The Blue Last

by Martha Grimes

  “And cheese, you said,” said Benny.

  “Benny, I’m telling it. It was only a little cheese. I was on that boat out there-” she pointed “-and I’d probably have died except for Richard.”

  Jury smiled. “I’m glad I was some kind of help, though I can’t see-”

  “You? You didn’t do nothing! You’d have just let me be killed. I mean Richard here. She stuck the doll in Jury’s face, and then, thinking better of it she started slugging Jury, giving him some whacks in the chest, then yelling, “You knew something bad could happen to me and you just left, you just left!” She was flailing, kicking Jury’s legs, pummeling his chest. Crying, tears flying everywhere. “You’re not any good. Ambrose helped me more than you did. Even Sparky helped save me!”

  Hearing his name (what he recalled of it) Sparky rushed over and barked at Jury.

  Jury pulled Gemma to him, arms around her, patting her back, saying she was right to be mad and he was sorry. He was terribly, terribly sorry he hadn’t been here, and yes, he should have been looking out for her. Finally, she quieted down, and he gave her his fresh handkerchief.

  Melrose said, “I wasn’t here either, Gemma. How did I help?”

  She shoved the doll Richard out again as testament to either success or folly. “You got him new clothes.”

  “Black,” said Jury.

  “And that helped?”

  “Well, of course. Before he only had that awful old gown to wear. But his new black clothes make him think.”

  “Cool,” said Jury, smiling.

  “Way cool,” said Melrose.

  And then they all sat down (including Sparky) and Jury and Melrose heard a whale of a good yarn.

  Fifty-four

  Mickey had taken her to the Snow Hill station. When Jury got there, the two of them were seated in a room furnished with a table and two chairs of tubular steel. The room was painted white, walls and ceiling. The effect was slightly disorienting: a bright, white, scarcely furnished world, absent of warmth, color, kith, kin. A vacancy.

  Jury stood against the wall, arms crossed. Kitty Riordin looked up at him with an unreadable expression.

  Mickey shoved his pack of Silk Cut toward her, at the same time telling the tape recorder that Jury had just entered. Then he asked, “When did you tell her? How long ago?”

  “I didn’t; she found out, she suspected something-call it intuition shored up by old photos and maybe more important, the suspicion that Oliver Tynedale didn’t much like her. For him not to like his own grandchild would be simply impossible. No matter what he or she did. He was like that.”

  She spoke not with the lilting grace of an Irish girl, but with the assurance of one long bred to wealth and privilege. It had rubbed off on her, the authority granted by money and power. Ironic that Oliver Tynedale didn’t see money and power in that light at all.

  “He didn’t like Erin?”

  “He didn’t like her much. Not the way he dotes on that child Gemma, who just walked in off the street.”

  “That’s why you took a shot at her? You were afraid she would supplant Maisie-Erin, that is-as a major inheritor of your employer’s money?”

  Jury smiled. Nice shot, Mickey. But he didn’t think it was the inheritance altogether; Kitty’s wanting to get rid of Gemma was prompted as much by Gemma’s supplanting Maisie in Oliver’s heart as it was by the Tynedale fortune. Imagine all of that effort-the initial danger of this impersonation, the ongoing anxiety that she might be discovered, the grooming of her daughter Erin, turning her into Maisie Tynedale and breaking into the Tynedale dynasty. The effort of proving that Kitty Riordin wasn’t “pig-track Irish.” Where do we get these notions of who we are? Jury wondered.

  “Yes,” Kitty said in answer to Mickey’s question. “All Oliver Tynedale wanted was a granddaughter.”

  “So Gemma Trimm comes from nowhere-”

  Wryly, Kitty smiled. “What difference does that make? Gemma, you should be able to see, is more of a Tynedale than my Erin would ever have been. Gemma’s tough. I mean really tough. It would take a force of nature, a tidal wave, a tornado, to bring that child down.”

  “That’s why you tried again tonight to get her out of the way?”

  “She heard me talking to Erin. She heard the name. I had to see Gemma didn’t tell anyone, didn’t I? Erin’s too soft. She really hated leaving the child on that boat. She should have made sure the rowboat was unhitched and let it drift away. That’s what she should have done; instead, she rationalizes it, says there was no way that Gemma could have used it.”

