Mundy shook her head. “No, she couldn’t have done. She loved kids. She didn’t have any of her own, which I bet was hard on her. I can’t imagine her shoving one into a concrete pool.”
“Yet she was found alone with the dead girl.”
“She was in that drained pool trying to help.”
“Very possibly. What about the other kids who were there?” Jury looked at his notes. “Kenneth Strachey, John McAllister . . .”
“Ken Strachey. He was good at sorting things: he could work out anything, an argument or the right answers on a maths quiz—Ken was a fixer.”
Beneath the cinnamon sleeves she’d modeled, the girl was smart.
“Do you keep in touch with any of them after all this time has passed?”
She shook her head. “Only with Johnny McAllister.”
The way she said his name told a lot. “According to Tom Williamson, his wife was very fond of John McAllister.”
“She was. Johnny was . . . a little sad, really. He was small and fragile and picked on by other kids. But he was so sweet. And also very smart; he read so much, carried books around in a backpack all the time. That old backpack; it had been patched up so often I wonder how it didn’t fall apart. Johnny was smarter than Kenny, although it wasn’t obvious. Did you know he was an orphan? Or, rather, his parents were both dead and he was living with guardians.” Mundy frowned. “I visited them once or twice and thought they were cold and distant. I always got the feeling Johnny got chilly when they were around, as if someone had blown snow into the room. It was a good thing he had Mrs. Williamson. She gave him confidence. Even hope.”
Jury frowned. “You say Johnny was smart. Did you wonder why he chanced eating those poisonous laburnum seeds?”
She smiled. “To see what would happen, maybe? He was like that, taking chances. He loved formulas—or I guess it’s ‘formulae,’ right? Can you imagine a ten-year-old fascinated by molecules and maps of numbers?” Mundy went on. “It didn’t surprise me when he turned out to be a brilliant doctor. He knew so much; he was a wizard in science and biology. He’s usually off in Kenya and Botswana, taking care of the natives, trying to cure diseases. He’s brilliant. He’s in scientific research. He’s an M.D. He was with something like Médecins sans Frontières for several years. Which is just like him.”
She looked sad as she went on: “When Mrs. Williamson had that accident, I think Johnny cried for days. I went to see him every day because I knew he had no one to lean on. When Hilda Palmer died, because of the death and the awful publicity, his guardians wouldn’t let him see Tess, and it was crushing.” She looked up at Jury. “Then she died. But we went to the funeral, despite parents. Well, Mum was okay with that. But the others snuck off and went to it and we kept well back so no one would see us. I nearly had to hold Johnny up all the way through.”
“That must have been painful. I’m sorry. But he recovered, didn’t he? From what you’ve said, his life seems to have taken a very good turn.” He watched her.
She shook her head. “He never recovered. But, yes, his life took a good turn.” She rested her chin on her folded fingers. “Johnny has a way of—I don’t know—disappearing? He’s there, then he isn’t. I just don’t understand why he lives in East London, for God’s sake. He has money. Mrs. Williamson left him quite a lot.”
He heard something in her voice that was more than casual. “Did she? What about the rest of you? Did she leave anything to you?”
“Oh, no. She probably figured the rest of us were well taken care of. But John was her pet. She couldn’t stand thinking he’d be at the mercy of others. She was right.”
“What about the other girls, Veronica and Arabella?”
“Veronica D’Sousa. Arabella Hastings. Veronica’s mum had her taking every kind of lesson: ballet, acting, singing, dancing—”
“I’m surprised she had time for hide-and-seek.”
“It was kind of pathetic, really, Veronica being not very talented. Probably she grew up to be gorgeous and has just nabbed the lead in the latest revival of Anything Goes.”
Jury laughed. “And Arabella? From what I’ve seen in the file, she wasn’t exactly a knockout.”
“No, she wasn’t. She was absolutely crazy about Kenneth. But why shouldn’t she be? Kenny was the very essence of charm. Really, it was like perfume, an expensive and exquisite scent. If he could bottle it, Harrods would be happy to sell it, I’m sure. And he was incredibly manipulative. Still is, I expect.”
