The Man with a Load of Mischief (32 page)

Wiggins was astonished. “You mean you suspect him?”

“That's right, Sergeant. And another thing—” Jury broke into a coughing fit. He hoped to God he wasn't catching one of Wiggins's nameless diseases. He blew his nose and went on: “Another thing: when Superintendent Racer returns — if you should happen to forget just where I've gone, well, it's all right, I won't hold it against you.”

Wiggins smiled broadly. “I've a rotten memory, sir. But here—” He reached in his pocket and brought out a brand-new box of cough drops. “You best take these. Oughtn't to neglect a cough like that, you know.” Wiggins was delighted to share his pharmacopoeia with his superior.

Jury tried to give them back: “I don't really need —”

But Wiggins, if sometimes uncertain about matters of police procedure, was not to be toyed with here. “I insist. Put them in your pocket.”

Meekly, Jury did as he was bid.

W
hen they walked into the drawing room of Ardry End, Jury was surprised to see both Lady Ardry and Vivian Rivington.

Agatha seemed equally surprised to see Chief Inspector Jury. “So there you are! I suppose you realize that Superintendent Racer — a most unpleasant man, I must say — has been trying to track you down ever since he got here?” She seemed clearly torn between aiding and abetting Racer's cause and being privy to her bit of information. She wheeled on Melrose Plant. “I asked you when you called where he was, Plant, and you said you'd not seen him all day.”

“I lied.”

“And just where is Superintendent Racer?” asked Jury, wanting to make sure he knew which places to avoid.

“I'm sure
I
don't know. Had his room all nicely done up — always happy to do
my
part — and the dreadful man walked in, took one look around, turned on his heel and marched out. It's no wonder this country's in the mess —”

“Begging your pardon, sir,” said Ruthven, after a discreet cough. “But I believe the superintendent is ensconced at the
Man with a Load of Mischief, sir. I believe he wanted to be at the scene of the crime.” Ruthven seemed not a little thrilled.

“Thank you, Ruthven.” Scene of the wine cellar would be more like it. Matchett had the best one for miles,
and
a superior cook.

“Is Martha ready?” asked Plant. Ruthven nodded. “And you've fixed up the alcove in here, I see. Good, good.”

Jury saw then that the alcove at the far end of the room had been fitted up with a curtain, as if it were a tiny stage. The French doors led out to the garden beyond, now layered with snow. But instead of the table and Queen Anne chairs which usually sat in front of this window, a sort of chaise lounge had been moved in and piled with pillows and velvet coverings, so that it resembled a bed.

“What's going on?” asked Jury.

“Don't ask
me”
said Agatha, striking her ample bosom with her fist. “It's one of crazy Melrose's schemes. Always has been theatrical.”

“If you'd only stop complaining,” said Vivian, “we could get on with this. Though I must admit, I'd like to know what's going on, too.”

“Neither of you need to know,” said Melrose. “Just play your parts. And now, Inspector, if you will excuse us for just a few moments, I must rehearse my cast.”

Ruthven escorted Jury from the room in a way that almost made him feel he was being taken into custody. He was left staring at the pikes and staffs in the hallway. In a few minutes, he saw the woman who he presumed must be Martha, Ruthven's wife, come through the hall and make him a brief curtsy. Then she passed into the drawing room. In another ten minutes, Plant opened the door and beckoned him in.

Plant drew a chair around for Jury, placing it about thirty feet from the curtained alcove. “Now then, Inspector Jury. We are going to present a scene — or part of one — from
Othello
. I shall play that part; Martha is to be Emilia; Vivian will be Desdemona. All right, you have your parts, everyone?”

Truculently, Agatha said,
“You
have parts. All I'm to do is —”

“Don't talk about it; just
do
it,” said Melrose.

“I still can't see why I'm not to be Desdemona; after all, Vivian's had no —”

“God! We're not trying out for the Royal Shakespeare Company! it's merely a demonstration for the inspector, here. He has to
see
it. Now, get back there behind that curtain and do as you're told!”

She marched off, sullen. “I've not even got one line to say.”

“If I gave you one you'd be saying it all afternoon.”

Agatha made a face at Melrose's back, and let the curtain drop in front of her.

