The Deer Leap

by Martha Grimes

  “It had got between the lining and the purse itself. The Brindles only found it recently.” Jury put down his cup. “When was the last time you saw Carolyn?”

  His chin rested on the hands overlapped on his ivory-knobbed cane. “When her nursemaid had taken her to the zoo. In Regent’s Park.” His sharp eyes looked across his cane at Jury. “The nursemaid returned empty-handed.”

  A rather sardonic attitude to take toward the disappearance of a child.

  “You didn’t report it to Scotland Yard, and you kept it out of the papers. How —?” At Lord Lister’s tight smile, Jury remembered. The “how” would have been quite easy for the old man. He was chairman of the board of one newspaper and influential with others.

  “Penny dropped, Superintendent? How do you think I got my peerage? Apparently, the Queen thought I had done the country some service by keeping a series of especially grisly crimes, the plans of certain drug dealers, and so on, out of the newspapers. I have a certain — influence.” His smile was thin. “My son, Aubrey junior, was miffed that the title would last only for my lifetime. I told him if he wanted a title, he could damned well go out and get his own.”

  “You thought that spreading Carolyn’s disappearance across the paper would work against her being found — so no reward was offered.”

  Had there been, Flossie and Joe would certainly have turned up with Carrie in tow.

  “Of course, that’s what I thought. And I did not want to contact police for the same reason. Kidnappers are rather . . . touchy on that point. That was quite clear when the ransom note appeared two days later. The kidnappers weren’t especially greedy. They only asked for twenty-five thousand. Which I delivered personally to the Left Luggage place in Waterloo Station tucked into a suitcase full of clothing. And the stub I left in a paperback mystery in a W. H. Smith’s. At the end of the stack. I assumed I was being watched all the time.”

  “But Carolyn wasn’t returned.”

  “No.” He pinched the bridge of his nose and shook his head. “Nor was the money ever collected. I immediately hired two very good private detectives. They turned up nothing. Apparently, the kidnappers did not want to take the chance of showing up. Perhaps Carolyn was already dead. Perhaps —” Lord Lister shrugged. “— anything.”

  “And the maid, or nurse? What was her story?”

  “She’d gone to get them both a cold drink. It had taken only a few minutes, but when she returned, Carolyn wasn’t there. She grew more and more afraid as she searched. Carolyn never wandered off, and the servant felt sure she’d been abducted. Straightaway, she came back to the house.”

  Jury had taken out his notebook, and Lord Lister said, “Oh, don’t bother. The nurse is dead. She can’t help. She was fired on the spot, of course.”

  “Did Carolyn’s parents go along with your plans?”

  “Parent. Carolyn was illegitimate. The father is dead. My daughter Ada is dead, too. Died when Carolyn was three or four. I thought she should have a name.”

  “It does help one’s sense of identity.”

  Lister looked at Jury sharply. He had not touched his tea. Still with his hands on the cane, he turned his eyes toward the high window, and spoke like a man from whom most emotion had been wrung. “They’re all gone, the children. Didn’t find the house too — salubrious. Ruth and Aubrey. My sister Miriam finally left, too.”

  “Gone where, Lord Lister?”

  “They do not keep in touch. The last I heard from Ruth, she was —” His glance traveled around the room, came to rest on the pattern in the Oriental carpet. “India, I think. Miriam. I should like to see Miriam again.” He looked up, thoughtfully. “We were close, though she was some fifteen years younger.”

  “Have you pictures of them?” Jury nodded toward the mantelpiece.

  He shrugged. “Help yourself. Those are very old.”

  Old and faded and rather fuzzy. There was one who certainly looked like Carrie. “Her mother?”

  “Ada. Yes.” Lord Lister seemed disinclined to deal in the past. He looked at Jury. “You think I was a tyrant, that I drove them away?” He sighed. “My dear Mr. Jury, they are merely waiting for me to die.” The thin lips pursed. “Money, Superintendent, money.”

  “People like that usually keep very much in touch. So you’ll know where to send it.”

  Lord Lister actually laughed. “Oh, I like that. No. They know they’re going to get it. What’s eating at them is that Carolyn is getting the lion’s share.”

  That surprised Jury. “You were fond of her.”