This summation of Kenneth Strachey made Jury smile as he looked at Mundy’s glass. Her fingers were circling it as if it were the glass that kept her afloat. “Would you like more wine?”
She looked down. “I’d like a cappuccino, actually.”
Jury rose and went to the coffee urns and asked for a black coffee and a cappuccino. He looked at her, at her back, her head turned slightly so that he saw her perfect profile reflected in the window glass. He thought of what she’d said about John McAllister and shivered, as if a door had suddenly opened on rain.
That was because Jury had been there, himself, an orphan, out of luck with relations for a few years, and spent those years in a home. It had been three years of nothing to look forward to, every day like every other: powdered eggs for breakfast, fish paste in a sandwich for lunch (no Pret A Manger on every corner in those old days). He was not sure, actually, how he’d landed there. There was a gap in his memory between his mother’s death and the orphanage. He recalled vaguely a woman from the Social—
“Sir?”
He looked away from the window to the lad who worked the coffee machine. “Yes? Oh, thanks.” He paid and took the creamy cup back to Mundy Brewster and the black coffee for himself.
Sitting down, Jury said, “Tell me, what did you think of Tess Williamson? Other than that she was very fond of children?”
Mundy spooned up foam from her cup. “I know that she’d been born into money, always had it. Her family. They were wealthy in the way very old money can be distinguished from new.” Mundy smiled. “Not that I’ve ever had either. I expect she was envied. I mean, never having to scrimp or go out and get a job. Somehow I think it told against her, I mean, it wasn’t a point in her favor with some people.”
“And envious people enjoy seeing the Williamsons of this world brought to heel?”
She nodded. “Exactly. I heard this from my own mum, who said, ‘She’ll come to no good, that girl, you wait and see. Too beautiful, too rich.’ ”
“It sounds like a Victorian novel. And it sounds more like a curse than a comment.”
“Well, Mum didn’t really dislike her, although I’m sure she envied her. Mum just thought such a charmed life as Mrs. Williamson’s would find something beastly plunked down in the middle of it. That came from Mum having a pretty hard life herself. I’m adopted too, you know, but Mum was nothing like Johnny’s guardian. She had to work two jobs to keep me in that school where the well-off kids went. It was because she wanted me to get a good education right from the start. Anyway, as I said, Tess Williamson could never have pushed Hilda, absolutely not.”
“Did many of the parents agree with you?”
“I’m sure they did, at first. Then, you know, it dragged on and on, with her being taken in and solicitors fighting and the newspapers. The longer it went on, the more guilty she must have appeared. So much talk, so much printed, accusations flying back and forth. Even after the whole case was dismissed for lack of evidence, some people wouldn’t let it go.” Mundy turned her coffee cup round. “And then she died in the very same place. I could not believe it; I just couldn’t. I was seventeen by then and thought the entire world was going to hell anyway . . . It made me so sad.”
For a moment, she was silent, then she said, “We were so happy back then. You should have seen Laburnum that summer, the woods full of maples and oaks, the laburnum grove burning like fire, waves
of bluebells and crocuses, stone walls where bloodred roses grew, the vastness of it, those precipitous stairs. The house looked to me like one of those cool Venetian castles, pillars around, footsteps that echoed, endless marble stairs, silence—”
“Mundy.”
“Yes?” She looked as if she were coming out of a daze or a trance.
“You missed nothing; you remember all of those details as if you were looking at a photograph. Yet you can’t recall much of what happened around the time of Hilda’s death. Why is that?”
She puffed out her cheeks, then seeming to realize that looked childish, stopped. She turned her head. Propped her chin on a fist and looked out of the window, presenting a profile that was one of the most perfect Jury had ever seen: the graceful slope of the forehead and eyebrow, the perfect nose, straight to its tip, where it turned up slightly, the curve of the lips, the long neck, swanlike. No wonder people remembered her as “the pretty one.” Then that view dissolved like a watery reflection when she lowered her head, turning back.
