The Man with a Load of Mischief (23 page)

“That would have been, let's see, this is Thursday — last Friday week. Yes, I remember, because I was just in from the fishmonger's. Had fresh plaice and I remember remarking to Ruby about it.”

“But I thought you said she seldom saw you. That would only have been about two weeks ago. Only a few days before she died. We think she was murdered on the fifteenth.”

“Well, that was it, then. But she only stayed the night. Said she'd got to be back on the Saturday, as the vicar needed her for something, she said.”

“Why did she come?”

Mrs. Judd shrugged. “Who ever knew with Ruby? Suppose she came to see some boy. She had too many of
them
for her own good, I can tell you. That policeman this afternoon said Ruby's told people she was visiting us when she went off last week. That's a laugh, that is. Gone off with some fellow, she was.”

“Apparently not, Mrs. Judd,” said Jury, keeping his voice level. But the arrow hit home, at least. She reddened. “She was popular with the men, was she?”

“It don't take much to be popular with men, Inspector.” And she looked him up and down as if he ought to know. “Ruby was always out, gadding, those months she was living at home. Now, Merriweather —”

But Jury had no interest in the excellent Merriweather Judd,
with her wedge-shaped face and crinkled hairdo. When she caught Jury looking at her, she dabbed at her eyes with the handkerchief.

“Where was Ruby, then, before she came here to live with you? That is, where was her last job?”

“London. Don't ask me doing what. Said she was a hairstylist's assistant, but where did she ever get the training for that?”

“You don't know her address or who her friends were in London? Or why she came back here?”

Mrs. Judd looked at him as if he were a not very fresh piece of plaice himself. “I told you, because she hadn't got the money to live in her usual high style —”

“Probably she wasn't just a hairdresser's assistant,” interrupted Merriweather. “Probably got her money from other sources.”

“Are you both hinting that Ruby was a prostitute?”

The effect was electric. Mrs. Judd turned beet-red and dropped her knitting. Merriweather gasped. Even Judd stirred in his chair.

“That's a terrible thing to say about a poor, dead girl!” Mrs. Judd searched a tissue out of her apron pocket. Judd patted her arm.

“I'm sorry, Mrs. Judd.” He turned to Merriweather. “It was the remark about the money, Miss; I assumed that's what you meant.”

“She just said she was going to be living on Easy Street one of these days. Plenty of money she'd have, she said.”

Jury riveted his attention on Merriweather. “When was that?”

The girl wet her finger, turning the page of the magazine. “When she was here. When Mum said. Last Friday week. She hinted this and that like she always does. I never pay any attention to her.”

“What sort of hints?” Jury persisted.

“Oh, like ‘I'll be buying my clothes at Liberty's and not Marks and Sparks from now on.' Silly things like that.”

“Nothing as to who might be going to give her this money, or why?”

Merriweather only shook her head, her face still on the magazine.

“I understand Ruby kept a diary. Have any of you ever seen it?” Three heads shook in unison.

“I'll just send an officer round tomorrow, then, to look at her room.”

“It's been gone over once,” said Mrs. Judd. “I should think you lot would have more feeling that to be bothering the poor kin —”

Feeling a sour taste rise in his throat at this blatant hypocrisy, Jury rose quickly. Wiggins got up too, stuffing his pen in the pocket of his shirt. “Your daughter's body will be released to you for the funeral as soon as we get Home Office approval.”

Mrs. Judd managed a commendable act there at the end, crying,
Oh, Jack, our poor Ruby
. And Judd saying,
There, there, Mother.

Merriweather alone forgot to do her part. As she walked them to the door, she was smiling down over a picture of Robert Redford.

 • • • 

On the way back to Long Piddleton Jury slowed for the “dead man,” now lit with lanterns beyond the dark Cock and Bottle. He saw once again in his mind's eye the arm of Ruby sticking out from the hardpacked earth. He shivered and ran a hand over his face. Some vagrant thought seemed trying to work its way up from the depths of his mind. What was it? He was still trying to make it surface as he bumped the Morris up to the front of the Man with a Load of Mischief.

 • • • 

Jury fell asleep that night with the folder on the Matchett murder propped on his chest.