Melrose then turned to the cook, Martha. “Now, Martha, all you need do is read those few lines I've checked, and don't worry at all about how you sound.” Martha turned beet-red. She must really have felt this to be her stage debut.

“Pretend this area”—Melrose made a sweeping gesture with his hand, standing before the curtain — “is the stage. The curtained recess is Desdemona's bed. Now, Othello has been on stage for some time with Desdemona. There's a lot of talk about the handkerchief, and Iago. Vivian — I mean, Desdemona — is in the bed.”

Vivian took her place, lying down rather awkwardly among the pillows and bedclothes, and said, “Kill me tomorrow; let me live tonight!”

“Now, here, the stage direction reads: ‘Smothers her.' ” And Melrose picked a pillow from the bed and held it a bit above Vivian's face. Then he turned away from the bed, dropping the pillow, and pulled the curtain in front of it. Martha, standing off to the left, having watched the proceeding intently, walked up and pretended to be knocking at an invisible door.

From behind the curtain came a rustling, and a moan: “ ‘O Lord! Lord! Lord!' ” Martha still beat on the door — the thin air — with both hands. Melrose made an elaborate display of looking from Martha to the bed, and recited: “ ‘What, not dead yet.' ” He walked over and pulled the curtain back, where Desdemona lay obscured partially by the disheveled bedclothes and pillows. Melrose stood in front of her, raised the pillow and lowered it, saying, “ ‘I would not have thee linger in thy pain.' ” There came from the bed another thrashing and moaning.

In the meantime, Martha-Emilia was still pretending to hammer on the door with upraised fists. Melrose got up from the bed, where he had been leaning over poor Desdemona, and again closed the bedcurtain. He went to the absent door, pretended to open it, and Martha walked through, reading woodenly: “ ‘I do beseech you / That I may speak with you, O good my lord!' ”

Plant put his hand on her arm. “That's enough, Martha. We've made our point. From here, Inspector, there would have to be one change. In the text, Emilia goes to the bed, and Desdemona says, ‘Commend me to my kind lord,' and dies. That would have to be omitted. Because Desdemona” — and Melrose drew back the bed-curtain — “is already dead.”

Agatha sat up in the bed, rubbing her throat, and saying, “You did it deliberately, Plant; you nearly killed me, you silly fool —”

Vivian had in the meantime come in through the French window from outside, shivering. “Good lord, Melrose. Next time you want me to do Desdemona, give me a coat. It's freezing.”

Jury was momentarily struck dumb. A switch. It had been a switch — the drugged body of Celia Matchett put in the bed in place of Harriet Gethvyn-Owen. Jury applauded.

Melrose bowed and said: “That will be all ladies. Thank you.”

Agatha, who had climbed off the bed and was pulling down her skirts, gaped. “All?
All?
You drag us over here, make us go through this ridiculous charade, and then don't explain to us what it's about? Idiot!”

Even Vivian seemed a bit put out. “Yes, really, Melrose. What
is
it all about?”

It was well she should ask, thought Jury. She didn't know it, but Melrose Plant might just have saved her life.

 • • • 

After Plant had got rid of the women, he and Jury settled down before the fire with whiskey and such canapes as Martha could muster after her brief brush with the stage.

“It wouldn't have taken much of an actress to throw a few words over her shoulder at the maid,” said Jury.

“No. And I imagine she had on Celia Matchett's clothes under
her costume and the Matchett woman's hair-do done up under her stage wig. Probably Harriet Gethvyn-Owen made sure the room wasn't well lit. They had to be sure someone saw ‘Celia' alive whilst the play was in progress. She was actually lying dead on the stage.” Plant lit up a cigar.

“On the stage. God, what nerve — smothering her right before the eyes of the whole audience.”

“Was she drugged, do you think?” said Plant. “And then brought — by Matchett, I assume — to the curtained recess before the scene was played. There was a curtain behind the bed, too. That's how Celia got out and then back in again. When I closed the curtain Vivian (it would have been Harriet) got off the bed, went out the French door, and Agatha simply got on the bed. Of course, Harriet would have had to
lift
Celia on, dressed in identical costume. But from that distance, amongst the pillows and bed-coverings, and with Othello obscuring the view, no one in the audience would have suspected there were two Desdemonas, would they?”

