Richard Jury Mysteries 10: The Old Silent (2 page)

And it occurred to him now, sitting in the musty car, that he had
probably made this little side trip for a day or two of anonymity. Was
it this feeling of lack of purpose, of vague possibilities and unformed
hours that had made him feel a sense of kinship with the woman in the
museum? For she seemed to be wandering here as much as he.

Locking the car again and starting toward the tourist information
center with his gear, he felt angry with himself for yet another flight
of fancy, totally unbecoming in a man whose whole life was devoted to
sifting through facts and, yes, occasionally playing hunches.

Leeds thought he was in London, London thought he was in Leeds. He
could not quite expunge the fancy from his mind that he and the woman
in the cashmere coat were stopping off in a no-man's-land.

And that was why, when Jury had walked into the dining room of the
Old Silent where he'd booked his room, his feeling had been less one of
surprise than of justification.

She was sitting at a table in the corner, the only other occupant.
With her dinner she was reading a book, and she did not lift her eyes
from it when Jury walked in and sat down.

He had his own book. Perhaps it was
symptomatic, Mr. Jury
,
that he ate solitary meals with a book more often than he dined with
others. Fictional characters, he had lately found, were generally more
interesting dinner companions than flesh-and-blood ones. He had the
night previously suf-fered through a small dinner party at the home of
an inspector from Wakefield headquarters. The hostess, like a
television sponsor, seemed to think any silence at the table was as
dangerous to her product as dead air on the telly. Weather, property
values in the North and the South, London, the theater, New Scotland
Yard—the same old questions and answers ebbing out with the soup and
flowing back with the sweet.

So here the two of them sat in the silent dining room, silently
reading their books, sipping their wine, buttering their bread. It was
ten, which probably accounted for the lack of custom. Several other
tables showed signs of diners having departed.

He wondered what she was reading and whether she was absorbed or
whether she wanted, as he did, company. Dependable, well-spoken
company. He thought he should have chosen something properly
Bronte-ish, but he was reading instead a book by the late Philip Larkin
called
A Girl in Winter
that fed his mind as well as the
roast beef fed his body with its simple plot, elegant style, and sad
heroine. It was a calm book.

When she laid her napkin aside, rose and passed by his table (still
without seeing him), she had her own book pressed to the side of her
leather bag. He angled his head slightly to see the title:
The
Myth of Sisyphus
.

Not a calm book at all.

There was no one now in the lounge of the inn but them. A couple who
had come too late for the dining room had finished up their meal in
that part of the long front room reserved for the lounge bar and left.
The Old Silent was a warm and friendly pub: copper and brass glinted;
dark wood chairs and benches with flowered cushions were set in
configurations around tables that invited the sort of comradely talk
that had engaged the couple who had just left.

It was in the saloon bar that Jury was sitting, near the door that
led to the public bar through which he heard muted voices. There was no
other sound except for the steady ticking of the long-case clock, the
occasional spark and sputter of a crumbling log in the fireplace.

There was no reason that he couldn't have taken his drink and moved
into the lounge proper to sit nearer the fire. Indeed, as they were
the room's only occupants now, nothing would have been more natural
than for him to displace the black cat from the sedan chair with some
comment about the way cats always took the best seat in the house.

But there was something about her that discouraged such an approach;
she seemed so totally immersed, not in that book (of which a page
hadn't turned) but in some private world, just as she had been in the
museum, earlier. When she looked over the edge of the book, up and past
him, she might have been reviewing some inner terrain and, frowning,
found something wanting in it, something missing.

Then she would return to Camus, to the same page, holding the book
in one hand before her face. Without the coat she seemed thinner. Her
hand remained resolutely on the bag planted firmly beside her; the
other held the book in such a way it blocked her face. The wrist below
the elegant hand—long, tapering fingers—was slightly bony; the gold
bracelet had slid halfway down the arm; and the gold band on her finger
looked loose.

She was wearing a silk shantung suit, a narrowly pleated skirt and a
short jacket, very plain and (he thought) very expensive. The diffused
light of the lamp and fire lent the same pale umber to both suit and
hair.

