The Stargazey (11 page)

“Thank you,” said Melrose, accepting a cup of tea that he was quite sure was being presented in one of his mother's Crown Derby cups. “I don't know, I rather think the Oilings woman is perfect for this cottage.”

Agatha regarded him suspiciously. “Why?”

“Whenever I see her she's always leaning on a broom, puffing a Gitane, thinking dark thoughts. Goes with the owl.” Mrs. Oilings, he fancied, wove cobwebs wherever she stood.

“Talking nonsense, as usual. I must say I was surprised to see you.”

“Why? You're always seeing me.” Melrose hesitated over taking a rock cake from the plate and thought it would be as safe as anything. “I just wanted to tell you I'm going up to London.”

“What do you mean?”

Melrose thought it had been fairly clear, so he repeated it. “I'm going up to London.”

“Very well. I could do with a day at Harrods.”

But could Harrods? “You may come along, if you don't mind sitting in the back on a stack of old quilts.”

“Back of what?”

“We're going in Trueblood's van.” He knew she'd refuse. She would forego Paradise if it meant driving there with Trueblood. “There's to be a big catalog sale at Sotheby's, and he needs the van to bring back what he buys.”

“I've no intention of going anywhere with Marshall Trueblood.” She thought for a moment. “But as long as you're going to Sotheby's sale, you might pick me up a fall-front desk.”

Melrose looked round at the great lumps of furniture that, from what he could see, covered every inch of floor space. “Where were you thinking of putting it, in the front garden?”

She looked ceilingward. “Upstairs, in my bedroom. I need a writing desk to take care of my correspondence.”

“But a fall-front? That's a
secrétaire à abattant,
and they're quite large. Tall, especially, with bookcases and such. Why don't you settle for some little Queen Anne thing, or even a writing table?” Why he was helping her furnish this cottage with, it appeared, the spoils of Ardry End, he couldn't imagine.

“Because a writing table doesn't have shelves and drawers and little nooks and things, that's why.”

“Anything in a catalog sale is going to be quite dear, you know.”

She flapped her hand as if to say money was no object, which it wasn't, as long as it wasn't hers. “I'll reimburse you.”

“I doubt very much Trueblood would want to give over space in his van to a piece that size.”

“Why on earth are you going to London?”

Melrose thought for a moment and finally came up with: “To see Mr. Beaton. You know, my tailor.”

She was astonished. “You only just saw him in February.”

“Well, that's why: I must go back for a final fitting.”

“It's taken him all that time to throw together a suit?”

“Isn't that rather like saying Pissarro threw together a lot of blurry little strokes? Mr. Beaton takes his time, he's a perfectionist, and have I ever been in a hurry? Tailors such as Beaton are rare birds, these days, and much in demand. Then I mean to drop in at my club.” Melrose took a bite of cold toast.

“Club? What club?”

He was, apparently, full of surprises. “The club my father and my uncle—you remember Uncle Robert?—belonged to. And their father before them. And their fathers' fathers—”

“Oh,
do
stop. Robert belonged to no London club.”

Robert had been too smart to tell her where he was going. Unlike Melrose.

She asked, “Which one is it? White's? Boodle's?”

“No. Boring's.”

She shook her head. “Never heard of it.”

Which should put paid to Boring's. “It's very exclusive.”

Agatha made a dismissive noise. “Those men's clubs. Prehistoric, they are, the way they still don't admit women.”

“Yes, I expect that is one of the criteria for a men's club.”

“Well, it's totally behind the times.”

“I should think that a virtue, myself. Anyway, I've never understood this feminine objection to the exclusivity of men's clubs. It's perfectly all right with me if women want to start up a women's club that I can't get into.”

“That's not the point.”

“But why isn't it?”

“
Mel-rose,
it's the idea behind it; a man's club is
symbolic
.”

“All I can see it's symbolic of is an organization that doesn't admit women into its smoke-and-brandy-snifter environs.”

“Precisely.”

“Precisely
what
?” Why was he arguing with her? “That's not a symbol, Auntie, that's a fact. It's an organization that doesn't admit—”

“Oh, stop being tiresome.”

“And perhaps I'll drop in on Superintendent Jury.”
That
would irritate her!

“What? You can't simply drop in at New Scotland Yard! Anyway, he'll be much too busy to lollygag around with you.”

“Oh, I don't know. Jury's always good for a lollygag or two. We'll have a meal at Brown's; we usually do when I'm in London.” Brown's had always been his favorite hotel, probably because it was where his mother had taken him as a child for a treat when she went to London. A treat for both of them, she would say. His mother had never been condescending to children; it had been one of her charms. . . .

Melrose felt a sudden pain and set down his cup.

 • • • 

He had put in the call to New Scotland Yard and was waiting for a return call while he sat in his living room, trying to adjust his eyes to the light. After Agatha's cottage, it was almost blinding.

The old dog Mindy slept in front of the fireplace, in which a low, comfortable fire burned. He sat there with a glass of sherry debating Mindy's age. Twelve? Thirteen? Ninety? Hard to say, since he hadn't known how old she was when he had found her left behind at the old Man with a Load of Mischief. So she might be fourteen or fifteen. Even older. Occasionally, someone would suggest that Mindy be put down. (Melrose loathed that evasion.) Why? he would ask. To put her out of her misery.

What misery?

Ruthven swanned in with the telephone on its long cord. Melrose had never had an extension put in the living room, since he would then have no excuse for leaving the room if Agatha was around.

