The Old Contemptibles (33 page)

“Very. And Alex. That goes without saying.”

“They should be watched over. The people Adam Holdsworth is fond of have a way of dying. I’ll let myself out.”

Jury and Wiggins had stopped at Cumbria police headquarters in Penrith to see what files they had on Graham and Virginia Holdsworth and Annie Thale. The suicide note written by Graham was authentic; there was no reason to believe that Virginia Holdsworth’s death had been anything but an accident, Broad Stand being a notoriously dangerous traverse; yet every reason to believe that Annie Thale’s death had not. That had apparently been suicide also.

Jury wasn’t satisfied with the “apparently,” but he could certainly understand that out of a kindness to her daughter, they had said it was most likely an accidental fall, although the written records stated otherwise.

Cumbria police did not object to Jury’s making his inquiries, since Jane Holdsworth’s death was not their case; it was London’s.

In the Old Contemptibles, Francis Fellowes tapped the table with one of his brushes. “I can’t help you. Never detected anything in Graham’s manner that would indicate he was gay. Never heard anything, never saw anything. Though I don’t think he was a very passionate man; I mean, he didn’t really have awfully strong feelings.”

“Apparently you’re wrong.” Jury’s tone was edgy.

Fellowes stopped the tapping, looked at Jury, reddened. “Yes, well, I didn’t mean—” He shrugged.

“Supposedly he’d been going to marry Madeline Galloway before her sister appeared, is that true?”

“Wishful thinking on Madeline’s part. I doubt Jane broke up anything.”

“Don’t you find it odd Miss Galloway would continue on at Tarn House?”

Fellowes smiled. “I expect that money—or the hope of it—can offset these little humiliations.”

“Has she expectations?”

“They
all
do, Superintendent. Adam can’t live forever.”

“In that house, people don’t even live through middle-age. Were you a friend of Graham Holdsworth?”

“Yes. But not what we’d call a confidant. You know the person he really seemed to confide in, oddly, was Annie Thale. She was cook; her daughter’s still there, Millie. Graham talked to Annie when he wouldn’t talk to anyone else. She was that sort of person.” He picked up his pint. “I’d never really thought much about that before.”

“Did you ever think she killed herself because of him? His suicide?”

Fellowes had taken up his sketchpad and was making quick strokes on it, of the bar and the people there, doing it as some people doodle, in order to center his thoughts. He shook his head. “
I
thought they were merely good friends. But I could be wrong.”

“What did the family think of that relationship?”

Fellowes frowned. “I’m not sure they knew, or thought anything.” He left off the drawing and turned to Jury with a slight smile. “And remember, when you speak of ‘the family’ you’re talking about two different entities. There’s Adam. And then there’s everyone else—Genevieve, Crabbe, George and even Madeline.”

“Alex? What about him?”

Fellowes was shaking his head before the question was finished. “He’s in a class by himself. He’s the one who’ll get the lot.”

“The inheritance.”

“Oh, yes. Of course, there’ll be bequests to everyone else, me included, though I’m only a distant cousin. Millie will come in for a very large chunk, more than anyone else, I’d say, after Alex. Adam doesn’t believe that blood is thicker than water. He was very fond of Millie’s mother, and of Virginia, and of Graham.” Fellowes chewed on the tip of his brush again, thinking. “You see, these particular people aren’t after his money. They are—were—genuinely fond of him. And Alex, well, Alex and Adam are two of a kind. They love
schemes and scams.” Fellowes smiled. “I’m glad the boy’s back.” He looked at Jury again. “And very sorry about Jane.”

Jury was silent for a moment, drinking his ale. Then he said, “Don’t you think, Mr. Fellowes, this family is terribly accident- or suicide-prone? To the point, really, that one begins to wonder if the deaths of people Adam was so fond of were precisely that. As you yourself put it, why kill them off piecemeal?”

Fellowes’s pencil hung in midair as he stared at Jury. “Who in hell told you that?”

 • • • 

“I did.”

Melrose Plant stood at the table, looking down at his friend Richard Jury. “I’m sorry about—” With Francis Fellowes present, he stopped. “I’ve been out walking. It wasn’t until dinner at Tarn House that I found out you’d arrived and were staying here. Where’s Sergeant Wiggins?”

Jury had risen to shake hands. Now he smiled. “Sleeping it off—the five-hour drive to Penrith and the far worse drive along the worst road I’ve ever seen.”

