“Thank you, sir. Are you having tea, then?” Wiggins got out of his coat and, as Sir Oswald had suggested, tossed it over the arm of a chair.
“No. It’s some concoction called—what is it?—Chee?”
“Chai,” said Wiggins, correcting the pronunciation. “Real spicy, isn’t it? Lots of cardamom and things?”
“Ah. You’re a cook, Sergeant? Splendid.”
“Not me, no. I just like to drink things.”
Sir Oswald laughed. “Well, then, allow me to get you a cup.”
But seeing that it was difficult for Sir Oswald to walk, even with a cane, Wiggins said, “Oh, please don’t. I’ve just had a pot of tea and I’m pretty well tea-d out.”
“All right. Then what can I do for you? Superintendent’s sending round the rozzers?”
“No, sir. He just wanted a couple of questions answered.”
“Why didn’t he send himself round?” Oswald reclaimed his chair and balanced the tea on its arm.
“He couldn’t. This is to do with Tom Williamson, sir. As you know, Superintendent Jury has been looking into Mrs. Williamson’s death. We just wanted to get one thing straight. You confirmed Mr. Williamson was with you the day she died. He was here at your house.”
“He was, yes. I recall we were arguing about the day. This is seventeen years ago, you know; I think I should be congratulated for remembering.”
“I do too. But in this case could you have been wrong? Or right, I should say?”
“Well that just about covers the bases, Sergeant Wiggins. I was either wrong or right. About what?”
“The day. You were expecting your housekeeper, Zillah Peabody. That’s what you said in your statement. She came four days a week: Sunday, Monday, Wednesday, and Friday.”
Oswald put on a long face. “Didn’t she just. Like clockwork. That’s why I couldn’t understand why she hadn’t come, it being a Monday. Tom said because today’s Tuesday.”
“But when she showed up, sir, it was two days later, Wednesday. Not the next day. If it had been a Tuesday when Mr. Williamson was here, your housekeeper would have appeared the next day, Wednesday?”
“Now that is one of the most confused statements I’ve ever heard.”
Wiggins nodded. “As it would have been seventeen years ago.”
Oswald sipped his Chai and made a face. “You’ve got the days all turned round, Sergeant.”
“No, sir. Tom Williamson had them turned round. You were right. It was Monday when he was here. Not Tuesday. Mrs. Peabody was supposed to have come on the Monday, but her hubby was taken ill.”
“How do you know this?”
“I’ve been to see Zillah Peabody, sir. She told me about her husband being ill. And told me she couldn’t understand, when she apologized for not being here, you said, ‘My mistake.’ ”
Oswald stared at Wiggins. “But Tess Williamson was killed the day Tom was here. Wasn’t she?”
“No. She was killed the next day. That was Tuesday. He was here on Monday.”
“But how could Tom think he was here the day Tess died if he wasn’t? My God, wouldn’t the death of your spouse pretty much pin down the day?”
Sir Oswald looked utterly distressed. Wiggins said, “Not to worry, sir. We just wanted to straighten out that one detail.”
Oswald Maples sat quietly, apparently turning over this news. He said, “Are police all idiots?”
“Very probably, sir. Do you have any particular idiot in mind?”
“I do, indeed. If Tom was actually here on Monday, and he needed an alibi, well, man, he didn’t have one! But how could those two mixed-up days not have been pointed out at the time? It takes you seventeen years to work out that puzzle?”
“I think the reason is that it was Mr. Williamson’s alibi that was checked. Not yours. Your substantiating his alibi wasn’t questioned. That, and the fact police are idiots.”
Oswald Maples was struggling to get out of his chair. “That remains to be seen. The big question is, can you pick a lock, Sergeant? I think she hid that damned bump key.”
Boring’s, Mayfair
Saturday, 5:00 P.M.
62
* * *
Jury was sitting in the Members’ Room with Melrose Plant when the call came from Wiggins. Since mobile calls were not permitted in that room, Jury walked out into the lobby to take it.
