The Horse You Came in On (39 page)

She wiggled her shoulders and gave him a smarmy smile. “Well, I don't see how.”

“I'm a detective. We can eliminate the following: Female, age group sixteen to sixty, good-looking. That takes care of a sizable number. We can also eliminate the up-to-sixteens—unlikely one would be looking for a flat—and the over-sixties, because you wouldn't need another Mrs. Wassermann to do for you.

“Now:
most
likely would be male, age group sixteen to sixty, good-looking. We can eliminate the young ones, same reason as females, and eliminate over-sixty because you sure as hell wouldn't want a man coming along and taking up Mrs. Wassermann's time and attention.

“So the most likely candidates would be one: handsome, youngish man; or two: unattractive female.” Jury looked at her from under lowered eyebrows and with a wicked smile. It was impossible for Carole-anne to keep reactions from showing in her face. “But, you see, there is a flaw in your selection process.”

“Don't be daft. I naturally rented it to the most dependable person. He or She I made sure is very neat and clean and a nonsmoker.”

Given the state of Jury's ashtrays, that was highly unlikely. He scrunched down in his chair, closed his eyes and waited.

“What flaw?”

He pretended to be asleep. Given the jet lag, it wouldn't be hard.

“What
flaw?
” She raised her voice.

“Huh? Oh. Well, if you rented it to a female, she would be your notion of ‘unattractive.' ”

“I'm sure we agree on what that is.”

Jury shook his head. “The only notion of ‘attractive' we agree on is you. And lord knows if many more women looked like you, it'd burn another hole in our atmospheric Islington ozone.” Jury smiled. She was frowning, trying to work out if that was a compliment.

Then she said, as she screwed the cap back on the stoplight-red nail varnish, “I always thought SB-slash-H was attractive. Just like you.”

“Oh, really? Funny, I seem to remember your mentioning a TV an
tenna when you were talking about her figure.” Susan Bredon-Hunt was an old flame.

“I don't recall,” said Carole-anne airily. She swung her feet from the sofa, wiggled her toes and leaned back, displaying a body that bore no resemblance to a TV antenna. “Anyway, I don't have to rent it to this person on a permanent basis. They've only paid rent for the last two weeks of the month.”

Jury went on as if she hadn't spoken. “You see, to me a woman can be attractive for reasons other than the physical. What you fail to see is the effect of intelligence and spirit on physical beauty. I've seen women
you
might consider absolutely
dowdy,
but who had so much of a spiritual quality that I wouldn't have minded spending the rest of my life with them.” Jury was leaning back, staring up at the ceiling, wondering where he'd ever seen her.

“Who's talking about the rest of your life, anyway?” Carole-anne now had the rest of the month to worry about. She bit her lip, stood up, said, “I've got a phone call to make.”

“Oh?” Carole-anne wasn't on the phone. “Aren't you going to use mine? As usual?” Graciously, he swept his arm towards the instrument.

“No, I'll just go down to Mrs. W's.” She shoved her feet into her black mules. “Back in a tick!” This she called from beyond the door.

Jury sat there smiling until he dozed off.

“Are you telling me, Jury, the man killed three people for a bogus peerage?”

“No. For money and revenge—the two best motives, other than love. Anyway, it wouldn't be the first time murder had been committed for a title. And the title, incidentally, is hardly bogus. ‘Absolute Master of Maryland and Avalon, Baron of Baltimore,' Jury quoted. “ ‘Avalon settled by colonists that were taken over by George, First Lord Baltimore, which was then abandoned, and later restored to Cecil, Second Lord Baltimore.' Then Charles, Third Lord; then down to Frederick, where title died, or became a title de jure, if that's what you—”

“Oh, stop gibbering, will you?” Racer sniffed, ran his thumbs beneath the lapels of his jacket. The suit was new. He sorted through half a dozen faxes, hit the intercom and demanded of Fiona that she produce the rest of the fax pages from the commissioner's office that had been coming through just before he left for his club. “I saw it with my own eyes, Miss Clingmore!” There was only the answering hum of the machine; Miss Clingmore did not respond. Racer jiggled the switch and repeated her name. No answer.