W
hen he awoke on Christmas morning, the folder was on the floor. He retrieved it, and spent a good hour going through the loose pages. What Matchett had told him was here confirmed. Both he and the girl, Harriet Gethvyn-Owen, had alibis — all of those people in the audience. It was the maid, Daisy Trump, who had brought Celia Matchett her tray. Her mistress had called to her to bring it inside (though usually it was left by the door) and put it on the little table just inside the door. So Daisy could testify to having seen Celia Matchett alive then. The cocoa was drugged, and that was one thing the police couldn't understand: why would an ordinary thief drug the cocoa and then come back to rob her office? Why not wait until she was out of it? Jury agreed it made little sense. He looked at the diagram of the office. Desk facing window, where she had been sitting. Door to hall opposite desk. Little squares marking off tables, chairs, bureau.

Jury replaced the papers in the folder. God. Two days ago
he had only
two
murders to solve. Here it was Christmas morning, and he had five.

 • • • 

“More coffee, sir?” asked Daphne, hovering at his elbow, waiting to be of service.

“No, thanks. Did Ruby ever say anything about being a hairdresser's assistant in London?”

“Ruby? That's a laugh. She wouldn't do work like that. She had a job, all right. More like posing for — you know, photos.”

Jury thought of Sheila Hogg, and her supposed “modeling” job in Soho and wondered. Through these meditations he heard the distant
brr-brr
of the telephone, and in a moment Twig was fetching him.

 • • • 

“Jury, here.”

“I'm at the Long Pidd station, sir.” Wiggins had begun referring to the village in the affectionate diminuitive. The piercing whistle of Pluck's kettle served as background music. “No diary in Ruby's room at home or in the vicarage.” Wiggins interrupted himself to thank Pluck for a cuppa. “Now, this Mrs. Gaunt — and isn't she the old flintheart? — said she'd often seen Ruby write in a book. She said it was small and dark red. Didn't she ever get huffy, though, when I asked her if she'd taken a look in it!” Wiggins slurped his tea. “Said she didn't remember when she last saw Ruby writing in it.”

“All right. Now, there are a couple of bits of information I want. First of all: William Bicester-Strachan. He was with the War Ministry, so ring up C1 and see if you can get the story on some sort of inquiry at the time he lived in London. Second: have them go through the obits for an accidental death that occurred roughly twenty-two years ago in Scotland — Sutherland, to be exact. James Rivington was the name. I'm particularly interested in the exact time of his accident.”

“Very good, sir. Merry Christmas.” Wiggins rang off. Jury sat there feeling a little ashamed of himself. He supposed that for a long time he had been underestimating Wiggins, who certainly did his job as long as his health could hold out. Would
his poor corpse be clasping a notebook, along with his handkerchief? For years, Jury had been trying to call him by his first name, but somehow stuck at “Al.” Well, he was always right there with his pen and cough drops. Jury thought he was probably looking forward to his Christmas dinner with Constable Pluck and his family. And Jury was certainly looking forward to his, with Melrose Plant. And family. But first he would have to stop by Darrington's and Marshall Trueblood's.

 • • • 

“That girl, Ruby Judd. She was a real busybody. No wonder the vicar liked her, she could talk the teats off a cow. They must have had some lovely old natters.” Sheila Hogg was well into her third gin-and-tonic by now.

“Where did you run into her, Sheila?” asked Jury.

“In the shops. She was always mooning about me thinking that she might be invited up to the house to have a look at the Great Author.” She was sitting by Jury, swinging a silken leg and a foot clad in a velvet shoe which matched her long skirt. But she was looking at Oliver — and looking, Jury thought, bleak, despite the sarcasm.

“And did she?” asked Jury. “Get over to the house?”

“Oh, yes. Several times, she carried my parcels for me. Went all over the place, oohing and aahing and peeking behind doors and so forth. Nosy little — well, she's dead now.”

“And you, Mr. Darrington. Did you have anything to do with Ruby Judd?”

The pause was fractional, but still too long. “No.”

“Is that a fact, love?” said Sheila. “Then why is it she suddenly started coming the heavy over me? You didn't give her a bit of a feel now and then?”

“God, but you're vulgar, Sheila!”

“Mr. Darrington, it's very important we know as much as possible about Ruby Judd. Is there anything you could tell us that would help? For example, did she ever mention anything to you about anyone in Long Piddleton that might have been cause for blackmail?”

