Help the Poor Struggler

by Martha Grimes

  She ran toward the little hall.

  But then she remembered Henry. Jess ran back, bunched him in her arms, and flew out the door into the shielding darkness of the night.

  • • •

  The rage of Teresa Mulvanney made her faster than either of them. She was out of his grasp and sliding across the floor to grab at the gun before Molly’s hand could get to it.

  Tess Mulvanney whipped the gun around, and from where she lay on the floor she shot Sam Waterhouse.

  Molly opened her mouth to scream. But she didn’t. Instead, she tried to inch her way to the table where lay the knife and the load of cut-up bread. She tried to talk to her sister, while tears slid down her face. “Tess. That’s Sammy. Don’t you remember? You loved him —”

  Teresa’s eyes widened. “It’s not.” As she closed her eyes, as if in an effort of remembrance, Molly took another step nearer the table. “They put him away. I read about the trial a year ago. When I got out of hospital. Everybody lied — don’t touch that!”

  Molly had almost had her hand on the knife when her sister grabbed it up. She raised the gun and slowly lowered it again. The look of rage turned to emotions confused and more gentle. “Mary.” Tears ran down her face. “Don’t you understand that I should’ve saved her? I should’ve saved Mum. If only I’d been brave enough to stab him, but I didn’t know what —” She looked at the knife in her hand and let it fall on the floor. Tess ran the hand holding the gun across her wet forehead, but when Molly edged toward her, she steadied the hand again and shook her head violently. “Good-bye, Mary.”

  And she was out the door, the same one Jess had run through carrying Henry.

  Molly knelt by Sam. The bullet had caught him in the side. His eyes were closed and she was terrified. But then he came round. Blood was seeping through his fingers. “I’m okay. But for God’s sakes, get Teresa. Or she’ll be back —” Sam passed out.

  Molly could see, through the kitchen window, a path of light cut by a torch. Then she heard a car door slam.

  Teresa couldn’t afford to stop to look for Jessie out there in the dark; Robert Ashcroft could come driving up at any moment —

  And then she remembered the Lamborghini.

  Molly ran through the house, out the front door, down the drive toward her car. She heard, way off behind her, the distant sound of another car starting up.

  There was only one way out of Ashcroft.

  IV

  “Heartbreak Hall,” said Jury. “That’s what you called it.” Jury had his coat on.

  Macalvie stared at him and got up. So did Plant and Wiggins.

  It was the first time Divisional Commander Macalvie had looked ashen and unsure of himself. Or was at a loss for words. But he finally found them as the four men headed for the door. “God, Jury. Not Teresa Mulvanney. I forgot to check out Tess —”

  “We forgot, Brian. The forgotten little girl. You told me about Mary Mulvanney coming into your office. She said she couldn’t stand to go back there again. According to Harbrick Hall, Teresa Mulvanney appeared to be coming out of it, like someone coming out of a fugue state. That was six years ago. Over the next year her improvement was miraculous. They gave her jobs to do. She did them well. She was articulate, well-behaved, calm. And it was a Lady Pembroke, charitable old dame, who told them she’d take over the care of Teresa Mulvanney.”

  “Let’s get the hell out of here. Macalvie turned to Melrose. “You mind if we use your car, pal? Mine won’t go from zero to ten in under an hour.”

  There was an apprehensive glance from Wiggins when Melrose handed the keys over. “This one will go a little faster.”

  • • •

  That was an understatement, or so Macalvie proved it to be. Wiggins was hunched down as far as possible in the back seat. The narrow road, the occasional thick hedges, the night, the murderous moor-mist, all contrived to make driving nearly impossible.

  Macalvie didn’t seem to notice as he careened the Rolls around a turn. “How did she know? How on earth could she hand-pick her victims like that?”

  “Pitifully simple. As I said to Mr. Mack, a will that’s been probated is in the public domain. Sara Millar-Teresa Mulvanney simply looked at the heirs to the Ashcroft fortune. As far as George Thorne was concerned, well, she might have thought of him as — who knows, a conspirator. And there was also the simple matter of geography. The final object was Jessica. The others she killed . . . on the way.” Jury felt sick.

