Jury’s look at Melrose was telling him to take up the slack or they’d be bogged down in New Scotland Yard. Marjorie Bathous would have good reason to want to talk about that event a year ago at Winterhaus.
Melrose began his pitch as Jury looked around. It was an office filled with a great deal of dark wood—desks, paneling, coffee tables, twin sofas meant for clients. A sort of fence with a small gate much like that in a courtroom ran across the middle of the room. There were a couple of men, other agents sitting at two mahogany desks, one in front of the other. The man at the first desk had turned to the one behind him. They were talking, or one was, telling the other a story, perhaps. Jury could hear nothing of what they said. For an office that did a lot of business—and he could tell Forester and Flynn certainly wasn’t hurting—it seemed so quiet. Jury took seat in one of the several wooden chairs that lined the agents’ side of the gate.
‘I’ve been looking for a largish place, one with land around it.’ Melrose hooked his wallet out of a rear pocket, opened it and withdrew one of his old cards. He ignored the beginning of a snicker behind him. He carri’ed them in case of an emergency, though God only knew why there’d be an aristocrat-needed emergency.
‘And the countess?’ Marjorie Bathous suggested.
Melrose took it as a suggestion that he might have forgotten the countess. ‘Oh, well, there isn’t one if you mean by that my wife; there’s just an old auntie who wants to live nearer London and insists upon large rooms and trees. I shall probably visit at the weekend.’
‘Now, Lord Ardry . . .’ She set about describing the property in far less detail than Jury’s secondhand description had done. ‘You see Winterhaus hasn’t been occupied for some time.’
Jury said, ‘We heard something unfortunate happened there.’
‘Where did you hear that?’
Neither affirming and or denying. Perhaps she was afraid of launching a full-scale investigation by New Scotland Yard. ‘I expect it’s just a rumor. You know. And a friend was talking with the owner—a Mr. Torres?’
‘Mr. Torres, yes, well.’ But she said no more.
What Jury wanted was confirmation that a Mr. Torres was indeed the owner. Did indeed exist.
The first confirmation had been she herself. But, really, this need for confirmation that these people in Harry’s story actually were—that was slightly obsessive, wasn’t it? Would Harry Johnson have told him You should go there and see the house had there been no Marjorie Bathous, no Ben Torres?
Melrose nodded. ‘If you’d just give us your details on the house—could the lease be done for five years? That long?’
‘Yes, of course. Longer if you like.’ She drew the property information sheet from one of several stacks on her desk and handed it to Melrose. ‘Right here.’
She had not mentioned the Gaults, and no wonder. Worse to have gone into the house’s history. Assuming that history had not been conjured up by Ben Torres’s mother. ‘What I meant by ‘strange history’—I was thinking more about the woman and her son who seem to have gone off in the process of viewing your properties.’ Clearly, she didn’t care for the link between the ‘going off’ and viewing ‘her’ property. Still, she was quite brave about it, quite matter-of-fact. ‘Oh, yes. You’re speaking of Mrs. Gault and her boy. You know I did wonder about them. It was quite strange that she didn’t come back. But there was no certainty she’d been to Winter- haus. I mean that had been her intention, to look in, but there was no way of knowing if she actually had. The boy was only eight or nine, I believe. But what happened, then?’
‘We don’t really know.’
Marjorie Bathous shook her head, puzzled. ‘She was to look into two houses along that same road, and I know she’d stopped at Lark Cottage—she wasn’t interested in it, though. ‘Too quaint, too English’ was the gist of what she said. It’s also for sale. I thought, really, it would be just the thing as it’s much smaller than Winter- haus, and there were only three in the Gault family, and I think it was just to be a weekend place. The owners are a lovely elderly couple—’ She stopped talking and looked at Melrose. ‘I should have mentioned this place to you. Perhaps you’d like to view it?’
‘No, I only—’
‘Yes,’ said Jury, kicking Plant’s foot away from his chair leg and saying to him, ‘you might as well.’ Then to the agent, ‘It’s on the way, you said?’
‘Only about a half mile between the two houses. I can call the owners and let them know.’
As she turned away with her mobile phone, Melrose said, sotto voce, ‘Why see this cottage?’
