Help the Poor Struggler (15 page)

Her face was blank. “I don't know her father
or
what he does or did. You're just determined to make a case up out of whole cloth —”

“The cloth's already cut to fit you, Mary.”

She glared at him.

“Circumstantial evidence alone —” said Macalvie.

“It would have been pretty stupid of me, then, to leave my cape and bring the dog back.”

“True. I haven't worked that out yet.” There seemed to be no doubt in his mind that he would. “Like I say, I'm no psychiatrist.”

Molly Singer got up. “And I'm not Mary Mulvanney.”

As Macalvie rose, the black cat's tail twitched again, the inverted triangles of its pupils glaring up at him as if to ask,
What fresh hell can this be?

“E
AT
your soldiers, Jess.”

Robert Ashcroft spoke absently from behind his newspaper. At the breakfast table now sat three where two had been perfectly comfortable before.

“I don't like my toast cut in strips,” said Jessie, fingering a page of one of the books she had brought to the table.

Uncle Rob looked up from his paper. “Since when?”

“I don't like my egg topped, either. I like to peel it.” Casually, she turned a page of
Rebecca
.

Sara Millar, the third of their party, cocked her head. She was sitting with her back to the window, and the morning light made her pale hair glow.

(
Bleached,
thought Jessie.)

“I'm sorry, Jessica. I guess I just assumed . . .” The quiet voice trailed off. The Selfless Sara had undertaken the job of fixing Jessie's breakfast, thereby relieving the underworked Mrs. Mulchop of yet another chore.

“You're still angry with me, aren't you?” Robert Ashcroft looked unhappy.

Jess was sorry for the hurt look on his face and pained because
she was its cause. But this was going to be a battle of wits, make no mistake. Thus she must harden her heart. She simply shrugged her indifference.

Of course, that worried her uncle more. “You're acting awfully —”

Sara Millar interrupted, thereby cleverly deflecting the thrust of Robert's words. “What are you reading, Jessie?”

She was clearly determined to be nice as ninepence.
“Rebecca
and
Jane Eyre.”
Jess looked Sara straight in the eye. Sara had nice eyes, widely spaced and the same bluish-gray of the suit she had worn yesterday. The eyes were set in just the face that Jessie would have expected: clear-skinned and, if not absolutely
pretty,
it was far from plain, framed as it was by that ash-blond hair. Round her hair was a dusty-rose band that matched her jumper. All of her clothes (Jessie bet) would have that dusty, subdued look — colors muted, makeup understated, just that bare hint of lipstick. The metamorphosis would come later, after she got her claws into Uncle Robert. Then would come trailing the plumy gowns, waterfalls of jewels (Barbara Allan's emeralds, maybe?), the blond hair coiled but with little tendrils struggling free as Sultry Sara swept down Ashcroft's magnificent staircase.

But as for now, Sara Millar was perfectly content to let her beauty lie skin deep.

She had been talking about the books during Jess's ruminations over her transformation: “ . . . two of my favorites,” said the Selfless Sara.

Jess looked up from the book she was only pretending to read. Uncle Robert had once told her it was rude to read in others' company, but she had merely taken him to task about his morning paper. Jessie was not disposed to bring books to the table, anyway, before now.

“Two of my favorites.” Sara would have said that if Jess had brought
Beano
and
Chips and Whizzer
along.

Sara quoted, “ ‘Last night I dreamed I was at Manderley
again . . . ,' ” and she had the nerve to look around the dining room as if Ashcroft might give Manderley a run for its money. “Isn't that a smashing line? I only wish I could write one a quarter as good.”

Robert Ashcroft looked at her, seeming pleased. “Do you write, then?”

Sara Miller laughed. “Nothing you'd want to read, I'm sure.”

Jessie glared. If she was dreaming of Manderley, why didn't she go back to it? She gave a little kick under the table.

Sara lurched slightly. “What's that?”

Uncle Rob pulled up the tablecloth. “What's Henry doing there? Get him out, Jess.”

“It's all right,” said Sara, recovering quickly from the paw that had hit her silk-stockinged leg. “I was just surprised. Hullo, Henry.”

