The Man with a Load of Mischief (29 page)

“Inspector,
I don't know
why Lorraine wanted it.”

“Do you recognize that bracelet, Mr. Darrington?”

“It looks vaguely familiar.”

An impossible liar, thought Jury. Darrington couldn't keep his eyes from it. “You've seen it before.”

Oliver lit up a cigarette, shrugged, and said, “I may have done.”

“On Ruby Judd's wrist, perhaps?”

“Possibly.”

“According to your statement, you dropped Mrs. Bicester-Strachan at her house, and then went to yours. Why?”

“Why? I wanted some money, that's all.”

“Everybody seems short of money tonight. You're quite sure that you didn't go home with Mrs. Bicester-Strachan?”

“Look here, Inspector! I'm sick of your insinuations —”

“She didn't go home with you?”

“No!”

“I see. Well, that's too bad, in a way. I mean, if she
had
that would have given both of you an alibi, wouldn't it?”

 • • • 

Lorraine Bicester-Strachan pulled her chair as close to Jury as she could get and crossed her silk-stockinged legs. And since her long tweed skirt was buttoned only from the waist to above the knee, it showed a great deal of leg. “No, I've never seen it,” she said of the bracelet. “Is it supposed to be mine, found at the scene of the crime?”

Jury was always amazed at the callousness of some people. “Your husband is terribly upset over the death of the vicar. They must have been close friends.” She merely flicked the ash from her cigarette over the fireplace fender at that remark. “Of course, it's quite possible friendship — and loyalty — don't mean all that much to you.”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“That information your husband was supposed to have let slip into the wrong hands some time ago. They were your hands, weren't they? Or, at least, your hands passed that information along to someone who was not exactly wearing the Old School Tie.”

She might have been sculpted from ice.

“Your lover, right? And also a ‘friend' of your husband. And to save your reputation, Mr. Bicester-Strachan let his own go right down the drain. And has continued to do so.
That's
loyalty. Some people even call it love —”

Lorraine leaned toward him suddenly; her hand flashed out. But Jury merely caught it in midair, almost like a ball, and pushed her back, not overgently, into her seat. “Shall we get back to the present business? Were you bored this evening, Mrs. Bicester-Strachan? Is that why you invited Mr. Darrington home?”

Now she was confused in addition to being furious. There was no way she could tell from Jury's blank expression whether Oliver really had told him anything.

“Well?” asked Jury, amused at the horns of a dilemma on which Darrington and Lorraine found themselves impaled.

“He's lying if he said I went with him.” She twisted the diamond circlet of her watchband.

Jury smiled. “I didn't say he said it, Mrs. Bicester-Strachan. I merely made that assumption.”

He wanted to laugh at her smugness, at the little half-smile bestowed more upon her own cleverness than upon him. As she walked out, swaying her hips just so, it occurred to him that the idea of Oliver and Lorraine making love in some dark corner was unutterably boring.

Pluck sent in Simon Matchett.

 • • • 

“Ruby Judd's,” said Matchett, without hesitation. He rolled his thin cigar in his mouth.

“How are you so sure, Mr. Matchett?”

“Because the girl came over here rather often, to see Daphne. She always wore it.”

Jury nodded. “Did you leave the premises this evening? Say, between six and eight?”

“Meaning, have I an alibi? Inspector, I haven't a clue.”

Jury asked again, “Did you leave the premises?”

“No. I did go out to check on the electrical box. Something shorted out in the kitchen.”

“What time?”

“Around seven, seven-thirty.”

“According to this” — Jury indicated Pluck's notes — “you had gone to Sidbury and got back here at about six-thirty.”

“Yes, as well as I can remember. Shops close there at six and it takes about half an hour to get back.”

“I see.” The name of the last shop he had visited was in the notes. Easy enough to check if he'd been there. Jury took another tack. “Mr. Matchett, what is your relation with Isabel Rivington?”

“
Isabel?”

“Yes. Isabel.”

“I don't think I understand you.”

