• • •
In the Jack and Hammer, Joanna Lewes looked up from a short stack of manuscript pages. Joanna, who wrote her immensely popular novels with a Trollopelike efficiency, forced herself to write two hundred and fifty words every fifteen minutes. She was waiting, she had once said, for the Warholian fifteen minutes. She greeted them and went back to her editing.
Trueblood got the drinks while Melrose looked over her shoulder. “London Love? But you’ve already published that one, several years ago.”
“I have,” answered Joanna, sighing. “This is a revised text. I decided Matt and Valerie hadn’t been having enough sex first time around.”
Melrose sat down. “Joanna, if it’s already published, why would your publisher do it again? I have always had the thrifty notion that the publisher only does that once.”
“You’re forgetting Robert Graves and John Fowles. Good-bye to All That was revised and republished. So was The Magus.”
“But if you thought it was rubbish once, wouldn’t it be double-rubbish twice?”
She laughed. “Of course. Who cares? The publisher probably won’t even remember doing London Love before, publishers being what they are.” She slapped another page down on the stack. “One takes a perverse pleasure in watching fools be fools. Theo, for instance, is giving a drinks party. Didn’t you love the invitation?”
Trueblood was back, setting down his own drinks: Old Peculier for Melrose; for himself a campari and lime. “Cream-laid paper. Engraved. Good lord. When the best way of issuing invitations is just to stand in front of the pub and holler.”
Joanna evened up the stack of pages and rose. “Sorry. I’ve more writing to do. That last hour I spent is missing seven hundred and fifty words. Ta.”
“Hells bells, there’s Diane. I hope she’s not headed here. I can’t deal with Diane today.”
“Looks like you’ll have to, old trout.”
Melrose groaned.
The arctic Miss Demorney, who was entering the pub now, was a person (they both agreed) wanting in any feeling that warmed the blood of the average mortal. To increase this icy impression, she liked to dress in white. Even the decor of her living room—white leather, white walls, white cat—augmented the glacial effect.
With the confidence of one who knew someone else would fetch and carry for her, Diane Demorney smiled at Dick Scroggs, who was already shaking ice off her martini glass. She furnished him with her own special brand of vodka and also had instructed him to keep her martini glass chilled. She still paid him full price for her drink. Diane might have been a lot of things, but she certainly wasn’t cheap.
Trueblood, good-naturedly, swanned off to get her martini as Diane pulled out a chair, sat down, plugged a cigarette into her long white holder, and said, “I’ve only the time for one drink—”
Considering the potency of the one, she’d need plenty of time, thought Melrose.
“—as I’m going up to London. Ah, thank you,” she said, as Trueblood placed her martini before her. The circumference of the glass was the approximate size of a skating rink. She smoked and allowed the olive to steep. “I don’t expect either of you cares to motor up with me?”
“Hopes dashed to the ground, Diane,” said Trueblood. “We’re busy.”
Melrose did wish Trueblood would stop answering for him, even though he had no wish to accompany Diane. He doubted she wanted company as much as she wanted a chauffeur. She hated driving herself, despite that absolutely wonderful Rolls. No one knew how Diane had come into her money—donated by the several ex-husbands, probably—still, she complained of feeling “pinched” from time to time. She was the sort of profligate spender who believed if one is good, two is better. So she bought a Bentley.
Now, she sipped her drink and then sat with her chin in her hand, saying, “Honestly, Melrose, that aunt of yours.”
Must he be blamed for the relationship?
She continued: “Suing Ada Crisp, for God’s sake. Has she no sense whatever?”
“Not really. But I’m glad you’re on Ada’s side.”
Diane’s smooth eyebrows arched. “I’m not on anybody’s side. The point is, Ada has no money.”
Trueblood said, “A benevolent way of looking at it.”
Diane gave him a peculiar look. She was not used to the word. “Well, she hasn’t a sou, not a bean, and I told Agatha that if she won her suit all she’d end up with is a lot of dusty old bedsteads and legless tables. Ada Crisp has nothing in that shop that’s of value. Of course, Theo just adores the idea because he could buy up the property and expand. So he simply eggs Agatha on. He was the one put her in touch with the solicitors in Sidbury.” She sat back and yawned, then said, “Well, it’s all too strenuous for me, all of this activity.” She tilted her head and exhaled a thin blue stream of smoke at the ceiling. “I wish there were something amusing going to happen.”
