Melrose decided this was as good a time as any to go in, so he pitched his cap a little forward and stuck his fingers in the small pockets of his jeans and entered.
“Evenin’,” he said, bringing two fingers to the bill of his cap in a deferential salute. “This the butcher wot supplies the Lodge up there?” He jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “And you be Mr. Gyp?” Barely waiting for the butcher to accede to this, Melrose went on. “I just come from there and as I’m goin’ back, I can take the parcel for you and save the lad a trip. Couldn’t ’elp over’earin’ what you said.”
Before Gyp could object (as he was certainly about to), Melrose hurried on. “ ‘Not a butcher in all London can touch ’im’ is what that Mr. Barkins said. ‘Ain’t one of ’em can do a crown roast’ ”-Melrose’s eyes flicked to the board where lay pork chops fanned out in perfect symmetry like a chorus line-“ ‘or cut chops the artful way does Mr. Gyp. Almost too pretty to eat, them chops. No, that Mr. Gyp’s a marvel, and an upright, honest man with it. I’ve never ’ad a doubt Gyp gives honest weight. We’re lucky to have our Mr. Gyp.’ That last was said by cook and it’s somethin’ to get her praise.” Melrose halted, not for lack of other fanciful compliments, but because he felt like a vicar delivering a good-bye over the body of the lately dead. Gyp, he saw, had grown increasingly pleased as all of these compliments showered down on him. The boy and his dog stared at Melrose with eyes like full moons, disbelieving that anyone would find Gyp praiseworthy. Only an idiot (Melrose was sure Benny was thinking) could have listened to this lot spoken in as poor a North London accent as this toff was doing: a dropped h, an eclipsed t was about all Melrose could manage. (Just because he was undergardener didn’t mean he could talk like one. Jury never seemed to learn that.)
Melrose leaned down to give Sparky a pat and the dog pumped his tail.
In a silky tone and a wipe of his hands on his blood-streaked apron, Gyp asked, “An’ who might you be, sir?”
Melrose stuck out his hand to shake Gyp’s (which he found cold as death) and said, “New gardener up to the Lodge. Ambrose Plant’s the name. A pleasure to step into such a well-kept shop as this one.”
Gyp clearly thought in Melrose he’d found a mate and would probably be wanting to nip along to the Scurvy Ferret for a pint. “Well, ain’t it nice to have a new face to look at, and one that doesn’t mind working outside his set hours. I was just trying to advise young Bernard here on the importance of bein’ flexible.”
“Ah, you’re right there, Mr. Gyp, indeed you are.”
Benny squinted up at Melrose in utter disbelief. Even Sparky managed a disbelieving cock of the head. Here was a boy and his dog story worth hearing.
“And o’course,” continued Melrose, “I’d be ’appy to deliver that other l’il package too on my way.”
“Now, that’s most kind of you, Mr. Plant, on’y the Elys, they’re a bit peculiar about strangers comin’ to their door-”
Benny objected: “No, they’re not-”
Gyp stamped on whatever Benny was going to say. “The old lady, she’s the suspicious type.”
Benny looked from the one to the other of these men as if they were both mad. Had they been dogs, Sparky would have done the same.
“Ely? Did you say Ely, Mr. Gyp? Could that be… what was his name…?”
“Brian Ely. Lives with his old mum over in Mickelwhite Street.”
Melrose clapped his head. “Brian, of course! And the old lady! Well, ain’t that a turnup for the books! It’s been ten years since Brian and yours truly lifted a pint at the Scurvy Ferret.” Since Melrose knew the only reason Gyp didn’t want him making the Ely delivery was to force Benny here to do it and thus delay the boy’s departure, he said, “This lad can show me the way.”
Gyp thoroughly approved this scheme and stood washing his hands and grinning a sort of death’s head grin.
But poor Benny, who’d seen deliverance only a moment ago, now saw his hopes dashed once again, or at least partly dashed. Melrose collected the packets and with false bonhomie told Gyp that he’d see him again soon. Then man and boy and dog departed.