For another twenty minutes they sat there. When the clock struck
eleven, she looked up. Jury could hear, from the public bar, the
publican make his final call for Time. She closed her book, set it
beside her handbag, and he thought she meant to rise and leave. But she
still sat.

Sounds of the customers from the bar leaving carried in from the
small car park; a few of them came out through the lounge.

Then the headlamps of a car dazzled the window before they were
switched off. A door slammed, and Jury heard the approach of footsteps
on the walk.

She sat in that rather stern and spinsterish way she had adopted
after putting aside her book—hands folded in her lap and feet planted
firmly together.

A man walked in the door—a man as well- and expensively groomed as
she. He was perhaps in his late forties, the sort who looks fit from
exercise (the sort Jury never got) and time spent under a sunlamp. He
glanced at Jury without interest.

His attention was concentrated on the woman, who now rose, pushing
herself as would an elderly person who has difficulty getting out of a
chair. She still held her bag tightly.

There was no greeting, no handclasp, kiss, or even an exchange of
smiles. Her visitor sat down without removing his coat, a dark
Chesterfield, which he unbuttoned before he threw his arm across the
back of the sofa in a careless, even indolent fashion. The fine
features, the cut of his clothes, the grace of movement, bore the stamp
of the gentleman. Yet the woman still stood while he sat. If his
general demeanor hadn't told Jury that the visitor must be on very
intimate terms with her, this failure of social grace surely did. He
then said something to her and she sat down with a sadly compliant look.

It struck Jury as odd that he had been able to observe so closely
the physical details of her person, right down to her wedding band, and
yet was not close enough to hear the words that passed between them.
The man spoke softly but in a rush. To his low current of words, her
own contribution was no more than a word tightly wedged in, much like
the bag between herself and the chair arm, breaking in whenever her
companion showed the slightest sign of stopping the flow; even then,
his hand raised up against her own response.

That what he said was evidently not to her liking was clear from her
adamantine look, her glancing away from him to gaze at the fire, and
back again as if there was no place, really, for her eyes to travel.
The pale coral of her lips took on a golden glaze from the light, and
her mouth was set like marble. She looked resolute and unbending.

Having said his piece or made his argument or whatever it was, he
sat back, withdrew a silver case that winked in the firelight, and
tapped a cigarette on it before lighting it. After waiting a few
moments while she stared into the fire, he leaned forward as if willing
her to loosen her resolve, to return her eyes to his face. Eventually,
she did so, very slowly.

He said something and rose, still with that rather insouciant
manner coupled with an air of belligerence.

Her head, gilded by the light, was bent slightly as if she had been
bested or beaten in some serious game. Her arms rested on the chair
arms, hands dangling, one thumb worrying the gold band and the
sapphire ring. It was as if she were considering removing them and
putting them in his hand.

Slowly she pulled her handbag like a dead weight to her lap. She
pushed back the leather flap and withdrew what looked like an envelope
or a letter. She had taken it out at dinner and returned it to her bag
again and again as if this were a magic ritual that must be performed.
She stood up with this piece of paper—letter or whatever it was—and
said something Jury couldn't hear.

Still she held the bag before her like a breviary, its leather flap
back and dangling, as if the thing were now empty, useless and bereft
of a valuable possession.

He reached over, snatched the letter from her hand, and tossed it in
the fire.

For a moment they regarded one another, still oblivious to any other
presence in the room, so intent were they upon whatever business had
drawn them together. The man turned and started for the door.

She stood there, just her profile in light, the rest of her in
shadow, like a figure turned to stone by an angry god.

"Roger."

It was the first clear word Jury had heard. The man made a halting
sort of turn and she reached into the bag, pulled out a gun, and shot
him in the chest. He stood staring blindly as if the shot had gone
wild. But in the few seconds it took Jury to stand and overturn the
table beside him, the man crumpled and fell. She pointed the gun down
and shot him again.

The name of Roger Healey had not registered with Jury when he had
heard it in the inn in West Yorkshire. The West Yorkshire policeman who
had arrested Healey's wife the night before in the Old Silent had told
Jury the man had something to do with art or music—he wasn't sure what—
except that he was important. The local detective sergeant from
Keighley certainly knew the
family
was important in these
parts, and his ambivalence about arresting one of its members was clear.

