The Blue Last

by Martha Grimes

  Melrose groaned and made to tear his hair when a young porter told him there was a call for him and could he take it in reception? Melrose excused himself. As Melrose walked out of the room Jury got up and went across to where Colonel Neame was sitting by the fire.

  It was Trueblood on the phone, fixing the time for their drive to Heathrow. “Not that early, for God’s sakes.”

  “Well, you know what it’s like with security these days.”

  They argued and settled on a time. “How is Miss Ickley? What does she think of the alleged Masaccio?”

  “Hasn’t made up her mind yet.”

  Melrose rang off and returned to the Members’ Room where Jury had ordered seconds for them.

  Jury said, “Okay, we’re still on starters. I’ll let you have the soup and I’ll take prawn cocktail… no, no… I’ll say avocado stuffed with Stilton.”

  “Stuffed with Stilton? That’s rather elaborate for Boring’s.”

  “Well, avocado like that’s all the rage in London at the moment.”

  “Main course: Dover sole.”

  Jury said, “I hope it is. I love Dover sole. But I’ll say… spring lamb. No, it isn’t spring yet, so just make it lamb.”

  Melrose frowned. “A lamb is always a lamb, isn’t it? So it’s still spring lamb. Anyway, I’m changing mine. I’m saying jugged hare.”

  “Jugged hare? Do they do that here? That’s sort of an acquired taste, isn’t it?”

  Melrose swept his arm around the room. “What else have we to do here but acquire tastes?”

  Jury grunted. “Anyway, you’re not supposed to switch from the thing you name first.”

  “Good god! You’re such a stickler for rules. And anyway, when did we ever make up rules?”

  “I probably wouldn’t like jugged hare. When I see a bunch of animal rights activists I get depressed. I think of Carrie Fleet. Remember?”

  “How could I ever forget?”

  They drank in silence for a few moments, both remembering Carrie Fleet, both on the edge of a monumental sadness. Melrose jerked around when the young porter (really young, a Dickensian youth with ginger hair) came to announce that dinner was being served and would they care for another whiskey? Both declined, Melrose saying they’d have wine with dinner.

  It was a beautiful room-high windows, crown moldings, dark wood polished to such mirror smoothness you could almost see your reflection in it. Ceiling fans turned decorously overhead, a central chandelier tossed beads of light across the tables and chairs.

  The sommelier twisted his key and went into a mild ecstasy when Melrose chose a Pinot Noir of clearly exciting (and expensive) vintage. Then he departed and soon Young Higgins settled before each of them the first course: avocado stuffed with Stilton and baked.

  Astonished, Melrose asked Jury if this was some new fad.

  “I told you, it’s very popular at the moment. Remember, I’m one pound seventy into your fiver. We forgot dessert. I’m betting treacle pudding. No, tart.”

  “Gooseberry… no, I’ll say some sort of sponge roll.”

  Said Jury, looking around the room, “I can think of worse places to spend one’s twilight years than here at Boring’s.”

  “Your head on a spike at Tower Bridge, perhaps. You wouldn’t stand it here, not you. Now, I’m the perfect candidate for retirement.”

  Jury made a blubbery, dismissive sound with his lips and waved away Plant’s candidacy.

  “But I am. Just look at me, look at my life. I’m retired now. I can nip off to Firenze any time I take a fancy to do so. That was Trueblood on the phone.” When Jury looked blank, Melrose said, “That phone call I got. Are you engaged in short-term memory loss?”

  “Long term, actually.” Jury looked off toward the black windowpanes.

  “How so?”

  The sommelier was there with the wine, which he presented for Melrose’s inspection. Melrose approved, and the cork was removed and Melrose declined the tasting of it, telling the sommelier to pour it. He looked slightly shocked, poured and left.

  “Why do they do that? You know, show you the label? Would one be suspicious that it was really a bottle of plonk they were foisting off on their guests?”

  “Show. Ritual.” They ate in silence for a few minutes.

  Young Higgins was back, removing their avocado and announcing that the lamb would arrive in just a few moments.