Outside, Melrose gave Benny’s shoulder a little shake. “Look, I’m not really who that Gyp thinks I am.”
“Yeah? You’re not who I think you are, neither.”
“Oh? Oh? And who do you think I am?”
“You ain’t someone what lives within the sound of Bow Bells, if you take my meaning. More some toff puttin’ on an accent. It’s really bad, I guess you know.”
“This is the thanks I get for helping you with deliveries?”
“No, mister. That’s really swell of you. Only now, I’ll still never get to my friend’s birthday in time with the cake.” He held up the white box he’d been hanging on to.
Melrose looked up and down the dark street for a cab. He saw two, but they already carried passengers. “All we need do is take a cab, first to the Lodge and then the Elys.”
As if cabs were as far beyond his reach as stars, Benny halted beside Melrose. “A taxicab?”
“Of course. Here comes one now.”
“That’s a mini-cab, that is.”
Melrose sighed as he sliced his arm up and down. “So it’s a mini-cab. So the driver talks to us in Portuguese. It has wheels, so hop it.”
The white car lurched to a stop and the driver stuck his head out and called something incomprehensible. Melrose and Benny ducked into the back and Benny gave the address. The car lurched off as it had lurched in.
The driver pulled to a stop at the Lodge, where Benny directed him.
He then disappeared through a garden gate while Sparky waited in the car, anxiously flapping his tail. The boy was back inside of two minutes. He told the driver the Elys’ address and after much incomprehensible talk from the driver, the cab swerved around and shot down the road.
The Elys’ house was in a stingy little street behind one of many churches attributed to Wren. Here Benny told the driver to keep the engine running, he’d be back in a tic, as if the cab were a getaway car. In syllables that still baffled Melrose, the driver went on about something-the gold standard? The Palestinian crisis? Standing on hind legs, paws against the window, Sparky watched Benny go.
Mr. Ely, if that’s who it was, appeared in silhouette against the backdrop of a lighted hallway and, after a moment of hello and good-bye, closed the door. Benny rushed back, clambered in and told the driver to go to Waterloo Bridge, the other side, the Embankment side.
“And then where?” asked Melrose.
“Nowhere. I’ll just get out there.” Benny held the cake on his lap and watched the night slip by.
Melrose frowned. “But your birthday party-?”
“It’s around there.”
With Sparky up on the seat beside him now, Melrose pondered. It was pretty clear Benny didn’t wish to discuss the matter and Melrose would never force it. “How long have you been working for this Gyp person?”
“Over a year. But it ain’t-it’s not-just him. I make deliveries for Delphinium and Mr. Siptick, too. He’s the newsagent. And the Moonraker. Miss Penforwarden is really nice.” He started humming.
“How about school, though?” Melrose then congratulated himself for asking the most detestable question man ever put to child: How about school?
But Benny didn’t mind. “Oh, my mum takes care of that. I mean, she teaches me at home. See, I’m chesty-” Here he released several labored coughs for Melrose’s edification. It was the first time Melrose had heard the boy cough. Apparently feeling called upon to demonstrate his reason for skipping school, Benny kept hacking away.
“Okay, you can stop that now. It’s none of my business, anyway.”
“You’re the first person ever said that.”
Crossing Waterloo Bridge, Melrose looked up and down the river, to Blackfriars, to London Bridge, to Tower Bridge, to this whole panoply of bridges lighted all along their length. He thought the scene was gorgeous. He supposed this was how a New Yorker mus
t feel crossing over a bridge to Manhattan. He remembered seeing the backdrop of Manhattan when he’d been watching a news presentation. The skyscrapers’ tops had been lit with colored lights, pink and yellow and green, surreal colors that seemed to float behind the news presenter.
When the mini-cab stopped and set Benny down near the Embankment, Melrose felt a pang. He told the boy to wait a minute as he wrote down Boring’s number on the back of one of his old calling cards.
“Just ring me if you need another ride. Or anything.”
“This here says you’re an earl.” Speculatively, Benny looked from the card to Melrose.
“Not I. A friend of mine.” Melrose carried the card for emergencies.