“We could all go over to the Blue Parrot,” said Trueblood.
“Oh, that’s hardly amusing, Marshall.”
Good lord, thought Melrose, if she didn’t find the Blue Parrot’s proprietor “amusing” she must be really hard up for laughs.
“And besides,” she went on, “the Blue Parrot’s absolutely medieval. It’s so rustic.”
Melrose had never heard the Middle Ages referred to as “rustic” before. “Diane, all of Long Piddleton is ‘rustic.’ ”
“No, no, no” said Trueblood. “Quaint’s the word.”
Diane made a moue of distaste and turned to signal to Scroggs. When he finally looked up from the weekly gossip-sheet, she made a circular motion with her finger. She was standing drinks. Melrose sometimes wondered about Diane. Her generosity seemed at odds with the rest of her—coldly calculating, self-centered, feathers for brains. Diane appeared to be knowledgeable only because she had picked out one arcane or esoteric fact about nearly every subject under the sun. And only one. When Dick Scroggs brought the drinks she zipped open her suitcase of a bag and brought out her checkbook, shaking her glossy black head No, no, as Trueblood reached for his wallet. Diane disliked carrying money. She paid for stamps with a check.
This transaction over, she raised her glass, said “Cheers,” and then sighed. “I only wish something amusing would happen.” She frowned. “What about Vivian’s Count—” She was trying to dredge up the name.
“Dracula,” said Trueblood.
“His name,” said Melrose, “is Franco Giopinno.”
“Didn’t I hear he might be visiting Vivian?”
“It is so rumored,” said Trueblood, “but I can’t imagine it.”
She sipped her drink. “You know, I’ve often wondered about Dracula. . . . ”
“Funny,” said Trueblood. “I hardly think of the chap from one moment to the next.”
“No, but can you imagine it? Only blood for nourishment?” She picked up her glass. “No pre-dinner drinks, no prawn cocktail for starters, a bucket of blood for your entree, and no sweet. How perfectly awful.”
“He’s quite normal-looking, really,” said Melrose. “Actually, he’s handsome. Brooding sort of looks.”
Trueblood was astonished. “You didn’t tell me you’d seen him.”
“It’s been so long. I met him in Stratford-upon-Avon. He was with Vivian.”
“I hope you were wearing your cross,” said Trueblood.
“But hasn’t she been engaged, so to speak, for donkey’s years? Sounds bloody strange—no pun intended—to me,” said Diane.
“Uh-huh. To tell the truth, I wouldn’t be surprised if Vivian had him here to give him the boot. It’d be easier to do it here than to do it there, where he’s surrounded by a lot of generic Italians,” said Trueblood.
Diane gave him another peculiar look. “What do you mean? Oh, never mind.” Diane was never one to explore areas of ignorance. “Is he rich?”
“Probably. He sounds rich.”
Diane’s porcelain brow furrowed in a passable imitation of someone thinking. “But I expect after he mar
ried, they’d have to live in—where does he live?”
“Venice,” said Melrose.
“If you call it living,” said Trueblood, firing up a bright pink Sobranie.
“He’d probably want to live in Venice and speak Italian—” Diane’s perfect black eyebrows came together in a little frown.
“Venetians do go in for that sort of thing, yes,” said Trueblood.
“It just might be too much trouble for our Vivian to go to.” She took a sip of her martini. “Quite a bit of trouble for anyone to go to.”
Anyone? thought Melrose. Who might “anyone” be?
• • •
The bell over the door of the Wrenn’s Nest Bookshop tinkled in an irritated little way as Melrose entered. The shop was itself almost insufferably quaint, with its exposed timber, low lintels—with silly “Mind Your Head” signs—and rickety staircase to the level above. Given all of Theo Wrenn Browne’s sidelines—his lending library, the stuffed animals in a huge bin by the staircase, and now even T-shirts—the place was jam-packed. This (Browne had said) was the reason he needed more room, and the only room he could think of was Ada Crisp’s secondhand shop.
