The Blue Last (40 page)

On the last page of the book at the very bottom, Simon had written,

“Enigma.”
Jury frowned.

He sat thinking in the chair for some time. Then he crossed to the telephone and took out his small notebook. He rang Marie-France Muir.

After that, he rang Boring's.

M
arie-France Muir lived in Chapel Street. The house was not commodious, but knowing the value of square footage in Belgravia it didn't have to be to mark the owner as well off. The furnishings would also have told the story. Against one wall sat a walnut kneehole desk flanked by an ornate pier glass and an exceptionally beautiful painting of woods, sheep and drifted snow that seemed to be lit from within. In an embrasure near the fireplace sat a walnut chest on chest of rich patination. The fireplace itself was an ornate green marble, guarded by an elaborate fire screen, decorated with birds and butterflies. A glass and rosewood paneled display piece holding fine china that Jury would have lumped under
étagère
was undoubtedly something else, something rarer. It was over six feet tall, nearly as tall as he was. Through the door into what must have been the dining room he glimpsed carved walnut chairs and the end of a dark dining-room table.

Yet what dominated the living room was not the furniture but the art, paintings largely of the French Impressionists and post-Impressionists. They hung one above the other in rococo gilt frames. It looked like a gallery. He wondered how many of them were originals; he wondered if
all
were originals.

The sofa and chairs were of humbler origins and more comfortable ones, slipcovered in a restful gray linen. “This is really a nice room,” Jury said, sitting back in the deep chair with the coffee Marie-France had had the foresight to make. He was almost hesitant to lift the paper-thin cup, which looked as if it would break if he blew on it.

“Thank you.” She looked around as if assessing everything anew, in light of his comment. “Much of the art was acquired by Ian. It's his field, painting. A few pieces came from Simon's house—” The fragile cup trembled in the saucer and she set it on the table beside her chair. She was silent for a while and so was Jury. He did not intrude upon such silences, the ones caused by grief. He did not intrude unless the other person made it clear there was something he could offer.

“It's just made such a difference,” she said. “Simon and I didn't see each other all that much, but you don't have to, do you? To know the other person is there. The thing is, we were quite self-sufficient, and though we might give the impression of living in one another's pockets, we really don't, and didn't. I mean all of us, including the Tynedales. I think his self-sufficiency might be the reason Ian never married, or, at least, one of the reasons.” She smiled. “Lord knows, he could have had his pick. It's too bad in a way, none of us having children. I certainly wanted them and so did my husband.” She shrugged, almost by way of apology.

“Then you wouldn't have—” Jury rephrased it. “How often had you seen your brother in the past two months?”

Marie-France considered. “Once at his house, once here. The last time was, oh, back in early November.”

“Did he seem in some way different?”

She frowned slightly. “No. All of us are always pretty much the same. Boring, but true.”

“A few people I've talked to got the impression he was afraid of something or someone. To the point, really, of paranoia.”

The smile she gave Jury could have charmed the gold butterflies right off the fire screen. “Mr. Jury, that's the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard.”

His smile matched hers. “Perhaps. But remember, you'd seen him only twice and the last time was over a month ago.”

“I'm not basing my opinion on seeing him; I'm basing it on knowing Simon. He was the easiest person I've ever known, the most composed. Simon and paranoia just don't go together. Who's said he was afraid and why?”

“He asked DCI Haggerty to come by the house when he could; your brother appeared to be afraid of someone. He wouldn't admit tradespeople to the house or family members. Maisie Tynedale, for instance.”

“But he didn't say what he was afraid of?”

Jury shook his head.

She sighed. “As for the tradespeople, I don't particularly put out the red carpet for the butcher and baker, either. And as for Maisie—” She looked away and waved her hand in a dismissive gesture. “Simon never liked her.”

“Why not?”

“He thought she was pushy on the one hand and somewhat of a sycophant on the other. Probably a few other things in between.” She picked up the silver pot and poured Jury more coffee. No question, coffee tasted better coming from a silver pot and delicate china.

“How about you? Do you agree?”

“About Maisie? Yes. I find her very cold.”

“And her grandfather? How does he feel about her?”

“When it comes to Oliver, I can't really say. Maisie's not only Alexandra's daughter, but the
only
grandchild. Those are two reasons for him to adore her.” She frowned. “But he doesn't seem to. Adore her, I mean. Certainly, not in the way he does that little girl, Gemma. But of course she's only eight or nine. Perhaps when Maisie was nine, Oliver felt the same way . . .” She shrugged. “The one person who seems to get on with Maisie is that Riordin woman. I don't like her at all. There's something almost, ah, creepy about her. When she was still a young woman she tied herself down to living at the Lodge. I find that odd.”

“She must think there's something in it for her. I imagine she expects to come into at least part of Mr. Tynedale's estate. Don't you?”

“Yes, but, well, certainly there'll be a bequest, but I shouldn't think enough to warrant giving over one's life to it.” She sighed and sipped her coffee.

Jury leaned forward. “Have you ever thought there might be more to it than that?”

“What do you mean?” She looked off toward the window as if a fresh aspect were to be found there. “My lord, are you suggesting they were lovers?”

Jury laughed. “That never entered my mind. Perhaps it should have.”

With an oblique look at Jury, she said, “No, it shouldn't. I'm surprised it entered mine. Oliver is simply not—I don't know how to say it. Anyway, he's not, take my word for it. Then what did you mean?”

Given that Ian Tynedale and Marie-France disliked Maisie and Kitty Riordin, and also were such obviously intelligent people, he was surprised neither of them wondered about Maisie's parentage. But they were also ingenuous; maybe they couldn't comprehend something so monstrous as an imposture lasting more than half a century. “I don't know. I'm fishing, I expect.”