“Sorry, boss, but it looks like Tom Williamson wasn’t with Sir Oswald Maples the day his wife died.” Wiggins told him about the conversation.
“Tom wasn’t with Oswald Maples?”
“He was with him, all right. It was just the wrong day—Monday—when he was. We don’t know where he was on the Tuesday.”
Jury couldn’t believe what he was hearing.
“Sir Oswald was expecting Zillah Peabody. She always came four days a week: Sunday, Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. When Sir Oswald wondered where she was and said she always came on Mondays, Williamson said, ‘But today’s Tuesday.’ ”
“That can’t be,” said Jury.
“Fraid so, guv, if we can believe Zillah Peabody. It’s true she hadn’t gone to the Maples house on the Monday before Tess Williamson was killed, but that was because her hubby was sick and she was taking him to the doctor. She’d told Sir Oswald on Sunday that she’d be missing Monday, as they’d be going to the surgery. He’d forgotten, that’s all.”
“This Peabody woman; are you sure she didn’t make a mistake about the day?”
“I think we can believe her. See, her husband was sick for nearly a week after they saw the doctor the first time. She’d made an appointment four days before, on the Friday, to take him in on Monday. She was certain of this and gave me the name of the doctor so I could check it if I wanted. I haven’t yet because this is Saturday, but I can go round and see him, if you like. The thing is, sir, that amongst these three people—Tom Williamson, Sir Oswald, and Zillah Peabody—if you look at it this way, only one of them had anything to gain by getting the day wrong.”
“No, don’t see the doctor yet. I’ll have to talk to Tom Williamson. Thanks, Wiggins.”
“Sorry, guv.”
Jury slapped his mobile shut. “Bloody hell,” he said under his breath and walked back to the Members’ Room.
Melrose Plant was looking at the dinner menu as Jury bolted his whiskey.
“Uh-oh. Looks like bad news.”
Sitting down, Jury said, “I’ve just had my whole case blown to bits.” He recounted what Wiggins had told him, adding, “I don’t believe it.”
“Then don’t,” said Melrose, equably.
“I can’t ignore the lack of an alibi.”
“Of course you can. This all happened seventeen years ago. Do you really feel the need to turn everything upside down because one additional detail has come to light? And a detail hardly beyond dispute.”
“Why ‘beyond dispute’?”
“What about Ms. Peabody’s memory? Could she be wrong?”
“Possibly, but unlikely. Wiggins pointed out to me that of the three of them, the only one who stood to gain by that faulty date was Tom Williamson.”
Melrose shook his head and slid down in his chair. After a few moments of thought he said, “Have you been to Greenwich?”
“Greenwich? Of course I have. If you’re referring to Greenwich mean time, what has that to do with it?”
“No, that was just a point of reference. What I’m talking about is the prime meridian.”
“That’s to do with longitude, isn’t it?”
“It’s a line of longitude. The prime meridian is zero longitude. It goes through the Royal Observatory and divides the Eastern and Western hemispheres. The thing is, of course, there are many other meridians in many other locations. Why the one that runs through Greenwich is ‘prime’ is simply because everyone agreed to its being that.
It’s completely arbitrary.”
“This is in aid of exactly what?”
“Your case, of course. You had it beautifully tailored. And now, it appears to be lying in tatters at your feet. Or, at least, to have shifted, so that now you’ve got a new suspect and a completely different playbook. Your longitudinal line, which was running straight through a doorway in Greenwich, has now shifted to a spice stall in Marrakech. Or Crete or wherever the hell any dingbat who comes along chooses to draw it.”
“By ‘dingbat’ I take it you’re referring to—”
“Your original suspect.”
“Yet it’s true that the alibi of the second suspect is leaking all over the place.”
“My God! You cops and your alibis!”
“It usually works. It usually holds that a man can’t be in two places at the same time.”
