When Jury walked into the George at six o’clock, he saw Jimi Haggis sitting at the bar, long legs hooked round the stool, spearing a piece of cold veal-and-ham pie.
“Hello, Jimi,” said Jury, taking the stool beside him.
“Richard! Hey, man.” Jimi clapped him on the shoulder and went back to his pickled onion, chasing it with his fork. Jimi was on the Drug Squad and Jury suspected one reason he liked it was, with the sort of assignments he got, he could wear his hair long and his shirt unbuttoned. He wiped a crumb of pastry from his drooping mustache.
They sat in companionable silence for a few moments. The pub was filling up with the after-work regulars and a lot of casuals. An especially plummy-looking young lady nestled herself onto the stool to Jimi’s right.
“Excuse me, sweetheart,” said Jimi, taking advantage of the way she was arranging herself to reach in front of her for the mustard pot. He managed to brush her breast and Jury saw her reflected brows pull together in mild anger when she looked at Jimi. Then, seeing Jury watching her, she looked off and then back. Jury smiled at her as if they shared a secret. Through the smoke of her cigarette, she returned what looked like more than a smile.
Jimi was dotting his pie all over with mustard and saying, “What I can’t understand is, here I am, with an old lady and three kiddies, two in nappies. Here I am —” And he spread his arms, again managing to brush the breast beside him and murmur, “Sorry, love — young, sexy, handsome, a free spirit, at least I feel like one. And there you are — big, solid, dependable as a safehouse — your eyes remind me of the London silver vaults, you know that? — anyway there you are, no responsibilities and the women melt at your feet. Here comes one now.” Jimi poked his fork toward the barmaid, Polly.
“ ’Allo, love,” she said to Jury, managing to ignore Jimi. “What’ll it be?”
“Best bitter and one of those Scotch eggs, Polly.” Between Jury and Jimi sat a cake stand with a high plastic dome. Polly plucked off the dome by its button and rolled an egg onto a little plate. She leaned across the bar, enhancing her cleavage. “Where you been, dear? This one’s in here every day, nearly. Don’t he do no work?”
Jimi scowled at her low, frilled neckline.
“He’s working right now.”
Polly saw the direction of Jimi’s eyes and waved her hand at Jury, winked, and moved off down the bar.
“That’s what I mean,” said Jimi. “I don’t get it.”
“I don’t either.”
“You have to admit I got a certain appeal.” He paused, as if his whole sense of identity were tied to Jury’s reassuring nod. “Last night, let me tell you, I had one with a pair like —” He held his hands palm up and moved them as if weighing fruit, then grabbed the dome housing the pyramid of Scotch eggs and rested his forehead against the plastic.
Jury shook his head. Jimi was one of the best men they had, probably the best on the Drug Squad, though he was younger than most of them, some ten years younger than Jury himself. He exuded supreme self-confidence on the job; off, it was something else again. He needed every last crutch he could find, Jury being the one to bear the most weight.
“That redhead you used to go round with,” said Jimi. “What happened to her?”
Maggie was a snapshot in his desk drawer. That’s where he’d buried her. But he still exhumed the body now and then. “She married somebody else. An Australian.”
Jimi looked at him in genuine disbelief. “Married someone else? And an Aussie to boot? Christ. Hasn’t there been anyone —”
“Why don’t we drop it, Jimi?” He looked at the girl beside Jimi. She was dressed in burgundy and her arm lay like silk along the dark mahogany.
“Okay, man, okay.” Jimi held up his hands, then went back to his meal. “Hear you’re getting that long-overdue promotion.”
“Not bloody likely, as the flowergirl said.” Jury didn’t feel like talking anymore about either women or promotions; he flung some coins on the bar and got up. “I’m meeting someone, Jimi. I’ll see you later.”
All the way across the room he felt the velvet look of the girl in burgundy.
• • •
The door swished open and Melrose Plant walked in, searched the crowd, saw Jury, and pushed his way through what was by now quite a crush.
“Benderby, old chap!” said Melrose.
Jury kicked out a chair. “Sit down, Mr. Plant. Benderby and I thank you for your notes. And the picture. Come on, now, how’d you do it?”
