The Stargazey (12 page)

Jury interrupted the travelogue. “What's the name of this elderly seaman?”

“Captain Neville Bread. That's spelled B-R-E-A-D, but it's pronounced with a long
e.
He gets most annoyed if it's said wrong.”

“I'll send Pansy along to keep it straight.”

“Pardon?”

Jury waved a hand. “Just a little joke. Go on.”

“It's up to Bread to decide what worthy retired seagoing bloke—his words, those are—should get some of the money.” Wiggins munched his black biscuit and continued the history of the Siddons Trust.

Why didn't someone set up a similar fund for elderly detectives? “So where's the bit of luck?”

“Sir?” Wiggins looked puzzled.

Jury sighed. Had the world gone deaf and literal? “You said there was a bit of luck connected with this trust.”

“Oh, sorry. Yes. Well, Captain Bread was working in the office that night. He left a little after nine, locked up, and went to the car park—not the big one across from the entrance but the small one that skirts one side of the palace, up past the museum—”

“I know where it is,” said Jury, closing his eyes.

“He was unlocking his car door when he saw her.”

“
Saw
her?”

Wiggins nodded. “That's right.”

“Well? Go on!” Jury motioned with his hands like someone urging on a runner or an engine.

“He's pretty sure it was her, this woman described in the paper. Said it was sometime after nine he saw her. He says he got a clear look at her—of course, it was the coat; he couldn't mistake that sable coat. He was about to ring up Fulham police after he saw the paper, and then I turned up.”

Jury was silent, waiting. When Wiggins simply kept eating the biscuit, he asked, “
And
?”

“Well, then Captain Bread got in his car and left through the main gates.”

“But—didn't he think it strange, her wandering around, a stranger in a sable coat, in the grounds of Fulham Palace?” When the telephone rang, Jury ignored it.

“Yes, of course he did.”

The “bit of luck” had been little enough; this Captain Bread was merely confirming what Jury already knew.

The phone rang, Wiggins answered. “The guv'nor wants to see you, sir.”

 • • • 

The guv'nor was, as usual, rampaging.

Chief Superintendent Racer picked up a stack of files and slammed them down again, as if all this paperwork were Jury's fault. “Three cases handed me on a platter this morning; take your pick. . . . No, better yet, you can handle all of them.”

“Thanks. All at the same time?”

Racer ignored that. “One up in Northumberland, one in Cornwall, one in Armagh.”

“Armagh? That's in Northern Ireland!”

“I bloody well know where Armagh is, Jury.”

“What else would it be but political? ‘Murder' and ‘Northern Ireland' strike me as redundant, doesn't it you?”

“Shadow warfare doesn't stop serial killers. They can exist side by side with the mercenaries. That bloody country. Get your skates on and clear up whatever you're doing. Which brings us to your total lack of action in the Danny Wu business. That so-called restaurateur in Soho,” Racer added with contempt.

Jury said, tiredly, “It should be the Drug Squad's party. That murder last month can't be linked to Wu.”

Racer looked at him, frowning. “Where's that beast, anyway?”

Jury was confused. “Danny Wu? I wouldn't call him—”

“No, no, no.” Racer looked as if he could spit nails. “The bloody
cat
.” Nodding toward the outer office and Fiona, he added, “She's hiding him somewhere, I know it.”

Jury shrugged. The cat Cyril, of course, would take precedence in CS Racer's mind over Armagh and Danny Wu. The cat was the bane of
his existence. In another year or so, if they were lucky, the cat would drive him over the edge. They could all only hope.

Jury left Racer's office.

 • • • 

“Now here's an interesting item, sir,” Wiggins said, lowering the paper to see how Jury was taking things and deciding it was all right, “
PET PSYCHIC PULLS PLUG ON FIDO'S THOUGHTS
. That's the headline. Listen:

“Miss Imogen Loy, formerly manicurist at the Mile End branch of Hair Today, is now doing animal therapy full time. ‘I discovered I had this power, see, to communicate with dogs and cats and thought I might as well go into the business of treating them, you know, like a psychologist, or something.' Animal Friends Pleasure Park employs Miss Loy as a consultant, and she says she is also on call at other places. She says, ‘We're all of us tapped into other people's brain waves; we just don't know it.'

