The Horse You Came in On (42 page)

“
Yes, sir?
”

“
A few more questions, Charles. When His Lordship stopped here at the gatehouse on the Thursday night, you say he checked the time with you?
”

“
That he did, yes, sir. Took a lot of trouble about it, too. Made sure he'd got the time spot-on to the minute, he did. Looked at his own watch—it was a Rolex—and asked me what time I had, and I said ‘Nine-oh-two.' ‘That's all right, then,' says he; ‘that's just what
my Rolex says.' Then he tells me to check the wall clock up there to make absolutely sure”—here Charles nodded towards the big white clock above him—“because, see, it's got to be right as it's linked to the alarm system. I says ‘nine-oh-two' and His Lordship repeats it a couple of times, and—” Charles heaved with laughter
—“
I don't guess anyone's about to forget the time after checking all that lot, right? But His Lordship, he still says that the clock time looks more like nine-oh-three to him, and I says, ‘Well, of course, ain't we been chatting here for thirty seconds, at least, so it's actually nine-oh-two-and-one-half.' Then he puts his ear down to his car radio and says, ‘Well, that must be right, the news is just coming on.' Now, I know what you're thinking sir. Lord Haycock died at nine-twenty-five and you're wondering when Mr. Gabriel left, and I can tell you it was nine-oh-two-going-on-three
.”

Smithson thanked Charles, who, he noticed, when he looked over his shoulder, had rescued the black book from its place behind his chair. Had he hidden it?

Norma was still drinking champagne. She nibbled on a biscuit as Smithson told her what Charles had said. She looked all sparkling interest
—

“Looked
what?
” asked Trueblood. “ ‘Sparkling interest'? Must be all that champagne. Probably drank a magnum.” He had his gold nail file out, whisking it across his ring finger.

“And,” put in Diane, “that's an absolutely dreadful ensemble Norma's wearing. I'll be happy to write that part for you.”

“Thank you.” Melrose read on:

“
But if it was nine-oh-two, why did the housekeeper mention the church bells pealing the quarter-hour when she brought in the drinks?
”

Norma gave her husband a tiny smile. “Church bells keep notoriously bad time, my love—
”

Diane interrupted. “That, of course, was the flaw in the Sayers book.”

“What are you talking about?” asked Joanna. “Her bells weren't telling the wrong time. It's irrelevant, anyway.”

“I didn't mean
that
. But this detective of hers, Lord somebody—”

“Wimsey,” said Vivian. “Lord Peter Wimsey.”

“He did all of this bell-ringing for hours and hours and obviously knew when the bells rang. Still he goes monkey-climbing up to the tower,
knowing
what happened to whoever got killed. Well, I've forgotten the plot, but you get the point.”

“
It's not the bells, love, it's the
radio,”
said Norma.

“
What?” Smithson was perplexed
.

“
The
car
radio. Gabriel never listened to the radio, only to his digital tapes!
”

“
My God! You're right! He's obviously lying!
”

“
Ah, but
who's
lying my love?
”

They were interrupted by the door's bursting open. A young woman wearing a twin set and tweeds and a cashmere shawl strode in. She seemed upset. “You're Inspector Smithson? I'm Lord Haycock's stepdaughter, Imogene
.”

“
Have some champagne, darling,” said Norma, with a sunny smile. Norma was never flustered.

“
A bit early for me, thanks. I stopped to have a word with Charles. He said you'd been asking him a lot of questions about Gabriel checking the time. I know what you're thinking!
”

“
You do?
”

“
Yes. You think that because Gabriel was checking the time that he wanted to be sure Charles remembered exactly what time he left and that it was before my stepfather was murdered
.”

“
That was the furthest thing from our minds, darling.” Norma poured another glass of champagne
.

Pouting Imogene said, “People always question gatekeepers in mystery stories
.”

Smithson and Norma laughed. The detective said, “This is real life, not one of your mystery stories
.”

A sound came from Jury. Melrose looked round. Jury's expression was impassive, as he leaned there and drank his beer.

