“Why any of them? Souvenirs.”
“Then you didn’t go with your husband?”
“Of course I did. I wasn’t about to be left out of that male enclave.”
“I was thinking about Hemingway, looking at that wall.” He tilted his head toward it as if there might be a dispute as to where the “souvenirs” hung.
“Ah, yes, Ernest. We knew him. At a distance, but we knew him. My family I mean, my father. I was a small child that summer in Paris, but I can still remember sitting at a table at Flore and Ernest at the one beside ours with a friend who was telling stories and making him laugh like crazy. It might have been Scott Fitzgerald, I don’t know. And after that—”
Thus her conversation went among luminaries and those lit by them, from Provence to Alpine heights, to roaring waters, to some island in the Caspian Sea, to a savage tribe in Borneo that had Jury looking back at the wall and those misshapen brown objects.
She seemed to have done everything that was doable. Except, perhaps, murder—not that she couldn’t do it, but had she? He wouldn’t have been surprised. In all of this geography, she wasn’t attempting to avoid Clerkenwell, Jury was pretty certain. He was also pretty certain she would be up to the murder at the Zetter, or any place else. If she hadn’t been the one to barter for those shrunken things on the wall, she was just the one to display them. If she wasn’t a Kurtz, neither was she a Marlow who worried about the collapse, the crumbling of civilization. Mrs. Riffley would be worried only about where she might be seated in the rubble.
No, Angela Riffley’s mise-en-scène was the mysterious and exotic and her conversation was all in the interest of keeping her companion’s attention. If she felt interest in her was flagging, she would leap from one smooth rock to the next in very dangerous waters. She took, really, all sorts of chances, including the one that you wouldn’t believe her. For one like Mrs. Riffley, whose life was all anecdote, that could result in disaster.
Had Billy Maples been serious about this woman? Very possibly. She was entertaining, seductive, obviously rich. There wouldn’t have been a question about being after Billy’s money.
“I understand Billy Maples was your fiancé.”
“Lover is a better word.”
“You weren’t planning on marrying?”
“God, no. Why would we do that?”
“Too bourgeois?”
She smiled. “Too boring.”
“But you broke it off.”
“Yes, by mutual agreement.”
“There were no hard feelings?”
“Not at all. Ah!” she inhaled deeply. “A motive: the woman scorned. Or perhaps the older woman left for a younger?”
“Did that happen?”
“No. I’m a suspect?”
“Of course.” She’d like that. “Although we like to say witness.”
“Say anything you like!”
“You went about together?”
She gave him a look. “‘About’? What else is a couple to do?” She said this with a chortle. “But I hadn’t seen him in weeks.”
“Have you been to Dust? More club than pub, really. A bit of nightlife.”
“No, I’ve never been, actually. Was that one of Billy’s haunts? Dust. That reminds me of Byron. Billy liked poetry, you know. Byron described himself as ‘half deity, half dust.’ Billy liked to say, ‘Drop the deity half and you have me.’”
Jury smiled. “Dust. That’s how he saw himself?”
“I think he would have said that’s how all of us must see ourselves. Byron claimed he was cursed, that is, he thought the Byron name was cursed.”
“Did Billy think that of the Maples name?”
Angela gave a short laugh. “Not Billy. He wasn’t really into self-dramatization. Although I will say he was awfully moody, rather mercurial.”
“What caused this, do you know?”
She shook her head. “There never seemed to be, you know, an actual reason.”
“These places—hotel, club, church—are quite close to one another. The barman in Dust remembered Billy. The priest at Holy Redeemer had seen him in church. Indeed, Billy had taken confession.”
Her eyes widened. “Billy? Confession? That’s ridiculous.”
“Was Billy then so opposed to organized religion?”
“Not at all. He simply wasn’t involved. Oh, it’s a long story.” She waved away the long story with a gesture of her cigarette holder, stubbed out the cigarette, and planted another in it.
