The Dirty Duck

by Martha Grimes

  “So you did talk to her?”

  “Well, of course. Chatter about the weather, that sort of thing.” Impatiently, he flicked cigarette ash toward the glass tray.

  “Were there any bad feelings among certain members of the group?”

  “Only the usual spats and minor jealousies. What one might expect.”

  “I’ve never taken a tour. I don’t know what one might expect.”

  “You’re being awfully literal, Superintendent.”

  “I never saw a murder solved through metaphor.”

  Cholmondeley sighed heavily. “Oh, very well. Naturally, there was trouble with the boy—there always is with children. The Farraday boy—James Carlton, I think his name is—liked to wander off.”

  “Um. He seems to have wandered off again.”

  Cholmondeley did not seem especially surprised. “They’re used to it, the parents. Had a hard time rounding him up once or twice. Funny boy.” Cholmondeley shrugged the problem off; it was none of his. “And then of course there is the generally quite hideous Lady Dew. Lady Violet Dew.”

  “I haven’t had the pleasure.”

  “No pleasure, I assure you. She lives in Florida and comes back once a year to whip her relatives into shape. They must love her having control of the pursestrings.”

  “She confided in you?”

  “She confided in everybody.”

  “What about Schoenberg?”

  Cholmondeley poured himself another tot of wine. “Queer duck. Really, it’s rather hard talking to him, since he talks mostly in computerese. RAMS and ROMS and so forth. But he gets on like a house-afire with the Farraday boy. A very intelligent lad, actually; I’m not surprised he outsmarted his parents so often.”

  “Farraday?”

  “What about him? Pleasant, I suppose. Too loud for my tastes. A lot of money which he probably made too quickly and doesn’t know how to spend fast enough. The two daughters loathe one another, of course. I feel rather sorry for the ugly duckling.”

  “Do you mean Penny?”

  He raised an eyebrow. “Well, obviously not Miss Peaches-and-Cream.” And he looked at Jury as if his taste in women probably matched his taste in ties: dull.

  “Have a bit of trouble with Honey Belle?” Jury smiled.

  “Now you think I’m a child molester?”

  “I was thinking of the molesting coming from the other side.”

  At least Cholmondeley offered a more genuine smile than before. “A little, yes.”

  “But not Miss Bracegirdle? She didn’t give you any trouble?”

  Cholmondeley gave him a look of absolute astonishment. “Well, good lord, no. You mean no one’s twigged that but me?”

  “Meaning what?”

  “Gwendolyn is—I mean was—as they say in America, queer as a three-dollar bill. So’s Cyclamen Dew.”

  • • •

  It took Jury a moment to digest this information. “Is that why, do you think, they went off together at times?”

  Cholmondeley obviously enjoyed having just thrown a spanner into the works. “If Miss Bracegirdle had a heavy date, it wasn’t necessarily with a man. That’s all I’m suggesting.” He looked out of the window again, unconcern written all over his face. “Certainly, I’m not trying to implicate anyone.”

  The hell you’re not “How are you so sure of all this, Mr. Cholmondeley? I mean, that both are—were—lesbians.”

  “My dear fellow,” said Cholmondeley, in that has-your-naiveté-no-bounds tone, “you’d only got to look at them—”

  “My first sight of Gwendolyn Bracegirdle wouldn’t have told me that,” said Jury coldly.

  Cholmondeley had the grace to redden slightly. “No, I realize that. Well, besides . . .”

  “Yes? Besides what?”

  “It sounds terribly vain, I realize, but . . .”

  His voice seemed to drift away on the tendril of smoke from the cigarette he stabbed into the ashtray. And he had the grace to blush again.

  “Neither of them was interested in you, you mean?”

  Cholmondeley nodded. “Look, I don’t mean to suggest I’ve got the charisma of Mick Jagger—”

  Jury smiled. “A bit long in the tooth now, isn’t he? Mick Jagger?” He couldn’t decide whether he liked Cholmondeley or not. The man kept slipping through his fingers, like the fine Italian silk suit Cholmondeley was wearing.

  “True. I wasn’t trying to charm anyone. Women like me, that’s all. But those two didn’t even know I was alive.”

