I Am the Only Running Footman (15 page)

Melrose shrugged. “Marion, David, Edward — they'd all lie for one another.”

“But if the telephone rang, someone would have heard it.”

“No. The servants were gone. You know, I was thinking —” He finished his soup and laid down his spoon. “— that alibis work two ways, don't they?”

•  •  •

At that moment, Sally Warboys scudded across the dining room like gray clouds hurrying before a storm and carrying a brown bag full (Melrose supposed) of the dinner spuds. “Before the storm” was accurate, too, because her father rode fast on her heels, his arms windmilling, unmindful of his clientele. Sally smacked her way into the kitchen, and Nathan apparently didn't think he needed to improve upon the bedlam (a thunderous fall of pans, a rain of cutlery), for he came straight out again. A dusty-looking cat just managed to flash its way through the door and around Nathan's foot before it
got mashed by one and kicked by the other. Melrose watched its lightning progress across the room and its skid to a stop by the arched doorway, where it hissed at the porcelain leopard that it had, apparently, never accepted as cousin.

“Here he comes; pretend we're deep in our soup,” whispered Melrose to Jury.

Nathan Warboys wouldn't have cared anyway, since he was not a thrifty speaker and demanded no payment in the coin of someone else's comments. With his usual scowl he said, “I mean, I mean, look at 'er, would ya? 'Ow many men you got 'ere? I says to 'er. It's a right treat, innit, and 'er out every night  . . .”

Melrose tuned him out; Jury sat there all ears. Melrose wondered under what particular slag heap of Nathan's conversation Jury expected to find the golden nugget. Around Jury a frozen spring became a waterfall, and Warboys was set to run like Niagara. Fortunately, the shrill
brr-brr
of the telephone called him to his duty.

His place was taken now by Sally Warboys, who dealt the dishes round like a card-sharp, knocking half the cutlery from the table before she slopped off to entertain further disasters.

“You were talking about Marr's telephone call. Go on.” Jury forked up some potatoes.

“The call provides Marion Winslow with an alibi, too. The impression I got of her was fleeting. But even that left me with the feeling that she's a determined woman. And Edward obviously thinks so, too, loyal as he is. Loyal as they
all
are to one another. Of course, I only saw her for a minute on the stair.” Melrose set down his wineglass and inspected his Bombay duck, poking it here and there with his fork. After a moment he said, “Did you notice the portrait of Edward's wife?”

Jury nodded. “Mrs. Winslow said she kept it because of
Phoebe. There's no love lost between her and the ex-wife.” Jury pulled half of a sausage from the pastry blanket.

Melrose leaned over to look at Jury's plate: “I don't see why Mrs. Warboys had to waste the Yorkshire pudding on toad-in-the-hole.”

“How you do suffer. How's your Bombay duck?”

“It walked from Bombay. You know, Rose's leaving certainly wouldn't sit well with the Winslow family. Neither would this duck.” He held up a morsel.

“Get back to the telephone call. When did she send the servants away?”

“I calculated it must have been the day of the murder.”

“But she wouldn't have known her brother would call; the servants' leaving wouldn't have been planned because of a nonexistent telephone call.”

“Perhaps it was her intention to go to London without anyone knowing about it. Of course, she would turn on the answering machine. She certainly wouldn't want any calls slipping through her fingers on that particular night. I mean, of course, if she hopped it to London. And since she often uses the machine when she's in another part of the house, or napping, no one would question her not answering. Well?”

“There's the same problem, the problem of motive. Why would she kill Ivy Childess?”

“Possibly, to protect one of them — David or Edward. That might be the only thing that would drive her to kill anyone.”

“Protect them from what, though?”

Melrose sighed. “You're no fun.”

“But this is. Like the plum in the Christmas pud.” He speared the other half of the sausage and held it up on the tines of his fork. “I rather like your theory, except for something rather obvious.”

“I hope you're not foolhardy enough to say things like that to Commander Macalvie. ‘Obvious,' indeed!”

“Take the Beedles over there for example —”

“The who?” Melrose followed the direction of Jury's gaze. The gentleman at the far table was seeing to his bill. “How'd you know their name?”

