“Political reasons? Like that communist Benn? You want to run for Commons, or something?”
“No. Surely my title or lack of one seems a little irrelevant, Sergeant, considering you’ve got a corpse in the snow.”
“Are you good with firearms, Mr. Plant? Being an earl, and everything, I imagine you do a lot of hunting? Shooting?” Cullen smiled.
“No.”
They regarded him with skepticism. How much more skeptical would they be of the Marquess of Meares, a crack shot?
• • •
Tommy, however, seemed to feel he had come through trumps up. “I think they liked me, especially the chubby one.”
“Liked you? Liked you? My dear chap, I don’t think it’s a popularity contest; I mean they’re not in there marking scorecards. What on earth do you mean?” Melrose felt twinges in his legs. He was sure he would awaken — if they ever let him get to bed — with cramp.
“I explained to them that I wasn’t carrying a gun in my oboe case. Just a cue stick. Constable Trimm was fascinated. They’re both of them snooker fans. Though I get the feeling they go more for the studied approach. You know, Ray Reardon and that lot. Nothing like Hurricane Higgins. I asked them if they’d kind of keep it under their hats about the Jerusalem, naturally.”
“Naturally,” said Melrose.
“Sorry if you think it’s cold-blooded, me talking about snooker when poor old Beatrice Sleight —”
“Never mind,” said Melrose. “If Cullen and Trimm can take it, I can.”
2
AFTER five minutes with Charles Seaingham, Jury was glad he wasn’t a writer or a painter — or at least one with no talent. Seaingham was a man who almost compelled one to believe him, not only because of his deep convictions, but because he neither embroidered nor evaded; he apparently believed in sweeping away the debris in order to look at the shell of the actual wreck. If the wreck were a badly done book or painting, Seaingham would make no attempt to refurbish the building.
In this case, the wreck was himself and he lost no time in getting down to the fact he’d been having an affair with Beatrice Sleight. “It was stupid of me. Done a lot of stupid things, but never over a woman. I only hope to hell Grace doesn’t find out. I’d hate to hurt her. Well, I have no excuses; there it is.” He half-raised his arms as if in some attempt to importune heaven, but let them drop again as he himself dropped into his leather armchair.
Stupid, perhaps. But Jury wondered if Seaingham’s choice of Beatrice Sleight wasn’t in some way to be expected. He bet it was more the grossness of her mind than the voluptuousness of her body that had made him vulnerable, ironically enough. Perhaps he was simply tired of fine-tuning his own mind in order to deal with the really good stuff — occasionally, even, with genius.
They were talking in his small study off the long gallery, dominated now by the portrait of his wife. On the table beside Seaingham’s chair was a copy of Skier. Seeing Jury glance at it, he said, “MacQuade is the first really good writer to come along in some time. I hope unrequited love will help and not hinder him.”
Jury smiled. “Meaning?”
“He’s in love with Grace. But then I think rather a lot of men have been. Sometimes I think she should have been living in England in the ’twenties and had a salon. She’d have been wonderful. Grace bolsters egos; I don’t. Cigarette?” He offered Jury a black leather box. “No, I’m afraid I don’t. Sometimes I dislike my job because I’m not really out to ‘get’ our artists. They’ll get themselves sooner or later.”
“I read some of MacQuade’s book. He could teach a survival course. What do you think of him personally?”
Seaingham’s eyes rested on the Manet as if looking for the sustenance of great art to get him through a difficult time. “Likable. No harm in him, certainly. At least I don’t think so. I daresay he can handle a rifle, but then so can the lot of us. We do grouse-shooting, pheasant, that sort of thing.”
Jury said what he’d said to Parmenger: “Beatrice Sleight’s murder doesn’t seem to have touched you deeply —”
Seaingham cut in, sharply: “Her murder, yes. Her death, perhaps not. She was becoming — difficult. That sounds terrible, but it’s true. Trouble.”
“What kind?”
“She seemed to think she could hold me hostage somehow — or at least my good opinion about her vile books — by threatening to tell Grace about us.”
“And would you have prevented that at any cost?”
