“Did you ever see them together?”
Trevor Reese sighed hugely. “Well, o’ course. I jest tol’ ya—”
“I don’t mean while she was inside the pub. I meant, did they go back to Fengate together sometimes?”
He pursed his lips again, considering. “Hmm. Coulda done, ah guess. Well, they be goin’ t’same place, why not?”
“Are you so sure there was no one else?”
This time he set the book aside. “Now ah don’ want t’be speakin’ ill o’ me own daughter. But Dorcas, she just di’n’t . . . chaps just di’n’t take t’ ’er, you know. Ah don’t like saying it, but Dorcas was just a plain li’l thing. Just got left out in the looks department. It went ’ard wi’ ’er, not bein’ pretty like Violet.”
“But what about her good humor for several weeks before she died. Your wife remarked on the change in her.”
“Aye. She were lots different for a while.”
“And Violet said Dorcas told her she had a ‘real man’ and that her life was going to change.”
Trevor said, “Ah thought Dorcas was just dreamin’. Done a lot o’ that, she did, an’ no wonder.”
“But if there was such a dramatic change in her manner, wouldn’t that tell you that she did indeed have ‘someone.’ Even if it was all wishful thinking, the thinking was on some real and particular person.”
Trevor did not answer. He was fanning the pages of his book.
“If Dorcas didn’t come out with the identity of this man, it suggests that their relationship had to be kept secret; given her bad luck with men, I’d imagine she would have been dying to flaunt this. Certainly, if it were someone like Jack Price, she would be. He’s pleasant, smart, and, if not handsome, has something far more valuable—he’s an artist, a sculptor, who might become famous one of these days.”
“And ’cause o’ all that, not bloody likely ’e’d be leadin’ our poor Dorcas on.”
“No, but she might have been able to convince herself that he was interested. And if not Jack Price, well, who? Don’t forget that Dorcas told people she was pregnant—”
“Ah ain’t forgettin’ that, God knows.”
“So there had to be somebody.”
Trevor turned on Jury a pair of canny eyes. “No, there di’n’t. Ya forgettin’ Dorcas coulda been makin’ it all up.”
Jury sat back. “That’s possible, yes. But given her behavior, I doubt it. Did she say anything that made you wonder during those last days after she’d fallen off the pink cloud? About ‘wishing she hadn’t done it’? Or having listened to bad advice, or overheard someone talking?”
“No, nothing.”
Jury rose and thanked Trevor Reese for his time and his patience.
“Ah, ’tis all right. It’s just we’re all o’ us pretty bad over what ’appened t’our Dorcas.” He also got up, tossing the book on the little table that shuddered with its added burden. Pointing to it, he said, “Now ‘e’s got out o’ ’and, ’im. Don’t see what t’bloody fuss is over this ’ere book. Damned Roosians, all they do is stand around jawin’, ah could write this ’ere kind o’ clobber meself.”
“What is it? What book?”
“War-and-bloody-Peace!”
39
Marshall Trueblood, by far the most elegant thing in the room, rose smooth as syrup to his feet. He fingered the watch pocket of his waistcoat as if he meant to bring out something—a calling card or a set of ciphers that would crack the case wide open. Actually, he had a watch in this pocket designed for it and he began to wind it with excruciating slowness. Everyone’s eyes were clamped on him, waiting for him to do something, to save the day, for sentiment was altogether with Ada Crisp and her little dog. They had been fixtures in the village life long before Lady Ardry had set foot in it. An American, to boot, from Milwaukee, Wisconsin, who had the good luck to attach herself to Melrose’s uncle Robert. Uncle Robert had been a happy ne’er-do-well who, probably after one of his nights on the tiles, had thought an American wife might be rather a jolly accompaniment to his gaming ways. He’d been dead wrong, poor man.
“The defense calls Theo Wrenn Browne.”
Talk about your hostile witness! thought Melrose, who’d taken a seat at the back of the room.
Smiling, Marshall Trueblood pulled down his silky gray waistcoat and advanced on Browne. “Mr. Browne, you’re the proprietor of a bookshop named the Wrenn’s Nest. Is that true?”
“You know it is.” This was said with a sneer.
“And this shop is next door to Miss Crisp’s furniture shop.”
Browne nodded, said sullenly, “It is.”
