The Old Contemptibles

by Grimes, Martha

  “You don’t know them, do you? Just because you’re a policeman, do you think you can predict everyone’s behavior?”

  Jury ignored that.

  He had risen from the bed where he’d been sitting and come over to put his hands on her shoulders and look at her in the mirror. Everything about her presence seemed charged—her breathing, her eyes, the electricity that lifted a fine veil of hair. “Janey, you’re not thinking straight.”

  “Thank you for that!”

  Jury retrieved the silver-backed brush and went to brush her hair, thinking it might calm her, but she pushed his hand away. In a smaller voice and looking down at the table top, she said, “A remittance woman, that’s what Genevieve called me, oh, with a smile, naturally.”

  “What on earth is that supposed to mean?”

  Now she was brushing her own hair, furiously. “That what I live on came from my family, and it’s not much. That we live in Lewisham. That I don’t have a job. That I’ve lost four in as many years, even if two were unfairly lost. . . . Well, it’s true, I have no head for business or money. That the next move will be into a cold-water flat—”

  “How about mine?” Jury reached down and kissed her cheek.

  Then she started weeping soundlessly, tears running slowly down and splashing, one by one, on the glass-topped table as she raised her hand to cover his. “Oh, Lord, I’m so sorry. Why do I have to take it out on you?” And then she turned swiftly and grabbed him round the waist and clung.

  “Take it out on me, anytime, love. Anytime. And what on earth’s wrong with this house? Two up, two down, perfectly respectable.”

  He could feel her breath warm through his shirt as she said, “How the hell would you know?” She laughed. “You told me you couldn’t picture anything but the bedroom.” She looked up at him and smiled, then leaned her head against him again. “The thing is, it’s the fourth move in five years. It makes me look unstable—that and the joblessness, and the way they say I bring him up. He’s been sent down from school—the one I borrowed from a friend to pay for, but don’t tell him—three times.”

  “Sounds like you make a great pair. What did he do? Cheat on a test? Tell off the headmaster?”

  “Him? He doesn’t get angry. Or doesn’t let it show. He’s more stable than even you.”

  “Impossible.”

  “Probably cleverer too.”

  “More impossible.”

  She picked up the picture. “Handsomer.”

  “Now you’re really being absurd.” Jury lifted her from the dressing-table stool. “I’m afraid to meet this paragon.”

  “Oh, he’s not. I don’t think he always tells me the truth, you know, about his activities. But one time the accompanying missive from the headmaster claimed he’d been caught with a deck of cards.” She was unbuttoning Jury’s shirt.

  “Keep going.”

  Jury took the brush from her. He was relieved she was on lighter, airier ground, talking of her son.

  “He made a lot of it, you know—the tuition—odd jobs, he claims. They must have paid well.”

  Jury smiled. “He doesn’t sound like a kid in need of a change of venue.”

  2

  Jury would never have gone inside the little shop unless a friend had told him about it. It looked more like a costumer’s than a jeweler’s. Still, it had been recommended by a friend on the force whose wife collected antique jewelry.

  Not much light was coming through the front windows, given the presence of soot and the absence of sun; the street was cobbled and narrow. The shop windows were stuffed with bits and bobs of jewelry, with sequined and porcelained masks, antique clothes and feather boas.

  Mr. Cuttle was the name of the proprietor. (“A bit stingy with words, but not with his wares; he asks ridiculous prices and knows you won’t pay them, so haggle with him.”) Jury was not a very good haggler, but he had decided he would buy the ring that day, after he left the office, even if he wouldn’t be seeing her as they’d planned. He was still worrying it would seem too much of a commitment. How about an old ring? She could take it as a gift or a promise; it might not be threatening.

  • • •

  For at times she seemed to withdraw into some corner of her mind that he could not enter. Her face would shift and go slightly out of focus for him, like a face in water. She might stand at the long front window, holding back the curtain, looking out at the rain, almost as if she were looking for someone. Such moods made him feel anxious, excluded. He brushed this away, for much of the time they were like children sharing an enormous secret.

  A few days after they’d met, and had been lying in bed, he’d put his arm around her, and asked, “Have I blundered into the middle of something?” And he tried to make it mildly amusing. The answer was no.