“Meaning, did I kill her? Could have done, I suppose. But I didn’t.”
It seemed to Jury that Seaingham was expecting the next question to be other than it was. “Do you know of a woman named Helen Minton?”
Seaingham got up to pour himself a drink from the whiskey decanter. “Could I offer you a drink?”
He was playing for time, Jury thought. “No, thanks.”
“What was the name of this woman —?”
“Helen Minton.”
“No, I don’t think so.”
“Read the papers today?”
“Haven’t read them for days, no. We’ve been snowed in. Why?”
“Helen Minton was from London, living in Washington. The Old Town. Her body was found in Washington Old Hall two days ago.”
“My God.” Seaingham looked utterly perplexed. “I don’t understand though what that has to do with —” He indicated the gallery, the solarium beyond.
“Helen Minton was Frederick Parmenger’s cousin.”
Jury thought Seaingham looked for the first time as if he really couldn’t assimilate the information given him. He simply shook and shook his head.
“You never heard Parmenger mention her?”
“Well . . . no. Never. But then he talks little about himself. Have you asked Grace? She’s more the one to inspire confidences.”
Jury didn’t answer that question. “My showing up here was not exactly fortuitous — as I imagine Sergeant Cullen would agree.” Jury smiled. “I was on my way here to talk to Parmenger. And find, strangely enough, a dead body on your doorstep.”
When Seaingham got up to replenish his glass, Jury noticed his hand was shaking. He imagined it would take a lot to unnerve Charles Seaingham.
• • •
But much less to unnerve MacQuade — or so Jury thought. MacQuade came near to stammering over answers to obvious questions. No, he had heard nothing that sounded like a rifle shot.
At Jury’s elbow was a copy of Skier. “I’ve read reviews and some of the book. You seem to keep getting better.” He pointed to Skier. “It was short-listed for two other awards.”
“And the critics keep waiting for me to fall on my face. But not on this particular book.” He sat back, relaxed a bit. “You certainly are up on the literary scene, Superintendent. Charles Seaingham should have invited you to his party.”
“He did.” Jury smiled. “You must have loathed Beatrice Sleight.”
“I did.” The match that struck and flared reflected MacQuade’s dark eyes like burning coals. “Ever read any of that trash she wrote? A good writer would gun her down — for cluttering up the landscape.”
Very clever, thought Jury. Still, he was relieved that MacQuade’s intelligence had overridden his rather adolescent manner.
“But,” MacQuade went on, “if Bea Sleight was having an affair with Charlie — that would give me a hell of a lot less motive —” He stopped, apparently realizing he had overplayed his man-of-the-world persona; he had strongly hinted here at his own feelings for Grace Seaingham.
But Bill MacQuade had so many personae, Jury was having some difficulty pinning down the real one.
Recovering his poor attempt to appear indifferent, MacQuade said, “And I hardly think I’d kill her because she was a penny-dreadful who couldn’t write prose. Let me make things easier for you, Superintendent. I could shoot your eye out at a hundred feet and I’m a cross-country skier. I had to do a great deal of research for that damned tour-de-force” — he nearly shoved the boo
k off the table — “and I could survive easily overnight between here and Washington. In case that’s somebody’s theory. Except for Tommy Whittaker — and God knows, nobody would be stupid enough to think . . . ” He paused.
Jury thought it was quite a dramatic ending to whatever scene or chapter MacQuade was leading the reader on with.
“ . . . would think he had anything to do with it. His aunt doesn’t believe in guns — so he probably can’t even shoot straight.”
“Probably,” said Jury. “Who told you about Helen Minton?”
“Parmenger.” MacQuade looked at Jury, and another persona, maybe the real one, came through. “I never heard of her before now.”
3
JURY walked into the study as Cullen was questioning Sir George Assington, and after waiting for a nod from Cullen, sat down in a chair against the wall. He felt as if he were a guest at a theater performance.
Not that Cullen, and certainly not Trimm, were in any way theatrical. There was, however, a bit of the monologuist about Sir George. Jury imagined Sir George was not unmindful of his reputation. He had certainly been discoursing long enough on hematology and blood types to make even Trimm decide to interrupt. “You coom up here to shoot, do you?”
