The Old Wine Shades

by Martha Grimes

  Shöe stuck her head through the window, but then withdrew it, unprepared for heroic measures. She sat back and started washing.

  Mungo circled round the children, knowing they couldn’t tell him what to do. Anyway, the boy couldn’t have told him even if his mouth had been free. Mungo wondered if this trouble Timmy was in now wouldn’t shake some words loose in him.

  Well, it was down to Mungo and he’d better work it out and do it fast. He wanted them to sit down; all he could do was yank on Tilda’s dress. Finally, they sat down. Now he could get to the rope, which wasn’t very thick, he was glad to see. All it would take was getting the rope loose on one hand, any hand; he chose Tilda’s.

  Mungo chewed. He chewed and chewed, wrestling one bit free and then chewing again. He couldn’t chew through the knot, which would have made it easier. Where had Harry learned that trick? His long stint in the merchant marines? Right. Don’t make me laugh.

  Mungo sat back, his jaw really tired from this effort and meditated a moment about how he’d ever come to belong to Harry. Had it been some misfortune as a puppy? What Harry needed was some slick and silky dog he could sport about—

  Grunts. Uh! Uhh! Uhhh!

  Mungo stopped woolgathering and started quickly chewing again. This time he managed to chew through the final threads of one part of the rope on Tilda’s wrist and free one of her hands. She did not remove the rope from her other wrist; she ripped the tape from her mouth, winced with the pain and, having got her mouth free, left the rest where it was. She did not peel off the gloves. All of this was in case he suddenly decided to check on them. If that happened, she wanted to be able to retape her mouth and at least make it appear her hands were’still tied. Tape dangled, as did the rope.

  ‘Mungo!’ she said, throwing her arms around him while Timmy kept on grunting. It was short work for her to loosen the rope around Timmy’s hands. He pulled away the tape, his eyes tearing with the pain of it, as hers had. It hurt too much to tear away and, anyway, it made no difference, especially for Timmy. He started to remove the gloves.

  Tilda said, ‘Leave it, Timmy! If he comes down we’ll want to be just as he left us or he’ll know.’

  Timmy did as she said.

  But footsteps above them shut her up. Someone was in the kitchen and Tilda held her breath. This was what she had feared and she put the tape back over her mouth, clamped a hand over Timmy’s (as if he’d give the show away, anyway). She held to that pose until the steps grew fainter, moving away from the kitchen.

  She sighed with relief and whispered, ‘We can get out if we can just reach it.’ She was looking up at the window.

  Timmy, though, was already shoving a wooden crate, empty of its wine bottles, but still solid with packing material. Tilda found a smaller one and stacked that on top of the wine crate. She whispered, ‘Mungo, you go first!’

  First? He hung back. Of course he wouldn’t go first. But he knew he had to get back through his dog door before Harry went out.

  ‘Mungo? Oh, okay. Timmy, you’re first.’

  Timmy climbed up on the first wine crate and then up again to the smaller one. From there, he had enough purchase to force the window open a little wider. He pushed it farther open, shoved himself through it. Then he held it wider still for Tilda, scrambling up and out, then reaching the branch down as far as she could for Mungo. He couldn’t climb like Shoe (who was watching this operation), but with the help of the branch he managed, with a short lunge, to get up to the window.

  Then all three were out. They would have whooped and hollered for joy had it not been dangerous.

  Shöe stopped washing for a few seconds and watched Timmy hugging Mungo and then Tilda doing it again. Hugging that dog. Shöe went back to her grooming.

  Tilda grew sober. ‘Now what? Now what?’ She had her hands in a tight grip as if they were still tied with rope. Now she peeled off the gloves and looked around the dark garden. No light from the windows showed.

  ‘Maybe he’s gone someplace.’ She looked through the darkness, saw nothing but the shapes of the trees, heard nothing but the swish of a car go by, was afraid that before he left he would go down the basement stairs to check on them. ‘Timmy! We’ve got to get out of here!’

  Timmy looked at her, waiting for direction.

  Money. Timmy sometimes forgot he kept the bill in his shoe, he’d gotten so used to the feel, it seemed like part of his foot. He knelt down and untied his shoe and, like pulling a rabbit out of a hat, pulled the ten-pound note out of his sock.

