He picked up a currant bun and moved over to the window facing the wide lawn. The rain had ceased and the gray afternoon rendered the garden beautiful and disconsolate. The bugle-shaped, rich red Campsis; the roses and jasmine all climbing the high old brick wall; the flower beds of bulbs, lilies, and lavender bordering the lawn; the trees, shrubs, and high hedges: no wonder Henry James had loved living here, what consummate tranquillity for a writer.
He said, still looking out, “I think Billy Maples must have loved this place.”
“He seemed to, and that’s the truth.”
“It’s very odd but no one can fathom why he took up the lease. A citified young man such as he, buried away in this village?”
“It’s because he was so fond of Henry James.”
Surprised, Melrose turned to see that she had rolled out the pie dough and was now covering up the apple mixture she’d assembled.
“He did?”
“That’s what he read. He was always reading one of those books. Whenever I took in breakfast or afternoon tea, there he’d be with a Henry James book. He told me Henry James wrote his three greatest books here. I don’t remember…was one The Golden Bough?”
Mrs. Jessup seemed to be sharing the volume with Diane Demorney. “The Golden Bowl,” said Melrose.
“Yes, that’s it. And then there were two others. What were they called?”
“The Wings of the Dove and The Ambassadors.”
She was crimping the edges of the piecrust. “He said once, that’s what they’re like, families. Manipulating and vicious.”
“My goodness. That’s rather strong language. Do you suppose he was referring to his own family?”
She gave an abrupt laugh. “Wink’s as good as a nod, there!”
“Did you ever meet any of them?”
“Oh, yes. You know the type: never wanted for nothing, spoiled, rich, opinionated—” She was off on another rant. “Billy, I have to say, was awful spoiled. There’s things he’d eat and more things he wouldn’t; those he’d see, and those he wouldn’t. I couldn’t understand the lad, he was that moody.” She chuckled.
Well, she was back in good humor, Melrose was glad to see. “They, him and Mr. Brunner, went to that tomato-throwing place—such nonsense, don’t you think?—in that little town in Spain. You know, where they keep throwing tomatoes for hours and everybody’s covered in them.” She chuckled again. “Never wanted to see another tomato as long as he lived. I couldn’t even make spaghetti—me, I love spaghetti, though I can’t say I do most Italian food.” She shook her head and chuckled again. “Tomato throwing. Can you imagine grown-ups spending their time doing something so silly?”
“Oh, I don’t know—”
But she cut off his tomato reflection. “The worst of them was that grandmother. Would have thought she was the queen. She acted like she owned him—well, his mother was dead—that was Mr. Roderick’s first wife. At any rate, the grandmother was always talking to him about her, that’d be her own daughter, Mary. Talking on and on and naturally putting him off his stepmother. Still, I guess that stepmother isn’t much to write home about. Mrs. Ames—the gran—gave him money hand over fist, which he turned around and spent the same way.” She shook her head. “You oughtn’t to do that with a lad.”
Considering Melrose had been pretty much in the same hand-over-fist boat, he didn’t comment. Well, but he’d turned out all right, hadn’t he?
“What about his father?”
“Mr. Roderick? Oh, I expect he’s all right. Would be if he wasn’t married to that dreadful woman. I’m surprised you came back in one piece.”
Melrose was astonished. He’d never imagined Mrs. Jessup capable of such a louche judgment.
She went on, “Well, you were there. Don’t tell me she didn’t put herself round. Vamps, that’s what we used to call them.” She was knifing the extra dough from around the edge of a second pie.
Without confirming this verdict, Melrose said, “Then did she make a play for Billy?”
“I’d certainly think so. Billy was so attractive. Ten, fifteen years younger, but that makes no odds to the Olivias of this world.”
Melrose smiled. “What happened to his mother?”
“Boat accident. She drowned when she was not much over thirty. Well, what goes around comes around, is what I say.”
Melrose thought that a strange pronouncement. “Were you fond of Billy Maples?”