Theo Wrenn Browne was presently engaged in one of his sidelines, the lending library. He was coming very close to putting Long Piddleton’s one-room library straight out of business; since Browne had immediate access to all of the new books and bestsellers, he did nicely, even though he charged 10p a day. People were peculiar about books, Melrose decided, for when they wanted a new book, they really wanted it, expense be hanged.
Browne’s borrower in this case was a small girl with flaxen hair and a sweet piping voice that would have melted the heart of the meanest of men, but not the heart of Theo Wrenn Browne, who was busy reprimanding her about the condition of her returned book. The little girl claimed that her brother Bub (even younger than she) was the guilty party. In any event, someone had cut up a page and Browne was going to make reparation or take away her privileges. And of course tell her mum.
Melrose had on several occasions come upon a scene such as this of Dickensian proportions, an exchange between Browne and some luckless kiddy. He wouldn’t have dared try this if a parent had accompanied the child.
After a curt nod at Melrose, Browne went back to bedeviling the girl (whose name was, apparently, Sally): “This is the only copy I have of Patrick. And just how are we going to solve this little problem, hmm, young Sally?”
Melrose had always loathed this asking of questions that a child can’t possibly answer, thereby doubling the anxiety.
“It was Bub did it, he don’t know any better,” answered Sally, who was pinching the skin of one hand with the other, as if an act of self-mutilation might make all of this go away.
Why the tears standing in her eyes didn’t fall, Melrose couldn’t imagine. Perhaps she had willed them not to, and thus avert further humiliation.
“Well, then perhaps we can have Bub come along and answer my question.”
“No, he can’t; he’s only two.”
Melrose said, “Sally—”
Though softly said, Sally backed away, for now she was flanked by two adults, a double-danger. “Sally, is this book one of your favorites?”
Not surprisingly, she was too bewildered even to answer that question. “I . . . don’t know.”
Theo Wrenn Browne was holding the book and Melrose removed it from his grip. He looked at the cover. Patrick, the Painted Pig. Patrick was a bright dripping blue, as if he’d turned over a paint can. Melrose began to turn the pages and make noises of approval. Thus Sally’s energy now was taken up more with curiosity, which had reduced the fear—at least he hoped so.
Browne, clearly annoyed, stuck his pipe in his mouth with a mean little jab, took it out again. “What were you wanting, Mr. Plant? I don’t think it’s that pig book, now, is it?”
“Books on antiques, Mr. Browne. Sally, you might be interested to know that I have an acquaintance who painted himself blue and ran up and down the road and all around the houses in his neighborhood.”
Sally’s mouth flew open. Forgetting the pickle she was in, she came closer and said, “No, he never did.”
“Oh, yes. His name is Ashley Cripps. Do you know him?”
Sally fingered a lock of her pale blond hair, pulling on it thoughtfully. “No. Why did he?”
Browne said, determinedly, “My books on antiques are right through that archway; I’ve a good selection.”
“Thank you. Ashley Cripps just wanted to shock everyone.”
“Which part did he paint?” asked Sally, close enough now to touch.
“All of him!”
Sally gasped.
“He didn’t look nearly as handsome as Patrick here.” Melrose snapped the book shut. “Very well, Mr. Browne, how much?”
“What? What do you mean? You mean that pig book?”
“I do.” Melrose had taken out his wallet.
“But you don’t want that . . . it’s damaged.”
“How much?”
When Browne came up with a price, Melrose slid the notes from his wallet, paid up, took the book, and handed it over to Sally, who was utterly speechless. Her mouth was open in a small O, as she looked from her book to Melrose and back again at Patrick. Then she half-giggled, clapping her hand to her mouth to hold it in. But it would not be held. “I’m paintin’ Bub blue!” Giggling merrily, she ran out the door.
