The Man with a Load of Mischief (7 page)

“Did you recognize him, Lady Ardry?”

“Recognize? Certainly not. His head was in the beer keg. I didn't pull it out to have a look at his face, dear man. Didn't touch anything at all. I know one isn't supposed to. I've some knowledge of these matters, after all —”

Jury noticed that Wiggins, who had come in and seated himself, was washing down two-toned pills with tea. He smiled and said, “Go on, madam.” Jury already had the details supplied by Lady Ardry from Pratt's report — except for the embroidery of the waitress's hysterics and Lady Ardry's lack of them, neither of which he believed. “What did you do then?”

She squared her shoulders and leaned her chin on her walking stick. “Took in every detail I could, because I thought it might be important later.” Then, silkily, she said, “Being a writer, I've quite good powers of observation. The man was not large, but
then it
is
difficult to judge sizes when a body's dangling that way. He was strangled, wasn't he?” She clasped her own neck in her hands as if to wrench it from her neck. “Wearing a houndstooth-checked suit, a bit racetrack-toutish, and a bit the worse for beer.” She smiled broadly at her little joke. “After observing the room and making my mental notes, I returned to the others.”

“That would be the people in the dining room and bar? There were quite a few there, I understand. Would you like to give me a kind of sketch of those people who were present?”

She would like nothing better. Hitching her chair closer to the desk, she drew from her leather shopping bag a sheaf of foolscap. “I've just made a few notes.” She adjusted her glasses. “Now, besides myself and the servants — that'd be Murch and Twig — silly young girl and the old waiter, quite palsied, senile, not a proper suspect, I shouldn't think. Then there's my nephew, Melrose Plant. He lives at Ardry End. You may have heard of my family. Descended from Baron Mountardry of Swaledale — that would be about sixteen hundred or thereabouts — and Ardry-Plant (family name shortened to ‘Plant'), Marquess of Ayreshire and Blythedale, Viscount of Nithorwold, Ross and Cromarty; Melrose's father was the eighth Earl of Caverness, married to Lady Patricia-Marjorie Mountardry, second daughter of the third Earl of Farquhar. Father was Squadron Leader Clive D'ardry De Knopf, fourth Viscount of —”

Jury interrupted. “I'm getting lost, Lady Ardry. My, that is an impressive lineage, madam, it really is. Makes my head spin.”

She nodded curtly. “I know. And all handed to my nephew straight on a silver platter. Lord Ardry, eighth Earl of Caverness, and all the rest. A title given him without his so much as lifting a finger. And then the silly man gave it back.”

“Gave it back?”

“Turned in his ticket, or however you do things like that over here.”

“Well, one seldom hears of anyone's doing that — even here. What reason did he give?”

“Reason? Oh, he said he didn't want always to be going down
to London to sit in the House of Lords as he should have done — leaving Ardry End there for vandals and squatters and the like to be getting into. I offered to look after it for him and he said . . . oh, I don't know what he said . . . something silly. One never knows what Melrose is talking about.” She lowered her voice. “I think he's quite mad, sometimes.” She gripped her walking stick as if she might thrash Plant's image, risen before her. “Anyway, now he's just plain Melrose Plant. Family name.”

“And the rest of the guests?”

“There's Oliver Darrington and Sheila Hogg —”

“Darrington. The name sounds familiar. Isn't that the chap who writes mystery books?”

“Rubbishy thrillers, yes. Sheila's his secretary — another one of those artsy-tartsy types, you know, blood-red fingernails and necklines down to there. Or I should say she
calls
herself his secretary; I believe we know just about how often she sits down to a typewriter. Lives right in the house with him.” Agatha sniffed. “Then Vivian Rivington. A poet. Bit of a stick. Subdued, and long brown sweaters with pockets she's always got her fists in. Probably sexually repressed. That quiet type is always suspicious, don't you think? I know she's sweet on Melrose, though they say she's going to marry Simon Matchett. He's the owner of the Man with a Load of Mischief, and a dear boy. They're supposed to be nearly engaged, but I can't credit that. Vivian's not Simon's type at all. Nor is she Melrose's, if it comes to that. She's nobody's, far as I can see.”