“Well, you need some better bait, Superintendent.” This was accompanied by her immensely charming smile. “The rest of us manage to rub along with Kitty, but not Emily. Emily never did get along with her; Emily thinks she's a fraud.”

“In what way?”

“Kitty took credit—no, that's not exactly right—she was being credited with something she didn't do: she didn't save Maisie's life. It was chance, pure chance. But Kitty began to believe she saved the baby's life.”

Jury nodded. “There's something I wonder, though: why would she have taken either child out during the blitz? That was savage bombing the Luftwaffe was doing.”

“Savage, but erratic. Simon talked about it often. He was moved to write this book, not surprisingly, because our father, Francis, had died in the blitz. Simon thought what a lot of people mistook as strategic bombing was simply systematic bombing. Göring's last-ditch stand. He'd already lost in his attempt to destroy our air force by bombing the airfields.

“For us young ones, the whole thing was exciting—look at those ruins, that rubble we could investigate for treasure. It was rather like a film. Well, I'm trying to answer your questions. That sort of illusion wasn't restricted to children. Grown-ups felt it too.”

Marie-France went on. “What I'm saying is that there were times we thought of it as a fairy tale. That sounds outrageous, I know, but that was the climate of opinion sometimes. Add to that that Kitty Riordin was a headstrong girl, and if she thought a baby needed some fresh air, I suppose she wasn't going to hide in the Blue Last waiting for the war to blow over.”

“And Alexandra?”

“Alex was more sensible, more realistic.”

“Why would she allow
her
baby to be taken out, then?”

“It's a good question. I can't answer that. But you know we're sitting here second-guessing what happened fifty-five years ago.”

Jury smiled. “I spend most of my life doing that.”

“I can see you'd have to.”

Jury put down his cup. “This book your brother was writing. Ralph Herrick apparently figured in it.”

This surprised her. “Ralph?” Bemused, she repeated the name as if it were some magical incantation. “Ralph. I don't recall Simon mentioning him with regard to his book, though when we were children, I know Ralph seemed to us ever so glamorous. He was a hero; he was handsome; he was married to Alexandra. Simon and Ian both idolized him. They thought it wizard that he flew a Spitfire.”

“Do you remember Herrick as anything other than an icon?”

Marie-France thought for a moment, sipping her coffee. “You know, that's well put, Superintendent. I think that's just how we saw him. He represented something in the war that was noble and good. But as for knowing him, Ralph wasn't really around much. He was rarely at home, even after he married Alex, and they were married only a little over a year when she was killed. And then . . . ?” She paused, trying to remember. “I'm not sure what happened to him.”

“Herrick joined the people at Bletchley Park. You remember, the mathematicians like Turing who were working on Hitler's Enigma machines.”

She looked at Jury with raised eyebrows. “Really? No, I don't think I ever did know that. I would think Simon must've, though.” She was looking out of the window to where a shaft of sunlight was turning a vase of roses a deeper shade of pink. The small gilt clock on the mantel chimed seven.

“I've got to go. I really appreciate you talking to me.” Jury rose.

“You're very welcome, Superintendent.” As she rose to see him out, she laughed. “I really can't get over someone's saying Simon was paranoid. If there was ever a person I can't picture having enemies, it was Simon.”

Jury looked at her. “Then I'm afraid you'd be wrong.”

“
I
have my coat on and money,” said Gemma. From the coat pocket she drew a small, shiny-blue change purse with a zipper and decorated with a bright pink plastic flower. She was sitting with Benny on the wooden plank in the beech tree.

“I can't take you to Piccadilly,” he said, feeling guilty. “I'm too—busy.” He was too young, he meant. Not for himself—he could go to Piccadilly and back ten times over. He was too young to take the responsibility of Gemma is what he meant. He'd never get permission. That made him laugh. He was too young to be doing most of the things he
was
doing. The thing was, Benny wanted to see the windows at Fortnum and Mason, too. “They're really the best Christmas windows around, is what I've heard.” But it did worry him something might happen to her.

“I know. Don't you want to see them?”

He shrugged. “I wouldn't mind.”

“Then let's.”

He sighed. “Gemma, they'd never let you go with me, even if we did take a cab there and back.” He'd seen she had a lot of money in that little purse. Enough for cabs, he bet.

“Then don't ask.”

Benny sighed again. He'd been watching Sparky make his way over the ground, stopping at stalks and hedges, sniffing as if he'd never been in this garden before. Now he was going into the greenhouse. He never dug up around flowerbeds; he was very good that way, but sometimes you had to watch him. Mr. Murphy didn't like dogs much, anyway.

“Christmas is in only three days.”

She was picking at a stitch on Richard's blue trousers. She had cut off some of the excess material and sewn up the sides, which now fanned out and were still too big. Her needlework was not very good. “I sewed this. Do you like it?” She turned Richard slowly around so that his outfit could be viewed front to back.

“It's a lot better than that old nightgown. But couldn't you have used blue thread instead of white?”

Gemma looked doubtful. “Maybe.” She added, “But I couldn't find any.” She hadn't looked.

“It's nice.”

“He needs new clothes for Christmas. He needs a mac.”

“Uh-huh.”

Gem went on picking at the thread. “Do you think about your mother?” Her voice seemed to shrink.

Benny was surprised. “Sometimes.”

She raised her eyes from the trousers and looked right at him.

It's awful to have somebody know you're lying,
Benny thought. “Okay, like a lot of the time.” Now his own voice sounded strange; it sounded hollow.

“I would too if I could remember mine. I don't know even what she looked like.”

Benny thought a moment. “Like you. Think of you, only older. You know who you look like? Like Maisie's mother. Remember? You showed me her picture once.”

Gemma frowned. “That makes me look like
Maisie.
I don't want to.”