‘For the obvious reason: Glynnis Gault did.’
‘Oh. Well, she probably saw that petrol station we passed outside of town. Should we stop in there, too?’
Jury shook his head. ‘Remind me never to offer you a job.’
‘Okay. Never offer me a job.’
Marjorie Bathous flipped her phone shut as she swung her chair around to face them. ‘They’d be delighted. I told them in about a half hour, which is plenty of time. You can get there from here in twenty minutes quite easily. Their name is Shoesmith.’ She was writing it down, together with the address, the phone number and directions, including a small diagram.
Estate agents were always so efficient. Maybe he should offer her a job.
Marjorie Bathous brought all of these items together and put them in a manila folder. She slipped in the property details of Winterhaus and Lark Cottage. She looked at the small picture of the house on the sheet. ‘It’s quite a lovely spot.’
‘Yes,’ said Melrose.
She opened a drawer and took out keys with a little tag attached on which was a number. She handed these to Melrose. ‘Unless you’d like me to accompany—?’
The two agents came to the end of their ghostly conversation and laughed and returned to their work. Jury watched them for no particular reason. Parts of Harry Johnson’s story came back to him. He felt it was by turns puzzling, sinister, sad, ominous.
They rose and thanked Marjorie Bathous and went back to the car.
18
It was one of those narrow roads bordered by hedges and dry stone walls, sheep off in the distance, recent rain with the trees still raining, a walker with a blackthorn stick and two Labs sniffing along and quick light on the white feathers of a rise of geese.
England. Melrose sighed.
‘There’s a wheelbarrow,’ said Jury. ‘And a cow.’
Melrose was driving. ‘Oh, I wonder which is which.’
‘Just in case you didn’t see them.’
‘You mean as they’re taking up the entire road?’ Melrose beeped his horn. ‘Ever seen a cow jump?’ It didn’t, but there was startlement.
‘How childish,’ said Jury. ‘You really crave excitement, don’t you?’
Cow and cowherd passed by, slowly, cow looking the more intelligent of the two—of the four, if it came right down to it.
‘It’s not much farther,’ said Jury, consulting the agent’s map. In another minute, he pointed. ‘There it is—Lark Cottage.’
Melrose slowed, pulled into the short drive. ‘Well, look at it: it is cute, isn’t it? How very English.’
The Shoesmiths—’I’m Bob and this is the wife, Maeve’—were delighted to make their acquaintance, especially Scotland Yard CID. That was too thrilling for Maeve, who was settling in with tea and biscuits on one of the several overstuffed dark-brown chairs with stiffly laundered antimacassars on the backs and arms. Jury looked around the room at the different patterns Maeve had chosen: the fleur-de-lis design of the wallpaper, the toile curtains crowded with old-English figures and the crushed roses in the carpet. Even
the little wastebasket was decorated with vines and leaves. This mix of patterns Jury found poignant, for some reason, as if it reminded him of a home he didn’t remember.
It took Melrose all of two seconds to hate the furniture. He hoped the Shoesmiths would fare better as he bit into a biscuit. Maeve was rattling on about Lark Cottag
e and its many advantages.
Bob said, ‘It’s the old black beams that make it, don’t you think? ‘Course, we men, we got to lower our heads to keep from get- tin’ bashed by these lintels.’ As if it were really a joke, he laughed.
‘Now, we’ve the three bedrooms, two up and one down,’ said Maeve. ‘The one down is en suite. But there’s a toilet and bath upstairs, too.’ She looked from Jury to Melrose uncertainly. ‘Which of you—’
‘That would be me, madam,’ said Melrose. ‘I don’t require much room, or, rather my aunt doesn’t; it’s for her I’m looking. She wants a place nearer to London. And she wants a garden.’
‘Oh, well, our garden . . . you can see for yourself.’ Maeve made a sweeping gesture.
‘Quite so,’ Melrose said, feeling himself growing stuffier by the minute. Pretty soon, you could toss an antimacassar on him and sit down.
‘Kitchen’s small but efficient,’ said Bob. ‘Got an Aga and even a newish dishwasher. One of those small ones that sits on the counter, you’ve seen those.’
