The Deer Leap

by Martha Grimes

  “You just had some,” said the waiter, glaring.

  “That’s what I told him,” said Polly, eyes now on the list of sweets.

  “I know I just had some,” said Melrose. “Instead of your skewer—” He reached around and picked up his silver-knobbed stick, clicked a button, and the ebony stick disengaged immediately. “Use mine.”

  The waiter stared at the swordstick and stood back. He gibbered something in Greek and quickly walked away.

  “That’s illegal,” Polly said to Jury.

  “Uh-huh. May I go on? A lot of people knew — Sally was a great talker. Gossip would be a better word.”

  “She was talking about the Underground,” said Plant. “‘You couldn’t get me down there on a bet,’ she said. Said the train got stuck once and she nearly fainted. Same thing happened on an elevator.”

  The shish kebab appeared so suddenly, Jury assumed Plant was right. Everything was pre-prepared. The waiter bore it on a plate, the skewer flaming. He doused the flames, put down the plate, and scuttled off.

  “The service has picked up.” He speared a cube of lamb and studied it, frowning. “Now, the playhouse. It’s very unlikely Sally would have any interest in going there.”

  “Someone could have persuaded her,” said Polly.

  “True. Or it could have been done far more easily. Take, just as an example, Grimsdale’s kennel master? Or even Pasco? Isn’t it more or less general knowledge that Sally MacBride had something going with maybe more than one man in Ashdown? The husband being the last to know. What about a midnight tryst before she leaves?”

  “Or,” said Jury, “someone sending her a note from one of them. ‘Please meet me at the playhouse . . . Vital.’ That sort of thing. That little house is accessible to anyone. And screened from the pub. There could be a dozen different ways to get the MacBride woman there.”

  “But why would she have gone in the place? And if she didn’t, it wouldn’t have looked like an accident.”

  “If she’d been led to believe the person she was to meet was already there, or would be at an appointed time, she’d have gone in. Too late then.”

  “You mean the killer is waiting, immediately shuts the door. And leaves.”

  “Probably. Having knocked off the inside doorknob and taken the bulb from the lamp.”

  Polly shuddered. “Clever, but God, what a thing to do. Baklava,” she added.

  “What?”

  “My sweet. And coffee.” Without a pause, she went on. “The thing is, both of these deaths play on a victim’s weakness. Heart. Closed places. The killer doesn’t have to touch a weapon, so there are literally no traces, except for footprints in the dirt, or something.”

  “You read too many of your own mysteries. I doubt this person would have been so stupid as to leave that sort of trace,” said Plant.

  Polly glared. “I never leave prints in the dirt.”

  “And what about the other animals — the Potter sisters’ cat and the other dog?” asked Plant.

  “Red herrings, I’d guess. To call attention away from Una Quick’s dog. I wouldn’t be surprised if the killer actually thought the death of that terrier would finish her off.”

  “Funny. If I were going after animals, I’d hit that animal sanctuary of Carrie Fleet’s.”

  Jury smiled. “The last place I’d hit would be Carrie Fleet’s.” He took the letter from Brindle from his pocket. “What do you make of this?”

  They both read it. Polly shook her head. “More money?”

  Over his gold-rimmed spectacles, Plant said. “What’s ‘the enclosed’ refer to?”

  “My question, too.”

  “Something’s been left out,” said Plant.

  “Taken out, wouldn’t you say?” Jury put the letter back in his pocket. “I’m going up to London tomorrow. Take my room at the Lodge, would you?” he asked Melrose.

  “Your room? Why?”

  “Because I want you to keep an eye on Sebastian Grimsdale, Donaldson, Crowley, the lot. Wiggins is there, but I’d rather have two of you. I mean three of you,” he said to Polly’s downcast eyes. “Tell Grimsdale about your stag-hunting days.”

  “Hunt a stag. I’ve never even seen one.”

  Said Polly, finishing off her baklava. “Just lie. You’re good at that.”

  “Fox-hunting, then. You were up on a horse in Rackmoor. Remember?”

  “Very well. Cold toast and gruel is my lot in life.”

  It was not the maid who opened the door of “La Notre,” but Gillian Kendall. “Oh!” She stepped back suddenly.

