“She’s already a wealthy woman, Superintendent. That’s what I’m saying.”
“Ah, yes. So you indicated. What about you, Mrs. Riordin?”
Kitty Riordin cocked her head. “Did I murder him, do you mean?”
Jury shrugged. “Not to put too fine a point on it, yes. Would Simon Croft have left you any money?”
“I seriously doubt it. But I expect we’ll know one way or the other when his will is read and you can come and arrest me.”
Jury smiled. “Bargain. Actually, what I really meant was, how about your own history? Your husband?”
“My husband, Aiden, was a very silly man. He walked out on me- us-so that he could cavort with the Blackshirts. Oswald Mosley’s followers. How utterly absurd.”
“A lot of people don’t think so. If Hitler had indeed invaded Britain, he would have wanted someone here in place. Who better as a puppet dictator than Mosley?”
“Perhaps you’re right. Anyway, I came over to look for Aiden, found him, took what little money he had with an absolutely clean conscience and never heard from him again.”
“You don’t like foolish people, do you?”
“Do you?”
Jury laughed. “I expect not. I think I’m just trying to make a point about you, Mrs. Riordin. You’re a very competent person. When you came back with Maisie after the bombing and found the Blue Last was smoking rubble, did you search for them? Erin and Alexandra. And Francis Croft?” Jury sat forward, closer to her.
“Of course I did, as well as I could, as well as they’d let me. But the wardens kept me back. I went back, though; I went back.”
Jury regarded her, her look of determination. Then his eyes shifted to the photographs on the small table, to a small one of, he presumed, the baby Erin and Kitty. Then to a larger one of Alexandra and baby Maisie. How beautiful Alexandra was! But also, how pretty Kitty Riordin had been. He was surprised that another man hadn’t snapped her up. But it was wartime and a lot of things that should otherwise have happened, didn’t. Over the corner of Maisie’s silver frame, a little silver bracelet dangled. Jury picked it up.
“Identity bracelets,” said Kitty, smiling. “A bit of a lark, that was. The two were scarcely a week or two apart in age-of course you can’t see that in the photographs. Alexandra had the bracelets made up. The other one’s upstairs.” She picked up the small photograph of Erin, wiped the glass with her sleeve, smiled down at it, returned it to the table.
Jury found the smile extremely disconcerting. Someone kinder than he might have simply described what prompted it as “bittersweet.” What he had trouble with was that she could have smiled at all. She then picked up the one of Maisie and Alexandra, moving the bracelet to the table. “She was beautiful, so. Maisie looks like her, don’t you think?”
It wasn’t really a question put to Jury. He said nothing. But, yes, Alexandra was beautiful. No one would deny that. Jury wondered.
“She was bowled over by that flier of hers-handsome and a hero. Poor boy. They’d only been married a little over a year when he died.”
“How did he die?” Jury knew one answer to this. He wondered if it would be confirmed.
“Drowned, I think. He’d been out of the RAF for a bit. Got the Victoria Cross. He was somewhere in Scotland, I don’t know why.”
“Did you know him?”
“I met him. It was just that one time when he was at the Lodge.”
“Did you go back and forth with Alexandra? It sounds as if she lived in both places.”
“She did, so. I would sometimes go with her to the pub. Of course, I had my own place here. Mr. Tynedale is that generous.” She shook her head as if in awe of such generosity. She picked up the small photograph of Erin. “Both our daughters were sweet as lambs.”
But only one, thought Jury, was filthy rich.
Fifteen
Marshall Trueblood gave the saintly figure depicted in the painting an affectionate pat. The painting was propped on the fourth chair at the table in the window embrasure of the Jack and Hammer, the other two chairs taken up by Melrose Plant and Diane Demorney. The pub and all of Long Piddleton were in the festive mood occasioned by this pre-Christmas week. Up and down the High Street, shops and houses were festooned with wreaths and ribbons. Outside Jurvis the Butcher’s, the plaster pig wore a red stocking cap and a spray of holly. The mechanical Jack above the pub wore a tunic of red velvet and little bells around the wrist holding the hammer that made simulated strikes at the big clock. A scraggly pine sat beside the fireplace; winking white lights dripped from its branches.