“On the day of this alleged ‘accident,’ you have said that you left your bookshop and were standing just outside of it when Lady Ardry approached Miss Crisp’s shop next door. You then saw the dog attack the plaintiff and saw her stumble and catch her foot in the chamber pot. Is all of this correct?”
Now, Browne tried for boredom, but didn’t manage that either. “Yes.”
“Why did you leave your shop?”
“To speak to Lady Ardry, as I’ve said.”
“Right. And how did you know Lady Ardry was on the pavement in front of the shop next door?”
Browne sighed hugely. “Because I saw her pass by my own shop. Saw her through the window. As I’ve said.”
Trueblood nodded. “Now, it’s been established that Lady Ardry had been doing some errands round the village and had with her a string bag holding items she’d purchased that morning: these were a ball of twine, postage stamps, a half-dozen hot cross buns. Is that your understanding?”
Browne tilted his head and seemed to be studying the cobwebs on the ceiling. “Yes, yes.”
“Which she was carrying when she passed your window?”
Lowering his eyes from the ceiling, he said, impatiently, “Well, I assume so.”
“The window of your shop faces the High Street?”
“Naturally.”
“And how many times did she pass by?”
Browne lifted his chin from the fist that had been cradling it in his assumed stupor at the banality of these questions. “What do you mean?”
“Did she pass once? Twice? How many times did you see her pass the window?”
“Uh . . . once . . . I mean, she wasn’t parading her new hat back and forth in front of me!” Sharing this witty reply with the rest of the court, Browne looked about him, smiling richly.
Melrose looked around. Only his aunt wore a simpering smile. Theo Wrenn Browne was never a popular fellow in the best of circumstances.
“Then she must have been walking toward Miss Crisp’s shop, as she obviously wouldn’t be passing your window from the other direction, that is to say, after Miss Crisp’s, after she’d had this accident.”
Browne, to show his disregard of Trueblood’s questions, slid down in his seat. “Obviously. She’d probably been coming from her cottage.”
Trueblood smiled. “Oh, I don’t think so, Mr. Browne. The two little parcels she’d dropped contained stamps, a ball of twine, hot cross buns, as I’ve said. She hadn’t purchased those between her cottage and your shop. The ball of twine probably was picked up at the post office; the stamps certainly were. The hot cross buns were bought at Betty Ball’s bakery, that bakery being the only place in the village where you can buy them. Both the bakery and the post office are north, not south of your shop. So she’d have to have been coming from the other direction; that is to say, she would have reached Ada Crisp’s before she ‘passed by’ your window. Thus, as we’ve said, she couldn’t have ‘passed by’ then, as she was in the throes of this grave accident.” Trueblood waited.
Browne sputtered. “Well . . . well . . . what earthly difference does it make? Perhaps it was earlier, later . . . I don’t know.”
“But it couldn’t have been either earlier or later, for you said she passed by immediately before she had the accident.”
Theo Wrenn Browne scratched his head, looked around almost wildly. Me
lrose was enthralled.
Then Trueblood stood silent for a few moments, smiling all the while, and said, “What drew you from your shop, Mr. Browne, were the cries and yelps coming from Lady Ardry and the dog—”
Melrose loved that coupling.
“—and, quite naturally, you dashed outside to see what all the fuss was about—”
“All right, perhaps—”
“And that being the case, you didn’t see what happened at all. You saw only its aftermath.”
Yes! Melrose shoved his fists slightly into the air. Bravo, Marshall!
Browne simply blinked, as if Trueblood’s smile were a little too bright for him. Then he began blustering again. “Well, the dog was running about, barking dementedly—”
“Oh, I’ve no doubt. But who is to say the little dog wasn’t acting defensively? Who is to say Lady Ardry didn’t go for the poor creature with a walking stick?”
Bryce-Pink shot like a missile from his seat, only seconds after Agatha was up from hers. “Liar! Liar!” came from Agatha. “Objection! Objection!” came from her solicitor. The courtroom was noisy with small cheers and laughter.
Eustace-Hobson banged his gavel. “Madam, take your seat! The objection is sustained, Mr. Trueblood. You’re speculating!”
Brightly, Trueblood said, “No more than was the witness, Your Worship.”
More noise, more gavel-banging.
“I have no more questions.” Trueblood bowed.