“I’m good for long stories.”
“I’m not.”
She was, apparently, not going to add to this. “Had his behavior changed at all recently? Did he seem, well, distant?”
“Preoccupied. Yes, something did change. But I don’t know what caused it. What was different was hard to pin down.”
“But you felt it.”
“Oh, I felt it, yes.”
Jury thought for a moment. “You didn’t go to the art gallery reception? No, you couldn’t have done because you said you hadn’t seen Billy in weeks.”
“That’s right.”
“According to Hilda Tripp, this reception was for an artist named Getz Johns.”
“John Getz, that’s his name. He switched the name around so it would sound more interesting. Perhaps he was thinking of Jasper. Did you see his work? It’s what you’d expect. Insufferable. Like him.”
Jury laughed. “It certainly sounds so. Who’s the man—Kurt Brunner—that Billy shared his flat with in Sloane Street?”
“Oh. Him.” A slight shrug of the shoulders. “He was somebody Billy met when he was in Germany. Berlin, I think. As Billy put it, they just fell in together. So he took Kurt on as a kind of assistant. I don’t know why he’d need one. But Billy was funny that way. He didn’t have many friends, but the ones he had—like me—he was very intense about.”
It was clear she didn’t like Kurt Brunner, possibly because she was jealous of that particular intensity. She might regard these relationships as taking away from her own. “Why did he decide to take on Lamb House?”
She looked quizzical. “Lamb House?”
“The house in Rye. It once belonged to Henry James.”
“Oh, that. I’ve never been there.”
It almost sounded as if she thought her absence or presence in Billy’s affairs was what validated them. That she’d never been to Rye to see him made Jury wonder just how “intense” Billy had been about her.
She said: “I do remember his talking about it. I told him he was ridiculous for thinking he’d like living in a little town like Rye, nothing to do, no museums, no Tate Modern or Britain, no theaters. I told him he’d not last more than a day there. So I expect I was wrong as he was there for months.” She reached for the coffeepot, set a hand against it. “Cold. But I could do some more.”
“No, thank you. I’ve got to be getting on.”
She went with him to the door. Sadly, she said, “I’m really going to miss him.”
This at least Jury could accept as utterly sincere and true.
Even Jury was beginning to miss him.
TWENTY-ONE
Melrose Plant set his mental clock back forty years and walked into Boring’s and felt right on time and right at home.
There were many gentlemen’s clubs in London but none quite like this one. There was White’s, there was Boodle’s. There was the Garrick Club, catering for those men who shared an interest in the theater.
Boring’s, on the other hand, catered to nothing. The only reason to be in Boring’s today was because one had been here yesterday. Its members shared no particular interest, interest being pretty much catch as catch can when one was talking over a glass of whiskey in front of one of the lazy fireplaces, resting places for logs that drifted their flames about instead of shooting them.
Looking around, one might think the members had a lot in common, or shared some common goal, but that was in appearance only, skin deep, or newspaper deep. It was as though there used to be
a world here in which members and staff “hung fire” (as James’s characters are always doing), just sitting around waiting for the end of the sentence. It was delightful.
His suitcase beside him, Melrose stood in the hall, marveling at Boring’s managing to look exactly the same as before. True, “before” had been only a few weeks ago, but weeks or years made no difference in Boring’s. Wasn’t that the same fly that hung in the golden motes of light streaming through the front windows?
Melrose’s light-drenched daydream was interrupted by a voice addressing him. “Lord Ardry! So nice to have you with us again!”
On the other side of the reception desk stood a small man with a face like a walnut who looked a hundred and probably was. Probably born in Boring’s and happy to remain.
“It’s Wendell, isn’t it?” said Melrose. Wendell hadn’t been here the last two or three times; Melrose had naturally assumed he was dead.
“That’s right. How’ve you been keeping, m’lord?”
“Fine, just fine.” Melrose took a mint from a Lalique bowl. “What room am I to be in tonight?”