Melrose thought for a minute. “I think I’d challenge that, if it were meaningful. What kills me is this: here are these people—say, these three people, two of whom you’ve been absolutely convinced were above suspicion. Then, suddenly, your prime suspect says, I didn’t do it, he did it, and instead of standing firmly on the prime meridian, you’re all over the map. You’ve completely shelved insight and intuition for ‘the alibi.’ ” Melrose made air quotes.
Jury felt a combination of irritation and elation. “Thank you.” He looked over his shoulder. “Is there any tea in this place?”
“You’re welcome. I’m sure there is.” Just then the young porter who had waited on them the week before was passing with a tray. Melrose beckoned him. “Could we have a pot of tea, please?”
The porter grinned. “No problem.”
Melrose winced.
While they had tea and a few uninspired biscuits (about all Boring’s could manage, since few members ever asked for tea at this hour), Plant continued to say a cheering word or two about the misplaced alibi, such as: “That Williamson wasn’t where he said he was doesn’t mean he wasn’t somewhere.”
“Great,” said Jury as he bit into a round of stale shortbread. “MI6 is always in the market for agents fluent in arcane languages.”
“You know what I mean. Tom Williamson could well have been with someone else who could supply him with another alibi.”
“That’s true. But, you know, thinking about all this I see a problem: Why is Tom still saying it?”
“Saying what?”
“That he was with Oswald Maples the day Tess died. It was one of the things he told me when I met him in Vertigo 42, which is, incidentally, where I have to be in about an hour. I’m meeting Phyllis Nancy. It would have been abundantly clear to Tom the next day that he hadn’t been with Sir Oswald. Assuming his innocence, of course.”
“Of course, assuming he’s innocent! Richard, I’m telling you, trust your instincts and remember the library card.”
“What?”
“You recall I was telling you about my library card, that stack of dates and how the librarian could get a date wrong if she doesn’t push the rubber stamp forward. How easy it is to get a day or a date wrong.”
“I’m a cop. I can’t go by instinct. Wiggins has told me half a dozen times I’m too emotionally wrapped up in this case.”
“That’s different.”
“How?”
“It just is. Okay, look: say you walked into the foyer of Ardry End. There you discovered Agatha lying dead on the floor, a bullet hole in her head. I’m standing over her with a gun in my hand. I say, ‘I know how this looks, but I didn’t do it.’ Would you believe I shot her?”
“Of course.”
“No, you wouldn’t. Certainly not after I said I didn’t! You know I’m incapable of killing someone.”
Jury nodded. “Except her.”
They both started laughing. Which was better, Jury supposed, than not laughing.
____
He suddenly thought of Carole-anne and stopped on the pavement to call Harrods.
“Mundy,” he said, after he got her cell phone. “Would you do me a huge favor?” He told her what it was.
“Be glad to.”
He had his Visa card out, started to give her the number.
Mundy said, “Pay me later. This way, I’ll buy it and get a huge discount.” She laughed.
“Is Harrods still making deliveries?”
“Don’t worry. Consider it done.”
How nice. Someone else taking a task on, without comment, without an endless round of questions. He felt such a sense of relief he wondered which three little words were the greater balm for the soul: I love you or Consider it done?
Vertigo 42
Saturday, 7:00 P.M.
63
* * *
Jury was sitting in one of Vertigo 42’s marine blue chairs, watching the night deepen as the sun set over St. Paul’s, when Phyllis Nancy walked out of the elevator and toward him in a black dress and a silk coat in the colors of the setting sun, the hem of it swirling in different shades of orange and pink, as if the silk were on fire.
He was reminded of the ensemble he had seen in Harrods, the orange shirt and hot-pink skirt. “Juicy Couture,” he said, rising and kissing Phyllis on the cheek.
“What?” Phyllis laughed and sat down in the chair he held out. “I had no idea you were so fashion conscious. This dress isn’t Juicy; it’s Lanvin.” She turned her head. “My lord what a stunning view! How did you find this place?”