“Well. I expect I didn’t want to talk about it. Where we were, where we went. We were supposed to stay in the front garden, not go all over, because it would make finding everyone nearly impossible. Kenneth and Arabella and I followed the rules. He hid behind the sarsen stone; I was on top of the wall. I don’t know where Arabella was, maybe behind Kenneth’s stone. Of course, everyone knows about Johnny being in the laburnum grove because he got sick. And, of course, Hilda. Obviously Hilda broke the front garden rule. Nicki, of course, was “It.” Doing the counting.
“Nicki?”
“Veronica’s nickname. We all seem to hate our given names, especially girls. ‘Mundy’ I got from my little brother, who had a hard time saying ‘Madeline.’ ”
“But you wouldn’t know if Kenneth left his place behind the stone and went back there.”
She shook her head. “No.” She paused. “I hate pointing a finger at anyone.”
“You all disliked Hilda, though, didn’t you?”
Leaning back, she gave Jury a sardonic look. She seemed much older than her thirty-four years. “You think this was our version of Murder on the Orient Express? That we all picked up a stone instead of a knife and bopped Hilda on the head? Do you have a cigarette?”
He blinked, jarred by the question. There was something dreamlike in its irrelevance; indeed he felt there was something dreamlike about Mundy Brewster. She felt like a thing in a dream.
“No. I quit.” He made to rise. “I can get you some—”
She pulled at his arm. “Oh, don’t. I’m sorry. There are times I feel the need of a cigarette like some people do a drink. I’m trying to quit. Is it hard?”
“It’s endless. The only thing you can do is turn your mind away from it. Go on talking.”
“Yes. Well, when Veronica was counting, I never realized how long one minute could be. And two of them? It’s plenty of time to kill someone if that’s what you mean to do.”
With this rather surprising appraisal, Mundy scraped her thick tawny hair back from her face, as if she could finally reveal herself and looked at her watch. “Oh, my God, look at the time.”
Jury got up to help her with her coat.
“Thank you for lunch. I needed a wine and caffeine jolt.”
“Why’s that?”
“My boyfriend left me.”
“Christ, I’d say he’s the one who needs a jolt.”
“Thank you.”
As they passed through the door, he said, “Someone in London?”
“In and out. I told you how he has a way of disappearing.”
Jury let the door suck shut behind them. “McAllister? He’s the boyfriend?”
She smiled up at him. “He doesn’t know it. It wouldn’t make any difference if he did.” She sighed. “I guess I’ve always been in love with him, even when we were kids, even though I was bigger than he was.” She sighed again. “Talk about Victorian novels. Talk about unrequited love.” Then she laughed, briefly. And then she sighed a third time.
“Why it isn’t requited is a mystery beyond even Scotland Yard’s power to solve.”
“That’s nice of you to say that.” She put out her hand. “Thank you for lunch and for listening to me.” He took her hand; her grasp was not the usual soft touch, of fingers slipping over palms. It was quite strong.
“Anytime. And if you think of anything at all about this whole sad business of Laburnum, give me a call, will you?” He handed her a card.
He watched her walk away. A while on, she turned and waved.
What a girl.
Bloomsbury
Thursday, 12:30 P.M.
17
* * *
Wiggins himself got no less lucky.
Kenneth Strachey’s Bloomsbury digs were open and airy, as was, indeed, Kenneth Strachey himself. He was absolutely delighted to have a visit from New Scotland Yard, especially a detective who knew the merits of afternoon tea.
“And scones,” he added, hooking his hand over his shoulder to indicate Wiggins should follow him.
They made their way across the large, white, and well-lighted living room into a kitchen equally as large, where Kenneth Strachey opened one of the several doors of a black cooker and slid out a thin tray. “Just done.” He put the pan on the giant butcher-block table in the center of the room. Around it, bamboo stools sat, neatly aligned. Above it hung a cast iron pot-rack from which were suspended a dozen sun-bright copper pots and pans.
“My word. This kitchen means business,” said Wiggins, taking one of the stools and eyeing, with pleasure, the fresh scones. Smelling them too. “You like to cook, sir, I take it.”
