Devices and Desires (33 page)

Even without the garishly painted sign, no one from Norfolk would have been in any doubt about the identity of the local hero after whom the Lydsett pub was named, nor could a stranger fail to recognize the Admiral’s hat with the star, the much-decorated chest, the black patch over one eye, the pinned-up, empty sleeve. Rickards reflected that he had seen worse paintings of Lord Nelson but not many. This made him look like the Princess Royal in drag.

George Jago had obviously decided that the interview should take place in the saloon bar, wrapped now in the dim quietness of the late-afternoon doldrums. He and his wife led Rickards and Oliphant to a small pub table, wooden-topped and with ornate cast-iron legs, set close to the huge and empty fireplace. They settled themselves round it rather, thought Rickards, like four ill-assorted people proposing to conduct a seance in appropriately ill-lit seclusion. Mrs. Jago was an angular, bright-eyed, sharp-featured woman who looked at Oliphant as if she had seen his type before and was prepared to stand no nonsense. She was heavily made up. A moon of bright rouge adorned each
cheek, her long mouth was painted with a matching lipstick and her fingers, blood-tipped talons, were laden with a variety of rings. Her hair was so glossily black that it looked unnatural and was piled high in the front in three rows of tight curls and swept upwards and secured with combs at the back and sides. She was wearing a pleated skirt topped with a blouse in some shiny material striped in red, white and blue, buttoned high at the neck and hung about with gold chains in which she looked like a bit-part actress auditioning for the part of a barmaid in an Ealing comedy. No woman could have been less suitably dressed for a country pub, yet both she and her husband, seated side-by-side with the brightly expectant look of children on their best behaviour, looked perfectly at home in the bar and with each other. Oliphant had made it his business to find out something of their past and had relayed the information to Rickards as they drove to the pub. George Jago had previously been the licensee of a pub in Catford, but the couple had moved to Lydsett four years ago, partly because Mrs. Jago’s brother, Charlie Sparks, owned a garage and car-hire business on the edge of the village and was looking for part-time help. George Jago occasionally drove for him, leaving Mrs. Jago in charge of the bar. They had settled happily in the village, took a lively part in community activities and appeared not to miss the raucous life of the city. Rickards reflected that East Anglia had accepted and absorbed more eccentric couples. Come to that, it had absorbed him.

George Jago looked more the part of a country publican, a stocky, cheerful-faced man with bright, blinking eyes and an air of suppressed energy. He had certainly expended it on the interior of the pub. The low, oak-beamed saloon bar was a cluttered and ill-arranged museum devoted to Nelson’s memory. Jago must have scoured East Anglia in his search for objects
with even a tenuous relationship with the Admiral. Above the open fireplace was a huge lithograph of the scene in the cockpit of
Victory
with Nelson romantically dying in Hardy’s arms. The remaining walls were covered with paintings and prints, including the principal sea battles, the Nile, Copenhagen, Trafalgar; one or two of Lady Hamilton, including a lurid reproduction of Romney’s famous portrait; while commemorative plates were ranged each side of the doors and the blackened oak beams were festooned with rows of decorated memorial mugs—few of them original, to judge from the brightness of the decoration. Along the top of one wall a row of pennants spelled out what was presumably the famous signal, and a fishing net had been slung across the ceiling to enhance the general nautical atmosphere. And suddenly, looking up into the brown tar-tangled netting, Rickards remembered. He had been here before. He and Susie had stopped here for a drink when they had been exploring the coast one weekend in the first winter of their marriage. They hadn’t stayed for long; Susie had complained that the bar was too crowded and smoke-filled. He could recall the bench at which they had sat, the one against the wall to the left of the door. He had drunk half a pint of bitter, Susie a medium sherry. Then, with the fire blazing, the flames leaping from the crackling logs and the bar loud with cheerful Norfolk voices, the pub had seemed interestingly nostalgic and cosy. But now, in the dim light of an autumn afternoon, the clutter of artifacts, so few of them either genuine or of particular merit, seemed to Rickards to trivialize and diminish both the building’s own long history and the Admiral’s achievements. He felt a sudden onrush of claustrophobia and had to resist an impulse to throw open the door and let in fresh air and the twentieth century.

