The Dirty Duck (6 page)

Jury shook his head.

“Then he told Honey Belle the house was haunted. She's the biggest coward God ever made.
Then
—I don't know how he did it—he made chairs move and glasses walk all over the cupboards. He made drawers open and all sorts of stuff. Scared them both shitless but didn't get rid of them.” She smoked her cigarette, looking hard at the riverscape. “Jimmy's got you might say an elaborate mind—like him.”

Incredibly, she seemed to be studying the bronze statue. “Shakespeare, you mean?”

“Yeah. You ever read him? I just
love
that Shakespeare. I must of been to see
As You Like It
three times already. We had to read that in school
and I learnt all the speeches.” She ground out her cigarette. “Listen, you just got to find Jimmy.”

He doubted she was used to pleading. . . . Hell, another hour or two on this case wouldn't kill him. The bell of Holy Trinity Church drenched the air with its tolling of noon. “Come on, Penny. Let's go over to Shakespeare's birthplace and ask a few questions.”

“Me?”
That she would be helping out in a police investigation changed the sad look utterly. Light seemed to gleam through the dust of the freckles as she walked beside him, across the brilliant green of the grass toward Henley Street. Still, she continued her odyssey of life with her stepmother and -sister. “It's like a steambath around that house. Jimmy's the only thing brightened my life. Well, I've decided in the last two days I ain't going back there. I'm going to stay right here and try and marry up with a duke or earl or someone. I like Him okay, but I just can't stand those two no longer. Not being around that house with all them tits and asses. You wouldn't happen to know any, would you?”

Jury was not sure whether she was referring to tits and asses or dukes and earls. “As a matter of fact I do know an earl.” He smiled.

“No shit!” She stopped and looked up at him, her face all wonder.

“No shit,” said Jury.

 • • • 

The birthplace was a pleasant, homey, half-timbered building of Warwickshire stone whose door was nearly flush with Henley Street. Outside that nearly sacred door, a double line of pilgrims waited, impatient parents and quarrelsome children licking iced lollies. Jury wondered how many of the people there actually read Shakespeare, but he had to admire them and their willingness to take genius on faith.

“It looks like the lines to
E.T.,”
said Penny, morosely. “It must be a hundred people ahead of us.”

“I think maybe we can navigate round the crowd. Come on.”

The woman at the door, wearing the emblem of the Shakespeare Trust, observed Jury's warrant card with a kind of horror, even after he had assured her that nothing was wrong. She still looked up at him uncertainly, as if afraid he might drag into the birthplace, not only the girl at his side, but also the effluvia of Criminal London, which would be left behind to cling like a patina of dust to the precious collection within.

There was as much of a crowd inside as out. Jury showed the picture of James Carlton Farraday to the guardian of the rooms downstairs, but met with no response. They made their way upstairs, to other small and cheerful rooms—white-plastered and solid-timbered. The furnishings were Elizabethan
and Jacobean, but none of them unfortunately, Shakespeare's (so a guide upstairs was informing the pilgrims), except for the old desk from the Stratford Grammar School, where young Will had had to endure no end of terrors. The desk was marked and pitted.

Jury approached an elderly gentleman, another guardian, who was dispensing information to a disheveled young woman in shorts and sandals, regarding the leaded glass window, where the names of the famous of other centuries had been cut with diamond rings. The woman in sandals slapped away.

Jury produced his identification. “I wonder if you might have seen this boy in here on Monday morning.”

The gentleman seemed astonished that someone would be inquiring into the whereabouts of anything except furniture and windowpanes. Especially that Scotland Yard would be the inquirer. When Jury showed him the picture in the passport, he shook his head.

“We get so many schoolchildren on holiday and, especially now, with term nearly over. Well, you know, one schoolboy begins to look like another. There are so many of them and they ask so many questions . . .” He went on in this vein, prompted to overexplain out of some conviction that Scotland Yard might think he had this particular schoolboy locked up in the oak trunk beside him.