“Yes, you do. I get the impression that her feelings for you are more than friendly. I'm sure you get the same impression.” Jury smiled thinly.

Matchett was a long time in answering. Finally, he said, “Look, that was all over a long time ago. A
very
long time ago. At the risk of being less than gallant, I'll only add, at least for me it's over.”

That rather threw Jury. Somehow, he hadn't taken into consideration that there might have been something in the
past
. It would certainly explain his suspicions about Isabel's feelings for Matchett. “And does Vivian know about this old liaison?”

“I hope to God not.”

Jury glared at him. “A generous thought, Mr. Matchett.”

 • • • 

Isabel Rivington sat across from him, looking expensively composed. Her deceptively simple dress, of some coarse, brown material, Jury bet had cost the earth.

“Where were you, Miss Rivington, before you came up to
the Load of Mischief this evening?” He reached over and lit a cigarette that she had extracted from a pack she had balanced on the arm of her chair.

“I told Constable Pluck.”

He smiled. “I know. Now tell me.”

“I went for a walk. Up the High Street. Poked about a bit in the shops. Then I walked up to the Sidbury Road and along the path that goes across the fields.”

“Anyone see you?” Isabel did not strike Jury as being much of a walker.

“On the High Street, yes, I imagine so. But not later.” As she leaned toward the table to flick ash from her cigarette into the china tray, her eye went to the bracelet. She said nothing, and leaned back.

“Have you seen that bracelet before, Miss Rivington?”

“No. Why?”

“What is your relationship with Mr. Matchett?”

The sudden change of subject startled her. “Simon? What do you mean? We're friends, is all.”

Jury made a sound in his throat which he hoped suggested that he didn't believe her, and changed the subject again. It was the question he had been burning to ask her for two days. “Miss Rivington, why have you let Vivian live all of these years with the idea she was responsible for her father's death?”

Mouth open, cigarette frozen in position, she looked as waxen as a dressmaker's dummy. When she spoke, her voice was unnatural, the pitch high and shaky. “I don't know what you mean.”

“Come now, Miss Rivington. Assuming it was an accident at all, it was you up on that horse, wasn't it? Not Vivian?”

“She remembered? Vivian remembered?”

Well, he thought, with a sigh of relief, there it was. If she could have maintained more control, she might have swaggered her way through. After all, he had no proof. “No. She didn't remember. It was just that neither your story nor hers made much sense. And her story seemed almost learned by rote. From you, I expect. Vivian was obviously very fond of her father, and
if the little girl was anything at all like the woman, she hardly seems the type to have been always rowing with him. But mainly, there was that description both of you gave of the night in question. ‘It was very dark, a moonless night' when she supposedly went out to the stables. Now, she was only
eight
, and though it's certainly possible a child of that age might be up after dark, this is
Sutherland
we're talking about. I've an artist friend who loves the Highlands, loves to paint there. Not only because it's beautiful, but because of the light. He jokes about being able to stand on a street corner and read a book at
midnight
because it's still light. It's highly unlikely a little girl would be all dressed and dashing about at
midnight.”
Jury drew the typed report on James Rivington from the folder which he had been holding. “Time of accident: eleven-fifty
P.M
. I'm surprised the police didn't make more of that at the time.” He had watched Isabel grow progressively paler as he talked. “So I came to a couple of different conclusions: whether or not the horse business was an ‘accident' or deliberate on your part, I don't know. I envision something like this: you're up on the horse, the horse kicks your stepfather, you rush to your little sister's room, pull some clothes on her, and bring her down to the stable. You don't even need to put her up on the horse. All you had to do was implant the idea in her mind that she was on it. And over the years you kept insinuating into her mind a lot of nonsense about the ‘fights' she had with Rivington, to keep her feeling guilty, to keep her under your influence as much as possible.” Jury, who seldom allowed himself an editorial comment, could not help it now: “How vile, Miss Rivington. How utterly vile of you. Why did you kill him? That will of his must have been an enormous disappointment to you.”