  “I’m sorry. I know it’s late.”

  Gillian smiled. “Not for us. We’re more or less night people. But the Baroness is out.”

  “At this hour? Where’s she gone? To the films in Selby?”

  Looking rather sheepish and trying not to smile too broadly, Gillian said, “My joke. I meant out like a light. Sorry.”

  “Why? It was you I came to see, anyway. Lucky for a change.”

  Somewhat nervously she fingered the row of buttons on the dress she’d been wearing earlier. When she saw Jury watch the fingers, she dropped her hand and blushed.

  He laughed. “I haven’t come to take you to the nick. You actually look relieved. The guilty flee when no man pursueth. What’ve you done?”

  “Come on in and I’ll tell you.” She smiled.

  Jury stood in the Grecian-English-Italian foyer and said, “I’d rather have a walk. It’s a fine evening, and I’m going to London early tomorrow.”

  “I’d love it. You’re not thinking about the crazy maze, are you?”

  “Sure.” He grinned. “It’s probably more interesting at night than by day. I may never make it up to London.”

  Taking a wool stole from a peg, she said, “I doubt anything could keep you from your job.”

  • • •

  The Baron had stationed little lights, hidden really, at different places in his circular maze, and they threw up a dim, unearthly glow on her face whenever she and Jury passed one before winding into darkness again.

  “So go on, tell me. Any confession will do.”

  She tightened the stole about her in the same way she’d tried wrapping the cardigan. He put his arm around her. “Why in hell don’t you wear warmer clothes?”

  “So people will be tempted to put their arms around me.”

  “Oh. Fair enough. Let’s sit.” They’d come to another of the wrought-iron benches. “Go on.”

  “With what?”

  “Paul Fleming. I just wanted to know before I went to London, that’s all.”

  Her head lowered, she plucked the fringe of the stole. “Why? Who’s in London?”

  In the dark, Jury grinned, thinking of Carole-anne Palutski, trying her best to act the role of pro-tramp. “The most beautiful girl in the world.”

  It was Gillian’s turn to say Oh. It was a very sad Oh.

  His arm around her, he gave her a little shake. “For God’s sake, Gillian, you know I’m kidding. There is a beautiful girl. She’s nineteen and I’m her father-figure.” Jury paused. “More or less.”

  Laughing and hiding her face in the stole, Gillian said, “Probably more.”

  “Less. You think I’d take advantage of a nineteen-year-old?”

  She looked at him straight. “No. Would you, though, of a thirty-five-year-old?”

  They looked at one another for some time, until Jury said, “I think I could give it a go.”

  The bench was cold and unyielding. Jury wasn’t.

  • • •

  When he had carefully looped up each one of the buttons, she said, and he thought it very odd: “It was I, wasn’t it, who was supposed to save you from the maze?”

  “Like Theseus? The Minotaur hasn’t got me. So how do you know you haven’t saved me?”

  She laughed. It was the first genuine show of joy he’d seen in her. “Oh, it would take a true Ariadne for that. Not I.”

  Jury raised her chin. “Who’s the real on
e, then?”

  Gillian thought that over. “Carrie Fleet. She could get you out.”

  There was for Jury an odd sensation that Carrie Fleet — the way he remembered her standing there in the french door with Gillian at the other one — might be, after all, an Ariadne.

  It disturbed him. It disturbed him for no reason he could think of.

  But all he said was, “I like older women. Even ones tied in some sort of knot over some other man. I can wait.”

  He kissed her good-bye.

  PART 4

  You—too—take Cobweb attitudes

  Twenty-one

  The Brindles’ downtrodden row house on Crutchley Street was not in the moneyed section near the Thames. What prettying up Flossie had attempted had been quickly besmirched by weather, trampling kids, and lack of attendance.

  To put Carrie Fleet in this milieu was hard for Jury; it was like a picture with a figure cut out.

  Joe Brindle was not at all happy with police on his stoop — to say nothing of New Scotland Yard.

  “I won’t be long, Mr. Brindle.” That was the truth.

