, thereby ensuring that if one went down, all of them would?

  A few seconds after Jury’s knock, Claire Howard jerked the door of the flat open, looking astonished to see not only Jury yet again, but Jury with a policewoman.

  “What—?”

  “May we come in?”

  In mute answer, Claire stood back, pulling the door wider.

  Jury was not sorry to have a relative stranger with him, to be sharing this task with a WPC who was completely unsympathetic, but completely professional; she would act as a buffer both for Claire and for Jury and could help to soak up the terrible silence and after that the terrible words.

  “Is this another search?” said Claire. Then more angrily, “And what about things that’ve gone missing?”

  “Claire Howard, I’m here to arrest you as an accessory to the murder of Rebecca and David Moffit and the kidnaping of Robert Parsons.”

  “What? What? Are you crazy? My own daughter? David? And who the bloody hell is Robert Parsons? What do you mean ‘arrest’ me?”

  Jury nodded to Lois, who continued: “I must warn you that anything you say may be taken down in evidence and used against you in court.”

  Claire Howard laughed, a trifle heartbreakingly. She said, “You know this is ridiculous!”

  “Please come with us. If you need a coat, Constable Watkins will help you.” Meaning, if Claire left the room, WPC Watkins would follow her.

  For the next fifteen minutes, Claire remonstrated with Jury, repeating again and again that the charge was impossible, that her solicitor would have her out in five minutes, that Jury must be mad, and ending with a strident, “And just where are you taking me?”

  “New Scotland Yard.”

  She said nothing.

  It usually shut people up.

  But by the time they got to Westminster, Claire was in a rampage again. “You know who shot David and Rebecca. You know it wasn’t me!” As if surely he’d see reason.

  “I didn’t say it was. You mentioned a solicitor. You’d better call him.”

  She did, and he came.