The Old Contemptibles

by Grimes, Martha

  There was nothing to do but follow. He had been so absorbed in their talk he hadn’t realized that darkness had fallen.

  “I’ve got to get back to cook. It’s already gone six. You go that way.” She pointed off to another stand of trees near the cliff’s verge. “Good-bye.”

  “Wait a minute! Come back here! Where am I going?”

  “To that big tree over there. Sorcerer knows.”

  Sorcerer sat his ground, staring up at Melrose.

  “Well, go on, go on!”

  The cat turned and started through the trees.

  It was dark, clouds scudding across the moon. In that way trees do in dreams, they seemed to take on human shapes—crooked backs, stretching arms, twiggy, skeletal fingers.

  Out of the corner of his eye, he could have sworn that beech he’d just passed separated, divided.

  A voice, not loud, but clear. “Just stop there.”

  He turned slowly. “What—?”

  The slim boy standing there who had been until now part of that tree—how could anyone stand that still?—had a gun in his hand.

  “You must be Alex.”

  24

  “No. I’m not holding a conference in a tree house.”

  Alex was already halfway up, and indicated, with a nod of his head, that Melrose should follow. Sorcerer flew up the ladder, his paws barely touching the wood.

  Across the long field of bracken and bleached grass, Melrose could see the lights in the kitchen and on the first floor, where a figure moved before the window and then out of his line of vision. Madeline’s room, Melrose thought. He looked up the tall tree; Alex was sitting in the makeshift doorway beside Sorcerer. “Come on. Uncle George might be out there somewhere.”

  Melrose gave in and grudgingly climbed the rotting ladder, sure it would give way under him. “What would George be grubbing about at night for? And what are you doing with a gun?”

  “He’s laying drags, maybe.”

  There was no fill-in on the gun. Melrose squeezed through the opening. He felt ridiculous. Still, as he looked round at the battered boards, the roof of tin, the few implements, such as bedding and books to make it habitable, he felt a wave of nostalgia.

  “Besides,” said Alex, striking a match into flame and cupping his hands round a cigarette, “we can smoke up here.” He tossed a packet to Melrose.

  “Great. Can we say swear words and look at dirty pictures, too?”

  Alex grinned. “Sorry. Don’t have any. So you’re the librarian?” Alex looked him over as if to say his grandfather surely could have done better. He took a drag, exhaled slowly, studied the librarian.

  “You know damned well I’m not if you’ve been talking to Millie.” Melrose took out his own silver case.

  “Flash that about in the house and people’ll know you’re not some seedy book person.”

  Must he take lessons from a boy? “I don’t ‘flash’ it about.” And then he remembered that this particular boy had only days before found his own mother dead in their house. He did not know what to say that would be at all affecting, considering the horror of such a discovery. So he smoked and looked at Alex. Handsome, indeed. Eyes so dark he could hardly distinguish the iris; dark hair, slightly long but that was probably because barbers weren’t always available in tree houses. It had just begun to curl above the cable-knitted sweater.

  “Tell me what’s going on in the house. Millie has, some, but she can’t be hanging round the way you can. How are they taking it?” He’d lifted his chin slightly when his eyes had started to glisten, as if to keep any tears from spilling over.

  “I’d say more angry than upset.”

  “That’s what I thought the reaction would be. Even Madeline? Even her own sister?”

  “Madeline seems disturbed, yes. But over what I can’t ascertain. Nervous is perhaps a better word. Tell me if my information’s right: your aunt was at one time thought to be going to marry your—father.” Melrose studied the tip of his cigarette. How could a child stand losing both parents, both by suicide? This one seemed to be handling things very well. Businesslike, straightforward. Alex swallowed hard. He nodded.

  “It just seems strange to me she could stand to live in the house after her sister had, well, taken away her fiancé.”

  “Not fiancé. Lover,” he said with cool directness. “Money.”

  “She’s not even a relation.”

  “Probably wouldn’t make much difference to Granddad.”

  “Alex, why are you hiding out, acting like a fugitive?”

  “Because I’ve already talked to police and they’re on one of Uncle George’s aniseed scents. They’re dragging the wrong part of the wood. My mother didn’t commit suicide.”