She didn’t answer immediately and Melrose wondered what she had to think about.
“I expect I was, yes. We were never about much at the same time, except meals and tea. It was Mr. Brunner who saw to the running of things, mostly.”
“He seems a nice enough chap.”
“Except he’s German.” With one smooth sweep of the hand holding the knife, she carved the excess dough away from the pie.
Melrose laughed. “You’re still fighting the war, are you, Mrs. Jessup?”
When she didn’t answer, he assumed this was a very sore spot and he should stop. And he didn’t want her to be suspicious of Lord Ardry’s hanging about the kitchen picking up broken tarts. He sighed. “It’s been a long day. I think I shall enjoy letting the National Trust know how the Babcocks’ visit turned out.”
Something then occurred to him. “The beastly child was licking a lollipop when they came in. I imagined she brought it into the kitchen, but I don’t see it. Did you?”
She put down the pie and looked about. “No, sir, I don’t recall seeing it.”
“I know she didn’t have it when they left.” He looked around the room, saw nothing resembling the hellish lolly. He wondered what Minnie had done with it.
“I suppose I’ll have to search for it. I’m surprised it’s not in my hair.”
Mrs. Jessup laughed. “Beastly child’s too good a name for that one. That one’ll go through life drowning kittens.”
He was searching the library bookshelves when the phone rang. It was Jury.
Melrose said, “I’m going to London tomorrow. I need a little peace and quiet. Living in a famous writer’s house has its drawbacks.” He related the afternoon’s festivities, wanting sympathy.
And getting none. “Kids have always been your bête noire. You want to argue with them, or reason with them. Neither’s going to work.”
“Argue? I don’t argue with a child.” He was at the dining room sideboard, opening drawers, looking inside.
“Well, then, you do seem to enjoy a confrontation with them.”
“You would have confronted this one; you’d have slapped her in the nick. Mrs. Jessup was beside herself.” He told Jury the whole thing in vivid detail.
Jury laughed.
“Henry James rarely had children in his stories, and no wonder.” Carefully, Melrose thumbed through the James notebook on the dining room table; the lolly might be stuck in between its pages. He wouldn’t put it past the wretched girl. “Did you know James wrote journal entries in this astonishingly good prose.”
“Yes. I looked at his notebook. Why are you surprised?”
“Well, just because his novels were beautifully written doesn’t mean everything was.”
Jury said, “I doubt the man was capable of slipshod writing.”
Melrose thought about this. “Maybe not. If you’re calling to ask whether I’ve found anything, the answer is no. Oh, but wait a bit—”
“What?”
“The reason Billy took Lamb House. According to Mrs. Jessup it’s because he loved James’s books. Always reading one, she said.”
“That’s interesting. I’m surprised. From what I’ve heard about Billy, he doesn’t strike me as having had that much patience.”
“You mean to read Henry James? That sounds like the kiss of death for any writer. If a book isn’t immediately engrossing, it’s doomed, don’t you think?”
“Like Proust? How many people are immediately engrossed there? I’ve only read the opening of Swann’s Way. That’s the only thing most people have read. The
y read up to the madeleine dipped in tea and then give up.”
“Anyway, according to Mrs. Jessup, that’s why he wanted to live here. She hasn’t much use for his family. The one she really hates is the grandmother.”
“Rose Ames?” Jury laughed. “Mrs. Ames criticized her cooking. Mrs. Jessup takes such criticism very seriously. Mrs. Ames’s daughter was Roderick’s first wife. She died in some boating accident.”
“Like Mrs. Jessup’s sister. Or sisters. Dora and somebody. An evacuation attempt to get children to Canada? Thwarted by a German sub.”
“Seavacs.”
“Who are they?”
“Not they. Evacuation by sea. Get it?”
There was a silence during which Melrose looked under the cushions of the parlor sofa.
“Are you still there?”
“I’m looking for the lollipop.”
“Oh, of course. Did I call at a bad time—?”