“You mean pheasant and grouse, I assume, and not people? If you’re asking me if I can handle a gun, yes, Constable, I can.” Sir George emphasized the word just enough to let Trimm know the vast difference in their positions.
Cullen interceded and Trimm leaned back against the bookcases. “You’re Mrs. Seaingham’s physician, is that right?” When Sir George nodded, Cullen asked, “And what’s ailing the lady, might I ask?”
“You mightn’t,” said Sir George. “I don’t discuss my patients’ conditions.”
Jury watched Cullen folding yet another sliver of gum into his mouth. He was wearing his mild, noncommittal expression. “Not even with police?”
“Do you wish to subpoena my records?” asked Sir George, acidly.
“Not especially. I mean, it’d be simpler just to tell us.”
Sir George said only, “Sergeant, I’ve an important meeting at the Royal Hospital tomorrow — or today, that is. Might I go? Or are we all under arrest?”
“Maybe,” said Cullen. “Thing is,” he went on, screwing up the gum paper and taking aim a basket, “you want to keep her alive, I expect. I mean that’s what you’ve been trying to do, you being her doctor?”
Sir George sighed. “Mrs. Seaingham is, admittedly, in a poor state of health —”
“Well, she’ll be in a hell of a lot poorer if someone shoots her.”
“I’m a trifle confused, Sergeant. I thought we were talking about the bullet wound in the body of Miss Sleight.” There was a distinct suggestion here that the Northumbria police couldn’t remember the name of the victim.
Cullen leaned back and stuck his feet on the polished surface of Charles Seaingham’s desk. “Oh, but that was a mistake, wasn’t it? It was Mrs. Seaingham they meant to kill. That’s the top and bottom of it.” Methodically, he chewed away.
• • •
As if in imitation of Cullen’s motion, Jury tipped his chair back against the wall and smiled slightly as the silence in the room was broken only by Sir George coughing before he said, “Grace? Why on earth would anyone want to kill Grace Seaingham?”
“Tell me and we’ll both know. But from what I’ve heard of the Sleight woman, what’d she be doing going to say her prayers? And dressed in Mrs. Seaingham’s cape? A bullet in the back on an unlit walk. Why don’t you just tell us about Mrs. Seaingham’s condition and save some trouble? Right, Superintendent?”
Jury only said, as Sir George turned to stare him down, resentful of this further intimidation, “Probably. I was wondering, though, if I could ask Sir George a question?” Cullen nodded.
“Do you remember a Dr. Lamson? Back in the nineteenth century.”
Sir George laughed artificially. “Not quite that old, Superintendent.”
Jury’s smile was somewhat more disarming than Cullen’s chewing gum. “Obviously not, Sir George. Didn’t this Lamson poison a young fellow —?”
Sir George broke in. “That’s right. It was aconite. Aconitum napellus,” he added, his surprise at this policeman’s knowing about the case giving way to his superior knowledge of poisons. “At that time, aconitine poisoning was nearly impossible to trace. Told his victim it was medi —” Sir George stopped suddenly.
“Medicine, that’s right. A notorious case. Administered in a gelatine capsule, wasn’t it?”
Sir George looked from Cullen to Trimm to Jury and slowly rose. “You are surely not suggesting that any medication I have been administering to Mrs. Seaingham . . . ” His face was suffused with blood, as he fisted his hands and leaned on the desk. “Mrs. Seaingham has been unwell for some months now. She has lost weight and at first I was suspicious that she might be anorexic. Though knowing Grace as I do, such a thing seems impossible.”
To his back, Jury said, “She hasn’t been eating properly, is that it?”
Sir George looked at Jury as he might look at a specimen in formaldehyde. “That’s correct. She has told me nothing at all except that she feels vaguely ill.”
“Blood tests would surely —”
Sir George straightened, and with his military bearing, was an imposing figure. “Grace doesn’t want any tests. Not with all my insisting. Simply says, with God’s help, it’ll go away.” Sir George stuffed the pipe in his mouth with an aggressive gesture, apparently incensed that Grace would choose God over Sir George.