As Oliphant said afterwards, it was a pleasure to interview George Jago. He didn’t greet you as if you were a necessary but
unwelcome technician of doubtful competence who was taking up his valuable time. He didn’t use words as if they were secret signals to conceal thoughts rather than express them, or subtly intimidate you with his superior intelligence. He didn’t see an interview with the police as a battle of wits in which he necessarily had the advantage, or react to perfectly ordinary questions with a disconcerting mixture of fear and endurance, as if you were secret police from a totalitarian dictatorship. All in all, he pointed out, it made a pleasant change.

Jago admitted cheerfully that he had telephoned the Blaneys and Miss Mair shortly after 7.30 on Sunday with news that the Whistler was dead. How did he know? Because one of the police on the enquiry had telephoned home to let his wife know it was all right for their daughter to go alone to a party that night and the wife had telephoned her brother Harry Upjohn, who kept the Crown and Anchor outside Cromer, and Harry, who was a friend of his, had rung him. He remembered exactly what he had said to Theresa Blaney.

“Tell your dad they’ve found the Whistler’s body. He’s dead. Suicide. Killed himself at Easthaven. No need to worry now.”

He had phoned the Blaneys because he knew that Ryan liked his pint at night but hadn’t dared to leave the children while the Whistler was at large. Blaney hadn’t come in that evening, but that didn’t really signify. With Miss Mair he had left the message on her answering machine in much the same terms. He hadn’t telephoned Mrs. Dennison because he thought she would be on her way to Norwich with the Copleys.

Rickards said: “But you did ring her later?”

It was Mrs. Jago who explained. “That was after I reminded him. I was at half-past-six Evensong and, afterwards, I went home with Sadie Sparks to settle arrangements for the autumn jumble sale. She found a note from Charlie to say that he’d been
called out on two urgent jobs, taking the Copleys to Norwich and then fetching a couple from Ipswich. So when I got back I told George that Mrs. Dennison hadn’t driven the Copleys to the train and that he ought to phone her straight away to tell her about the Whistler. I mean, she’d be more likely to get a good night’s rest knowing he was dead than wondering if he was lurking in the rectory bushes. So George rang.”

Jago said: “It was close on nine-fifteen by then, I reckon. I would have telephoned later anyway, expecting she’d be back by half past nine.”

Rickards said: “And Mrs. Dennison answered the phone?”

“Not then she didn’t. But I tried again about thirty minutes later and got her then.”

Rickards asked: “So you didn’t tell any of them that the body had been found at the Balmoral Hotel?”

“Didn’t know, did I? All I was told by Harry Upjohn was that the Whistler had been found and that he was dead. I dare say the police kept it quiet—where exactly he was found, I mean. You wouldn’t want a lot of morbid sightseers round the place. Nor would the hotel manager, come to that.”

“And early this morning you rang round again to say that Miss Robarts had been murdered. How did you discover that?”

“Saw the police cars passing, didn’t I? So I got on my bike and went up to the gate. Your chaps had left it open, so I shut it again and waited. When they came back I opened the gate for them and asked what was up.”

Rickards said: “You seem to have an extraordinary talent for extracting information from the police.”

“Well, I know some of them, don’t I? The local chaps, anyway. They drink in the Hero. The driver of the first car through wouldn’t say anything. Nor would the driver of the mortuary van. But when the third car came through and stopped while
I opened and shut the gate again, I asked who was dead and they told me. I mean, I know a mortuary van when I see one.”

“Who exactly told you?” asked Oliphant belligerently. George Jago turned on him his bright and innocent comedian’s gaze.

“Couldn’t say, could I? One policeman is much like another. Someone told me.”

“So you rang round early this morning? Why then? Why wait?”

“Because it was after midnight by then. Folk like a bit of news but they like their sleep more. But I rang Ryan Blaney first thing today.”

“Why him?”

“Why not? When you’ve got news it’s human nature to pass it on to an interested party.”

Oliphant said: “And he was certainly an interested party. Must have come as something of a relief.”

“Might have done, might not. I didn’t speak to him. I told Theresa.”

Oliphant said: “So you didn’t speak to Mr. Blaney either when you rang last night or this morning. Bit odd, wasn’t it?”

“Depends how you look at it. The first time he was in his painting shed. He doesn’t like being called to the phone when he’s working. No point, anyway. I told Theresa and she told him.”

