The Old Wine Shades (34 page)

‘Why go to all this trouble, though? Why not simply shoot this Paston woman as she’s hanging out the wash, or in a dark alley, or toss her in the Grand Canal?’

‘I just
explained
that,’ said Jury, a bit cantankerous now. ‘And maybe because there might be too direct a link between Harry and her. When Rosa Paston is investigated, I’m sure it will turn up a lover, but I bet it won’t be named Harry Johnson. He’s too much on guard. She was probably his lover. In any event, she was close enough to him to carry out her part. It fascinates me that a few of the story’s components were true: the property search, the agent, the Shoesmiths, the woman who saw this alleged Glynnis standing by her car. Harry had instructed her to make herself seen. I’ll bet, because he had to connect Glynnis Gault with Winterhaus. And Ben Torres. Harry did go to see him.’

‘Ben Torres. I don’t know why it didn’t click when I talked to him: it was what he left out; it wasn’t what he
did
say but what he
didn’t.
Harry
couldn’t
tell Torres this elaborate story because if he had, well, then Harry couldn’t deny it, could he? What Harry wanted to do was convince you. And now it appears there’s another story, or another chapter: Hugh Gault’s alleged mistress. This fellow really gets off on yarns.’ Melrose studied his wineglass. ‘Widening the list of suspects. It couldn’t be Hugh as he’s at the clinic. But his wife? She wouldn’t have been pleased to find out about the mistress.’

‘No. If she believed Harry’s story. They certainly found it hard to believe that Harry had told me what he did. Both of them, Glynnis and Hugh, found it laughable.’

‘So this Rosa Paston—Harry might have got the idea for the whole thing when he met her in Venice.’

‘What was his motive?’ Jury thought for a moment and speared a new potato. ‘I’m not sure there is one.’

‘You mean Harry did it because he could?’

‘Possibly. He’s so bloody vain, I wouldn’t put it past him. Make up a wild story to fool the police. Except there’s a dead body at the end of the road. That’s not fiction.’

‘What if he wanted to hurt Hugh Gault?’

‘To do that he’d have had to abduct the real Glynnis, not her stand-in. But since there was never any abduction—’

‘He had this story concocted a year ahead of time. But I don’t see how this could have hurt Glynnis.’

‘If she’s indicted for murder. I’d say that’s plenty hurtful.’ They ate for a minute in silence.

Melrose said, ‘Also, don’t forget, there’s you.’

‘Me?’ Jury shoved his plate away and said, ‘What do you fancy for the pud?’

Melrose immediately switched gears and said, ‘Gooseberry Fool.’

‘I say fruit and custard. Now, what about me?’

‘That he searched you out.’

Jury frowned as Young Higgins shuffled over to take their plates and shuffled off again. ‘But he had no idea who I was and anyway I’d never been to the Old Wine Shades before. He could hardly have expected to find me there.’

‘You really believe it was an accident?’

Jury saw Melrose taking out his cigarette case. ‘You’re not going to smoke?’

‘You say that every time. I doubt Boring’s ascribes to a no smoking rule.’ Considering all of the cigars and pipes out in the Member Room, Melrose seriously doubted it. Boring’s wouldn’t dare.

‘Can you imagine telling those two over there’—he pointed to a table a dozen feet away where two crusty old codgers were puffing a bale of smoke into the atmosphere—’being asked by Young Higgins to please douse their smokes? No. Boring’s is still back there in the forties and fifties when my father was a member.’ He lit his cigarette just as Young Higgins was coming back with the dessert.

‘Fruit and custard,’ said Jury cheerily.

Melrose stubbed out his cigarette and looked gloomily at the dish. ‘You win again.’

‘Harry Johnson searching me out. How did he know I’d be in that pub? He couldn’t. How did he know what I even looked like?’

‘How? Your face was plastered all over the paper because of that pedophile bust. As to where you’d be, I expect he followed you.’

‘To the City? That’s a distance from Victoria Street. Anyway, why?’

Melrose’s tone was irritated. ‘Don’t be so literal. I simply mean arranged somehow or other to be where you were. And we always do butt our heads against that ‘why.’ You’re a superintendent—a
vulnerable
superintendent, given all the publicity and the possible suspension. You’re the perfect target.’

