The Old Wine Shades

by Martha Grimes

  ‘Yes, but you know how estate agents operate in the country: hand you a key and let you get on with it. A peculiar practice, it seems to me.’

  ‘What did Hugh do’ then? I mean in the weeks and months that followed.’

  •‘As I said, he engaged a private detective when the police came up with nothing. Then he started coming apart. This puzzle-obsessed him.’

  ‘It would anyone, don’t you think?’

  ‘Yes, but it consumed Hugh. It was as if he stood in a burning building and couldn’t move, as if he were waiting for the flames. It got so that he wouldn’t leave the house, he was so afraid he’d miss the telephone call or the knock at the door. He told me he could swear he heard Mungo bark.’

  Weight beneath the table, Mungo rearranging himself.

  ‘He’d only gotten worse; he didn’t eat or sleep until his body knocked him out. I found him once by the fireplace and thought he was dead.’

  ‘No suicide attempts?’

  ‘No, not Hugh. The cook and the maid stayed on even though he forgot to pay them. I paid them when I found out. They were devoted to the family. Gone now, of course.’

  Jury nodded, twisting his wineglass. No, he didn’t want any more. He was whiskey and wine logged.

  Harry leaned back, then forward and sighed. ‘And then he could no longer live by himself. I told him that. He gave me a blank look and said, ‘But what can I do? What if Glynn and Robbie come back, what would they do if they came home and I wasn’t here?’ He seemed to regard his not being here as some sort of final, ruinous act–if he wasn’t there, they would never see one another again.’

  ‘And it was ‘when’ they come home, not ‘if?’

  ‘Yes. Hugh always thought they would.’

  ‘But he didn’t believe it completely or he wouldn’t have gone to pieces, would he?’

  ‘You know it’s strange, well not strange, exactly, but biblical or Greek, some act of God or the gods that is utterly unassailable and therefore unanswerable. Job. Oedipus Rex. Or something out of Shakespeare. I can’t explain it, but, then, perhaps one isn’t supposed to.’

  ‘That was Job’s problem, as you said.’

  ‘Strange. Hugh had always been the coolest man I ever knew. I mean that not just figuratively but literally. He was self-reliant and self-contained and gracious–not in a superficial way, but gracious down to the bone. Even his anger was self-contained; he knew just how far he could take it before a relationship was irrevocably damaged. He always held the reins, had control of himself.’

  ‘Where is he now?’

  ‘Stoddard Clinic. In Fulham. Actually, it is a pleasant place, very handsome, well cared for, expensive, obviously. There are few patients; it’s geared to handle only a few. He’s been there for about eight months now.’

  ‘Is he better?’

  Harry shook his head. ‘He really couldn’t be. Hugh’s not psychotic, not mad; it’s more like obsession. Like Othello, perhaps. Or Iago.’

  Jury smiled. ‘Not Iago. If revenge had really obsessed Iago, he could never have been as canny as he was. He would have taken a more immediate route to destroy Othello. He wasn’t working at white heat. He wasn’t caught up in his passions. On the contrary, I think Iago was dispassionate. I don’t think any reason one could scare up would explain him any more than we can explain why Hamlet acted as he did. I think Iago ruined Othello because he could. Just that. Because he could.’

  10

  There’s a house in Surrey I want you to check out,’ said Jury, looking across at Wiggins, who was ministering to his mug of tea.

  ‘The estate agent’s called Forester and Flynn, and the agent handling the lease is a Marjorie Bathous. See what you can find out about it. The house is allegedly owned by a man named Benjamin della Torres.’ It occurred to Jury that if Winterhaus brought only a host of bad memories to Ben Torres, then why wasn’t he selling it rather than leasing? But Jury supposed one could be addicted to bad memories as well as good.

  ‘Just a tick,’ said Wiggins, extracting the tea bag from his mug. He then set about administering one of his holistic remedies.

  He put a couple of spoonfuls of some bizarrely blue liquid into the tea. Following that, three spoonfuls of sugar, which ought to undo whatever good the blue stuff was supposed to do, so what was the point?

  Jury told himself he would not ask. ‘What’s that stuff?’

  ‘Oh, it’s jojobu juice. Very good for the digestion.’ Wiggins stirred and smiled.