  The statement seemed to have to pass, like a memo to the board, and come back with stamps of approval. Lord Lister took a long time considering. “Yes. I was fond of her. You see, I felt a bit like Lear. Not that I would hold a mirror to her lips to see if she lived still.” His eyes, when they looked at Jury, were like polished silver. They were glazed with tears. “But Carolyn, unlike the others, never wanted anything from me. Aubrey and Ruth are selfish and shallow and opportunistic. Actually, Carolyn took after me. And Miriam, perhaps. Resolute. Undemonstrative. Stoic, really. Her mother was like that.” He leaned toward Jury, as if he felt it were important the superintendent understand: “That is simply something I was never used to. Greed was the major component in the makeup of the other children.”

  “May I ask how much money is involved?”

  “You may. For Carolyn, a million.”

  Jury stared.

  “For the others, a hundred thousand apiece. If Carolyn is dead. . .” He looked away. “Then her part of the inheritance would go to them. Evenly divided. But there must be proof of actual death. If she is declared simply legally dead, her inheritance will go to several charities.”

  So the others would be waiting not only for the death of the old man, but the death of Carolyn Lister. “I don’t imagine that made Carolyn overly popular with your son and daughter. And your sister.”

  A glimmer of a smile. “Not precisely.”

  “But Carolyn disappeared over seven years ago. Wouldn’t that suggest she’s dead?”

  “Yes. Except that now you’ve turned up with that picture, haven’t you? The young girl who had it could be Carolyn. The tale you relate of this family finding her would fit the facts.”

  “You have other pictures — of the family?”

  Lord Lister shook his head. “Of my wife, quite a few. And the children when they were very young.” He looked toward the ceiling. “An album, perhaps, somewhere in the attic. I do not go into attics, Superintendent. Like the mind, they tend to be dark and filled with cobwebs. I am not a sentimental man.” He paused. “Is the girl you refer to happy?”

  Jury thought for a moment. “It’s hard to say. But I doubt one could be very happy who has no memory of her childhood.”

  “Ah. Is she well provided for?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good.” He shrugged. “Unfortunately, there is no proof . . . .” He looked at Jury, then around at the luxury of velvet draperies, Georgian furniture, less resplendent now in sunlight grown sluggish. He smiled that thin smile — not so much insincere as one learned from years of dealing in confrontation. “That’s up to you, Superintendent.”

  “She wears a ring, a small amethyst. That mean anything to you?”

  Lord Lister leaned his chin on his hands and thought. “Amethyst. I am not positive, but I believe her mother might have given Carolyn one. A birthstone. Yes, that would serve as proof, I’d say.”

  Proof? “That she’s alive?”

  “Or dead.”

  Jury felt a sudden chill. “And if this girl is Carolyn. And if, by some chance, something should happen to her —”

  Lord Lister raised his eyebrows. “Unlikely. She’d be quite young now.”

  “She was quite young when she was left for dead on the Heath,” said Jury bitterly.

  The old man said nothing.

  Jury went on. “Why wouldn’t part of that fortune go to the person who’s been taking care of her — not the Brindles. I
mean the one she now lives with?”

  “I suppose it could.” Lord Lister seemed puzzled.

  Jury waited for the questions. Who is taking care of her? Where?. . . But there were no questions. Jury put away his notebook and thanked Lord Lister for his time.

  With the help of his cane, the old man rose. “Of time, I have aplenty, Mr. Jury.

  Jury smiled. “Then if she were to come here, perhaps your memory would bestir itself. Perhaps hers would. I imagine, living alone as you do, you’d be happy to have her back.”

  “You don’t understand, Superintendent. I do not like attics. I do not want the past back. I do not want Carolyn.”

  • • •

  After the pleasant maid saw him out, Jury stood for a few seconds on the stone step. All for nothing. He had done nothing to help Carrie Fleet, who, in a sense, had no past. Million quid or no, she had been truly swindled. He himself could have gone to the attic, taken whatever mementoes he could find, perhaps helped her piece it all together.

  But how do you do that when the end of it is that no one wants you back?

  He went down the steps and saw, as he turned, a velvet drape drop back in place.

  Shutting it all out.