Browne’s face was mottled with anger. He’d been caught out.
There, thought Melrose, was the prosecution’s chief witness gone. The only other witness was he himself. And he himself wouldn’t be much help.
Would Trueblood move to dismiss?
No. He was calling Melrose to the witness box.
“Lord Ardry,” said Marshall Trueblood, wanting to imprint the title on the magistrate’s mind, and then catching himself, followed up with, “Do pardon me. You prefer ‘Mr. Plant,’ don’t you?”
“I do, as it happens to be my name.”
“At the time that this incident occurred, you were on the opposite side of the street?”
“That’s right.”
Marshall dipped his head in a little bowing way. “And we—you and I—were having, as I remember, a rather lively discussion about the All Blacks, the New Zealand rugby team.”
Melrose thought a bit. Yes, there had been a few comments about the team, but he hardly thought that constituted a “lively discussion.” Still, it was close enough so that Melrose didn’t have to perjure himself. “Yes, that’s true.”
“Mr. Plant, you’ve quite a solid knowledge of antiques, haven’t you?”
Melrose jumped. Oh, surely this wasn’t to come up again! “Oh, I wouldn’t say ‘solid.’ I know a thing or two. . . . ” That was indeed all he did know. His expression, he hoped, was properly modest.
“Let’s for example take . . . oh, something like a bonheur-du-jour. Could you tell the court what that is?”
Naturally, Bryce-Pink was on his feet asking what the relevance of this was. Trueblood explained that its relevance would soon be apparent. The magistrate quite happily came down on the defendant’s side because the plaintiff’s had bored him to death. Mr. Trueblood could proceed. And so could Mr. Plant, who described, in relentless detail a bonheur-du-jour.
“Quite right. And what about . . . ” Trueblood crossed his arms, resting his chin in his hand, a study in thought. “A . . . secretaire à abbatant?”
Oh, that what we found the dead body in, mate? Melrose smiled and, again, described it. Trueblood took him through his paces with two other pieces, one being the Ispahan rug Melrose had become achingly familiar with at Fengate. Bryce-Pink and his client sat at their table and smoldered. Agatha was, of course, completely furious at the loss of Theo Wrenn Browne, her partner in crime.
Trueblood, having established the witness’s authority to speak on the matter of antiques, held up a book and asked him if he was familiar with it.
Melrose’s eyebrows shot up when he saw on the back of this book the Nuttings’ photograph in all its toothsome glory. But who was Melrose to question Helluva Deal!? Socrates here was on a roll, might as well play along. “I certainly am. Dipped in it more than once.”
“And how, Mr. Plant, would you characterize this book? That is, if you had to describe it in a sentence or two?”
Melrose thought of a few sentences he probably couldn’t repeat in public, and then said, “It’s about auctions, primarily; secondarily, it’s about scams.”
“ ‘Scams’?”
“Well, yes, I’d say—” Good God, thought Melrose, he isn’t going to be so brazen as to suggest . . . ? Melrose let the thought trail away, then said, with inward glee, “Scams, yes. The authors describe”—and participate in, most likely, he didn’t add—“the various tricks people and dealers use—I shouldn’t say dealers, really, most of whom tend to be at least moderately honest”—here he tilted his head toward Trueblood who gave him a razor-blade smile—“individuals who manage to flummox dealers, or auctioneers, let’s say. Or simple, unsuspecting buyers. For example, there’s the old ‘bait-and-switch’ technique.”
“Ah, and would you tell the court what that is?”
Bryce-Pink was on his feet again, protesting loudly. Agatha managed to keep herself in her chair and fume. Eustace-Hobson didn’t even bother to respond verbally; he merely waved Bryce-Pink down, looking irritated he’d interrupted what might be a promisingly sprightly tale.