  It seemed a simple statement of fact: women liked him. Jury wasn’t surprised. He only wondered how much advantage Cholmondeley took of that fact. “That doesn’t extend to Amelia Farraday, though? Or even her daughter?”

  He snorted. “For God’s sakes, I don’t need to rob cradles. And as for Mrs. Farraday, I really don’t see as how it makes any odds—”

  “It might. I appreciate your sense of delicacy; however, it could be important—your relationship with Mrs. Farraday.”

  “Why? What’s that got to do with anything?”

  Jury shrugged. “I guess that’s for us to decide.”

  “I wish I knew what the hell you’re getting at. Should I have my solicitor present?”

  Jury bestowed upon Cholmondeley a perfectly innocent smile. “Beats me. Should you?”

  “You know, Superintendent, you’re an unnerving man. You don’t seem to want to intimidate me. And yet—”

  “I’ll bet your nerves can hold up under pretty strenuous questioning. Look, Mr. Cholmondeley,”—Jury leaned forward, shoving aside the napkin-covered basket of rolls—“I’m simply asking for your help. I don’t give a damn what was going on between you and Mrs. Farraday” (if Cholmondeley believed that, he was a fool) “but I think it’s important we understand the relationships between the people on Honeysuckle Tours—”

  “Terrible name, isn’t it? And have you met Mr. Honeycutt, our guide? Our amanuensis?” His look at Jury was somewhat apprehensive, although he tried to hide it beneath this overlay of superciliousness.

  “Yes. He didn’t say anything about you.”

  Nor could Cholmondeley hide his relief beneath his offhand comment: “Guess I’m just not Honeycutt’s cup of tea.”

  “Maybe. But why were you on the tour in the first place?”

  That caught him off guard, as Jury meant it to. “I beg your pardon? Because I wanted a bit of a holiday.”

  Jury took from his pocket what appeared to be scrolls of paper, managing to give the impression that each had Cholmondeley’s name at the top. “You’re a dealer in precious stones?”

  “Yes. It looks like you’ve a good deal of information there about me.”

  “This tour went to Amsterdam.”

  Cholmondeley frowned. “Many tours go to Amsterdam. Most tours that do this sort of London-Paris circuit. It’s one of the easiest and nearest places on the Continent to get to. Directly across to the Hook of Holland—”

  “Do you happen to have your passport handy, Mr. Cholmondeley?”

  Now Cholmondeley looked utterly confused. Apparently ready to refute or refuse confidences about his new lady-love, this new line of questioning had taken him aback. He drew out his passport, tossed it on the table.

  Jury looked at the visa stamps. The pages were full. Passing it back to Cholmondeley, all he said was, “Thanks.” He returned the passport.

  Cholmondeley sat there turning a silver knife over and over, looking at Jury. “I don’t know what you’re getting at. As far as this tour’s concerned, all I can say is, we come from different parts of the world, have never met before, know nothing about one another—and you’re making it appear that one of us is lurking about, waiting to get at the others.” He tried to smile, but his smile seemed to break in two. Apparently it was a novel and most unwelcome notion: “One of us?”

  14

  Melrose Plant sat morosely in his seat in the Dress Circle wishing he were out there looking at a real bloody corpse rather than waiting for
Hamlet to litter the stage with fake ones.

  The theatre was as full as it had been last night. He was fortunate to have got a seat in the first row; he was damned if he was going to miss the second half again—

  Was that his name being called? As he peered over the brass railing at the stalls, he also thought he heard the name echo from behind. The Memorial Theatre was supposed to be an acoustical marvel: his name seemed to be coming from all directions.

  “Hey, Mel!”

  Ah, yes. About a dozen rows up sat Harvey Schoenberg, waving frantically. Melrose returned the wave with a vague gesture.

  “Melrose!”

  Good God, there was Agatha down there, standing in front of her seat also waving, but with both arms, as if she were directing the lift-off of a 747.

  Had he known she was coming to this evening’s performance, he would have torn up his ticket. His attempt to ignore her only resulted in her trying harder to get his attention, and now the people around him were giving him chilly looks. Would his performance be competing with Hamlet’s?