Superintendent Sanderson had no such ambivalence, either about
having Jury as the single witness to the murder of Roger Healey, or
about having a member of the C.I.D. of the Metropolitan Police on his
turf. Sanderson was a tall, rail-thin policeman with a practiced,
inconclusive manner that would throw anyone off guard. In the unlikely
event Jury's testimony would ever be needed, it would carry far more
weight than that of some myopic villager. As of now, Jury could get off
his turf and out of the investigation now proceeding with the Yorkshire
constabulary.

Sanderson would have no difficulty proceeding. It wasn't even a case
of rounding up suspects, of listening to the regulars in the public
bar of the Old Silent give conflicting reports of who did what to
whom; and the five people who had rushed in from the bar were clearly
relieved that they were straight out of it. They had stood about in
horrified silence until police had arrived. It was Jury who had
summoned them.

And it was Jury to whom she had, just as silently, handed over the
.22 automatic. No resistance. She hadn't said a word, had sat down in
the same chair, had answered none of his questions, had not looked at
him again.

The inquest was convened the following day merely to establish
certain facts, such as the identity of the dead man. The identity of
the perpetrator was clear.

Her name was Nell Healey and Jury had been right about her
relationship to the dead man; she was his wife.

Given the reputation, wealth, and influence of the Citrine family in
West Yorkshire, and given her lack of any criminal record, she was
released on bail. That, Jury knew, would buy her at least a year of
freedom; the case would be unlikely to get to the Crown Court before
then, not with all the other stuff on the docket. The only question
that had gone unanswered was why she'd done it. But largely it seemed
to be the sympathy engendered by her past woes that tipped the scale in
her favor.

It was those woes about which Jury was now reading in the newspaper
that lay on his desk at New Scotland Yard. He remembered the
Healey-Citrine names. It had happened eight years ago and had struck
him as especially dreadful.

"Really sad, that was," said Detective Sergeant Alfred Wiggins,
who'd dug out the clippings, and whose own reading matter was a copy
of
Time Out
. "You wonder, how could anybody do that to a
kid?" Wiggins was slowly stirring the spoon in his mug of tea and
tapping it against the rim with all of the solemnity of an altar boy
perfuming the air with incense.

Just as religiously, Wiggins opened a fresh packet of

Scott's Medicinal Charcoal Biscuits, taking pains that the wrapping
wouldn't crackle. It was not often that Jury didn't answer him, but
this was one of those times, and it disturbed Wiggins (as if it were
his own fault) that the superintendent's mood, usually calm, almost
soothing, was going sour over this case, and not Jury's own case,
either. Thus, Wiggins felt impelled to talk doggedly on, even though
it might be better to shut up. And since he was never one much for
epigrammatic or witty turns of phrase, he would trap himself into
further cliche-ridden sentiments.

Jury's mood was as black as the biscuit Wiggins was now crumbling
into a cup of water, and, irrationally irritated by his sergeant's
pursuit of some elusive and Platonic Idea of health just as he was
reading of the kidnapping of one boy and the disappearance of the
friend who had been with him. Jury said (rather sharpish, Wiggins
thought), "Most people settle for digestives, Wiggins. And they don't
have to stew them in water."

His quick response was triggered less by Jury's tone than by Jury's
replying at all. Said Wiggins, brightly, "Oh, but digestives don't
really
do
anything for you, sir. Now, this—"

Wanting to forestall a lecture on the benefits of charcoal to the
digestive tract, Jury said, "I'm sure it does," and smiled to indicate
that he'd only been joking, anyway.

It had happened in Cornwall when Billy Healey and his stepmother,
Nell Citrine Healey, had been on holiday, together with a friend of
Billy's named Toby Holt.

Keeping his eye on the newspaper, Jury shook a cigarette from a
packet of Players and read Roger Healey's statement to the press. It
was formal, almost pedantic, full of catch-phrases of grief and
comments about his son's prodigious talent as a pianist, so that one
almost got the idea that if the kidnapper didn't see to it he practiced
every day, it would be similar to a diabetic going into insulin shock.
The usual "we will do anything in our power to see our boy is returned
. . ."; the usual ". . . police are working round the clock"; the usual.

