Melrose stopped the cup on the way to his mouth. “ ‘Nosy’? What do you mean, Mrs. Suggins?”
Annie started looking in pots, clanging long spoons against their edges, bustling. “Now, I hate to speak ill of the girl, but I had to tell her more’n once to mind her own business. A couple of times, I caught her listening at doors. Well! Put a stop to that, I did!”
“ ‘I shouldn’t have listened’? Is that what she said?”
“Indeed. And ‘I shouldn’t ’ave done it.’ That’s what she said: ‘I ought not to ’ave done it. I shouldn’t ’ave listened.’ ”
Melrose frowned. “What do you think she meant?”
“Honestly, I’ve no idea, me. Dorcas had more’n one secret, I’m sure.” Annie sighed. “For a while I thought maybe she’d got a crush on Mr. Price. He goes to that pub nearly every evenin’ when he’d ought to be in bed. Gets up at dawn, he does. Goes slopping about the fens looking for buried trees the way others might go looking for buried treasure. Hmph!”
That Dorcas Reese might have had a crush on Price wasn’t too surprising. It turned Melrose’s attention to Price’s bachelorhood and his dependence on the Owens. He seemed perfectly satisfied with his present arrangements; Max Owen was a fairly good stand-in for an eighteenth-century patron.
“It’s beyond me,” she said, pouring the batter into another pudding basin. “How these poor women met their deaths. It’s got to be some sick sort of person.” She shook her head and set the basin into a pot of hot water. Suggins had come in with a half-dozen eggs. “Would you rather have a boiled egg, sir? The Owens are fond of scrambled.”
“That will be fine with me.” He paused. He had not got an impression of “comings and goings” from the people around the dinner table last night. He’d been under the impression they had all remained in the living room, except for Price. But even if they had, there wouldn’t have been time to get to the Wash, surely. It would have to have been after they’d separated for the night. “Major Parker was here, I understand, that evening.”
The mention of Parker! She could not praise him enough. Surprisingly, it was his cooking that sent her into a near paroxysm of praise. “You’ve not tasted a beef Wellington until you’ve had the Major’s, let me tell you.” She seemed intent on comparing trifles—hers, his, God’s. He saw that the kitchen clock had moved them closer to breakfast. The aroma of streaky bacon sputtering over the flame of the cooker told him it was none too soon. He was famished.
“Now me, I was in here late, getting the mincemeat ready for the pies. I make pies the night before, usually. So while I was in the kitchen, it’s Suggins went to take Mr. Owen some whiskey. Mr. Owen was chatting with him about another delivery of antiques. So Burt has an alibi, but I don’t!” Annie thought this alibi-business rather jolly; she laughed until tears formed on her lashes. Then she raised the corner of her apron and wiped her eyes. “I am sorry, sir, I shouldn’t make light of it. But it’s been a very hard situation, as I’m sure you can appreciate.”
“Yes, I can,” Melrose said, sympathetically, but seriously doubting its “hardness” on Annie. What he had supposed was that Jenny alone—in addition to Jack Price, at some point—couldn’t account for her time. But that wasn’t the case. It sounded as if the only ones who couldn’t have got to the Wash and back was Max Owen. Parker had left a bit after eleven, Grace had gone to bed. Price was in his studio. None of the three could prove it. “You know, Annie, it’s beginning to look as if nobody could account for his or her time.” He laughed.
“What was peculiar was Burt found Miss Dunn’s car parked at the bottom of the drive, and that was a distance from the house. Now, they heard a car start up and drive off around ten, I think. And Burt, naturally, he supposed she came back, when he saw the car after midnight.” She sighed. “It’s all so peculiar.” As if to vent her dismay, Annie made a vicious little jab at the pud with another silver charm.
• • •
The bacon and eggs lost nothing in transit from kitchen to sideboard, where Melrose was scooping up generous portions of both. He had gone upstairs to put on his old Harris tweed (which screamed of “country”) and when he returned to the dining room, Grace Owen was sitting at the table with a cup of tea and a thin slice of toast, reading a local paper.
From the sideboard with its line-up of silver dishes and delicacies, Melrose said, “Good lord, but how you can resist these mushrooms? These eggs?”
