The Man with a Load of Mischief (27 page)

“Well, you've managed to clear the table, Agatha. Now what the deuce is it?”

Triumphantly, she announced: “We've found Ruby Judd's bracelet!”

“
What
? And who's ‘we'?”

“Myself. And Denzil Smith.” She tossed off the Reverend Smith's name so casually that Melrose suspected who had really done the finding.

“They searched that vicarage from top to bottom. Where was it?”

Agatha was overlong in answering. He could visualize some mole in her mind burrowing down for an answer that wouldn't discredit her. “I don't think I should say.” Casually, she added: “It was on the premises.”

“Meaning, dear Aunt, you don't
know
. The vicar found it, then. He's given it to Inspector Jury?”

“He would do, I'm sure,” said Agatha sweetly. “If he could
find
Inspector Jury. He always seems to be darting about the countryside when you need him.”

“Have you told anyone else?” Melrose felt uneasy with this discovery floating about the village.

“I? Not
I!
I keep my own counsel. But you know what a gossip Denzil Smith is. I just came from Lorraine's and they'd heard it already.” This was said with some irritation; clearly she wished she had got to them first.

Melrose sighed. “Inspector Jury will be the last to know.”

“If he'd stay in the village for two minutes running, he might be the first. I've just been to the station. Couldn't get a thing out of Constable Pluck. I've been spending my morning doing what Jury should be doing.”

Melrose seriously doubted that, but couldn't resist asking: “And what have you been doing?”

“Systematically questioning the suspects on this list.” She drew from her pocket a bit of paper, wilted like a lettuce leaf, and handed it over to Melrose, at the same time shouting again to Dick Scroggs to bring her sherry and be quick about it. “I've been working my way up the High Street.”

Melrose adjusted his glasses and surveyed her list. There were two headings:
Suspects
and
Motives
. “What are all of these
Jealousies
doing under Motives? Who would Vivian Rivington be jealous of? And you've struck Lorraine's name altogether.”

“One can see she didn't do it. Ah, here's my sherry.” Dick stood over her, waiting to be paid. Melrose dug down for some change.

“Incidentally, we're all going along to the Load of Mischief for dinner tonight.”

Melrose held his glass in one hand, the list in the other. “Who's ‘we all'?”

“The Bicester-Strachans. Darrington and that scarlet woman he runs round with. And the light of your life, Vivian.” She added slyly: “Simon was at her place when I was there this afternoon.”

Melrose ignored this. “How do you know Lorraine wouldn't have been involved in these murders?”

“Breeding, my dear Plant, breeding.”

“That explains why her horse wouldn't have done them, but not Lorraine.”

Still perusing the list, he noticed his own name was buried among the others, in smaller print, squeezed in between Sheila and Darrington almost as an afterthought. Under Motive was a question mark. “Do you mean you can't think of a motive for me, Aunt?”

She grunted. “Didn't have you down at all, at first. It's that damnable alibi you and Jury trumped up between you.”

“I notice, though, that your name is absent.”

“Of course, you simpleton.
I
didn't do it.”

“But under Trueblood's name you've got
Drugs
. Drugs? What's he to do with drugs?”

She smirked. “My dear Plant. Trueblood
is
in the antiques business, isn't he?”

“I've known that for some time.”

“With all of those things he's got coming in from abroad — probably even from Pakistan and Arabia — well, where would
you
secrete hashish or cocaine you wanted to smuggle into the country?”

“I haven't a clue. In my ear?”

“These men who were killed were, what d'ya call them? ‘Connections.' Well, it could have been a
gang war.”

“But Creed was a retired policeman.” Despite himself, he had to reason with her.

“Exactly, my dear Plant! He was after them, don't you see? The whole dope ring. So Trueblood had to —” And she drew her finger across her throat.

Melrose hated himself for asking. “And Ruby Judd —?”

“A go-between.”

“Between who?”

“There's
always
a go-between.”

Melrose left it. “Look, Jury must be informed of this bracelet.”

Agatha drank off her shooting sherry. “Perhaps Interpol can locate him.” She smiled meanly.

 • • • 

Jury sat in the lounge bar of the Man with a Load of Mischief waiting for Melrose Plant. They had arranged that morning to meet at the Load of Mischief that evening. Jury checked his watch: 8:35.