‘You mean no one would credit this wild tale coming from me?’ He wanted to preempt an investigation that was sure to follow after he killed Rosa Paston. Bleakly, Jury smiled. ‘He was winding me up.’

‘Well, yes, but with a serious purpose. He knew when the fake Glynnis was found, you’d come round to him. He was prepared for that. Just think: a woman, her son and her dog disappear for a year. And the dog comes back.’ Melrose laughed. ‘That’s a corker. He knows you know, but nobody else does. Superintendent, you’re hallucinating. It’s his word against yours—’

Jury grumbled. ‘Harry doesn’t have a word. It’s like Mary McCarthy saying of Lillian Heilman, ‘Every word she writes is a lie, including ‘and’ and ‘the.’’ Jury thought about that. ‘What about the boy? The supposed son Rosa Paston took along on this venture? Police would certainly want to talk to him. Who was he? Where did she find him? He worries me.’

‘Why?’

‘If Harry murdered Rosa Paston, what’s to stop him killing the boy? The boy knew all this was an impersonation. Is he lying at the bottom of a quarry or drowned in a river somewhere?’

‘Maybe it wasn’t necessary to kill him,’ said Melrose. ‘Maybe he didn’t know what Rosa knew.’

‘But I think he did. He knew about the impersonation itself.’ Jury finished off his dessert and pulled Melrose’s over. ‘I don’t think this woman was paid. I think she was Harry’s woman— mistress. If it was payment, she’d be satisfied with the money and wouldn’t be a threat, right?’

‘No, wrong. She’d always be a threat. Blackmail, a dagger held over his head—always.’

Jury nodded and spooned up some custard. ‘He knew it was going to end with murdering her. That’s chilling. To think of her merrily larking about with this impersonation and then killed for her efforts. For her love. I think that’s why this woman did it—for love.’

‘You’re assuming a lot.’

‘But it makes no difference in the long run. Love or greed or ignorance, she’s still dead.’

‘And the boy . . . Also, what about Tilda?’

Sharply, Jury looked up from his custard. ‘Tilda.’ He thought of Harry’s question.
What little girl?

‘Well, she goes into the house all the time, and it’s just possible she saw something,’ Melrose said.

‘Possibly, but she would have said. After all, she ran home to tell her mother when she found the body.’

‘What if Harry was still there?’

‘If she saw something—’ Jury paused for a moment, then took out his mobile. ‘Does Boring’s have a policy about these things?’

‘Probably. They disrupt the general comfort level, so I’m sure they’d be outlawed. Anyway, if you’re finished eating my dessert, we’ll want coffee in the Members’ Room.’ Melrose tossed down his napkin.

Jury went into the reception area to make his call while Melrose ordered coffee and brandy.

Jury came back and told him Tilda was fine and had strict instructions not to go onto the Winterhaus grounds.

‘Ha! You know how much that means,’ said Melrose. ‘Although I’d think finding a dead body would be enough to keep a child away from a place.’

‘She’s tough, though. She’s been there by herself a lot and, frankly, that house rather spooks me.’ Jury swirled his brandy, liking the way it caught the reflected flames of the fire. Liking the fire, too. ‘You’re such a wimp.’

‘Right. Thanks for the brandy. And the dinner.’

Melrose raised an eyebrow. ‘This is all my treat? Even though you won on all the courses?’

‘That’s right. Ah, hello. Major Champs.’

‘Thought we saw you over here; the backs of the chairs are so high it’s hard to make out anyone.’ He chuckled.

‘Where’s Colonel Neame?’ asked Melrose.

‘On his way. He stopped in the dining room to have a word with Young Higgins. Now, I don’t mean to pry, but how are you getting along with your case? Developments—’ he whisked out the
Daily News,
opened it and pointed to an item, a follow-up relegated to the inside pages, which wasn’t a follow-up so much as a rehashing. The conclusion was that police knew nothing more. They had contacted the owner of Winterhaus, Ben Torres.

‘Ben Torres,’ said Melrose. ‘We left Ben Torres out of the roster of suspects.’