Theo Wrenn Browne, cheated of his daily dose of misery-making, pointed with a bony finger to the next room, as if he were sending Melrose to the gallows. “Back there, Mr. Plant. As I said, through the archway”
• • •
There were three shelves of books dealing with various subjects—glass, silver, rugs, porcelain, periods of furniture. Melrose sighed and took one down at random, opened it, got discouraged at the encyclopedic knowledge demanded of him, pushed it back. The next one, on Oriental rugs, he set on the floor next to a small stool. He shoved the next book back because of its sheer bulk and chose one on silver that was considerably slimmer. He put this one on the floor, also. Another book was a largish paperback titled Helluva Deal! which he put on his stack purely on the basis of the name. In the next book there were a lot of pictures, so he set that on top of the stack.
He sat down on the little milking stool beside his small pile of books and picked up Helluva Deal!, which appeared to have the most entertainment potential. He turned it over and looked at the smiling couple on the back—the Nuttings, Bebe and Bob—who had coauthored it. Melrose opened it at random to see a rather grainy reproduction of a picture of Bebe Nutting standing beside a cow. This, thought Melrose, was a refreshing change in an antiques guide, and he must remember to make Trueblood familiar with it. On the other side of the cow was its new owner, Mr. Hiram Stuck. Mr. Stuck had purchased this cow having been convinced by “someone” that the cow was a direct descendant “of that there Missus O’Leary. I got the papers on it.” Melrose presumed Hiram Stuck meant the cow was the descendant of the O’Leary cow (rather than Mrs. O’Leary herself). As it turned out, Mr. Stuck was one of the several people Bebe and Bob had interviewed, all of whom had been taken in by one con artist or another working one scam or another.
The cow was the only actual living thing with a provenance—an alleged provenance—purported to be valuable. He certainly hoped the Owens wouldn’t take him round the barnyard to value any livestock. The other objects in the book were conventional enough. Silver, Limoges, settees, urns, and so forth.
Melrose sat on the milking stool reading and being entertained for some moments. He then selected two other books from his stack—one on rugs, one a price guide—put them together with Helluva Deal! and went to the front of the store.
Theo Wrenn Browne was taping up a binding and talking on the telephone at the same time, in low tones. Quite pointedly, Browne turned away, lowered his voice even more, then rang off.
“Will that be all, then, Mr. Plant?” He took the three books from Melrose’
s hands.
“Yes, thanks.”
Browne seemed to blow down his nose in a small fit of condescension. “Really, Mr. Plant, I don’t think you’ll get much help here.” He looked down at the happy Nuttings.
“Oh, I don’t know. You’ve read it, then?”
“Yes. Silly book, but some like that sort of thing.” He sniffed.
“Uh-huh.” Melrose dropped several notes on the counter, watching Browne tap a message of near—book length into his computer, then listened to the computer whir and whit. “I hope you don’t mind my saying—”
Melrose knew he would.
“—but you’re not doing that Sally Finch a favor by rewarding her for her bad behavior.”
“But Sally didn’t do it. It was Bub. Weren’t you paying attention?”
Theo Wrenn Browne rewarded Melrose with a withering look as he bagged up the books.
8
Lincolnshire,” said Melrose, refusing to lift his eyes from his book.
“Lincolnshire? Why on earth? You don’t know anybody in Lincolnshire.” Agatha reached for another scone.
Melrose smiled. Not at her. Her, he ignored. He was smiling over an account of an antiques free-for-all in Twinjump, Idaho, reported in Helluva Deal! On the floor beside his chair were two heavy volumes that Trueblood had forced on him in addition to the price guide which he’d been studying all of last night and the whole morning, hoping to stuff himself like an onion in preparation for his trip to Lincolnshire tomorrow. He thought he deserved something on the lighter side, and Helluva Deal! certainly met that requirement.
Dribble’s (the price guide) he was finding extremely helpful. He’d been testing himself by pricing his own things. That Staffordshire shepherd and shepherdess there on his mantel Dribble’s claimed were worth quite a lot. This surprised Melrose; they were such a boring couple to look at. His eye traveled now to a Chinese urn: according to Dribble’s, a similar one went for £3,000. He felt far richer than he usually did, sitting here. With Agatha. Immediately, he felt poorer.
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