The Horse You Came in On (30 page)

“Do you ride to hounds? There's good riding around here.”

He saw in the mirror he'd struggled into a pink coat without half noticing. He removed it and pulled a floor-length brown overcoat from the rack, his thoughts now straying to Polly Praed in Littlebourne. It had been years since he'd seen Polly; Polly of the amethyst eyes. And the cut-glass tongue, he reminded himself. Anyway, Polly had always been enamored of Richard Jury. At least, he thought so. He removed the coat and pulled another garment from the rack. Well, but weren't most women? He frowned slightly, settling something atop his head, thinking that, actually, Ellen Taylor had never shown any weakness in the knees when Jury appeared. She seemed to like him, yes, but she didn't ogle him. That was interesting, he mused, as he wound something round his neck, by this time so lost in thoughts of the women he knew he didn't register his reflection. Why was he taking stock, anyway? It was all Jury's doing; hadn't Jury appeared in Long Piddleton looking awfully pleased with himself?

Melrose frowned. God, Jury wasn't
enamored
of this Lady Kennington, was he? Was he going to get himself into one more romantic mess? Melrose fiddled with a jabot he had hitched on and thought about Ellen. About Ellen, he could not help but feel protective. And he had to admit, she didn't waste words—certainly not in her writing. Was
that
the appeal of the story of Sweetie? That it was so spare? Poor Ellen. Poor? How could a person with a mind such as hers possibly be “poor”? God, but he could be patronizing. He had moved in his weighty garments to the table with the stereopticon, his mind having registered that the voice no longer spoke from the shadows, and he thought he remembered hearing a rustle and a creak and a fragile movement of the beaded curtain, so the Black Aunt had perhaps left the room.

He remembered a passage from
Windows
as he slotted a picture of the St. James Hotel into the holder and, looking at it, wondered if it had been around in Poe's day. He thought, how baroque was the style of the Poe story by comparison with Ellen's style. Violette indeed. And yet . . . incredible as it seemed, and as much as he agreed with the curator, still it was possible, wasn't it? Possible, yes, but highly improbable. Melrose lowered the stereopticon.

He looked around the room, wondering what it was that was tickling at his mind like something was tickling at his chin. He brushed it away. The bird croaked “Eh-more!” and Melrose slid another double picture into the stereopticon. The little gathering at the railroad station. The same
people, in the next picture, climbing down from the horse-drawn cab . . . and he started wondering, then, what had happened to Edgar Poe after he'd emerged from a similar cab on that night that he'd died (or nearly done) that no one could really account for. Here was the lobby of the St. James, the potted palms, the long runners of Oriental carpeting; next, the dining room that flooded him with nostalgia. He sighed. “I got the doin's! I got the doin's!” Melrose pictured Estes clapping his hand to his heart, in imitation of John-Joy. Had there been something, then, in a pocket? The breast pocket of a shirt or a jacket?

Melrose turned the wooden handle idly and thought about John-Joy's coat. What would the police have done with the clothes? Would they have inspected everything? Would they have looked in all of the pockets?

“You look lovely.”

Melrose whirled around. He hadn't heard the door open.

Jury and Wiggins stood there regarding him. He came out of his partial fugue state and realized he was fiddling with a feather boa. Quickly, he went to the pier glass and saw that he had donned not only the boa but a Spanish shawl of red silk and a tall jeweled turban made of cloth of gold. Hell's bells.

“Couple of bars around here that might suit you,” said Jury. “But not the Horse, if you know what I mean.”

Tossing off the turban, the shawl, and the boa as quickly as was humanly possible, Melrose said, “I'm buying myself some vintage clothing.” He kept his tone as cold as he could and pulled the evening cape back off the hanger.

“Definitely you,” said Jury.

“All of this was necessary to get some information from the denizens of Cider Alley, in case you're wondering.”

“You were in Cider Alley, were you? Did you get any information?”

“A bit. What are you doing here?”

“I wanted to talk to the little girl.”

“Jip? I expect she's in the back. The aunt was out here.”

