The Man with a Load of Mischief

by Martha Grimes

  “That’s it, sir. I think she always wanted to know just what Mr. Matchett was up to. I wonder he ever could have got out from under her eye long enough to get mixed up with this girl, to tell the truth.”

  “Harriet Gethvyn-Owen.”

  “Aye. That was it. Fancy name for a fancy piece of goods, was that one.” Jury smiled. “Much younger’n him. But he was younger’n the missus, too. I wonder he married her in the first place. For a soft berth, maybe.”

  Jury drew the charm bracelet out of his pocket, wrapped in the handkerchief. “Did you ever see this, Miss Trump?”

  She took the bracelet, looked it over carefully, then raised a shocked face to Jury: “Where did you get this, sir? This here bracelet — it was the madam’s. Stake my life on it, I would. The reason I remember it so well is, each one of these little charms had some special meaning, though I don’t know what each stands for. This fox — she liked to ride to hounds. And this here little cube with the money in it. She had some kind of bet on with Mr. Matchett, I remember . . .” Daisy was looking at the bracelet in wonder.

  “There was a play on that night, wasn’t there. Othello? Mr. Matchett played the lead and the girl — Harriet Gethvyn-Owen — was in it, too. Playing Desdemona?”

  “I don’t remember which play. Morbid thing it was. But then I’m not quite smart enough for that sort of thing. As I went along with the tray to the madam’s office, I could hear him, Mr. Matchett, shouting at one of the other actors.”

  “Yes. And— ?”

  “I was about to leave the tray outside, when I noticed the door was open a bit, and Mrs. Matchett asked if that was me, and would I just put the tray inside on the little table by the chair, and so I went in.”

  “Where was Mrs. Matchett?”

  “At her big desk, like always. She thanked me and I left.”

  “Do you think you could actually close your eyes and envision the room, Miss Trump? And then describe exactly the proceeding as you see it in your mind’s eye?”

  Obediently, Daisy clasped her eyes shut as if Jury were a stage hypnotist. “She says to me, through the door, that is — ‘Daisy. Please put the tray on the table by the chair.’ Then I goes in, sets down the tray, and she says to me, kind of over her shoulder like — ‘Thank you.’ And I asks her — ‘Will there be anything else, mum?’ She says, ‘No, thank you.’ Then she goes back to her books. She kept all the money accounts. Clever woman, was the missus. But cold-like. Not like Mr. Matchett, not at all. Ever so nice, he was. Popular with the ladies, and I don’t wonder, him being so handsome, and all. That’s what bothered her so much. I just know she kept that office there so near to that theater to let him know she was always there. Kept him on a short string, I can tell you. Jealous. I never did see a woman so jealous.”

  “Who did you believe killed Mrs. Matchett?” asked Jury.

  Without hesitation, like a primed pump, she said, “Why, a thief, of course. Just like the police finally said. Got in the window and made off with everything.” She lowered her voice. “To tell the truth, I even wondered about that Smollett and Ansy-the-Pansy. Wouldn’t have put it past either of them. Though I’d not have mentioned it, not for the world, because of Rose, you see.”

  “Everyone there at the time seems to have been cleared, though, Miss Trump, including the help.”

  She only sniffed, still unconvinced.

  “But didn’t you also suspect her husband, Matchett?”

  With admirable frankness, she said, “Of course. Rosie and me heard them fighting over and over again, in the room just over the kitchen. Going on about how he wanted a divorce. She could yell like a banshee when she got going. Well, that was the missus. What was hers was hers, and she meant to keep it, even if it didn’t want to be kept. I remember both Rosie and me thought right away when she was killed, ‘Well, there he’s gone and done it.’ But then the police decided that not him nor his girl friend could have done it. What do them French call it? Crime-something?”

  “Crime passionnel” said Jury, smiling.

  “Lovely word, that is. See, it had to do with the times: she had to be killed between the time I brought her her cocoa and Rose came to collect the tray, when she discovered the poor woman’s body. They’d got it down to the minute, nearly. And Mr. Matchett, nor his fancy lady, they couldn’t have done it because they was both in this play the whole of that time. And poor Rosie, beside herself, she was —”

  Something had turned over in Jury’s mind, like the leaf of an old book. Devon. Dartmouth was in Devon. Could he really have been so blind? Rose. Rosie. Mrs. Rosamund Smollett. Will Smollett. “Down to see her Aunt Rose and Uncle Will.” Mrs. Judd’s words came back to Jury. Will Smollett. William Small. Hardly took much imagination to make that change.

