The Anodyne Necklace

by Martha Grimes

  Macenery banged the glass down. “Look. All I know is, Katie showed up in jeans. Then this Inspector Hound says they found a dress in her shopping bag. Naturally, the implication being she did her quick change in my place. Well, she didn’t. If Katie was wearing a dress when she left home, I don’t know anything about it. Are you saying she’d come into Wembley Knotts and get herself all tarted up and then go out bashing—”

  “I’d hardly call jeans and a bit of lipstick getting ‘all tarted up.’ I’m thinking she just took advantage of being away from home to wear the clothes she wanted to wear. You didn’t know she was raising the money by playing her violin in tube stations?”

  A hesitation. “No.” Jury looked at him. It was a defensive no. “Look, I really didn’t. I’d never have let her do it. The thing is, I wonder if I gave her the idea. I used to do it myself. Raised a quid or two that way. A long time ago.”

  “You walked her from your place on Drumm Street to the Underground, right?” Macenery nodded. “Is there a ladies near by? Somewhere she could have changed?”

  “There’s a public toilet in the little park across from the stop.”

  “She must have been changing, for one thing, to make some impression on you, Mr. Macenery. Thought maybe it made her look more grown-up?” The young man said nothing. “Is she in love with you?”

  His eyes flared up at that. “In love? She’s only sixteen, Superintendent.”

  Jury smiled. “I never knew that to stop anyone.” Jury studied him for a moment before asking, “Do you know Cora Binns?”

  That threw him off balance. “Cora Binns? Blonde who comes in here? Yeah, I know her, but only about as well as I know you. Not my type.” Implying Jury wasn’t, either.

  “She’s been murdered. You wouldn’t have any ideas about that, would you?”

  Macenery seemed totally nonplussed. “My God! Where? When?”

  “In Littlebourne. Where Katie comes from. Apparently, you know them both.”

  “Lucky me.”

  “Did they know one another?”

  “How the hell should I know?” The old anger returned.

  “Well, did Katie come in here?”

  He was going to deny it, Jury knew, and then thought better of the lie. “Okay, once or twice she did.”

  “Bit young for that, isn’t she?”

  A huge sigh from the violinist. “For Christ’s sakes, we weren’t standing her drinks. She just liked to watch the game.”

  “Did she play?”

  “No. Look, she was only in for a bit, honestly.”

  “Did she talk to anyone else in here, other than you?”

  “No. And I can’t see how she’d have known Cora Binns; I can’t remember her being in here at the same time.”

  Jury looked over to the table, from which the other players had apparently drifted off, their play rudely interrupted. Only the fat man, Chamberlen, sat there. “It’s a strange game.”

  “Wizards? Passes the time. We’ve got a kind of club here. Play several times a week. You can really get involved.” Macenery looked at his watch. “Look, I’ve a lesson on in five minutes. Are you finished with me?”

  “Where were you on Thursday night?”

  “Here.” He’d scraped back his chair, but now looked doubtful. “Why?”

  Jury nodded. “You can go. I’ll want to talk with you later.” As Macenery got up, Jury said, “Incidentally, have you been to see Katie?”

  The violinist seemed to want to look everywhere but at Jury. “No. She’s in a coma, I know that. What good would it do?” On his face was a look of abject misery. “I mean, she wouldn’t hear me if I talked to her. What could I say?”

  “You’d think of something.” He watched Cyril Macenery walk towards the door, as he watched Wiggins coming in his direction, away from Maud and her two companions. Jury thought that if he didn’t know what Katie O’Brien’s feelings were, he was pretty certain about Macenery’s.

  III

  Dr. Chamberlen sat like a stout idol, hands folded over vest, pince-nez dangling on a thin, black ribbon. “I call myself that,” he said in answer to Jury’s question, “out of habit. Merely for fun, you understand.” To Wiggins, who had taken out his notebook, Chamberlen said, “I’m a blank page, Sergeant. My real name would be of no earthly interest to you.”

  “Try us,” said Jury, smiling.