“You came across it where?” asked Melrose.
“That antique shop, Jasperson’s, in Swinton Barrow. You know, the town that’s awash in antiques and art.”
Diane Demorney ran her lacquered nail around her martini glass and looked at Trueblood as if he’d just spilled the last gin in the bottle-in other words, with horrified disbelief. “Marshall, you’re telling us that you paid two thousand for this painting and it’s only part of a-what’d you call it?”
“A polyptych.”
“It’s from some church in Pizza, did you say?”
“Pisa,” said Melrose, who had rested his chin on his fists and was studying the red-cloaked figure in the painting. The panel was quite high, but also quite narrow, giving credence to the belief that there might originally have been another figure beside this one, which is what the dealer had told Trueblood, apparently. “This is St. Who?”
Trueblood pursed his lips and gave the picture a squint-eyed look, as if such facial exertion were needed to pin down St. Who’s identity. “Julian. Or Nicholas? Jerome? Perhaps St. John the Baptist. Nicholas, I think. Nicholas is one of the missing pieces. Or panels, I should say.”
“Marshall,” said Melrose, patiently, “just what are the chances that this panel was actually painted by Masaccio? One million to one, maybe? And if it is, no one in his right mind would be selling it for two thousand quid.”
“I like the red cloak,” said Diane. “I saw one just like it in Sloane Street. Givenchy, I think. But I still don’t understand. You’re telling us that this piece is only part of a poly something. Why would you bother with only part of it? It’s like buying the Mona Lisa’s ear, or something.”
“It isn’t at all. Triptychs and polyptychs were common back then. We’re talking about the Italian Renaissance, remember-”
Diane looked as if she’d as soon be talking about how many hamsters would fit in a vodka bottle.
“-They served as altarpieces, which the Pisa one undoubtedly is. Sometimes they were taken apart for one reason or another and carted about and the various parts went missing,” he explained, rather lamely. “Well, it was a lot of information to process, see. I have to study up on Masaccio.”
“If you had all the panels or whatever they are, it would make a nice fire screen, wouldn’t it?” said Diane as she signaled Dick Scroggs for another martini.
“How does this dealer know parts are missing if he’s never seen the entire polyptych?”
“Vasari says so.”
“Who?” asked Diane.
“Vasari, Vasari. He chronicled fifteenth-century painters and sculptors.”
Diane screwed a fresh cigarette into her ebony holder, saying, “So you spend two thousand on part of a painting, on the say-so of some Italian we don’t even know? Two thousand would buy a perfectly serviceable Lacroix.” She tapped the front of her black suit jacket to indicate one of these perfectly serviceable Lacroix.
“Life is not all Lacroix, Lacroix, Lacroix, Diane.”
“No, part of it’s Armani, Armani, Armani.” Here she reached over and tapped Trueblood’s silk wool jacket. “What d’you think, Melrose? Have you ever heard of any of these people and their paintings?”
“Mm… I’ve heard of Vasari and Masaccio. I don’t know much about Italian Renaissance art, to tell the truth.” He leaned back against the window. He had the window seat today, so sat on cushions. They took turns with
this seat as it was quite comfortable and you could see people coming along the street whom you wanted to avoid, such as his aunt, Lady Ardry. “What I can’t work out is, if this is really a Masaccio, why would this Swinton gallery be selling it? You’d think they’d be shopping it about to the Tate or the National Gallery. It would be a museum piece.”
Diane blew out a ribbon of smoke. “Aren’t there tests they do on paintings that tell if the paint and so forth were actually in use at the time-what century did you say this was?”
“The 1420s, to be exact.”
Melrose said, “I assume the owner of the gallery would have done that, surely.”
“He did. But there are more sophisticated tests yet, she said-”
“Who’s ‘she’?”
“A woman named Eccleston. She manages the place when Jasperson’s not there. She’s very knowledgeable.”