  PART 5

  Now it is Night —

  in Nest and Kennel —

  Twenty-six

  Melrose — now “on” as Earl of Caverness — stared up at the picture of Grimsdale, in the forefront with a few of the favored staghounds. In the background was a stag at bay about to be taken. And beneath this, and above the mantelpiece, was a hunting horn.

  Melrose had a great deal of difficulty in looking at it, much less with admiration. But a job, he supposed, was a job.

  “Absolutely nothing like it,” said Sebastian Grimsdale, standing beside Melrose Plant in the Lodge’s trophy room. Grimsdale sighed with pleasure. “Prince of Wales killed a stag by sweeping the knife upward. Instead of merely slitting the throat.”

  “That is certainly a lesson in the art of venery, Mr. Grimsdale. It must have been a wonderful sight.”

  Grimsdale started, slapped his hand on his thigh, and laughed. “Well, I’m not quite that old, sir.” He grew more serious, as if almost reluctant to say, “Even if I’d been there, I wouldn’t have got near the stag. Too dangerous, you see.”

  “Oh. Sounds a bit like a bullfight to me.”

  “Good God, Lord Ardry. That’s not sport.”

  Melrose lit a cigar, offered one to Grimsdale, who was so lost in the picture that he merely shook his head absently. “Never done any stag-hunting, then?” Melrose shook his head. “Nothing like it,” he said again. “I remember one sprang up from the heather under the very nose of my horse. Ah, well. . .”

  There was a pause for nostalgic reflection. “Season’s over in Exmoor now for stag-hunting. But if you’re here again in the spring —”

  “I rather doubt it,” said Melrose, trying on a smile. Looking at the stag at bay, the smile didn’t quite fit.

  Grimsdale noticed the weak reflection of a smile. “Oh, oh. You’ve been taken in by all that old Landseerian rubbish, Monarch of the Glen — sentimental nonsense. They’re a nasty sort of beast, the stag. Do you know, one would push another out to take his place, if he was being hunted down.”

  “Really.”

  “Absolutely.” Grimsdale seemed determined to convince him that the stag was not a family man. “Push out another and lie right down in its place in the heather. Or mingle with hinds. No scruples.”

  “None.”

  “None,” repeated Grimsdale in a satisfied way. “Too bad you’ve not hunted stag. Hills, huge distances, awful streams, bad weather —”

  “Sounds inviting.”

  “Well! If the Devon-Somerset pack’s out, at least you can hunt with the Buckland. New Forest. Fallow deer, there. Nothing to compare with the red.” Grimsdale checked his watch as if the hunt might begin at any time. “Nearly ten. Donaldson will be doing his rounds. Trying to start my own pack of staghounds. Those two staghounds you saw, handsome brutes, drafted those from one of the best foxhound kennels —”

  “You’ve got your own pack of foxhounds. I should think that would keep you busy enough, Mr. Grimsdale.”

  Whatever hint of disapproval there was in Melrose’s tone was lost on Sebastian Grimsdale, who simply said there could never be enough hunting.

  Melrose could see that. He was surrounded by the efforts of more than one taxidermist — he doubted one taxidermist would have had the time, even if he’d had the interest in working in so many different media: gray fox, pheasant, woodcock, badger — a few of the smaller displays. All under glass. While Grimsdale was lost in wonder at the larger of the mounted heads of stag and buck, Melrose picked up one of the glass cases, looked at the blue-tipped wings. Beautiful bird.

  Grimsdale turned. “Ah, I see you like birds, Lord Ardry.” The tone suggested that Lord Ardry must have a passion for some sort of gunplay.

  Alive, yes.

  “Shoveler drake, that is. Hardly ever see one in these parts. It’s when the weather gets so bad up country they want a warmer climate.” Grimsdale gazed at the drake with satisfaction, rubbing his pipestem against his cheek.

  “This one found it, I guess.”

  The sarcasm fell wide. Grimsdale picked another bird, mounted on a a limb, from the mantelpiece. “Teal. Dozen of them took off from the pond —”

  “Pond? I didn’t see one.”

  “Round back.” Grimsdale laughed. “Not supposed to see it, Lord Ardry. Just luck it was there, surrounded by trees, bracken, rushes. Absolutely perfect. I keep the mallard there. That draws the others.”