  Chamberlen sighed. “Oh, very well. Aaron Chambers, number forty-nine, Catchcoach Street. A name very close to ‘Chamberlen,’ certainly. Have you heard of the famous Dr. Chamberlen? Few have, beyond the portals of the Anodyne Necklace. Dr. Chamberlen swore that a simple necklace of bone—the one represented on the sign above the door out there—that such a necklace as he’d made would cure anything from a child’s teething pains to gout to—” He shrugged. “Heaven knows how many he sold, each one in its little airtight packet. Airtight, so that the aura of energy couldn’t escape. They were dispensed by an old woman over the confectioner’s next door. The shop is still there; the woman long since died. They said it was a hoax. Do you think so, Superintendent?” The question was rhetorical. Chamberlen gestured with his hand, the ash from his cigar sifting over the wash of papers. “You’ve probably not heard of our game, either. Wizards and Warlords. There’s a treasure, you see. We’ve been looking for it for months, this particular treasure. On paper only, of course. I have made the treasure the necklace itself—the anodyne necklace. Since I’m Wizard-Master, I have that authority. Thus I have decided the necklace can cast spells so remarkable, gentlemen, that it could make both of you disappear right before my eyes.” His small mouth pursed in amusement as he snapped his fingers.

  “Unfortunately, we’d probably reappear, Dr. Chamberlen, right before your eyes.”

  Chamberlen shrugged. “You see, to me the anodyne necklace is far, far more than a cure for aching gums. It is an objet trouvé, something impalpable, as yet uncreated, until I decide what particular wonders it is to hold. Dr. Chamberlen—that is, the original Dr. Chamberlen”—modestly, he pressed his hands against his vest, “—had many competitors. There was Burcher of Long Acre. There was a Mr. Oxspring at the Hand and Shears who sold necklaces made from peony wood, as I remember, in the seventeen-twenties. Oh, yes, there were many contenders, but I like to think my necklace is the one with the true power.” He held up the big sheet of graph paper. When Jury reached for it, Dr. Chamberlen pulled the paper back. “You won’t tell the others, will you? The map is only supposed to be seen by the Wizard-Master.”

  “I’d die first,” said Jury, taking it from him. It was a diagram of several views of an enormous castle ruin. Enlargements had been made of certain of its rooms—the dungeon displayed in elaborate detail. The towers, the moat, the bridge were all drawn with exceeding care.

  “We’ve been at this particular game for two months now,” said Chamberlen. “The anodyne necklace can ward off nearly anything—bad luck, illness, all manner of evil, the Manticore’s silver shield, ogres, thieves, and even Warlords.”

  Jury was still looking at the map. “Too bad it couldn’t ward off murder.”

  IV

  “I told ’im you’d be back for ’im.” White Ellie chuckled. “But I didn’t tell ’im nothin’ else. Serve ’im right to get in a muck-sweat, the way ’e goes on.”

  “Shut up, Elephant, and gimme me fags.”

  From the cooker’s top she chucked a packet of cigarettes toward the table, catsup-smeared and still ringed with empty bowls from the kiddies’ tea. Except for the now-knickerless girl, who stood, finger in mouth, once more glooming up at Sergeant Wiggins, the urchins had disappeared to the streets. When the little girl once again clamped her catsupy hand on Wiggins’s trouser leg, he gave it a smart lick with his pen. The youngster howled but stood her ground. Neither of the parents seemed much interested in crying police child-abuse.

  “So whatcha want?” asked Ash Cripps. “Listen, if it’s about that li’l bit a mystery says I give ’er one be’ind the Necklace, it’s a fuc
kin’ lie—” He pointed his cigarette, like a tiny gun, at Jury.

  “It’s not about that, Ash,” said Jury.

  “Then it’s them Screeborough gang—” His look darted to his wife, busy over a fry-up. “I tol’ ya, Elephant, there’d be nothing but grief, and you goin’ fer a kip round there. Listen—” He turned his attention once again to Jury. “I ain’t ’ad nothing to do with that bunch, nor no firm since last July and I did me time, so don’t be coming in ’ere—”

  “Nothing to do with a firm, Ash—”

  Ash squinted up at him, confused. If it wasn’t sex and it wasn’t small-time theft, what could it be?

  White Ellie placed a dish towel over a chair seat and said to Jury, “There, sit yerself down. Want some of this fry-up?”

  Sergeant Wiggins looked aghast, apparently afraid that Jury might accept.

  “No, thanks.” He turned to Ash. “It’s about Cora Binns. I was telling your wife, here, that Cora’s been murdered.”