“
He's always been obsessed with time!” exclaimed Imogene
.

“
Ever since he was a child. Anyway, he
has
an alibi! He was with me the entire evening!
”

Dick Scroggs had come to the table to deliver fresh drinks. “What's she on about then?” He rolled the toothpick around in his mouth and didn't stay for an answer, but returned to the bar and his
Bald Eagle
.

Vivian said, “She's in love with Gabriel so she's going to lie for him.”

“No, she isn't,” said Melrose calmly.

They all, to a man, stared at him.

“Wait a minute,” said Joanna, “at the beginning we
saw
Gabriel kill Lord Haycock.”

“True, old bean. Remember, you said it was one of these inverted mysteries,” said Marshall, stashing his cuticle scissors.

Melrose capped his pen and looked smug. “It's inverted-reversed.”

They all looked at one another and then at Richard Jury, who merely shrugged his shoulders.

Theo Wrenn Browne turned away in disgust and Agatha babbled something about the story's being a cheat.

Vivian was truly baffled. “But Melrose, we
saw
it—where Gabriel was murdering Lord Haycock.”

Smugly, Melrose said, “You mean you
thought
you saw it.” Give them a taste of Maxim. Then he sat back and looked up at the ceiling, thinking, happily, how nice it was, writing mysteries.
Gin Lane
was a wonderful title.

Diane Demorney had, of course, given up on the inverted reversion from its inception. She said, “
The Opal
was a better title. This is supposed to end in Morocco.”

“It doesn't. It's called
Gin Lane
because . . . because it ends up in Shoreditch. Or Whitechapel.” He added, “Maybe.”

Uncommitted to any ending, and certainly to any part of any city, not setting it in Morocco was as good as not setting it anywhere else. Melrose ate a pretzel and stared happily over towards the fireplace, in front of which Mrs. Withersby was weaving and discoursing on her own time and into her own ear. My, but writing was freedom! Looking ceilingward again, he felt he was floating up there. He had never realized before how liberating writing a mystery was, and he wondered why Polly Praed was eternally complaining about its demands and constrictions and how one had to check facts and on and on and—

“This Smithson works at Scotland Yard?” asked Jury.

Oh, hell, thought Melrose, leaving the ceiling and landing hard on the floor. He sighed. Here comes the droning part.

“I just wondered why his wife was hanging around. It doesn't sound, if you don't mind my saying it, very authentic.”

Melrose shut his eyes against this intrusion of so-called reality.

“—especially,” Jury droned on, “with that cat. Chloe?”

Melrose snapped to attention. He'd got Jury there! “What about that cat in your chief superintendent's office?”

“Well, yes. But I don't carry it around in the squad car, do I? Cyril wouldn't go along for the ride, anyway.”

Diane said, as she tapped her blood-red fingernails against her glass,
“Oh, aren't you being a bit particular, Superintendent? I rather like Norma. If she could dress with a touch more chic.”

Dick Scroggs was calling the superintendent to the telephone, and Jury walked over to the bar.

“Someone named Macalvie,” said Scroggs.

“Mac
alvie.” Jury corrected him and took the receiver.

“I've been trying to get hold of you for a week, Jury,” said Macalvie, without preamble.

“I was out of the country. What do you want?”

“Well, it's what
you
want. You want a job. So come to Exeter and help out.”

“It's funny, Macalvie, but I'm not a freelance cop.”

“You're bloody on holiday, you said so.”

“Right. So what do I want with some damned case in Exeter if I'm on holiday?”

“Well, agreed no one wants some damned case in Exeter, including me. I could use some help—”

Jury nearly dropped the receiver. Macalvie asking for help?

“—but since I can't find any, I'm asking for you. Hold on—”

He turned away from the telephone to argue with one or another—or perhaps all—of his subordinates, and in the interim Jury had time to read a paragraph of the gardening column in the
Bald Eagle
and to reflect that Macalvie was much like Norma: police work (the divisional commander seemed to think) was an inexact science at best. Macalvie did not believe that an accumulation of discrete facts necessarily added up to anything. He had to grasp the gestalt of the problem. His lengthy silences at a crime scene made some people who didn't know him assume he'd gone to sleep on his feet.