  Jury wouldn’t have sat down even if asked. Though the Brindles were glowering from two tufted lounge chairs, neither of them had suggested he sit. Given an older girl, snoring on the couch-mate of the lounge chairs, there weren’t too many choices, anyway. “I just wanted to ask you a few questions about Carrie Fleet. This letter that you wrote to the Baroness —”

  With a shaking hand, Brindle put his Bass Ale on the floor and looked at the envelope. “So? We had the care of her all them years, din’t we? We’re the ones found her, wandering round in that woods.”

  Flossie Brindle wanted her turn. She almost rose from her chair, found it too much effort and went back down again, a diver going for another look at an ocean floor of ale. “A hard case, Carrie was. Never ever said anything; didn’t help with the kiddies; only the animals.” And as if in a bout of nostalgia — which Jury thought might very well be real — punched her husband’s arm and asked, “What was that old terrier she fancied so much?” She looked at Jury. “Three legs it had. Can you beat it? Didn’t go in much for beauty, did she?” Flossie plumped up her home-permed curls and gave Jury another look at her knees.

  Not much for beauty, Jury thought. “The letter, Mr. Brindle?”

  Brindle looked at the envelope, shrugged, handed it back. Then he rose from his chair, a little unsteady on his feet, his manner defensive rather than threatening. “Look, that girl was a burden, there’s no reason we couldn’t ask the old lady for a bit more.”

  Where Brindle made his mistake was in thinking Jury knew as much as Brindle. “A thousand pounds wasn’t enough, Mr. Brindle?”

  Joe Brindle’s body heaved, the belly protruding even more over the unbelted trousers. “No!” He tried to swagger it off. “You come in here, about that little bitch —”

  Although Jury’s reflexes were usually in control, he knew that if Flossie Brindle hadn’t jumped from her chair and thrown the rest of her Bass in her husband’s face, Jury would have hit him. “Fooled around with her, you did. Bloody liar. Thought I didn’t know,” she said to Jury.

  Jury supposed he’d known it, but still he felt sick. He waited. Flossie wanted her revenge.

  Brindle was wiping the wet from his face, mumbling how he’d never got anywhere. Carrie was too quick for him.

  Something to be thankful for, at least. “This letter, Mrs. Brindle —”

  Flossie interrupted. “Called herself ‘Baroness.’ That’s a hoot. Manchester or Liverpool’s more like it. Well, we neither could believe it. Why would anyone want Carrie Fleet?” She shrugged, lay back again in the dark blue chair, and said, “So Joe, here, he thought why not try for a little more of the ready.” She uncapped another bottle.

  “Why don’t you shut your face, Floss?” His eyes were glazed over; Jury could hardly believe it was from remorse — or any other emotion. He shrugged. “Nothing come of it.” And he looked around the room, the pile of dirty clothes a thin cat was making dough on, the snoring girl on the couch, the velvet painting of a deer, as if nothing had come to much.

  Flossie, at least, could be counted on for nostalgia, even if it was ale-sodden. She’d taken the letter from its grimy envelope, handwriting like that of a child. “Guess she kept the snap.” She took another swig from the bottle.

  Jury tensed.

  “I’ll tell you this,” said Joe Brindle. “Flossie here’s got a temper, but she ain’t no fool.” He almost smiled. “Recognized that uniform straightaway, she did.” And he gave her a friendly little cuff on the arm.

  Jury sat down, smiled, and said, “Do you think I could have one of those, Flossie?” He nodded at the Bass Ale.

  There was clearly nothing she’d like better than a chance to serve the superintendent. It allowed her to adjust her legs, the black-patent-leather belting in swells of flesh, and to play Hostess. She even brought him a glass.

  “Thanks. I suppose you kept a copy?” Brindle would be smart enough not to send the original off without making one. Or keeping the original and sending a copy. After drinking down half a glass and keeping his smiling eyes on Flossie, he said, “Mind if I have another look?”

  “The maid? Yeah, why not.” Flossie left and returned with a snapshot. It had curled at the edges, not very clear, apparently taken on a rainy day. There was a young woman, in a dress and cape that might well have been a “uniform,” trying to restrain a blur of an Alsatian that seemed much more interested in the nearby gaslight than in her. Her head was back; she was laughing at this trial.

  “Amy Lister,” said Flossie.

  “You knew her?”