Jury handed him a card, entering the number of the Stratford police station above the Scotland Yard number. “If you should remember anything, anything at all, give me a call.”

The guide nodded.

 • • • 

The result was the same in the souvenir shop on the other side of the gardens, where the pilgrims were buying up all sorts of Elizabethan memorabilia: place mats, cut-outs of the Globe Theatre, postcards and pictures and pendants. None of the harassed salespeople recognized the picture of James Carlton Farraday.

 • • • 

Jury and an unhappy Penny were now standing looking down the central walk, bordered by flowers. There were quince and medlar trees and the summer air was pungent with the fragrance of flowers and herbs.

“I read in this little book they got all the flowers here that Shakespeare talks about in his plays. I wonder if they got rosemary.” She pushed her long hair behind her ear. “That ain't a flower, is it?” Her look at Jury was very nearly inconsolable. “That's for remembrance.”

J
ames Carlton Farraday was tired of being kidnapped.

He did not know who he had been kidnapped
by,
or where he had been kidnapped
to,
or what he had been kidnapped
for.

At first, he had not minded, but now he was bored. He was tired of the same room—a little one way up high like a garret. His food was delivered on a tray slipped through an oblong that had been cut into the door. Probably he was in a tower, although there were no rats. There was a cat, though. It had determinedly squeezed through the opening in the door. It probably wanted to see what it was like, being kidnapped. The cat, a gray one with white paws, had curled up on the foot of the iron cot and gone to sleep. James Carlton shared his food with it.

The food was all right, but he would have preferred bread and water, at least for a couple of days. He didn't think it quite fitting that he be served Jell-O (or whatever they called it in England) out of a little tin mold with a rose design on top. He himself hated Jell-O, but the gray cat loved it and licked it all up. The rest of the food was not bad, even if its method of delivery was a little unconventional. Not at all like his old nurse bringing a tray to his room back home, bringing things like runny boiled egg and dry toast. Boy, was he glad to be rid of
her.

James Carlton had read every book ever written (he supposed) on kidnappings of one sort or another. People stuck up in towers, or carted away to Devil's Island, or thrown in dungeons, or captured by Zulu tribes, or lowered into viper pits, or stuffed into trunks of cars. He was obsessed with kidnapping because he was pretty sure that was what had happened to him and Penny years ago. And he wasn't even sure that it was J. C. Farraday who had done it. Actually, he thought not. J.C. did not seem to
be the sort. Amelia Blue, now, she'd take anything not nailed down, and that included babies, only Amelia Blue wasn't around then. Probably he had looked so cute lying in his carriage outside the Sav-Mor, someone had just snatched him up and run off. He thought it pretty stupid of Penny—who was usually very smart—to believe that story about their mom having died of that strange disease. She hadn't, of course.

The police were still looking for him (and Penny too, he supposed) after all these years, though they had certainly kept it quiet. His real mother and father would never give up looking for him, he knew. One thing that had made it so hard for him to be found was because Amelia Blue and J.C. made him wear these big eyeglasses. When he was a baby the kidnappers must have dyed his hair. For he had seen the picture of his mother, and she had light brown hair like Penny.

James Carlton had been going along with all this in a good-humored way for years. He had never said a word about being kidnapped, or asked why they didn't let him go home. But now he was getting mad. To be kidnapped once was bad enough. Twice, and somebody better have a pretty good reason.

The gray cat was napping on his chest and he exhaled deeply. Inhaling and exhaling could make it go up and down. Finally, the cat got disgusted and jumped down.

Beyond thinking of ways to escape, there was nothing to do. Naturally, there were no pencils or pens in the room because of the danger of his writing notes and sending them out of the window for passersby to find and report to the police that there was a boy in the tower.

But James Carlton always carried the stub of a pencil in his sock, because he knew how important it was to have a writing implement. More important than a weapon, really. It was necessary for sending out SOS's to the police, or for leaving messages behind when people moved their captives from place to place.

He had often toyed with the idea that if he did not decide to become a baseball player when he got older (his father, he was sure, was a baseball player), he would probably become a writer. A foreign correspondent. And writing was also something to do to keep your mind busy when you were bored.

