The Dirty Duck (18 page)

“So?”

“Ah, come
on,
Mel. Use your loaf, as they say over here. Marlowe's death is obviously really bugging the hell out of Shakespeare. Now put that together with everything else I've told you—”

Melrose was quite happy to have forgotten everything Harvey had told him in case it resulted in brain rot. He studied the massive and ornate gold-leaf mirror over the bar as tap, tap, tap went Harvey's nimble fingers on the Ishi.

“—together with the other sonnets, and
especially
this one.” The screen scrolled up, Harvey banged a key in triumph, and read, “ ‘Farewell! Thou art too dear for my possessing—' ”

Melrose, feeling displays of temper to be ungentlemanly, not to say emotionally depleting, was seldom given to them. But now he banged his walking stick down on the table, making both Harvey and the Ishi jump. “You go too far!
That
is probably one of the most beautiful sonnets ever written, and obviously written for some woman—the Dark Lady, probably . . .” His voice trailed off. Melrose really was not at all sure of his ground, but he refused to let this sonnet become grist for the Schoenberg Ishi. “The Dark Lady,” he repeated. Why couldn't they talk about the French symbolists?

“Ah, don't be so romantic. It was Shakespeare's apologia, or whatever you call those things. Just wait till I tell all this to old Jonathan.” Harvey's expression grew uncharacteristically dark. “He'll be in this afternoon. Concorde.”

“Jonathan must have a bit of the ready.” At Harvey's questioning look, Melrose added, “Money.”

“Yeah. Well, the folks had it.” Harvey brightened up and said, “But so do you, with a title to boot. Listen, come on and have dinner with us, okay?”

Melrose was curious enough about the brother to agree. “You really dislike your brother, don't you?”

“No love lost on either side. But this Shakespeare-Marlowe business—I told you it could all be summed up in one word.”

Blackly, Melrose regarded him; hating himself, he asked anyway. “What word?”

“Remorse. Billy-boy knows what he's done, and there's an end on it.” Happily, Harvey drank his pint.

“I certainly
hope
there's an end on it.” Melrose bethought himself. “Do you realize we've been sitting here talking about Marlowe's murder instead of these murders much closer to hand?” He looked at Harvey who was closing up the Ishi. “Tell me. You surely must have a theory on
that.
”

Harvey shrugged. “Some nut. Who else could it be?”

“One of you.”

Harvey stared at him.

And it was Melrose now who happily quaffed his ale.

“H
onycutt,” said Wiggins, “is at the Salisbury pub.”

“The Salisbury. He doesn't waste any time, does he? Well, come on then, we might as well join him.”

 • • • 

The Ford idled away, seemingly forever, waiting for one of the green lights which never appeared to get one much farther round Piccadilly Circus and its eternal traffic snarl. In defiance of lights, laws, and even the knowledge that heavy metal can play hell with human flesh, pedestrians kept trying to make a break for it. One could hardly blame them, since all the cars were in competition with them, as if one and all were dicing to see who could get through the light first or last before it changed.

“Why don't they just take down the bloody lights and let's have a free-for-all,” said Wiggins, nosing forward where three middle-aged ladies apparently didn't know or care how close they were to his bumper. The base of the statue of Eros was crowded as usual with office workers and battalions of pigeons, all on their lunch-hour.

“Excepting Farraday himself, we're no clearer to a motive for any of these people than we were before. He might have murdered Amelia out of jealousy. Had plenty of reason, that's for sure. And might also have killed the stepdaughter, who was a real sexual tease, though that seems a thin motive—”

“What about the girl, Penny? She hated both of them.” Wiggins had finally managed to leave the Circus for Shaftesbury Avenue, and was looking for a place to park.

“No,” said Jury, in a tone that made Wiggins look rather sharply round. “That I can't believe. She's only fifteen.”

Pulling the Ford up on the pavement in a sidestreet near the Salisbury, Wiggins clucked his tongue. “Only fifteen. Never thought I'd hear something like that from you, sir. Getting soft, are you?”

“Me and Attila the Hun,” said Jury, climbing out of the car. “But that still doesn't explain the murder of Gwendolyn Bracegirdle.”