  From the folder he took the pictures of Small and Ainsley and passed them over to her. “Miss Trump, do you recognize these men?”

  She picked up the one of Small and studied it closely. “I should say I do. That’s the living image . . . I mean, yes, that’s Will. Only he had a mustache.” Her eye moved to the second picture. “Dear God in heaven, if it ain’t the image of Ansy-the-Pansy. Only he didn’t have no mustache.”

  “Not Andrew,” said Jury, “Ainsley. ‘Ansy’ stood for Ainsley.”

  Daisy was staring at him. “ ‘Ainsley. ‘Ainsley. That’s it. But we was always kidding him about dropping ’is ’aitches. His name was Hainsley. Rufus Hainsley. ‘Can’t you even get your own name straight?’ we used to kid him.”

  Like Smollett simply changing his name to Small, thought Jury.

  “But where’d you get these pics, sir?”

  Jury didn’t answer that. “Did the Smolletts have a niece who stayed with them sometimes?”

  “Didn’t they ever!” Daisy raised her hands in mock horror. “Ruby. Little Miss Curious, into everything. But there you are: with a mum and dad what shoved her off whenever they’d a mind to, what could you expect from the little beggar?”

  Jury held up the bracelet. “She might have stolen this, then?”

  “That? Not likely, sir. Mrs. Matchett, she wore it all the time, she did, she was that attached to it. Almost like some women feel about their wedding rings. Oh, no. Ruby wouldn’t lay hands on that. Not unless it was over the madam’s dead body.”

  • • •

  Daisy Trump left, to be driven in style by the county constabulary back to Yorkshire. Jury sat at the table, his cold coffee pushed to one side, and stared at the diagram of the office Celia Matchett had occupied that fatal night at the Goat and Compasses. Matchett had to have killed his wife; it was his only motive for the present murders. Ergo: this little scene in the office had been staged for an audience of one — Daisy Trump, the only witness to Celia Matchett’s still being alive at that moment. But she wasn’t alive then, Jury would have bet his badge on it. Ergo: the woman at the desk was not Celia Matchett, but a stand-in. And the only likely prospect for that was the mistress, Harriet Gethvyn-Owen. People see what they expect to see, and Daisy Trump had expected to see Celia. From behind, a certain costume, a wig, perhaps, and the room in shadows.

  That still left the problem, seemingly insurmountable, of the alibi. Jury read the police report again. Both Matchett and the Gethvyn-Owen woman were supposed to have been on the stage when Celia Matchett was murdered. There were all of those witnesses — the entire audience. Jury considered the role of Othello. That called for very heavy makeup for the moor, a good enough disguise for anyone. But had someone else, another actor, taken Matchett’s place for that performance that would mean yet another conspirator, and that was even more unlikely. Or was it? Could one of these three men — Ainsley, Creed, Small — have been in on it? Not that way, certainly. There wasn’t a big enough one among them and they hardly seemed the type to walk out on a stage. And, anyway, if it were merely a case of having someone take his place on stage, why would it be necessary to have his mistress imitate Celia in her office?

  Jury gave it up, totally frustrated. H
e got up and looked out of the window, to where Melrose Plant was lounging beside the blue Morris, talking with Constable Pluck, who was supposed to have gone back to the station a good half hour ago. Jury sighed and cranked out the window.

  “Constable Pluck, would it inconvenience you too much to carry out my orders?” Jury yelled.

  “Oh, I have sir. Been to Long Pidd and back again. I thought you’d be needin’ the Morris, sir.”

  “I see. All right, thanks. And Mr. Plant, would you mind coming in here for a bit? I want to talk with you about something.”

  Plant detached himself from the car and Pluck and came inside.

  Jury ordered up some more coffee, then said, “I want you to put your mind to this. I’m sure Matchett killed his wife at that inn in Devon. But the question is, How the devil did he manage it?”

  Jury reviewed all of the facts in the case, ending with, “The snag is, of course, their alibi. They neither of them could — to all appearances — have been near Celia during the time the police fixed for her murder.”