“Nathan Warboys. Weren't you listening? I've been watching them and their extended silence. Marriage can be very relaxing, I think. No demands to make clever dinner conversation, for one —”

“Why don't you settle down?” Melrose got out his cigarette case, took out a thin hand-rolled cigar, and snapped the case shut.

“I'm talking about the way things seem. Appearance can often be the truth. One needn't interpret their silence as anger or anything at all except a desire not to converse. Sheila Broome and the lorry driver, for instance. Why not assume that Sheila and the driver were acting quite naturally? The quintessential hitchhiker refusing to converse with the person who picks her up? And the telephone call that definitely
was
made, made by David, answered by Marion? And the servants going off to visit a sickbed because someone got sick on that weekend? The killer could have been a woman, yes, of course, and
could
have been Marion Winslow. But as I said, there's still motive to consider.”

Melrose took from his pocket Edward Winslow's book of poetry and handed it to Jury. “He's quite good. You know, you say these two killings have one thing in common: the method. Garroted with their own scarves wound about their necks. It makes me think of Porphyria.”

“Porphyria?”

“Browning's Porphyria: ‘ . . . Then glided in Porphyria.' Her lover strangled her with her own hair.”

“That's interesting. The Porphyria murders. Macalvie would like that; he's big on repeat killings.” Jury checked his watch. “I'm due at the Winslows in a little while and then back to London. Come to London, why don't you?”

Melrose shook his head. “No, I don't think so.” He held up one of the two small photographs lying on the table, put that down, held up the other. He held it at arm's length, drew it forward, held it out again. He scratched his head, grimacing. “That waitress at the Little Chef. Exactly what did she say when you showed her the newspaper clipping of David Marr?”

“It was Macalvie showed her. Mary Higgins said he — David, that is — looked familiar. So Macalvie had a good-looking dark-haired cop go in for a coffee, a man about the same height and build as Marr, and she said he looked familiar, too. Macalvie thinks she was trying too hard.”

Melrose picked up the picture of the Winslow family again. “It seems strange, though, this Little Chef business.”

“Strange, how?”

“Well, it's unlikely the person who killed Sheila Broome would go
in
the cafe, isn't it? But assume he did. This waitress, you said, or Macalvie said, was very observant. Spotting the lorry, the driver, the girl in the rain.” He shrugged. “It just seems odd she'd be so vague on the matter of identifying the picture, assuming, of course, there was something to identify. Perhaps, then, to her, it's a bit of a blur. . . . I was going back to Northants tomorrow. But I think I might just go to Exeter, if that's all right.”

“Of course it's all right. But why?”

Melrose shook his head. “I don't know. Just a thought. Do you suppose I could have copies of these to take along?” He held up the photos.

“Sure. I'll have them made when I get to the Yard tonight and see you get copies in the morning.” Jury turned. “Oh, hullo, William.”

William Warboys was standing at his elbow, looking intent. As though the sudden appearance of his master signaled an ambush, Osmond made a dive for Melrose's foot.

Melrose winced. “Good Lord, can't you keep this hound on
a lead?” He moved his foot in an are, trying to dislodge Osmond.

Ignoring this, William said, “I worked out who killed Weldon.”

“Weldon? Who killed Osmond would make a more satisfactory mystery.”

“It was Sidney.”

“Sidney? Sidney? I thought Sidney was Weldon's best friend.”

“Well, he must not be, or he wouldn't have killed him,” said William, reasonably. He then turned to Jury. “Want to go out back?”

“And what's out back?” asked Jury.

“Graves. It's a kind of cemetery. When something dies around here, I bury it.” William looked down at his notebook. “It's where I get my inspiration.”

Said Melrose, “It's where all of you get your inspiration.”

M
ACALVIE
sat with his feet on Jury's desk, his arms straitjacketed across his chest. His eyes shifted from watching Wiggins doctor his tea to the screen of a tiny portable television set, where an Oriental was detailing the joys of acupuncture. Wiggins kept the set in a filing cabinet and brought it out at noon every day for the acupuncture report.

“You'd think
someone
would've seen or heard something,” said Wiggins, depositing two seltzer tablets into his mug and watching the bubbles sprout over its puce-colored surface.

