The Man with a Load of Mischief (8 page)

“And you didn't see him after that? No one seems to have seen him for over two hours.”

“I think the poor dear must have been under the weather. He told me he was going up to his room. Been drinking for two or three hours straight.” From a room beyond came the whistle of a teakettle. “Now, you really must join me. I've some marvelous Darjeeling, and some delicious petits fours a friend of mine gave me for Christmas.” Not staying for an answer, he was up and mincing his way to the kitchen. “Won't be a tic, now.” He disappeared into the inner regions.

Jury surveyed Trueblood's stock. Hepplewhite and Sheraton chairs; secretaires, commodes, satinwood tea caddies; Waterford glass in a breakfront. An ormolu clock with porcelain panels was ticking softly at his elbow. Probably cost Jury six months' salary.

Trueblood was back with a silver tray and delicate china. Jury wasn't used to such etherealized cups and saucers. His cup was shaped like a conch shell, the handle an airy spindril of green. He was almost afraid to pick it up. On a plate were tiny cakes, prettily iced.

“And were you in the Jack and Hammer on that Friday evening?”

“I popped in about six-ish for a Campari and lime, yes.”

“You didn't see this man Ainsley? I mean later? He supposedly arrived around seven, maybe seven-thirty.”

“No, I didn't.”

“There's a back entrance to the Jack and Hammer which is usually unlocked.”

“Yes, I use it myself, sometimes.” Trueblood gasped slightly. “Ah! I see what you're getting at. Like the Small business. Coming in the back?”

That was not what Jury meant; he attached quite a different meaning to the cellar door of the Man with a Load of Mischief. Jury looked ceilingward. “Do you keep rooms above the shop?”

“No, Inspector. I used to do, but what with the noise from the pub —”

“So you saw and heard nothing?”

With his cup at his lips, Trueblood shook his head.

“And you live — where?”

“Have a cottage off the square, beyond the bridge. You can't mistake it; it's the cruck-ended one.”

“You lived in London — Chelsea, to be exact — didn't you?” Jury mentally scanned Pratt's report. “And kept a shop in Jermyn Street?”

“Good Lord! You policemen!” Trueblood clapped his forehead in mock wonder. “It's rather like having one's past come up to meet one.”

“Northamptonshire seems a bit out of the mainstream,” Jury said.

Trueblood looked at him shrewdly. “For someone like me, you mean?”

Jury noticed the pitch of the voice had dropped a bit with this statement, and the man seemed anxious, or irritated, or both. But Trueblood resumed his former manner, saying, “I was getting fed up with the city. And I'd heard this was quite a popular place for the better sort: the well-heeled, and artists, writers, that sort.”

“I imagine, being in the trade, you've got to know people hereabout pretty well? The gentleman who runs The Man with a Load of Mischief . . . ?”

“Simon Matchett? Lovely person, but all that old English oak is going to fall apart from woodworm some day. Well, I daresay inns must look inn-ish. Isabel Rivington simply adores it. Or him.” Trueblood winked. “I can't imagine anything
less
rustic than Isabel.” As he rose to pass Jury the cake plate, he glanced
out of the bay window. “Well, there she goes, all got up like a dog's dinner.”

“Who's that?”

“Lorraine Bicester-Strachan.” He made a face. “Louis Quinze.”

“Is that her companion? Or a period?” asked Jury, dryly.

Trueblood laughed. “That's rich. The period, Inspector. She couldn't tell the difference between an original and a copy if she had to. She's a proper little bitch. I wouldn't be old Willie — that's her husband — even if you offered me an Oeben original. She's another one after Matchett. Gets her knickers in a twist every time Simon so much as glances at Viv Rivington. After anything in pants, Lorraine is. Except yours truly.” He adjusted his glasses. “Nearly killed old Lorraine, I'm sure, when Melrose Plant told her to scarper. Now, that Plant has good taste. One of my best customers. Queen Anne, he goes in for. It nearly kills that crazy aunt of his; she's Victorian. Been in her cottage? All those awful humps and lumps, the place writhes with ugliness!”

“Her nephew, I understand, is — was, rather — Lord Ardry.”

