The Case Has Altered (5 page)

Melrose sighed and continued his walk. He was not sure why walking in the open air was more conducive to sorting things out than sticking to one's armchair and fireplace and port. Perhaps the thoughts themselves being punishing, the body must follow suit. Thus a frigid, sunless day was a better environment for troubled thoughts than a soft, sunny one. One must dress for the occasion, too. Stout boots were a must, and his green Barbour jacket. And it was always a point scored if one were to carry a shotgun broken over one's arm. Mr. Momaday had the only shotgun, though, and he was using it.

He stopped to inspect a tiny white flower, a mere drop of a flower, and wondered if it was a snowdrop. The name made sense. A bit farther along, he paused to run his finger along a long tendrily vine growing up the side of a tree. Was it ivy? Most vines were, so he left it at that and went back to brooding over Jury's impending visit.

The next moment he heard his name—
“Melrose!”
—being bruited about in the dim distance. He knew it was Agatha, no doubt come for her tea. There was one thing Melrose had learned long ago: Never underestimate his aunt's skill in ferreting out information. His butler Ruthven was total proof against wiliness, threats, and lies, so Melrose's whereabouts were safe with him. Might she decide to enlist Momaday's aid—?

Another shot rang out.

He was going to kill someone some day, Momaday was.

What a lovely fantasy.

 • • • 

T
he all-clear having been sounded by Ruthven (the old dinner-gong put to this use), Melrose found himself back in the sitting room with the port and walnuts he was sorry he'd left in the first place. Agatha had, of course, left more than one message in his absence, none of which he paid any attention to.

For now he was much more interested in Richard Jury's forthcoming visit. And what he would have to say about Jenny Kennington. He felt guilty, he supposed, about that day in Littlebourne, innocent though it had been. Besides that, he'd given rather short shrift to Polly Praed, whom he hadn't seen in years. He sighed. Was this the sort of man he'd become, ogling every good-looking woman, flitting from one to another like a bee or a butterfly? He sat there feeling morose, picking at the paper napkin beside the dish of walnuts. Finally, he took out his pen and, unfolding the napkin, wrote a list of names:

VIVIAN RIVINGTON

POLLY PRAED

ELLEN TAYLOR

JENNY KENNINGTON

MISS FLUDD (NANCY)

He tapped his pen, thinking for a moment and then added

BEA SLOCUM

The nib of his fountain pen caught as he put brackets around Jenny's name. She should not be on any list of his. Neither should Bea Slocum, if it came to it. So he had written her name very small. She was much too young for him. He looked at Jenny's name again and, reluctantly, crossed it out.

On the right-hand side of the napkin he wrote “Comments.” This was always the best way, wasn't it? Make a list and write down the “fors” and “againsts”? It was supposed to help clear the mind and get one's perspective right. He had his head in his hands, trying to think what to write down for Vivian (either for or against) and all he could come up with was Count Dracula, her fiancé. Otherwise his mind refused to respond. His concentration on the name
Vivian Rivington
was so intense that he didn't hear the approaching footsteps, and was surprised by Ruthven's voice.

“It's Superintendent Jury, sir,” said Ruthven, from the doorway.

Melrose started up as Jury came through the door. Even though he didn't know quite what to say to him, still, he was delighted to see him. “Richard!” They clasped each other's hands. “But . . . how've you been?”

“Passable.”

“Good lord, it's been so long since I've seen you.”

Jury arched an eyebrow. “Two weeks?”

“Yes, well, it seems so long. Let Ruthven get you a drink. Sit down!”

Jury told Ruthven he'd like some whiskey and sat down opposite Melrose.

Melrose told Ruthven to top up the decanter and then they wouldn't have to bother him again. He sat back and allowed himself to hope that the subject of Jenny wouldn't come up. Stupid. How to avoid her coming up? She was in the thick of a murder investigation.

But Jury seemed more interested in the paper napkin that Melrose had left on the table, gathering up droplets of condensed water. “What's this, then?”

“A list.” His hand moved to pick it up but Jury was too quick for him.