  Mickey was silent, looking at her. The silence lengthened; Mickey could be unnerving that way.

  “And Simon Croft,” he finally asked.

  “What about him?”

  Jury’s antennae went up. He shoved away from the wall.

  Mickey said, “He found out, right?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “Then why-?”

  “Why what?”

  “Why did you shoot him?”

  “I didn’t.”

  Mickey was half out of his chair, galvanized.

  Kitty seemed actually to be amused. “I’m sorry to disappoint you. Simon might have found out something, but that wasn’t it.” Coolly, she dusted a bit of ash from her sleeve. “You’ll just have to start all over again sorting it, so.”

  Mickey and Jury looked at one another.

  “You said Simon Croft might have found something-?”

  “Possibly. Something about Alexandra’s husband.”

  “Ralph Herrick. You knew him.”

  “Slightly. He was hardly ever at home.”

  She stopped and Jury said, “Would you elaborate?” He was surprised that Kitty hadn’t asked for a solicitor during all of this.

  “I can’t. I overheard Simon talking to Oliver one day, something to do with Ralph and this book Simon was writing.”

  “So it could’ve been anything?” Mickey said this and got up to rove the room.

  “Did Alexandra ever mention her other child to you?” asked Jury.

  Mickey stopped pacing. He looked at Jury, surprised.

  Kitty seemed surprised, too. “Yes. The baby was adopted.”

  “What else did she say?”

  “She said the experience was a calamity. The worst thing that had ever happened to her.”

  “Did she say why?”

  Mickey put in, “Maybe because an illegitimate baby would’ve been a hell of a lot less acceptable than it is now.”

  “Yes,” said Jury. “But ‘worst thing’? ‘Calamity’? That’s pretty strong for someone in Alexandra’s position. Her father could have fixed anything. And unless I’m wrong about him, Tynedale would have wanted a grandchild.”

  “All I know is she said she left for several months, told Oliver she wanted to go around France with a friend. The baby was born on Guy Fawkes night; she liked to pretend all the fireworks were for her. I got the feeling it was very hard on her, giving the baby up.”

  They were silent for a while until Mickey said, “You never told Tynedale about this baby. Why not?”

  “Why would I have? It would hardly be in my interests, or Erin’s.”

  Jury supposed that was how she took the measure of everything.

  “Now, haven’t I helped you enough?” She looked from Mickey to Jury. “Especially considering why I’m here.”

  Mickey walked over to the door, looked out.

  Jury said, “Just one more question. Did anyone else know about this? Did Francis Croft, for instance?” Emily Croft knew, but he didn’t mention that.

  “I don’t know. I doubt it.”

  Jury was still asking questions when a police constable, a woman, came into the room to take Kitty away. “How was this adoption handled?”

  She didn’t answer that; she was led away by the WPC.

  It had grown light as they’d been talking to Kitty Riordin. Jury said, “No one has mentioned the father of that illegitimate child. Has it ever occ
urred to you it just might be Francis Croft?”

  Surprise pulled Mickey away from the door Kitty Riordin had walked through. “What? Oh, come on, Rich!”

  “It makes sense, doesn’t it? What would be the reason for keeping that pregnancy a secret? The only one I can think of is that the father would come as such a shock, be so totally unacceptable to Oliver Tynedale, that Alexandra couldn’t tell him.”

  Mickey washed his hands down over his face. He looked exhausted. “It makes some kind of sense, I guess.” Mickey smiled wanly. “Look, it’s Christmas and we’ve both been up most of the night.” He sighed. “Looks like we’re back to bloody square one with Simon Croft. Unless we don’t believe her.”

  “No, I do believe her. We’re not back to square one. And you haven’t talked to Erin Riordin yet.” Jury looked at Mickey, concerned. “You’ve found out what you wanted to know. You were right.”

  “I found out more than I bloody wanted to know.” Mickey chuckled.

  “As you said, it’s Christmas. Look, go home to Liza and the kids. Go. I can work on this.”

  “I think I will. What are you going to do?”

