Solemn December, although fairly recently acquired, was much read. There were scraps of paper and yellow Post-It notes on a number of pages. The subtitle of the book was Britain, 1940. As Miss Penforwarden had suggested, the book was unquestionably on his subject. A good third of it was composed of photographs, and the text itself dealt with the hardships and courage of the British people-the wardens, the volunteers, the shopkeepers and ordinary citizens. It was nostalgic, a hope and glory book. As such, Jury somehow imagined it was of limited textual value to Croft, not dense enough. The picture he had built up of Simon Croft was of a complex man. He was someone who could (and did) set great store by family and the past, but who would not, at the same time, be hoodwinked. “Hoodwinked” by what exactly Jury couldn’t say. Certainly the identity of Maisie Tynedale was in the running.
Again he wondered: If the purpose of taking Croft’s computer, journal, diary, notes and hard copy was to eradicate whatever knowledge Croft had stumbled on, why hadn’t these books been removed, too? This next one, titled Fourteen Days, was very heavily marked up. Notes, marginalia. A much-used book which appeared to be, unlike the other one, sinewy, full of material.
Jury had to begin with what he knew about motive in this murder, and the only one he had yet sorted was the alleged motive of Kitty Riordin and her daughter, Erin. That Croft had unearthed this imposture (“Simon talked about impostors”) and confronted Riordin with it would have been motive enough for her to kill him.
Another point was the supposed attempt to shoot the person in the greenhouse. But were these two shootings connected? Perhaps not, but Jury hated coincidence.
A cigarette box inlaid with mother-of-pearl (“I’m beautiful, Jury; have one.”) sat on the table beside his armchair. He got up and walked around the room trying to think his way into Simon Croft’s mind. Though he was loath to mix it into this brew because it widened the field so much, Jury knew he had to consider the likelihood that Croft’s murder was related to his work as a broker rather than his family or his past, as Plant had suggested. Perhaps he had caused a loss to one of his clients; perhaps there was fraud. Perhaps. Jury doubted it. Croft just didn’t sound the type. More than that, Croft’s behavior during his last visit with Miss Penforwarden did not sound like that of a desperate man who’d been caught with his hands in the till. No. But then Miss Penforwarden’s assessment of Croft’s state of mind had been different from Mrs. MacLeish’s, or Haggerty’s, or the grocer Smith’s or the Delphinium boys’. That was interesting.
Jury had made two circuits of the room, standing here and there, and now stopped before the rosewood filing cabinet. Bless the man for his orderliness. He removed a folder labeled “correspondence.” He guessed the order of the letters would be by date, the ones in front being the most recent, given Croft’s meticulous disposal of papers. Jury went through them and found the whole lot disappointing. There were letters of appreciation from satisfied clients, acknowledging the good job Simon had done with their brokerage accounts; a letter inviting him to a weekend in Invernessshire; a few letters from his solicitors regarding “minor” changes in the wording of his will. That would hardly constitute changing beneficiaries, thought Jury. That was about all. Letters might, of course, have been removed.
He went back to his chair, sat down and picked up Fourteen Days, which sounded almost like the title of a thriller. He read about the hammering East London and part of the City had taken on the nights of December 19 and 20. He was surprised to read that Hitler had for some time before the blitzkrieg been convinced that Britain would come to its senses and simply capitulate. And given the German successes, it was a wonder Britain didn’t. It was a blessing that his country had been totally unaware of the disasters suffered by the British Expeditionary Forces. France had been a disaster. Also, Germany had taken Holland, Brussels and, worst, had advanced to the English Channel.
There were a number of marginal notations, which was not surprising, considering how conscientious a note taker Croft was. In one margin was penned in RALPH (?). Not familiar with Herrick’s wartime maneuvers Jury couldn’t, of course, see the relationship between Ralph Herrick and the account in the book of the GAF daytime raids on aircraft fields in the southeast of England. The bombers were turned back or brought down by RAF fighter pilots. Then again, two pages later in the margin, RALPH (???). Here, again, several pages were devoted to accounts of Göring’s near success in wiping out the RAF airfields, which would have meant wiping out the RAF. In other words, winning the war in the air. Winning, period.