Yes, and they’re ghastly, thought Melrose, makeshift and only big enough to wash a cat.
Jury said, ‘I recall a peculiar incident a year or so ago—woman and child who just disappeared from around here?’ He smiled charmingly. ‘You’ll have to forgive me, I’m not here in any official capacity, but when 1 heard about this house a mile or so on’—he inclined his head in that direction—’I naturally wanted to see it.’ Another charming smile.
Maeve was already smoothing stray brown hairs up into the roll in which she wore it. ‘Well, it was a bit peculiar, wasn’t it, Bob? Marjorie Bathous said she never heard from the woman again. Never did return the key, either. What was her name—Gall, was it, Bob?’
‘Gault,’ said Bob. ‘A Mrs. Gault and her boy, he being about eight or nine.’
‘The Forester agent recommended that the woman stop here and see Lark Cottage. Indeed, Mrs. Bathous was quite enthusiastic. We were on the lookout for them, of course, and I would have tea ready, and when we saw the car out there parked along the road and her out and seeming to be using one of those mobile phones—’
‘I thought probably she was calling Forester—that estate agency—to see if she got the right place, so I got out there quick as I could,’ said Bob.
‘It says Lark Cottage clear as day; I don’t know how she could’ve missed it,’ said Maeve, helping herself to a Caedmon biscuit.
Bob went on. ‘Nice woman she was and her boy was ever so nice and quiet. Well-brought-up lad. Even that dog of theirs had good manners.’ Bob chuckled.
‘We showed her over the house and quite complimentary she was. I gave them a cup of tea. They lived in Chelsea, she said.’ Maeve passed the biscuit plate again.
‘How did she seem, Mrs. Shoesmith?’
‘Why, just pleasant, not tense or moody, not depressed or anything.’
‘How long were they here?’
‘Oh, about a half hour, I think.’
‘No, Maeve. More like an hour, maybe forty-five minutes, but no less,’ said Bob.
Jury observed Bob Shoesmith. He would probably make a good witness. Jury leaned back and looked upward, studying the ceiling.
As far as Melrose was concerned, both of the Shoesmiths had forgotten their visitors’ mission here. Make that three—Jury, freelance copper. He was going on again about Winterhaus, asking who the owner was.
‘Would we be knowin’ their name. Bob? Was it Spanish or sort of Italian? Toro? Was that it?’
Bob closed his eyes to help him think, snapped them open again. ‘Torres! That’s it. Torres.’
Maeve said, ‘What with livin’ a half mile away, we can’t really count Winterhaus our neighbor. It does get lonely out here. It’s why we’re movin’, see. But we can’t do much about that till we sell up. Would you be wantin’ more tea?’ She held the pot aloft.
‘Oh, no thanks. Then I guess you’ve never been inside?’ said Jury.
‘No.’ She poured herself a cup. ‘No, only from outside I’ve seen it.’ She colored a little and smiled. ‘Now, I must admit, since it’s been empty I’ve walked around there. Even peeked in a few windows. And walked out back. Only to see why it was empty, I mean if there was somethin’ could explain why, only that.’
Jury sat forward a little, smiling. ‘And did you find any reason it should be?’
Maeve Shoesmith was thinking. ‘It’s awful. . . desolate, I’d say. I mean, I guess Lark Cottage is out here in the back of beyond, but ours is different, so.’ She looked at Jury. ‘I can’t say more’n that. Only, such a pretty place, or was. Of course the gardens are mostly gone now and it looks a bit rough. Then there’s the woods, and the woods look awful cold to me.’ She rubbed her arm as if she’d felt a sudden chill.
Jury would have asked more except he didn’t want it to appear this was the real reason they’d come to this place. He would have liked to get her to talk more; Maeve Shoesmith, unlike her husband, who was into details, she was into mood.
‘And I’m thinkin,’ said Maeve, ‘only would it not be too big for your aunt? Would it be too much to have the care of?’
‘My aunt,’ said Melrose, ‘is peculiar in that regard; she likes big houses; she likes to roam.’
‘Isn’t she going to look the property over herself?’