‘Well, if he’d left Italy, the police will certainly find that out.’

‘San Gimignano.’ Melrose sighed. ‘I’d never leave it.’

45

He had tried the jardinière but the only way to get Elf into it would be to stuff him in and Mungo didn’t think he should do that. He looked around the living room. Most places had already been used. . . . Ah! The window seat was propped open with a couple of books, for some reason. Could he reach up there? No. Anyway, someone might let the top down and he wouldn’t be able to open it again.

There was that big copper thing that people once used to spit in. It was low enough that Shöe would be able to see Elf s ears, but it would do; Mungo was weary. That thin, stringlike
meewwww
was getting on his nerves. And his nerves were not in good shape at all after that affair with the clinic folder and the Uniforms. If he’d wanted to get that Spotter to the clinic, he couldn’t think of any other way of doing it. He could hardly
tell
the man he was not Hugh’s dog (worse luck). Well, even some kids had it bad there, too. That boy he’d spent the afternoon with a year ago—

What an afternoon! He couldn’t remember when he’d had one so wonderful. Playing ball, running with his stride as far out as it could go, running across that land, ears flying, tail flying, he himself nearly flying, as the wind whistled and the trees glittered to where the girl was, running back, running forward. And he had liked that woman, Rosa, and now she was dead.

He thought sometimes of running off. But if he ran, who’d look after Elf and the others? He plunked Elf in the copper pot and stood back to look. Yes, you could just see the ears.

Even dogs should have a plan instead of running around just stirring up air. Mungo now had a plan. It was better than suddenly putting himself at the top of the stairs just when Harry was stepping down. Too crude. No, his plan had started just this morning.

On Harry’s desk were the notes he prized so much. He was always going over them,
talking
over them, as if the notes could answer back. Harry was smart, extremely smart, but not quite as smart as Hugh. He was far more inventive, though. Why couldn’t people be satisfied with what they were? Harry was forever going to the bookshelf to drag down one book or another of Hugh’s and pore over it in the little pool of light the desk lamp shed on the pages.

First, Mungo had to push the silver paperweight that held them down and kept them from fluttering apart in a breeze. He shoved the notes off the desk and watched the pages scatter all over the floor. Then Mungo barked. When Mrs. Tobias didn’t come, he barked again.

She came. ‘Whatever are you barking about? What are you doing on the desk?’ She drew closer and stopped, seeing the pages of notes all over the floor. ‘Oh, my, oh, my, oh, my, you naughty dog. Oh and won’t he be just furious?’ She bent down. ‘I’ll never be able to put these in order; there’s no numbers on the pages!’

Right.

‘All of this math, all these signs and numbers—I can’t tell what’s what.’

Right.

Poor Mrs. Tobias was down on her knees gathering up the pages. She got up and tried to neaten them by tamping them on the desk until all the pages were even. Then she put the pile where she thought it had been.

Paperweight paperweight.
Mungo nosed the paperweight around and stared at her.

‘What now? Oh, yes.’ She put the weight back on the pile. She stood back and surveyed the notes. ‘Looks as if they never was touched. Only, they’re all out of order. He’ll wonder.’

He’ll wonder,
thought Mungo.

* * *

The next morning, as Mungo was transporting Elf to the copper basin, he heard Mrs. Tobias shout. He put Elf down in the middle of the rug and raced to the kitchen.

‘Oh, look, oh, look what I went and done!’ She held up her hand, bleeding profusely from a cut along her thumb. Mungo raced around, wanting to help, but not knowing how. Except he had seen bandages in the downstairs loo. He raced to it and saw the gauze up on a little shelf that he couldn’t get to. So he jumped up on the toilet seat, grabbed the end of the toilet paper in his mouth and then jumped down and trailed it into the kitchen where he set it in her lap.

Mrs. Tobias had to laugh at this effort. ‘Good dog! Good! Thank you. It’ll make do for the moment.’ She wrapped and wrapped it round her thumb and hand. ‘That’ll have to do for now. I think it looks worse than it is. I’m calling Mr. Humphries.’ Mr. Humphries was Harry’s doctor. Mrs. Tobias went out to the telephone.

There was quite a lot of blood, a pool of it.