“Give Scotland Yard my methods? Why on earth should I? I’m for getting a drink. Want another of those?” Plant pointed at Jury’s glass with his silver-knobbed stick.
“Don’t mind if I do. You can buy.”
Melrose took the glass, put his stick on the table, and pushed back through the crowd. Jury hitched a chair closer under the table and put his feet on it. Dog-tired, he was. Idly he rolled the stick, picked it up, got curious and monkeyed around with the knob. He pulled on it. A sword-stick. Christ.
Back with the drinks, Melrose sat down and launched into an account of his night and day, beginning with the picture, which he passed over to Jury. “We know Crael knew her, then. But which one did he know? I mean, which one was she?”
“Gemma Temple,” said Jury, pocketing the picture. “She drove up to Rackmoor in her roommate’s car because her own had learner’s plates. Gemma Temple was only just learning how to drive.”
“And Dillys March was always driving that red car. For God’s sake.”
Jury nodded and they were both silent, looking into their beer. Jury leaned back and looked through the top of the leaded-glass window where the lamp came on. The apricot light of a rare, sunny-cold day had disappeared from the tulip-tracery of the glass and London was glooming over into early evening. But it did not produce a feeling of gloom in Jury, who could sense, even in the smoky pub the hint of snow outside. London in winter was for Jury the best of seasons. Streets soggy as old gloves; damp, rubbery smell of Wellingtons; mounted horses steaming in the palace grounds. He loved London, and the knowledge sometimes caught him unaware.
“The way I read it is that Julian Crael saw Gemma Temple somewhere and was overwhelmed by her resemblance to Dillys March. I believe Dillys meant far more to Julian than he ever admitted. So he and Gemma became lovers. Gemma saw a way to cut in on a fortune. He must have told her a great deal about himself, his family, his home — and Olive Manning. I think he was about to ditch Gemma, perhaps seeing how threadbare this fantasy was he was living. So Gemma got in touch with Olive and they worked out this little swindle.”
“Wait a minute: Olive Manning denied right from the beginning the woman was Dillys March. It doesn’t make sense, if she wanted the Colonel to believe Dillys had come back.”
“True. I don’t get that either. All I know is that she and Gemma were in the thing together. And if the thieves fell out, that’s a damned good reason for murder —”
“There’s a better, isn’t there? Julian Crael’s.”
“I know he’s your favorite suspect. But why would he murder her? Why not, instead, just tell his father the whole story? Julian knew the woman wasn’t Dillys March. And don’t forget that alibi of his —”
“You really don’t think he did it, do you? You certainly keep defending him.”
“I don’t know who did it, I’ll tell you that. And I’m not ‘defending’ him.” Jury wondered if that were true. Why would he feel such empathy for a man so distant, cool, and — come on, be reasonable — with the strongest motive? Julian Crael was a weight on his mind, and he was probably rationalizing away Plant’s perfectly justifiable suspicion.
Yet he thought of Julian, standing in the winter light of the drawing room, his arm across the mantel, under the picture of that silk-shawled, exquisite woman who had been his mother. And he felt the same chill sitting here in the noise of this smoke-filled pub as he had sitting there in the silence of that drawing room listening to Julian. “I thought, you know, she might be dead.�
�� There was just that hint of question in the words as when the speaker does not himself understand what he has said, as if Julian expected something beyond him, something vast — the moors perhaps, or the sea — to give him back an answer.
Who might be dead? wondered Jury.
“You don’t want him to be guilty.” Plant’s statement cut through his thoughts and made him realize that while he had been thinking he had been staring at the girl in burgundy still sitting at the bar.
Angry with himself, he finished off his pint quickly, and said, “It’s nearly seven. We’d better be pushing off. It’s a six-hour drive back to Rackmoor. I’d certainly like a word with Olive Manning.” Plant’s look was like an arrow. “Yes, I heard what you said. Whether I want or don’t want someone to be guilty is beside the point. Remember, though, Crael has an alibi.”
Plant still sat there, now sighting down the length of his walking stick. “Is that all? Alibis have had holes punched in them before.”