Melrose frowned. “Jasperson. I think I dealt with him once. Seemed honest enough. But then the man’s been in business a long time. He wouldn’t be hawking forgeries.” Melrose had been holding the painting up. “Tell Jury to get the fraud squad on it.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. There’s no fraud here; the gallery isn’t guaranteeing it’s a Masaccio. If it was I think I’d assume it was a fake.”
“Can you show it to somebody else? I mean some expert on that period?”
“Of course. There’s one in London, and we can go there tomorrow.”
Melrose raised an eyebrow. “ ‘We?’ ”
“You and I.”
“What makes you think I’m going to London?”
“Oh, come on, Melrose. You’ll want to go to London before we go to Florence.”
“Florence?” Both eyebrows shot up.
Sixteen
Benny Keegan was sweeping out the Moonraker Bookshop as a favor he sometimes did for Miss Penforwarden when the arthritis which had started to deform her hands made them painfully stiff.
Benny was whistling when the bell rang and a tall man, a stranger, entered. He had to stoop to clear the lintel. He smiled at Benny, a really nice, friendly smile that had not seemed pulled out and put on just because Benny was a kid. Benny returned the smile and opened his mouth to say he’d go fetch Miss Penforwarden, when the tall man asked him if he was Benny Keegan.
Benny frowned. Why would anyone want him, Benny? Mother o’ God, the Social! He turned around and called to the back room, “Hey, Ben, some one t’ see ya.”
Also interested in the stranger, the dog Sparky left its cushioned bench in a window and hurried over to stand by Benny. Then Benny turned back, hoping he was giving the impression of not caring tuppence for this man’s presence. He said, “ ’Course, he coulda gone down the shops.” He took a duster from his hip pocket and applied it to Miss Penforwarden’s desk. A stack of books sat there, the topmost being Interpretation of Dreams, which Benny didn’t think he’d like, but maybe Gemma would.
“Okay,” said the man, “suppose we start with your name, then.”
“Me? Well-” a glance at the books “-it’s, ah, Sigmund-Sid, for short.” Another glance at the books “-Austen.”
“Sid Austen. It’s nice to meet you. Tell me, the dog-is he yours or Benny’s?”
Sparky was looking from the man to his master as if seeking some lesson in what they were saying. Sparky gave one of his barely discernible barks.
“Oh, him. He’s just the shop dog. Always have ’em in bookshops, them or cats, if you never noticed.”
The voice of Miss Penforwarden preceded her into the main room. “Benny, would you just-oh!”
Benny shut his eyes. Cover blown, fuck it. He went to help her with the stack of books she was carrying.
“Thank you, dear.” Then she said to the tall man, “May I help you?”
“No, thanks. I was just speaking to young Sid, here.”
Miss Penforwarden looked confused. “Benny?”
Jury held out his warrant card. “I’m Richard Jury. Detective superintendent, New Scotland Yard.”
“Here, let me see that, then,” said Benny, trying to cover up his embarrassment. “I didn’t know you was-were-a copper, ah, policeman. Should ’ave showed me this.” He handed it back to Jury.
Jury had known this was Benny; he’d been described-so had the dog-by the owners of Delphinium, the flower shop. The two young men, gay as a couple of maypoles and just as thin, one in a pale yellow shirt and the other in pale pink reminded Jury of calla lilies.
“Benny? Why on earth…” The one named Tommy Peake had pressed his long fingers against his mouth, like the image on the old war poster en-joining everyone to avoid any talk of troop activities.
Basil Rice (in the yellow shirt) had said, “Why, Benny’ll be at Smith’s, won’t he?”
“No. Benny goes to the Moonraker about this time. That’s a bookshop just along the street,” he said to Jury.
“I take it the Keegan boy does a lot of odd jobs?”
Basil nodded. “And very good he is at them. Everyone says so.”
“Where does he live?” asked Jury.
This question seemed to bring Basil and Tommy up short. Tommy said, “Now you mention it, why, I don’t think we’ve ever known, have we?”
Basil shook his head, frowning, as if they should have known.
“The newsagent didn’t know either. No one seems to know where he lives or what his phone number is, if he has one.”
“No, Benny’s not on the phone. Look, I do hope our Benny isn’t in trouble.”
Jury shook his head. “No. Thanks.” He turned toward the door.