“Tom Williamson,” he said and changed the subject. “It’s amazing what color combinations look really great. Orange and pink, for instance, that was the Juicy Couture outfit I saw in Harrods.”
“This is like having lunch with the girls,” she said.
“You don’t know any girls.” He helped her off with the silk coat to reveal the black dress beneath. “My favorite dress. The backless black. Champagne?”
“Definitely.” Phyllis took a seat beside Jury.
The waiter was there ahead of him to lift the bottle from the cooler and pour Phyllis a glass. He then refilled Jury’s. The champagne was a nonvintage Krug, certainly not one of their most expensive, but perfectly good, a “reliable” choice, as the server had said, and not patronizing Jury either. He had picked up, in spite of himself, from his visits to The Old Wine Shades, the ability to ask for help in the wine department, something Harry Johnson had no problem doing despite his uncommon knowledge of wine. Jury asked the waiter for smoked salmon, remembering that Phyllis loved it.
As the server took himself off, Jury’s mobile twitted. He took it out of his pocket.
“Good heavens, haven’t you changed the Tweetie-bird ringtone?”
“I don’t know how.”
“Well, you could have asked.”
“Ask you? You’re the one who put the bloody thing on in the first place.” Jury looked at the screen and saw Tom Williamson’s number. “Would you excuse me for just a moment. This doesn’t look like a place receptive to mobile calls.”
“Go ahead,” said Phyllis, smiling.
Jury walked past the desk out to the entryway near the one-stop elevator.
Tom said, “I had a visitor earlier today. I’ve been trying to get hold of you ever since. Where are you?”
“Vertigo 42. Who came to see you?”
“John McAllister. Twenty years since I’ve seen him.”
Jury felt one weight lift off his shoulders, as another, heavier weight settled. It was the thought of having to ask Tom about that day seventeen years ago when he’d visited Oswald Maples. “Sorry, Tom, I’m terrible with mobile phones. I’m glad he went to see you.”
A bit testily, Tom replied, “Of course, it might have helped had I seen Tess’s letter myself.”
“Again, I’m sorry. I should have given it to you straightaway.”
There was a silence. Tom said, “I know why you didn’t. Y
ou thought it would be easier if John appeared in person and told me what had happened.”
“Well . . . yes, I did. I was afraid you might look at the letter as a suicide note.”
Another pause. “I probably would have done. It isn’t, though, is it?”
“Absolutely not. You were right. Tess was murdered.”
Tom gasped. “You know that?”
“I do. Look, can I bring this letter round tomorrow?”
“You’d better. Incidentally, it would be pretty small-minded of me to take you to task considering everything you’ve done.”
He could have waited, Jury scolded himself, until tomorrow to ask Tom the next question: “Tom, there’s something I have to ask: Why do you say you were at Oswald Maples’s place on the day Tess was killed when you weren’t? Why did you concoct that elaborate alibi and involve Sir Oswald?”
There was a silence; Jury expected one. Tom finally said, “Oh, that. But you’re wrong about the alibi. I’m terrible about days and dates. It was a genuine mistake, if you can believe that.”
“I’d like to, but it’s hard. You’d have known at least by the next day that you weren’t at Oswald’s on Tuesday.”
“I did, yes. But when police turned up, I kept to the alibi, thinking Oswald would confirm it. He did. What purpose would it have served to tell the truth? Which is that I was here, at home, with no witnesses.”
“That’s the thing about truth: it doesn’t have to qualify; it doesn’t have to have a purpose. The truth is its own purpose.” Jury paused, but Tom said nothing. “I’ve never worked on a case before where so many people kept so many secrets. Good night, Tom.”
“Wait!” said Tom quickly. “Let me have a word with the maître d’.”
“Just a moment.” Jury walked over to where the two men were standing, and said, “Mr. Williamson would like to speak to the maître d’.”
The taller of the two took the phone, spoke to Tom, and returned the phone to Jury.
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