Strachey grinned. “If I weren’t a writer, I’d seriously think of becoming a chef. I love to cook. I get up in the middle of the night and cook. Tea!” From a marble countertop he took a kettle that looked to Wiggins of such substance and streamlined modernity that it might have come off a Boeing assembly line. The chrome handle seemed to roar back over the kettle, and the whole thing might have taken wing. Strachey touched something in the cooker’s control panel and came back to the scones. “Butter,” he said, pulling over a white crock. “Marmalade? Or some blackberry jam?” He looked at Wiggins, apparently expecting him to chip in with decisions.
Wiggins was only too happy to say, “Marmalade, definitely.”
Strachey went to a shelf, pulled down another crock. “Now, what kind of tea?”
“Anything, long as it’s black. I can’t stand those sniffy little cups that look like water with bits of wheat and stems floating about.”
Strachey snickered and turned back to pick up the kettle, water already on the boil.
“That’s some cooker you got there, Mr. Strachey. That boiled faster than my electric kettle.”
“It’s an Aga.” He was spooning a Fortnum & Mason Afternoon Tea into a bluish glazed pot. “If they gave me a choice between this cooker, a Jag, or a private jet, I’d take the cooker.” He turned over a little hourglass timer sitting on the table, then went to a cupboard and retrieved small plates and opened a drawer for a couple of butter knives. Then he sat down.
“Don’t let Jamie Oliver get wind of this kitchen. He’d be in it in an eye-blink.”
Strachey thought this hilarious. “God, does everyone at the Met have your sense of humor?”
It was the first time Wiggins could recall ever being cited for his sense of humor. He scratched his neck with a finger, frowning slightly. “Not much to laugh at in our job, you know.”
Sense of humor. Tea preference. Homemade scones. Wiggins could move in here and live out his days.
Strachey had taken a pint of milk out of the industrial-size fridge, closed the door with his foot, and brought down a blue-and-white jug. Into this he poured the milk. “Tea’s up!” he said, seeing the sand had run to the bottom of the timer. White p
orcelain cups had appeared from somewhere, and Strachey poured. He shoved the jug and plate of sugar cubes toward Wiggins.
Smiling broadly, Wiggins poured in a measure of milk, added three cubes.
Strachey added only milk, raised his cup. “To your health, Sergeant!”
“And yours, sir.”
They sipped. Strachey said, “Cut out the sir stuff. My name’s Kenneth. What’s yours?”
“Alfred.” He spread some butter on a scone. “But everyone calls me just Wiggins.”
“Ah. Like Morse. Very high level of policing, Morse did.”
“Thanks, but I doubt mine’s that good.”
“I suppose neither was Morse’s, given he’s complete fiction.”
“True. Good man with a crossword, though. Thanks.” That was for Kenneth, who was holding out the teapot. “Never be too much tea for me.”
Finished pouring, Strachey said, eyes narrowed, as if in fierce combat with a thought: “You know what I’d like right now, right this minute? Cheesecake!” He slammed his hand on the table, making his cup jump, and was off his stool and looking into the vast Arctic reaches of his refrigerator.
“Right!” said Strachey, as if he’d found he was on the right track to the Pole. He reached both hands in.
Drinking his tea, Wiggins expected to see a cheesecake emerge. But what emerged was a pint of sour cream, some cream cheese, more butter, a lemon, and a half-dozen eggs. All in one go, he’d grabbed these items and, with them, did his signature kicking shut of the door. He put all of this on the table, went to a cupboard, pulled out a slim box of digestive biscuits, and slapped those in front of Wiggins.
“Just open this and dump the biscuits into a bag . . . Here.” Kenneth tossed a box of plastic Ziplocs toward Wiggins.
Who still sat with his mouth open. “You don’t mean to tell me you’re going to make a cheesecake.”
“Of course.” He tapped two different controls on the Aga, plunked a stainless steel pan on the large warmer, tossed in butter. “You’re supposed to crush those digestives up, man.”
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