  Tilda was dazzled. It was like watching some magician pull a coin from behind her own ear. ‘That’s enough to get us somewhere! It’s enough for bus fare to somewhere. Even to just another part of the city. Somewhere!’

  Timmy was glad he could offer this money; ‘somewhere’ sounded like paradise.

  Mungo saw them start for the front of the house and headed them off. He rushed up to pull at Timmy’s sleeve.

  ‘What?’ said Tilda.

  Mungo ran off to the side, down a slight incline toward the pavement, then rushed back again, meaning for them to follow. He was afraid that if they went to the front of the house Harry might come out of the door and see them.

  They followed him.

  ‘Mungo, thanks, thanks.’ Tilda gave him another hug.

  They ran off toward Sloane Street and Mungo ran after for a little bit, knew he could do no more and sat on the dark pavement and watched until they’d disappeared, two children, into the London night, as if they were the last act in a magic show.

  56

  When Jury walked into the Old Wine Shades at 9:15 P.M., Harry was sitting at the bar talking to Trevor. They were talking about the bottle of wine Trevor was holding, napkin wrapped. Trevor, Jury knew, only wrapped napkins around serious bottles of wine. Harry greeted Jury as if they’d just met and hadn’t an hour’s worth of trouble between them. Or at least as if whatever had passed was all water under the bridge and they were still mates.

  How the hell, wondered Jury, does he do it? That is, as if he hadn’t done it? ‘Hello, Harry, Trevor.’

  Mungo had been sitting under the bar chair next to Harry and unwound himself to ease out and get his neck scratched by Jury. When Juiry sat down, Mungo returned to his place underneath the bar chair.

  ‘Trevor’s breaking out the real stuff tonight,’ said Harry. ‘Look at this Hermitage. Very rare, very scarce. Have some,’ he said, as if they’d come here for a wine tasting.

  In an acrobatic motion, Trevor flipped a glass from the shelf at his back, turned it up and set it on the counter. Then he poured an inch into the glass and hung fire.

  ‘Go ahead and fill it up, Trevor; I trust you.’

  ‘Come on, come on,’ said Harry. ‘Just taste it, go on.’

  Jury smiled because they both were looking at him with an expectation that suggested he had to do this before they could assess the true provenance of this bottle. Jury held it to his nose, swirled it about, tasted it. It was superior, but then to Jury it was all good in here, including the house plonk that ran like a river between the stalls.

  What killed him was that they both looked so serious. He felt himself drawn into this fabulous setting, this wine fable, these racks and racks of bottles, and beguiled by Harry Johnson as if it were the first time, so much so that Jury might have dreamed up everything that had happened in the last week.

  ‘Wonderful. Delicious.’

  They both frowned and looked like twins with the frowning. As if momentarily disappointed, as if Jury should say more, or be more precise, more exact, as if his answer should come on little wine feet, as to the wonder of it.

  ‘Best wine I’ve ever drunk.’ He smiled; he couldn’t help it, looking at both of them frowning in concert.

  Harry finally broke the spell by pushing his glass forward. ‘Another measure, Trevor.’

  Trevor poured the Hermitage into Harry’s glass, ignored the deadbeat Jury’s, nodded, walked off down the bar with the napkin-wound bottle.
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  Harry sat smoking a fragrant cigar—or perhaps to Jury all smoke was fragrant, redolent of the past.

  ‘So tell me more, Harry.’

  ‘More what?’

  ‘The ten dimensions. Because a friend of mine dropped an earring and it’s vanished.’

  Harry laughed. ‘You know, there’s a refinement of string theory that says there are eleven; it’s called M theory.’

  ‘No! Don’t give me another dimension to deal with, for God’s sake. I just want to know where the other six are, the ones I can’t seem to lay hands on.’ He beckoned to Trevor. Jury was beginning to feel as if he owned the place. ‘Where are they hiding?’

  Harry smiled behind a plume of smoke. Trevor reappeared and filled Jury’s glass.

  ‘Oh, did you think I meant—?’ Jury’s eyebrows shot up. ‘No, I don’t mean them. I mean the dimensions. And really, what good is it if we can’t see them?’