“Oh, it’ll go away all right,” said Cullen, with a smile like splintered wood.
NINETEEN
1
GRACE Seaingham was an enigma.
Parmenger had captured it all, had gotten behind that cool, blond detachment to the combination of opposites beneath it: to the chilly beauty, but warmth of manner; to the glasslike fragility, but inner toughness; to the sanguine attitude, but businesslike approach.
It was that with which she confronted Jury’s question about her husband and Beatrice Sleight. “I’ve known for some time, of course.”
Her directness was disorienting. It was as if, having locked away the truly valuable knowledge — more than the person she talked to would ever crack open — she could afford to deal in the small change of frankness.
She went on in that mild (and, to Jury, vaguely irritating) manner: “In a way, I could hardly blame him. After I got over being hurt,” she added, as if apologizing for a childish infraction of some adult rule.
“Why should you get over it? Why should you even try?” Jury had taken out his notebook but was not really taking notes. He doodled. It helped him think.
Grace Seaingham looked indulgent as she tilted her head and smiled. “Don’t you think we should — well, take the longer view, Superintendent?”
He smiled back. “I think you mean the higher view. Forgiving all sorts of things, because God would?”
She moved her head, that pale blond hair that reminded Jury of angel’s hair, but her smile stayed in place. “Yes. Because God would.”
“I don’t know what God has in mind.”
She looked away, down at the hands clasped in her white satin lap. It was a handsome dressing gown. He wondered if she always wore white.
Jury went on: “It must have been . . . difficult for you having her here. As a matter of fact, I’m rather surprised you’d want to have a houseparty so near to Christmas, Mrs. Seaingham.”
“I didn’t want to, really. But Charles is used to London. I love this isolation; my husband doesn’t. He’s used to having lots of people around. You can’t keep a man like Charles . . . locked up, can you?”
Thinking of the high stone walls of the abbey, Jury wondered if that wasn’t more or less what she had in mind. It was she, she had told him earlier, who had scouted it out and bought it. Grace Seaingham apparently had packets of money of her own, handed down to her by a father whom she loved to des
cribe as having been “in trade.”
“Mrs. Seaingham, why would Miss Sleight be wearing your cape and be walking to the Lady Chapel? From what I’ve heard, she wasn’t an especially devout sort of person.”
“I’ve no idea. She rather coveted that cape, I know. Do you think the, ah, murderer could possibly have tossed it over her — since it was white — to hide her body?” Grace Seaingham looked bewildered. “But I simply have no notion as to why someone would want to . . . murder her.”
“She didn’t sound very popular . . . but that’s not the point. I don’t want to distress you, but after all it was your habit to go to the chapel late at night, wasn’t it?”
Her control seemed to be cracking just a little: “You’re not suggesting it was me someone wanted to —?”
Jury nodded. “Your idea about hiding the body in the snow might be a good one, except the shot went through the cape. So she must have been wearing it. That solarium is never used, you said, in winter. It’s dark. Someone might easily have been waiting in the dark and seen the person he or she expected to see, given that long and hooded cape. You. Only it wasn’t you.”
“I have no enemies, Superintendent. Certainly not amongst these people. It’s impossible.”
“Tell me about them. You’ve known them for some time?”
“Some longer than others. I just met the Assingtons a short time ago. And Bill MacQuade is perhaps more my husband’s friend than mine.” From the slight tinge in her cheeks, Jury wondered if that were true. Or if, perhaps, she wished it were. Grace Seaingham certainly did not strike him as a lady who would have a lover — most certainly not under the same roof as her husband. She went on: “He’s a marvelous writer. Charles thinks the world of him. And my husband’s good opinion is not lightly bought. Not bought at all, really.”
“Not even by Her Majesty?” Jury smiled and doodled.
She seemed perplexed. “I beg your pardon?”
“It was just I heard some rumor of a possible knighthood.”
Grace smiled. “Her Royal Highness has not, to my knowledge, painted a picture or written a book she wants viewed or reviewed.”
Jerusalem Inn Page 17