The Man with a Load of Mischief

by Martha Grimes

  Jury was momentarily struck dumb. A switch. It had been a switch — the drugged body of Celia Matchett put in the bed in place of Harriet Gethvyn-Owen. Jury applauded.

  Melrose bowed and said: “That will be all ladies. Thank you.”

  Agatha, who had climbed off the bed and was pulling down her skirts, gaped. “All? All? You drag us over here, make us go through this ridiculous charade, and then don’t explain to us what it’s about? Idiot!”

  Even Vivian seemed a bit put out. “Yes, really, Melrose. What is it all about?”

  It was well she should ask, thought Jury. She didn’t know it, but Melrose Plant might just have saved her life.

  • • •

  After Plant had got rid of the women, he and Jury settled down before the fire with whiskey and such canapes as Martha could muster after her brief brush with the stage.

  “It wouldn’t have taken much of an actress to throw a few words over her shoulder at the maid,” said Jury.

  “No. And I imagine she had on Celia Matchett’s clothes under her costume and the Matchett woman’s hair-do done up under her stage wig. Probably Harriet Gethvyn-Owen made sure the room wasn’t well lit. They had to be sure someone saw ‘Celia’ alive whilst the play was in progress. She was actually lying dead on the stage.” Plant lit up a cigar.

  “On the stage. God, what nerve — smothering her right before the eyes of the whole audience.”

  “Was she drugged, do you think?” said Plant. “And then brought — by Matchett, I assume — to the curtained recess before the scene was played. There was a curtain behind the bed, too. That’s how Celia got out and then back in again. When I closed the curtain Vivian (it would have been Harriet) got off the bed, went out the French door, and Agatha simply got on the bed. Of course, Harriet would have had to lift Celia on, dressed in identical costume. But from that distance, amongst the pillows and bed-coverings, and with Othello obscuring the view, no one in the audience would have suspected there were two Desdemonas, would they?”

  “Then Gethvyn-Owen goes the few feet to Celia’s office, takes off her costume and wig and sits down at the desk,” said Jury. “And Daisy comes along, and assumes the woman at the desk is Celia. Then Harriet would have had to go back to the stage-bed, and carry the now-dead Celia to the office. Mrs. Matchett was a small woman, so I guess she could manage it. Anyway, it was only a matter of a few feet. Then Harriet is ready for her curtain-call. My God, what nerve!”

  “If she was that cool a customer, it makes one wonder why she didn’t just leave her stage-bed, go to the Matchett woman’s office, and do her in there. Ever so much simpler,” said Melrose.

  “Would you? Had you been Harriet? And left your lover with a perfect alibi while you had none? A cold-blooded woman, but not a dumb one, apparently. This way, they are really in it together,” said Jury. Then he shrugged. “Of course her killing Celia in the office would still be a possibility, except that four other murders have been done in Long Piddleton to cover up what happened sixteen years ago.” Jury leaned forward. “My guess is that Ruby Judd found that bracelet somewhere round that stage-bed. For Simon Matchett, it would be a real facer, wouldn’t it? What in hell was his wife’s bracelet, the bracelet she always wore, doing on Ruby Judd’s arm sixteen years later? He must have guessed where she found it. And he had no way of getting it back. He must have felt in constant danger of her remembering.” Jury helped himself to more whiskey. “Then he finds out that more than one person knows about it. Maybe Ruby got her Uncle Will in on it by way of getting advice. Then Will gets in his old friend, Ansy-the-Pansy. Which of them knew Creed is anybody’s guess. So now we have the presence of the policeman in case Matchett cuts up rough. Only just imagine: it must have been like a horrible game of dominoes for him. First he discovers Ruby’s told her uncle, then her uncle lets him know he’s told Hainsley, and, perhaps, Creed. So Matchett had to get Hainsley and Creed here. He was working against time and he couldn’t leave the village anyway. Since he was an actor it was probably no trick at all to imitate the voice of Smollett and lure them here. And it might account for the weird, public aspect of the killings. It’s not that easy to get rid of one body, much less four. He could hardly walk down the streets of Long Pidd with a shovel to bury them all. So he does just the opposite — displays them. What gall. That way, perhaps we’ll think there’s a maniac on the loose.”