  ‘You’re joking? You don’t believe that only what you can see has any relevance for you. Other dimensions might explain the whole makeup of the universe.’

  ‘Harry, I just want them to explain the makeup of me. Or better yet, you. I can get a mental image of the three we mortals slog through every day. Maybe even the fourth—time—I just can’t get at those other six.’

  Harry sighed. ‘Arrogant, aren’t you?’

  Jury loved the charge of arrogance, especially considering who it was coming from. He laughed.

  ‘You’re not supposed to get a mental image of everything in the universe. However, perhaps this will help.’ Harry tore off a little bit of a bar napkin and crumpled it up. He put this tiny bit behind his glass. ‘Like that.’ It was minuscule, hidden by the base of the glass. ‘Another dimension. A loop, perhaps.’

  ‘Possibly. But is this just wishful thinking on Hugh’s part?’ Harry frowned. ‘I’m not getting it.’

  ‘I’m talking about Robbie. Doesn’t Hugh believe that given those dimensions we could have a complete misconception of spacetime and that Robbie could come back? That’s all I meant by wishful thinking.’

  ‘Come on. Hugh’s a scientist. He’s an advocate of string theory, hence the other dimensions.’

  ‘How about you?’

  ‘Me? I believe anything’s possible.’ He picked up his glass and Jury reached over and picked up the crumpled bit of paper. He looked into Harry’s eyes, looking for some clue perhaps, for some sign of madness. All he saw was life, and it shone quite brightly.

  ‘For you, Harry, it probably is. God knows you’re inventive enough.’

  Harry turned, smiling. ‘Am I wrong or do I hear the bugle tap of retreat in that?’

  Jury laughed. ‘Until I can get a warrant, there’s not a damned thing police can do. I might as well just sit here and drink this superior wine.’

  As if he’d heard his own bugle tap, Trevor appeared. This was a different bottle he held, a Haut-Brion, a ‘75, from a chateau whose name Jury didn’t make out; it was very expensive, but ‘Mr. Johnson,’ Trevor claimed, could afford it and it looked as if the two of them were celebrating. This brought laughs from both of them and Harry said, go ahead, pour, pour, pour.

  Trevor did, after the little whiffing, tasting, routine.

  Jury was looking in the mirror—had been, for a little while— waiting for the pub door to open. Just at the moment of Trevor’s pouring, it did.

  Melrose Plant’s hair was a rather attractive shade of brown, and his green eyes were fairly well hidden behind the lightly tinted glasses. He wore a three-piece suit, quite elegant, but not overwhelmingly so. He walked up to the bar and sat down, without fanfare or invitation, beside Harry, who, of course, turned curious eyes on him.

  Even Mungo was interested and came out from his lair beneath the tall bar chair.

  If a dog could be said to look suspicious, that’s how Mungo looked, peering up at Melrose Plant, who held out his hand to Harry, and said, ‘You’re Harry Johnson, aren’t you?’

  Harry looked at the hand, looked at the man and said, ‘I am, yes. And you’re—?’

  ‘I’m Niels Bohr.’

  Mungo crawled back under the chair and put his paws over his eyes.

  Dog walked into a pub . . .

  57

  It was a dead cert.

  Until he found it wasn’t.

  This time, Jury had said, there were eyewitnesses, two of them—except as it turned out, there weren’t.

  ‘We never saw him,’ said Tilda, reddening, then looking away, looking at anything but Jury, as if she’d let him down, as if her not having seen the man’s face had been unforgivably careless of her.

  Timmy sat and stared at Jury and nodded at everything Tilda said. He too wore an expression of failure.

  Jury told them they had been very brave, had shown an ingenuity he wished all of the Metropolitan police had. Then to Jury’s question, had they been blindfolded or something?

  Tilda said, ‘It was our eyes. First, he put something in them and everything was blurry. No, it didn’t hurt; it’s just that everything was so blurry we couldn’t see what his face really looked like. He blindfolded us too, but not for long.’

  (Phyllis Nancy had said, ‘Dilating drops, the kind that ophthalmologists use on every patient up to a certain age. The drops dilate the pupil. You’ve had them, haven’t you? Simplest thing in the world, except you have to wait for a time until they take effect.’)