  “There’s a good bit of speculation that she was murdered, Alex. By a policeman. He’s a friend of mine. He’s also been suspended pending, as they say, further investigation.”

  Alex frowned. “R. Jury, S-U-P-T?”

  “Superintendent Jury, yes. How did you know?”

  “Her address book. The one the police didn’t take away.” He got it out of his rucksack, thumbed to the entry. “It’s a fairly new name. You can tell by the different color. And, anyway, if she’d been friendly with a copper, I expect I’d’ve known. She didn’t know him long, right?”

  “Two weeks, perhaps. No, not very long.” Melrose reached out to rub the cat behind the ears, something to distract himself. Jury suspended. God’s in his bloody heaven. “The way I sort it out,” said Alex, “is the Seconal was dumped from the capsules into a drink. Several drinks. Mum liked whiskey.” His tone was not apologetic, not defensive. “Obviously, no one could stuff pills or capsules down your throat.”

  “But she could have done it herself.”

  “Well, she didn’t. I kept tabs on her medicines. The amounts, the dates. She didn’t know it; it worried me.”

  “And the ten or fifteen barbiturate capsules couldn’t be accounted for; is that what you mean?”

  “Oh, I can account for them. At Christmas we were here. She lost an entire bottle—she’d just had the prescription filled. She searched all over.”

  Melrose ground out his cigarette, rubbed the ash with his shoe. “Alex, you’ve got to talk to police. It’s just that sort of thing you’d know; they wouldn’t. Look, I can understand how you feel—”

  “Oh, really?” The boy’s smooth dark eyebrows rose and drew together into a single line. There was just the edge of sarcasm; he was incredibly cool. His effort to distance himself from his feelings (and Melrose had no doubt that his feelings were strong and deeply buried) so that he could remain objective was remarkable.

  “My mother died when I was your age.”

  “But not like this.” He kept rocking slightly on his buttocks, forward and backward, one leg drawn up, the hand with the cigarette thrown over it.

  “No, not like this.”

  “And you were there.”

  “I was there, yes.”

  “There was nothing you could do about it.”

  “No. But neither could—”

  “There’s no way of knowing for sure whether I could.”

  “If a person’s set on suicide—”

  “Thought we just canned that. Mum didn’t kill herself.”

  “You could hardly have stopped a murder planned three months ago, if you’re right about those pills.”

  “You don’t think people can save each other?”

  “Hard enough saving ourselves.”

  “Then why are you here?”

  “This is different.”

  The boy merely smiled.

  Melrose said, “For God’s sake. This is all your responsibility? What about the person who killed your mother?”

  “It’s a point.”

  “I’d say so, yes.” Melrose felt vastly relieved. And he wondered if he’d taken Alex through this catechism for both their sakes.

  They were both silent then, wondering the same thing: Who? Why?

  “The
re are really only two motives for murder. Love and money.”

  Alex shook his head. “You forgot revenge.”

  “Well, if you’re thinking of Madeline Galloway, that’s part of the ‘love’ motive, I’d say.”

  “And what about silence?”

  Melrose frowned. “Meaning?”

  “Silence. Keeping someone quiet. Like my mother.”

  “About what?”

  “No idea. But it’s a motive, isn’t it? Enemies: no, none I know of. Money: in this family, that’s a fairly safe bet. And then of course there’s me.”

  “You.”

  “Me. My grandparents have been trying to get me to live here for years. Or tried, until I got too old. Genevieve hated Mum.”

  “I’d say that fits the enemy category; but killing her wouldn’t get you, obviously.”

  “Maybe she thought there’d be no other place to go.”

  “I have a feeling your grandmother—”

  “Genevieve’s not my real one. That was Virginia. Virginia died in a fall.” His eyes blazed darkly. “A lot of accidents, right?”

  “Yes. Too many. Your uncle?”

  “Oh, I’d discount him. He’s not bad, really. Just a bore.”

  “Francis Fellowes? I’ve talked with him a few times.”

  “He seems . . .” Alex shrugged. “He seems interested in painting, period.”