For some reason, those three question marks disturbed Jury. The single question mark on the page before might simply have indicated curiosity. But here the marks suggested a real need to know. Know what? This entry was also cross-referenced: (CF. P. 208, F.H.).
“F.H.” A title, perhaps? An author? He went back to the bookshelf and ran his finger along the spines of the books Croft seemed to have used most for research and found the title Finest Hours (a borrowing of one of Churchill’s titles). He thumbed up page 208 and read an account of German bombers over the Isle of Wight. In the margin was written “R”? What was Simon asking? Whether Ralph had participated in this particular battle? Or that Ralph had talked about it? What could Simon otherwise be alluding to? Jury went to the three other pages indicated in the margin, but the details of the combat meant little to him.
Except, of course, in his own private world, where they meant a great deal. Jury had not known his father except as the face in his mother’s photographs, and whatever he himself had contrived to imagine about his father, a litany to repeat again and again before he fell asleep. Definitely handsome, undoubtedly brave.
He thought of photographs. Croft would probably have an album; anyone this precise, this organized, this dedicated to preserving memories would have pictures, snapshots and so forth. The book itself, wouldn’t it contain photographs as studies of this kind so often did? He made a cursory examination of the shelves on which were kept the journals and diaries, but saw nothing.
Frustrated he went back to his chair and picked up Finest Hours again. What was Croft thinking about? Jury riffled the pages and stopped at more marginalia, this time a column of dates:
Jury skimmed the page in whose margin these dates appeared, in a neat row. There were no corresponding dates in the text of this page or the ones before or after. He went to every page where Simon had made marginal notes. No such dates appeared in the text, so there were obviously other sources he was using. But he could not find reference to them. How could he match up dates to events? How could he find the common denominator?
Was there one and was it Ralph? No one had talked very much about him, but, then, he’d been around so little that the family hadn’t really known him well. Simon and Ian had idolized Ralph; that did not constitute knowledge. The marriage to Alexandra was brief and wartime. What all knew and mentioned was that the young flier had been awarded the Victoria Cross.
On the last page of the book at the very bottom, Simon had written,
COVENTRY
ULTRA
CHICK. BED.
HATSTON
ENIGMA B.P.
– GOD I DON’T BELIEVE THIS.
“Enigma.” Jury frowned.
He sat thinking in the chair for some time. Then he crossed to the telephone and took out his small notebook. He rang Marie-France Muir.
After that, he rang Boring’s.
Forty-two
Marie-France Muir lived in Chapel Street. The house was not commodious, but knowing the value of square footage in Belgravia it didn’t have to be to mark the owner as well off. The furnishings would also have told the story. Against one wall sat a walnut kneehole desk flanked by an ornate pier glass and an exceptionally beautiful painting of woods, sheep and drifted snow that seemed to be lit from within. In an embrasure near the fireplace sat a walnut chest on chest of rich patination. The fireplace itself was an ornate green marble, guarded by an elaborate fire screen, decorated with birds
and butterflies. A glass and rosewood paneled display piece holding fine china that Jury would have lumped under étagère was undoubtedly something else, something rarer. It was over six feet tall, nearly as tall as he was. Through the door into what must have been the dining room he glimpsed carved walnut chairs and the end of a dark dining-room table.
Yet what dominated the living room was not the furniture but the art, paintings largely of the French Impressionists and post-Impressionists. They hung one above the other in rococo gilt frames. It looked like a gallery. He wondered how many of them were originals; he wondered if all were originals.
