“The Prodigal Son. Ah, yes. The tale that always makes you think you’d be better off leaving home.”
“It’s not that so much as his mention of Oedipus.”
“Oedipus was definitely not better off leaving home, poor fellow. He should have stuck around.”
“Didn’t have much choice in the matter, did he?” said Jury watching Robin Lyte, who was hanging about the table with a cue stick, a look of anticipation on his face.
Looking at Robin, Plant said, “That’s a very sad case. It’s hell she had to find out — Helen Minton, I mean.”
They were silent for a moment as they watched Tommy pot one of the reds and stop the green dead with a stun shot, putting it just where he wanted it. “Imagine how devious that kid had to be to get in the practice he’s done,” said Jury.
“Devious? I wouldn’t call him devious,” said Plant defensively.
Jury smiled. “I didn’t mean it that way. He’s a very clever lad, though. I should have seen it straightaway.”
“Seen what?”
“I was thinking again of Oedipus: they had to get rid of him, didn’t they? The King of Thebes could hardly keep somebody around who was going to wind up murdering him.”
“First it’s Alice, now it’s Oedipus. I’m confused.”
“Save it for now. I’ve got myself and Wiggins invited to dinner this evening.” Jury looked at his watch.
“You were having an ungodly long conversation with Grace. I think you know, don’t you?”
Jury stubbed out his cigarette in an old tin ashtray. By now, the table was cleared of reds. “I think our murderer is going to try to lay, as Tommy would say,” — Jury nodded at the table —“a dirty snooker on someone.”
“Who?”
“Grace Seaingham.”
Plant said, watching Tommy negotiate an incredibly difficult massé shot, “I rather thought that.”
Jury looked at him. “Why?”
“Because of the method.”
“Which method do you mean?” asked Jury. “Poison or shotgun?”
“I supposed that poison was the chosen method, and the gun only used because Beatrice Sleight had to be shut up immediately. Poisons are a bit chancy, unless you use cyanide or another one that’s calculated to put your victim out of business rather quickly.” Plant opened the book to another page marked with a match and pointed to a small picture. “Such as this.”
Jury stared at it. “I’ll be damned. With that you don’t have to worry about poisoning the whole casserole and littering the house with bodies. How damned clever.” Jury read the two paragraphs beneath the picture and shook his head before handing the book back to Plant.
Tommy Whittaker pocketed the last ball, the black, and stood back, tugging down his waistcoat.
“He’s cleared the table; you’ve cleared my mind. Thanks,” said Jury.
“Aren’t you going to return the favor? Who’s killing these women? Helen Minton, Beatrice Sleight, and now, you say, Grace Seaingham. Some rabid misogynist? My bet would be Parmenger, if that’s the case.”
“Do you mind if I don’t say at the moment?”
“Yes, but I won’t argue.” Plant inclined his head toward Tommy. “I’ve arranged a Christmas present for him. It was almost as difficult as my dear aunt’s embroidered coat of arms.”
Jury was silent for a moment. “That’s good. He’s going to need it.”
VI
ENDGAME
TWENTY-SIX
1
GRACE SEAINGHAM’S sudden announcement as the cocktail tray was being passed that Scotland Yard would be dining with them prompted Vivian Rivington to spill half her martini down the front of a high-necked, jade-green gown that made her look more like a Geisha girl than a candidate for the Italian nobility.
The others were equally dressed up, it being Christmas Eve: Lady St. Leger in lace, Lady Ardry in a length of unidentifiable cloth, Susan Assington worrying the uneven hemline of some brown, feathery material that put Melrose in mind of a dry wheatfield, perhaps in contrast to Grace Seaingham’s newly found color. Indeed, Susan seemed to wither while Grace bloomed.
Upon their hostess’s news, they all shifted expressions and positions as if they were being rearranged by a photographer. MacQuade looked quizzical, Parmenger bored. Tommy might have been trying out a massé shot in his mind, he looked so intensely upon Grace.
Charles Seaingham himself was definitely put out by this announcement. “You didn’t tell me, my dear.”