“ ‘What gives you the unique ability to read an animal's mind?' we asked.

“ ‘Oh, I never said it was unique, did I? If everyone would just sit down with Scrappy or Ginger and tune in, they'd find out a lot of things. Thing is, you have to apply yourself; you have to keep it up and not be discouraged when your pet walks away. Remember, they—our pets—have spent all their time, years and years, being mentally ignored, so they might balk at the beginning. So just because the animal appears to be the same, that doesn't mean you haven't reached him.'

“ ‘So you deal mostly with behavior problems, is that correct?'

“ ‘That's correct, yes. If Kitty refuses to use her litter box or Spot won't fetch in the paper—that kind of thing's what I deal with.'

“Asked what she charged for the service, Miss Loy said in the thirty-to-fifty-pound range. That's for an hour. It depends on the seriousness of the problem. For phone consultations, it's lower because ‘I don't have to actually go to the place, which saves on petrol.'

“Asked how a telephone ‘reading' works, Miss Loy said, ‘Oh, it's easy: the owner just holds the receiver to his pet's ear, and I talk to him or her. Cat or dog.' How does she know if the animal has
absorbed what she's said? ‘Well, of course, you can't tell by just looking, as they appear pretty much the same. But you'll know when Kitty starts using the litter box again.'

“Is this effect immediate? ‘Not usually. Usually, it takes some days or even weeks. It's best to be patient.' ”

Wiggins folded the paper. “But if you're patient, the problem will go away without any mind reading, won't it?” He asked this in all seriousness.

“Let me have that, will you? Not the paper, just that page.” Jury pulled his jacket from the chair, stuffed the folded page in an inside pocket, pulled his coat from the tottering coat tree, and told Wiggins he was going out for lunch.

 • • • 

Which he was drinking, sitting in the pub on the Fulham Road.

It was the pub she had come out of when he had first seen her, and it was back to the pub in the Fulham Road that he went. It was Wednesday morning, and it was the fourth time he'd been here since the Monday. Since Monday afternoon, when he'd gone to Fulham Palace with Chilten.

And why did he think the woman he'd seen on the bus would revisit the Stargazey, when on that Saturday night she might have been simply walking along the pavement, come from anywhere in London, and on the spur of the moment stopped in here for a drink? Why did he think she'd come back?

For the simple reason that there wasn't anywhere else he could go to look for her. And there might never be. Eventually, the identity of the dead woman would be discovered; possibly not, but in most cases unknown victims became known. And if that were true, then there'd be more to go on—maybe.

It was Kitty he wanted to see. She was in Brighton, but she'd be back. He'd shown the police photograph to everyone who worked in the Stargazey, but no one was sure. Kitty, though, was different.
You miss a lot in life if you don't notice little things.
Kitty noticed little things, like the light falling on the Sapphire gin bottle. If she'd been in here, Kitty might remember.

The lack of a history, of his failure to find out who she was, was the source of deepest frustration for him. It added to Jury's sense of remorse.
Anyone would tell him he had nothing to feel remorseful about; he was being irrational. Yes, he knew that, or thought he did. It didn't help, though. Leaning against the bar, ordering up a pint of lager, Jury wondered if he could simply spirit her up, like a genie out of a bottle.

He was not very hopeful; it was all so nebulous, any connection between the dead woman and the Fabricants, the only one being Mona Dresser's sable coat. No, as everyone was fond of telling him, it wasn't much to go on.

There was a fair-sized lunchtime crowd eating sandwiches and salads. Jury wasn't hungry. He was, however, tired, and when he saw three people leaving a small table, he claimed it, giving away an extra chair to a table of four that hadn't enough seating.

Once seated, all four people took out cigarettes, matches, and lighters and set about the tantalizing ritual of lighting up. This was the thanks he got for giving them his two chairs? He could not help it; his eye traveled up the thin thread of lavender smoke coming from the redhead's cigarette. It intertwined with that wafting upwards from the blonde's until finally blending with the smoke ceiling drifting overhead.