  Jury crossed his arms and warmed his hands in his armpits. Or perhaps this attitude was a defensive measure taken against the jojobu juice. ‘It’s blue like those awful blueberry iced lollies we used to eat when we were kids.’ Possibly, Wiggins still did.

  With pursed lips, Wiggins slowly shook his head. ‘This tincture is good for you; iced lollies aren’t. All sugar, they are.’ This, coming from a man who’d added three teaspoons of sugar to his tea. But Jury let that pass. ‘Tm not contesting the nutrient value of iced lollies; I’m questioning the value of that stuff.’ Jury leaned his head to indicate the small bottle of blue liquid.

  ‘You always do, sir. I’ve never known anyone so skeptical when it comes to what’s good for your health. How often do I get sick compared to you?’

  ‘Around five to one. You get sick five times more often.’ Condescension ratcheted up several bars in the look and tone of voice Wiggins used. ‘Now, you know that’s not the case at all.’

  ‘Ten to one, then. Ten for you, one for me.’

  Wiggins sighed and shook his head. Hopeless.

  Jury sat considering, looking at Wiggins. ‘What do you think about the liar’s paradox?’

  ‘Don’t think I know that one, sir.’

  ‘Well, listen: ‘I am not lying.’’

  ‘Never said you were, did I?’

  ‘No, no. I don’t mean me, personally. I’ll change it: ‘I am lying.’ You see? The statement in and of itself creates a problem, doesn’t it? Think about it. The statement itself.’

  Wiggins tapped his fingers on his Ed McBain paperback as if to summon support.

  Jury sat forward, sighing. ‘Look, the 87th precinct isn’t going to help you here. ‘I am lying.’

  ‘I. Am. Lying.’’

  Wanting to indulge his boss in this quirky discourse, Wiggins smiled a bit. ‘Well, with respect, sir, I can’t see the sense to it. I mean, if you’re telling someone in advance you’re lying–?’ To dramatize his frustration with his sergeant’s thick-headedness, Jury brought his fist down on the desk. ‘Don’t you see it’s a paradox! If you say ‘I’m lying’ the very statement itself means you aren’t; therefore, you’re telling the truth!’

  Wiggins pondered. Jury sighed. ‘Do you know anything about physics, Wiggins?’

  ‘A lot. I keep telling you, that some of these, for instance, would be good for you.’ He held up a packet of black biscuits.

  ‘Not that kind of physic. Not medicine. I’m talking about energy, matter, the study of their relation to each other.’

  Enlightened, Wiggins leaned back. ‘Well, I must admit, I was never good at math or science in school. Physics is harder still.’

  ‘Then you’ve never heard of Schrödinger’s cat?’ At the moment, Jury felt like the canary, what with Wiggins, the cat, sitting over there looking sure of himself.

  ‘No.’ Wiggins drank his blue stuff. ‘Schrö–?’

  ‘Schrödinger. See, this is a hypothetical cat we’re talking about. Pretend you’re putting the cat in a box...’ Jury told him the rest of it as well as he could, and he thought he remembered pretty well.

  Wiggins listened and chortled. Only Wiggins could chortle that way, a throaty sound, the way baboons might laugh. ‘Really taking the piss out, isn’t he?’

  ‘What? You mean Harry Johnson?’

  ‘No, this other chap.’

  ‘Schrödinger?’

  ‘Yes. That’s pretty good, that is. Cat’s dead and alive at the same time.’ Wiggins flapped his hand in a
gesture of disbelief.

  ‘Join the circus, that cat should.’

  Jury was up and pulling on his jacket.

  ‘Don’t forget the guv’nor, sir,’ Wiggins called after him.

  ‘He’s in a right mood, he is.’ Fiona Clingmore sat zipping a large-grained fingernail file across her nails.

  ‘When isn’t he?’

  Fiona pursed her lips. ‘Well, right before his club lunch, he feels pretty good.’

  ‘The question was rhetorical.’ Jury looked around the outer office. No sign of the cat Cyril. ‘Where’s Cyril?’

  Fiona shook her head. ‘Here, there, everywhere. Dunno.’ Zip zip zip. ‘Go on in.’ She yawned.

  Racer glanced up, head in hands, told Jury to sit down and returned to contemplation of a pile of papers on his desk.

  Jury sat. He scanned the ceiling molding for a sign of Cyril, who favored the cozy area between molding and wall designed for the recessed lighting. It was a spot he liked to catnap in. Jury didn’t see him, which meant zip, as Cyril could be hiding anywhere, like the questionable cat of the equation. Cyril could be anywhere, anytime, too. The cat’s dead, the cat’s alive.