  Macalvie scraped the left-hand fender cutting the curve of a stone wall too sharply. “Sorry, friend.”

  Melrose, smoking calmly in the back seat, said, “I can always get parts.”

  He hit the steering wheel again and again with the heel of his hand. “But goddamnit, Jury! They were kids! Why the hell didn’t she just go after Ashcroft if he’s the one who murdered Rose Mulvanney?”

  “She couldn’t.”

  Macalvie took his eyes off the road for a crucial second and the fender got it again. “What the hell do you mean?”

  “He was already dead.”

  V

  It was a long driveway, a drive like a tunnel, and Molly could hear the car, which must have been coming round the side of the house. She didn’t yet see the headlamps.

  She started to switch on the Lamborghini’s lights, and paused. Tess could easily think it was Robert Ashcroft returning and head right into him. Molly found she had at least a little interest in living, which surprised her. There might be a way to stop Teresa without actually killing herself.

  Something to take her by surprise, make her veer off into the thick trees, maybe an accident, but not a fatal one. The camera equipment. Flashbulbs? Not enough bulbs, not enough time. And now when she looked up she saw, at the end of the tunnel, far off, the headlamps of Tess’s car.

  The light at the end of the tunnel / Is the light of an oncoming train. . . . The lines of Lowell suddenly came back to her. She snatched the unipod from the rear seat, smashed out the right-hand headlamp, tossed the thing in the back and got in. Was there anything more disconcerting to a driver than to see only one light coming toward him rather than two? What was it? Car? Motorbike? And the moment of confusion —

  The other car was halfway down the drive, its lights hazy in the middle distance. Molly started the engine and headed up the drive. Ah, hell. You only die once.

  They weren’t more than a dozen yards apart, when the wheels of the Morris screeched and the car swerved and rammed into the wall. Then it went into a spin and rammed the front of the Lamborghini.

  • • •

  The Rolls was only a minute away from the Ashcroft drive when they heard the sound of tearing metal.

  Macalvie jammed on the brakes at the entrance. The four of them piled out.

  The Morris burst into flames as they ran.

  Molly’s car was a disaster, but it wasn’t burning. It was a distance from the flaming Morris, and it was tougher.

  And for the seconds it took Macalvie to pull her out of the wreckage, so was Molly Singer.

  Blood trickled from her ear, and a tiny line of blood ran from the corner of her mouth. But she did not look bruised or broken. She looked up at Macalvie, who was holding her in his arms. She smiled. “Damnit. Why do you always have to be right, Mac —?” She didn’t get out the last of it. The long fingers that clutched his shoulder slid down his coat as slowly as a hand playing a harp.

  Macalvie started shaking her and shouting: “Mary!” He shouted the name until Jury pulled him away.

  Melrose Plant took off his coat and put it under her head.

  Jury took off his own coat and covered her with it.

  A trickle of gas from the Morris reached the Lamborghini. All Jury could think of was the log falling and sparking in Molly Singer’s cottage.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  JURY found her on the mechanic’s creeper under the Zimmer. She was holding on tight to Henry.

  Jessica did not want to come out.

  “Please, Jessie.
It’s all over. It’s okay now.”

  Okay. It would never be okay, not for Divisional Commander Macalvie. He had disappeared into the trees and the fog.

  “It’s better here,” said Jess. There was a silence. “I don’t want to get cut up. And I don’t want Henry to, either.”

  Jury sat down, there on the cold stone of the courtyard, cold as hell himself without his coat. She was silent. “Was Sara the ax-murderer?”

  “No. There was never an ax-murderer, Jess. Sara —” He didn’t know whether to tell her or not, then decided he might as well level. “Sara was sick, very sick. She was the one who killed the children.”

  “But why me? Was she their governess too?”

  “No. No, she wasn’t. Why you? Because she was confused. A long time ago, much longer than before you were born, someone hurt her and she wanted revenge. Someone killed her mother. You can see how terrible that would be.”