  • • •

  There was no Mr. Cuttle about, and only one other customer, a woman largely hidden by the old velvets and beaded dresses, the boas and peacock feathers. One could get at them only by rummaging, which was what she was doing. Something about her struck Jury as familiar. He could see part of her back, and hair that curled up under a Liberty scarf.

  A throat was being cleared. Jury swung round and saw that an elderly man had entered through a heavy drapery. He was a squat person who held his hands before him and his head down, staring up at Jury under heavy, wild eyebrows, as if sneaking a look.

  “Mr. Cuttle?”

  The downturned head dipped a couple of times in a Cuttle-nod.

  “I was wanting to buy a ring for a lady.”

  The head dipped once.

  The temptation to lean down and engage Mr. Cuttle’s eyes on his own level was strong. In the velvet ring tray, Jury had seen one he thought particularly lovely, a ruby set in antique gold, that looked as if it would not be too dear a price—worth haggling over, in any event. “Could I see that one, please.”

  Mr. Cuttle reached in and took it out. He stood there with it a few moments, and finally shook his head. “Sold,” was all he said before he put the ring in his pocket.

  “Oh. Well, how about the garnet—it is a garnet, isn’t it?—with the tiny diamonds?”

  The garnet went under the same scrutiny; a similar verdict was handed down.

  “But, Mr. Cuttle, why do you have rings already sold in with the ones for sale?” The buoyant mood that had set Jury forth on this mission was steadily deflating. “Perhaps you could tell me which ones are for sale.”

  Mr. Cuttle took out the ring tray. Looked it over carefully, and extracted an onyx and silver filigree ring that looked heavy enough to drag Jane’s arm to the ground. Mr. Cuttle was looking up with a tiny smile on his face for any customer who might be silly enough to buy it.

  “No,” said Jury.

  While Mr. Cuttle’s fingers continued the search, a voice behind Jury said, “Mr. Cuttle, you’d best not play games with a policeman.”

  Jury knew the voice before he turned. “Lady Kennington!”

  Smiling, she pulled off a glove and held out her hand. “Superintendent.”

  Jenny Kennington hadn’t changed in the least way, hadn’t changed her hair, oak-colored and shoulder-length, and hadn’t changed her wardrobe; Jury thought he recognized that loose, black sweater, shot through with tiny strands of silver. It was the scarf, he imagined, that he had tried to place. The lady had been wearing it when he’d first seen her, as she’d come running out and down the broad stone steps of her huge house, holding a sick cat wrapped in a blanket.

  “Now, Mr. Cuttle, we know you’re just larking; take those rings out of your pocket and show the gentleman.”

  Grudgingly, he did. Jury picked up the ruby and asked, “What do you think?”

  “It’s beautiful. I expect it depends on the person, don’t you? And the occasion,” she added.

  Jury said nothing to that, and then remembered he didn’t know Jane’s ring size. “Stupid of me.” He looked at the hand holding on to the strap of her bag. “Could I borrow your hand? It looks very much li
ke . . . my friend’s size.”

  “Of course; hands can be deceiving, though.” She put it out and Jury slid the ring onto her third finger. “It looks just right.”

  Jenny looked down at her hand and said, “Indeed it does. Feels right, too. Anyway, Mr. Cuttle will let you return it if it doesn’t fit. Perhaps instead of trying to guess, you could purloin a ring she has now; that is, if the jewelry box is close to hand.” She smiled benignly.

  “Thanks.” He turned to Mr. Cuttle, who hadn’t moved an inch or a hair. “I’ll have this one then.”

  She put a tiny alabaster figure on the case. “I’ll have this. And, mind, the lady’s gown is nicked and so’s her arm.”

  Mr. Cuttle merely waved his hand, indicating clearly that she could have it as a gift.

  “That’s very kind of you.” She held it out for Jury’s inspection. “It reminds me of the courtyard at Stonington.”

  “You’re right. It does.” As he handed it back to her, Jury said to the old jeweler, “The ring. I forgot to ask the price.”

  Mr. Cuttle gloomed over the ring; he scratched the gray tonsure of his head and then scratched his forearm. “I make it a thousand.”

