"This would keep your sergeant out of doctors' offices for the next ten years," said Melrose.
"It smells absolutely wonderful, Sally," said Jury, with an equally wonderful smile.
She turned quickly and rushed off, the kitchen door swinging shut behind her.
"Nell Healey was a friend of this Ann Denholme?" asked Jury, after a few moments of solemn eating.
"I'm only telling you what Major Poges and the Princess said. Perhaps they got it from the moribund Ruby, I don't know. Or perhaps Ann Denholme mentioned it; I would imagine all of the publicity would have had the whole of Weavers Hall talking." Melrose raised a spoonful of the fish liquor to his mouth. "The only thing this lacks is a soupcpn of Old Peculier. It's rather good; it's rather pleasant to have your before-dinner sherry, your dinner, your after-dinner brandy all wrapped up in parchment. Saves a great deal of time."
Jury had nearly finished his meal. "Go on about the Hall."
"It's like a minstrel show. 'Tamara,' pardon me, Tamaw-a,' what a pseudonym. From New Yawk." He put down his spoon. "Except . . ."
"Except what?"
Melrose shrugged. "The place is eerie. . . ." He started to say something else, didn't know what he wanted to say, and shrugged again. "I don't know. 'Eerie' is the wrong word. I don't know the right one. Uncanny? No." There was a return of the anxiety Melrose had felt when he had stood in the courtyard lighting a cigarette for the sake of the flame.
"Don't worry about the right word. What was the feeling?" Jury pushed his plate away.
"Must you look so intense? I've given you a running account of the last three fun-filled hours at Weavers Hall." Melrose described the scene.
"The details might not be as important as their effect on you."
"You, a superintendent of police saying details might not be important? You want feelings?"
"Why don't you just say the first thing that comes to mind?"
"Tristesse," said Melrose. "Obscure," he added. "A gulf, a sadness, an obsessive sadness."
Jury pushed back his plate, folded his arms, and thought of Nell Healey.
"You know Nell Healey actually shot her husband," said Melrose. "It's not a question of innocence or guilt."
"It's a question of motive."
"But do you honestly think knowing that will save her?" Melrose frowned.
"Yes."
Melrose took out his cigar case. "Sounds to me as if she doesn't want to be saved. What if she feels so guilty about not paying the ransom for this boy that she no longer cares what happens to her?"
"Then she'd have killed herself, not her husband, who was, according to Macalvie, absolutely beside himself when she refused to pay. Roger Healey was far from being a pauper; he was well off, but he didn't have that kind of money. Not big money. Neither does Charles Citrine. And the money wasn't the only question, either; it was the rotten dilemma of what would be in Billy Healey's best interests." Jury took a cigar from Plant's case. "Then, of course, Billy was Roger's son; he was only Nell's stepson."
Melrose paused in the act of lighting their cigars. " 'Only'? Good grief, you're one of those espousers of the theory that blood is thicker than water?"
"Of course not. But nearly everyone pays Up service to that old shibboleth. The media would have had a high old time had it ever come out that it was Mrs. and not Mr. Healey who'd made the decision not to pay. Here's a woman rich as Croesus who wouldn't ransom her stepson. What does that look like? The evil stepmother looks in the mirror and sees the face of someone more beautiful. The competition, in this case, isn't Snow White, but her husband's son."
"I can think up an even chillier scenario."
Jury nodded. "Only I saw her standing in that wood like someone in a trance; she was looking at an old gate between stones that no longer served a purpose, where Billy Healey and Toby Holt used to play. The look was so intense that I swear I wouldn't have been surprised to see that boy materialize right before my eyes. Perhaps he had, before hers."
They both turned when a heavy, slightly stooped man with a checkered cap and an old brown cardigan, a trowel in his hands, came shuffling up to their table. His look was one of perpetual discontent, the narrow, tobacco-blackened line of his mouth downturned like a bulldog's. Glaring from the silver dish of vegetables to Jury and then Plant he asked, " 'Ow's them runner beans, then?"
Apparently, since the Old Silent's dining room was catering only for them that evening, all of the help had the run of the hall. This person before them would stand his ground and chew his tobacco until he'd got a report on the state of the vegetables. "Excellent. And you're Mr.—?"