Happily, Tommy said, “Just you remember, Benny’s clever. He’s shifty.”
“I’m shiftier. Good day, gentlemen.”
When Benny asked to see Jury’s ID again, Miss Penforwarden said, “Benny, he’s a Scotland Yard superintendent.”
“You can’t be too careful, Miss Penforwarden, not these days. The thing is, why would a detective want to talk to me?” His eyes widened, not with awe, but anxiety. They’ve found out, that’s what. They found our place, mine and Sparky’s. Benny looked down at Sparky, who was looking up at him as if absorbing this bad news and wanting to show support. He banged his tail on the floor several times.
“Maybe we could talk somewhere, Benny.”
Miss Penforwarden, eyes fixed on Jury as if he were a rock star, made no move to leave.
Looking for means of controlling this situation, Benny said to her, “I think maybe he needs to talk to me in private, Miss Penforwarden.”
“Oh, yes. Oh, I’m so sorry. Yes, well, you go right ahead. I’ll just pop back to my room and if you need anything… perhaps, Superintendent, you’d care for tea?”
Jury said, “That’s kind of you, but I’ve had my quota.”
“Then I’ll just go along to wrap some books.” She left.
“There’s a couple chairs right back here.” Benny led Jury to the armchair by the window and pulled up a straight-back chair for himself. “It’s okay that Sparky’s here, I guess?”
Soberly, Jury nodded. “He looks as if he can be trusted.”
“Hear that, Sparky?”
Sparky made no sound; he was concentrating on Jury.
Jury said, “I’ve talked to several people you work for-the florists, the newsagent-I mean, in trying to find you. They all know your schedule, so you must be very dependable.”
“I am. It’s what you gotta be, right? I mean I guess you’re dependable or you’d never catch anybody.”
Jury could tell Benny was pleased and trying not to look it. When he, Jury, was this age, he remembered how important it was to appear cool and detached. When you were on your own, you needed to seem in control, otherwise things could start coming apart fast. The glue that held them together could too easily dissolve. And Jury was pretty certain this boy was on his own and didn’t want people knowing it. He thus skirted the issue of where Benny lived. Jury felt a moment of melancholy. He remembered what being alone was like. He had never had the co
urage to strike out on his own, at least not until he was older-sixteen, maybe. But there hadn’t been much choice, had there? The only relation remaining then was his cousin, the one who lived up in Newcastle now. She had grudgingly offered to have him come live with her when he was young, and he had refused, with thanks that he felt she never deserved.
What lay beneath this calm exterior was desolation. It was an emotion no kid should have to feel-not Benny, not Gemma, not himself back then. Yet he wondered if it wasn’t the legacy of childhood. At some point in the game, you would come to it, no matter how you were raised, no matter if you had a big family around you, desolation was inevitable, it ran beneath everything, the always-available unbearably adult emotion that clung to one’s still-breathing body like drowned clothes.
A curtain shifted, spinning light across the windowpane and the faded blue of the rolled arms of the easy chair where Benny sat, his light blue eyes fixing Jury with unchildlike patience.
“Benny, you make deliveries for Miss Penforwarden sometimes to Tynedale Lodge?”
“That’s right-hey, wait a tic. That’s why you’re here! It’s about that Mr. Croft that got murdered!” How stupid he’d been, thought Benny, thinking this police superintendent came about him. “He was shot to death over in his house on the Thames. I saw it a few times, me and Sparky delivered some books to him. And Sparky likes to have a look round there at night…” Benny stopped, looked off.
“He does? But then you must live near the river, right?”
“Oh, not too far, I guess. Sparky, he just likes a bit of a wander nights.”
Sparky looked from one to the other, seeming ready to contravene any unfavorable account.
Jury didn’t push for the address. Benny didn’t want to give it out, clearly.
“Had you been to Simon Croft’s lately? Within, say, the last month or two?”
Benny shook his head. “The last time I think was September.”
“Was he, well, friendly?”
“Him? Sure. Why?”
“Nothing. Listen: tell me about Gemma Trimm. I just met her yesterday and she mentioned you.”
The Blue Last Page 9