Rainbow's End

by Martha Grimes

  Jury smiled. “If we could just go into the house. I’d like a word with Gabe.”

  “Gabe? Whatta you been doin’, then? ’Avin’ a piss in Fuckin’ Freddie’s primulas? Ah, shut yer mouths, ya little bleeders!” Ash said as they passed the kiddies, who had all collected outside to watch the fracas.

  There was a bit of schmoozing and smooching between Gabe and Bea before he settled down comfortably beside her. He had remarkably blue eyes to offset his long and slightly greasy hair. “So, guv.”

  Jury nudged Wiggins away from the small bowl of water. “Sir,” said Wiggins, getting out his notebook. He went over the facts as he had taken them down, meticulously, as always.

  “What we’d like to know is whatever you remember about that incident at the Tate.”

  “Give us a fag, luv,” said Gabe to Bea. She passed him a tin of tobacco and some cigarette papers and he carefully distributed the tobacco, pinched the ends together, lit up, looked thoughtful. But said nothing, and Jury prompted him.

  “Did you see Mrs. Hamilton—the dead woman—elsewhere in the gallery?”

  “Yeah, as a matter of fact. In the Swagger exhibit. Bea here didn’t go with me.”

  Bea leaned her head, which was resting on his thigh, back farther so that she could look up into his eyes. “Why should I pay four quid to see a lot of women sitting on clouds with their feet on skulls?” She gave Jury a broad wink, ushering him back into the world of art appreciation.

  Gabe made a noise of utter disgust. “Don’t be daft.”

  “Can you remember if she was alone?”

  “Far as I know, yeah. Those exhibitions can get pretty crowded.”

  “Do you recall exactly what she was doing?”

  “Lemme see. I remember it was after the Van Dycks and I was studying that one by Reynolds of the Italian dancer. Some eyes she’s got. That’s when I noticed her. Looked sickly. Well, I thought she must be, for she hurried out—you know, the way people do if they’re gonna—” Here he made retching gestures.

  From the kitchen came a crash and the sound of raised voices and, at the same time, the kiddies spurting into the room and scattering like gunshot. The period of relative tranquility was obviously over.

  “I never!”

  “You did!”

  “Never!”

  And more from the kitchen, shouts and imprecations, until Ash came through the door holding a plate and fork, grinning for all the world as if his exit from the kitchen hadn’t been accompanied by an aluminum cook pot hurled with breathtaking force, bouncing off the wall, bruising the faded browny paper, and clattering along the floorboards.

  The pot just missed hitting Ash, who was followed by a scruffy little terrier. The dog clearly wanted the plate Ash was hugging to his chest with his forearm. Ash collapsed on the sofa next to Wiggins, sending dust motes dancing. Generously, Ash offered Wiggins a share of his fry-up—a melange of chop, sausage, potatoes, onions, and beans—that turned the sergeant pale. Ashley was forking it up with relish. Mouth full to bursting, he inquired of Bea and Gabe, “How ’bout you kids, then. You had your tea?”

  They said they were going down the pub as soon as the “interrogation” was over.

  “Mr. Jury? Ah, he ain’t half bad. Nossir, he helped me out once when the Social come round.” Looking sad as could be, he added, “That pub closed, the old Anodyne Necklace. Things change.” Ash shook his head.

  White Ellie came steaming in with her own full plate—fried eggs and a mountain of beans on toast. “So I says t’ this one ’ere”—and she nodded her head, hair the color of egg yolk, towards her husband, and took up the conversation in true Homeric fashion, in medias res—“I says, ‘Ashley, you scare up twenty nicker for a ticket, when that Criterion opens, you’ll be able to show yerself t’ all the nobs in London.”

  A gurgle came from the baby carriage, but Robespierre was hidden by a cloud of faded blue wool, so Jury could not see if he was choking on the beans. Several forkfuls had gone in that direction.

  Ellie continued talking and chortling. “That there theatre’s got the swankiest toilets in London.”

  “Ah, lay off, Elephant,” said Ash, who was dangling his lamb chop bone over the arm of the sofa, teasing the terrier.

  “Well, better’n showin’ yourself down them filthy toilets in Mile End.”