“No, I told Cook,” said Grace, sweetly. She smiled at him, as if making a point of what took precedence. Grace was dressed tonight not in white but in a soft and flattering shade of tea-rose, which Parmenger had gone on about, saying it brought out her color, suited her hair, and walking round her as if he’d like to go back now and do the whole portrait all over again. Grace had thanked him, noticed that her gown just matched the Christmas roses, plucked one from a wide, shallow crystal vase, and stuck it in the neck of her dress. She smiled brightly at Susan Assington, who looked quickly away.
Grace Seaingham seemed to be the only person there who did not display a case of the jitters, except for Frederick Parmenger and the Ladies St. Leger and Ardry. Those two sat solid as rocks on either side of the fireplace with their embroidery hoops.
Melrose was even more certain Grace was up to something when she said, in response to the several you’re looking ever so much better, Grace, dear’s, “I feel ever so much better. It must have been that marvelous luncheon I had with Superintendent Jury in Durham this afternoon.”
“That marvelous luncheon” was described in absolutely sensuous detail: they’d lunched on, of all things, an Old Peculier casserole and soused mushrooms. None of this one-way conversation was going down a treat with her guests, Melrose saw. There were more refillings of glasses than usual, which, with this crowd, was like giving a Rolls-Royce an oil and lube job.
“Nonetheless, my dear,” said Charles. “I feel we’ve all seen enough of police. They’re still out tonight with their damned lanterns and torches. I’ve lived with them long enough. I don’t care to sit down to dine with them.”
As Marchbanks slid open the large double door, Grace rose with a smile, and said, “Sitting down to dine in this house is no problem; it’s getting up that worries me. Shall we go in?”
2
VIVIAN RIVINGTON’S mortification at: having to sit down to dine in a gown with a largish stain splashed over the front was not relieved in the least by her having been seated next to Superintendent Jury. He had arrived after a double consommé, and been treated to a few looks from the guests which suggested his presence to be less savory than soup.
This didn’t bother Jury. He apologized for having been detained at the Northumbria station and tucked into the excellent warm salad of oysters sabayon, remarking on the delectable champagne sauce and the Chardonnay. To follow was saddle of lamb, and Jury and Grace held a similar dialogue on finding spring lamb in December.
Indeed, Grace Seaingham and Richard Jury were having a jolly old time talking about food, drink, fish and game. How the salmon were running in Pitlochary, how the pheasant shooting had been rather poor that year, how the St. Emilion stacked up against the Chardonnay, how Rules compared with White’s; Brown’s with the Ritz; Boodle’s with the Turf Club.
None of which clubs, Melrose damned well knew, Richard Jury had ever bothered to go into except on business, and Melrose sincerely doubted there was ever any business going on in them that would interest Scotland Yard. Although the sight of octogenarians in arctic poses behind Punch and the Guardian might call for sudden visits from the coroner.
So what they were doing — Grace Seaingham and Jury — was making the other diners nervous. No one apparently could understand why this bon vivant of a Scotland Yard superintendent had sat down to dine with them; everyone looked guilty (except for Agatha, who merely tried — unsuccessfully — to turn the tide of the conversation), especially Vivian, who, these days, was wav
ering between personae. Would she walk by or jump in the Trevi Fountain? Guilt simply spread from her divided heart to the tips of her long, sensitive fingers.
When the fruit sorbet had been served and eaten, the guests began acting with uncharacteristic rudeness — even for Parmenger, who, without waiting for his hostess to rise, excused himself to have a compulsive look at Grace’s portrait;
Charles Seaingham excused himself to see to the decanting of a fresh bottle of rare port;
Lady St. Leger, complaining of a dreadful headache, excused herself to get her medicine;
Tommy Whittaker said he was going to the music room;
Susan Assington, looking slightly ill from the discussion of gardening undertaken by Lady Ardry, wanted to go to her room for a moment;
Leaving only Vivian (who managed to spill another glass of wine), Agatha, Melrose, Jury and MacQuade.
“Well, there it is then,” said Jury to Grace.