“You’d be resisting too if you were a middle-aged woman who’s had years of Annie’s breakfasts. I simply have to flip a coin: will it be breakfast? lunch? dinner? for I can’t afford to eat all three.”
Melrose opened the paper. “I see you’re still page-one news.” He saw a picture of Wyndham Fen and a white police van.
Grace munched her toast, tapped the photo of the van, said, “Peter told me they’d set up a van, an ‘incidents room’ or something, police called it.”
“Peter?”
“Peter Emery. Oh, of course, you’ve not met him. Peter is Linus Parker’s groundskeeper. Or was. He lives in a cottage on Linus’s property. Linus has a great deal of property around here. The cottage is a little ways off the footpath on the way to the Case. Have you stopped there?”
“The pub, you mean? Yesterday, to get directions. The girl Dorcas worked there, I hear. I was up quite early this morning and had a cup of tea with Annie Suggins.”
“I know.” Grace smiled at him over the rim of her cup. “Annie thinks you’re quite wonderful. ‘A real gentleman, he is; niver talks down to a person.’ ”
Melrose laughed. “Mrs. Suggins does a good bit of talking herself.”
“About what?”
Melrose flinched at the change in tone, a tiny shifting of gears, an urgency to know. “About these murders, of course,” he said, as if it were the most reasonable thing in the world for Annie to talk about them. “Wouldn’t you expect the staff to take advantage of an opportunity to entertain a stranger with the story?”
She sighed and said she supposed so and turned a page of the paper.
“You said this Peter Emery used to be Parker’s keeper?”
She nodded. “It’s very sad. He’s blind. He had a terrible accident about six years ago. And he’s still a young man. Well, forty-five or -six. I’d call that youngish.”
“Blind? That’s rotten.”
“Yes. It’s very painful to see a man who lived in the outdoors more or less confined to indoors.” She poured Melrose some more coffee and herself another cup of tea. “Linus Parker’s given him a very nice little cottage a bit off the footpath. Linus’s own house sits farther on. Anyway, Peter said Chief Inspector Bannen came round. Not much Peter could tell him, obviously.”
Melrose ingested this piece of information along with his mushrooms and thought about Dorcas Reese. Nothing was all that obvious to him.
13
Muckross Abbey school,” said Max Owen, nodding toward the piano-fronted desk in the corner. Breakfast was finished and Melrose and Max were in the library. “The Bonham’s man thinks it’s quite a good example of its type.”
Bonham’s man? God, wasn’t it enough to have to deal with the Christie’s man and the Sotheby’s man?
The desk was elaborately decorated with inlays of ivory, paintings of ruins, and carved ivy crawling up the legs. Melrose had never seen a piece of furniture like it, but then, he’d never heard of Muckross Abbey either. He gave the only response he could: nodded and said, “Umm.” One arm crossed in front of his chest, elbow resting on that hand and chin in the other, he hoped his expression was sage. “Umm,” he said again, nodding. “Muckross Abbey school, yes, definitely.” It sounded more like a Sherlock Holmes story—“The Adventure of Muckross Abbey”—than it did a school of furniture.
It wasn’t on Trueblood’s list. Damn. He was afraid this would go on happening. In this room, from whose west-facing end window Melrose could see the companion-window of the long gallery, there were at least a dozen pieces that cried out to
be admired. Not by Melrose, though, no, thank you very much. His hand was now at his forehand, rubbing.
“Something wrong?”
“Oh, no. Just another damned headache. Bloody nuisance.”
“I’m sorry. Want some aspirin?”
Melrose shook his head. No, not aspirin, perhaps one of Diane Demorney’s fatal martinis. He was giving himself a little time to study an intimidating-looking piece, which he thought might be the quarter-million-quid-worth of bureau-bookcase Trueblood had talked about. At least, he hoped so; it would be a piece he knew something about. Imagine having such incredibly expensive things sitting about. There was something to be said for the Spartan existence. Whoa! his other self said, digging in the heels of the high-horse he appeared to be up on. Who are you to be questioning the Owens for their possessions? You don’t exactly live in a bed-sit, do you?
Dropping his hand, he strolled over to the bureau-bookcase and hunkered down (in imitation of a man who knew what he was looking for) and ran his finger along the seam where the top and bottom came together. “Now this is an extremely good example of its kind.”