The sofa and chairs were of humbler origins and more comfortable ones, slipcovered in a restful gray linen. “This is really a nice room,” Jury said, sitting back in the deep chair with the coffee Marie-France had had the foresight to make. He was almost hesitant to lift the paper-thin cup, which looked as if it would break if he blew on it.
“Thank you.” She looked around as if assessing everything anew, in light of his comment. “Much of the art was acquired by Ian. It’s his field, painting. A few pieces came from Simon’s house-” The fragile cup trembled in the saucer and she set it on the table beside her chair. She was silent for a while and so was Jury. He did not intrude upon such silences, the ones caused by grief. He did not intrude unless the other person made it clear there was something he could offer.
“It’s just made such a difference,” she said. “Simon and I didn’t see each other all that much, but you don’t have to, do you? To know the other person is there. The thing is, we were quite self-sufficient, and though we might give the impression of living in one another’s pockets, we really don’t, and didn’t. I mean all of us, including the Tynedales. I think his self-sufficiency might be the reason Ian never married, or, at least, one of the reasons.” She smiled. “Lord knows, he could have had his pick. It’s too bad in a way, none of us having children. I certainly wanted them and so did my husband.” She shrugged, almost by way of apology.
“Then you wouldn’t have-” Jury rephrased it. “How often had you seen your brother in the past two months?”
Marie-France considered. “Once at his house, once here. The last time was, oh, back in early November.”
“Did he seem in some way different?”
She frowned slightly. “No. All of us are always pretty much the same. Boring, but true.”
“A few people I’ve talked to got the impression he was afraid of something or someone. To the point, really, of paranoia.”
The smile she gave Jury could have charmed the gold butterflies right off the fire screen. “Mr. Jury, that’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.”
His smile matched hers. “Perhaps. But remember, you’d seen him only twice and the last time was over a month ago.”
“I’m not basing my opinion on seeing him; I’m basing it on knowing Simon. He was the easiest person I’ve ever known, the most composed. Simon and paranoia just don’t go together. Who’s said he was afraid and why?”
“He asked DCI Haggerty to come by the house when he could; your brother appeared to be afraid of someone. He wouldn’t admit tradespeople to the house or family members. Maisie Tynedale, for instance.”
“But he didn’t say what he was afraid of?”
Jury shook his head.
She sighed. “As for the tradespeople, I don’t particularly put out the red carpet for the butcher and baker, either. And as for Maisie-” She looked away and waved her hand in a dismissive gesture. “Simon never liked her.”
“Why not?”
“He thought she was pushy on the one hand and somewhat of a sycophant on the other. Probably a few other things in between.” She picked up the silver pot and poured Jury more coffee. No question, coffee tasted better coming from a silver pot and delicate china.
“How about you? Do you agree?”
“About Maisie? Yes. I find her very cold.”
“And her grandfather? How does he feel about her?”
“When it comes to Oliver, I can’t really say. Maisie’s not only Alexandra’s daughter, but the only grandchild. Those are two reasons for him to adore her.” She frowned. “But he doesn’t seem to. Adore her, I mean. Certainly, not in the way he does that little girl, Gemma. But of course she’s only eight or nine. Perhaps when Maisie was nine, Oliver felt the same way…” She shrugged. “The one person who seems to get on with Maisie is that Riordin woman. I don’t like her at all. There’s something almost, ah, creepy about her. When she was still a young woman she tied herself down to living at the Lodge. I find that odd.”
“She must think there’s something in it for her. I imagine she expects to come into at least part of Mr. Tynedale’s estate. Don’t you?”
“Yes, but, well, certainly there’ll be a bequest, but I shouldn’t think enough to warrant giving over one’s life to it.” She sighed and sipped her coffee.
Jury leaned forward. “Have you ever thought there might be more to it than that?”
“What do you mean?” She looked off toward the window as if a fresh aspect were to be found there. “My lord, are you suggesting they were lovers?”
Jury laughed. “That never entered my mind. Perhaps it should have.”