There what was? Melrose wanted to ask, as Grace rose and they left the table.
3
THEY took their after-dinner drinks as usual in the drawing room near the East Wing, Marchbanks handing around the tray. Jury seemed to be enjoying Charles Seaingham’s superior cigar and superior cognac.
The others, Melrose noted, were drinking their usuals:
Agatha, her abominable crème de violette; Parmenger and MacQuade, Remy; Vivian, cognac, as she might be less likely to spill anything in a balloon glass; Lady Assington and Lady St. Leger, crème de menthe; Grace Seaingham, her Sambuca de Mosca; and Tommy, as usual, nothing.
Until Grace Seaingham offered him her Sambuca, to the extreme surprise of his aunt. “Oh, let him, Betsy.” She smiled. “It’s not all that deadly alcoholic.”
Elizabeth St. Leger intercepted the transfer of the little glass very neatly, saying, “Tom might be getting up to things at school I don’t know about.” Her laugh was not very hearty. “But I really think, my dear Grace, he shouldn’t be tempted here.” As she was returning the drink to her hostess, her hand brushed the bowl of roses and the small glass tilted. “Sorry. We all seem to be spilling our drinks tonight.” But Jury was very quick off the mark in mopping up the spilled liqueur before Lady St. Leger could reach it with her lace handkerchief.
Grace smiled benignly. “Think nothing of it.” She set the empty glass aside on a table. “I’m so sorry, Betsy. My fault.” She laughed. “But I honestly can’t imagine Tommy ‘getting up to things’!” And her smile turned toward Jury, who was replacing his handkerchief in his pocket.
What Melrose admired most of all in that room, where no one really knew what was going on except the four of them, was Lady St. Leger’s iron self-control when she rose and announced that she thought she would have an early night.
The cliché barely registered with him, as she added that she would very much like a word with the superintendent before retiring.
4
SHE did not appear to mind that Melrose Plant had been asked to come along to Seaingham’s study. Indeed, Elizabeth St. Leger seemed beyond caring at this point.
Melrose felt supremely stupid at having failed to take her more seriously. He supposed it was because Agatha had been so successful in linking arms (metaphorically speaking) with “Betsy,” that Melrose had simply linked them in his mind — two stout old ladies together, with their hoops and their cards and their talk of the peerage.
He observed her there, before the fireplace, where she insisted on standing. She would not sit. In her day, Lady St. Leger would have been spoken of as decidedly handsome. With her good bones and clear skin, she still retained much of that quality. The coronet of gray hair wound tightly-about her head was brushed to a luster; her gray eyes had the same metallic sheen; this coloring was further emphasized by the gray lace-and-satin gown. Out of Agatha’s presence, he had thought her unique; now he recognized the coldness at the core. She made Plant think of a commemorative coin struck off and recalled from circulation when it was found to be flawed.
“That was an interesting little charade, Superintendent,” she said, with a small, ironic smile, as if her life didn’t indeed depend on it, or the book, open on the table that Plant had earlier shown to Jury. Her look grazed it; she shrugged slightly. “I was rather glad that Susan Assington was such a gardener.” Her look turned from the book to Melrose. “You did make me a little nervous there, Mr. Plant, with the talk of Christmas roses. They come, you see, from the same buttercup family as aconite. You were rather close on that one.”
“I don’t know that it’s an occasion for compliments, Lady St. Leger,” said Melrose with a rueful smile. “But you certainly handled it with panache, turning my attention to Susan Assington.”
Elizabeth St. Leger, shrugged again. “I’m surprised she has the brains to get rid of deathwatch beetles.”
Jury said, unfolding his handkerchief, “Maybe we could just start with these. Castor beans. Ricinus communis. Total anaphylactic shock could occur from biting into just one. Pretty deadly stuff. You took a hell of a chance tonight, trying to kill Grace Seaingham.”
“Well, desperate remedies, Mr. Jury — you understand that sort of thing, don’t you.”