Jury yawned.
Well, where is he, then?
Looking at his face in the long bar mirror, he saw it distorted by the bronze-tinted glass etched in an elaborate filigree of morning glories and vines. No, he probably really looked that bad. He felt very tired
after an afternoon of going over the evidence with Superintendent Pratt.

He also felt sorry for himself, observing the proximity of Vivian Rivington and Simon Matchett at a table in the corner. Near them sat Sheila Hogg and Oliver Darrington, who had been engaged in unfriendly colloquy when he first came in, but who were now putting on smiles for Lorraine Bicester-Strachan and Isabel Rivington. Willie Bicester-Strachan Jury had seen wandering through the rooms, looking for the vicar. He had asked Jury just a few moments ago if he had seen Smith.

Jury heard his name and looked up in the mirror to see Melrose Plant standing behind him. “I —
we
— just got here. Sorry I've been so long, but my dear aunt has been bending my ear for the last hour. She's out in the hall now doing the same to Bicester-Strachan.” Plant took the stool beside Jury. “Have you seen Denzil Smith?”

“No, but he's supposed to be here.”

Plant seemed concerned. “Look, according to Agatha —”

“Agatha can speak for herself, thank you very much!” She squeezed in between them, shoving Jury aside. “A pink gin, please, Melrose.”

As Melrose ordered drinks, he said, “Surprisingly, Inspector, even
I
think you should listen to what my aunt has to say.”

Jury noticed that Lady Ardry's ruby-and-emerald bracelet encircled a handsome leather glove. He wondered what had happened to the mittens and felt almost a sense of loss. She regarded him now much as the Queen might have run her eye over some drab of a kitchen girl. “Had you come to
me
, Inspector, I might have been able to give you one or two little ideas.”

“I should certainly appreciate your giving them me now, Lady Ardry.” Jury tried to look properly abject, and only hoped she would come straight to the point . . . which, of course, she didn't. First she had to arrange a few oddments about her person, the little button on the glove properly seen to, the ratty-looking fox furpiece moved a fraction of an inch, her hair smoothed into no place it seemed to belong. As Melrose put her
pink gin in front of her, she was prepared to speak. “This afternoon I paid a visit to the vicar. It was after I'd stopped off at the Rivingtons. And I must say, Melrose, the light of your life Vivian, might be a wee bit more hospitable. If you want
my
opinion, Chief Inspector—”

“And pigs might fly,” said Melrose. “Get to the
point
, Agatha.”

“You needn't take that tone. There're quite a few little things I discovered during the course of my questioning of suspects that the inspector might pay dear to know.” She simpered. Jury kept his countenance and waited patiently. To attempt to hurry her along would only make things worse. “At any rate,” she went on, “it's very well to go about ignoring quite obvious things — such as Trueblood's being an antiques dealer—”

“Get to the vicar, Agatha.”

“Who's telling this, Melrose?”

He shrugged. “The Ancient Mariner?”

“After my visits to just about everyone on the list —”

“The bracelet, Agatha.”

“I'm coming to that.”

“Am I to understand this has something to do with the Judd girl's missing bracelet, Lady Ardry?”

“That's the thing I've been trying to tell you, were it not for the constant interruptions of my nephew. I found the brac —”

“
He
found, you mean,” corrected Melrose. “You admitted you had nothing to do with the finding.”

“Well,
where
, Lady Ardry? We looked the whole house over.”

Agatha studied the tips of her shoes. “I'm not sure, but —”

“Oh, hell, Agatha. Smith wouldn't tell you where because he didn't want to have you tell the whole of Long Piddleton.”

“That was not the reason.” She looked thoughtful. “He didn't want to endanger my life!” Shen she looked worried. “Good God, it won't will it?”

Jury felt his scalp prickle. “When did he find it? How long has he known about it?”

“I don't know, precisely. I was with him this morning. He'd been trying to get ahold of you, but you were out gadding — following up wrong leads, no doubt.”

“And you actually
saw
this bracelet?”

“Well, naturally!”

“Where is it now?”