Rickards said: “How do you know she told him?”

“Because she said so when I rang this morning. Why shouldn’t she tell him?”

“But you can’t know for certain that she did?”

Mrs. Jago said suddenly: “And you can’t know for certain that she didn’t. What does it matter, anyway? He knows now. We all do. We know about the Whistler and we know about Miss Robarts. And maybe if you’d caught the Whistler a year ago Miss Robarts would still be alive.”

Oliphant asked quickly: “What do you mean by that, Mrs. Jago?”

“What they call a copycat murder, isn’t it? That’s the talk in the village, anyway, apart from those who still think the Whistler did it and you’ve got your times all wrong. And old Humphrey, of course, who thinks it was the Whistler’s ghost still on the job.”

Rickards said: “We’re interested in a portrait of Miss Robarts which was painted recently by Mr. Blaney. Have either of you seen it? Did he talk about it?”

Mrs. Jago said: “Of course we’ve seen it. Had it hanging in the bar, didn’t we? And I knew that it would bring bad luck. It was an evil picture if ever I saw one.”

Jago turned to his wife and explained with patient emphasis: “I don’t see how you can say a picture is evil, Doris, not a picture. Things can’t be evil. An inanimate object is neither good nor evil. Evil is what is done by people.”

“And what is thought by people, George, and that picture came out of evil thoughts, so I say that picture was evil.”

She spoke firmly but with no trace of obstinacy or resentment. Obviously this was the kind of marital argument, conducted without acrimony, and with scrupulous fairness, which they both relished. For a few minutes their attention was solely on each other.

Jago went on: “Granted it wasn’t the kind of picture you’d want to hang on your sitting-room wall.”

“Or in the bar, come to that. Pity you ever did, George.”

“Right enough. Still, I reckon it didn’t give anyone any ideas they didn’t have already. And you can’t say that it was evil, not a picture, Doris.”

“All right, suppose you get an instrument of torture, something used by the Gestapo.” Mrs. Jago looked round the bar as if among its clutter she might reasonably expect to
find an example. “I’d say that thing was evil. I wouldn’t give it houseroom.”

“You could say it was used for an evil purpose, Doris; that’s different.”

Rickards asked: “Why exactly did you hang the portrait in the bar?”

“Because he asked me, that’s why. I usually find room for one or two of his small water-colours, and sometimes he sells them and sometimes not. I always tell him they’ve got to be seascapes. I mean, it’s all the Admiral here, isn’t it, it’s all nautical. But he was dead keen on having this up, and I said I’d keep it for a week. He brought it down on his bike on Monday the twelfth.”

“In the hope of selling it?”

“Oh, it wasn’t for sale, not that picture wasn’t. He made that very plain.”

Oliphant said: “So what was the point of putting it up?”

“That’s what I said.” Jago turned triumphantly to the sergeant as if recognizing a fellow expert in logic. “‘What’s the point in putting it up if you don’t want to sell it?’ I said. ‘Let them look at it,’ he said. ‘I want them to see it. I want the whole world to see it.’ A bit optimistic, I thought. After all, we’re not the National Gallery.”

“More like the National Maritime Museum really,” said Doris surprisingly and beamed at them happily.

“Where did you find room for it?”

“On that wall opposite the door. Took down the two pictures of the Battle of the Nile, didn’t I?”

“And how many people did see it in those seven days?”

“You’re asking me how many customers I had. I mean, if they came in they saw it. Couldn’t hardly miss it, could they? Doris wanted to take it down, but I promised I’d keep it up
until the Monday, so I did. Glad when he came and took it away, though. Like I said, it’s all commemorative here. It’s all the Admiral. It didn’t seem to go with the décor. It wasn’t here long. He said he’d call for it on the morning of the nineteenth and he did.”

“Did anyone from the headland or the power station see it?”

“Those who came in. The Local Hero isn’t really their regular local. Most of them want to get away from the place at the end of the day, and who’s to blame them? I mean, living over the shop is all right, but not that shop.”

“Was there much talk about it? Did anyone ask where he kept it, for example?”

“Not to me. I reckon most of them knew where he kept it. I mean, he talked a bit about his painting shed. And if he had wanted to sell, he wouldn’t have got any offers. I’ll tell you someone who did see it, though. Hilary Robarts.”