Jury sighed, opened the tabloid paper he'd picked up, and looked for that day's horoscope. Diane Demorney had called him for the sole (she claimed) purpose of informing him he was a Leo, and with the moon “transiting your sign” he'd better change his diet. Needed to drink less caffeine, more juice. Jury had interrupted to suggest this was really Sergeant Wiggins's horoscope she was doing. She gave him a bunch of advice and rang off.

There is every reason to suspect the business transaction so long in abeyance will come to fruition if you are just careful
was what was in the works, according to this paper's horoscope. Nice to know, thought Jury. Then, seeing two young women looking about longingly for a seat, he folded the paper, rose, and indicated they could have the table. They acted as relieved as if they'd been lost in the desert.

Tired, thirsty . . . mirage. . . . Ah!

T
rueblood had contrived to stop three times within the seventy-odd miles to London. This rest-stop side of Trueblood was one Melrose had never seen before and showed him to be somewhat egalitarian.
That
had been a surprise. Of course the egalitarianism had been considerably tempered by Trueblood's mirth at being “among them” but not “of them.”
Doesn't it make you feel wonderful that you're not a lorry driver
?

Trueblood was one of those people who enjoyed little horrors because he didn't have to put up with them. Doors marked with an X in the plague years would probably have put him in a merry mood, so long as he wasn't behind one. He and Joanna Lewes enjoyed reading bad books for the pleasurable discussions they could have about their badness. Bad books, bad films, bad plays. Anything except bad food. This delight in badness derived at least in part from knowing one could, at any time, close the book, get up and leave the film. Just walk out. The experience appeared to be intensely liberating.

Melrose was reminded of all this when he stepped through the heavy door of Boring's, where the silence was broken by the ticking of a long-case clock and the whisper of the porter's shoes as he appeared to glide toward Melrose in the manner of a hovercraft, floating just above the carpet. It was so silent, Melrose would have imagined the place to be empty had he not seen, through a large archway flanked by several potted
palms, a half dozen members in leather armchairs reading or drinking or both.

“You are a member, sir,” said the old man, with a low and ingratiating voice whose tone did not suggest alternatives. One would not be so idiotic as to set foot in Boring's if one were
not
a member. The old man's failure to recognize Melrose—as he couldn't have done—did nothing to change this assumption.

Melrose handed him one of the cards he had disinterred from a dusty cubbyhole and mumbled something about “family” and “father” and “Earl of Caverness.”

“You might remember I rang up yesterday, don't know who I spoke with.”

“Ah, yes, yes. You spoke with young Higgins. Yes, we have you down for three nights; is that correct?”

“Yes. If it's a day or two longer, I trust you can accommodate me?”

“Certainly, sir. If you'd please step this way?”

He followed the old porter to a mahogany front desk. The man raised the flap and went behind it; he then dragged over an enormous book, which he consulted. “Higgins made a note of it . . . ah, here we are. Lord Ardry, is it?”

Melrose nodded. That was one of several titles Melrose had relinquished years before. Yet Ardry and Caverness came in handy as the dickens sometimes. With a flourish, he signed the book, which had been turned his way for that purpose. The porter produced a key that might have opened Napoleon's cell on Elba. “Look, if you can have someone take this bag to my room, I'd appreciate it. I think I'll just go in the lounge and have a drink.”

“Our Members' Room. Certainly. I'll just have young Higgins take it up for you. I'm Budding, sir, should you need anything.”

Melrose thought young Higgins seemed to be doing all the work.

In the Members' Room, two fireplaces were blazing, pleasant in the November chill. But Melrose imagined they had as much to do with ambience as cold. It would always be a little cold in here, he thought. The room was much as he'd imagined it: groupings of leather club and wing chairs around low tables, some of them drawn a little closer to the fireplaces;
chesterfield sofas, a half dozen of them, arranged back-to-back down the center of the room. All the furniture was covered in a soft, fine-grained leather in autumnal shades of brown and dark green, wonderfully worn, as if a soft-gloved hand spent all its time rubbing and polishing.