The Blue Last (34 page)

(Not for long.) “Jury!”

Jury flinched. “Sir!”

“I can do without your damned sarcasm today. You've been working on that murder in the City that's none of our business—”

“Begging your pardon, sir, but it is our business now as the City police asked us for help.”
Well, me, at least.

“They don't need our help. They've got their own little fiefdom there.”

Jury scratched down a number, tore it from his notebook and handed it across the desk. “Call DCI Michael Haggerty and he'll tell you.”

“Then why in hell didn't this go through me?”

“An oversight, I expect.”

“You're doing nothing about this Dan Wu business. Except eating for free at his restaurant.”

“His restaurant is where he is nearly all the time.”

“Yeah, but that doesn't mean you've got to stuff yourself with spring rolls and Jeweled Duck just to talk to him.”

“You've been there yourself, I see.”

Racer flapped a dismissive hand. “I want you working more closely with Limehouse police on this.”

“To coin a phrase, they don't need our help.”

“Oh, yes they do.” Racer was getting up and into his black vicuña coat. “Get over there. See if there's anything new—I'm late!” He looked at his watch and stormed toward the door.

“Christmas shopping, sir?”

Racer was through the outer office and slamming the door behind him.

Jury moved over to the
secretaire,
knocked twice on the loose top and said, “All clear.”

He was talking to Fiona Clingmore, who was busy with an overhaul of her face—green eyeshadow, blush, mascara—when Cyril ambled in, looking as if he headed a royal procession, looking as if his brilliant copper fur were a robe of state.

Fiona said to the cat, “You've been in that desk again, haven't you? Don't look for sympathy here if he catches you.” She clicked her compact shut.

Cyril yawned. He sat with his tail lapped about his legs and gave Jury and Fiona slow blinks. He was sitting in a patch of sunlight and when the sun wavered, he sparked. Why would he bother with live wires, being one himself?

 

 

 

“Have you ever had a heart attack, Wiggins?”

They were driving across Southwark Bridge, Jury looking out over the gray and wind-troubled Thames.

“Me? Heart attack? My god, no. Why?”

“I thought I might be having one this morning. I mean even
before
I went to Racer's office.”

“What kind of pain? A squeezing one?”

“No. Sharp. Just very sharp. It hurt to breathe. It didn't last longer than a minute, probably not even that.”

“That sounds like heartburn, indigestion. Or a panic attack.”

“Why would I be having a panic attack?”

“Don't know. Too much on your plate, maybe.”

“No, I don't think so.”

They were silent for a moment, then Wiggins gave a little bark of laughter. “If I was having a heart attack, believe me, you'd have heard about it.”

Jury smiled. And heard. And heard.

B
arkins opened the door, clearly displeased to see policemen again. Jury told him he wished to see Maisie Tynedale. The butler sighed. Any time, night or day, you people call. Scotland Yard simply doesn't care. You run rough shod over everyone. “Nothing,” said Barkins, in his most disapproving tone, “must stand in the way of a police investigation.”

“Good of you to recognize that. Most people aren't so obliging,” said Wiggins, unwinding his endless black wool scarf.

Barkins looked as if he'd choke, and Jury wondered if Wiggins was making a rare foray into irony. “Thanks,” he said, “I'll keep it.” Jury was referring to his coat, which Barkins had made no move to take.

“If you'll just wait, sir, I shall see if she's available.” Barkins swanned off toward the double door to their right, knocked and entered. He was back in a tic, telling them Miss Tynedale would see them.

“Just me,” said Jury. “Sergeant Wiggins will go with you to the kitchen, where he'll have questions for the staff.”

Barkins stiffened even more and informed them that Mrs. MacLeish was extremely busy with all of the Christmas preparations.

Wiggins drew out his notebook and flapped it a couple of times in front of Barkins.

Heaving a great sigh, Barkins said, “Oh, very well.” To Jury he said. “I'll just show you in—”

“Never mind; I can find my own way.”

“Superintendent Jury.”

“Miss Tynedale. How are you?”

“I'm all right.” Her hand gestured to a chair, which Jury took. She sat behind the desk in the window embrasure, as she had before. Through the window Jury could see the brittle winter garden—sacking covering the more delicate plants, flowerbeds mulched down, roses and rhododendron cut back, hanging matting over the climbing vines on the garden wall. It should have looked bleak, but it didn't, not to Jury. The colonnade, the white arbor, the weak sunlight to him looked romantic.

“You said you weren't surprised that Mrs. Riordin didn't marry again.” Jury wondered if her eyes grew wary, or if it was simply his imagination. She flicked a lighter before he came up with the folder of matches he carried about for old time's sake.

Maisie frowned. “Her husband walked out on her.”

Jury thought that rather an oblique answer. “Are you suggesting that because of the way her husband treated her, she couldn't trust any man?”

“It's possible.” With a degree of impatience, she pushed her chair back. “I don't see what Kitty's marrying or not has to do with Simon's murder.”

“I don't either. But I think it does have to do with Mrs. Riordin's devotion to the Tynedale family. You'd hardly disagree that she
is
devoted to all of you.”

“I'd say it was an exceptionally nice position. I told you before: Grandfather was so grateful I was alive, he'd have given her almost anything. Look, you have no idea what the loss of my mother meant to him.”

“I think I do.” Jury paused. “I want to talk some more about Gemma Trimm. What about these alleged attempts on her life?”