  Jury shrugged and raised his hands, smiling, while Melrose sat staring. He calculated. “That’s three pounds forty you owe me.”

  “Let’s go to Vegas while your luck is running. Now, what were we talking about?”

  “Memory loss. You recall when we were sitting here November a year ago?”

  “Certainly, I do.”

  “We were talking about the war. The Second World War, I mean.”

  Melrose nodded, hardly shifting his attention at all to the plate of lamb and silver dishes of peas and potatoes Young Higgins now placed before him. “I remember. You said you’d been evacuated, your-cousin, is it?-up in Newcastle told you about it.”

  Jury nodded. “But she said I wasn’t in the Fulham Road house when my mother died. And I was younger, too. Maybe no more than two or three. I’d much rather she died with me there.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t, old chap. Because had you been, probably you wouldn’t be sitting here right now. I can understand your feeling, though.”

  They ate in companionable silence, passing the silver dish of vegetables back and forth, drinking more wine.

  Then Melrose said, “How about her memory, your cousin’s?”

  Jury looked up from his plate, which he hadn’t touched much. “You mean hers could be faulty?”

  “Of course.”

  “She’s years older than I. She’d remember better.” Jury smiled. “Her husband, Brendan, thought she was winding me up. She doesn’t really like me.”

  “Is she vicious?”

  “Vicious… that might be too strong a word.”

  “Okay, give me a weaker one.”

  As Young Higgins came to clear their plates away, Jury said, “Resentful, maybe, of me getting so much attention from my uncle. It was my uncle who took me in. My aunt was kind, but not really too keen. And after he died, she didn’t feel she could keep me on, not with three of her own. The other two are dead now.”

  Young Higgins cleared his throat and said, “Your treacle tart will be up in a moment. Would you care to have coffee in the Members’ Room?”

  Melrose said, yes, they would and stared at Jury as Young Higgins moved off. “You win it all.”

  Jury smiled and shrugged.

  Back in the Members’ Room, in the same seats they had occupied, Jury said, “The thing is, she had pictures-snapshots, you know-of me and these other kids. They were kids I remember, too. But that was several years later, in Devon. They were foster children this woman was drawing stipends for-”

  “Instead of the kids being the evacuees you thought you’d been among?”

  “Yes.”

  “Pictures may tell part of the truth but not necessarily all of it.”

  A log split and fell, sparking. The flames sputtered, became no more than live coal and leaped once again into flame. He said, “Lately, that’s what I seem to be dealing with-pictures. Memories. Neither being completely reliable as a reconstruction of the past. I have a friend, a DCI in the City police, who showed me some pictures.” He told Melrose about Mickey’s suspicions.

  “Why doesn’t he investigate this himself? I know you’re awfully good, but it seems odd bringing Scotland Yard into it.”

  “It does, yes. We’re old friends, we go back a long way.”

  “Still-”

  “He’s dying.”

  “Oh. I’m sorry.”

  “His father was a regular at the Blue Last. He knew the owner, Francis Croft, quite well. Oliver Tynedale and Francis Croft were like brothers. It’s impressive that they’d remain that close to each other and stay friends for that long, and also
be in business together.”

  “I can’t imagine anything that could sour a friendship quicker than a business relationship. Who was at the helm?”

  “Tynedale, I expect. The business seemed to fall roughly between the public relations end and the financial end. I imagine the line between them was pretty much blurred.”

  “So Francis Croft died and his own fortune got divided among his children?”

  “Actually, no. That’s another unusual thing. Some of it went to Tynedale’s children, as some of Tynedale’s will go to Croft’s. They really are like one extended family.”

  “Which sounds as if it complicates things.”

  “Yes.” Jury watched the fire over the edge of his glass of cognac.

  “Let’s just say that, unlike his father, Simon Croft was crooked. Say he embezzled funds, and a major stockholder found out and-” Melrose mimicked a pistol with his thumb and forefinger. “Except you don’t think so, do you?”

  “It’s more that Mickey doesn’t think so.”

  “He’s convinced it’s a member of the family.”