“Where was Mr. Matchett when you found the body?”

“Upstairs with the others. When the Murch girl set up such a howl, of course Simon was the first downstairs. After me, that is. You can imagine his reaction to find one of his own guests murdered.”

“Yes. Now, were there any other guests?”

“Isabel Rivington, Vivian's step-sister. Older than Vivian, by fifteen or more years, but looks as young. Or maybe it's that Vivian looks old. Pale, Mousy. That sort. You'll see. Isabel's been taking care of Vivian ever since she was small. She's trustee of Vivian's estate. But it's Vivian who's got the money, or will do when she's thirty or when she gets married. I'm not sure
exactly
how much—” She paused here as if hoping the chief inspector might be able to fill her in. “Well, anyway, she's an heiress . . . if she means to marry, I'd say she'd better be getting on with it, wouldn't you? But that sort, well, men don't take much notice of. Except, of course, for the money. Her father died in an accident. Vivian's father, that is. She doesn't like to talk about it. I think it rather unhinged Vivian's mind.”

“Any others?”

“Lorraine and Willie Bicester-Strachan. Not the most devoted couple in Long Pidd. Willie must be a century older than Lorraine, and rather dull. Pots around with the vicar a lot, reading old books and talking local history. Oh, yes, the vicar was dining there too that night. Frankly, I think men of the cloth should go a bit easier on the wine, even if it is the holidays, don't you? The vicar is our local mole, burrowing into everything. Hobby is local history. Well, that's the lot. . . .” She paused and slapped her knee. “Oh, dear me, no. How could I forget our antiques dealer, Marshall Trueblood. Dear Marsha, as we call him. You know what I mean. Pink shirts and tinted glasses.”

“Hmm. Now, according to my information, there was a broken lock on the cellar door. Did you notice it by any chance?”

She paused. “I ought to have done,” was her ambiguous reply.

Jury let that go. “William Small came into the dining room while your party was in progress, didn't he?”

“I think I remember seeing him. Wasn't someone standing drinks for him? Marshall Trueblood?”

“Umm. Do you remember what time that was?”

She hesitated, seeming to search Jury's face for a time —
any
time — to which she might pin Small's appearance. “Not . . . precisely. Before dinner, certainly. And that was nine-ish. I remember feeling fiendishly hungry. Had prawn cocktail for starters, not really fresh —”

“You didn't see Small again until you went to the cellar?”

“No.” She was quick to add, “No one did. Must have gone up to his room . . . ah, yes! Didn't Marshall Trueblood mention he'd — Small, that is — got a bit tiddly —”

“Perhaps Mr. Trueblood can fill me in on that.” Jury doubted
very much she remembered with more than fleeting accuracy anything that transpired before her grisly discovery of the body. Jury changed the subject. “About this man Ainsley —”

“Oh, him.” She shrugged. Jury assumed that since she hadn't been personally involved with its discovery, that particular corpse needn't be accounted for.

“Were you in the Jack and Hammer that evening?”

“No. But I did pop in for a word with Scroggs in the afternoon —”

“So there's nothing, really, you can add . . . ?”

“No.” Her tone was grudging.

“Thank you, Lady Ardry.” Jury rose, and Wiggins snapped shut his notebook and requested a cup of tea. Pluck honored him with the leavings of the pot.

“I'm sorry, Lady Ardry. It was remiss of us not to offer you tea,” said Jury.

She dusted her skirts and planted her stick squarely in front of her. “Quite all right. I haven't time to be lollygagging about over tea, not with all this business going on. And where are you staying, Inspector?”

Sergeant Pluck, who was unwrapping a package of digestive biscuits, put in, “I got you digs at the Load of Mischief, sir. Thought you'd like to be right on the spot.”

As Jury was steering Lady Ardry to the door, she plucked at his sleeve and whispered, “If I could have just one word with you in private —”

“Yes, of course.” They stepped into the small chamber that debouched onto the street.

“Inspector, will you be talking to my nephew, Melrose Plant, about this business?”

“I shall want to question anyone who was there.”

“Thought so. The thing is — I might as well say it straight out — there's a bit of bad blood between us.”

“You mean he might try to implicate you?”