14
“Shall we stop and rout out Agatha? She will report only to you, remember. I wonder how she’s getting on with the search for the claim check?”
From under his hat, Jury said, “I think I’ll forgo that little pleasure, if you don’t mind.”
They were taking turns spelling one another on the driving and had made good time. Melrose had been driving since they’d stopped at an M1 cafe for a cup of coffee and a slice of dreadful pie. “You know,” said Melrose, “the killer just might have mistaken Gemma Temple for Lily Siddons. But what in hell would the motive be?”
“The Colonel is very fond of Lily Siddons,” Jury said, his voice muffled by his pulled-down hat. “As fond as ever he was of Dillys March. I think.”
“Well, good God, he’s fond of half the county. I hope we’re not going to be finding corpses all over Yorkshire.”
Jury didn’t answer.
Melrose assumed he was dozing and drove the Jaguar up to ninety.
15
Plant had excused himself discreetly and gone to his room, and Wood — unable to hide his surprise at the request — had gone to summon Olive Manning.
Everyone else in the house seemed to be asleep, for which Jury was just as glad; he wanted to create as little stir as possible.
• • •
Jury was standing in the Colonel’s snug, the Red Run Room, when Olive Manning appeared. In her bathrobe, without her keys, and with her hair undone from its intricate coil, Olive Manning looked somewhat more human. Nor was she, Jury found to his relief, going to waste any time.
“Fanny always did talk too much,” was the first thing she said. Like Jury, she preferred to stand to say it.
“How did Gemma Temple manage to find you, Mrs. Manning?”
“Through Julian, of course. He was extremely indiscreet. However, the whole thing worked to my advantage — would have, I should say, had someone not killed the woman.”
“ ‘Someone’? Not you, Mrs. Manning?”
“Decidedly not I. Although it will be difficult to convince you of that, I’m sure.”
“Your connection with Gemma Temple would certainly point in that direction. But let’s back up: I mean, more specifically, how did Gemma Temple know you were visiting your sister?”
“She called here, first. Wood, or someone, told her I was visiting in London. She rang up there, told me she had something of great importance to impart about Dillys March. I was stunned. Who was this stranger who knew something about a girl missing for fifteen years? She was at the Sawry Hotel. Julian had just left that morning — I later found out. When I saw her —” Olive Manning shut her eyes. “The resemblance was absolutely uncanny. Well, of course, I thought it was Dillys. The woman was at least smart enough to know that the information she had about Dillys, about the past at Old House, simply wouldn’t stand up to close scrutiny. Had it not been for that, I think she might have gone along there and tried it on her own. She needed a bit of teaching; she needed some smoothing out if she were to pass herself off as Dillys.” Olive Manning said it with perfect equanimity, and no remorse.
“So you went along and did the smoothing.”
“Yes.”
“How could you hope to get this by Julian? He would never have allowed the woman to live here, impersonating his cousin —”
“Live here? Good Lord. Neither would I. She was to collect the fifty thousand and we were to divide it. That’s all. Why would Julian allow it? ‘Allow’ might not be precisely the term, you know. Could he have convinced the Colonel she wasn’t Dillys March? Gemma could have matched any story Julian might have told his father. And would very much have enjoyed that little bit of play-acting, too.”
“Why not go the simpler route of blackmailing Julian, then?”
“For one thing, I don’t think Julian would have paid up. He’s very much the ‘publish and be damned’ sort, you know. For another, he couldn’t have got his hands on that much money that quickly.” She smiled slightly. “Poetic justice, you see. Dillys March was allowed by the Craels to ruin my son. I thought I deserved to see ‘her’ make Julian squirm.”
A tender woman, thought Jury. “How did she meet Julian in the first place?”
“Accident. In a railway station — Victoria, I believe.”
“At first you denied the possibility of her being Dillys. Was that to give added weight to your opinion when you finally came round to saying that perhaps she could be, after all?”
“Precisely, Inspector. I thought I shouldn’t be too easily convinced at the outset.”
“There were no proofs.”