"Oakes. Jimmy Oakes." He was picking up the dish and ruminating, apparently, upon the state of the runner beans. "Bad crop, it be."
"But these were very tasty, Mr. Oakes."
The man shrugged and let out a whistle of breath. "Sum-mat grundgy they be. Got 'em in Ha'erth."
"I don't understand, Mr. Oakes. You're speaking of your own crop having failed?" asked Melrose brightly.
"Thass it. Bad. F'got ta plant 'em."
He shuffled off with his trowel.
"Roger Healey," said Melrose, looking after Mr. Oakes, "what sort of person was he?"
"Straight as an arrow, according to everyone I've talked to. People who worked with him loved him. Charles Citrine thinks Roger Healey was one of the finest men he'd ever known and blessed the day he married his daughter. Nell Citrine, you see, was thirtyish, unmarried, and—to use his word—'unstable.'"
"Does that mean Miss Citrine was in and out of madhouses or had a difficult time choosing the correct sauce for the veal? When a man calls a woman 'unstable' it generally means she doesn't agree with him."
Jury mopped up the last bit of liquid with a piece of his bread roll. " 'Slightly eccentric' he said."
"She didn't share his political views, in other words."
"I appreciate that you defend her without meeting her. Do you have any of those cigars?"
Melrose took a leather case from his breast pocket. "I haven't met her, but you have; you said nothing about 'unstable' or 'eccentric'"
"The strange thing is, even with her killing her husband in the lounge of an inn . . ."He lit the cigar and shook out the match. ". . . she didn't strike me as anything but normal."
Except, he didn't add, for the silence. Jury crossed his arms on the table and turned the cigar in his mouth. "Citrine is an extremely low-key, affable man. Hands in pockets, walks and talks with a sort of self-deprecating air."
"So does our Mr. Oakes, but that doesn't make me want to trust him with my bean planting."
"Why is Nell Healey the blight in this crop of perfect people? Daddy sits down over drinks and tells the very su-perintendent who's witness against her she's unstable; Roger is a white knight and beloved of all. Except for the aunt."
"A notable exception, perhaps."
Jury made a circle with his wineglass and thought of Rena Citrine. "The aunt dislikes the family except for Nell Citrine. Though she strikes me as so self-engrossed she wouldn't do a hell of a lot by way of saving her."
"That's three for our side, though."
"Actually, four."
Melrose smiled as he watched the sweet trolley lumbering across the oak boards, Sally behind it. "Who's the fourth?"
"Brian Macalvie."
"How could he possibly remember her after a brief meeting eight years ago? Pardon me. Divisional Commander Macalvie never forgets." As the trolley came closer, he saw an enormous glass bowl of trifle wobbling about.
"He referred to her as 'one awesome lady.' "
"Good Lord, that's better than the Queen's patronage. So the cause is not lost."
"When it comes to Macalvie no cause is lost. As long as it's his."
"What'll it be, gentlemen?" asked the Old Silent's manager, later in the lounge.
"Pike liquor," said Melrose. "Or if that's unavailable, a glass of Remy. And coffee, thanks."
The telephone brr-ed insistently as the manager lo
oked a question at Jury. "Just coffee."
"Old Silent Inn," said the man into the receiver, rather grudgingly, as if he feared the name would bring a new onslaught of inquiry. He then turned, handed the receiver to Jury, and went about serving up the cognac.
"Just hope to God it isn't Racer."
It was Wiggins. "How are—" Jury decided not to complete the routine how are you; for Wiggins, the question was never routine. He settled for "Hullo, Wiggins."
Lack of inquiry notwithstanding, Wiggins proceeded to tell Jury both how he was and how the weather was, the two states being mutually dependent. "Right rotter, it is, here, sir. Winter rain. You know what that's like. . . ."
"I'd never noticed a difference between winter and summer, Wiggins. What have you—?"
"There definitely is, sir." Patiently Jury waited for him to complete the forecast for both Wiggins's bronchitis and his personal rain. Wiggins finally realized that the point of his call was the investigation he had undertaken in London and not the state of his health. "Sir, there's good news and bad news. Which do you want first?"