  Melrose was eyeing the shoveler drake, sorry for it, but feeling he’d warmed up Grimsdale enough, both with brandy and talk, to get round to the real subject.

  “Hunting and shooting’s not my line —”

  “Worse luck for you, sir.” Grimsdale laughed.

  “But doesn’t the forestry commission slap a ban on shooting wildfowl if they’re driven by weather to the south?” He knew he shouldn’t have said it; he was usually more controlled. When he looked at this rosy-cheeked, iron-haired, smug Master of Foxhounds and Harriers, he couldn’t help himself. The look on Grimsdale’s face, as if he’d lost an old poaching-partner, told Melrose he’d have to make up the points if he wanted information.

  “That’s quite a stag there, Mr. Grimsdale.” Melrose raised his eyes to the twelve-pointer, the one Grimsdale himself had been admiring. “Where’d you get that one?”

  “Auchnacraig. That’s in Scotland.”

  “I’ve heard of it,” said Melrose, without the trace of a smile. Nice to get the geography lesson along with how to shoot just about anything that walked or flew. But Grimsdale was bathing so much in his own glow, he didn’t notice.

  “Ah yes. Twenty-one stone. Nearly got a silver on that one.”

  Melrose assumed he meant a medal. He smiled bleakly. “Wonderful. Where do you hunt the stag around these parts, Mr. Grimsdale?”

  “Exmoor. For your red deer, that’s the place. For buck, the New Forest. Donaldson’s one of the best harborers there is. He’s the one out at first light to find a warrantable stag. Can’t get on without a shrewd harborer.”

  “Right. Just as the superintendent can’t go without his sergeant.”

  For some reason, Grimsdale thought this rather rich and slapped his arm around Melrose’s shoulders. Given the multiple brandies he’d had that evening, the ruddy glow of his complexion could have competed with the rather remarkable sunset they’d seen a few hours before.

  “What did you think of Sally MacBride?” asked Melrose, suddenly.

  The arm dropped just as suddenly away. “The MacBride woman?” The irritation gave way to feigned remorse. “Incredible thing, the way she died.” He shook his head, drank his brandy, gazed up at a broad beam of antlers, and repeated it. He might have been talking about the stag.

  Melrose was sick of this dismissal of the death of the woman. �
�What do you make of the dogs and the cat?”

  “Cat? Dogs?” he said, as if he’d never heard of anything that didn’t run with a pack. “Oh, you mean, the Quick woman’s dog. And the others? Well, what about it?” He answered his own question about Gerald Jenks’s dog. “Good riddance. Tore up my damned rosebushes.” The glow deepened to the ruddier flush of anger.

  “How well did you know them — Una Quick and Sally MacBride, I mean?”

  Grimsdale was still looking at the stag, smiling. What was the life of the odd villager or two compared with twelve points and twenty stone? Then he refilled his glass and offered Melrose another. Melrose shook his head, wondering if the man were stalling, or merely dreaming of Auchnacraig and Exmoor. If dreaming, he seemed to waken suddenly to the distinct oddity of Lord Ardry’s questions.

  “I don’t understand. I knew Miss Quick — she was postmistress, after all, everyone knew her. And Mrs. MacBride. I go to the Deer Leap, don’t I? Only pub in the village, unfortunately.” He looked about at his own superior accommodations smugly. “They’d — he’d do better to fix it up a bit. But of course, she was such a layabout —”

  Grimsdale stopped, coughed. Whether he saw the unintended pun, or simply thought it rude to speak ill of the dead, Melrose didn’t know. But he did know the conversation would stalk all over hunt country if Melrose didn’t get his eye off that hare Grimsdale was now hefting in his hand. “What would you say to these women having been murdered, Mr. Grimsdale?”

  The stuffed hare was replaced with a thud. “What?” Grimsdale looked slightly wild and then he laughed. It was a hearty laugh. “Murdered? Murder in Ashdown Dean?”

  “It could,” said Melrose mildly, “happen anywhere.”

  “Not here,” said Grimsdale, his eye now caught by a gray fox.

  “Why do you think Scotland Yard is here, then? To investigate a case of cardiac arrest?”

  “But that’s what it was, man! If the damned fool woman didn’t know enough not to go out in a storm up to that call box . . .” He shrugged.