“We’ve put you in the Dolphin Room, Lord Ardry. I hope that will be to your satisfaction.” The old porter came around from behind the desk and made to pick up Melrose’s case.
“No, no, thank you, Wendell. I’ll do it.” He was afraid the little man might drop down in a heap if he carried as much as a whiskey glass.
The Dolphin Room looked to be exactly like the room he’d had before, which had another name—Whale or Great White Shark?—all equally irrelevant. He stood looking around and was then struck by a small epiphany: Boring’s was in the realm of the Platonic idea; Boring’s was the idea from which all other men’s clubs were fashioned. The others were but shades. Boring’s was the real thing!
This pleasant realization stayed with him as he did his mite of unpacking after which he went downstairs for a drink.
Thus at seven o’clock, Melrose was seated in the Members’ Room, waiting for Jury, whiskey in hand and looking, he was sure, as if he’d never left, like the little group chatting over there, or the several more in various states of somnolence. And this was the lively hour, the sacred hour when drinks are taken and dinner is soon to be.
His pals, Major Champs and Colonel Neame, were not here. He enjoyed the hush. No raised voices, no raucous laughter, no mobile phones.
He opened The Sacred Fount, followed the account of a house party at Newmarch that was relayed by the unbelievably nosey narrator, and thought about this singular exchange of a life force that rendered the young partner old and the old one young. So it was for the Brissendens, and so it might be for others at Newmarch, were the narrator able to discover them.
What the deuce was Henry James up to with this vampire theme? Mulling this over, Melrose held his not-quite-empty glass up over the back of his wing chair as a sign for the porter to bring another and felt it immediately slipped from his hand—damn but these porters were quick!—and a voice saying thanks.
He whipped his head around and found Richard Jury downing the last of the whiskey. He returned the empty glass to Melrose. “I needed that.”
“Well, get your own.”
“I intend to. What are you reading?”
The young (the only young) ginger-haired porter was sloping by with his tray and took the order for two whiskies.
“The Sacred Fount. It’s ponderous.”
“It’s Henry James, for God’s sakes. What would you expect?”
“Well, I can’t picture Henry James writing about vampires.”
“It’s not about them; it’s the theme.”
“How can it be a theme if there aren’t any vampires trooping in from Transylvania?”
“That’s Dracula,” said Jury. “He is not the only vampire in town.”
“So there are vampires in the story, just not Dracula.”
Trying to be patient, Jury said, “No. There are no actual, real, living—well that could be better put—no actual vampires.”
“So that’s what’s going on with the Brissendens? There’s this couple named Brissenden. The narrator is startled to see that Mrs. Brissenden looks much, much younger than she did when last he saw her, and that Brissenden, who is actually over a decade younger than his wife, now looks twenty years older.” Melrose, as enamored of this tale as if he himself had written it, leaned forward in his chair. “So you see, Mrs. Brissenden is drinking at the sacred fount of her husband’s life force. She is not drinking blood, but life.”
“What’s for dinner tonight?”
Melrose fell backward. “You didn’t hear one thing of what I just said.”
“Yes, I did. I drank in every bloody word.”
“Very funny. Hysterical. Let’s eat.”
They had their long-running contest over what Boring’s would be serving for dinner. This evening Jury had guessed sole and Melrose beef.
Young Higgins snapped the big snowy napkins into their laps and said, “Tonight, we’ve an excellent Dover sole.”
Melrose swore softly. They ordered sole.
“I’ve worked it out, the reason you win,” said Melrose when Young Higgins had taken himself off to get the soup. “Before you come into the Members’ Room you nip round to the kitchen and see what’s on for dinner.”
“Don’t be absurd. Do you really think I’m that childish? You’re just sore because you lost again. What wine are we having?” Jury had opened the wine list. “Here’s a nice Côtes du Rhône for a hundred quid the half. Can you afford that?”