  Alex hadn’t mentioned his father, and Melrose simply hadn’t the heart to ask him, not now. “Fellowes implied people were being killed off one by one.”

  “Probably being dramatic. He likes to get a rise, you know what I mean.”

  “But you said something of the same thing: a lot of accidents.”

  “That’s true. But some could have been.”

  Alex didn’t look at him; Melrose knew he was thinking of his father. And then he started and changed the subject.

  “There was something missing.”

  “What?” asked Melrose.

  “I’ve been racking my brains, trying to remember.”

  “Perhaps your unconscious mind has. Millie said you’d been dreaming the same dream every night.”

  Alex told him the details. “I know why the landscape was so empty.” Alex broke the twig, searched for another word. “More than empty.”

  “Sere?”

  The boy frowned. “Seer?”

  “No, ‘sere.’ S-E-R-E. Blighted.”

  “Tell Millie that word; she’d like it.” Alex smiled.

  It was the first spontaneous smile Melrose had seen.

  “Millie likes words.”

  “Like ‘exercise.’ She wanted to take me to the place overlooking Wast Water to ‘exercise’ ghosts.”

  Alex laughed. “Sounds like her. She thought the Red Queen had something to do with Alice-in-Wonderland. But the Queen there wasn’t any help to Alice. She was a pretty mean person. Not like Mum.”

  “You’re being too literal.”

  He scraped the hair back from his forehead.

  “Millie thinks it’s the gun.” He put the gun in the rucksack.

  “Like Spellbound. Did you ever see it?”

  “Ingrid Bergman. She was a psychiatrist, wasn’t she? There was a gun in there somewhere—”

  “In the dream it was a wheel the killer was holding. Rolled in the snow. Ingrid,” Melrose smiled, “saved him by working out that dream. Have you thought of talking to a psychiatrist about yours?”

  “I have to see Granddad first. Adam. Then I’ll do what you say; I’ll go to the police.”

  Melrose felt his backbone creak as he got up. “I’m too old for living in tree houses. Although, when I think of my aunt, it might not be a bad idea.”

  Alex laughed and started down the ladder. Melrose followed. The cat followed Melrose, slipping from rung to rung, past him. When they got to the bottom, Melrose brushed off his sleeves. “Does the cat stay? Or go?”

  “Depends where he thinks the action is.”

  “Not with me, certainly. After you see your great-grandfather Mr. Adam Holdsworth, get word to me.” He held out his hand. “It’s been—an event, meeting you.”

  “I’m sorry about your friend. The superintendent.” Alex paused, looked off toward the lake. “I didn’t know . . . was he, well, a particular friend of my mother?”

  Melrose hesitated, not knowing whether now would be an especially good time for her son to think he had competition. “Yes. Very special. I think he wanted to marry her.”

  “Christ,” breathed Alex. He looked round, baffled, like one of his uncle’s hounds that had lost a scent. “Christ. And instead they’re telling him he killed her?”

  Melrose looked at him, thinking that Jane Galloway had been lucky to have such a son—smart, inventive, bold, caring (so much he checked her medicine), and still with compassion left over for someone he didn’t know. Had he, Melrose, been anything like that at that age? He doubted it. Maybe a little, but he doubted it.

  “I’m not worried. The whole charge is too absurd. He’s innocent.”

  Grimly, Alex said, “I never knew that to do much good.” He sketched a little salute. “Good-night.”

  Melrose nodded and turned toward the field.

  Behind him, the tall grass separated magically. Sorcerer had decided where the action was.

  25

  “They think I should avail myself of psychiatric assistance,” said Lady Cray, sitting in Adam’s room. “And pigs might fly,” she added, exhaling a delicate ribbon of smoke. “Must breakfast be served at the revolting hour of eight?”

  Everything about her, from her hair to her clothes to the way she held her cigarette, simply reeked of breeding. Adam sighed and tossed a handful of salted almonds in his mouth. He always had his teeth in these days. “Psychiatrist? Do it. Probably make a change, be fun.”