“Denzil has secreted it somewhere. He said he was going to put it right back where he found it, it was such a good hiding place. But he wouldn't tell me where.” She shoved her pink gin around, sulkily. Then she said, “My whole theory about this whole dreadful catalogue of crimes has to do with Marshall Trueblood's —”

“Marshall Trueblood's what, old twig?” Jury had not seen him come up. Trueblood did not seem at all put out about being talked of behind his back. He smiled happily all around the table. “And listen, love, hadn't you better give back my letter opener before I take it up with the police? You were in the shop alone today, remember?”

Agatha turned red. “I beg your pardon, sir! I want none of your cheap Arabian goods!”

“Oh ho. Not cheap this. Cost me twenty quid, it did. So give it back, will you love.” He snapped his fingers several times.

Jury got up from the table and strode over to Bicester-Strachan's group. “Mr. Bicester-Strachan, did the vicar say he was going to be here at some definite time?”

“Yes.” Bicester-Strachan took out a big turnip watch. “An hour ago. Eight o'clock sharp, he said.”

“Christ,” muttered Jury. He rushed back to the table and said, “Mr. Plant, can we use your Bentley?”

They were out of the door before the others could close their gaping mouths.

T
he knifelike letter opener had been plunged into his chest nearly all the way up to the ivory-carved hilt. The body of Denzil Smith was lying in the middle of the library floor, face up.

Though not a shambles, the library of the vicarage had clearly been searched: books thrown from the now-bare shelves, drawers pulled out, closets opened.

“I don't understand,” said Melrose Plant. “If he were after the bracelet, why would the murderer have exposed himself just to retrieve it? Wasn't it only an ordinary charm bracelet to anyone except himself and Ruby Judd?”

“I don't imagine it
was
only to get at the bracelet. Maybe he came for something else: Ruby's diary. One missing article has turned up, and he might have thought the vicar had the other. He certainly couldn't afford to take that chance.” Jury went around behind the desk, sat down, and, being careful to use a handkerchief while he did so, called the Weatherington station. He left instructions for Wiggins to come along with the lab crew. Then he called Constable Pluck.

“My God, sir, not another?” Pluck was breathless.

“Yes, another. Now, what I want you to do is get up to the Man with a Load of Mischief straightaway and start getting statements — Simon Matchett, the Bicester-Strachans, Isabel and Vivian Rivington, Sheila Hogg and Darrington. Also Lady Ardry. Get rid of everyone else.”

In a voice that might have been used to discuss a child's serious illness, Pluck said. “I don't know if I can rightly get up there, sir. It's the Morris, see. She's making this funny little pinging noise, I don't —”

“Constable Pluck,” said Jury, with charming affability, “you'll have a funny little pinging noise between your ears if you don't get up to the Man with a Load of Mischief immediately. For God's sakes, man! Take anyone's car. Take Miss Crisp's from next door; stop anyone going by in the street —”

At Jury's tone, Pluck must have straightened. Even his voice saluted. “Yes, sir!”

Jury banged down the receiver and balled up the bit of paper on which he had doodled a picture of a Morris running into a tree. As he started to toss it in the wastebasket, he noticed a sheet of paper lying half under a piece of lavalike rock that served as a paperweight. Jury pulled it out and looked at what appeared to be disjointed notes made, possibly for a sermon.

“Listen to this,” said Jury to Melrose, who was still standing in the middle of the room gazing down at the vicar's body. “Listen, the vicar's made some odd notes here: “Bacchanals . . .
Hirondelle
 . . . God encompasseth us . . .' What on earth do you suppose he means by all that?”

Plant came around the desk and looked down at the paper and shook his head.

“We'll take it along as soon as the fingerprint man goes over it. But, frankly, I certainly haven't a hope of anything turning up by way of fingerprints.” He made a survey of everything else on the desk: blotter, ink bottle, pens, a vase of late roses. His eye traveled down the row of open drawers, seeing their contents had been disturbed but not ravaged. There was a squelch of tires outside to the rear of the vicarage, and through the dark pane they could see a flashing blue light, either police
car or ambulance. Then the crew from Weatherington came stumbling in, along with Detective Sergeant Wiggins, all of them looking punch-drunk from these constant calls to Long Piddleton. Rain had started and was coming down in sullen, slanting waves, with brief flurries of thunder, like drumrolls from a far-off planet, and spurts of lightning — the perfect night for a murder.