Agatha crushed her walking stick to her bosom. “Me?
Me?
How could he possibly?”

“I merely thought —”

“If he
dares
do a thing like that, if he in any way tries to twist the facts —” Her right hand strangled her cane as her left grappled with Jury's lapel. Then, nervously, she whispered: “Everyone in Long Pidd will tell you how horribly ‘clever' he is. Clever, my foot! He fools around at University teaching one course. Couldn't land a full-time job. And just because he can do the
Times
crossword in under fifteen minutes —”

“Fifteen minutes!”

“Well, good Lord, man, if you had nothing to do but sit in front of your fireplace with a bottle of port, you could get a lot of practice in, too. But you and I, we have to
work
for our living. We don't wait for the world to come knocking on our door. The thing is, you see, there's much of Ardry End that's mine by rights. My husband, Melrose's uncle, would certainly have expected Melrose to do better by me.” When Jury didn't respond to this, she shook his sleeve as if she'd bring him back to his senses. “The point is —”

“I understand. That your nephew might have some unkind things to say about you.”

“Precisely. So now you'll know to pay no attention to him.”

“I shall certainly keep that in mind.”

Agatha tapped him with her walking stick. “You've a good head on your shoulders, Inspector. Knew it the moment I saw you.” And she sailed out the door Jury held wide for her.

 • • • 

Leaving Wiggins to partake of tea with Constable Pluck, Jury walked out through the door over which was the bright blue sign
POLICE
. He looked up and down the High Street, fascinated by the collection of brightly painted shops whose colors were now muted by the winter dusk.

Since it was early closing, the Jack and Hammer was locked up tight. Jury made a tent of his hands and peered in the windows, but saw only shadowy shapes of tables and chairs. They were probably out for the afternoon. He moved back from the window and looked up at the wooden beam overhead, on which the body had been found.

As Jury stared upward, a youngish man came to lounge in
the doorway of the antiques shop next to the pub. He assumed this to be its owner and walked over.

The shop was an attractive little building with Regency bow-front windows. It had escaped the painters brush, unlike most of the shops and cottages.

Jury produced his identification. “Inspector Jury, C.I.D. Are you Mr. Trueblood?”

“Indeed I am. I thought you were the one from Scotland Yard. Isn't it all too hideous?”

“I wonder if I could ask you a few questions, Mr. Trueblood?”

“Come in, come in. I've just put the kettle on. Have a seat, do.” Trueblood indicated a settee that looked much too delicate for the likes of Jury. The legs were cabriole, with finely carved acanthus leaves on the knees.

“Georgian,” said Trueblood, as if Jury had come to buy. “An exquisite piece — don't worry, it's stronger than it looks.”

Trueblood arranged himself in a fauteuil, his hands lightly folded on his knees. His shirt was sea green and the glasses were tinted, as Lady Ardry had said. Jury glanced over the room as he took out his packet of cigarettes. However questionable Trueblood's taste in lovers might be, his taste in furniture was impeccable. He must have a hundred thousand quid's worth of stuff in here.

“Mr. Trueblood, you were at the Man with a Load of Mischief the night the first of these murders occurred?”

Trueblood gasped. “Indeed I was, Inspector. And do you know, I actually bought the man a
drink
—” He let his forehead fall into his well-manicured hand, as if the drink in question might have been hemlock.

“So I understand. What did you talk about?”

There was a sharp intake of breath as Trueblood apparently gasped for more oxygen before busying his mind. His wide eyes, behind the tinted glasses, roamed the room. “Do you know, we only talked about the weather — it had been snowing for two days, and then pouring with rain that night — well, the usual chitchat.”

“This Small didn't seem anxious, worried, anything like that?”

“On the contrary, he seemed quite elated.”

“Elated?”

“Yes. As if he'd just got good news, or won the pools. ‘Lemme tell you, mate, it ain't orfen a chap 'as a runna luck loike I done.' The man was jubilant. But he wouldn't tell me what his run of luck was.”

“This was before dinner, was it?”

“Yes. About eight, eight-thirty. He'd already had his dinner. Yes, I remember Lorraine — that's Lorraine Bicester-Strachan — nearly dragged me off the stool and into dinner.”