‘She needn’t. She trusts my judgment. I see this is an unusually wooded area. She doesn’t really like trees.’
The Shoesmiths looked blank. So did Jury.
‘Doesn’t like trees?’ said Boh.
Melrose nodded. ‘Well, this has been most delightful!’ He made signs of pushing off—slapping his thighs, rising, resettling his jacket. He looked at Jury, who appeared to have forgotten who he came in with. ‘We’d best be going,’ he said pointedly. Remember? You’re with me.
Coming to his senses, Jury rose. ‘Thank you for your information about Winterhaus. It will come in useful, I’m sure.’
Maeve rose, but Bob seemed still to have entered a little world of his own. He sat frowning, pulling at one of his thick eyebrows. Then he came back to the land of the living and with Maeve walked their two visitors to the door.
Said Maeve, ‘Well, in case your aunt would like to see Lark Cottage, we’d be most pleased to show her around, we would.’
‘Thanks so much, both of you.’ They shook hands.
‘Good-bye, so.’ Maeve watched them walk to the old Bentley. She waved.
‘Trees?’ said Jury, dragging on the seat belt.
Melrose accelerated and backed up. ‘I was just trying to segue to the woods, for heaven’s sake. Aren’t the woods supposed to be sinister, or something?’
‘Yes, but the segue turned out to be more interesting than the woods. I mean, what does one say about a person who doesn’t like trees? It’s a total conversation stopper. It’s like saying she doesn’t like flowers. Or grass or leaves or air. It brought everything to a full stop.’
Put upon, Melrose sighed heavily. ‘Only trying to help is all. It was the first thing that popped into my mind.’
A tattered field went by on the left. On the right was a low dry stone wall. ‘Really? It would be the last thing to pop into anyone else’s. Indeed it would never pop at all.’ Jury raised his hand in greeting to a little boy with a burro. The boy did not return the greeting.
‘I think you’re diving right into this weird story as if you were a part of it. As if you were one of the elements reinventing itself.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I don’t know. Sounds rather good, though, doesn’t it?’
‘No.’
Melrose liked the sound of it anyway. ‘Consider Alice-in- Wonderland.’
Jury made a strangling sound and slid down in his seat.
‘Alice walking through that looking glass, finding herself in a world where none of the natural laws applied—’
‘What about the first law?’
‘What?’ Melrose was annoyed at this interruption of his newly forming
philosophical position.
‘Alice is in the so-called real world at the moment before she steps in. So how does that work?’
Melrose sighed. ‘It’s going through it that counts!’
‘But to do that she has to go into it from reality’s side. And on reality’s side it’s a natural law you can’t do that—wait a minute.’ Jury was leaning forward, peering through the windscreen. ‘Isn’t that the Swan up there?’
Melrose saw the sign. ‘Damn. We missed the house. We’ve gone too far.’
‘My fault. I was supposed to be lookout. Anyway, we both could do with a pint; we can go back after.’
‘I didn’t see one single thing. And it’s a big house.’
‘We were talking. When you’re talking about walking through mirrors and not liking trees, you tend to miss things.’
Melrose pulled into the Swan’s small car park, parked and braked. There were several cars, a half dozen. ‘This place is to hell and gone and I can’t imagine that road is a motorway. There’s nothing around. Where do they get their custom?’
‘From hell and gone, I expect.’
They got out and walked up to the pub.
As at certain hours, the ones before Time is called, the denizens of any pub look more like part of the furniture than people, that was the case here; the some ten or twelve customers were stationed around as if it were a military installation, where the customers served as lookouts and suspicious-looking strangers were barred from entering. All pubs gave that impression at these slow times of day. Slow afternoons with nothing going for them but the drink and a line of chat.
When Melrose and Jury walked in, they were treated to an inspection that would have made a platoon proud.
‘Pint of Foster’s,’ said Jury.
‘Same of Old Peculier,’ said Melrose.
‘Ain’t got that on tap. Bottled, though.’
‘Fine,’ said Melrose.
Jury nodded to a man as thin as a splint leaning against the old copper bar several feet away. The man returned the nod, joined by two others holding up the bar down a little farther.
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