  Ashley Cripps had been inside so many times that he kept a little bag packed and ready near the door, like a runway model. He’d been up on just about every minor charge a man of any imagination could be—doing a newsagent, handling, dealing, carrying—but his forte was indecent exposure, which had got him his nickname, Ash the Flash.

  Wiggins broke into this muttering argument, his curiosity apparently uncontainable. “I was just wondering, Mr. Cripps,” he said, pointing to the dish of water and wires, “just exactly what’s the, ah, theory behind that?”

  Ash wiped his mouth with his dirty handkerchief and stuffed it back in his trouser pocket. “That there’s my own invention, Mr. Wiggins, and right proud I am of it, too. See, when the mouse comes along for a drink a water, he gets fried. Place smokes right up.”

  Said White Ellie, “Oughta put a bit o’ cheese in, Ashley. Mice are turnin’ up their noses.”

  Wiggins frowned and said, “But I didn’t know mice—”

  Ellie was lighting up the cigarette she’d rolled and settling herself on the sofa amidst the cloud of laundry—clean or dirty, it was anybody’s guess. Her descent into the broken springed cushions created a stir on the other end, and a face appeared.

  “There you are. Thought you was going up to the Paki’s for the beer,” said Ellie, undisturbed by this Lazarus-like vision of the uprising moon face topped with spiky hair.

  The girl rubbed at her eyes. “I was just havin’ a kip, what’s it to ya?”

  This latest addition to the Crippses’ ranks bestirred herself and rose, stretched as if now ready to meet the day, told White Ellie she needed a fiver for the beer, and left, stopping only to search for a garment (a scarf, as it turned out) in the jumble of the baby carriage before letting the front door bang behind her.

  White Ellie put a pudgy hand on Wiggins’s forearm. “You married, then?”

  Wiggins quickly shoveled some towels and flannels to the side to give himself a few more inches of grace. He moved away from Ellie, telling her no, he was not married. Smart lad, she said, giving him a huge salubrious wink as if to say he was better off with a catch-as-catch-can relationship with the ladies.

  Bea was now talking over the din of giggling kiddies fallen all in a heap on top of Petey. “Spend a lot a time in the Tate, Gabe and me. We like the V and A and the National Gallery, too, but the Tate’s best, because it’s on the Embankment and we like to walk by the river.”

  Jury smiled at the picture of Bea and Gabe that was reshaping itself in his mind, an odd mix of East Ender nonconformist, neon-haired, anti-establishment together with the Chelsea Embankment, cappuccino people. “So did Frances Hamilton,” said Jury. “Spend a lot of time in the Tate, I mean. According to the friend she lived with. She liked museums, period.”

  Bea’s face scrunched up into a little girl’s thoughtful frown. She had turned her head to look out at what was now a bright and sunlit day.

  Wiggins took down their addresses: Gabe’s flat, which he hoped to get back into next week, was nearby in Catchcoach Street. Beatrice lived in Bethnal Green, where she also worked at the Museum of Childhood.

  Jury rose, Wiggins following suit. “Thanks for your help—Bea, Gabe.” Jury looked round the room. “And everybody.”

  He looked down into the baby carriage, which was now propping open the front door. Robespierre, unlike the shiftless Ashley Cripps, served a number of purposes from laundry hamper, to drawer, to door stop. Jury spent an idle moment contemplating the ferociously sleeping babe, wondering which of the children yelling outside on the pavement had once been the baby he had seen in this selfsame carriage. Aurora was a likely candidate, for she looked to b
e nine or ten years old. Jury did not want to ask; he was afraid of finding out that that particular baby had not survived this lot.

  There was a whimper, and a crying out there on the pavement, and in the midst of whatever pain was being inflicted on whichever one of them, Jury found his heart sinking to think that tiny-fisted, flame-cheeked Robespierre would very quickly grow up to have spiky hair and lashless eyes and join the grubby ring outside.

  How could time play such tricks?

  He thought of the Avon, flowing between the verdant green banks beneath a cobalt sky. The ducks, the rush grass, the swans. It never changed. But that was a lie. He would never stand by that same river twice. Everything changed, nothing stayed.

  Except the Crippses.

  Jury sighed.

  TWELVE

  Jury had told Wiggins he’d meet him back at New Scotland Yard, but that he wanted to stop by Lady Cray’s and talk to her nephew. The door of the Belgravia house was opened, not by the shy maid, but by a young man in a subtly checked lamb’s wool overcoat. He looked like someone just on his way out.