  ‘He just stood in back and kept us from turning around and blindfolded us. He took the blindfolds off in a little while, though, but we still couldn’t see, right, Timmy?’

  At sometime before 11:00 that night, Tilda and Timmy had presented themselves at New Scotland Yard near the St. James’s tube stop and said they had to see Mr. Jury and would they be safe in here? ‘I mean if we have to sit and wait?’

  They were assured they would be safe.

  ‘Okay, then, come on, Timmy.’ Tilda had led him over to a long bench to sit.

  Superintendent Jury had gotten off an elevator less than five minutes after they walked-in.

  Tilda was surprised when he walked over and hugged her, really hard. It was as if he’d missed them.

  He did not hug Timmy, and that was probably the right thing to do, as boys like to think they’re grown up and beneath hugging. Jury shook Timmy’s hand and praised him for being so brave and resourceful.

  Timmy was not sure about ‘resourceful’ but he knew he was being complimented. You didn’t need to talk to be brave and resourceful, which was good news.

  Now, how had they gotten to New Scotland Yard?

  ‘We were running along a street, I don’t know which one. When we left the basement, we just ran. It was a busy street and we just got on a red bus and sat on top. Timmy’d saved some money in his shoe. We got off that and got on another. In case we were being followed. We rode and rode. That was fun, wasn’t it, Timmy?’

  Timmy nodded vigorously.

  How was it kids could turn some part of a hair-raising experience into fun?

  Jury had gotten back to his office a half hour before the kids had arrived. Sergeant Meek, who’d been watching the house, had gone in with Jury to search for them. Jury hadn’t asked him to, of course he hadn’t. He’d told Meek there was no warrant and he could land in a world of trouble.

  Meek had said, ‘Two little kids, I got kids of my own, boss. If they were in this spot I’d hate to think they could’ve been found if only some copper hadn’t waited on a warrant.’

  The most likely place was the basement and the door down to it was both locked and bolted from the kitchen side. Meek, whose uncle (he liked to tell people) had been a first-rate safecracker until ‘an unfortunate affray,’ had his own special tool for locks. And this lock wasn’t a very good one to begin with. The sergeant had it open in five seconds.

  It was really a wine cellar—shelves, rows and rows of bottles. So Harry was a connoisseur. Jury thought he had known a little about wine, but only a little. Harry, Jury was disposed now to think, had a
hard time telling the truth about anything.

  No. Harry was a rotter. He was a self-aggrandizing, vain, fraudulent—not to mention dangerous—sod. A very, very clever sod.

  There was nothing in the basement—no kids, no evidence they’d been there.

  Where had he moved them? Because Jury knew Harry had them.

  ‘Come look at this, guv,’ said Meek.

  Jury left the wine racks and went over to where Meek was standing. Wine crates, upended, stacked.

  ‘That window? It’s open,’ said Meek. ‘Not very big, but it wouldn’t have to be. That’s it, innit?’

  Jury laughed. That was most certainly it.

  Jury’s mobile chimed with a horrifying sweetness. A tiny tinkling of bells. He pulled it out, spoke.

  Melrose told him that Harry had just walked out the door. ‘When he realized you were gone, he collected Mungo and left. Didn’t seem upset, actually. I guess he thought I was worth it. In case you want to know about complementarity, well, I’m your man. Wonderful conversation we had, me being back from the dead. Somehow, I don’t think he quite believed it.’

  Jury ended the call, said, ‘Those crates, Sergeant, grab the small one and let’s get out.’

  It was the smaller of the two crates, but big enough to be awkward. Sergeant Meek managed, even laughed. ‘Those kids.’ He laughed. ‘Pretty cool customers.’

  Jury smiled. ‘The coolest.’

  The crate went straight to forensics.

  ‘Sorry, guv. No prints’

  Jury talked to one of the print experts. ‘But there have to—I mean, it was the kids who shoved those boxes to beneath the window; it was they who stacked them. How could there not be prints?’

  ‘Two things: first, that crate’s undressed wood. It wouldn’t pick ‘em up. Second, the kids maybe were wearing gloves.’

  ‘Why would they be wearing gloves?’