  Jury answered obliquely. “The thing is, Tynedale is very sick; murdering him would be, well, superfluous for an heir of his. His granddaughter, Maisie, will probably get the lion’s share. The fortune would then be split-not necessarily equally-among the remaining Tynedale and Croft children-Ian, Simon, Marie-France-oh, and there’s Simon’s sister, Emily. She’s living in Brighton in one of those assisted-living places.”

  “Hmm. If the motive’s getting a larger share of the inheritance, why would the killer choose Simon Croft over the granddaughter? You’ve just said she’ll undoubtedly get more than the others.”

  “Depends, I suppose, on how much more,” Jury said.

  “Isn’t it equally likely there’s another motive for shooting Simon Croft? What if he knew about this imposture?”

  “Which points to the Riordin woman, or, of course, Maisie. She might know, she might not. Anyway, they’re the ones who wouldn’t want Oliver finding out Maisie isn’t Maisie. To wait fifty years for the payoff shows a hell of an emotional investment on the part of Kitty Riordin. To have that snatched away now-” Jury shrugged.

  “Perhaps Simon Croft’s killing isn’t connected to the identity of Maisie Tynedale. DCI Haggerty could be dead wrong.”

  A porter came on hushed feet to deposit two more cognacs. Jury insisted on paying for this round and slapped down Melrose’s five-pound note.

  “Oh, thanks,” said Melrose. “You’re too generous.”

  “I know.” Jury swirled the cognac, sniffed it and drank. “Another thing that bothers me is this little girl who’s Tynedale’s ward. Gemma Trimm her name is. She claims someone’s tried three times to kill her.”

  Melrose sat up. “My god. But do you believe her?”

  “They found a bullet casing. Southwark police certainly believe there was a shooting; they seemed to put it down to a rash of robberies, that, or some young punk proving how cool he is. As to the choking and poisoning, well, I’m not so sure.”

  “And what would be the motive in this case?”

  “I’ve no idea. Her presence in that house is mysterious. She seems to be largely ignored except by staff and Oliver Tynedale, who apparently dotes on her.”

  “Is she a dotable little thing?”

  Jury smiled. “Oh, my, yes. Extremely dotable-an earnest child. They say nothing about her. I came upon her quite by accident outside, walking.”

  “They say nothing about her?”

  “I questioned all of them, except for Oliver Tynedale, and no one so much as mentioned Gemma.”

  “That’s damned strange. If the old man is so fond of her you’d think the others would be discounting her all over the place. His ward, you say?”

  Jury nodded. “According to her friend Benny.”

  “God, don’t bring anyone else into this tale. I’m back with the cook and the gardener as it is.”

  “Benny’s extremely resourceful. He has four or five shops in the main street he runs errands for. He’s the local messenger service. You know, if the bookshop wants a delivery made, he does it. Same for florists, same for butcher and newsagent. What I admire is his ability to fend off questions about home and family. I don’t blame him. A lot of people I’d rather not show my ID to, either.”

  Melrose laughed, sliding down in his chair. “You sound like you’re the same age as this boy.” He kept laughing, stopped and said, “Maybe that’s the secret.”

  “What secret?”

  “You’re so good with children. They seem immediately to sense a kindred spirit in you.” He sighed. “Whereas with me, it’s sensing an unkindred one.”

  “That’s not true-” The doomed lament of the longcase clock gave the half hour. “Christ, ten-thirty already. I’ve got to go.” Jury drank off his cognac and rose.

  They were moving toward the door when Colonel Neame called out to Jury, “My dear chap, did you like the avocado and Stilton?”

  Jury nodded and waved.

  The colonel again called out, “I’d hated to have steered you wrong on that.”

  At the door, Melrose stopped dead. “I don’t believe it. That you’d stoop so low…”

  Jury grinned. “That’s why they call us the Filth.”

  Twenty-one

  Mr. Gyp handed the freshly wrapped packets over the counter to Benny, saying, “Here’s chops and chine. Just you mind you get that up to the Lodge this morning as Mrs. MacLeish wants to get ’em stuffed and on their way.”