Maisie laughed. “Gemma has an overactive imagination.”

“She'd better, since she's all by herself. A bullet shattering the glass of the greenhouse isn't really explained by imagination, now is it?”

She hesitated. “Police thought it might just be a stray bullet—”

“Someone hunting the queen's deer in Southwark, you mean?”

Maisie gave Jury a look and a strained smile. “The police said it was probably ‘some kid got hold of his dad's gun.' Those were his words. But then there was that night when she swore somebody was trying to smother her and then somebody was trying to poison her. Why would
anyone
try to kill that child?”

Jury didn't answer.

“And why do you need to know all of this in relation to Simon's murder, though?”

“It's family history. Family history might be helpful. You've employed a new gardener, have you?” Jury nodded toward the window. Melrose Plant was passing by carrying a bucket in each hand.

“What?” She turned. “Oh, him. Yes. Ian just hired him. I don't know how he'd heard I wanted one; he simply came here and applied. Our main gardener thinks he's quite good, if a little overeducated.” Her short laugh was edgy. “You certainly do switch the conversation around.”

“It isn't conversation.” Jury drew a notebook from his inside pocket. “He replaced another gardener—a Jenny Gessup?” He flipped the notebook shut. “I'd like to talk to Miss Gessup.”

Maisie sat down again. “Why?”

“Did she give notice? Or did you sack her?”

She flinched. “Neither. She just didn't turn up for work one day.”

“When was this?”

“Back in October”

“How long did she work here?”

“Six months, perhaps. You can ask Angus Murphy, he'd be more exact as to times. He'd remember where she lived, too. She wasn't much good, you know.”

“Meaning?”

“She wasn't really interested. She was careless and somewhat lazy, although she did stay sometimes until after dark. The thing is, she'd sometimes be out in the greenhouse late, just as an excuse to stay after dark and I believe she'd come into the house and, well, go through things, papers, that sort of thing, not that she ever took anything; at least I never missed anything. She was a bit of a flirt, too.”

“With whom?”

“Ian, for one. I know, I know he's far too old for the likes of Jenny Gessup to be flirting with. But he looks much younger than he is, and with some women, age makes no difference.”

“It would make a lot if she could interest him. He's a wealthy man.”

“That's just ridiculous. For a man like Ian—” She made a dismissive gesture. “And she kept flirting with Archie, kept him from his work. Archie Milbank, he's employed to do a little of everything. Maintenance things.”

She turned and Jury saw her profile outlined in pale gold light. Her dark hair was webbed with it. She looked much younger than she was, too; they all did. With some people, the older they grew, the more elusive time became. To a young person, fifty would seem antique. If only the young knew how quickly they'd come to it.

Jury said, “Simon Croft's sister Emily. She lived here, with you, at least for a while” When all he got was a nod of the head, he went on. “She's living in an assisted-living facility in Brighton?” Jury loved the euphemism.

“Emily. Yes, she is.”

“Why? You could afford in-house care, if that's what was needed.”

Her arms folded, she turned to him. “I can't explain that very easily. Of course, we could afford home care. Emily has a steadily worsening heart condition, but it doesn't require constant monitoring, at least not yet. Her doctor wanted someone around, though, in case of emergency. She refused to have anyone in her flat, so we asked her to come here. Occasionally, she returns to the flat, but not for long.”

“You're right, that doesn't explain it.”

Maisie sighed, played with the curtain's tassel. “Emily and Kitty just didn't get along.”

Jury waited, assuming there must be more. When there wasn't he said, “Mrs. Riordin is staff. Instead of turning out a member of the staff, you'd turn out a woman who is, for all intents and purposes, family?”

She flushed. By way of defense, she went on about the “facility.” “The place is quite lovely. She has her own rooms, so she's really independent.”

Jury hated this sort of rationalizing. “I don't see how, if her living has to be assisted.”

“Yes. Well. St. Andrew's Hall, it's called.”

“I know. I've been there.”

Maisie was astonished. “Been there? Then you've already talked to Emily. I'm sure she told you about her condition. Why are you asking me these questions?”

“Police do that sort of thing.” His smile was chilly.

“Granddad wouldn't hear of Kitty's leaving. I've told you how attached he was to her.”

This didn't sound like the Oliver Tynedale Jury had met. He would never have allowed one of the Crofts to leave because Kitty Riordin didn't like her. “Did he know?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Did your grandfather know the reason for Emily Croft's leaving?”

“No.”

There was a silence while, Jury imagined, she examined this cold-blooded removal of a woman who was probably surrogate aunt to her. More than that he wondered at the influence over the family Kitty Riordin had achieved.

“It's really quite a nice place, St. Andrew's Hall. It overlooks the sea. I've always thought the sea a sort of balm to the soul.”

Jury rose. “So did Virginia Woolf. For a while.”

 

 

 

Small deposits of the recent snow had been driven between the colonnade's white pillars and clung to the cypresses that lined the path across the way. From one of the closely packed branches an icicle dropped silently to the leaf-packed ground.

Gemma was sitting on the same bench she and Jury had shared two days ago, the one closed in on two sides by lattice. This bench and the seat in the beech tree seemed to be her favorite places. She sat with her doll, dressed up this time in trousers and shirt much too big and a scrap of red material as a neckerchief.

“Hello, Gemma. Remember me?”