Melrose brought his palm down on the bell on the counter.

“What happened to your own clothes? Or shouldn't I ask?”

“I gave them away. Here's Jip.”

Jury looked at the little girl who parted the bead curtain. She was very pretty, beautiful even, with skin tinted the color of shell, pearlescent in the reflected light of the Tiffany lamp. Her hair was reddish brown. The curtain fell behind her with a windchimey tinkle.

“May I help—oh, hello!” She smiled at Melrose. “I didn't recognize you in that.”

“No, well, your aunt thought I looked quite elegant. I think I'll just
have this, then. It seems to be—” Melrose squinted at the tag—“seventy-five dollars. I don't know what my friend wants.” Melrose walked away, back to the cart that he'd stashed in amongst the clothes and rugs.

“Present,” said Jury, smiling down at Jip. “For a friend of mine, a young lady.”

Jip said nothing, just nodded.

“Something really colorful. But I don't know what. Clothes? Jewelry?” He bent over the glass case. For a long time he studied the rings and necklaces, the semiprecious stones. He shook his head. “I don't know. Got any ideas?” On a shelf behind her sat a row of dolls, all looking a bit worn and dusty, a rather international set, for each was dressed in elaborate costume. “Those are nice, those dolls.”

Jip scratched at her elbow and looked up there with him. She appeared to have had an inspiration. “Does she like dolls?”

“I expect so.” The girl looked so eager that he hated to say, No, she's too old.

“The reason I wondered is, I've got a Barbie I'll sell cheap. And that's really American. The reason I'm selling it is I'm saving for a new one.”

“Okay, let's see it.”

She was back through the curtain and in less than a minute back again at the counter with the doll. The doll had bright copper-colored hair and was dressed in some sort of western outfit—ten-gallon hat, embroidered shirt, even a lasso.

“The new ones do all sorts of things. I'd like either the rock star one or the mermaid. The mermaid's hair turns different colors when you put water on it.”

“Incredible. But this one just sort of sits there.”

Her saddened expression told him yes, this was unfortunately so. “But she's in mint condition.”

Jury smiled. A term learned no doubt from her aunt and the business. “How much do you want for this one?”

“Is five dollars too much?” Her tone was tentative.

“I wouldn't think so. Tell you what, if she's got a change of clothes, I'll make it ten.”

Sadly, the light went out in her eyes as she shook her head. Was the deal now scotched?

“Not to worry,” said Jury, letting his eye travel over the row of dolls on the shelf behind her. He caught sight of a male doll, probably meant to resemble some Arabian princeling, as it was dressed in balloon pants and a scarlet vest and holding a scimitar. “See that one? Bring him down a moment.”

Side by side, the dolls looked approximately the same size. “Think his clothes will fit her?”

Enthusiastically and without embarrassment, Jip stripped Barbie's breasts of their embroidered shirt and exchanged the jeans for the filmy trousers. “Even trade.”

They both contemplated the newly fitted-out dolls. Jury rather liked the olive-skinned, mustachioed Arabian dressed in the Wild West outfit. The copper-haired, blue-eyed Barbie was, like Carole-anne, in mint condition. “What she needs now is a headdress.” Jury pulled over the box of handkerchiefs, neckerchiefs, headbands, and pulled out a gold lamé collar, probably once the adornment of a dressy frock. “Now if this were just cut up a bit—wait.” He moved across the room to where Melrose sat amidst the vintage clothes and surrounded by the contents of the wire basket, inspecting a brown suit jacket with shiny lapels. On the floor lay an old army blanket, another blanket of some Indian pattern, a pair of striped trousers (that didn't match the jacket), some T-shirts, books, shoes missing their heels.

Jury lifted the bejeweled turban from the hat rack and said, “If you've quite finished with this . . . ?”

 • • • 

Ha ha, thought Melrose, pulling a face at Jury's departing back and returning to his inspection of the brown jacket. Nothing in the breast pocket. There'd been nothing in the trouser pockets either, nor the plaid shirt.