Jury cast his eye around the freshly decorated office. New carpeting, fresh paint. But not even the gentler diffusion of the new indirect lighting system could soften the purpling-over of the chief superintendent's complexion.

It could and did soften the cat Cyril, however. While Racer was barking into the intercom, Jury was checking out the new continuous concave lighting and noticed a burnished copper tail hanging over the edge of the ceiling molding up there on Jury's right. The tail twitched lazily. The rest of Cyril was apparently lying on the ledge built all around to accommodate the tiny halogen lights, the molding added to hide the ledge.

“What's so funny?” Racer's head jerked up from the intercom that he had been trying to shake into submission.

“Nothing. Nothing at all. I was just admiring the new decoration. Very attractive.”

“And pricy. Don't worry—it came out of my own pocket, in case you think I'm dipping into public funds.” Racer smirked. Stopped smirking. “What about this Tate Gallery business? ME seems to be waffling on the cause of death.”

Jury was surprised by this. “It was a stroke, I thought.”

“Perhaps.” Racer was trying to look inscrutable, not succeeding. “And this old kraut who wanted you on the case. You've seen her?”

“Sergeant Wiggins is there now.”

“Wiggins? It was
you
she wanted.”

“
I
intend to see her. You forget, I'm on leave.”

“You just had leave. A policeman's life isn't one long holiday, Jury.”

A tap at the door and Fiona stuck her head in. “There's Mr. Plant on the line; wants to know when you'll be by for him.”

Jury turned round. “Tell him in an hour—no, make that two. I have to go home and pick up some stuff.”

“Right-o.”

“Miss
Cling
-more!”

But Miss Clingmore had shut the door, and just hard enough to cause a stirring of fur above the well of the ceiling molding.

“I don't
know
what she's done with it, old sweat.” Marshall Trueblood's whisper was fierce. “I coaxed her with money; I bribed her with gin. Oh, of course, she took both—don't think she didn't take
both
—and then she denied ever seeing it: ‘Ah don't know what y'mean, dearie. Ah niver seen nothin' like that, I niver.' ” Marshall did a fair rasping imitation of Mrs. Withersby's gin-slurred voice.

The subject of this discourse between Trueblood and Melrose Plant was now sitting across the saloon bar in front of the fireplace, occasionally lifting the small hearth broom to sweep back the ashes, availing herself of whatever Cinderella possibilities she found in her position. Prince Charming (in the person of Melrose Plant) had already brought her a double gin and moved her cleaning bucket to the other side of the fireplace.

“Go on,” urged Marshall Trueblood, “have another look.” He gave Melrose a little shove to send him on his way.

Melrose rocked back into his sitting position and returned the whisper with an equally fierce one of his own. “Look: all I know is, it was in the bloody bucket! I could hardly rummage through it, could I?”

“What,” asked Richard Jury, setting the three pints on the table, “are you two on about?”

“Oh, nothing,” said Marshall, draping his Armani-clad arm along the windowed alcove behind them.

“Oh, nothing,” echoed Melrose, returning to the
Times
crossword he'd propped against the dusty plastic peony meant to decorate the table.

Jury looked from one to the other. “Uh-huh. I'll be back with the sausages.”

“What sausages?” they both asked of his departing back.

Said Plant, returning to the point, “You didn't search properly. I've been gone for almost a week; you must have had an opportunity to look through that bucket. By now she's slopped it out. The damned notebook's floating down the Piddle!”

“Don't blame
moi
.” Trueblood clapped both of his palms against his
seafoam-green shirt. “You're the one that stuck it in the bucket. And she doesn't slop it out because she damned well doesn't
use
it. Withers doesn't
work,
for God's sake.”

They both looked, both fuming, in the direction of the slatternly subject of this argument. Her bucket was presently stashed beneath the fireplace chair opposite, as far from herself as she could get it. She was fondling an empty glass and smoking the cigarette she'd filched from Marshall Trueblood.

“I'm not buying her another drink. That's what she's waiting for. Blackmail, that's what it is. Fortunately, she can't read. . . . What's he doing?” Trueblood was watching Jury.