Her mouth was so red against the pallor of her skin, she looked like someone in pretty clown makeup. “What are you going to do?”

“Make a bargain with you. You'll have to tell Vivian—” When she started to protest, he held up his hand. “— Tell her enough of the truth so she won't have to be weighed down under what must be unbearable guilt. Tell her you caused the
accident. You may give as your reason for foisting it off on her that if you had had to admit to the authorities you were the one on that horse, they would have had you up for manslaughter. You can put on a big act of having been terrified, et cetera, et cetera. Cry a bit. I'm sure you can manage it. You've been deceiving her for twenty years; I'm sure you can bring off one more deception.”

Some of the color had returned to Isabel's face, and much of the old hauteur. “And if I don't? You can't prove one damned thing!”

Jury leaned forward. “That may be. But remember that you've got a lovely, lovely motive for murder, haven't you?”

“That's absurd —”

Jury shook his head. “And if you don't tell her, be damned sure
I
will. And I may leave out that it was an accident.”

She shot out of the chair and made for the door.

“. . .
And
, Miss Rivington, all I need do is drop a word in somebody's ear around here and you'd be finished.”

At the door she whirled round. “That's absolutely unethical. No decent policeman would do such a thing.”

“I never claimed to be decent, did I?”

 • • • 

Vivian sat across from Jury, in a plain rose-wool dress, clasping and unclasping her hands. “I can't believe it. Whoever would want to hurt the vicar? That harmless old man.”

“The victims usually
are
harmless. Except to the murderer. Do you recognize this bracelet, Miss Rivington?” And he shoved it toward Vivian.

“That's the one he found.”

“You knew about it, then? When did he tell you?”

“Today. This afternoon sometime. I'd just stopped round to the vicarage to chat with him.”

Jury's heart sank. “What time was that?”

“Oh, about five. Perhaps later. I'm not —” Her hands went to her face. “Not again. You're not going to tell me I was about when another one's happened.”

“I'm not going to tell you anything, no.” Jury smiled, but
didn't feel like it. Why the hell didn't she stay home and write poetry? He looked at the notes Pluck had made. “Were you at home after that? Between the time you left the vicarage and the time you got here?”

“Yes.” Her head was bent over her lap and her hands were pleating her skirt.

“Would you like a brandy, Miss Rivington? Something?” Jury said gently. He ducked his head down a bit, trying to get a peek at her face. From the way her shoulders moved, he judged she was crying — yes, he was sure of it. Automatically, he reached out a hand to her, then jerked it back. He felt utterly bleak, imagining her face — which he couldn't see — all screwed up like a child's. He took out his folded handkerchief and put it in her lap. Then he got up, moved some distance from her over to one of the windows, and went on from there.

“Were you with your sister when you went home?”

Still not looking up, she shook her head. “No. Isabel had gone out.”

“And the maid?”

Vivian blew her nose. “Gone, too.”

Jury sighed. Worse luck. “Thanks, Miss Rivington. Could I have someone see you home? Constable Pluck?”

She was up now, but still looking down at the floor. She shook her head. The left hand still held his handkerchief, and the right pleated her skirt. She said nothing, and with her head still bent, walked to the door.

“Miss Rivington!”

She turned.

Jury felt wretched. “That's a, ah, pretty dress.”
Idiot
, he added, furious with himself.

But she smiled slightly. Finally, she looked up at him, her face so deadly serious, her gemstone eyes so earnest, that he was suddenly terrified she was going to confess to the murders, the whole lot of them.

When she opened her mouth to speak, he very nearly put out his hand to stay her words. “Inspector Jury —”

“It's all right—”

“I'll wash your handkerchief.” She turned and walked out of the room.

 • • • 

“Lady A's going to slap the cuffs on me momentarily, Inspector.” Marshall Trueblood crossed one leg primly over another. “She's quite convinced I'm the one. Dear me, I wouldn't say boo to a goose. Much less kill the dear old boy.”