“Can you credit that, Inspector? Just giving up being a lord as easy as kiss your hand? I mean, people just don't
do
that sort of thing, do they? But then, Melrose isn't just anyone.”

“Can you tell me more about Small?”

“No, not really. I asked him where he was bound for, and he just laughed and said, ‘I've arrived.' He struck me as the sort one always sees coming out of the turf accountant's.”

“Interesting.” Jury set down his cup. “Thank you for letting me take up your time this way, Mr. Trueblood.” Jury stood. “Incidentally, you wouldn't know the vicar's housemaid, Ruby Judd, would you?”

Trueblood shifted uneasily in his chair, then he, too, stood. “I know her, yes. Doesn't everyone? Perhaps the closest thing we have to a Lady of the Evening. If one doesn't count Sheila. Well, mustn't be catty, must I?” Trueblood smiled. “What about Ruby?”

“Just that she's been gone for nearly a week now, from what I hear.”

“I shouldn't wonder. Rumor has it that Ruby's got men here and there, you see.”

“Yes, well, thank you again.” Jury looked over the room once more. “You've got some beautiful stuff here. I'm pretty stupid about antiques.”

“Oh, I doubt you're really stupid about anything, Inspector.”

The compliment seemed not insincere, but quite studied. Jury felt an odd moment of empathy for Trueblood. There was something about Trueblood that might have attracted both men
and
women. He might be a homosexual, yes, but was he
this
kind — the silk scarves, the tinted glasses, the swishings and mincings?

Jury stopped at the front door and said, “I wonder if he meant it literally.”

Trueblood looked puzzled. “Who meant what?”

“Small. I've arrived.' He must have meant to come to Long Piddleton.”

Trueblood laughed. “Who could possibly mean to come here in dead winter? And a perfect
stranger?”

“Perhaps he wasn't a perfect stranger. Good-bye, Mr. Trueblood.”

 • • • 

When Jury and Wiggins were shown into the saloon bar of the Man with a Load of Mischief by the elderly waiter, Simon Matchett was in close colloquy with a dark-haired, handsomely dressed woman, one of those whose age is always a mystery. She could have been anywhere between thirty-five and fifty-five.

In the simple process of the proprietor's introducing himself, Jury understood easily how much Simon Matchett might appeal to women. Had Jury not known from Pratt's report that the man was forty-three, he would have put him at ten years younger. Light brown hair, close curling, a squarish face, thin mouth, but amiable. Indeed, the overall impression was one of amiability, but of a rather studied sort. The whole face seemed an aristocratically chiseled mask. The eyes were a brilliant blue, like chips from a frozen sky, and it was his ability to concentrate their expression which must have suggested to each woman that she was the sole object of his interest and perhaps the
single repository of his affections. Today, the color of Matchett's eyes was enhanced by the open-necked blue wool shirt he wore, the long sleeves rolled above the wrist.

This
Miss Rivington was certainly not mousy and subdued; she wore a stylish dress of blue wool, which looked as if it had been chosen to set off Matchett's eyes, perhaps to underscore how well they suited one another. A waterfall of Russian amber beads hung nearly to her waist. A mink wrap was draped over the stool in front of the bar.

Matchett introduced her as Isabel Rivington, and then pulled out two of the oak stools and said, “Let me get you and the sergeant a drink.”

Wiggins, who had been standing about like a lamppost, asked if he might just have something hot, a cup of tea perhaps. He felt he was coming down with a cold. Matchett excused himself to fetch it.

“I'd like to call on you, if I may,” said Jury to Isabel Rivington. “I've a few questions.”

“Well, I can't see what else there is to tell. I've gone over everything for that superintendent who was here.”

“I appreciate that. But there might be one or two small points you've forgotten or overlooked.”

“Why not ask me now?” She looked at the door through which Matchett had exited, as if she needed moral support. Over the rim of her small glass of some deadly-looking potion, she appraised Jury. Her eyes were dark, heavily done up with lavender shadow and mascara that beaded the tips of her lashes.

“Right now, I have a few questions to put to Mr. Matchett,” said Jury.

She put down her glass and picked up the mink. “I take it that's an invitation to leave.”

Matchett was back, telling Wiggins that the cook had the kettle on.