“I did have access to some papers. A copy of Dillys March’s birth certificate, some other things. If it really had come to the point. But you don’t know Colonel Crael very well if you think it would have. He’d have given her her ‘inheritance,’ never fear. Still, I could have had ‘Dillys’ produce something at the appropriate moment.”
“The moment never came.”
There was a long silence. She sighed. “Well, Inspector. Before you set the dogs on me, I would like to make a bargain with you.”
That she was in no position to bargain didn’t seem to occur to her. They might have been haggling over the price of the green velvet love seat on which she was now resting her hand. In the dim light of the frosted globe — the only lamp which Wood had turned on — the rose topaz ring on her finger glittered.
“What sort of bargain, Mrs. Manning?”
“You see, I’m admitting rather freely to — fraud, I guess you’d call it. And I’ll give you no trouble on that score. However, I feel I’ve the right to try and clear my name of murder. I can’t do that if you take me away.”
Jury smiled slightly. “It’s up to us to do that — clear you, that is — if it can be done.”
She shook her head. “There would be no assurance of success. All I want, Inspector, is some four or five hours time. There’s a hunt tomorrow — I should say this morning. If you could allow me some freedom of movement only until then —”
“In four or five hours you could be far away from here—”
She snorted. “Oh, come now, Inspector. I’ve no place I want to go. I’ve no life apart from Old House except my son, and how could I ever see him again if I should scarper?”
He liked the word on her tongue. Jury smiled. “What is it you intend to do? In this bargain, what will be my reward if I allow you those hours?”
“I think perhaps I can flush a fox out of covert for you, Inspector. Tomorrow, as the Colonel is fond of saying” — she smiled — “we get out the old red rag.”
· VI ·
The Old Red Rag
1
AT 8:30 A.M., Melrose Plant, breakfastless, with only a draught from a mind-numbing stirrup cup to sustain body and soul, was picking himself up off the ground. He had already taken one fall a half-hour ago when his mount just barely missed clearing a wall. Now it had gone down jumping a beck and he was dusting himself off and remounting. It was as well his mind was numb, fo
r so were his hands and feet. What feeling of gentlemanly obligation to his host had cured his dicky knee and dragged him from a warm bed into the cold, dark hour of six, Melrose couldn’t imagine. A rare scenting day and rising glass, the Colonel had kept declaring with obnoxious regularity.
Melrose remounted. The scent and the glass could rise to heaven, for all he cared. He wasn’t interested in hounds nor fox, but he was very curious about people. Here they were chasing across the moors, scarlet-coated, swallow-tailed, tweeded, galloping about as if there’d never been so much as a scratched face or a torn coat (plenty of both), not to speak of murder.
He surveyed what part of the field he could see — pinks and Melton coats, derbies, velvet caps on the women, stocks, boned boots, jeans and sweaters. A motley crew, all apparently having a spanking good time out here on this heathen moor in the wet and the fog and the snow. A band of hardy foot-followers crowned the hill in the distance like spectators at a cricket match. Only God knew where the huntsman was; Melrose hadn’t seen him since they’d hacked to covert where Tom Evelyn had made his draw a half-hour ago.
Peering through the mist he thought he made out the Colonel, and since Evelyn was not in evidence, Melrose thought half the pack must have slipped aside on another fox, for Colonel Crael had lifted his hat and was giving the “view hallo.”
The gray he was riding was enamored of it all, even if Melrose wasn’t, and when hounds started throwing tongue it set off again at a fresh gallop. Thank heavens it was open country, few fences and no wire. Melrose kept his head down as the gray took what seemed to be a double ditch. Now the tail hounds were away in the mist so that they were following with ears rather than eyes.
The gray flung itself over another ditch and Melrose expected to see the cold ground come up in his face at any moment. Over the sound of other hooves splintering the frosty ground, Melrose could hear hounds racketing away. When there was a clear patch in the fog he made out a cluster of horses and riders, all halted at a long stone wall. He assumed the Colonel had found and was just as glad of it. Now maybe they could go back and eat and be civilized. He broke his horse’s gallop, trotted up, and dismounted where ten or a dozen riders were doing the same.
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