He was handing Mrs. Withersby what looked like a water tumbler full of gin. Now he was actually offering her a plate of sausages, stabbed with toothpicks. Dick Scroggs had lately decided to lay on some “happy hour” food. Holding the plate, he sat down in the chair opposite Mrs. Withersby. They chatted merrily away for some few minutes.

Disgruntled, Trueblood lifted his pint, said a vague “Cheers,” and then said, “The superintendent would talk to the statue of Nelson in Trafalgar Square.”

“And it would answer,” said Melrose.

“All that work,” said Marshall. “It was
so
good. How can we ever duplicate it?” He tossed the pen he'd been scribbling with down on the paper and sighed.

“Still arguing?” asked Jury, who set the plate of sausages on the table and sat down.

“We're not arguing.”

“We're not arguing.”

“Writing something?”

“No.”

“No.”

They both shook their heads.

“Thought maybe I'd take a walk and look in on Vivian,” said Jury. “Before she leaves for Italy.
Again
. The whole thing's ridiculous.” He looked at Melrose. “She could be persuaded to stay here, I'm sure.”

Said Melrose, “Haven't we been trying to for years?”

“Well, you've never given her a good enough reason to break off this silly engagement, have you?”

Mrs. Withersby, having had a taste of the good life in the shape of gin and sausages, was shuffling up to the bar where the plates had been laid out, Dick Scroggs having left it temporarily to replenish happy hour provisions.

Melrose Plant watched her wavering progress across the room for a moment, and then excused himself.

Although Jury was talking to him, Marshall Trueblood was more interested in Melrose Plant's lingering before the hearth. Pretty soon, Melrose sat down in the chair vacated by Jury and appeared to be tying his shoelaces.

Mrs. Withersby left the bar, paper plate full of sausages and puff pastry, and returned to her chair, detouring long enough to launch a verbal attack across the room at (Jury thought for a moment) him and Marshall. But he discovered in the next moment the invective was directed at the face in the window behind Trueblood, outlined in the winter vines of the rosebush—the face of Lady Ardry. The face disappeared. Agatha was no longer popular with Mrs. Withersby, for she was once again writing letters to the editor of the
Bald Eagle
and working up a sweat in front of the town council in her attempt to “erase the blight” (as she put it) of the row of cottages, once almshouses, along the farther bank of the Piddle River. These cottages housed the Withersby clan. The Withersby clan, Melrose had often said, was large enough and ancient enough to have its own tartan.

Mrs. Withersby had switched affection from Her Ladyship (the instigator of this plan) to His Lordship, Melrose, who believed in championing the underdog, largely with strong drink.

Agatha came through the doorway in a dust of snow and made quite a show of ignoring Mrs. Withersby before she demanded a schooner of sherry from Dick Scroggs, who started putting the plates of food under the counter when he saw her.

In the meantime, Melrose had come back to the table looking pleased with himself and giving a nod to Trueblood, and Agatha was delighted with her news.

“They're moving into Watermeadows!” she announced.

Jury asked who “they” were.

“Oh, God,” said Marshall Trueblood. “The WEMs.”

Jury frowned. Who the hell were they?

“Week-End Man. Didn't Melrose tell you they'd leased the Man with a Load of Mischief? I'd so much rather see it fall into ruin and disrepair. How do you know, Agatha? About Watermeadows?”

“Mr. Tutwith himself told me. The estate agent. They're taking Watermeadows instead of the pub.”

“I don't think so, aunt,” said Melrose. “I definitely heard they were planning to restore the pub.”

“Well, you're wrong.”

That settled that, and Jury asked, “What happened to Lady Summerston?”
He had liked the old lady who owned Watermeadows. Looking away, out of the window, he thought of that summer; he wondered if there were an age when memories were a solace rather than a torment.

“Oh, she still owns the place. They're only to be tenants.”

“I can't see anyone leasing a place like Watermeadows as a weekend retreat,” said Melrose.

“My dear old fellow, you do not understand the WEM psychology. That's just the sort of place they
adore
. Come down from London on the Friday; on the Saturday you pull on your wellies, get the dogs, and take the snaps in front of the Range Rover; then you run up to London on the Sunday and there you are! Show your friends the pictures and turn them green with envy.”