Help the Poor Struggler (17 page)

“Flatter —?” Victoria Gray turned to look. “Oh, not at all. If anything it diminishes her beauty. Jessica will be that beautiful too, one day. You can see it when she isn't dressed in that oily overall she loves to wear and carrying tools around.”

“She's quite the mechanic.”

“Jessie? She doesn't know a battery from a silencer. I'll bet she told you it was your carburetor.”

“Right.”

“Her favorite word.”

Melrose laughed. “Well, she needs some sort of occupational therapy, wouldn't you say?”

“Believe me, she's got an occupation — though I don't know how therapeutic it is. Keeping her beloved uncle from marrying.” She picked up a piece of toast and munched it; then she said, “It's fortunate for Jess that Dartmoor isn't peopled with eligible women.”

Seeing the faraway look on her face, Melrose wondered if the fortune weren't divided.

“Why do you think she's been through such a string of governesses?”

“Didn't know she had been.” He accepted another cup of coffee from Victoria's hand. “Tell me: why did the Ashcrofts not make the obvious choice and have
you
take care of Jessica?
You say your job is a sinecure: seems to me it'd simplify things all around.”

Victoria laughed. “Precisely because I
would
take care of her. Did you ever see a child so indulged? I wondered when Robert would get wise and choose a tutor himself, like Sara Millar.”

But she did not look at all as if she felt the choice had been wise. She looked, indeed, inexpressibly sad. Melrose could read it in her face: if only Robert Ashcroft's feelings were as certain as this sinecure of a post she held.

He had asked Victoria if there was some writing-paper about, and was now sitting in the drawing room, looking up again at the portrait of the rather formidable Earl of Curlew. He then wrote no more than a couple of sentences on the rich, cream-laid Ashcroft stationery, took another sheet and wrote the same sentences. Then, he addressed both to Jury — one to his flat in Islington; the other to him at the Devon-Cornwall headquarters. If he posted them today, Jury would be bound to get one tomorrow, whether in London or Devon.

Melrose stood beneath the portrait, holding out a finger length-wise, and squinted, in this way ridding James Ashcroft of his full mustache. There was a strong resemblance between the brothers. As Curlew resembled Clerihew.

A
T
least, thank God, it was a closed car. The mist looked as if it meant to hang about all morning, making distances deceptive, bringing the giant tors closer than they actually were. The moorland ponies were huddled against the leeward wall with that instinct they had for an approaching storm.

And, thank God, she was not one to feel sorry for herself. It was only owing to Melrose's judicious questioning that Sara was telling him the story of her life, a life she had herself described as placid, at best; at worst, dull. To Melrose, however, it sounded like neither — more a Dickensian tale of abandonment and woe. There was the boardinghouse through whose portal she had been shepherded by the aunt into whose care she had been given when Sara's mother died. It was run by an iniquitous woman, Mrs. Strange, the embodiment of her name, said Sara.

“Fiery red hair she had that looked like a tent right after she'd washed it. I suppose, though, I ought to be grateful to her. Since she was lazy and I was older than the others, and hadn't much to say in the matter, the care of them often fell
to me. So did my own education. I had to read a lot, as she kept me out of school. To take care of the children.”

“Good Lord, why should you feel ‘grateful'? You might have gone on to do something more suited to your intelligence than acting as overseer to other people's children.”

“Thanks. I had only the one good reference, really. But as it came from a countess, Mr. Ashcroft seemed suitably impressed. I'm fond of children.”

“I'm fond of ducks. It doesn't mean I want them running round under my feet all day.”

Sara laughed. “With Jessica, it's not being underfoot that I'm in danger of; it's more in being undermined. She doesn't care for me too much.”

“On the contrary,” said Melrose, slowing to peer through the fog at a signpost, “as we were walking up to the house, she was singing your praises.”

“That in itself's suspect, since I'd only just arrived the day before. I wonder how long I'll last? Mr. Ashcroft said his niece was running through tutors at the speed of, well, this car. There were three of us to be interviewed in London. I suppose he winnowed out the rest by mail. Given the salary he offered, he must have been deluged. It's a post anyone would give her eyeteeth for.” She paused for a moment, and then went on. “It's rather odd, though . . .”