“I don't know what you're bloody talking about.” He shoved
his own nearly empty glass toward Sheila. “Give me another drink.”

“Where were both of you Tuesday week? The night before the dinner at the Man with a Load of Mischief?”

Oliver lowered the hand that held the glass, looking at Jury with eyes glazed over either by gin or fear. “I suppose now you think I killed Ruby Judd, is that it?”

“I have to check the movements of all of those people at the inn the night Small was murdered. Obviously, there's a connection.”

Sheila's foot seemed to stop in midswing. “Do you mean to say you think it was one of
us
? Someone at the Man with a Load of Mischief that night?”

“It's certainly a possibility.” Jury looked from Sheila to Oliver. “Where were you?”

“Together.” Oliver drained his glass. “Right here.”

Jury looked at Sheila, who merely nodded, her eyes on Oliver. “You're quite sure of that?” Jury asked. “Most people can't remember where they were two nights ago without searching their memories. This was over a week ago.”

Oliver didn't answer. But Sheila did, turning a somewhat over-bright smile on Jury that belied the grim determination in her tone: “Believe me, sweetie, I know when Oliver is here.” The smile faded as she looked at Darrington. “And when he's not.”

 • • • 

It being Christmas, Trueblood's shop was closed, so Jury went round to his cottage, situated in the village square. It was a charming house, cruck-ended, the gracefully curved split oak meeting at the top and straddling the base. On the near end were two well-spaced diamond-paned windows.

Trueblood was just putting the finishing touches to his toilette (could it be called anything else?), preparatory to dining with the Bicester-Strachans.

“Aren't you coming along, old chap? Give you a good opportunity to question us all at once. The
creme de la creme
of Long Pidd. Except for Melrose Plant. He wouldn't be caught dead at
one of Lorraine's omnium gatherums.” He affixed a knot in his gray silk tie.

“I'm having dinner with Mr. Plant.” Jury was looking for a place to sit, but every bit of furniture looked too precious to carry his weight. He finally settled on a plum-velvet love seat. “I take it Mrs. Bicester-Strachan was interested in Mr. Plant?”

“ ‘Interested in'? Darling, she nearly wrestled him to the floor one night at the Load of Mischief.” Trueblood flipped his tie inside his vest, adjusted his perfectly tailored jacket, and fetched a cut crystal decanter, two tulip-shaped sherry glasses, and a bowl of shelled walnuts, which he set before Jury.

“I assume you've heard by now about Ruby Judd.”

“God, yes. The one who did the moonlight flit. Pity.”

“It wasn't exactly a ‘moonlight flit,' as you say. I think she was seduced away by someone. The murderer probably suggested she pack up a bag to make her absence more acceptable. Otherwise, there might have been questions asked.”

“The sort that are being asked now, I take it?” Trueblood lit up a small cigar. “And you want to know where I was on the night in question. Whatever night that might have been, say I, innocently.”

“Yes. But that's only one question. The other is, What was your relationship with Ruby Judd?”

Trueblood was shocked. “My
‘relationship
'? Surely you're jesting.” He crossed his beautifully tailored legs and dribbled a bit of ash into a porcelain dish. “Why, if you old dears at the Yard found me in the back streets of Chelsea with a ring in my ear, you'd pull me in before I could get my falsies off.”

Jury choked on his sherry. “Oh, come on, now, Mr. Trueblood.”

“Call me Marsha. Everyone else does.”

Jury hadn't the time for Trueblood's patter. “Were you or were you not sleeping with Ruby Judd?”

“Yes.”

Jury still had his mouth open, prepared to override more of Trueblood's jokes. The direct answer threw him off balance.

“But only the once, mind you. Well, she was rather a cute little baggage, but deadly dull. Mindless. Now, look, darling,
you're not going to let this get around, are you?” Without the act, Jury realized he might be appealing to women. Trueblood went on: “It would simply
ruin
my reputation. My business would go down the drain. And I've this, you know,
friend
in London who would be heartbroken if he knew I'd been unfaithful. Silly little twit, Ruby was. But what's one to do in a one-eyed village like this except listen to all the argy-bargy between the old crows like Miss Crisp and Agatha. I gather she'll be at Melrose's ruining the festivities. Oh,
do
come to Lorraine's, you'd have so much more fun. There'll be so many more people to accuse —”