“I think I know some of these people,” Jury said, straightfaced. “Not Miss Fludd, though. I don't know her.”

Since he didn't, that subject was at least safe. Melrose expelled his held breath. “A neighbor. You remember Watermeadows—” He cut himself off. Watermeadows had marked an especially unhappy period in Jury's life. God, talking to him about women was like negotiating a minefield. The worst things happened to Jury's women.

Jury's expression betrayed nothing, however. He said, “A neighbor you
don't know very well, I take it. Hence the ‘Miss.' ” Jury smiled. “And here's Bea Slocum, of all people. Hmm. Interesting to speculate on what these women have in common.”

Good grief, was anything worse than to have written something exceedingly personal and have someone else come along and read it? Melrose was damned glad he hadn't yet filled in the “Comments” column.

Ruthven swanned in with their drinks. Jury thanked him and then went on, relentlessly. “Could these be the women in your life?” His smile was wicked.

“What? Of course not.” Melrose let out a snort, dismissing this idea.

“Oh. Well, since
I
know them, then it must be a list of the women in
my
life. Except for Miss Fludd, of course.” He held up the napkin. “Nancy. That her name, is it?”

Melrose adopted a superior tone. “Tell me, Richard, is this what you came to see me about? Is this what you traveled all the way from Lincolnshire for?”

“No. Look here, you didn't put anything down under ‘Comments.' Are all of these women comment-less, then?”

Melrose faked an easy smile. Jury could stick to a subject like glue when he wanted to. He was apparently set to grill Melrose on this napkin list until he came up with some acceptable explanation. This was the way Jury handled befuddled and guilty suspects. “Oh, that.” He waved a hand, brushing aside Jury's questions with feigned self-assurance. “Well, I hadn't got around to it, had I?”

“Let's.”

“Let's what?”

“Make some comments.” Jury took a ballpoint pen from his pocket and clicked it several times in a most annoying manner.

Melrose coughed. Why wasn't he better at thinking on his feet? Why didn't ideas come hurtling off the top of his mind? “I was just noting down their names as witnesses. They've all been witnesses at one time or another; I was just pondering who'd make the best witness. You know—which one would be the most reliable.”
That
was quick thinking! He was pleased with himself.

“Why'd you cross out Jenny?”

Melrose studied the jumping flames of the fireplace. He shrugged. “Well, I wasn't sure she
was
a witness.”

“Yes, you are. You wouldn't have had to go looking for her otherwise.”

Jury was just stitching him up, he knew that. Jury with his poker-face. No wonder suspects wanted to confess. Yet, he did seem to be in a good mood and ready for a joke. “We haven't met since—” He was bringing it up himself, that fatal meeting in Littlebourne. Oh, hell . . . but the words were out now “—since you came back from New Mexico.” He kept his head down, making wet circles with his glass on the little rosewood table, ruining the finish. “I mean that we've actually been sitting down talking . . . ” he added lamely.

Jury merely nodded. Then he said, “I never thanked you. Macalvie told me you'd been a real help. And God knows Wiggins appreciated it.”

Melrose was surprised. He laughed. “Wiggins didn't need me. He loved that hospital. That nurse—” Melrose snapped his fingers. “What's her name—?”

“Lillywhite.” Jury smiled, drank his whiskey. His glance strayed again to the napkin.

Melrose wished he'd stop eyeing it. “Nurse Lillywhite. That's the one. He had her running all over London looking for books.”

“And still does. Apparently she's ‘done wonders'—his words—for his health. And his temperament. Both of which have always been perfectly sanguine, far as I'm concerned.”

They spent some moments speaking of the case that had taken Jury to New Mexico. They talked until the subject was fairly well exhausted. Melrose had taken out his cigarette case and offered one to Jury, who refused. “Thanks, but if you remember, I quit.”

“That's right. I didn't expect it would last. Good for you.”

“It's only been eighteen and a third days, but who's counting?”

“I doubt I could do it for eighteen minutes. I'd sooner give this up”—and he raised his whiskey glass—“than cigarettes.”

Jury laughed. “You need a confederate; someone who's trying to stay stopped too. Whenever I think I can't stand it one bloody minute longer, I ring up Des.”