  “Um. I think, actually, it was more than a suggestion. Mrs. Colin-Jackson, although her tone bowed and scraped to me, made it sound as if I’d get tossed out on my arse if I didn’t comply.”

  “Hell, Kojak doesn’t really run the place, Helen Viner does. She’s the only one with any sense. So see her; she’s interesting.”

  “It’s I who am supposed to be ‘interesting,’ in this case. I wish Andrew were here.” She sighed and sipped her coffee. “I did see her when I first got here. ‘Routine investigation,’ as the police love saying.”

  “She always vets the guests.”

  “It isn’t really a retirement home, is it? Isn’t that just a euphemism for ‘mental’?”

  “It’s anything you want it to be if you have the cash. You want Andrew to spring you? You just got through saying you thought you’d get the boot. Listen—” Adam leaned toward her and whispered. “—why don’t we both escape? I’ve worked out a really crackerjack way to do it.”

  “I’ve heard about your escapes.” She smiled. “Since we’re free to walk out the front door at any time, isn’t it rather redundant?”

  This rankled. He would have thought she’d have appreciated escape plans. Testily, he said, “Well, Kojak—or rather Dr. Viner—wouldn’t have said anything about shrinking you down if it hadn’t been for the silverware, dammit.”

  “I did replace it. It was Miss Rupert who grassed.”

  “Some clever replacing. You let Rhubarb catch you setting the table. You want to be caught, cleansed of your incorrigible, insatiable desire to satisfy your lustful cravings—”

  “Oh, do shut up. Have you been reading Judith Krantz again? Have some more coffee.” She held up the silver pot she’d taken from the dining room sideboard.

  “Not supposed to, so I will. Thanks.” She poured. “Chocolate and hair ribbons. Bet Helen saw you giving that box of Cadbury’s the eye.”

  “Oh, she already knows about my ‘lustful cravings.’ They told her about my entire infamous history.”

  “Daughter and son-in-law, eh? Family. Naturally, they would. So have you got an appointment to see Helen?”

  “No. She wants me to see Dr. Kingsley.”r />
  “Maurice?” He frowned. “That’s strange. Thought she just kept Kingsley on out of generosity. He’s alcoholic. She must not think you’re in such bad shape, then. Nice fellow, but more of a playboy than a doctor. Medication-oriented, Helen says. Wait’ll you see the pills he’s got lined up behind him.” Adam checked his bedside clock. “Hell, he’ll be in here checking up in five minutes.”

  “ ‘Checking up’?”

  “Oh, they do it with certain people. They like to see if I’m still here or if I’ve wheeled myself over the hill.” Adam wheezed with laughter. “I can do it, you know. Have done, as a matter of fact.”

  She looked round his room. It was choice, a corner room with tall windows overlooking the courtyard, the dry fountains, the wide grassy slope and the maze. “The windowsills are low, yes. But still, you’d need your chair.”

  “Feel that bicep. I’ve very strong arms.”

  Lady Cray looked at his extended arm and made a moue of distaste. “No, thank you.”

  “The chair’s collapsible. Did Rhubarb tell you about the night they spent hours looking for me? I was in the maze.” He nearly choked on his almonds. “I’m the only one—”

  Lady Cray, who was looking out the window Adam had indicated, sat up suddenly. “Adam, someone’s out there.” She’d heard what sounded like footsteps scraping across the courtyard.

  • • •

  Alex didn’t know what to do, not with a stranger in his grandfather’s room. Now she’d seen him, or heard him, before he’d seen her. He flattened himself against the wall to the right of the window as it opened and this woman—an older woman clearly unafraid of intruders—asked, “Who’s there?”

  He said nothing. And then his granddad’s old, familiar head jutted out, muttering imprecations, and Alex decided, Oh, all right, if Adam likes her, she must be okay.

  “Alex!” The bright blue eyes of Adam Holdsworth teared over as he embraced his great-grandson. “For God’s sake, you can come in the front door, but I’m glad you didn’t. This is my friend, Lady Cray.”

  She held out her hand. Alex thought she was really—elegant. Elegant was the word. And her gray eyes had that sharp, steely look that he often saw in his grandfather’s. She was rich, you could tell.