  ‘Ever hear of Schrödinger’s cat?’ Jury asked.

  The bald top of Racer’s head came up, head still held between Racer’s hands as if Jury had disturbed his morning matins. He tossed down his Mont Blanc pen, sat back and, having been reminded of a cat, sussed out the room’s hiding places.

  Jury said, ‘Schrödinger’s cat is a famous thought experiment in quantum physics.’

  Racer glared. ‘Really? The CID could use a thought experiment on the Soho murder–that is, when you’re ready.’

  ‘I take it that’s a no about Schrödinger’s cat. But let me explain.’ Jury did so.

  ‘Dead and alive? A vial of cyanide? Have you completely lost it, Jury?’ Composing himself (as best he could), Racer sat back with arms folded and said, ‘What are you doing about this Danny Wu case?’ His crossed arms resembled a railway crossing sign.

  ‘Waiting to be reinstated. I’m in a state of what seems to be semisuspension; neither suspended nor unsuspended. A little like Schrödinger’s cat. So I’m doing nothing.’ Jury crossed his own arms.

  ‘Oh, don’t be dramatic. You think it’s going to help your review? Sitting around reading textbook physics? Danny Wu’s case needs sorting.’

  Jury considered. ‘The thing is, I didn’t know it had worked into a ‘case.’’

  ‘Of course it’s a case. What are you talking about? You’ve been on to him for years!’

  ‘I’ve visited his restaurant for years, true.’

  Racer let his pen drop on the desk. ‘For God’s sake, Jury, you know half the murders in Docklands lead back to him. He’s with that gang that clinches knives in their teeth.’

  ‘No, he isn’t.’

  ‘What? Of course he is!’

  Jury shook his head,.solemnly. ‘Danny Wu isn’t a joiner.’

  ‘Joiner? For God’s salve, we’re not talking about the Boy Scouts or the Girl Guides! We’re talking about the Triad. Worse than the Mafia.’

  ‘Whatever Danny does, he operates alone. Trust me on that.’

  ‘And this dead man on his doorstep?’

  Jury shrugged. ‘Maybe forensics will turn up some DNA. Or maybe not.’ Jury flashed Racer a smile.

  ‘I want you to stay on top of it. Go on.’ Here Racer gave him a backhanded wave.

  Jury left, wondering why he’d come.

  11

  That would be Young Higgins, sir,’ said the porter at reception, ‘who took the call.’

  Melrose read the message again, which he couldn’t make head nor tail of and which was apparently from Agatha. That would account for the confusion he might, given any other caller, have blamed on Young Higgins (and his spidery scrawl).

  And he hadn’t been ‘out,’ either, an hour ago. He had been in the Members’ Room, nearly asleep in a wing chair before a stout fire, a pre-luncheon whiskey in hand, reading Polly’s book, which he had gone to Hatchards to purchase, he felt as if his eyelids were propped open. He had decided to actually read the book rather than chance comments at dinner as he had done the night before. Comments that could have applied to anything from Beano to The Golden Bowl about the unread last book was probably not a technique he’d want to try again, or at least not so soon.

  This newest one was titled The Gourmandise Way, which wouldn’t have irked him so much had it actually been a satire or a spoof of Proust. Only it wasn’t. He would tell her that she simply couldn’t keep making plays on Marcel’s titles, that it wasn’t very smart to call up a comparison, nor to lead the reader down the garden path–or The Guermantes Way–whereby the unsuspecting reader would think he’d got hold of a spoof. Yes, and most people would be delighted to read a send-up of Proust, since they’d always felt guilty, stupid and uneducated for never getting past that madeleine passage, which came around page thirty. Leaving only a few thousand pages to go.

  Which was about where he was in her new book, on page thirty-six, leaving three hundred pages to read, worse luck.

  Melrose did not like mysteries. With maybe two or three exceptions, today’s mysteries were just too dumb to hold one’s attention.

  In this one, the ‘gourmands’ of the title ran an out-of-London, out-of-the-way restaurant that’ Melrose bet was modeled on Le Quatre Saisons, where he knew she’d eaten once. This chef in her book had devised an incredible meal for ten of his valued customers. They were gourmands one and all.