“Then Gethvyn-Owen goes the few feet to Celia's office, takes off her costume and wig and sits down at the desk,” said Jury. “And Daisy comes along, and assumes the woman at the desk is Celia. Then Harriet would have had to go back to the stage-bed, and carry the now-dead Celia to the office. Mrs. Matchett was a small woman, so I guess she could manage it. Anyway, it was only a matter of a few feet. Then Harriet is ready for her curtain-call. My God, what nerve!”

“If she was that cool a customer, it makes one wonder why she didn't just leave her stage-bed, go to the Matchett woman's office, and do her in there. Ever so much simpler,” said Melrose.

“Would you? Had you been Harriet? And left your lover with a perfect alibi while you had none? A cold-blooded woman, but not a dumb one, apparently. This way, they are really in it together,” said Jury. Then he shrugged. “Of course her killing Celia in the office would still be a possibility, except that four other murders have been done in Long Piddleton to cover up what happened sixteen years ago.” Jury leaned forward. “My guess is that Ruby Judd found that bracelet somewhere round that stage-bed. For Simon Matchett, it would be a real facer,
wouldn't it? What in hell was his wife's bracelet, the bracelet she always wore, doing on Ruby Judd's arm sixteen years later? He must have guessed where she found it. And he had no way of getting it back. He must have felt in constant danger of her remembering.” Jury helped himself to more whiskey. “Then he finds out that more than one person knows about it. Maybe Ruby got her Uncle Will in on it by way of getting advice. Then Will gets in his old friend, Ansy-the-Pansy. Which of them knew Creed is anybody's guess. So now we have the presence of the policeman in case Matchett cuts up rough. Only just imagine: it must have been like a horrible game of dominoes for him. First he discovers Ruby's told her uncle, then her uncle lets him know
he's
told Hainsley, and, perhaps, Creed. So Matchett had to get Hainsley and Creed here. He was working against time and he couldn't leave the village anyway. Since he was an actor it was probably no trick at all to imitate the voice of Smollett and lure them here. And it might account for the weird, public aspect of the killings. It's not that easy to get rid of one body, much less
four
. He could hardly walk down the streets of Long Pidd with a shovel to bury them all. So he does just the opposite — displays them. What gall. That way, perhaps we'll think there's a maniac on the loose.”

“You think Ruby was blackmailing Matchett herself?”

“More likely sexual blackmail. Maybe she thought she could get him to marry her. After all, she tried it on with just about every other man in town, and Matchett is the most attractive of all. Where was she
going
when she left, if not to meet someone? Stupid girl. Yet she left the bracelet behind. And somewhere, dammit! that diary!”

“But if they were thinking of blackmailing Matchett — Small and his friends — well, Matchett has no money to speak of — oh, stupid of me. Vivian Rivington does, though. Matchett would have to marry Vivian to get it, don't forget.”

“Matchett could have told Ruby that after he'd got the money, well, then, he'd, ah, get rid of Vivian, and marry Ruby. Frankly, I think Simon Matchett could convince any woman of any damned thing he wanted. Like —” Jury paused.

“ ‘Like'?”

“Like Isabel Rivington, for example.”

Plant was silent for a moment. “What do you mean?”

“Well, you wondered, didn't you, why Isabel, so besotted with Matchett herself, would push Vivian at him? To say nothing of losing control of the money herself?”

“You're not suggesting Simon and Isabel have some sort of ‘arrangement'? As Simon and Ruby might have had?”

“Yes, of course. Though I doubt we'll ever know the truth of it. But that's what I've always thought.”

Melrose looked at Jury for a long moment. “What do you suppose happened to Harriet Gethvyn-Owen?”

Jury considered this, then said. “What I wonder is, what was going to happen to Vivian Rivington?”

They drank their whiskey and sodas and stared at one another, and then at the fire.

J
ury drove slowly toward the High Street, heading in the opposite direction from the Man with a Load of Mischief. He was delaying the tiresome, inevitable meeting with Chief Superintendent Racer. Perhaps he could stop at the Jack and Hammer and have Mrs. Scroggs fix him a meal.