With an oblique look at Jury, she said, “No, it shouldn’t. I’m surprised it entered mine. Oliver is simply not-I don’t know how to say it. Anyway, he’s not, take my word for it. Then what did you mean?”
Given that Ian Tynedale and Marie-France disliked Maisie and Kitty Riordin, and also were such obviously intelligent people, he was surprised neither of them wondered about Maisie’s parentage. But they were also ingenuous; maybe they couldn’t comprehend something so monstrous as an imposture lasting more than half a century. “I don’t know. I’m fishing, I expect.”
“Well, you need some better bait, Superintendent.” This was accompanied by her immensely charming smile. “The rest of us manage to rub along with Kitty, but not Emily. Emily never did get along with her; Emily thinks she’s a fraud.”
“In what way?”
“Kitty took credit-no, that’s not exactly right-she was being credited with something she didn’t do: she didn’t save Maisie’s life. It was chance, pure chance. But Kitty began to believe she saved the baby’s life.”
Jury nodded. “There’s something I wonder, though: why would she have taken either child out during the blitz? That was savage bombing the Luftwaffe was doing.”
“Savage, but erratic. Simon talked about it often. He was moved to write this book, not surprisingly, because our father, Francis, had died in the blitz. Simon thought what a lot of people mistook as strategic bombing was simply systematic bombing. Göring’s last-ditch stand. He’d already lost in his attempt to destroy our air force by bombing the airfields.
“For us young ones, the whole thing was exciting-look at those ruins, that rubble we could investigate for treasure. It was rather like a film. Well, I’m trying to answer your questions. That sort of illusion wasn’t restricted to children. Grown-ups felt it too.”
Marie-France went on. “What I’m saying is that there were times we thought of it as a fairy tale. That sounds outrageous, I know, but that was the climate of opinion sometimes. Add to that that Kitty Riordin was a headstrong girl, and if she thought a baby needed some fresh air, I suppose she wasn’t going to hide in the Blue Last waiting for the war to blow over.”
“And Alexandra?”
“Alex was more sensible, more realistic.”
“Why would she allow her baby to be taken out, then?”
“It’s a good question. I can’t answer that. But you know we’re sitting here second-guessing what happened fifty-five years ago.”
Jury smiled. “I spend most of my life doing that.”
“I can see you’d have to.”
Jury put down his cup. “This book your brother was writing. Ralph Herrick apparently figured in it.”
This surprised her. “Ralph?” Bemused, she repeated the name as if i
t were some magical incantation. “Ralph. I don’t recall Simon mentioning him with regard to his book, though when we were children, I know Ralph seemed to us ever so glamorous. He was a hero; he was handsome; he was married to Alexandra. Simon and Ian both idolized him. They thought it wizard that he flew a Spitfire.”
“Do you remember Herrick as anything other than an icon?”
Marie-France thought for a moment, sipping her coffee. “You know, that’s well put, Superintendent. I think that’s just how we saw him. He represented something in the war that was noble and good. But as for knowing him, Ralph wasn’t really around much. He was rarely at home, even after he married Alex, and they were married only a little over a year when she was killed. And then…?” She paused, trying to remember. “I’m not sure what happened to him.”
“Herrick joined the people at Bletchley Park. You remember, the mathematicians like Turing who were working on Hitler’s Enigma machines.”
She looked at Jury with raised eyebrows. “Really? No, I don’t think I ever did know that. I would think Simon must’ve, though.” She was looking out of the window to where a shaft of sunlight was turning a vase of roses a deeper shade of pink. The small gilt clock on the mantel chimed seven.
“I’ve got to go. I really appreciate you talking to me.” Jury rose.
“You’re very welcome, Superintendent.” As she rose to see him out, she laughed. “I really can’t get over someone’s saying Simon was paranoid. If there was ever a person I can’t picture having enemies, it was Simon.”
Jury looked at her. “Then I’m afraid you’d be wrong.”
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