  “Track down wherever that wee babe was taken. Somehow I don’t think it would have been a regular orphanage. Alexandra had money; she would have sought out something better.”

  “Money, yes. But the presence of mind to sort through that kind of information? I mean, with no one helping her-?”

  “Oh, I think she had help. She had Francis Croft.”

  The City police wouldn’t hold the children any longer than absolutely necessary, so Gemma would no doubt be back at Tynedale Lodge. Where Benny would be, he couldn’t be sure. Jury knew he could have commandeered a car and driver, but he wanted to think. The element of thought right now was not a car. So he took the tube to Charing Cross station. His fellow passengers looked even more disenfranchised than he himself: an unshaven man who could have been old, who could have been young, impossible to say, talking to himself; a woman wearing a hat with a bird perched and bobbing on its brim; a teenager slipped so far down in his seat, his spine was nearly on the floor. Jury thought about Erin Riordin. Since she was not the daughter of Ralph Herrick, would she (or Kitty) be scandalized by the appearance of Simon Croft’s book? Maisie would be, certainly; she’d be the daughter of a traitor to her country. Yes, it was still a strong motive for murder because Erin intended to go on being Maisie Tynedale.

  He left Charing Cross station and walked down Villiers Street to the Embankment. When he was near Waterloo Bridge, he stopped and thought: how arrogant of him to think this boy who had been making his way for years with his friends under the bridge would need him, Jury, to take his interest to heart. Jury had come here probably more for his own sake than for Benny’s. He crossed the rain-slick road, walked along the pavement, then down the few stairs to the area beneath the bridge. There were only two people there now, an older woman swathed in a blanket and a hat not unlike the one he had just seen on the underground and a man in a greatcoat. They were talking but stopped when he walked up to them.

  “I’m looking for a lad named Benny Keegan. Would you know him?”

  “An’ who be you?”

  Jury wasn’t going to get anything out of these two; they knew he was a cop. “Just a friend.”

  The man in the greatcoat sputtered his disbelief. “Ah, sure, and I’m on the short list for the bloody Booker Prize.” He drew a slim book from his pocket and waved it at Jury. “We don’t know no Benny. Never ’eard o’ ’im. Right, Mags?”

  “Right,” said Mags.

  “Right,” said Jury and walked away.

  He should have realized Benny wouldn’t be there this night; he wouldn’t have led police to their spot beneath the bridge. Probably, he went to the Lodge with Gemma; if not there was always the Moonraker. Miss Penforwarden would always be glad to see Benny.

  He climbed the steps to Waterloo Bridge and walked a little way, and stopped. He looked off toward the South Bank and thought again about that last scene in the movie, Robert Taylor-Roy-and his artful little smile. Jury sighed. He thought about Alexandra Tynedale and Erin Riordin, about Gemma Trimm who looked like Alexandra: black hair, heart-shaped face-

  Oh, for God’s sake, man, so will the next dark-haired woman you pass. You’re obsessing. Stop this bloody romanticizing everything.

  It had been so early when he had started this Christmas Day that he could hardly believe it wasn’t yet noon. The sun floated dully in the sky, throwing off a scarf of light and mist about the Houses of Parliament. London. London did not have the allure of Paris or the burning energy of New York, but it was still a knock-out city, London.

  Fifty-five

  “ If a Tynedale wants the birth of a child kept secret-?” Wiggins’s shrug was his silent assessment of Jury’s and his mission. Useless. And he was to go to Manchester in an hour to have Christmas dinner with his sister and her “brood,” as he called them.

  “We’ve got it pinned down to a few hours, Wiggins. Can’t be that many babies born on Guy Fawkes night in 1939.” Jury had found an almanac to tell him at what time on that day in November it had turned dark.

  Wiggins looked at the last document he had put in his pile and removed it. He removed the one underneath, too. Too early. Night had fallen around five P.M.

  They were looking at documents in the registry office at Somerset House. There were tons of them it looked like, judging from box after box on shelf after shelf. The clerk they’d found and dragged down here to open the place hadn’t been happy. “It’s Christmas, after all.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Wiggins. “But I could use some hot-” He raised his paper cup of cooling tea.