  Benny really hated meat deliveries and especially Mr. Gyp’s as Gyp liked to talk about the cut-up meat as if something about it still lived: “get ’em on their way.” It was as if the poor pig was going off on a trip.

  Mr. Gyp was always inviting Benny back to the abattoir and when Benny said no thanks, Gyp told him he hadn’t the stomach for life if he couldn’t make himself look it in the face.

  “All of life ain’t an abattoir, Mr. Gyp. Not all of it.”

  “You’ll learn, young Bernard. And your dog.” Benny didn’t like the way Mr. Gyp said this, sort of sinister like. He was always looking at Sparky, as if taking measurements in his mind. Probably more to make Benny uncomfortable than for any humane reason, Gyp would give him, occasionally, some leftover chops or a bit of mince and often a bone for Sparky. Gyp would slyly hand over a damp, blood-smeared packet of things for Benny to take to his “family.” Was it a big one? It must be for all the meat they eat, said Gyp. He was always trying to get Benny to tell him where he lived.

  Benny had heard noises coming from the back that would send him flying from the shop, out to the curb where he’d sit with his head on his knees, dizzy. He might have fainted with the horror of it if he hadn’t got out. He swore he’d quit, but he didn’t. It wasn’t because he needed the money. It was because of the way Gyp asked him about his family, asked him why he wasn’t in school. Benny told him he was getting home schooling. Mr. Gyp said he ought to be in a proper school and maybe he, Gyp, should do his duty and “call the Social.” Benny didn’t know whether he would or not, but he was afraid to take the chance. Funny, but none of the others he worked for ever went on the way Gyp did. Not even Mr. Siptick, who was bad enough. But with the others, there’d only been some friendly questions asked and answered and then forgotten.

  Benny didn’t have a large family, but what he had-Nancy and the rest of them-were all under Waterloo Bridge.

  Before Benny’s mother died she’d told him if anything ever happened to her, not to hang around, for if the Social got wind of him, they’d slap him in an orphanage. Never mind about her, she said, just grab up Sparky and run for it. Get to the bridge.

  But of course Benny couldn’t do it. When his mum died on the pavement outside Selfridges, he’d stood there waiting for her to come back. A crowd gathered and one of them summoned a constable who’d been strolling and enjoying a rare sunny day in June. It was this officer who collected Benny and took him along to the station to see wh
at could be done for him. Never let the Social get you in its clutches, love.

  But the Social had, in the form of a Miss Magenta who had stood looking at Benny there in the station, measuring him up with her eyes (the way Gyp did later). You could tell she loved her job, even if she didn’t love the children who made it possible. For she didn’t care about him; he sensed this, but he didn’t take it personally. She’d have been this way around any kid, with her cheap shiny smile and her cold pebble eyes.

  While the constable was making out some sort of report, Miss Magenta was tidying Benny up. She’d been to the water fountain down the hall and was wiping his face with a damp handkerchief.

  Disconsolate, but holding fast to Sparky’s thin rope he used for a lead, Benny looked around and saw an elderly lady, rather thin and gray-haired, but still pretty and so richly dressed the effect was stunning. She was sitting on a bench against the wall, waiting for someone or something, and was watching the social worker washing Benny’s face with the wet handkerchief. Benny knew what his mum had meant by getting in the “clutches” of someone, for he was definitely in Miss Magenta’s. Her small hand on his shoulder felt like an armored mitten.

  Her other hand kept washing his face. She said, “Cleanliness is next to-”

  “Dog turds,” Benny interrupted.

  She rocked back on her heels, then collected herself and once again applied the damp handkerchief to his chin.

  But the old lady, Benny noticed, was laughing, and it made him feel better, as if there were someone else in this chilly room who could share his feelings. He watched her open her purse, take out what looked to be bills and then sit there, seemingly waiting.

  When Miss Magenta went once again to the fountain for a good soak of cleanliness, this lady moved with surprising speed to put her back between the fountain and Benny. She stuffed some bills in his cardigan pocket and whispered, “I’ll create a diversion; as soon as I’ve got their attention, run like hell.”