Melrose snatched the leather holder from Jury’s hand. He settled on a Chardonnay at thirty quid and said, “Can I afford it? Why am I always paying for dinner?”
“Because you’re rich.”
“Well, it’s a point. What have you found out?” he asked as Young Higgins placed their soup before them.
“About what?”
“About what? About the reason we’re here. About Billy Maples, about murder, about Lamb House.”
“Just a bit ago I talked with Billy’s former lover. They split up. She’s a woman named Angela Riffley.” Jury laughed and shook his head.
“What’s so funny.”
“It’s just that she’s so…indefatigable. I mean, I doubt there’s anything you can think of she hasn’t done, or at least is extremely talented in giving the impression she’s done.”
“Heh, heh. The talented Mrs. Ripley.”
Jury laughed. “Very good. That’s her in a nutshell. Everyone says Billy Maples was moody. I get the impression it might be more than moodiness. He might have been manic-depressive. Now of course we use the euphemism bipolar disorder.”
“You think that was Billy’s problem?”
“I know I’d like to see some medical records. Or it’s quite possible that he was never diagnosed.” Jury felt cheered by the displacement of soup for sole. Was there anything finer than a Dover sole? With it were new potatoes, carrots, and brussels sprouts. “Hilda Tripp—”
“Who’s she?” Melrose broke off part of a bread roll.
“As far as Hilda’s concerned, Billy walked on water.” Jury went over the conversation in the art gallery.
“What about this Brunner chap? Or Billy’s grandfather? He should know him better than almost anyone, from what you’ve told me.”
“Sir Oswald said he had mood swings. My mood right now, for instance, is really good because once more I won the dinner contest.”
“I’m glad you weren’t in on the Henry James contest. I’m looking forward, actually, to Lamb House. It will be quite pleasant to steep myself in the Jamesian atmosphere.”
Jury wasn’t sure he liked the sound of that. “Just remember what you’re there for. Don’t start in writing, or anything like that, for God’s sakes.”
“Writing who? You?”
“Not letters. A book. Before you’ve been in Lamb House twenty-four hours, you’ll be fancying yourself a novelist.”
“Don’t be absurd. Although, you know,
I could finish my detective novel.”
Jury speared a new potato and groaned. “With that detecting couple? Nick and Nora?”
“Norma.”
“Oh, well, that’s a relief. I thought you were ripping off The Thin Man.” Jury cast about for Young Higgins. “Where is he? I’d like some more sprouts.”
“Veggies.”
“That’s a word that should be driven to the ground with a stake through its heart. One more American expression that managed to make the transatlantic trip when it should have drowned. Why do Americans have to be so damned cute?”
“I don’t know. We could ask the Boston Strangler. What am I there for? In Lamb House, I mean.”
“To look and listen. Not to write a novel.”
“I’m looking and listening twenty-four hours a day?”
Jury nodded.
“What, I can’t entertain myself by puttering around the garden and snapping beans for the cook?”
“No. The cook, incidentally, you should keep on, along with any other staff. It’s Kurt Brunner, especially, I want you to listen to.”
“Should I be wired?”
Jury looked up from his Dover sole at Melrose’s simpering grin. He matched it with a grin of his own. “You already are.”
What was that supposed to mean?
TWENTY-TWO
It was a soft April day and his lamb’s wool coat was too hot. Melrose removed it and was about to toss it over a chair when he remembered whose house this was. Or had been.
Was it to be like this with every curtain and rug, every ornament and ashtray? Ashtrays made him wonder if Lamb House was a smoke-free establishment. That was a detail he hadn’t stopped to consider. He would probably be taking his smokes on the stoop or in the garden. He could only hope that wasn’t part of the zone, too.
It was absurd for him to feel like an intruder, as if even displacing the air he moved through was an intrusion. Would he be able to sit in a chair, drink from a cup, eat with a fork? Well, it was he who had told the lady from the National Trust that, no, he didn’t need to be met at the house; he could handle the move.
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