  “What? A thousand pounds?”

  Mr. Cuttle nodded and inserted the ring back in the velvet tray. With the bare glimmer of a smile, come and gone as quickly as a wink of light on the ruby, he then put the tray back into its rightful place in the case.

  Lady Kennington rested her arms on the glass display case and stared at him until Mr. Cuttle had to look at her. He cleared his throat; he sighed.

  “Mr. Cuttle, Superintendent Jury could take away your license, don’t you know? You’re . . . displaying goods under false pretenses,” she said decisively. “I’ve seen you do it again and again. How much were you thinking of spending, Richard?”

  She had never called him before by his first name. The mood of buoyance was returning. “Ah, somewhere between three and four hundred, I expect.”

  “Now, Mr. Cuttle, what price do you put on that ring?” She was staring him into submission.

  He pursed his lips and looked up at the stained ceiling. He scratched his chin. “Three hundred fifty?” He looked blackly at both of them.

  “Wonderful! Could you put it in a box for me?”

  Without answering, Mr. Cuttle shoveled through the dark drapery again, presumably in search of a box.

  Lady Kennington said to him, “I wonder why we’re always meeting over jewelry?”

  “Fate.” He felt he should explain about the ring. “It’s for a young woman who lives above me. She’s done so many things for me. Taken care of my apartment, cleaning, tidying it up; you know how it is with bachelor digs.”

  “Lonely, I expect.” Her voice was quite serious.

  Jury inhaled a lot of breath in order to set down more reasons for this ring. “Her birthday’s coming up and she loves jewelry but doesn’t have much of it. So, for a surprise—” He smiled winningly, and got busy writing a check for Mr. Cuttle.

  The man returned with a jeweler’s box and removed the velvet tray. But he didn’t hand over the ring immediately.

  “Mr. Cuttle?” said Jenny softly. He gave the box to Jury.

  “Thanks. You’ve got some beautiful things here. I’ll tell the men on the force.”

  “Don’t,” said Mr. Cuttle. He went back through the draped doorway.

  • • •

  “He treats everything in that shop as if it were an old family heirloom,” said Jenny Kennington as they stood outside in one of the spidery little streets off Piccadilly. “You’ve a good bargain there; five hundred would be more like it.”

  “Thanks for getting it for me. Look, are you busy right now?”

  “No. Would you like to go somewhere?”

  “The Salisbury’s nearby.”

  “Fine.”

  • • •

  He got their drinks and settled in the plush, red booth. “Where are you living now?”

  “Where we last met. Stratford-upon-Avon.”

  “Sitting on packing boxes?” He lit her cigarette for her. “You were always moving.”

  She laughed. “I’m sorry about that. The trip with my aunt didn’t last long. She died in Paris, and I stayed. A place on the rue de la Paix. Rather sumptuous it is. I wasn’t aware she had more than enough money for that last little fling. But if you come to Stratford again, I can offer you a chair, at least. That house I had in the old district came back on the market, and my cash flow—don’t you love the way estate agents talk?—improved somewhat. Thus I acquired ‘a modern bath en suite companioning a luxurious dressing area which boasts a hundred and fifty closets,’ et cetera. Why do those agents think closets are so important? And the ‘luxurious dressing area’ is about the size of a warming closet. It’s a small place, really. But you remember. . . .” She paused. “Is something wrong?”

  He had been listening but not looking at her. Her face was tilted slightly to the side, inquisitively, with an expression somewhere between concern and amusement. “No. Nothing’s wrong. How long are you in London?”

  “Until tomorrow. I’m at the Dorchester.”

  Jury heard her, but he was looking again at her arm in the black sweater shot through with silver that reflected slightly only if hit by light at a certain angle. The arm was outstretched across the table, and in her upturned palm was the tiny statue, broken like the original.

  He felt ill. His mental camera whirred backwards to the arm of his mother on the floor of their flat years ago, jutting from ceiling plaster after the bomb; and then moved in an instant to Lady Kennington’s old manor house, Stonington, and the ambiguous marble statue in the middle of the courtyard, the statue that one couldn’t help but see, no matter which window served as vantage point.