  “Oh, hullo. Are you looking for my aunt? I’m afraid she’s just nipped round to Harrods.”

  Given his expression, Jury imagined the nephew meant it when he said “afraid.” Given, further, what usually happened when Lady Cray “nipped round to Harrods,” Jury could understand why. He smiled and introduced himself, explaining, before the young man turned even paler, that he was an old friend of his aunt.

  From the drawing room, a woman’s voice—or at least a female one, with more of a girlish timbre—called, “Who is it, Andrew? We’ll be late for the opening.”

  Jury smiled slightly when Andrew ignored the voice. “Your aunt has spoken about you with a good deal of enthusiasm.”

  Andrew brightened considerably. “Yes, we get on famously.”

  “Could I speak to you for just a moment? I won’t keep you, I promise.”

  “Of course. Come on in. My aunt told me about you.” As they moved across the marbled entrance hall, Andrew said, “At Castle Howe, that’s where you met. My God, but that must have been exciting, to be in on a murder, on catching a killer. Wish I’d been there. This is Adrienne. Armitage,” he added. “Adrienne, this is Superintendent Jury. Scotland Yard.”

  Andrew now seemed pleased as punch that he’d found a Scotland Yard superintendent on his doorstep. Less pleased was Adrienne Armitage, who looked up with a massive sigh from a glossy fashion magazine she was riffling, and rolled her wide, lovely, slightly vacant blue eyes in one of those God-give-me-strength looks. She did not bother to acknowledge the introduction. “Andrew! We’ll be late!”

  “Never mind,” said Andrew, clearly a match for all of her heaving impatience. “How can I help you, Superintendent? And sit down, why don’t you?”

  Adrienne had her fisted hand on her hip, holding back a near-to-the-floor-length glossy fur coat. The charcoal-gray suit was a designer, perhaps an Armani; the scarf casually draped around its deep-cut neckline was Hermès. The shoes, the gloves were Upper Sloane Street, he bet, and the smoothly cut blond hair she gave a little horsy toss to had recently been scissored by someone way off Jury’s usual route. She walked about the room—here, there—standing before the fireplace, one gloved hand on the mantel, the other still pushing back that fur coat and raising her chin and tapping her foot. Jury decided not to sit down.

  “I’m just making a routine inquiry into Frances Hamilton’s death—”

  “Do you really say things like that?” asked Adrienne Armitage, now snapping shut the silver case from which she’d taken a cigarette.

  “It just slipped out, miss,” said Jury, watching her take little jabs at her cigarette as she moved over to the long glass table and more magazines, which she began pushing about distractedly.

  “Would you like something? Coffee? A drink, perhaps?” Andrew started toward the cabinet, but Jury stopped him.

  “Well!” said his betrothed, in a stagy way. “I’ve been trying to get a champagne cocktail out of you for simply hours, darling.”

  “You had four of them at lunch. Sorry, Superintendent. You wanted to talk about Fanny, did you?” He frowned. “I know my aunt thought there was something peculiar about that, but—”

  “Daddy will be furious if we don’t leave this instant.” But Adrienne’s drawl and her turning over of pages did not attest to anyone’s being in a hurry for anything, despite the fact all three of them remained standing. “You know how poor Daddy gets. . . . Oh, look, darling—” The magazine, opened to a page of two models holding the reins of two horses, was held forth for Andrew’s inspection. “Doesn’t this one look just like Gypsy?”

  One of the women or one of the horses? And it was then that Jury knew who Adrienne reminded him of: his old love Susan Bredon-Hunt, although Susan’s mannerisms weren’t so artificial, so exaggerated. But Susan had also had a daddy and a horse.

  Andrew sighed. “Adrienne, will you leave off, please? The superintendent’s trying to get some information.”

  Jury smiled at her pout. All she was trying to do, poor girl, was keep Andrew’s attention riveted on her, which spoke of a painful insecurity. “Did you know her, then, Miss Armitage? Frances Hamilton.”

  “Did I? Well, yes, I knew her well enough to lunch with.”

  Intimacy for Adrienne Armitage appeared to be measured in what sorts of meals one might share with another person. Jury smiled. “The thing is, her death was put down to complications of a heart condition; yet Mrs. Hamilton denied that she had any symptoms.”