  “But we didn’t do it — I mean me and Davey and that other boy and girl! Stop it, Henry! Henry doesn’t like it under here, but I’m afraid something will happen to him.”

  She was crying, Jury could hear. “Nothing can possibly happen.”

  “Well, he’d rather be in the car than under it. So you put him up in the seat. But don’t let him go anywhere.” She said it pretty fiercely, as if she wanted to be sure, now Jury was there, that he stayed.

  “Come on, Henry,” said Jury. He lugged the dog out and put him in the front seat of the Zimmer. Henry shook himself and seemed to open his eyes. A new world. Strange, but new.

  And strange and new for Jessica Ashcroft too. “Well?”

  “Sorry. Well, what?”

  “You didn’t answer my question. We didn’t kill her mother.”

  “I know.”

  “Well?”

  Jury thought she must be getting better. She was certainly testier. “Let me tell you something that’s very — difficult to understand, Jess. I think what was wrong with Sara was she felt guilty. She was only five when her mother died. And she saw it.” Jury stopped for a moment. He remembered his conversation with Mrs. Wasserman, how he’d asked, without thinking, what the bolted door kept out. Him. To Mrs. Wasserman all the fears were focused on Him. Displacement, whatever a psychiatrist might have called it. “I think Sara felt, well, horribly guilty —”

  From under the sanctuary of the dark car, Jessica said. “I know. She thought it was her fault. She thought she did it. And maybe she thought she was killing her own self when she killed Davey and that girl. And almost me.”

  He could hardly believe his ears. Until he heard her crying again, and then realized how much guilt she must have felt about the death of the most beautiful, the kindest woman Jessica had ever imagined, yet never known. And how she could easily have felt responsible. Barbara Allan had died so soon after her daughter was born.

  Jury could think of nothing to say.

  “How is that man who saved me?”

  “He’s fine; the ambulance just got here to take him to hospital.”

  She rolled out. She got off the creeper. Her nightdress, her face, her hair were smudged with oil and grease. “Come on, Henry,” she said, her tone its usual testy self.

  Henry clambered out of the car and followed them as they walked slowly across the courtyard. Jessie was holding Jury’s hand.

  “I’ll tell you something,” she said grumpily.

  “Yes? What?”

  “I hope I never run up against Jane Eyre.”

  II

  When Robert Ashcroft and Victoria Gray were driving, a few minutes later, toward home, they heard the sirens, saw the whirring lights, saw the fire in the driveway.

  “Oh, God, oh, God,” whispered Victoria.

  Robert Ashcroft gunned the Ferrari up to seventy.

  • • •

  He jumped out of the car, threaded his way through police and ambulance crew, and ran in the house calling for his niece.

  Jury had never seen a man look so terrified, with one exception, and then so relieved. No exception there.

  Jessica stood, hands on hips, grease-smudged face and oil-bedewed hair, glaring up at her uncle. “I don’t want any more governesses. Until I go away to school, I want a bodyguard. I want that man that saved my life.”

  Ashcroft merely nodded. He had tears in his eyes.

  “Come on, Henry.” They climbed the stairs slowly. But halfway up she turned to deliver her parting shot.

  “You’re always away when the ax-murderers come.” Then she and Henry continued their weary ascent.

  VII

  Pretty Molly Brannigan

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  THE old char was singing in Wynchcoombe church and wringing her mop in a pail. Out of deference either to Jury or the vicar’s lad who’d been buried only yesterday, she stopped singing and kept on swabbing the floor.

  Death did not stop the stone from getting dirty or flowers from wilting, and the ones on the altar looked in need of changing. He watched her running the grubby mop over the stone floor and wondered how something that made such an enormous difference to so many — all of those deaths — could make little more than a dent in the daily round of cleaning.

  The old woman with the mop and pail paid no attention to him, one of the many who came to see this little marvel of a church that towered cathedral-like over its valley in the moor.

  Jury dropped some money in the collection box, listening to the charwoman, who couldn’t resist her bit of music, change to humming. He thought of Molly Singer and imagined that somewhere in Waterford or Clare or Donegal, a clear-voiced Irish girl might be doing her washing-up, maybe humming from the boredom of it.