"Any news."
"The bad news is that not one single person I've talked to has anything negative to say about Roger Healey. I've talked to ten people on the staff of that magazine, and they all say the same thing, different words. Roger Healey was to them a marvelous person, an incisive critic, a practiced musician. Several of them said little Billy was close to a prodigy, and his father was that proud of him. This all came up when several of them mentioned how Roger was a tower of strength and a monument to grief over the boy's loss. . . ."
To Jury, such strength in the face of heavy loss seemed a bit appalling, a bit stone-cold, just as Wiggins's cliches implied.
"—but what's strange is that even the people, at least the three I talked to, whom Healey had cleverly insulted in his column didn't bear him any grudge or dislike him. The librettist, for instance, whose experimental opera Healey had dissected with a good deal of blood-letting actually laughed and said himself it was a rotten piece of work. His opera, not Healey's column."
Plant had taken his glass and coffee over to the fireplace where he was trying to knock the cat out of the sedan chair. "Did you talk to Mavis Crewes?"
"No, sir. She said she saw no reason to, as she'd enough of Scotland Yard and its insinuations. What did you insinuate?"
"That Nell Healey wasn't a combination of Scylla and Charybdis. What about Martin Smart?"
"I did. He was quite pleasant about it, though he didn't understand why I was there, since you'd already been."
"Incidentally, does Racer know you're questioning people?"
"The chief superintendent never thinks I'm working at all, sir," responded Wiggins with no hint of rancor.
Jury could hear crackling sounds in the background that could have been anything from a wrapper on a packet of throat lozenges to a crumbling of black biscuits. The persistence of telephone sounds when talking to Wiggins was like snow on a tape with the volume turned up.
"Now, the flutist, name of William Browne, was a bit more grim; still, he had to admit that Healey hadn't attempted to trash him: there was one piece out of the five he'd played Healey had liked in part."
"Sounds pretty trashy to me, one out of five."
"But I've read these reviews, sir. I have to admit that Roger Healey doesn't appear to be out to get the subject, or to be grinding an axe. His negative criticism is almost apologetic."
"Which would be an effective way of putting someone down."
Wiggins was silent. Then he said, "You appear to be somewhat biased against Healey, if you don't mind my saying so."
Jury smiled slightly. "I don't mind. And you're right." Jury was watching the black cat's progress round the sedan chair and Plant's attempts to ignore it.
"Though, actually, there might be something in what you say."
"Thanks. Go on."
"As I was saying about this piece in Segue: it was a review of a charity concert. Healey is handing out plaudits for most of the participants except for the oboe player and one other. Listen: 'The event of the evening was the appearance of Stan
Keeler of Black Orchid. I say "event" because of the awe in which this "underground" group is held by its devoted (fanatic) fans. Mr. Keeler displayed a formidable technique. Surprisingly, his technique is what he so often buries in Black Orchid's rare appearances aboveground. Black Orchid is the most exhibitionistic group to walk on a stage since Peter Townshend and The Who. I joined the audience in its applause for Mr. Keeler's rendition of his most famous song, "Main Line Lady." I applauded because Mr. Keeler didn't do a couple of lines right on stage.' My point is, sir, that not even Stan Keeler was much bothered by that."
"You mean you talked to him?"
There was a dramatic pause—or perhaps Wiggins had only turned to the hot plate and the kettle to refill his cup. "I certainly did, sir. Went to his flat in Clapham. He's got some kind of crazy landlady who protects him from the press, from reporters. I mean she's weird."
"What was his opinion of that review, then?"
"He laughed and had another drink. He was lying flat out in the middle of the floor. Said it helped him to think." The pause suggested that Wiggins himself was thinking things about this behavior. "Keeler just didn't seem to care."
"What about the good news, Wiggins? Or was that it?"
"Something like that, but more so. When I was in the magazine's offices, as I was leaving, I met a chap walking down the hall. At first I thought he was a janitor. Jeans and a black T-shirt. Carrying a mop and pail."