 • • • 

“Why do they like turtlenecks so much?” asked Wiggins, once inside the Salisbury, which was jammed as usual at lunchtime. Although its clientele was diversified, it had a long-established reputation as catering for the gayer London crowd.

Wiggins was right; fifty percent of the crowd seemed to be wearing them. The young man at Valentine Honeycutt's table certainly was. Honeycutt had wasted no time. When Jury and Wiggins approached, he looked up and withdrew his hand from his friend's knee. The friend, tight-jeaned, turtlenecked, and sipping his beer, turned eagerly toward the new arrivals. Honeycutt wasn't quite so eager.

“Oh, no,” he said with a sigh.

“The Bad News Bears,” said Jury, not waiting to be asked to have a seat. He smiled at the young man, whose own teeth were whiter than snow and whose dark locks framed his smooth face, one would have said Byronically, except one knew Byron had other ideas. “Sergeant Wiggins, Mr. Honeycutt.”

Catching on, the young man looked horribly sad, as if he'd hoped for better things at this unlooked-for expansion of their small party. Though he seemed to realize during his first lingering look at Jury's smile, that he wasn't Jury's type.

“Sorry to interrupt. We'd like a private word with Mr. Honeycutt.”

Jury suffered a small, whispered conference between the two before the one in the turtleneck moved himself and his glass off. The jeans were decidedly constricting; Jury could almost hear splitting seams.

Honeycutt was dressed in his usual modish fashion: silky-leather jacket, silk scarf wound round his neck and waterfalling down his back, white cord pants. He only needed racing goggles. “What is it
now?”
he asked, as if Jury were nothing but a fun-spoiler.

“Mrs. Farraday. Amelia. I'm sorry to have to tell you, but she's met with an accident. Fatal.”

“Oh,
God!”
he said, pushing himself against the back of the red banquette. Above him, on both sides of the slightly recessed seat, tulip-shaped wall sconces glowed. The Salisbury had one of the handsomest interiors of any London pub. “Where?
How?”

Jury sidestepped that question with one of his own: “Were you at the hotel last night, Mr. Honeycutt?”

“Until around nine-thirty, ten-ish. Then I went to that little restaurant nearby, Tiddly-Dols.” When he saw that Sergeant Wiggins was writing this down in a notebook, he frowned. “Why?”

“By yourself?”

“No, with a friend—look, why these questions?” His brief, nervous laugh was more of a high-pitched giggle. “You make it sound as if I need an alibi, or something. You surely don't suspect—”

Wiggins interrupted. “And what time did you leave Tiddly-Dols, sir?”

Honeycutt wrenched his gaze from Jury's and said, “Oh, I don't recall precisely. About eleven . . . But I still don't see—”

“Your friend's name, sir?” asked Wiggins, wetting the tip of his pencil with his tongue. Wiggins feared every ailment known to man except, apparently, lead poisoning.

Honeycutt opened his mouth and shut it again and returned his gaze to Jury.

Seeing he was getting into the noncooperative stage, Jury said to Wiggins, “How about getting us something at the hot-foods counter? Piece of shepherd's pie for me. And a pint of mild-and-bitter.” Wiggins closed his notebook and got up. Jury smiled. “Haven't eaten yet today. Food's good here.”

Honeycutt seemed to relax. After all, anyone about to eat shepherd's pie would hardly go for the jugular, would he?

“You still haven't told me how it happened, Superintendent.”

“In Berkeley Square last night. Not far from that restaurant, as a matter of fact. About midnight, the police surgeon puts it at.” Jury smiled again.

The jugular had definitely been gone for. Valentine Honeycutt went several degrees of pale. “You certainly don't think
I
—”

“Oh, I don't think anything at the moment. But I imagine you can understand that we'd want to account for the movements of the only people in London—as far as we know—who knew her. They'd be the ones on Honeysuckle Tours. Thanks, Wiggins.” The sergeant had set before him a steaming plate of minced beef topped with nicely browned mashed potatoes. He also put Jury's pint and a half-pint of Guinness on the table. “Aren't you eating, Wiggins?”

Wiggins shook his head. “Bit of a stomach upset.” He had extracted a small foil-wrapped package from his coat pocket and proceeded to drop two white tablets into the Guinness.

Jury had thought his sergeant would never surprise him again, until he heard the fizz. “Alka-Seltzer in stout?”