“It certainly is.” Max came to stand beside him. “What would you guess its worth is?”
Melrose didn’t answer immediately, but instead walked round the bureau, stopping now and then to mutter something and nod. “Bottom seems to be done in the same period, so I’d say it’s the original, wouldn’t you?” When Max nodded, Melrose said, “Well, if I had it I’d pay—oh, perhaps two hundred fifty, two seventy-five.”
Max beamed. “Right on the nose. Two hundred and fifty-eight thousand.”
Melrose managed a self-deprecating little murmer. Things were so much easier when one knew in advance. He said, “If you’ve had it awhile, by now the value’s probably risen by another fifty.” He stood looking at the bureau-bookcase as if stupefied with admiration when he was actually trying to work Max around to the night of Verna Dunn’s murder. But he couldn’t think of an approach. It wasn’t the same as talking to their cook. To refresh his memory, he drew his little leather notebook out—everyone had a leather notebook to consult, surely—and ran his eyes down his price-list. But Max was on to something else.
“Look at this, would you?”
Melrose did. A small bronze statue that meant nothing to him. Bronzes, had Trueblood said anything about bronzes? “Unusual,” he said, frowning in honest puzzlement.
“Remember that Adams sale? Of course, you must’ve been there. Bonham’s did a great job, didn’t they?”
“Stupendous.”
“What did you get?” Max asked. “Anything interesting?”
Melrose opened his mouth to say—what? Fortunately, Max went right on talking. “These plaquettes are wonderful. And not too dear, either. It puts Renaissance bronze at least within the reach of people who aren’t rich.”
Yes, Mrs. Withersby had mentioned wanting several. “It is nice to find something not completely off the charts.”
“Trouble is, they’re the very devil to date. The after-casts must have been legion.”
“The after-casts.” Melrose rather liked the word. “Yes, the after-casts. Always does create a problem.”
Melrose hadn’t realized Max had moved on to another of his trophies until the voice came from the other end of the room. “This one is Grace’s favorite.”
If it’s anybody’s favorite it should damned well be on the list. Hell—Melrose took a deep breath—it wasn’t. But people’s “favorites” were tricky because the real value usually got lost somewhere in the sentimental morass. So that the piece was loved not for value but for some reason particular to the person who prized it. Melrose could tell from the sheepish expression on Max Owen’s face that this particular piece was going to be difficult to assess. It looked like a reading table, except that it had two facing adjustable stands. “A reading table?”
“A double music stand, that’s my guess.” Max reveled a bit in his assessment.
It looked like a straightforward piece of furniture and Melrose had no idea how much it was worth. He said conventional things: “Fine patination. Looks original.” That had a fifty-fifty chance of working out. Max nodded, so Melrose was in the right fifty. He frowned. Thoughtfully. “Elegant. Candlesticks are quite handsome.” Melrose touched one of the two projecting candlesticks, once used for reading. A small, square box was set in the middle of the tripod. “What would that be?” He should express a little ignorance. Not hard, in his case.
“There’s a little drawer in it that held rosin. That’s how I deduced the music stand.” Max moved on to a rather chunky bureau, nothing special, surely. Too plain to be in this collection, Melrose would have thought. But Max Owen apparently thought otherwise, treating it like the runt of the litter, something no one else could love. “Mulberry wood. You can tell here on the side where new wood was put in, not a very good imitation.”
Melrose, who’d been pretending to make notes, now pocketed his pen and notebook. “You have a rare feeling for these pieces,” he said, taking a closer look at the inlays.
Max thought for a moment. “It’s because they have a history; I mean, I’ve followed some of them for years. I know their provenance.” He moved to the painted writing table. “Take this bonheur-du-jour, for instance. First time I ever saw it was twenty years ago in the window of a dark little shop along the Old Kent Road. I think I was on my way to a funeral, can’t remember whose.” He looked puzzled. “On my way to—Brighton, maybe.” They were standing near the needlepoint settee and Max said, “Sit down, why don’t you?” with the air of one who’s about to embark on a long story. “A nice old chap. Obviously not in the trade just for the money, but, come to think of it, a lot of dealers I know don’t seem to be in it simply for the money.”
