The Five Bells and Bladebone (3 page)

“Old sweat,” said Trueblood, “I couldn’t agree more. If I hear the odious bookshop owner villify me again, I’ll sue and have you beat him to death with your crutch. And where is Richard Jury? Thought he was supposed to be here by now.”

Without looking up from his paper, Melrose said, “He’s had a flat on the M-1 and called to say he might be late as
he’s waiting for the garage to fix it.” (
Idiot
would just pick up that
T
in
nit.)
“Met an old chum there, he said, and he’s having a nice long natter.”

Vivian asked with suspicion, “Old chum? What sort?”

“Female sort. He’s having tea with her in the Trusthouse Forte at the Woburn turn-off.”

Melrose smiled round the table and went back to his puzzle.

I
T WAS
J
URY
, but he was not finishing tea in a Trusthouse Forte on the M-1. He was in his Islington flat, trying to finish his packing. His packing and his argument. Tossing socks and shirts into a duffel bag, he was trying to talk the tenant from upstairs out of her latest harebrained behavior.

The tenant from upstairs, Carole-anne Palutski, was paying precious little attention, for she was too busy making small adjustments to her exotic costume in front of Jury’s mirror.

As she applied more Poppies-from-Heav’n lipstick, Jury said, “He wants a shop assistant, love, not a belly dancer.” He held up a Shetland sweater, inspecting it for mothy bites. He frowned.

“That’s what
you
know. Andrew’ll
love
my outfit. Add a bit of sparkle and shine to the shop.” She put her arms out straight and spun briefly like a top.

And some outfit it was: gold netting over cerise silk for the brief top; the same silk for the pantaloons; gold braiding round the bottom of the halter and the top of the pants, allowing an even stronger definition of the naked torso in between. Not completely naked, no: something filmy covered the skin there, serving the illusion that it was
even more skinlike. And round her coppery hair, Carole-anne had affixed a band of crushed gold lamé, a fake sapphire embedded in the center.

Talk about gilding a lily. Carole-anne was too beautiful in a chenille bathrobe for her own good, much less in her new harem costume.

There was a tiny tinkle as she rose on her toes to get in one or two stretching exercises before going off to work. Jury looked over the top of the sweater where he had found a moth hole big enough to put three fingers through. “Do I hear bells?”

She was huffing a bit as she did her jumping jacks. “It’s just these,” she said, sticking out her foot. Tiny bells were strung round her ankle below the layers of pantaloon.

“I hope the camel train makes it,” said Jury. “If the Riffs don’t carry you away, you’ll be able to get to your lessons.” It was her missing her acting lesson that had caused the argument. She had whined and whined about Jury’s arguing her out of that all-night job in a Leicester Square club because it interfered with her acting career. Now the reverse was true; she loved her daytime job at the little shop in Covent Garden so much, she wasn’t finding time for her acting. And it hadn’t taken long for Jury to believe that Carole-anne was an extraordinary actress. To say nothing of those knock-’em-in-the-aisle looks.

She flopped on the sofa, sprawling like a ten-year-old, musical ankles resting on the coffee table. “I’ve only got that little-bitty part in Camden-bloody-Town. It’s not even
speaking
.”

She made such a meal of the word, and such a face with it, Jury wanted to laugh. “You don’t need to speak. As Mrs. Wassermann says, ‘She walks down the street, it’s an entire conversation.’ I thought you wanted to be another Shirley MacLaine. Or was it Julie Andrews? Although I can’t see you running downhill in a dirndl. Besides, you can’t sing.”

“I don’t want to be them. I wish to play Medea.”

He looked up from his duffel bag. “You
wish
to play
who?
”

Having cadged one of Jury’s cigarettes, she was now wrapping her toes round the telephone receiver, trying to lift it. “I saw it on the telly, Zoë Caldwell, you ever seen her?”

Sorting through mismatched socks, Jury said, “Take your acting lessons for maybe two millennia and you might get to understudy her understudy.” He nodded at her costume. “If you take off those rags.”

“Well, I agree, the costumes in
Medea
should be changed. I was thinking maybe updating it and wearing my red.”

“Your ‘red.’ I can just see Medea in Chinatown red. And get your foot off my telephone.”

It chose that moment to ring.

“Don’t answer,” said Carole-anne, in a stagey whisper. “It’s probably only SB-stroke-H.”

The telephone brred. “I hear seldom from Miss Bredon-Hunt. You took care of that. Who it is, is probably C-stroke-S Racer. Damn.” Jury strangled his socks.

Carole-anne bounced up. “Let me answer, say you’ve gone. Oh, do, do, do.”

It was hideously unprofessional, but then so was the chief superintendent’s calling him on the first day of his holiday to delay him at best, or to keep him in London at worst. Jury nodded.

“ ‘El-
lo
,” she fluted, reclining on the sofa in perfect harem position. “Sup-er-in-ten-dent Jury’s flat.” Silence. “Oh, it’s
you
, love.” She had the syllables pouring like syrup. “Just missed him, you did. Gone to Northants.” Her sigh was long and sad, as if both she and the speaker knew how much Superintendent Jury would be missed. “No . . . . His friend’s ex-directory.” Pause. “Oh, love, I wouldn’t, now, if I was you. It’s Lord Caverness or something like that. Very sick, ‘e is.” Carole-anne’s accent was surfacing. “Funeral?
Well, he ain’t — isn’t — dead yet, dearie. Just dying is all. That’s right. Lingering illness, yes.”

Poor Melrose Plant. Ill, dying, dead. She was so convincing, he was almost hoping he’d make it to Northants in time.

Jury gave her a black look. But Carole-anne was deep into her role. Once she had told Racer she was Jury’s char. Now she was charring it up by polishing his coffee table with his socks. “Oooooohhh.” She made a silly, kissing sound with her Poppies-from-Heav’n lips. “Now that
is
a shame, dear . . . .”