  “You think Ruby was blackmailing Matchett herself?”

  “More likely sexual blackmail. Maybe she thought she could get him to marry her. After all, she tried it on with just about every other man in town, and Matchett is the most attractive of all. Where was she going when she left, if not to meet someone? Stupid girl. Yet she left the bracelet behind. And somewhere, dammit! that diary!”

  “But if they were thinking of blackmailing Matchett — Small and his friends — well, Matchett has no money to speak of — oh, stupid of me. Vivian Rivington does, though. Matchett would have to marry Vivian to get it, don’t forget.”

  “Matchett could have told Ruby that after he’d got the money, well, then, he’d, ah, get rid of Vivian, and marry Ruby. Frankly, I think Simon Matchett could convince any woman of any damned thing he wanted. Like —” Jury paused.

  “ ‘Like’?”

  “Like Isabel Rivington, for example.”

  Plant was silent for a moment. “What do you mean?”

  “Well, you wondered, didn’t you, why Isabel, so besotted with Matchett herself, would push Vivian at him? To say nothing of losing control of the money herself?”

  “You’re not suggesting Simon and Isabel have some sort of ‘arrangement’? As Simon and Ruby might have had?”

  “Yes, of course. Though I doubt we’ll ever know the truth of it. But that’s what I’ve always thought.”

  Melrose looked at Jury for a long moment. “What do you suppose happened to Harriet Gethvyn-Owen?”

  Jury considered this, then said. “What I wonder is, what was going to happen to Vivian Rivington?”

  They drank their whiskey and sodas and stared at one another, and then at the fire.

  CHAPTER 19

  Jury drove slowly toward the High Street, heading in the opposite direction from the Man with a Load of Mischief. He was delaying the tiresome, inevitable meeting with Chief Superintendent Racer. Perhaps he could stop at the Jack and Hammer and have Mrs. Scroggs fix him a meal.

  When he got to the driveway which led up to the church, he pulled in and parked his car. At least the church was one place he doubted Superintendent Racer would be nosing around, and he wanted some time to think.

  • • •

  The church of St. Rules was as damp and cold as it had been in the early hours of the morning and now it was beginning to get just as dark. As he sat in one of the rear pews, the feeble light of the evening faded from the aisles and the corners even as he watched. He slid down on the hard bench and looked around him — at the arches, the ceiling bosses, the three-tiered pulpit, and the small, black board to one side which held the number of the hymns that the congregation would have sung that morning, had there been a service. The small hymnals were lined up on the narrow shelf that ran the length of the pew in front of him. Jury picked one out, opened it to No. 136, and intoned a few bars of “Onward, Christian Soldiers.” Then feeling a little silly, he closed the book, and looked absently at the cover.

  It was stamped in rather worn gold: Hymns. It was small, only about five by six or seven inches. Red leather. The voice of Mrs. Gaunt — or was it Daphne? — came back to him. “I come in and saw her writing. It was in her diary. A little red book.”

  • • •

  It took Jury no more than fifteen minutes, going along behind each pew, pulling out the hymnals and replacing them, before he finally found it: slightly fatter than the hymnals and of a different shade of red, a bit more garish. Easily detected, but only if one were looking for it, since all of the hymnals were partially hidden by the narrow wooden shelf which secured them to the back of t
he pew. Had one of the parishioners been sitting just there the past Sunday, he would have found it. But there were many more hymnals than villagers to sing from them. Had Ruby left it here as insurance against something, as she might have done with the bracelet? Or had she stuck it in here and simply forgotten it?

  On the outside, in the approximate position where the word Hymnal was inscribed on the others, was the one word Diary, in fading gold cursive. Block letters, dramatically enlarged, graced the first page: RUBY JUDD.