  Gee, thought Melrose, I wonder what will happen? As if everybody didn’t know, except the characters in the book, all of whom were thick as two planks, except for the chef himself, who Melrose rather liked because he liked all that food he was fixing and, by the bye, giving out intricate instructions for making. That took up a lot of the thirty pages at the beginning, and Melrose meant to mark two dishes which he would ask his cook Martha to make.

  He dozed or half dozed before the fire, with the flames shooting about as if seeking out their next victim, and that book looked damned tasty...

  Melrose fluttered awake when a gentleman gave him a hearty ‘Hello’ and his companion echoed the greeting.

  ‘My word,’ said Melrose, sitting up smartly, ‘Colonel Neame and Major Champs! This is a pleasant surprise!’ But why a surprise? These two old gents lived in the place, or seemed to.

  Major Champs made a few gruff how-d’ya-do noises and they both shook Melrose’s hand. They looked pleased as punch to see him. Yes, they had fought off sleep many’s the time sitting in Boring’s in their favorite chairs.

  ‘Saw you at dinner last night with that attractive lady. You didn’t see us; that dining room is so ill lit Young Higgins is always barking his shins on the furniture and spilling the soup.’ Young Higgins would be doing that standing in the noonday sun of the Greek isles, thought Melrose, but didn’t say so since Higgins was probably the same age as these two.

  They had both taken chairs now and were looking about for one of the porters to bring them their whiskey. Major Champs was waving out a match he’d used to light tobacco in the bowl of his pipe. He said, ‘Now your friend, I thought she looked familiar, was sure I’d seen her and, lo and behold!’ He held up the book he was carrying.

  Polly’s face looked out at the reader in a fearful way or an alarmed one, rather like Ruth Rendell expecting the worst.

  ‘Marvelous yarn!’ said Major Champs. ‘Neame’s read it, keeps threatening to tell me who did it.’ He snickered. ‘Read all her books, every blessed one. I don’t suppose’–he leaned closer to Melrose and into the firelight whose shadows carved even deeper hollows in his cheeks–’you’d introduce us?’

  ‘Certainly, I would. I’ll be seeing her in a week or two.’ Would two weeks allow time enough to read her book? Melrose looked at the bookmark in the major’s copy. At least three fourths of the way through. Aha! thought Melrose, who said, ‘What d’you think about this poodle?’ He tapped his copy. The
poodle had wandered in around page twenty.

  ‘Ah, that! The poodle. Never cared for them much myself, a prissy, mean-spirited, self-indulgent animal. She puts a lot of dogs and so forth in her stories. Last one was.., a Labrador? Anyway, the dog finds the body. Damned clever. That’s later, of course. Wouldn’t want to give the plot away.’

  Oh, do. Please.

  Colonel Neame put in, ‘And Hubert–’

  Who the hell was Hubert?

  ‘–the young lad, he’s one of the few children in fiction I’ve found convincing.’

  Major Champs said, ‘We agree on that certainly.’ They disagreed about other things and that was just splendid! Melrose fancied an argument that would offer up all sorts of morsels for him to file away before he saw her again. ‘In what way, precisely, do you find Hubert convincing?’

  ‘Because... well, look at the way he responds to his mother’s death and his father’s suicide. Then the sister’s falling from that cliff side–’

  Melrose smiled slowly. He had no idea what they were talking about. ‘Yes, but did she really fall?’ Of course she didn’t. Had any victim ever ‘accidentally’ fallen off a cliff or for that matter, a chair–in any mystery? ‘

  Colonel Neame slapped the chair arm and said, gleefully, ‘Exactly, exactly! And did the mother really have a heart condition?’ Wink, wink, nod, nod.

  Melrose was picking up stuff. But it left him wondering about the chef and that dinner party at the beginning. What did all of these deaths in one family and the poodle have to do with that? Were all three of them reading the same book? Yes, the title of the one Major Champs held was quite definitely The Gourmandise Way.

  ‘Thing is,’ he said, brow knitted in puzzlement, ‘I’ve only gotten around, oh...’ He was going to trap himself if he wasn’t careful.

  (After all, he’d acted as if he’d read about Hubert.) ‘Well, I’ve not gotten terribly far, and I just wonder about the ‘gourmand’ idea.’

  ‘He’s the father, isn’t he? He’s the chef.’ Major Champs gave Melrose a lowering look from under his thick eyebrows.