  He looked again over the rail, and raised his hand in a sort of salute and wondered if those rather plump-looking people sitting either side of her, craning their necks upward, were a few of the Randolph Biggets. When he saw her cup her hands round her mouth, prepared to shout over the surge and sweep of heaven knew how many hundreds of voices, Melrose slid down in his seat. He blessed the houselights, which had just dimmed.

  • • •

  It was good, but then was the Royal Shakespeare Company ever anything else? Hamlet was not overly melancholic after the opening scene, Gertrude was wonderfully lascivious, old Claudius was a bit more sympathetic than usual. A little hard to have sympathy for Claudius. By the time the intermission arrived, everyone’s nerves were on edge, on stage and off. Melrose was not looking forward to the ambush in the bar.

  • • •

  Since he had had the foresight to order his brandy before the play began, he didn’t have to join the general crush, but managed to retreat back into a corner. There was a bow-tie bobbing out there somewhere; he got occasional flashes of Harvey, who was finally upon him.

  “Can you feature it? All the time we were in that church—there she was lying out back.” Harvey slashed his finger along his neck.

  Rather tastelessly, thought Melrose, who inquired, “Did you know the lady well?”

  “Hell, no. Just we were on this tour together.” He shook his head sadly. “Poor Gwennie. Man, you could’ve knocked me over with a feather.” Harvey polished off his beer as the lights blinked. “See you. I’m in the middle and I hate crawling over people.”

  Melrose thought he was safe for two minutes, but one was never safe from Agatha, who was bulldozing her way toward him. She could sniff him out as a terrier could smell a fox gone to earth. “Melrose!”

  “Hullo, Agatha. Fancy meeting you here. How did you ever find the place?” She just stood there, looking horribly pleased with herself, and clearly waiting for him to ask her why. “Have you worked through the reasons for Hamlet’s delay, or what?”

  “You will never guess who’s here!”

  “You’re dead right. Would you like a brandy? Or must you get back to the Biggets? They, I take it, are here.” His lack of enthusiasm, he hoped, was noticeable.

  “Close your eyes!”

  “Close—? For heaven’s sakes. No.”

  The pout started at her mouth and seemed to spread all over her face.

  “Really, Agatha—” Whatever warning he meant to level at her was immediately stopped as he stared over her shoulder.

  There was Vivian Rivington.

  The only one of the three not perturbed by this meeting was Agatha, who stood there looking pleased as punch and taking full credit for Vivian Rivington’s magical appearance as if she’d just pulled a rabbit out of a hat.

  Vivian herself seemed both pleased and disconcerted, seeming not to know what to do with her hands.

  Melrose solved her problem by embracing her. “My dear Vivian. What in the hell are you doing in Stratford? How did you get here? Why aren’t you in Italy?”

  Agatha answered for Vivian as she did for everyone. “She motored here from Long Pidd. Said when Ruthven told her where we were, she just decided to come along. She said—”

  “—and she only speaks Italian now, and she’s hired you as interpreter. I would appreciate it, Agatha, if—”

  “The lights!” said Agatha, as they dimmed to announce the beginning of the next act. Afraid she might miss a minute of something she’d paid to see, Agatha had already started plowing her way back through the crowd.

  “Let’s get out of here, Vivian. Let’s go over to the Dirty Duck and have a drink and a talk.”

  “But the play—” Vivian started to say.

  “I’ll tell you how it comes out.”

  • • •

  Since nearly everyone in town was watching the second part of Hamlet, the Dirty Duck was not as crowded as usual.

  He set their drinks on the table. “It’s been three years.”

  Three years, and this wasn’t the Vivian he had grown so used to. That one hadn’t looked like this one. Where were the subdued twin-sets and skirts, the unrouged lips? The hair was the same autumnal brown with reddish highlights, but she had never worn it messed about on the top of her head that way, curls hanging down. He supposed it was devilishly fashionable. And she had never worn such a blinding shade of green before. Her dress was low-cut and clingy.

  “Three years, yes.” She took a packet of cigarettes from a purse of silver scales. “I came back to see about selling the cottage in Long Piddleton.”