  Jury nodded. “Go ahead.” Wiggins left Somerset House for the kiosk out on the pavement, its owner keeping the canteen full even on Christmas morning. “Some people,” he had said when Wiggins expressed surprise at this diligence, “still gotta push the envelope, well, look at you lot.”

  “Push the envelope? Been too many American CEOs hanging about his tea canteen,” said Jury, as he added another certificate to the stack before him. There must have been three dozen here. He winnowed out several as having been born too early in the day for the fireworks. It was amazing how many children seemed to be born all of the time. He was looking only at babies born after five P.M. Staggering, really.

  “Here’s something, sir. Baby girl, Olivia-” Wiggins paused in surprise.

  “What?”

  “The baby’s name here is given as Olivia Croft.”

  Jury snatched the paper out of Wiggins’s hands. “That’s a turn-up, that is. Croft.” He continued reading. “Born eight P.M., November 5, 1939. At a place called Chewley Hill. It’s near Princes Risborough in the Chilterns. Call the place, will you? Tell them I’m on my way. Tell them who it’s about. And when they say, ‘But it’s Christmas!’ just pretend you didn’t know.”

  “But, it is Christmas, sir!”

  Jury was shoving his arms into his coat. “Could’ve fooled me. Do that, Wiggins, then get the hell out of town and on your way to Manchester.” Out the door, Jury came back. “And thanks, Wiggins. Happy Christmas.”

  “And to you, sir.”

  Chewley Hill, both house and hill, sat at the edge of the Chilterns in a winter light that lent the surroundings a dreamy quality. The ambient light informed the surrounding fields and the bell tower of the church in the town below as if nothing too bright, too harsh should disturb the house’s serenity-hard won, Jury would say.

  He stood in a galleried hall, looking up the gracefully arcing staircase on both sides and thought that any young woman with the means to come here should feel lucky-though, of course, she wouldn’t. Two very pregnant young ladies (girls, really) standing near the stairwell with their heads together and giggling looked his way. He smiled. Surely, they’d had enough of flirting for the time being, hadn’t they?

  That the woman who had headed up this tastefully appointed house in 1939 was still heading it u
p struck Jury as little more than miraculous. Miss Judy Heron did too, and she enjoyed the miracle. “Fifty-five years, Superintendent. I was twenty-four back then and I’m seventy-nine now.

  I’m very fortunate and so, I think, is Chewley, having that kind of continuity. No, you could say there’s little turnover in help here.” She smiled.

  So did Jury. “I can see why, Miss Heron.” He felt the name suited her, for she struck Jury as some tall, thin, graceful wading bird, slow moving and delicate. The unhurried movement was not a sign of her advanced years, but more one of temperament. He could see her even at twenty-four moving in this same, underwater way. She was a calm and calming presence. And so was this room, with its mingling of easy chairs and antique settee, its wall of books, its pale gray walls and warming fire. Even time passed effortlessly, softly ticked away by the longcase clock near the window.

  “Sometimes I regret that these girls do not come back to visit. But it’s not an experience one cares to be reminded of, I expect. An unwanted pregnancy is a very sad thing. It was then, and it is now. In spite of all the new freedom that women enjoy, there are some heartbreaks that never change, never.”

  “That’s what you find it to be?”

  “Of course.”

  “I don’t know, Miss Heron. The two women I saw out there looked pretty much to be taking pregnancy in their stride.”

  “I’m glad. It won’t last long. That will end when their babies are born and they have to give them up. It’s emotionally devastating. Frankly, I favor abortion.”

  Jury tried to mask his shock, but didn’t manage it. “You? But-”

  She smiled. “You’d think just the opposite, because I run this house? That’s rather sanctimonious of you, Superintendent. Abortion as an issue is beyond the means of common morality to penetrate, I think. Oh, common morality is necessary of course. But it’s an abstraction. If you saw, time after time, the effect giving up her child has on a young woman, you might agree with me.” She looked sadly around her office, more a drawing room with a desk. She sat behind it, surrounded by neat stacks of paper and a folder positioned on the blotter beneath her hands. “I’m sorry for going on. How can I help you? You said-or, rather, your sergeant did-that you were on a case that had to do with the Tynedale family. Alexandra’s family.”