Again Wiggins paused as if waiting for Jury to agree that, yes, such a person might have been a janitor. "See what you mean. But he was one of the staff."
"Yes. He's the most popular columnist they have. He's their Pop person. You know—jazz, rock-and-roll. His name's Morpeth Duckworth. I thought I recognized him because his column's always got a little picture of him over his by-line. I stopped him and asked him about Healey's death. 'His wife did the greatest service to musical criticism ever done,' was his answer. He was just leaning on his mop and smoking I think it might even have been grass. I mean, in the offices—"
"You're right, Wiggins; go on."
"Of course, I asked him what he meant. What he said was—" Here Jury could hear the rasp of pages quickly turned. "—he said, 'Healey's generous contributions to this magazine have done a lot toward shining shit.' But this bit is more to the point. 'Healey was the quotidianal phony of the music world.' Then he picked up his mop and bucket and went on down the hall. I definitely think you should talk with him. Only—"
"Only what?"
"Well, if you don't mind me saying, sir, I think you better educate yourself just a little on the rock scene. To understand him."
Jury smiled, as much as Plant's manuevers with a rolled-up Country Life as at his sergeant's injunction. "Why bother, when I've got you? Terrific job, Wiggins. For the first time in this investigation I feel there's some hope. Mr. Healey may not be tapped for sainthood, after all. Maybe we can get him down off the monument. You did a good job."
"Always glad to be of assistance," said Wiggins, sounding almost priggish. But Jury could tell from the tone and the rhythmic tapping of the spoon against the cup that Wiggins was himself elated by the compliment.
"I'll definitely see him. Anything else?"
"That's the lot, sir."
Jury was about to say good-bye, when he remembered the earlier interview. "Wiggins. How did you manage to get past Stan Keeler's landlady?"
"I more or less collapsed in her hallway."
Jury frowned. "What was the matter?"
"I pretended I was ill."
17
The lop-eared dog Stranger had been busily digging about in the ice-crusted earth when, upon seeing Melrose's approach down the road from the Hall, he had immediately stopped to go and stand sentry at the door of the stone barn.
At this hour of ten in the morning, Abby Cable was going silently about
her tasks together with another little girl, whose name was Ethel (Melrose heard)—as in "Ethel, you didn't get this mash right again," and "You can't stick that into stone." The first complaint was directed toward a small tub with a spoon sticking up in it, the second toward the figure of Ethel, standing on a chair before a poster.
Ethel was the same size and probably the same age as Abby Cable. Stubbornly, she returned to trying to push a drawing pin (or so it looked to Melrose) into the corner of the poster. The luckless pin merely bounced out and the corner curled downward again. The other top corner held, since it was pinned to the wooden frame of the barn door, the walls made up of blocks of millstone grit.
Seeing it was useless, she jumped down from the chair, the face turned toward Abby a study in frustration.
Ethel's color began and ended in her light red hair. Her complexion was as pale as anything Melrose expected to see this side of the grave, dotted here and there with tiny buttery freckles. She had an etiolated neck set on small sloping shoulders above a white shirtwaist, a long white apron, and white stockings. She made Melrose think of a pint of cream.
Ethel nearly glowed with neatness, as if she'd been licked clean by cats. This was in contrast to the Fury, who, although at the moment living in the eye of the storm, still looked mud-splotched. Perhaps it was just the contrast; Abby was wearing her Wellingtons and a dark dress made of wool stuff and, this morning, a black shawl, as if there were no length to which she would not go to prove she was plain and grim.
Melrose observed them from the distance of the shadowy doorway, since Stranger had now been joined by a much larger dog, smooth-haired, about the size of a Scotch deer-hound, a hundred pounds, give or take. It slouched over to see if anything interesting was happening and stood there giving the impression that it wasn't any more eager to develop a more intimate relationship with this person than the border collie was. It annoyed Melrose that his championing the gray cat did not seem to admit him into the closed world of other animals. The cat itself was stretched out in a pool of cold sunlight and showed even less interest in his savior than did the dogs. They sat side-by-side, looking up at him.
Richard Jury Mysteries 10: The Old Silent Page 15