  “Sell? Why?”

  “I’m getting married.”

  The match burnt his fingers as he stared at her. “No.”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, where is he, then?”

  “In Italy.”

  “What the hell’s he doing there?”

  “He’s Italian.” Short pause. “Oh, don’t look like that. He’s not a gigolo. He’s not after my money.”

  Vivian had rather a lot of it.

  “So you met him in Naples. How disgustingly romantic.”

  She shook her head. “Venice. And it was romantic. Is, I mean.”

  “Aha! Indecision.”

  She laughed. “No, not really. But why are you disturbed? After all, you never wanted to marry me.”

  Vivian’s directness caught him off-guard. Was it something she’d picked up in Italy? The thing that got him about her was that she was a genuinely modest woman who could be, at the same time, straightforward. There was hardly any room to move in with Vivian. Nothing to stumble over, searching one another out in the dark. No play of sun and shadow. Vivian stood in the bright light of day.

  “What are you smiling about?”

  He quickly changed his expression.

  “And what on earth are you doing in Stratford in July? You never went anywhere in summer, much less somewhere in summer, much less somewhere touristy.”

  “I still don’t. But don’t you remember—” He stopped suddenly. Of course Vivian would remember Richard Jury. More to the point, Jury would certainly remember her. Melrose was certain Jury’s interest had been more than professional. And now there seemed to be this Kennington woman lurking somewhere offstage . . .

  “Remember what?”

  “Nothing, nothing. I came because had I not Agatha would have had her American cousins trooping through Ardry End.”

  Vivian laughed. “You’ve always been too nice to her, Melrose. And she’s always been perfectly dreadful in return.”

  “I’m not nice to her, and it’s interesting having someone perfectly dreadful about. You can practice reactions on them. It’s sort of like being goalie in a soccer game. Anyway, it’s wonderful to see you.”

  “Are you sure?”

  Her eyes actually seemed to be twinkling at him over the rim of her glass. What was she drinking? Naturally, Campari and lime. Didn’t
they all, over there? He knew he was irrationally irritated with Vivian. Why had she come back now, all Gucci’d up in that glittery green dress, silky hair dripping down the sides of her face like an Italian ice, and probably saying awful things like Ciao? . . .

  “When are you leaving?” he asked.

  “Well, thanks. Might I just finish my drink first?” She looked at him again with cool amusement. “I’m picking up Franco at Heathrow tomorrow. He’s coming in from Rome.”

  Franco. Heathrow. Rome. It all sounded so terribly international.

  “And then . . . well, if you’re going to be here, I’d like you to meet him—”

  “Do you want the wedding at Ardry End? It’s probably big enough to hold his entire family.”

  “That’s nice of you, Melrose.” She still smiled. “Agatha will like him. He’s a count.”

  “A count?” Really, this was too much.

  “They have titles over there too; you’re not the only one.”

  “I am not titled. I dropped all of that nonsense years ago. Had I known that was what you were after, maybe I’d have hung on to the earl and viscount and the rest of it longer.”

  She looked away. “Don’t be absurd. I’m not ‘after’ anything, and you know it. He just happens to be a count, that’s all.”

  “No one just happens to be a count.” All Melrose could visualize was this black-caped stranger. “Can he see his reflection in a mirror?”

  Now Vivian was angry, and rightly so, he thought. “Oh, for God’s sake . . .”

  Melrose slid down in his seat, grabbing at his neck, just to annoy her more.

  Then he thought of the look on Sergeant Lasko’s face. That’s all Stratford needed at the moment. More bloodletting.

  15

  For a seventeen-year-old, Stratford-upon-Avon was not exactly Arcadia. No card clubs, no discos, no movies, not even any streetcorner activity. But Honey Belle Farraday could find the action if you put her down in a field of cows.

  Tonight she was swinging down Wood Street as if it were the Vegas strip. And when Honey Belle swung, she swung—hips packed into Sassoon jeans; breasts, not exactly hidden beneath a white Indian cotton top about as opaque as a fogged-over pane; bangle bracelets, loop earrings, and gold chains. Underneath it all she was stark. Honey Belle went in only for necessities.