“Hard Knott Pass. I’m an old hand, if you ever need a chauffeur.” He finally plunked himself down. “A pint of something. Where’s our dear old Con? Ah, here she comes.”

Fellowes looked from one to the other, arms folded. “You two know each other?”

“We do,” said Jury, smiling at Melrose. “Have done for years.”

Fellowes laughed. “I never did think you were a librarian.”

“I wonder if anyone did. Thank you, Mrs. Fish.” His tweed sleeve was torn, one of the elbow patches loosely sewn, and his face was scratched.

“You look pretty bunged up,” said Jury, pleasantly.

“I
am
bunged up, but never mind; it was worth it.” Briskly, he went for his rucksack, opened it, pulled out Fellowes’s painting, which was carefully sandwiched between two squares of cardboard to protect it. Beside that he put the leather pouch, and beside that, a Polaroid camera. “Now.” He shot his cuffs as if he were preparing for a little magic act.

Both Jury and Fellowes were looking at the table display and then at him.

“What’s all this?” Jury nodded toward the painting, the leather pouch, the camera.

“This
is basically Mr. Fellowes’s valuable contribution toward solving these crimes.”

“Crimes?” Fellowes’s eyebrow shot up.
“I
solved?”

“One crime, and this one strongly implies at least one other.”

Jury was examining the mirror he’d taken from its leather holder.

“It’s called a Claude glass,” said Fellowes. When Jury looked blank, Fellowes explained. At Melrose’s further request, he explained how the painting had been done.

“You remember the picture of Broad Stand and Fat Man’s Agony?”

Fellowes nodded. For Jury, Melrose pointed out the cleft in the stone through which a ribbon of light showed. “And in this Polaroid shot: you see the light coming from the exit, or the entrance. As Francis told the story, Virginia Holdsworth had walked some way ahead of him. She was”—Melrose explained to Jury—“determined to get to Mickledore by way of Broad Stand. That’s here.” He pointed it out on the map. “When he’d got up here, on this small plateau near Broad Stand, he didn’t see her.”

“I assumed she’d done it, managed to get over to Mickledore, since she wasn’t around.”

“She wasn’t. My guess is that someone pushed her off Broad Stand.”

Fellowes stared. “How? There wasn’t anyone up there.”

“Yes, there was.”

“Go on.”

Fellowes was still objecting. “But I was there for a good half hour or more. No one could have got past me. And I didn’t see anyone.”

“But you had your back turned all of that time. You were using this.” He held up the convex glass. “The person who sent Mrs. Holdsworth over the edge didn’t know it, thought he or she was safe if he merely waited you out.”

“I’d have seen him in the glass, wouldn’t I?”

Melrose shook his head. “Not if he was hiding in Fat Man’s Agony, waiting you out.”

“But—”

“Look at the way you painted the entrance to the opening.”

Fellowes and Jury looked.

“There’s a figure in there. You were painting, in the best picturesque fashion, exactly what you saw. Only the barest pinpoint of light is coming through. Whoever was in there thought he was safe enough since he must have assumed, with your back turned, you were simply doing a view of Wast Water. ‘Fat Man’s Agony’ is a good name; anyone with some pounds on him would have a hellish tight squeeze.” Another pint came; more thanks were given Connie Fish. “I took my Polaroid shot from as near the same point as you painted with the Claude glass. All right, there wasn’t any mist, but still you can see the difference. Even with the naked eye, you can make out something; with a magnifying glass you can make out the curvature of a human being. Not fat, obviously.” He handed over a small magnifying glass.

Both Jury and Fellowes looked from painting to Polaroid for some time. “I’ll be damned.” Jury had moved round to look over Fellowes’s shoulder. “You’re right.”

“I know,” said Melrose. “Your forensics people, or your sophisticated police equipment, could enlarge this to the point you could see the person, couldn’t they?”

Jury frowned. “It’s a painting, remember, not a photograph. Whether the figure’s a man or woman might not be discernible.” He smiled over at Plant. “Good job.”

Fellowes leaned back, let out a puff of breath. “How do you know this person didn’t
see
I was painting with a Claude glass?”

“Simple. You wouldn’t be sitting here tonight drinking your beer.”

“Apted? You mean Pete-Queen’s-bloody-Counsel-Apted? My God, you do have friends in high places. I know you’re supposed to be valuable, but I’m surprised the Metropolitan Police would spring for Apted.”