“No—There it is! There it is!” Melrose dropped the receiver.
Stuck to the bottom of James’s waistcoat in—or on—the portrait was the ghastly girl’s lollipop. What he surmised she had done was to step up on the stool and, unable to reach the hand or the mouth of the subject, had planted the lollipop there at the bottom.
Oh, where were the ghosts of Miss Jessel and Peter Quint when one needed them?
Behind him, the telephone squawked.
FORTY-THREE
This time it was the housekeeper who came to the door. She nodded and smiled when Jury told her who he was. He followed her into the cozy sitting room where Sir Oswald Maples was putting aside a book, his two canes balanced against the arm of his easy chair.
The housekeeper left and Jury could see Maples was about to hoist himself up. Jury dropped into the chair he had used before and sighed. “Hope you don’t mind my falling down in a heap. I’m knackered.”
“Not at all, Superintendent, but don’t you want to take off your coat?”
Jury looked at his coat as if he were reacquainting himself with it. He stood and removed it.
“Drop it anywhere.”
“I like your housekeeper.”
“I’ve had her for nearly ten years. She’s a nice woman. She doesn’t fuss. I hate fuss.”
“I wanted to talk to you about Roderick and Billy. Did Roderick know who his father was? And did he remember that day at the station?”
Oswald hesitated, as if he was not going to answer, then said, “He knows his father was an SS officer. He’s never asked me anything, though. The SS, well, that’s probably why he doesn’t want to talk about it. Whether he knows what General Röhm did that day in the station, I don’t know. He remembers the Kindertransport, of course, and his coming here to England.
“Did Billy know?”
“Billy?” There was an element of shock in the word. “No. I can’t imagine his father would have told him.”
“I think Billy might well have known.”
Oswald looked astonished. “Why would you think that?”
“You haven’t been to your son’s house in some time, have you?”
“Years. Only when Mary was alive. That’s a long time ago.”
“You haven’t seen the paintings Roderick acquired about a year ago?”
“No. Paintings?”
“Your son says they’re reproductions. One a Klimt, another a Soutine. Billy was suspicious; he took his friend Angela Riffley along to see what she thought. She’d been a curator, among other things, but whether or not she was qualified isn’t really relevant. Anyway, she assured Billy the paintings were originals. To confirm this, she tracked their history, did a provenance check. Those two paintings were on a list of Nazi-confiscated art. You know the way they looted; you know the way they stripped museums and private collections.”
“Yes, the Rothschild collection, that was one.”
“Angela Riffley found the history of ownership, how it left one hand and came into another. It’s not the paintings, you see, that are important here; it’s who had them.”
“Röhm. He must have left them with someone for safekeeping if Roderick has them now. And you think—”
“That Billy took this information and carried on with it. He found out who General Röhm was. I mean, if Roderick was heir to Röhm’s paintings, that would be reason to wonder just what his connection was. And he did find out.”
There was silence for a moment.
Then Jury said, “I think that confiscated art, the symbol of what Röhm and the Schutz—what’s the German?”
“You mean the SS. Schutzstaffel. Sounds almost harmless, doesn’t it? Like some Bavarian pastry.”
“The thing is, it might explain some of Billy’s actions with reference to art, the generous outpouring of money to the gallery he liked and to certain artists. Trying to make up for the atrocity of the past, trying in some small way to wipe out what his grandfather might have done. Billy had a conscience, a real conscience; he felt guilty, even though he’d done nothing himself.”
“Yes. I can see that. If, of course, your theory is right. It’s rather clever, but—”
Jury shook his head. “It’s not a theory. I know it’s right.”
“How?”
“My source was impeccable. A priest.”
Oswald blinked as if dazzled by light. “My word.” He shook his head. “But you’re right, it would explain his behavior.”
Jury got up. “I’ve got to go—no, don’t get up. There’s one question, though, that I couldn’t find an answer to, I mean until now. In all of this tracking down of the past—his father, the paintings, his grandfather—why didn’t he ask you? If anyone had answers, it would be you.”