  “Cora? That li’l blonde with the big—” He held his hands in front of his chest. “Well, bugger all.” His expression was more one of wonder than remorse. Apparently unable to let any unexpected event go by without attaching a sexual meaning to it, he added, “Interfered with, was she?”

  “No. What we want is information about her friends, boyfriends, to be more exact. Anyone with any quarrel against Cora Binns. Know of anyone?”

  “Had ’er eye on Dick, I know that,” said White Ellie, sliding the greasy mess out on a plate.

  “Dick, what Dick?” said her husband.

  “You know Dick. Dontcha remember, ’e was stayin’ ’ere that night and we was in bed and he come along and gimme one?”

  Ash’s eyes screwed up. “Oh, yeah, that Dick. Friend of Trev’s, ’e was. Now there was a lad. Best Wizard-Master we ever did ’ave. Though don’t let the Doc ’ear me say it.” He hooked a napkin under his chin and started in on the sausages. “Matter of fact, Trev and Cora might ’ave ’ad something going for a bit.”

  White Ellie snorted, wiping another plate with the sleeve of her dress before depositing a chop and some sausage on it, along with potatoes. “Trevor, ’e was one for the ladies. Pity what ’appened to ’im. That’s life,” she added, philosophically.

  Jury looked from the one to the other. “Trevor?”

  “Yeah. Trevor Tree. Good lad was Trevor.”

  Sergeant Wiggins stopped in the act of muscling the four-year-old out of the way of his feet to look at Jury.

  Jury nodded, then said to Ash Cripps, “How well did you know Trevor Tree?”

  Ash hooked his thumb over his shoulder. “Trevor lived back in Drumm Street, same street Cyril lives in. Smart lad, nicked a quarter million in jewelry. And then the poor blighter gets run down by a car.” Ash shook his head ruefully. “Wages of sin.”

  “You wouldn’t have had anything to do with those wages, would you, Ash?”

  He stopped sucking his teeth and looked as shocked as if he’d spent most of his life in a monastery. “So that’s it, is it? You think I’m at it? In on the snatch, is that it?”

  White Ellie hooted, wiping a piece of bread around the plate she’d been standing there eating from. “Ashley ain’t smart enough to go in anything like that.”

  “Did the rest of them at the Anodyne Necklace know Trevor Tree?”

  “Not all, I don’t think. Some did. Keith, maybe. And Doc Chamberlen, of course. I don’t know how well them two got on. At Wizards, I mean. I think maybe the Doc was jealous of Trev. See, Trevor was a real artist. You should of seen some of the maps he did for the game. Finicky, he was, about details. Well, Doc Chamberlen’s good too, but not as good as Trevor. Practically a religion that game is to the Doc. He can sit round for hours fiddling with them maps. Treasure maps. Right now we’re looking for the anodyne necklace. See, the way it goes is—”

  “Shut up, Ashley. The super ain’t interested in some stupid game as that. So lemme borrow yer strides, I gotta go to the launderette.”

  “You don’t need me trousers, woman; I’m sick a you using me trousers.”

  “I do need ’em. So’s when I sit down they don’t look up me legs.”

  “Well, close yer legs, Elephant.”

  “Can’t. I’m too fat.”

  Jury rose to leave, apparently to the undying gratitude of Sergeant Wiggins, whose life was now being made hell not only by the girl but by the rat-faced dog who’d got a grip on his heel.

  “I’ll see you, later, Ash. Don’t leave town, will you?”

  “That’s a prayer. If I could do, I’d a done it long ago.”

  • • •

  As they walked through the door, the dog slithered between their legs and waited at the end of the walk.

  Wiggins gave it an evil look and said, “What do you think, sir? That’s very odd about this Tree fellow living round here.”

  “Yes. Let’s leave the car and walk, Wiggins. I want to see the inside of that Underground stop where Katie was attacked, and then go to Drumm Street.”

  As Jury walked down the pavement, he was amazed to hear his sergeant, whose mouth was as pristine pure as his sinuses, saying—with a kick thrown in to dramatize his feelings about the dog:

  “Fuck off, Toto. We’re not in Kansas.”