Melrose raised the books, one after another, held spine side up and gave each a shake. Nothing fluttered out. He turned over the one in his hands—a largish, thin volume that looked like an old hotel register, dates back in the 1700s. How had the man ever come into possession of this? Not a hotel register; more like an old church register. He put it aside to look at later and opened the next book.

“Like this one,” said Jury, looking at the turban on the counter. “I'll be glad to pay you, say, another five dollars to make a turban for her. That's fifteen dollars altogether.”

Jip said she was good with a needle and thread and could cut up and sew the turban first thing this evening. “But you can take the Barbie doll with you now.” She reached behind the counter for tissue.

“Oh, I'll just wait till you've finished.”

Jip looked back at the bead curtain, anxiously. “I think you should take her.”

Of course, the exchange of clothes hadn't been blessed by the aunt, and he wondered if he should not just buy both dolls in case there was trouble.

But she assured him it would be all right. If her aunt noticed and said something, well, she had the extra five he'd paid for the clothes. Then she set about with the tissue paper, wrapping the doll. She said, “I used to live in England.”

“Did you? You know, you've got a bit of an accent.”

She didn't respond, just pasted a square of Scotch tape over the folded end of the tissue.

“How long has it been since you were there?”

Jip thought for a moment. “Five years, I think. I was five. Or maybe six. It might have been six years.”

“When I was six, there was a war on. That was a long time ago, of course. But I'll never forget it. Because of the bombs.”

She looked up at him, anxious. “Did they fall on you?”

“On all of us in London. A lot of us kids were evacuated, sent to live with people out in the country.”

Her hands stopped on the taped package and she kept her eyes down.

“It was a bad time.”

“Who did you live with?” She asked this carefully.

“A family in Somerset. A long way away.”

Her glance kept straying towards the shop windows in front. Jury finally turned to see what she was looking at; there was a heavyset girl out there looking in. Jury frowned. A chum? A school chum, perhaps. But she did not look chummy, not with that expression on her face.

When he looked again at Jip, he saw her eyes were down now, intent upon the package, or seemingly so. Her face was flushed, a scarlet mottling of the clear skin.

“Friend of yours?” he asked.

She shook her head. Then nodded it, slowly. “Her name's Mary Ann. She's in my school.” Her voice was unhappy.

Jury considered Mary Ann for a few moments and then said, “When I was in Somerset my mother wasn't with me. Of course, I had to go to school; there was never any getting out of school. And it's even worse in a new place. Being the new kid in school is always hard.”

“I hate school.” Again the glance flicked towards the front of the shop. Then she relaxed a bit. Jury turned to look out of the window. The girl was standing stock still. “Well, I especially hated this one in Somerset, because there was a bully—”

A voice behind Jury, Melrose Plant's, asked, “What about his clothes? Did that detective you were seeing check out his clothes?”

“John-Joy's? Yes. There was nothing. Why? What should he have been searching for?”

Melrose shook his head. “Not sure. Just the doin's.” He stood there with an old pair of trousers draped over his arm.

“The
what
?” Jury called after him. No answer.

Jip regained his attention. “What about the bully?”

Jury couldn't think, not with Plant standing there, the old pair of trousers draped over his arm. He frowned at Plant and waved him away. Then he said, necessarily keeping it vague, “Something happened, and he claimed he was going to tell our third-form teacher . . .”

“What? What happened?”

Jury thought for a moment. “It was strange. Something went missing from one of the tutors' desk. He said I took it, but I didn't.”

She had been wrapping the silky ribbon round and round her finger, listening intently. Her expression changed, became a little crestfallen. The cases were not at all similar.

Jury added, “But that wasn't all. I think perhaps
he
might have taken it himself.”

Her expression changed again. Back on track, it seemed to say. “And he said he never did it.”

“Yes.”

“But what if you really
had
done it?”

From the anxious tone, Jury thought it was safe to assume Jip had herself done something. “In that case, it would have been up to me to either tell the headmaster or not. None of his business.”

“What if he'd done it too? The bully?”

“You mean, what if the
two
of us were in on something together? And he wanted to blame me?”