Jessie watched the traitor Henry burrowing out and accepting a head-rub, all uncaring of the knives grinding in his mistress's mind. “May I be excused?” she asked in a determinedly polite manner.

“To go where?” asked Uncle Rob. “You have to begin lessons.”

A look passed between Sara and Uncle Rob. Jessie could barely control her rage. But the Mad Margaret had taught her a lot about control.
“No, no, no, my dahling, No! You don't scream the line out — ‘Not all the perfumes of Arabia can ever make this little hand clean.' ”

“I'm going to sit on the wall.”

“The wall?” Sara looked puzzled.

“Around the
grounds,”
Jess answered, in a tone that suggested Sara must be a bit dim if she didn't know grounds had walls. “I like to sit and look way off at the prison. Where the ax-murderer escaped from.”

“Jess, for the umpteenth time, no one
escaped.”

She shrugged as if that made no difference. “Anyway, what
about the murders?” This question was directed to Sara Millar. Jess hoped it might take the place of Rochester's crazy wife.

“Jessie, you oughtn't to be afraid —” Jessie's look stopped Sara.

Afraid?
Jess wasn't afraid of anything except her uncle's getting married. With her two books clutched to her chest — and wishing Mrs. Mulchop would wear black and give Sara Millar evil looks, just as Mrs. Danvers did the mouse that married de Winter, she started toward the door.

Victoria Gray was coming in, dressed for riding.

The good-mornings were spoken. Victoria was welcome to share the table, but she stood instead at the sideboard, helping herself to coffee from the silver pot. Since Sara had turned back to her own coffee, she didn't see that dagger-like look that Victoria Gray planted in her back. Jess glanced from the one woman to the other. Although Victoria was better-looking, she was old. At least, nearly as old as Uncle Rob. Selfless Sara was young and dewy, maybe just the age of de Winter's mousy wife.

“Well, I'm off,” said Victoria. “Do you ride?” she asked Sara, without enthusiasm.

“A little,” Sara said, smiling.

Like she wrote. Probably she was the Brontë sisters and Dick Francis all rolled into one.

Don't talk to strangers, Jess,
Uncle Robert had cautioned her. As if whole platoons of strangers were walking by the wall trying to engage her in conversation.

She was sitting on the part of the wall that abutted onto one of the end posts that formed Ashcroft's entrance to its long, tree-lined driveway, like a double-barricade against the drive's low, stone wall. On the post was a simple bronze
plaque, saying A
SHCROFT
. Jess often sat here, hoping she'd see something interesting on the road, but she never saw anything except the occasional car or a drover with a bunch of sheep.

It was too high for Henry to clamber up, and she wasn't going to help him because he was doing penance for that head-rub he'd allowed Sara to give him. Henry didn't seem aware he was doing penance; his position was, as usual, prone.

The full horror of her situation was beginning to wash over Jess. Sara Millar had been sitting at breakfast as if she belonged there just as much as the egg cups and the teapot and the toast. A familiar fixture. Yet, there had been no hint at all of her having “taken over.” She was merely — at ease.

Jess hit at the stone with her spanner and crumbled a bit of it that drifted dust down onto Henry. He didn't care. No one . . . What was that?

Down the road to her right a car was coming, coming very slowly. Probably tourists limping along, taking their time. Then her eyes opened wide.
What
a car! It was long, elegant — a classic. And it seemed to be in some sort of trouble.

The automobile drew abreast of her and stopped. The driver rolled down the window. “I beg your pardon. You wouldn't know of a garage around here?”

Jessie hopped from the wall and strolled over to the white car with its glistening finish. A dozen coats of lacquer, she bet. Red leather interior. And the winged hood ornament of a Rolls-Royce. She sighed. “No, there's nothing for miles and miles. What do you want one for?”

He smiled. If he was the ax-murderer, he was certainly a good-looking one. Green eyes and sort of straw-colored hair. “Something's wrong. It keeps cutting off —” On cue, the chariot of fire cut off.

“Let's have a look under the bonnet.”

He laughed. “I'm not much of a mechanic.” He got out.