“Thank you for that ‘supposed to be,’ and, no, the Met would hardly pay for him. But thanks to him, I’m back on rota.”

Melrose was on his third pint of Jennings, but finding it difficult to get drunk. He was too concerned about Jury. “Sorry about that. And it never occurred to me for a moment that you were in any real trouble.”

“It occurred to
someone.
An anonymous someone. Who do you think?”

Melrose frowned. “Trueblood’s got the money. . . . Who am I kidding? Trueblood being anonymous?” His face lit up. “Vivian! Good Lord. It would have to be Vivian. Trueblood would have let her know
immediately.
It’d be a
far
better way than being hit by a lorry.”

“Better way? For what?”

“Private joke.” He hurried on. “You’ll want to read these.” From his backpack he pulled the bundle of letters and tossed them on the table. “I thought I’d better keep them with me. They were simply turned over to me—if you can believe it—at the dinner party last night.”

“Turned over by whom?”

“A Lady Cray.” He put his head in his hands. “She’s a patient, guest, take it as you will, at Castle Howe. She came with Adam Holdsworth. To the dinner party, I mean. She’s quite . . . unusual.”

“They’re addressed to Jane.” Jury sat very still. “What’s in them?”

“They have the sort of . . . I don’t know . . . sound of love letters, yet they’re . . . well, first off, they’re very short . . . second, they’re typed. Word-processed.” He looked at Jury. “Would you process love letters?”

“No.”

Melrose moved his nearly empty glass round in little circles. “Ever written any?”

“One or two. How did this Lady Cray get hold of them?”

“That’s even odder. She said she got them from Kingsley’s office.”

“How?”

“Didn’t tell me; the conversation was very brief.” Melrose scrubbed his hands through his hair. “I assume she’s in treatment with him, I don’t know. It was all very—surreptitious. I mean, the way she
did
it. I felt I was in the middle of a spy novel.” He described the room, the mirror, the purse.

Jury said nothing.

“Look, I’m sorry about Jane Holdsworth.” Melrose wiped at the wet rings his glass had left with a balled-up napkin.

“I am too. Thanks,” Jury said, gravely. Then he took the clip from the letters.

“Alex said Kingsley was outside the house that night. To retrieve these, do you think? But why would he take such a risk just to get them back?”

“Why are you assuming he wrote them?”

“I expect simply because they were in his office. Hidden, I take it. But look at them—they’re so . . . oblique. You can’t even tell what this ‘illness’ that’s mentioned is. The homosexuality, presumably?”

“Why would Maurice Kingsley be writing about that? And why would he be concerned about the state of their marriage if he wants her himself? Hell, you’d think he’d be relieved.”

“They’re so oblique they could have been written by anyone—Kingsley, Fellowes—even Crabbe or George. Or some man we don’t know about. But who would
type
love letters?”

“If they
are
love letters. The writer didn’t want the handwriting analyzed—if it ever came to that.”

“Typewriters have distinctive characteristics. But what about word-processing? If the software’s the same? Madeline has an IBM and that’s the same system Castle Howe has, she told me.”

“Even so, look how short each one is. Could have been typed on, say, Madeline Galloway’s computer by someone at Castle Howe; or on one at Castle Howe by a person from Tarn House. Hell. Whoever this is must have thought of that. No handwriting, no signature. ‘You know how I feel—but not to the point of doing damage to your marriage’ could mean almost anything. The ‘feeling’ could be resentment as well as love. And we don’t know what
this
person means by Graham’s ‘illness.’ Not necessarily what Tommy Thale told me, although I’d bet my life she’s right—that her sister knew.”

Jury returned each letter to its envelope, restacked them, clipped them as they had been. He picked them up and turned them round. “This is how Lady Cray gave them to you?”

“Yes.”

“The clip certainly isn’t five years old. It looks new. I’m wondering who removed whatever was used to tie them?”

Plant frowned. “ ‘Tie’?”

“You can see the indentation at the sides; you can see a lightening of the typeface across the top one. They were tied with something. She didn’t read them?”

“No, she said not. Neither did Adam.”

“You believe her?”

“Yes.” Melrose sat looking at the letters for a while and then said, “I think we should talk to Alex; he said something was missing from his mum’s room; I think perhaps this is it.”