  Damn it, why are you always right, Mac?

  Jury looked at the painting of Abraham and Isaac, the knife near the terrified boy’s face. His father ready for the sacrifice. All God had to do was say Go.

  To Macalvie, who had been right all along about her, she was Mary Mulvanney.

  To Jury, she would always be Molly Singer.

  He felt the old char watching him as he walked out of the church.

  II

  When he got to the Help the Poor Struggler, it was almost a relief to hear Divisional Commander Macalvie shouting over the noise of the jukebox that he’d tie Freddie to a tree in Wistman’s Wood if she didn’t stop singing along with Elvis. It was the version of “Are You Lonesome Tonight?” where Elvis forgot the words and was laughing at himself and the audience was joining in. What rapport, thought Jury, Elvis Presley had had with his audience. It was a song he must have sung a hundred times, yet he’d forgotten — probably because of his failing powers — the words. But his fans hadn’t. They never would. There were some things people never forgot. Like his last concert.

  “Y’r a rate trate, no mistake. He be dead, man. Hain’t yuh got no respect fer the dead?”

  Macalvie was silent for a moment. Then he shouted back, “If I did, Freddie, I’d have some respect for you. Hullo,” he added grudgingly to Jury. Melrose Plant was sitting with Macalvie. It was a drunk Brian Macalvie. “How about one of your fancy cigars, friend?” he said to Plant. And to Wiggins, who had opened his mouth, Macalvie said, “Shut up.”

  Freddie, who must have heard something and was being halfway human to Macalvie, set his pint on the table and said to Wiggins — or all of them — “No use to argie-fy with Macalvie.”

  “How’s Sam?” asked Jury.

  “Fine. He’s fine. Be out of hospital in a couple of weeks.” Macalvie smoked and stared at his pint.

  “How’d he know, Brian? That Jessica might be in danger?”

  Turning his glass round and round, Macalvie said, “The bloody coat-of-arms. The letter Plant wrote to you. That and the picture. You remember, he went through her desk. The unidentified man. Sammy saw Robert Ashcroft at the George in Wynchcoombe. James and Robert looked a lot alike. At first he thought Robert was simply a man who looked a hell of a lot like the one in Rose’s snap. It was seeing the coat-of-arms that he’d seen on a
piece of notepaper in the desk that finally did it. Anyway, he thought he should keep an eye on Ashcroft.”

  “You were right. There was something he knew that hadn’t surfaced. James Ashcroft was indiscreet, writing to Rose Mulvanney.”

  “To say the least. He let Sammy waste his life in prison. Bastard.”

  Plant said, “I think Robert Ashcroft will try and make up for that in some way.”

  Macalvie glared at him. “Buy him a car, maybe. Sam told me he watched that house from a spot on the moor where he set up camp. He figured something would happen.” Another silence. “It happened.”

  A big, beefy man was plugging money into the jukebox. “Play a few Golden Oldies, or something, you will?” yelled Macalvie.

  The perfect stranger looked around, and not in a friendly way. “Play what I like, mate.” He rippled muscles as best he could under the leather jacket. “Who the hell you be, anyway?”

  Macalvie started to get up.

  Jury pulled him down. “Forget it, Brian.”

  Having to yell at someone, Macalvie turned again to Freddie. “Bring us four more and try and keep the tapwater out of it this time.”

  “A course, me ‘anzum,” said Freddie, over the double-din of the music and the casuals off the road. Considering the usual lack of custom, the pub was almost jumping. Even the dartboard was getting a workout.

  And then an Irish voice from the jukebox, thin and silvery, was singing. Apparently, leather-jacket was a sentimentalist.

  “O, man, dear, did ya never hear

  Of pretty Molly Brannigan —”

  The cigar stopped halfway to Macalvie’s mouth. His expression was blank.

  “She’s gone away and left me,

  And I’ll never be a man again —”

  Macalvie had taken out his wallet and checked the contents. “Being an earl,” he said to Melrose, “and probably owning a big hunk of England, I don’t suppose you’d be good for a loan of, say, eighty quid, would you?”