  “That’s right, she hadn’t,” said Andrew.

  “Yes, she had,” said Adrienne, head bent over her magazine. “At least, that’s what she told me.”

  Andrew was clearly surprised. “What?”

  “Well, that’s what she said.” Adrienne flicked through the fashion magazine, now holding its glossy pages at arm’s length, cocking her head as if considering how she would look in the model’s ensemble.

  “Adrienne, put that down and pay attention.”

  She sighed, tossed the magazine on the table. “We were lunching at the Savoy. She tapped her chest and told me she was wearing one of those nitroglycerin patches and I asked her what they were for and she said her heart. Well, you know, when you get to a certain age, I expect you don’t want to advertise its ills, do you?” She lit another cigarette.

  Shrewd of her, thought Jury, and then wondered that Fanny Hamilton would have chosen to confide in a woman who seemed as lacking in empathy as Adrienne Armitage. Was it vanity calling to vanity? Jury wondered about Andrew’s interest in her: she was beautiful, but shallow.

  “Oh, a spot,” she said, suddenly, dropping her face towards the top of her suit coat and scraping at a tiny spot that might be egg yolk. He smiled at the expression, fleeting, on her face before she’d dropped it; at the look of bewilderment, apparently that something so tiny might just cancel out the persona she had gone to such trouble to create, like tossing a pebble in a pool and watching the surface break, the circles of water ruffling. What she had so painstakingly assembled now had to be as painstakingly reassembled: it was rather like that montage of pictures she had earlier held out. The sable, the hairdo, the horse, the title—all the bits of her life scissored up and waiting to be pinned and pasted in place. Oh, a spot. Jury’s smile deepened, watching her. Well, a spot had played hell with Lady Macbeth, hadn’t it?

  But Adrienne Armitage was no Lady Macbeth, certainly. And Jury wondered if he didn’t now see something of what Andrew might see: a guilelessness that over the years had been just about trained out of her, but that yet could be resurrected; a painful insecurity, rather than a brittle self-interest, that generated all sorts of effort on her part to get the paper doll properly dressed and spotless. There was, beneath the long fur coat and designer clothes, something uniquely charming about Adrienne Armitage.

  “So she hadn’t told Lady Cray about this condition.” Jury’s mind was moving toward some connection between at
least two of these deaths: Frances and Nell Hawes. “If she wouldn’t tell Lady Cray, why would she tell you, do you think?”

  “Oh, that’s easy.” She exhaled a thin stream of bluish smoke.

  Jury frowned. So did Andrew. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “I’m a chain-smoker, darling. I might give it up when it’s all right for ladies to take snuff or chew tobacco. Not before. Fanny was worse. Obviously, she shouldn’t be smoking at all, really. Well, your aunt’s trying to stop and thinks the world should stop with her, especially with a heart condition.”

  “Yes, I can see that,” said Jury.

  Bored now, or acting it, Adrienne merely shook her shining blond hair. As she stood there, the light informed her, breaking up into watery patches across her hair and coat and down her arm to the glass table, turning the skin more golden, the sable a paler brown, the tabletop a glistening, steely blue. And Jury heard again the voice of Brian Macalvie, saw him standing there in the vestibule of the cathedral, holding the skein of multicolored threads. Try and see the colors apart from each other and it won’t work. In his mind’s eye, Jury watched the colored threads fall from Macalvie’s hand.

  Rainbow mechanics.

  2

  BENEATH THE WINDOW of the New Scotland Yard office sat a small basin of water. Wiggins appeared to be concentrating on an electrical cord.

  Still with his coat on, Jury sat down in his swivel chair. Why bother to ask? So he said, as calmly as he could, “Wiggins, there’s not a mouse alive that Cyril couldn’t sniff out across the length of a rugby field. Now get that bloody thing out of here.”

  Wiggins had set aside the cord to stir whatever concoction was steaming from another bowl atop his desk. “It’s only an experiment. Are you worried, then, Cyril might get at it?”

  “Cyril? Worried about Cyril? There is nothing you or I or Racer can devise, no traps, no tricks, that Cyril couldn’t work out in two seconds.” Jury’s tone was rather dangerously level. “Why should I worry about Cyril?”