“It's this tapiser.” Papers crackled; from a distance came the muted tap of typewriter keys.

Jury brought his mind back from the petunia border and asked, “This
what?
”

“Tapiser. One of the ladies who does, you know,
tapestry
.” The impatient tone told Jury that should be perfectly clear. “That's where she collapsed, right in front of these rondels.”

“Rondels?”

“Embroidered cushions. Very artistic, very historic. A big deal in the cathedral.”

“So what was it—her heart?”

“Could be. ME isn't sure what caused it.”

Jury frowned. “You're saying she dropped down dead without apparent cause?”

“That's what the ME's saying. Of course, he carries a spanner and pliers in his black bag, so consider the source. I'll tell you the details when you get here.”

Jury shook his head, returned his gaze to the flower border. “Macalvie, I'm sorry, but I don't get it. An accident in the cathedral and you're calling—”

“Why're you calling it an accident?”

“Why am I—? Macalvie, I'm not there, remember.”

“Obviously. That's the point.” From somewhere came a sudden crash, and Macalvie turned from the phone to yell at someone. Noises off went with Macalvie. “Devon and Cornwall constabulary needs a few good men,” he said, back again.

“But you'll settle for me.”

“Right. See you.” Macalvie hung up.

Jury shook his head, returned to the table and told the assembled company about this tapiser collapsing in front of the Exeter Cathedral rondels.

“It's the Stendhal syndrome,” said Diane. “Go on, Melrose, with your story.
I
love it.”

Melrose sighed. “You seem to be the only one, Diane.”

“No, she isn't,” snapped Vivian. “I think it's wonderful. Certainly better than
this
.” She smiled and waved the black notebook.

Trueblood brought the front legs of his chair down with a thud. Melrose gaped.

“I couldn't imagine what it was, at first. And then I remembered.” She looked round the table, seeming to savor her bit of suspense; her eyes lingered on Marshall, then on Melrose.

“Remembered what?”

“Yes, what?”

“Franco's cousin. I hope you don't mind, Joanna—”

“Mind what?”

“Well, you see, the cousin is a writer; he was writing this first novel, and I happened to mention I knew you and—” her little laugh was as insincere as the grasping of Joanna's hand—“well, he asked if perhaps you'd help him.”

Plant and Trueblood stared across the table at one another.

Theo Wrenn Browne declared, smirking, “Joanna is not very helpful in that department.”

“Oh, really?” Joanna returned the smirk. “I certainly am if one shows any promise
at all
. What's it about, Vivian?”

“Apparently, it's to do with a bank robbery. In the Middle Ages.”

Trueblood gagged. Melrose adjusted his spectacles and leaned closer to Vivian.

Vivian continued. “It's a peculiar situation. And why an Italian would choose San Francisco as a setting . . .” She shrugged, shook her head over the wayward writing habits of Italians.

Jury slugged back half a pint of beer and choked.

“A
bank
heist in the Middle Ages?” Joanna looked thoughtful. “Why not, considering my own—”

Vivian read: “ ‘They carried the poor creature into the bank vault—' ”

“ 
‘Dank
vau—
'ouch!
” Trueblood leaned down to rub his shin.

Melrose looked owlish.

Jury looked away.

“ ‘—and the pile of bills—' ”

“ 
‘Peal'
—‘peal of
bells'!
” Trueblood stopped; he bit his lip; he smiled.

Vivian ignored him, saying, “Well, the handwriting's rather grungy and I can't make it all out. And Dono never could spell. But it seems that the robbers kidnap the bank teller and shove her in the vault. Anyway, I hope you don't mind having a look at it, Joanna.” Vivian rose. “I have to go pack. Ta.” She wiggled her fingers and was out the door.