Except that the stepmother had made no comment at all.

Jury tried to put himself in the place of a father whose child had
been kidnapped. He had never had children, but he had been close enough
to several that he could feel at least something of what it must be
like to lose one. Certainly, he'd seen enough grief-stricken parents
in his work. Some had been silent; some had gone in for marathon
talking. But none had given a Hyde Park speech. Jury wasn't being
fair, he supposed. After all, Healey was a music critic and columnist
used to putting thoughts into words; he was an articulate man, and
probably a composed one.

The photo of Billy himself looked almost out of place amidst this
platitudinous talk. In the old shot of Billy Healey, the camera had
caught the boy in a moment when he must have been looking toward
something at a distance. His chin was raised, his mouth open slightly,
his eyes transfixed and somehow puzzled. The angle of light eclipsed a
portion of his face, bringing out the other in even bolder relief,
accentuating the straight nose, high cheekbone. He was handsome,
pale, his hair brownish and silky-looking. He looked, Jury thought, a
little other-worldly, unapproachable, and with the intensity of his
expression, unassailable. He looked more like his stepmother than his
father.

And of her, there was only the picture in which she was being
escorted from the house, and where she must quickly have drawn part of
the paisley scarf she wore up over her face. Since her head was also
down, the reporters were getting a very poor view. And taking a poor
view, given the underlying tone of resentment that Mrs. Roger Healey
was unavailable for comment. Her husband had done most of the talking.

The stepmother was good copy; she'd been the only one present,
except for Billy's friend, when the boys had disappeared. Given the
rather tasteless litter of photos and snaps this particular newspaper
had mustered, it was clear they'd like to keep a story of the
kidnapping humming along. There were several old snapshots of Billy,
angled down the side of the account, one of him with a couple of
schoolmates, very fuzzy. Another of him leaning against a fence with
the other boy, Toby Holt. Sitting on a big stone slab in front of them
was a small, dark-haired girl, squinting into the camera.

"And the chief's not too happy, as you can imagine," said Wiggins,
following his own train of thought.

"He never is, not where I'm concerned."

"Wondering what you were doing in Stanbury, anyway."

"It's next to Haworth. I'm a big Bronte fan."

"When you were supposed to be in Leeds."

Jury looked up. "What is this, a catechism? Baleful mumbles."

"You might be witness for the Crown," Wiggins went on, relentlessly.

"Would he rather I'd be witness against? He knows damned well I
won't be called as one. Sanderson will give my evidence. It's West
Yorkshire's case, not mine."

Wiggins was making a little sandwich of two black hiscuits and
something slathered in between.

"What's that thing?"

"Charcoal biscuits and a bit of tofu and tahini. I'm a martyr to my
digestion, as you know." The whole thing crumbled as he bit down on it;
he wiped his mouth with the huge handkerchief tucked into his collar.

Jury looked up from the files and down at the notes Wiggins had
made. "This publisher Healey worked for. Get me in to see him."

"Sir." Wiggins's hand hesitated over the telephone. "When?"

"This afternoon. Three, four."

"It's nearly two." The hand free of the tofu sandwich hovered over
the telephone. "I was only thinking."

"That it's not my case. You're right. Get me in to see this
publishing tyro, Martin Smart." Jury smiled.

Still Wiggins was slowly chewing his sandwich. "The guv'nor's
complaining—"

Guv'nor
? Racer? Since when was Wiggins calling him that?

"—you're waffling on a couple of cases. The Soho one, for example."

It was a drug-related death, nothing for C.I.D., something the Drug
Squad could handle easily. Racer perfectly well knew this. Anything to
keep Jury from using his talents in a more attention-grabbing way. Name
and picture in paper. Racer hated it.

"I'm sick, Wiggins."

Wiggins put on his best bedside manner. "There's no question there,
sir. Pale as a ghost you've been looking. You need leave, you do, not
another case."

Jury grinned. "I know. So get me an appointment with Healey's
publisher." Jury rose, feeling lighter than he had in weeks.

"I'm a martyr to my digestion, Wiggins. I'm going to see your
guv'nor."