  “But isn’t that done all the time, Inspector? I mean, you kill someone and then stuff them down a well, or something, and have someone else take their place for the crucial time period to fix your alibi?”

  Jury shook his head. “Done, yes. Only not here. Celia Matchett was alive before the play started. At least half-a-dozen persons saw her, under varying circumstances just before the play. So the problem remains. How could the man be in two places at once?”

  Plant was thoughtful. “Well, in a sense, an actor is always in two places at once —”

  “I don’t follow.”

  “When did the play start?”

  Jury opened the folder: “Eight-thirty, or a few minutes after.”

  “And when was Celia — or the other woman, that is — seen in the office?”

  Jury turned a page and ran his finger down it. “About ten-forty, from what Daisy Trump said.”

  For a good two or three minutes, Plant was silent, smoking. His green eyes seemed to illumine the dark corner in which they sat. Finally, he said, “The play’s the thing, Inspector.”

  “I beg your pardon? You’re not saying you know how he did it?”

  “Yes. But I’d rather show you than tell you; I will have to make arrangements, so pardon me whilst I ring up Ruthven.” And before Jury could protest, Plant was heading for the telephone.

  • • •

  A half hour later, Pluck deposited Jury at the Long Piddleton station. Wiggins was inside, ministering to himself with nose-drops.

  “I’ll be at Ardry End, Wiggins.”

  “Yes, sir. But Chief Superintendent Racer’s here — I mean, was here. He’s gone off with Superintendent Pratt to Weatherington.”

  “Never mind that. Look, I want you to hop it up to the Man with a Load of Mischief and keep an eye on Matchett. Don’t let him out of your sight, but don’t let him know it.”

  Wiggins was astonished. “You mean you suspect him?”

  “That’s right, Sergeant. And another thing—” Jury broke into a coughing fit. He hoped to God he wasn’t catching one of Wiggins’s nameless diseases. He blew his nose and went on: “Another thing: when Superintendent Racer returns — if you should happen to forget just where I’ve gone, well, it’s all right, I won’t hold it against you.”

  Wiggins smiled broadly. “I’ve a rotten memory, sir. But here—” He reached in his pocket and brought out a brand-new box of cough drops. “You best take these. Oughtn’t to neglect a cough like that, you know.” Wiggins was delighted to share his pharmacopoeia with his superior.

  Jury tried to give them back: “I don’t really need —”

  But Wiggins, if sometimes uncertain about matters of police procedure, was not to be toyed with here. “I insist. Put them in your pocket.”

  Meekly, Jury did as he was bid.

  CHAPTER 18

  When they walked into the drawing room of Ardry End, Jury was surprised to see both Lady Ardry and Vivian Rivington.

  Agatha seemed equally surprised to see Chief Inspector Jury. “So there you are! I suppose you realize that Superintendent Racer — a most unpleasant man, I must say — has been trying to track you down ever since he got here?” She seemed clearly torn between aiding and abetting Racer’s cause and being privy to her bit of information. She wheeled on Melrose Plant. “I asked you when you called where he was, Plant, and you said you’d not seen him all day.”

  “I lied.”

  “And just where is Superintendent Racer?” asked Jury, wanting to make sure he knew which places to avoid.

  “I’m sure I don’t know. Had his room all nicely done up — always happy to do my part — and the dreadful man walked in, took one look around, turned on his heel and marched out. It’s no wonder this country’s in the mess —”

  “Begging your pardon, sir,” said Ruthven, after a discreet cough. “But I believe the superintendent is ensconced at the Man with a Load of Mischief, sir. I believe he wanted to be at the scene of the crime.” Ruthven seemed not a little thrilled.

  “Thank you, Ruthven.” Scene of the wine cellar would be more like it. Matchett had the best one for miles, and a superior cook.

  “Is Martha ready?” asked Plant. Ruthven nodded. “And you’ve fixed up the alcove in here, I see. Good, good.”

  Jury saw then that the alcove at the far end of the room had been fitted up with a curtain, as if it were a tiny stage. The French doors led out to the garden beyond, now layered with snow. But instead of the table and Queen Anne chairs which usually sat in front of this window, a sort of chaise lounge had been moved in and piled with pillows and velvet coverings, so that it resembled a bed.