“Well, I'm off,” said Isabel Rivington, sliding down from the stool. “I'll see you later, Simon. Notwithstanding any more murders,” she added with icy sweetness.

When she had gone, Jury asked Matchett to get the register.
He found December 17 and the name of William T. Small, Esq., written in a rough hand.

“He came in that afternoon, around three I think it was. I was just going over to Sidbury to pick up a wheel of Stilton, and since it's early closing on Thursday, I wanted to be sure I got there whilst the shops were still open.”

“And he didn't mention any particular reason for stopping here?”

“No, he didn't.”

Jury repeated the names of those who had been at the inn the evening of the seventeenth. “Is that everyone?”

“Yes. Oh, there was Betty Ball, too. Came to bring the sweet for dinner, oh, around six or seven. She keeps the bakery in the village. I mention it because she came around back, and might have noticed the cellar door. Of course, it was earlier when she was here . . .”

“Yes. I'll speak to her. Wiggins,” Jury called. The sergeant appeared to be dozing off, in company with a large dog, also sitting by the fire. Wiggins looked up sharply, and the three of them went to the rear of the inn and down a short hall. On right and left of the doorway leading to the cellar were the toilets, with little black silhouettes coyly differentiating the sexes.

“Is the cellar door kept locked?”

“No. We're always going down; you see, half of it's the wine cellar.”

“Then anyone has access to the cellar through this door?”

“Yes, I suppose they do.” Matchett looked puzzled. “But the back cellar door — as I told the local police — had been forced.”

Jury made no comment. The cellar was large, the half on the left taken up with crates and junk. The right side was filled with shelves, tiered in sections on which rested rows of bottles, slightly inclined, necks down. The outside door was in the wall facing the bottom of the staircase. Jury and Wiggins inspected it. It was a small door, very old, hinges rusted, and the part of the bolt which had been nailed to the jamb still hung by one of its 10d nails. Jury opened the door, and he and Wiggins
looked out on narrow cement steps, thick with Novembers rotted leaves. Jury looked from the door to the cement floor inside. It would have been easy for someone of even moderate strength to force the door. But why everyone seemed to believe someone
had
, Jury couldn't imagine.

“So you see, Inspector, since the door was perfectly all right earlier on in the day, the murderer must have broken in this way.”

Jury walked over to the wine racks. Between the tiers stood large, wooden kegs. “This was the one, Inspector,” said Matchett. “I've been experimenting in the last year with brewing up some of my own. Not had much success, though. This is where Daphne found the body — dangling . . .” Matchett's voice trailed off. “Was he followed to Long Piddleton? Hadn't a criminal record, had he?”

“The check on Mr. Small isn't completed yet. We're just in the process of gathering the facts.” What few facts had been found.

“Yes, of course.” Matchett returned the round wooden top to the now-empty keg. “Is there anything else you'd like to see down here, Inspector?”

“No, I think not. I'd like to speak to the waitress, if I may.” The three of them trooped upstairs.

 • • • 

Twig was arranging the condiment table while Daphne Murch was laying out silver when Matchett led Jury into the dining room.

“Twig, Daphne — this is Chief Inspector Jury, who's come up from London and would like to ask you a few questions. I'll just be off, Inspector, but I'll be in the bar if you need me.”

The girl went rather pale, plucking at her white apron. Nervous, as might be expected, thought Jury.

“It's Mr. Twig, isn't it?”

“Just Twig, sir.” He was standing at attention.

“And Miss Murch? May I call you Daphne?” Jury smiled one of his most heartwarming smiles; this one he meant, since the poor girl looked as if she might drop. She nodded almost imperceptibly.

“I'm sure you've told the superintendent what you know, but would you mind very much going over some of the details? — Perhaps we could sit down.”

Both Twig and Daphne looked at the table as if sitting there were quite beyond them. Jury pulled out a chair for Daphne, and she slid herself into it rather tentatively.

“Twig, you went down to the cellar somewhere between eight-thirty and nine that evening. Everything was as usual?”

“Eight forty-five is my guess, sir. Nothing at all out of place. Like I told that Mr. Pratt.”

“The bolt and lock on the back door were all right?”