Melrose picked a bit of lint from his jacket and continued. “It’s basically an American term”—which was hardly surprising, he thought of adding—“wherein the owners of, let’s say, some antique silver get swindled. There’s the case of the Dewitt brothers of Kentucky, for instance.” Melrose nodded toward the book. “The Dewitt brothers possessed a quite beautiful and valuable Georgian punch bowl. They’d take it in to some dealer—avoiding any real specialist—plop it on the counter, and say they wanted to sell it and an accompanying coffee service and a few other silver items. The shop owner would inspect the punch bowl, pronounce it fine indeed, and make a fair offer. The Dewitts would then bring in a box of other so-called Georgian silver, and, since the shop owner or jeweler or pawnbroker or whoever had inspected the punch bowl was certain of its value, he’d only do a cursory check of the other items. They, on the surface were quite resplendently polished up and looked the ticket. Turned out, of course, to be a mixture of odd bits and bobs—and of course, the Dewitts would beg off selling the Georgian punch bowl with some story it belonged ‘to me old gramps,’ or something like that, and they’d just sell the box of bogus stuff.” Melrose smiled broadly. “I thought them rather jolly, really, especially since they were in their nineties.”
So did Eustace-Hobson think them “jolly,” apparently, for Melrose was actually managing to keep him awake. He gave a gruff chortle and looked pointedly at Agatha, who, Melrose thought, looked like her blood pressure had risen enough to have her pegging out right here in court. Wages of sin.
Trueblood leafed through Helluva Deal! and stopped at a certain page, then asked, “Mr. Plant, do you remember the bit about ‘Piggy’ Arbuckle?”
“Piggy? Oh, yes. Now, his favorite scam was what the Nuttings christened the ‘fist-in-the-vase’ scam. Mr. Arbuckle—whose name was ‘Peregrine’ actually, but he was called ‘Piggy’ even though he was thin as a rail and nearly ninety himself—anyway, Piggy would stop in some antiques shop or other, for a look round. He’d be in company with a lad, who would, upon a sign from Piggy, put his hand down inside some valuable piece and then not be able to get it out. Hysteria reigned. It just so happened there’d be a doctor in the shop, a ‘Dr. Todd’ who would proclaim they could either smash whatever it was or he could take the lad to his surgery and apply some ointment, some grease or other, and get the arm out with no damage to the Meissen, or whatever. The shopkeeper would yield to this plan. Well, they were a troupe, weren’t they? I mean, they were all Arbuckle
s, the lad being a great-grand-nephew and ‘Dr. Todd’ some sort of cousin, and they traveled about like a little circus. The poor antiques dealer would understandably be so flustered and afraid for his Meissen or whatever, he’d go along with it.”
Melrose was delighted. It wouldn’t have taken an Einstein to see that the “fist-in-the-vase” trick could rather quickly be supplanted with the “foot-in-the-chamber-pot” trick—even though that was the only similarity in the two stories.
Marshall Trueblood said, “Where did you find this wonderful little book, Mr. Plant?”
Ah, that was it! Oh, how marvelous! Guilt by association! Melrose had a hard time keeping his countenance so that he could lend to his answer the gravitas it demanded. “Actually, I found it in the Wrenn’s Nest, Mr. Browne’s bookshop.”
The courtroom broke into gales of laughter. Theo Wrenn Browne was out of his chair in a shot; Agatha was up and yelling; Bryce-Pink was screaming objections. And Miss Crisp, for the first time in weeks, was smiling. Not only smiling, but had her arms upraised, hands together in the “victory” gesture of a prizefighter.
Melrose was dismissed, smiling, too.
Eustace-Hobson made a great display of pounding his gavel.
When everything had quieted down again, Trueblood went to the table of “exhibits” where the chamber pot sat in lonely splendor, if one could call the rather mundane bowl with a greenish hue “splendid.” Trueblood had mended it to near-seamless perfection. He passed it to Melrose. “Mr. Plant, would you turn this over and look at the marking, please.”
Melrose did so. There was a rough, raised spot, but no name. He said this.
Trueblood said: “This particular mark places this piece in the Ch’ein lung period. It’s one of the ‘famille verte’ pieces—hence its faint greenish cast—and quite valuable—”
Yes! thought Melrose, watching Trueblood open a price guide. Even Eustace-Hobson was looking eagerly at the two of them, having forgotten entirely that it was Plant in this instance who was supposed to be the expert.
“—nine hundred pounds for this bowl. Or, I should say, was once worth nine hundred.” He fixed Agatha with a dire look. “I’ve had it authenticated. It isn’t a chamber pot; it’s a large bowl, possibly meant for fruit.” Trueblood turned to look over his audience. “But quite definitely not intended for—” He paused. Everyone seemed to be hovering on the edge of a legal epiphany. “—not intended for anything else, if you take my meaning.” He bowed.
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