Benny nodded and put it in his pocket and did not move. He was waiting for the car to leave, Melrose guessed, so as not to give away his own movement.
Melrose told the driver, “Mayfair. Boring’s.”
Thirty-four
Jury was in the St. James pub leaning against a post when Liza walked in. She was carrying an Oxford Street shopping bag that bristled with ribbon-wrapped boxes. She was wearing an unfashionable black coat and a scarf over her hair, but she still turned heads. Up and down the bar, men swiveled around to get another look. Liza would be married again within a year, he bet, four kids or not. Probably she would have to remarry, no matter how much she still loved Mickey. On her own, merely providing for four kids would be a huge problem; keeping them happy and out of harm’s way with no one to help would be even worse.
“Hello, Richard.” She kissed his cheek; he could have done with more.
“Hello. Let’s go upstairs. There’s nowhere to sit down here. Better yet, you go upstairs while I get you a drink. Lager? Gin and tonic?”
“What I’d really like is a brandy. I’m beat.”
“It’s yours.”
Jury collected the drinks at the bar and made his way upstairs. At the top of the staircase, looking over at her, he thought how much she reminded him of a small girl inside a coat too big for her. She had deposited the shopping bag on one of the chairs. He set down their drinks, a double brandy for her, a pint for himself.
“Thanks. And thanks for asking me here. It was really nice of you.”
He smiled. “Hardly a sacrifice on my part. All I had to do was cross the street.” He gestured behind him in the direction of New Scotland Yard.
“You know what I mean. You see, there are very few people I can talk to-or Mickey himself when it comes to that-because very few know about his cancer. He must really need your help for him to tell you about it.”
“I suppose so. I’m helping as much as I can, Liza.”
“I know.” She had not removed the coat. It was as if every transaction now were so fleeting, it would be useless to settle in to any encounter. She put her hand on the shopping bag. “Buying presents. It’s difficult trying to celebrate. It’s damned difficult looking at all those carefree faces.”
“But they’re not, not really. Look at the suicide rate around Christmas.”
“Then why do we waste all of this energy pretending it’s such a happy time?”
“Is it wasted? I guess I’m of the old ‘assume-a-virtue-if-you-have-it-not’ school.”
She smiled. “Who said that? Shakespeare?”
“Hamlet, I imagine.”
“Why not? He said everything else.” She laughed and sipped her brandy. “I feel better. I expect this is what I needed.”
Jury was quiet, waiting for her to go on. That she needed to talk was painfully obvious. It must be like a punishment, the tragedy you couldn’t talk about.
Liza leaned closer and said, “I’m worried about him, Richard. That must sound ridiculous-of course I’d be worried-but I mean the toll this is taking on him emotionally.”
“But, of course-”
She raised her hand, palm out, as if to push away some easy comfort. “I know what you’re going to say: it’s natural he’d be having emotional swings, but he’s become so involved with this case-it wasn’t even a case when it started, just identifying old bones. And then the murder of this Croft and now it is a case.” Her hand went up to her mouth, to cover it, to try to keep from crying. She took a deep breath and went on. “The thing is, Mickey can’t seem to focus on anything else. What is it about this damned case, Richard? Now, of course, it’s in the City, and the City means Mickey.
It’s devastating to find him mentally elsewhere all of the time, all of the time elsewhere, knowing that in a little while he won’t be anywhere. When I think of a world without Mickey in it-” She stopped. Her fisted hand was over her mouth, denial shaking her head from side to side, sending the tears flying instead of falling.
“Liza, listen. I think I can answer your question. This case, he needs it; he needs to be engulfed by it; he needs something larger than life. It isn’t just this case. It could have been any case. When I talked to him in his office he needed a case that would make him think because he didn’t want to think about himself.”
“He’s taking the case so personally, though.”
“His father was a good friend of Francis Croft. In that way, it is personal.”
“God, what the hell difference does it make if this woman is or isn’t who she says she is? He’s probably wrong anyway.”
“I don’t think so.”
Liza looked surprised. “You mean you think the woman isn’t this man’s daughter?”