“Someone did.” Macalvie frowned. “What the hell's that, Wiggins? It looks like something's erupting in there.” His hand went out for the folder that Jury had just discarded on his desk.

“This headache's fierce; it could turn migraine on me.” Wiggins sipped his tea.

Macalvie grunted. “You make it sound like a rabid dog. There are two dozen houses in Hays Mews. Someone's not talking.”

“Did you get hold of Andrew Starr, Wiggins?”

“Yes, sir. Said we'd go round to his place late this afternoon.”

Macalvie's hat was down but the blue eyes glowed under the brim. “You'd think twice about having me go to Covent Garden, I figure.”

Jury's smile was blinding. “Not twice. Once. You're welcome to talk to him once I've finished.”

“Thanks. What about this friend of Marr's? Paul Swann?”

“Haven't talked to him yet. He's in Brighton.”

Wiggins shivered. “At this time of year.” He shook his head slowly.

“You can take off your coat, Macalvie. You won't be contaminated by the local police.”

Macalvie undid two buttons. His eye wandered back to the TV, where the squirrel-like gibbering of the Oriental had been replaced by the news at twelve-twenty. Another terrorist attack at the Rome airport; a child drowned in the River Dart; an old man mugged. “Maybe there are things worse than murder,” he said.

“Maybe, but I doubt it.”

“Dante says —”

Jury looked up, startled. “Dante? You read Dante?” Jury opened another folder from the stack. “I never thought you had time to sit down and read a book.”

“I wasn't sitting. An old guy was beaten up in his library. I was going through the books. He — Dante, I mean — puts it below murder: ‘Betrayal of friends and benefactors.' Below murder, Jury.” Macalvie took his feet from the desk, held out his hand for a Fisherman's Friend.

Wiggins was ripping open a package. “Getting a cold, sir?”

“No. I stopped smoking.”

“Good. How long?”

Macalvie checked his watch. “Half-hour ago.” He picked up a discarded folder. “What about this one? Says he was letting himself into his flat between eleven-thirty and midnight at that end of Charles Street.”

“The pub closed at eleven.”

“Yeah, but that doesn't mean she was killed at eleven.”

“She wouldn't have been hanging round in Hays Mews for an hour.”

Macalvie shrugged and tossed the folder on the desk. “No one can fix the time of death that closely. Although your pathologist didn't appreciate my telling her —”

Jury rubbed his fingers through his hair, leaving it standing up in licks. He sighed. “Macalvie, stop prowling the corridors, will you? Leave forensics alone.”

Macalvie changed the subject. “This guy David Marr doesn't have any kind of an alibi. The servants were gone, the machine could have picked up the call. The sister's lying.”

“Occasionally someone tells the truth, Macalvie.”

Macalvie didn't look convinced. He ran his thumb down the stack of folders. “Someone knows something.” He rewrapped his arms across his chest.

“What about Sheila Broome? Does someone know something there?”

“Of course.”

Jury looked at him. “Nothing's turned up in ten months.”

“Something will.”

Jury picked up the telephone. “Jury here.” The call was from Constable Whicker, on duty in the lobby.

“There's a lad down here, says his name is Colin Rees, says he may have something about the alleged murder in Hays Mews, sir.”

Jury could have told it was Whicker from the way he qualified everything. Where Constable Whicker was concerned, “fact” was a relative term, and he always relayed information
with caution signs pointing to it as if Fleet Street might be listening.

“Have someone bring him up, Constable.”

Constable Whicker turned away from the telephone and there was a murmured exchange. “He appears not to want to, sir.”

“Okay. I'll come down.” He hung up and said to Macalvie, “There's a kid down in the lobby about the Hays Mews murder.”

Macalvie shoved back his hat and smiled.

•  •  •

Two lads. The older of them, Colin Rees, eleven or twelve with faded blond hair the color of Horlicks and eyes like pebbles, small and gray. He carried a cap in his hands that looked several sizes too big for him, which he kept mashing together and pulling apart as if it were an accordion. He had the thin, tense look of a child used to being pinched in the playground.