  If Jane had not had an “appointment,” he would have been going to Lewisham later . . . no, he wouldn’t; he had too much neglected work to catch up on. But he had felt a wash of fury when she’d said, No, she couldn’t see him; she had an appointment.

  And when she hadn’t embellished, he’d asked her with whom, Godot? Why the secrecy?

  “But I’m not being secretive. It’s only someone you don’t know.”

  “I would if you told me.” Knowing, knowing it was wrong to push her.

  “Good Lord, what difference does it make? Do you think I’m unfaithful? Do you think that? . . . You looked turned to stone.”

  Jury’s mind, which seemed to have ranged across forty years in the last four seconds, focused. It was Jenny who’d said that last part—you looked turned to stone.

  She wasn’t smiling. “What’s wrong?”

  “I’m sorry. I have to leave.” He pulled out money, put it on the table. He couldn’t believe he was actually getting up, being so rude as to leave her sitting there.

  “Do you always wear that sweater?” His mouth was as stiff as if he’d walked a mile through zero weather. “Black doesn’t suit you.”

  • • •

  He did not go back to Victoria Street to catch up on his neglected paperwork. Jury had no recollection of how long he walked; he simply walked from bench to bench, sat down, said either nothing or nodded or grunted if the bench was a shared bench; he walked deeply into the night, feeling ashamed he’d left someone just sitting there, especially her.

  Finally, he ended up on a bench in Green Park with a mumbling drunk whom Jury was pretty sure he’d be able to compete with, given a few more years of feeling sorry for himself.

  He was angry both about the self-pity and the awful rudeness to Jenny, who he knew was easily put off, and who had been very kind. And that idiotic story about his reason for buying the ring . . . why had he lied?

  6

  She couldn’t be dead.

  Alex Holdsworth stood perfectly still in the doorway of her bedroom, the rucksack full of his schoolbooks dragging at his arm, and tracks of rain still running from his raincoat.

  He could not force his foot across the doorsill.
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br />   He had taken the stairs three at a time, whistling between his teeth, swung round the post at the top, sure she would love the surprise of his appearing so unexpectedly. She would not be able to hide that before she was forced to go through the ritual sighs and head-shakes. “Not again, Alex? You’ve not been sent down again?”

  Well, they both knew he’d been sent down again, but the game required this sort of thumping big surprise reaction that the headmaster had found yet another reason to send Alex home. A letter would follow, naturally, about the Rose and Crown.

  Alex would, of course, appear properly humbled, abashed, pained that he was wasting her money and his time. And since (he had thought, whistling down the hall) she could never bring herself to send him to his room without stuffing him with a huge meal, he would take it upon himself to stick to a crust of bread and a glass of milk. There were times when he actually wished his mother were a little more hell-bent on discipline because he got tired of meting out his own. But there it was, then; as far as his mum was concerned, he could (no matter how many send-downs) really do no wrong.

  • • •

  The fatal step across the sill was taken by another Alex. In order to keep from screaming the house down or throwing himself at that fainting couch where she lay, he had to split himself in two. He drew himself inward, inside a glass bell, and allowed himself, the one Alex, to descend into diver’s waters.

  The other Alex walked slowly, still dragging his book bag toward the worn green damask sofa. How had he known in that first instant that she wasn’t merely asleep? For he couldn’t have seen, twelve feet beyond him through the doorway, the pallor of the skin, the failure of the breast to rise and fall.

  He knew because her breathing was in a sense his breathing, too. He knew because he had been beating back panic for the last eighteen or so hours, ever since he had woken very early this morning from a nightmare that left the sheets as wringing wet as his hair and his slicker were right now. The dream was uncomplicated and came and went as swiftly as the birds that moved in it: it was a vision of the painting downstairs, the copy of a Van Gogh whose name he couldn’t remember, a picture of blackbirds flying across a darkening field. When he woke he lay there sweating. Before breakfast he had tried to call her. No one answered. Nothing unusual about that, he kept telling himself all through breakfast. He sat in the noisy refectory, stirring and staring at the bowl of porridge. The dream seemed to follow in his wake like a black ship, like the blackbirds. He had always been highly rational; he had never understood why he was given to complex and baroque dreams. Therefore, dreams (he had told himself) weren’t portents.