  The light had failed completely by now, and he had had to use a torch during his search through the pews. He took the book up to the pulpit, ascending the little ladder, and then pulled the neck of the narrow brass lamp down so that the light would play brightly upon the pages of the book. Most of it, that part covering the early months of the year, was the kind of drivel about boys in Weatherington, or men in Long Piddleton—tradesmen, a salesman; no mention of Trueblood or Darrington — the sort of syrupy nonsense he would have expected. It was later that the theme of Simon Matchett began to be sounded, interspersed with remarks about Trueblood (surprisingly good in bed for a man of his sexual persuasion) and Darrington (surprisingly bad). But always it reverted to Matchett, who was “ever so handsome” many times over. Eyes like the Rydal Water. Jury softened at this surprisingly lovely metaphor from the plodding mind of Ruby Judd. To think Daphne’s got that, whilst I’m stuck here with the Warden — Mrs. Gaunt, no doubt — and the vicar. Wouldn’t they love to know I’m sitting here writing this whilst I’m supposed to be doing the dusting? Well, I don’t get nearly the pay Daphne does, and all the while working for him, to boot. Then there were pages describing her sexual exploits with Darrington, the part-time boy at the newsagent’s, and others, interrupted by comments on the boredom of life in Long Piddleton. Jury flicked forward several pages and found what he wanted: an account of that pillow-fight with Daphne. Rolled off the bed, I did, and when her arm dangled down, grabbing for me, that bracelet she wears, tacky thing with a gold cross, it slid off. Suddenly it all come back to me. I was lying under a bed, and an arm just dangling down and a bracelet. Years ago, it was. Was it possible that Ruby, curious little girl as she was, had actually crawled under that stage bed, and lain there during that performance? She could actually have been there when Matchett smothered Celia, and not realized what was happening. God!!! Then I remembered sudden-like, what bracelet this was I found. It was hers, that Mrs. Matchett’s, that got killed. What does it mean??? This was underlined five times. There was no entry for a couple of days. Then it seems Ruby had gone to the Weatherington library and looked back in the stacks of old newspapers and read it all up: the murder at the Goat and Compasses. But she knew now that Celia Matchett had been killed in bed, and not in her office. She remembered with the sudden recollection of the seven-year-old, the vivid feel of that limp arm.

  Now she was spending her time going up to the Man with a Load of Mischief, still trying to draw Simon Matchett into some sexual overture, despite all of this. Then she started planning: Called Uncle Will today. If he’d remember, anyone would, and at first he told me I was bonkers — “Ruby you was seven years old, you don’t know what went on” Well, it took me a long time, but I finally got it over to him that Simon must have done it, must have killed her. Either him or that girl, Harriet, the paper talked about. I can remember now how scared I was. That arm. Ugh!!! And I never told anyone about finding this bracelet. Thought I’d get in bad trouble.

  The next day: Uncle Will rung me back and told me not to do anything, that he was ringing up some friends of his, some copper. I asked him was he going to get Simon arrested, and he just kind of laughed. I kind of got the idea he was talking about getting money out of Simon. I remember, I told him there was talk Simon was going to marry this frumpy old heiress. Pots of money she’s got.

  And the next day: But if he can get money out of him, why can’t I get other things, too? Jury could almost picture Ruby, her eyes gleaming and her schoolgirl giggle ringing from the church rafters.

  There was a lapse of two or three days and then she wrote: He was down cellar getting the wine for the dinner and I just kind of took myself down there and held out the bracelet and asked him, Didn’t he remember it? He must have, I said, the way he liked to fiddle it about on my wrist. Then I just up and told him what I knew. At first I thought he was going to hit me. But he reaches over and pulls me to him and kisses me!!!!! He said it was too bad, me telling my uncle, and had I told anyone else? I said, No. Which wasn’t a lie. There was nothing to be done for it, now, he said, and too bad, for he had always felt this way about me, but since I was so much younger, he daren’t try nothing. Looked so sad, he did. And that’s when he asked me to go away with him for the weekend, so’s we could work things out. But I’m not stupid. I said to him he needn’t try that on me. He just wanted to make sure I’d not tell anyone. He broke open a bottle of champagne and we sat there and laughed and kissed. I know now he’s serious about me. I’m to pack a bag and say I’m going to Weatherington so no one will wonder. I just remembered, though, Uncle Will told me to take off this bracelet and leave it somewhere and not to wear it anymore and that’s all right with me. I’ll be wearing a big diamond soon. I just thought of a marvelous place to leave the bracelet!! Won’t that be a bit of a giggle??!!