“Odd, how?”

“To do the interviews that way. It was rather like being cast for a role.” She paused. “I only wish I knew the script.” She sounded uneasy about her new post.

“Ashcroft strikes me as an amiable, informal chap. Unlikely he's reading from a script.”

“ ‘Amiable'? He certainly is. And goes to no end of trouble for Jessica. I only meant I wonder why he held those interviews in London rather than at Ashcroft?”

“Perhaps because the Lady Jessica wasn't having too much luck herself in choosing the proper person.” He slowed the
car again to look at another signpost, trying to bury his question — “When was this unnerving interview? Sounds a bit Jamesian to me. Think I'll turn here” — in a comment about their direction.

“What do you mean by Jamesian?”

“The Turn of the Screw.
The governess goes up to London and finds a handsome, prospective —” Melrose didn't go on. Probably, he was embarrassing her.

“When was the interview? Just a few days ago. The thirteenth. Why?”

“No reason. Will this mist never rise?”

As Melrose negotiated a sharp turn on the narrow road, she said, “Isn't this signposted for Wynchcoombe? And isn't that where the little boy was murdered?”

“Don't you want to go there?”

“Frankly, no.” She shivered.

“Oh, come on. Be a sport. Can't we be just a couple of bloodthirsty thrill-seekers?”

Sara laughed. “Do you hang around accident sites?”

“Of course.”

The vestry of Wynchcoombe Church was still sealed off. A constable stood on the walk outside as stiffly relentless as a horseguard at Buckingham Palace. The rest of the church, though, was open to worshippers and visitors.

“I don't know that I want to go in,” said Sara, “now we're here.”

“Superstitious?”

“No, afraid,” she said quite simply.

 • • • 

Melrose would have made a burnt offering of his Silver Ghost to have a look in the choir vestry, but the presence of another policeman told him there'd be no joy there. The constable,
however, seemed to be finding a bit of joy from a
Playboy
magazine, turning it sideways and upside down to get the full effect of a centerfold who must have managed an extremely acrobatic position for the photographer.

Nothing ventured, nothing gained, thought Melrose. At least this policeman looked a bit more human, lacking in granite calm of the constable outside.

Thus, while Sara walked down the nave, Melrose moved to the vestry door, taking out his visiting-card case. He handed the P.C. his card. “Don't suppose there's a chance of getting in there . . . ?”

“About as much as getting into Buckingham Palace,” said the P.C., pleased he had precedence over a peer.

Melrose went to join Sara Millar. She was studying a small picture of the sacrifice of Isaac.

“The God of the Old Testament didn't pull his punches, did he?” said Melrose. “Job, Abraham, voices from whirlwinds.” He saw her fingering the silver cross she seemed always to wear. Filtered light from the stained-glass windows made a colored tracery over her pale rose jumper and paler skin. She looked delicate, almost otherwordly, and innocent, as if her youth were still unspent. So engrossed was she with the painting, he thought she hadn't heard him. But she answered, “It's beyond belief. I mean, outside conventional belief. It doesn't count for anything, I think.”

Melrose was somewhat astonished at this interpretation of a father's being asked to murder his innocent son. “ ‘Doesn't count' . . . ? I'm sure Isaac would have felt you to be cold comfort.” His smile, when she turned on him, was a little fixed.

She had looked angry; now she looked sad. A woman much like the Dartmoor weather, he thought. Forever changing. Interesting, though.

“I only meant,” she said, “that the whole notion of God and Abraham must transcend human understanding.”

As they walked over to the other wall, Melrose said, “Then what's the point? What's the point of a moral lesson that requires transcendent vision?” She was reading an account in a glassed-over case about the Devil honoring the church with a visit. “It seems someone who owed him his soul fell asleep in church and Satan simply took the roof off and collected him.” Sara shook her head. Melrose was wondering if the vicar would ever appear, or whether this was simply not his day. He looked at his watch. Eleven. The pubs would be open. He was afraid if he didn't divert this discussion, she'd have them stopping here all day talking transcendentalism. “The only way I can justify God's way to man is by malt, as Houseman said.”