“Granddaughter. I don’t think she is, no.”
She sat back, drank the brandy. “It’s just so consuming…” Her voice trailed off.
“So is the disease. Maybe he needs something outside of himself to match it.” It was what he’d said before, different words. He wasn’t convincing Liza, that was plain. He wasn’t convincing himself.
Thirty-five
To the frustration of the mini-cab driver, Boring’s, in its narrow Mayfair street, was identifiable only by its number and an old street lamp at the bottom of the steps. Its members apparently felt that if you didn’t know where Boring’s was, you probably shouldn’t be going to it.
Melrose paid the driver a monstrous sum for carting them all over the West End searching for the club and added a monstrous tip because he, Melrose, did not speak Senegalese; he had been quite obliging, at least, from what Melrose could make out.
It was by now a little after seven o’clock. He had his room on the first floor and took the stairs two at a time, feeling quite youthfully athletic after his afternoon in the open air. While he was slamming drawers around looking for his silver cufflinks, he reminded himself the afternoon hadn’t been entirely given over to exercise. There were the intervals around the pond and the beech tree.
In the Members’ Room, several elderly men sat in various stages of predinner expectancy, with their predinner whiskeys or gins. Melrose spotted Colonel Neame in his usual chair by the fire. The feet jutting out from the other wing chair undoubtedly belonged to Major Champs, Colonel Neame’s lifelong friend. He had met both of them last year at about this time; it had been in November. They were fixtures. But then all of the members were pretty much fixtures. A thin blade of fear creased Melrose’s heart as he wondered if he too would become one.
The old men were gazing dreamily into the blazing fire when Melrose walked up and said, “Colonel Neame,” and smiled down at the white-haired man with the rubicund face. “Major Champs,” he said to the other.
Both of them started and began their slow acceleration into speech: “Um… uh… wha… well… um… um. My boy!”
Colonel Neame, his monocle falling from his eye and suspended by its black cord, was the first to utter actual words: “I say-will you look who’s here, Champs! Delighted, delighted!”
Both of them rose to insist Melrose join them. Melrose, on his part, insisted on buying the drinks. This was met with happy-sounding umphs, ums, lovely. Melrose beckoned the young porter over, young by Boring’s standards, all of whose staff were fairly over the hill. His name was Barney and he ha
d bright ginger hair.
Melrose took the club chair on the other side of Major Champs as Barney went off to fetch the drinks. While they waited, they settled down to talk about something or nothing as to health and well-being; it mattered little just as long as drinks were on their way and pipes and cigars were to hand and lighted. Then the drinks came and approval rose from the chairs like smoke signals. Thought need not play much of a role in all of this, but Melrose was about to do it when a familiar voice sounded at his back.
“Good evening, Colonel Neame, Major Champs, Lord Ardry.”
“Ah! Superintendent Jury!” Neame rose and Champs almost did, stopped in midrise by a laborious wheeze.
Neame went on. “We’re relieved it’s only dinner that brings you here tonight and not police business.”
“My presence reminds you of Mr. Pitt, I expect. I’m sorry.”
“Ah, don’t apologize, Superintendent. Everything reminds me.”
“Must you go through that ‘Lord Ardry’ business?”
Jury drank the wine Plant had ordered, a bottle of Puligny-Montrachet which was open and breathing on their table when they walked in. “That’s how those two know you. You’re the one introduced yourself as Lord Ardry. You don’t want to disillusion them, do you?”
Young Higgins tacked their way with a tray of soup.
“Oxblood.”
“No surprise.”
And they didn’t discuss the case until their bowls were empty, Jury ladling up his in less than a minute.
“I’m starving,” he said, then looked at Melrose, who was rummaging in his pockets. “You’re not going to smoke, are you?” His tone was vexed as a teacher’s on having discovered graffiti on her blackboard.
“No-o,” Melrose said, acerbically. “One doesn’t smoke between courses. It’s bad manners. But you always said somebody else smoking didn’t bother you.”
Jury frowned. “Well, it does. For some reason.” He was quite gloomy tonight.
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