Jessie squinted up at him. Rich. Good-looking and rich. She took the spanner from her pocket. “I am.” She gestured with the spanner, a plan forming in her mind. Where Jessica's thoughts darted, lightning often followed.

Removing his driving gloves, he looked hopefully toward the long tunnel of trees. “Perhaps up there, at the house —”

“Open the bonnet.”

The moment he saw her sitting on the wall, Melrose Plant swore. If there was one thing he didn't need at this juncture, it was this child. He knew about her; he knew about each member of the household, since Jury had given him details over the telephone. He just hadn't expected her to turn up in dirty overalls with a spanner in her hand.

The plan to get the Silver Ghost just far enough up the drive looked about to be scotched by Jessica Ashcroft. It had been Melrose's intention to let the Rolls rest peacefully on the Ashcroft drive so that he could walk to the house and summon Robert Ashcroft to the rescue. That
was
the plan.

And now here was this ten- or eleven-year-old with black hair and bangs and big brown eyes, with a damned spanner in her hand and a threat in her voice. She stood there, solid as the wall, obviously not about to make a spritely run to summon her elders and betters. He'd have to humor her.

Bonnet up, the two of them peered inside. She did a little clinking about with the spanner and, for one ghastly moment, Melrose was afraid that here might be some mechanical wizard, some garage-prodigy who'd
fix
the damned car. Ah, but she couldn't. Not unless she had a fan belt (which he had removed a quarter of a mile back) to a Rolls in her pocket.

“Look, I wish you wouldn't go banging that thing about. I mean, the old Roller can't take too much of a beating.”

She got her head out from under the bonnet and heaved a
sigh. “Probably the carburetor. Only, I can't see why — not on a Rolls-Royce.”

“Nothing's perfect.”

Her eyes widened.
“That
is.” She pointed the spanner at the car.

“Do you think the people in that house up there would just let me pull into the driveway and use the telephone? I think I can get it started again.”

Her smile absolutely transformed the sullen little face that had glared from the wall. “I'm
sure
they would. It's
our
house. And my uncle knows lots about cars. He has nine, but not a Rolls-Royce.”

“Nine! Imagine that!”

“I don't have to,” she said, squinting up at him as if he might be a bit dim. But the tune changed again after she'd run behind the wall and come back with the strangest-looking animal Melrose had ever seen — a dog, he supposed. Though he wouldn't swear to it. “Do you mind if Henry sits with me? You won't get anything dirty, will you, Henry?” she fluted to the odd assortment of laps of skin. It sat on the seat like a wrinkled stump.

She got in; Melrose got in and turned the key. “That's an incredible dog you've got. Isn't it a Shar-pei?”

“Oh, it's only a stray. It might be Chinese.” She glanced at Melrose. “It's got green eyes.”

The engine turned over and Melrose said, “I can't see its eyes.”

She sighed. “No one can.”

 • • • 

Melrose got the Silver Ghost partway up the drive before it stopped.

“Don't worry,” said Jessica. “My uncle can fix it. Unless he has to send to Exeter for parts. Come on, Henry!” The dog clambered down. “If he does, it'll take a couple of days, I expect.” The expectation made her smile.

The house was magnificent — Palladian, made of Portland stone. Must be spare rooms all over. “Look, now. I don't want to put your uncle to any trouble.”

Her answer rang with sincerity. “You won't! Really! My name's Jessie Ashcroft. What's yours?” And then she was skipping backwards like any ordinary ten-year-old. Happy, carefree.

“My name's Plant. The family name, that is.” This was the part Melrose abhorred.

She stopped dead. “You mean you've got a title?”

Jessica Ashcroft would know about titles, given that her father had had one.

“Well, yes. Yes, as a matter of fact. Earl of Caverness.”

Her eyes widened. “My
father
was an earl.” And then her glance was a little wary. “I guess because you're expected home you're going to have to ring up the countess?”

“No. There is no Countess of Caverness. I'm not married, you see.”

She saw. Her smile beamed at him again. As they ascended the broad steps of Ashcroft, she told him about her uncle and Mrs. Mulchop and Victoria Gray and her new governess, Miss Millar.