  “What’s going on?” asked Jury.

  “Don’t ask me” said Agatha, striking her ample bosom with her fist. “It’s one of crazy Melrose’s schemes. Always has been theatrical.”

  “If you’d only stop complaining,” said Vivian, “we could get on with this. Though I must admit, I’d like to know what’s going on, too.”

  “Neither of you need to know,” said Melrose. “Just play your parts. And now, Inspector, if you will excuse us for just a few moments, I must rehearse my cast.”

  Ruthven escorted Jury from the room in a way that almost made him feel he was being taken into custody. He was left staring at the pikes and staffs in the hallway. In a few minutes, he saw the woman who he presumed must be Martha, Ruthven’s wife, come through the hall and make him a brief curtsy. Then she passed into the drawing room. In another ten minutes, Plant opened the door and beckoned him in.

  Plant drew a chair around for Jury, placing it about thirty feet from the curtained alcove. “Now then, Inspector Jury. We are going to present a scene — or part of one — from Othello. I shall play that part; Martha is to be Emilia; Vivian will be Desdemona. All right, you have your parts, everyone?”

  Truculently, Agatha said, “You have parts. All I’m to do is —”

  “Don’t talk about it; just do it,” said Melrose.

  “I still can’t see why I’m not to be Desdemona; after all, Vivian’s had no —”

  “God! We’re not trying out for the Royal Shakespeare Company! it’s merely a demonstration for the inspector, here. He has to see it. Now, get back there behind that curtain and do as you’re told!”

  She marched off, sullen. “I’ve not even got one line to say.”

  “If I gave you one you’d be saying it all afternoon.”

  Agatha made a face at Melrose’s back, and let the curtain drop in front of her.

  Melrose then turned to the cook, Martha. “Now, Martha, all you need do is read those few lines I’ve checked, and don’t worry at all about how you sound.” Martha turned beet-red. She must really have felt this to be her stage debut.

  “Pretend this area”—Melrose made a sweeping gesture with his hand, standing before the curtain — “is the stage. The curtained recess is Desdemona’s bed. Now, Othello has been on stage for some time with Desdemona
. There’s a lot of talk about the handkerchief, and Iago. Vivian — I mean, Desdemona — is in the bed.”

  Vivian took her place, lying down rather awkwardly among the pillows and bedclothes, and said, “Kill me tomorrow; let me live tonight!”

  “Now, here, the stage direction reads: ‘Smothers her.’ ” And Melrose picked a pillow from the bed and held it a bit above Vivian’s face. Then he turned away from the bed, dropping the pillow, and pulled the curtain in front of it. Martha, standing off to the left, having watched the proceeding intently, walked up and pretended to be knocking at an invisible door.

  From behind the curtain came a rustling, and a moan: “ ‘O Lord! Lord! Lord!’ ” Martha still beat on the door — the thin air — with both hands. Melrose made an elaborate display of looking from Martha to the bed, and recited: “ ‘What, not dead yet.’ ” He walked over and pulled the curtain back, where Desdemona lay obscured partially by the disheveled bedclothes and pillows. Melrose stood in front of her, raised the pillow and lowered it, saying, “ ‘I would not have thee linger in thy pain.’ ” There came from the bed another thrashing and moaning.

  In the meantime, Martha-Emilia was still pretending to hammer on the door with upraised fists. Melrose got up from the bed, where he had been leaning over poor Desdemona, and again closed the bedcurtain. He went to the absent door, pretended to open it, and Martha walked through, reading woodenly: “ ‘I do beseech you / That I may speak with you, O good my lord!’ ”

  Plant put his hand on her arm. “That’s enough, Martha. We’ve made our point. From here, Inspector, there would have to be one change. In the text, Emilia goes to the bed, and Desdemona says, ‘Commend me to my kind lord,’ and dies. That would have to be omitted. Because Desdemona” — and Melrose drew back the bed-curtain — “is already dead.”

  Agatha sat up in the bed, rubbing her throat, and saying, “You did it deliberately, Plant; you nearly killed me, you silly fool —”

  Vivian had in the meantime come in through the French window from outside, shivering. “Good lord, Melrose. Next time you want me to do Desdemona, give me a coat. It’s freezing.”