“Who's Des?”

“Young lady at Heathrow. She works at one of the cigarette and tobacco kiosks. Hell of an environment if you're trying to stop smoking. We got in a conversation about it, and I told her I'd stay stopped at least as long as she did. It was a pact, I guess you'd call it. Like the ones you made when you were a kid, you know, never to tell on the other one, that sort of thing.”

“Oh, nobody trusted me, none of my little friends.”

Jury laughed. “No wonder.”

“I always had to put up cash. It was a damned racket with them.” They both laughed, and Melrose looked at the coal end of his cigarette. “But it's a good idea, that. A pact. Who could I make one with? Marshall Trueblood? Anyway, I can't imagine Trueblood giving up those candy-cane Sobranies.”

“It's part of his rap.”

“Rap?”

“You know, his game. His persona.”

“For Trueblood the rap's all there is. Now, what is it you want me to do? What dire plot? What exquisite scheme have you in mind?”

Jury slid down in his favorite soft leather chair, balanced his drink on his knee, and studied the ceiling. “Remember the Lake District? The Holdsworths?”

“Oh, ha! I'm not going back there!”

“Don't tell me you didn't enjoy it because I know you did.”

Melrose hemmed and hawed, vastly moderating his enjoyment of it. “If you want me to be a librarian again, forget it.”

“No, nothing like that.”

“Thank the lord.”

“I want you to be an appraiser.”

Melrose frowned over the rim of his glass. “A what?”

“You know. Some bloke who goes round telling people what their old stuff is worth.” Jury finished off his drink and held out his glass. “You're the host.”

“I don't
know
what anybody's old stuff is worth.” Melrose took their glasses to the sideboard where Ruthven had set the decanter. He poured
two fingers of whiskey into Jury's glass, held it out for him. “I don't even know what
my
old stuff is worth.” He splashed whiskey into his own glass, returned to his chair.

“I just want you to be an antiques appraiser. Hell, you can cardshark your way through this assignment. You did with the librarian act.”

“For God's sake, that was
books. Books!
Of course I know something about books. I know sod-all about antiques. Send Trueblood.”

Jury ignored that. “I need someone inside the house. Fengate. It's near Spalding.”

“Near Spalding is it? Oh well, that makes all the difference! Where in hell's Spalding?”

“South Lincolnshire. Little Holland.”

“Little
who?
Anyway, these people with their unvalued antiques would hardly want a strange chap actually staying with them.” Melrose took a hearty swig of his drink, having put paid to Jury's idea. “A boarder. My, doesn't that sound a treat of a role? I'll shuffle into breakfast every morning in my out-at-elbow brown cardigan and hairy jacket.” Melrose reflected for a moment. “Tattershall. Isn't that castle up there someplace? You know, the one that what's-his-name—Lord Curzon?—was so fond of and gave a lot of money for restoring?”

“Don't be daft.”

“Me? You're the one that's daft, expecting me to masquerade as a . . . Truebloodian.”

“I'm not suggesting you masquerade at all. You're to go as plain old Melrose Plant. You'll just know a bit more about antiques than you usually do.” Jury's smile was brief and bright.

“Well ‘plain old Melrose Plant' doesn't know
anything
.”

“All right, so you're not an expert and it's true you might not know enough to fool Max Owen—”

Relieved, Melrose sat back. “Glad you've come to your senses.”

“—so you can take lessons from Trueblood.”

Melrose sat up straight as a stick. “Lessons from
Trueblood?
A ha ha ha.” Melrose slapped his thigh in this pretense of wild laughter. “Oh ha ha ha ha.”

Jury ignored this outburst. “It wouldn't take long at all. That's because I know the particular pieces—at least the ones he has in mind now—that he wants valued. So, you see, it's not a matter of your knowing
everything.”

“It's a matter of knowing
nothing
that bothers me. Send Diane Demorney. She's the
perfect
choice, since in her uncluttered mind is but one little fact about nearly everything in the world, from Stendhal to baseball. She could flummox this—what's his name?”