  Flossie shook her head. “It’s on the back.”

  Jury turned the picture over. The name was printed there.

  Brindle said it again: “Smart girl, is Flossie.”

  “Why didn’t Carrie take this picture with her?”

  Flossie shrugged. “Dunno. Maybe after all these years she forgot it was there. The purse lining was ripped and the snap was in between it and the outside.”

  She lit a cigarette, tossed the match more or less in the direction of an ashtray, and said through the rising spiral of smoke, “See that lamp? The one the dog’s trying to piss on? Well, I knew where that was. It’s one of the last gaslights left in England. Off the Embankment it is. And then I got t’ thinking.” She paused, perhaps to demonstrate that particular power. “See, I used t’ work at the Regency Hotel. I waitressed there. That gaslight, it’s near the Embankment and right down that narrow street from the Regency.” Her eyes grew misty. “The tips you could make. I mean, that Regency! You had to be nearly rich as the Queen—” She pointed her cigarette at the snapshot. “I didn’t know her, but that Amy Lister’s wearing a maid’s uniform from the Regency. You got the money, you could get one of them maids or the porter t’ walk your dog. Now, I says t’ meself, what’s this Carrie Fleet doing with this snap?”

  “And you tried to trace Amy Lister?”

  Here she gave her husband a smart slap. “Joe here did. Worse luck.”

  “You went to the Regency?” Jury was looking down at the young laughing woman. A nice person, he thought. Out there on pavements sleek with rain, getting wet herself—well, if Flossie was right, the payment might have been worth it. “Didn’t find her?”

  For the first time, Joe seemed to come back to the real world. “You don’t know sod-all, Super. And you being Scotland Yard.” He leaned toward Jury, his ale-laden breath spanning the distance between them. “I took some money, not much — well, we’re on the dole, ain’t we —”

  Jury looked at the video recorder. “I’m sure.”

  “—and gave twenty quid — twenty — to the old coot worked the desk, white gloves and black tie, think the help was all going to a bleedin’ ball. Anyway, I paid him to give me the dope on the maid in that picture.” Brindle appeared to delight in holding Jury hostage to suspense, for he took the moment to uncap another bottle, light anothe
r cigar, blow a smoke-ring.

  “Turns out, he couldn’t remember her name was Lister, but he did her face. Said far as he knew, she went into service in Chelsea, so I goes there. Right proper little bit of sleuthing, ’ey?”

  “Depends. What’d you find out?”

  Brindle waved the question away with a figure eight of cigar smoke. “Nothing, yet. She’d left, no notice.” Furrows of simulated thoughtfulness crossed his brow. “But I ain’t stupid. I’ll find her.”

  “That’d be the day.” The voice, almost ethereal, as if it inhabited no human form, came from the couch. Jury hadn’t noticed the snoring had stopped.

  The Brindle daughter had turned. Her eyes looked, through the smoky light, directly into Jury’s. “She fed the cat, she did. And she never asked for nothing, and she never tried to put herself in between me and them. Not that there’s much between. But Carrie never tried.”

  The girl — he didn’t know her name. She was still lying, but leaning on one elbow. A change had come over the room, as if a tomb had opened, the voice of one long dead frightening the living. Directly at Jury she looked, and he saw, to his surprise, she was very pretty. Buried as she had been under coverlets and blankets, he had merely imagined some greasy-haired child, dull and inarticulate.

  “I thought about it a long time, that snap,” she said, nodding toward it. “Him,” — and with a deprecating nod of her head, she motioned toward Joe Brindle — “he never did sort it out. Come back from this Chelsea place, no, couldn’t remember no Amy working for them.”

  Brindle lowered his head.

  The look the girl gave Jury was near pleading. “How could they remember? It wasn’t the maid. Amy was the dog.”

  The girl lay back, flung her arm over her eyes, and said nothing more.

  Twenty-two

  Through the open door of Chief Superintendent Racer’s office, Jury could just glimpse the cat Cyril — only his head, since he was sitting in Racer’s leather desk chair — carefully washing his paw. The usual mists and drizzle of October had given way to a sunlit afternoon, the light of which beamed through the chief’s window and spangled Cyril’s coppery fur.