  V

  The narrow entrance to the Wembley Knotts Underground station was almost swallowed up by the lock-up shops on either side. Jury and Wiggins showed their identification to the bored black woman in a kiosk, which earned them nothing but a disinterested nod and a refusal to look them in the eye as she nodded them through.

  There wasn’t much custom at six-thirty on a Saturday, except for returning shoppers and shop girls, and not many of them were returning to Wembley Knotts. The moving stairs were having a rest, so Jury and Wiggins had to walk down to the tunnels, two of them sloping off to left and right like a wishbone. In the distance a train rumbled.

  They followed the curve of the dun-colored, tiled walls toward the train platform. Two punk-rockers passed them, coming round the curve, he with a tomahawk haircut, and she with bright orange hair. They gave the impression of prowling rather than walking up the passageway, threw Jury and Wiggins contemptuous glances, and then passed on.

  “They always seem to know police. I have the feeling I’m wearing a badge on my sleeve.”

  They stopped where, according to Carstair’s diagram, Katie O’Brien had been attacked. The train that had disgorged the punks picked up speed and rumbled out of the tunnel.

  The spot was not within view of the platform, but near it, just above a short light of stairs leading downward. Jury looked at the poster, slightly loosened by time and the attentions of graffiti addicts, which advertised the musical Evita. One corner flapped in the wind driven their way by the outgoing train. Evita was positioned between a poster of a setting sun going down behind a glass of gin and tonic and one claiming marvelous curative powers for a cough syrup.

  “Stuff’s no good at all,” said Wiggins, appraising this last poster. “Hacking to death I was one night. Didn’t do a thing.”

  Jury made no comment on this, but looked behind him, where the passageway curved. Empty. The stairs too were empty and the platform invisible from this position. In this extremely public place, it would be surprisingly easy to attack someone.

  “You think it was the same person, don’t you? Then why didn’t he try and kill her the same way he killed the Binns woman? Drag her out to the Horndean wood or somewhere not so public? Seems a chancy thing to do, hitting her here.”

  Jury shook his head. “I don’t know, except that he hadn’t the time to get at her someplace else. My guess is he was desperate.” Jury was staring absently at the Evita poster, at the crudely drawn hammer and sickle. “I’m going to the hospital in the Fulham Road to see her.”

  Beneath them, on a lower level, there was the dull rumble of another train; closer the tightening of brakes taking hold as one stopped at the Wembley Knotts station. It stirred more of the dirt
y air and blew the detritus of another week’s commuting along the bottom of the tiled walls.

  “Might as well work down the mines,” said Wiggins, coughing.

  “Umm. It’s nice we have such healthy jobs, isn’t it? All that fresh air.”

  Wiggins, quite seriously, agreed.

  “If she could only talk,” said Jury, nodding toward the picture of Evita.

  “You’d think,” said Wiggins, “kids would have something better to do than to be always mucking up the posters. Looks a treat, doesn’t she?”

  Diamond points of light sparked Evita’s necklace, rings, bracelets, hair—even the microphones bristling around her.

  It was then that Jury recalled Ernestine Craigie’s remark, the one he had been trying to think of as he left the cottage. Bedizened and bejeweled. Evita certainly was that. Bedizened, beringed and bejeweled.

  What a mug, said Jury to himself. Why didn’t I see it before? “Wiggins, get over to this Smart Girls agency and dig out the manager. Find out about this interview Cora Binns had and call me at the hospital.”

  “Do you think anyone will be at the agency? It’s gone six. If I have to rout whoever runs the place out at home, it might take longer.”

  “Okay. Why don’t you take the car. As long as I’m here, I’ll take the tube. Faster, anyway. It goes from here to South Kensington station.” They were out on the platform now and in the bowels of the tunnel; Jury could hear the approach of the train. There was an overpass across the tracks, leading to another exit in another street. The mesh had been broken and patched temporarily with a couple of boards. The train pulled in, and Wiggins sketched a salute and left.

  • • •

  Jury settled himself between a couple of Times readers. He liked the anonymity of the tube; it helped him think. His eyes traveled across the line of ads over the heads of the passengers opposite. Beside the map of the Underground was a sign warning passengers about pickpockets. It showed the rear end of a body in jeans—the shapely hips making it clear the victim was a girl. There was a hand lifting a wallet from her rear pocket. He especially liked that little touch—the fingernails of the hand were varnished.