  And the final entry: Can’t write now. Here she comes. Mrs. Gaunt, probably. Must close. MORE TOMORROW!!!!

  Ruby must simply have dropped it back into its little nook, in a row with the hymnals, and picked up her broom. So the diary was probably just put by, with the intention of getting it later, and then in her excitement, she had simply forgotten it.

  MORE TOMORROW!!!! Jury read the pathetic words once again. The silly girl. There had been no more tomorrows for Ruby Judd. He stood there in the dark church with the little lamp making a pool of light on the white pages. So deep was he into the schoolgirl passion Ruby Judd had felt for Simon Matchett, that he had only half-heard the heavy, oak door of the church open and then swish shut.

  Jury could not see into the dark vestibule of the church, but he knew Matchett’s voice.

  “I saw the light from the road and wondered who might be here at this hour. Strange place to find a policeman — in the pulpit.”

  There was a silence, and some movement, and Jury imagined Matchett was settling himself in one of the rear pews.

  “And you, Mr. Matchett? What are you doing in church at this hour? Or are innkeepers more religious than policemen?”

  “No. But certainly as curious.”

  There was something unnerving in any circumstances in holding a conversation with a disembodied voice. The only point of light in the church was the puddle cast by the lamp over the pulpit. Jury felt like a jack-lighted deer.

  “I suppose the same thing occurred to me as to you, Inspector. If the diary weren’t in the vicarage, then possibly the church . . . ? I assume you’re not up there reading the Book of Common Prayer?”

  “If I were, Mr. Matchett, you’d be by way of having, as they say, ‘tipped your hand,’ now, wouldn’t you?”

  A brief laugh floated up through the darkness. “Oh, come now. Your detective sergeant has been like a hound at my heels. Doesn’t seem to want me to go anywhere, however hard I may try. No, don’t worry. He’s quite all right, sleeping by the fire. Hot buttered rum rather liberally laced with sedatives. Now, I think I’d better have that little book, Inspector.”

  Jury assumed that there was a gun leveled at him. Matchett’s confident assumption he would hand over the diary testified to that.

  “And if you’ve a gun, Inspector, suppose you just throw that down here, too. I’ve never seen one on you, still, one never knows.”

  Jury didn’t carry one. He’d found long ago it was more dangerous to have one than not to have, in the main. But there was no point in assuring Matchett of that. What Jury wanted to do now was to give himself a bit of time to study his predicament. Slightly out and above this three-tiered pulpit was the rood
loft, perhaps not more than three feet off. “Mr. Matchett, if you intend to dispatch me — you do intend it? — how can you be so sure no one else knows you murdered these people?” Jury had no intention of mentioning Plant, but he needed to keep Matchett talking.

  “Come now, Inspector Jury. Don’t try that old trick on me. Not even your chief superintendent knows anything. Your sergeant must, but I can take care of him.”

  The height and distance of the loft were not great, though God only knew he was not so agile as he used to be. “Would you just satisfy my curiosity on one or two points, Mr. Matchett? Why did you choose to make such an outlandish display of the bodies? You could have simply left Hainsley dead in his bed, and buried Ruby in the wood.” Jury knew serial murderers like Matchett were horribly vain. They found their own cleverness irrisistible. After all, to go to so much trouble and not to be able to let someone know how brilliant you are must be torture. At first, he thought Matchett wasn’t going to answer, though. In these dark and vaulted chambers the tiniest noise was amplified, and Jury thought he heard the snick of a safety being drawn back. But he hadn’t been wrong about the murderer’s compunction to advertise.

  “Surely, you guessed it was the red herring idea, Inspector. The best way to disguise one noise is to make a bigger one. I hadn’t time to be quiet and subtle about these people, and their, ah, disposal. The Judd girl, her uncle, and Hainsley, and that policeman friend of theirs, Creed — all of them were more or less upon me simultaneously. If I couldn’t do it quietly, I decided I’d go to the other extreme: make a noise so loud and so bizarre it would be put down to some wild and motiveless murderer. A psychopathic killer.”

  “Which it was, for a time.” Jury didn’t much care for the sound of movements, which indicated Matchett was rising and coming down the nave. From the rood loft to the gallery running around the other three sides of the church — that would be no problem. But it would have to be quick.