“Grace Seaingham is the type to carry secrets to the grave. She’d never have told anyone —”
“It was obvious she was up to something, bringing you here. And for some reason, she’d lost her fear of food and drink. Blooming, really. Please excuse the ghastly pun, with all of this plant lore —”
“And since only she took her Sambuca with coffee beans, you made the substitution when you went to get your medicine. Just dropped these on the plate on the tray. Why didn’t you imagine she’d already told me what she knew?”
“She could have done, of course. But I didn’t think so. I thought, though, she would before the evening was out.”
“Where did you get the castor beans?”
“They’re quite common. They come in various shapes and sizes —”
Her tone was so flat she might have been talking about frocks.
“ — some speckled, some gray. Many one couldn’t possibly mistake for the coffee bean. The ones growing in the gardens of Meares happened to be the small, dark variety.”
Again, as if the gown were a perfect fit.
“I’m sorry, I can’t tell you how they taste,” she added wryly. “I only know one has to chew them. Swallow one whole and you’re safe as houses, oddly enough. But Grace liked the coffee beans.”
“Too bad Beatrice Sleight didn’t drink Sambuca —”
Elizabeth St. Leger bristled. “That dreadful woman. She was more of a danger than anyone, and I didn’t even know her.”
“Was it blackmail, then?” asked Jury.
“Blackmail — you mean money?” The tone suggested she never touched the stuff. “Don’t be ridiculous. It was her new roman à clef. You don’t think I’d let her get away with that, do you? Not after all the trouble I’d taken with Grace and Helen Minton — and they were less dangerous. Uncertain quantities. But not Beatrice Sleight. Ah, no. She simply put it to me after the others had gone up to bed.”
“And you and Charles Seaingham have done a bit of shooting together. Pheasant, grouse, that sort of thing. You were familiar with the gun room, and certainly familiar with firearms.”
She nodded stiffly. Her face was drained of color and she felt behind her for the chair and finally sat down. “It was important, of course, that police would not start making connections between Beatrice Sleight’s books and . . . someone who might want to stop her. There would, on the other hand, be no reason for my doing away with Grace Seaingham. No motive.”
There was a long, indrawn breath. “The child was born on one of Irene’s and Richard’s trips: this time to Kenya. Oh, don’t think those safaris were some dangerous sort of cutting through undergrowth chased by rhinos: they were guided, well-directed, full of sumptuous banquet-style dinners —” Her contempt was evident. “At any rate, Irene called me, hysterical when the doctors tol
d her. She was always a silly girl, could never handle anything on her own. Nor could Richard if it came to that. I told them I’d fix it.”
“You fix people’s lives rather easily, don’t you, Lady St. Leger?”
She colored at that. “I happen to love my nephew. I daresay you think I’m not capable of such a feeling, but it’s true.”
Jury did not reply to that. “How did you run into Helen Minton?”
“A visit to Old Hall. She had never met me; I recognized her at once, from Edward’s pictures. I couldn’t believe it — I mean that it was she. And I could think of no reason for her being there, except she was trying to get information about her child. I . . . befriended her —”
The chill in the air could not possibly have matched the chill in Jury’s voice. “What a very odd way to do it. Was the aconite the common garden variety? Wolfsbane? Monkshood? And sometimes called Blue Rocket. What a name. The root looks like horseradish. Or turnip. Helen was fond of hot condiments like horseradish.”
“I know. I brought her some, on one of my visits.”
“So it wasn’t her medicine.”
“Oh, no. Nor was it with Grace. Aconite has a sweetish taste which turns acrid. Grace used one of those powdered saccharines. The difficulty there is, of course, the dosage. Very undependable. But with Helen Minton, I used another variety which I picked up in my travels in India. Nepal, I believe . . . ” She looked off as if merely remembering the pleasant days of travel. “Yes, Nepal. Nabee, they call it. It contains pseudoaconitine. One of the very deadliest poisons known. Pardon the lecture on toxicology —”
“Quite all right. I can get used to anything, almost. And Helen Minton suffered from ventricular fibrillation. You might have got away with death from natural causes if she hadn’t died in Old Hall.”
Jerusalem Inn Page 24