She smiled slightly. “I take it you noticed the George.”

Sara was, in spite of her transcendent streak, quick enough and a good sport. He looked around as the heavy door to the church opened and shut behind an elderly man, who then made his way down the aisle with a proprietary air. Melrose wondered if this might be the Reverend White. Certainly, the man paid no attention at all to the Devon-Cornwall constabulary, so Melrose assumed he was not just another pilgrim. This was borne out by the Devon-Cornwall constabulary's quickly closing his magazine and shoving it under the cushion of his chair.

Melrose told Sara he'd be back in a moment and walked down the aisle in the wake of this white-haired man, making up his excuse as he went.

 • • • 

“Terribly sorry to intrude upon your grief.” This comfortless cliché embarrassed Melrose. “You
are
Mr. White?”

The vicar said he was, and appeared to be less grief-stricken than a grandfather might have been. Less than Abraham, certainly, and Abraham was only following orders. The vicar's eyes were stony-cold.

“What was it you wanted?”

Melrose removed a card from the gold case that had been his mother's (before Agatha had appropriated it); the cards had been his father's, the seventh Earl of Caverness, and Melrose, the eighth, simply thought what was one earl, more or less?

The vicar read it and handed it back. There was something about one's own card being given back to one that was extremely discouraging.

“Sorry, but should I know you? You're not local. I'm not aware of the family.”

Melrose almost wished Agatha had been there to hear
that
judgment passed. He felt a lack of locality stamped on his face, much like the coat-of-arms stamped on the card. “No. My home is in Northamptonshire. The account of your grandson's death in the paper gave the mother's name as Mary O'Brian.” Melrose looked up at the intricately painted ceiling-bosses, each one of them apparently different, and wondered what sum of money would entice the vicar to look at life in a more worldly fashion. “You see, years ago we had a Mary O'Brian employed at our home — Ardry End — as upstairs maid.”

“Yes? But it's a common name.”

Melrose realized he had stirred something in the vicar's breast, for the man's face colored somewhat and he added, “But, then, Mary was a common woman.”

Even Melrose, no stickler for men of the cloth being more than human, was a little surprised by this. Apparently the Reverend Mr. White was not worried about the roof caving in. “It's been some years since she was there. I've had a bit of a time tracking her down —”

“That doesn't surprise me — given Mary.”

Melrose would have been happy to wander through the dark wood of the vicar's feelings about his daughter-in-law had the vicar shown any sign of wanting to lead him. But the remark simply fell and lay there like a tree across their path.
Mr. White reminded Melrose of someone he couldn't quite place.

“This has to do with a small bequest in my father's will.”

“Oh?”

“My father found her to be an especially dependable servant; she went to a great deal of trouble nursing my mother through a long illness —”

“Mary? It's the last thing I'd have expected. At any rate, Mary's dead. Didn't the account mention that?”

Melrose, having seen no obituary, could only say: “Yes, it did.” He thought perhaps he shouldn't elaborate on what the “account”
did
tell the world.

“Both of them died in a motorcycle accident. Mary liked fast living. David was in divinity school before he met her. He would perhaps have followed in my footsteps. Then he met Mary.” The vicar closed his eyes as if he were hearing the painful news for the first time. “Whatever gift your father wished to bestow upon her . . .” He shrugged.

They had been standing all this time in the aisle. Melrose wished they could sit down, but a church pew seemed an unlikely place for such a conversation.

“Perhaps then you would accept it for the church? In memory of your grandson?”

“David?” One would think he had to be reacquainted with the name.

“I realize five hundred pounds is not all that much —”

The Reverend White looked Melrose up and down. Melrose felt conscious of the suit from his bespoke tailor, the handmade shoes, the silk shirt, the handsome overcoat.