And Jury (to say nothing of Racer) was treated to an aching monologue on love, marriage, and mistresses, in which Carole-anne sat, legs crossed, painted fingers arched on knee, eyes raised to ceiling as if there she saw her script.

Jury was mesmerized; he couldn’t help it. He just stood with two clean shirts he meant to put in his bag, listening. She became her role. For the time on the telephone, she
was
whatever the situation demanded. When she hung it up, she would immediately be Carole-anne again.

Plunk
went the receiver. “These ones have holes,” she said, holding up two socks that she had slipped over her hands.

“What the hell did he say?”

She was up now, trying to do some sort of a wiggle. “Him? Oh, just he hoped you’d have a good time. Is he kinky, or something? Do funerals always make him laugh? Listen, do you think I could do it?”

“Huh? Do what?”

“Belly-dance. I mean the real kind. Takes a lot of training, I expect.”

“Carole-anne, you could be Prime Minister if you wanted to.”

She stopped grinding away, stood arms akimbo and feet splayed, looking like a gorgeous clown. Her hands still
wore Jury’s socks. She was thinking. “I dunno. Maggie’s costumes are so dowdy.” Then she ran at Jury, hugged him, gave him a whopping kiss, and ran out.

It would never have occurred to her to tell him she’d miss him.

Just as it would never have occurred to her she couldn’t be Prime Minister, if it hadn’t been for the dowdy clothes.

 • • • 

He’d tried calling in at the basement flat but found it empty. When he went up the stone steps and out to his car, he saw Mrs. Wassermann chugging along the pavement with her shopping bag. Upwards from its rim stuck some celery, behind it a lettuce.

“Such prices he’s asking, Mr. Jury.” The greengrocer on Upper Street had come in for a good trouncing several times lately. “Oh, thank you.”

Jury had taken the bag from her, and walked with her down the steps.

“Now, I know you must be going, but wait here, there’s something for you.” Inside she popped and was back again with a picnic basket. “Your evening meal. I know how men are, they don’t stop. They’re impatient.”

“Well, thank you, Mrs. Wassermann.” She always fixed him something if she found he was going farther away than Victoria Street. Last year, it had been Brighton, call for two sandwiches. This year, he was going much farther, and staying much longer. That meant a banquet. Half a cold chicken, salad, gâteau, two bottles of Carlsberg. He smiled. “This will last me my whole holiday.”

“I certainly hope so.” There was the strong suggestion that out there in the bush with strange people, Jury would never get a proper meal. “It is much nicer to have you here. But I’ve Carole-anne to keep me company. So sweet, that child is. She comes in most nights and tells my fortune. And yours.” She was unpinning her small, black hat from her coil of gray hair.

“Mine? How can she tell my fortune if I’m not here?” He could hardly wait.

“But you know she’s clairvoyant. A seventh sense she says she has.”

Not even six were enough for Carole-anne. Since she’d started working for Andrew Starr she thought she could fly off roofs. “How does it look, my future?”

She rocked her hand back and forth. “Oh, so-so, Mr. Jury. Not bad,” she was quick to add. “But . . . well, not much of anything.”

“No exotic women on night-trains, that it?”

“For me, she sees a handsome stranger. Tell me,” she held her arms out and looked up and down the street. “Here, there are handsome strangers?”

“And me?” Jury stuck his tongue in his cheek.

“For you, no one.” Mrs. Wassermann sighed. “And I thought that Miss Bredon-Hunt . . . well, you know. I don’t pry, Mr. Jury.”

“Hmm. That doesn’t seem to be working out very well —”

“Oh, it won’t work out at all. What a pity. Such a handsome girl. Still . . . you shouldn’t be forever living alone. Nothing’s ever certain with the stars, of course, but it does look like you’ll be living here with us for some time to come.” Mrs. Wassermann turned her head upwards, saying, “That empty flat, so big and sunny. But people look at it and never come back.”

Of course they don’t, thought Jury. Carole-anne is actually being
paid
to show it. The landlord hasn’t twigged it yet.

“Well, to tell the truth, Mrs. Wassermann, I think it’s nice with just the three of us —”

Shouting down from the top floor came the voice of Carole-anne. She was waving and calling words lost in the spring breeze. Jury saw she’d changed; now she was sporting a dark dress buttoned right up to the neck. Long
sleeves, no ornament. The spellbinding hair was pulled back. She could have played the role of the housekeeper in Max de Winter’s burning mansion.

They both waved upwards, and Jury turned away, thanking Mrs. Wassermann again for the wonderful food.

Actually, Jury hated eating in the car.

He was a dreadful dawdler on holiday, and would probably hit every service area with a Trusthouse Forte on the M-1.

F
OLLOWING A BRIEF
and unlovely prayer that the man would burn in hell, Joanna Lewes slapped the carriage return of her Smith-Corona and stared at the scene she was in the middle of writing. Far from springing to life before her, the characters lay there sculptured in concrete like effigies on a tomb.

Joanna had discovered long ago that the only way to keep from thinking was to write, since her own writing did not even tip its hat to muses who had long past fled the scene.

She kneaded her shoulder, and wondered how much nudity was allowed. And should Matt
push
Valerie down on the bed roughly? Or lower her tenderly? These questions were not prompted by any desire on her part to make the novel “good,” or even a snappy read. They were merely points that had to be borne in mind in light of whichever editor she planned on sending the completed manuscript to. At the moment she had three — three editors, three separate publishing houses, and three pseudonyms in addition to those books written under her own name. Now she was bringing out her fourth, the “Heather Quicks,” a new and innovative series, though in her genre, innovation was unlikely to be looked upon kindly.