“Oh, it's wonderful for digestion, sir. And Guinness is good for you.” Wiggins reopened his notebook. The velvety foam of his glass erupted with little bubbles.

“Did you see any of the others on your tour last night? Or did your usual policy of laissez-faire still hold?” asked Jury.

“I saw some, yes. And if you're wondering precisely who was where, I suggest the first person you ask is Cholmondeley.” His tone held a note of triumph as if he'd found the goose with the golden egg.

“Why's that?”

“Because he was meeting Amelia, that's why. Later that night.” Honeycutt lit a cigarette.

“How do you know?”

“How? Because he told me.”

Jury put down his fork. “I find that odd. He doesn't strike me as the sort who would go round confiding things like that to others.”

“ ‘Confiding,' no. I don't expect he thought there was anything of ‘confidence' in it. He told me very casually, after I asked him if he cared to have a go at one of the casinos with me.” Honeycutt blushed and looked off, smoking delicately. He shrugged. “George simply said he was meeting Amelia.” There was a pause before he added, while studying his perfectly polished nails, “I don't expect he knew Amelia was about to be murdered.”

“W
hy is it that I always seem to be lunching with police?” asked George Cholmondeley, in a not-unfriendly tone, after acknowledging the introduction of Wiggins and waving toward the other chairs at his table.

“Sorry, Mr. Cholmondeley. The desk clerk at Brown's told us you were coming here. And it
is
rather important. I take it you haven't heard the news about Mrs. Farraday?”

A glass of wine poised at his lips, still he did not drink. Slowly he lowered it, pushing his plate back at the same time, as if the food no longer interested him. Jury noticed it interested Sergeant Wiggins, though, who was looking at the
tournedos Rossini
with considerable suspicion. Wiggins distrusted the more elaborate cuisines as he distrusted unfamiliar climates. It amazed Jury that someone with Wiggins's menu of maledictions still clung tenaciously to a steady diet of plaice, chips, and tinned peas.

“The news, I imagine, is extremely unpleasant. Or you wouldn't be here.”

“Extremely.”

“What happened?”

“She's been found murdered. I understand you told Honeycutt that you had an appointment with her?”

He allowed Cholmondeley to stall long enough to take out cigarettes, offer them around, light up. “Well, yes, as a matter of fact I did. Except a better way of putting it is that
she
asked to see
me.”

“Oh? And why was that?”

“Because she did not seem to understand that the flirtation was over.”

“And was she making things difficult for you?”

“Difficult? You mean, embarrassing?” Cholmondeley laughed, and then
apparently realized laughter was hardly appropriate in the circumstances. “Sorry. No, that wouldn't have happened. I think I see where you're heading, though.”

Jury's face remained blank. “Do you? Then tell me and we'll both know.”

Cholmondeley said nothing, only looked from Jury to Wiggins as if perhaps he might find a clue written on the sergeant's face as to where Cholmondeley most definitely didn't want to say he'd been the previous night. Wiggins was a brick wall when it came to giveaway expressions, however.

“You seem to be looking for motives. Mine would be a very slight one, believe me.”

“Where were you meeting?”

“Berkeley Square. It's near the hotel, but not too near.”

“Not very nice, meeting an unescorted lady in a park late at night.”

“And who said it
was
late at night?” Cholmondeley calmly smoked and looked as if he'd scored a point.

“Merely an assumption. Her husband said she went out for a stroll after dinner. And that was sometime after nine-thirty. Nearly ten, I believe. Was she strolling with you?”

“No,” said Cholmondeley curtly. “I told you, Amelia didn't turn up.”

“Didn't turn up
when,
sir?” asked Wiggins, who had put down his notebook in order to unscrew a small vial of pills.

“Midnight. I know one or two clubs in the vicinity. I told her I'd take her.”

Wiggins took the pill dry, under his tongue, and resumed his note-taking.

“That puts you in Berkeley Square around the time she was killed, Mr. Cholmondeley,” said Jury.

“I never went
in
to Berkeley Square. I waited at the west entrance, where we were to meet. No, I have no witnesses, so I expect that makes me your prime target.” Cholmondeley leaned across the table. “Only what possible motive could I have for murdering Amelia Farraday?”