Melrose sincerely doubted it.
Max went on. “I wonder if most of them don’t have a talent for the past, you know?” Max patted his jacket pocket, brought out a pack of Silver Cuts, and offered them to Melrose.
It was someone to share a sin with. Melrose was glad somebody else still smoked, as he pulled his old Zippo from his pocket. Trueblood had scouted it out, saying it suited an eccentric antiques appraiser better than Melrose’s gold lighter. He liked the way it clacked back, the rasp of the tiny wheel on the flint, the clack again as he closed the cover.
Max dragged over the blue Murano ashtray again and set it between them, then settled back on the settee, one ankle over the other knee, his hand rubbing at his silk sock. “This old fellow could see how enthusiastic I was about the desk, and I’m certain the price he quoted was lower than what he’d’ve asked someone else. But it was still too much for me. I hadn’t a sou back then, or at least not enough to buy high-priced antiques. But we spent some time talking about this”—and he nodded toward the bonheur-du-jour— “and he showed me photos, snaps taken in the palace in Madrid. I don’t know how old the pictures were, but the desk was originally in the palace of Philip the Second of Spain. He had documents that showed this. Anyway, it was right after that I made my first real profit in the market and I went back to his shop, but it was sold. I asked him who’d bought it and he said he should keep that information confidential, but that I could buy him a pint and if he got drunk enough, he’d tell me.” Max smiled, remembering. “He told me the name of a woman in Stow-on-the-Wold, a decorator. So I went there . . . when I was supposed to be going to—” He frowned. “Somebody’s baby’s christening. Was it Sis’s—?” He shook his head. “I looked up this decorator’s shop and there was the table, exactly the same, none the worse for wear. But she wouldn’t sell it, said she’d bought it as the focal point for a client’s bedroom—a bedroom! My God!”
Melrose listened to this tale of the bonheur-du-jour with a certain enjoyment and even a certain awe. What he found so compelling was that Max could hardly remember at all a christening, a wedding, a funeral at the same time he recalled every detail about the bonheur-du-jour, everything that had happened to it in the seventeen or eighte
en years before he’d become its owner. It was as if this charming piece of furniture stirred in Max Owen all of the affection, or all of the poignance one ordinarily attached to beloved family heirlooms, or to photographs of one’s family or even—and perhaps this was the point—to one’s family itself. He didn’t doubt but what there would be similar tales told about this needlework settee, about the heavy old mulberry-wood chest, the fabulous Court Chest, the papier-mâché and painted metal tables, the Renaissance bronzes. So if Melrose had supposed Max Owen to be one of the idle and acquisitive rich, he knew now that he was wrong.
Melrose got up to look at the Court Chest again. “You don’t honestly intend to turn these things over to Sotheby’s auction block, do you?”
Max’s expression, the candid eyes and slow smile, was as beguiling as a child’s. He seemed to be studying the end of his cigarette, and then he chuckled as if it were all a great joke. “No way.”
Melrose smiled at the Americanism. “Then why did you need them appraised?” Melrose hoped he wasn’t talking himself out of this job.
“I expect I didn’t want an appraisal. I wanted an audience. No, not exactly an audience, just some smart fellow to talk to.”
When he turned that smile on Melrose, Melrose felt a pang of guilt, as if he had intruded upon a scene of passion, a secret tryst.
Max went on. “The only one around here is Parker. Of course, there’s Grace, but I’ve probably bored that dear woman to death with my accounts. Although she’s willing to listen endlessly. She likes those Romanesque statues. I got those at auction; why I’m not sure. That was in my early days. Grace calls them ‘the cold ladies.’ Isn’t that marvelous?” Then Max paused, flushing a little. “I must strike you as tremendously shallow, talking about bureaus and writing tables when there’ve just been two murders.”
Speaking of that! Melrose wanted to say. But he was sympathetic. “Well, your ‘stuff,’ as you call it, might be your ‘still point.’ Your ‘center.’ ” For there was no question that the man seemed to be enthralled by these possessions, no more and no less than are children who invest objects with magical powers. The dish runs away with the spoon; the Red Queen canters; the chessmen shout their disapproval of beleaguered Alice. “Magic,” he muttered.
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