Around the walls a number of pictures had been hung, all of them quite stupid, of Irish setters or cows in meadows. He took down one of the pictures of cows and a shepherd and lay on the bed with the picture overturned, resting on his knees. From his sock he took his pencil and continued his diary. It wasn't very interesting writing this, but it had to be
done in case his kidnappers moved him and the police came looking for him. With painstaking care he had already managed to work a clue into the picture itself by carefully removing the backing paper and the picture and tearing out the heads of the shepherd and the cow and exchanging them. It had been very difficult and meticulous work and had taken him upwards of two hours, as he had no glue and had to position the heads carefully. They kept sliding around beneath the glass. Finally, he had used spit for glue and was pleased with the result. No one who lived here would notice because no one ever looked at their own pictures. But Scotland Yard would see it and know that it was some sort of clue and look at the back of the picture.

At the top of the backing paper, which he had restuck round the frame, he had written

James Carlton Farraday

in as fancy a script as he could. He went on now with his diary:

7:13 Brekfs't Egg, bacon, cereal

He printed this in small neat letters, under last night's dinner, which had been served him at 6:22 exactly. They had not taken away his watch.

Now he went on to his escape plans, listed in the order in which he would probably try them:

1. Pretend sick—when food comes, moan and groan

2. Grab his/her wrist through door slot when tray sits down

3. Figure out way to get out of window. Lower cat?????????

James Carlton replaced the picture on the wall and did some deep knee bends. It was important to try and keep fit. After that, he shadow-boxed around the room and over to the bed. He threw a few punches at the cat, all the while doing his fancy footwork. The gray cat rolled over on its back, made a few desultory swipes at his fist, got bored and rolled over on its side. James Carlton shadow-boxed off.

He stopped when he heard the footsteps. At the sound of the tray clattering down on the floor, James Carlton put plan number one into action. He lay down on the floor and began to moan and groan horribly.

T
he Dirty Duck's dining room—that somewhat more luxurious part of the pub called the Black Swan—was crowded with diners who were getting in drinks and dinner before the seven-thirty curtain. The terrace spilled customers onto its steps; in the saloon bar of the Duck there was barely room to lift a glass.

Melrose interrupted his discourse on the Schoenberg theory to taste the wine their dark-haired waitress had just poured. When he nodded, she filled their glasses and whisked off.

“That's the stupidest theory I've ever heard. Pass the mustard,” said Jury.

“I haven't finished.
Then
he says that maybe Shakespeare had to kill Marlowe, because if he didn't,
Marlowe
would kill
Shakespeare.”
Melrose shoved the mustard pot toward Jury, who dotted his steak-and-kidney pie all over with it. “And then he keeps bringing up Shakespeare's sonnets on this Ishi—”

“What the hell's that?”

“His computer.”

“You mean he's carrying a
computer
around Stratford?”

Melrose cut into his roast beef. “Of course. He couldn't have a conversation without it. He says there are already computers that you can talk to. Just talk to. Maybe I could get one for Agatha. It could sit with her when she comes over to Ardry End for tea.”

Jury smiled. “We haven't met in three years.”

“You'll keep it that way if you're smart. She'll track you down, never fear. When she can spare time from the Randolph Biggets.”

“Who're they?” Jury held out his glass for a refill.

“Our
American cousins. Hordes of them. Fortunately, I've managed to avoid them. I've taken rooms at the Falstaff and left dear Agatha and the Biggets to the Hathaway. Americans go for it; mock-Tudor and mud-and-wattle.”

Jury smiled. “Not quite. Very expensive place. ‘Rooms at the Falstaff'? How many did you take?”

“All of them.” At Jury's raised eyebrow, he added, “Well, I had to, didn't I? Otherwise, there'd be Biggets spilling out of all the windows. I simply told Agatha I'd got the last room. Which I had, in a manner of speaking. There're only eight or nine, anyway. Are you going to do anything else about this boy who's gone missing?”