“Yes. I wonder that myself. Either he thought I didn’t know anything or he didn’t trust me.”
Jury shook his head. “I’d say no to both of those possibilities. I finally worked it out.”
Despite Jury’s telling him not to get up, Sir Oswald did. “Then what?”
“He was protecting you.” Jury smiled. “He didn’t want you to share in his suspicions and later in his knowledge. He assumed you didn’t know. And you were protecting him for the same reason. I don’t know what that does for you, but it does a hell of a lot for me. Good-bye, Sir Oswald.”
Jury gave him a small salute and walked out.
FORTY-FOUR
Trevor, wine expert, was holding out a bottle for Harry Johnson’s inspection.
Jury sat down on the bar chair beside Harry and said, “Stick it to him, Trevor. Find one that costs at least a hundred quid.”
“I did.” Trevor applied the corkscrew.
“Hello, Mungo,” said Jury. The dog slid out from under Harry’s chair. Jury reached down and scratched his head.
It was a warm afternoon in the Old Wine Shades, insulated, really. Trevor took another glass from the shelf behind him and poured wine into both.
“The utter relentlessness of London’s finest astonishes me,” said Harry. His smile was touched by a sort of genial defiance. “That’s fine with me, only I’d think you’d have more interesting cases to be going on with.” He sipped his wine and made an appreciative sound.
“Golly, Harry, what could be more interesting than a highly cultivated psychopath with a lot of money?”
“Golly, Richard, let me know when you find one. But I’d think even that would wear thin after a while.”
“Don’t you believe it. We’re now seeing if the kids you kidnapped can identify your voice.”
“Really? Where are they, then?” Harry made a show of looking behind the bar, around the room, and under the bar chairs.
Mungo woofed again.
“Nope. No one here but Mungo.”
“It’s a tape, Harry.”
Harry raised his eyebrows. “Where did you manage to get me on tape?”
Jury wished the man would show some honest surprise. “Last time I was in here.” A lie.
“No! You’re saying you came in here wired?” Harry laughed. “I’ve
always wanted to say that word.”
“That’s right.”
Harry feigned indignation. “You’re interfering with my civil liberties. Or is that only in the U.S.? Surely that’s illegal.”
“Afraid not, Harry.”
“And what do these children say?”
“I don’t know yet.”
Harry lit a small cigar and, remembering Jury didn’t smoke, waved the smoke away. That just killed Jury. The man was a murderer, a kidnapper, a fraud, a nutcase, but he waved the smoke away. “Well, they won’t be able to do it.”
“And why is that, Harry?” Go on, say it, Because I didn’t talk to them. Say it!
“Because I wasn’t there.”
Hell. “Where?”
“Where? I assume there must have been a time and place where this scene unfolded, or are you back in the ten dimensions again?” Harry beckoned to Trevor. “This is great wine.” Then to Jury: “You want to make a mystery out of everything. I expect you can’t help it, though. What are you working on these days?”
Trevor refilled both glasses and went down the bar to the other end.
“That’s police business.”
“You know, it’s all so cops and robbers with you, Superintendent. Would I bother asking if it weren’t police business?”
“Just your garden-variety murder. Not nearly as interesting as yours.”
Harry made a tsking sound through his teeth. “I keep telling you I didn’t murder anyone.”
“And I keep not believing you. DI Dryer doesn’t believe you either. Don’t think he’s stopped working the case.”
“Ah, yes. He struck me as extremely intelligent, probably more than you. But not nearly so soigné.”
“Thanks.”
“So what is this one? Stabbing? Shooting? Garroting?”
Jury didn’t answer; instead he asked, “Have you ever been in a club called Dust?”
“You mean that place in Clerkenwell? It’s one of those trendy clubs with crazy live music where you can really get down. Barmen in torn T-shirts and so forth.”
“A hotel across Clerkenwell Road—”
Dust Page 24