“Is it Superintendent Jury?”

“No, sir. It's Miss Demorney.”

Why was she calling? “Diane. Hullo.”

“I was sitting here thinking that if you and Marshall were going up to London tomorrow, I might just tootle along, Melrose.”

“There's not really room for a tootle, Diane. Trueblood's taking his van and there's only the front seat; he might have a jump seat, but I don't remember.”

“It's a
van,
Melrose. He transports
furniture,
doesn't he? So there'd be oceans of room in the back for a comfy chair. I can bring along my cold box and we can have drinks.”

Melrose frowned. “I don't think we should have a rave-up on the road. Not with you with a gun in your bag.”

Her sigh was huge. “Oh, don't be such a fossil, Melrose. Anyway, the only one who shouldn't drink is the driver. Which certainly isn't going to be me. But I'd be happy to pay for the petrol.”

He slid down in his chair and looked at the ceiling molding. “Why do you want to go to London anyway?”

“To go to Paris, of course.”

“Why?”

“Does one need a reason for
Paris
?”

He saw her point. “Well, it's Trueblood's van and Trueblood's comfy chair, not mine, so you'll have to ask him.”

“He doesn't answer his telephone.” She was sulky.

“He's obviously out somewhere. Did you try the shop?”

“Marshall shouldn't be going out, not with”—paper rattled—“not with his Venus in transit. Incidentally, do you know what hour of the day Richard Jury was born? I might have given him wrong information.”

Should he attempt to work out this conumdrum? “I don't even know what
year
he was born: 1888? What wrong information?”

“Umm.”

That did for her answer. She was probably inhaling whatever she kept around the house.

“Are you going to see him when you're in London?” she asked.

“Jury? I expect so. I put in a call to him just a little while ago. He may be trying to call back.”

“I wonder he's never got married. Nor have you.”

“How did we get from the comfy chair to Jury's and my matrimonial status?”

“Of course, having been married four times myself, I can tell you it's a good thing to have an understanding right from the start that you'll leave one another alone.”

Melrose took the receiver from his ear and looked at it. Then he said, “Diane, doesn't that rather defeat the purpose?”

“What purpose? Look, I'm afraid I'm going to have to ring off now; my pager's beeping. ‘Bye.”

The instant she hung up, the telephone rang, and Melrose snatched it up. “Ardry End here.”

“New Scotland Yard here,” said Jury. “Your line's been busy.”

“I've just been having a talk with Diane Demorney. She wants to know the hour you were born. Did you know she has a gun? Did you know she was writing up horoscopes for a Sidbury rag? It's really wonderful; wait a minute.” There was a paper at his feet, and Melrose messed it about until he found the right page. “Okay, what's your sign?”

“Leo. Why does Diane have a gun, in God's name? How'd she get it?”

“Listen, this is your ‘Seeing Stars' for today:
Brooding won't solve anything. Instead of moping about the house—
”

“The flat.”

“
—about the flat, you should be contacting friends, have a meal together. Get out, get going, get a life.
She's always telling us that: Get a life.”

Jury laughed. “How does she expect to win readers?”

“What I just read is mild. You should hear some of them. I think she's taking the opportunity to deliver trenchant messages to her acquaintance.”

“Anyway, she got mine right. And here I am, getting a life.”

“And here you are, having a meal with me.”

“Delighted, but where?”

“London.” He told Jury about the trip.

“My social calendar may have room.”

“Good, do you have a favorite spot?”

“Yes. In my easy chair eating takeaway Tandoori.”

“Listen, why don't we dine at Brown's?”

“Fine with me. That where you're staying?”

“No. At my club.”

A brief silence ensued; then Jury asked, “Your
club
?”

Melrose sighed. Was everyone going to take that
your club
tack? “Yes. It's in Mayfair. Wait a minute, and I'll give you the number.”

“
You
belong to one of those men's clubs?”

“Why is that so awful? I'm not out shooting orphans, for heaven's sake.”

“It's so bloody unlike you is why.”

“Why is it so unlike me to sit around in an armchair drinking port and reading the
Times
? What do you think I do all day, march off to work the early shift at the canning factory?”

“They're so elitist. Purveyors of such anachronistic ways of life. Totally out of it.”

“You sound like Agatha.”
That
should shut him up! “They're merely places where you can sit and read a paper and have a drink.”

“Go to Leicester Square and sit on a bench. The only difference being you'd be having your drink out of a brown paper bag in the company of a lot of other brown paper bags.”

“How funny.”

“I've known you over a decade, and never once have I heard you mention your club. When's the last time you were there?”

Melrose thought for a moment. “It was with my father.”

“Your father's been dead for twenty years. You haven't been to this place in twenty years?”

“Actually, longer than that. When I went with my father I was pretty small.”

“How do you even know it's still in Mayfair?”

“Places like that are always there.”

“Would they still have you on roll call?”

“Of
course.
Probably you only get struck from the list if you do something criminal.”

“How's the food?”

“Oh, you know. Clubby. Roast beef, roast lamb, fish. Boiled potatoes. Pudding. Treacle tart. That kind of thing.”

“Hmm. I'd rather dine there. So you'll be in Mayfair. That'll be convenient.”

“Convenient for what?”

“There's an art gallery I'd like you to visit.”

Melrose was suspicious. “Oh? Why?”

Jury did not answer, except to say, “I'll tell you what's been going on when I see you. Give me the rest of the address. What's the name of this club, anyway?”

“Boring's.”

“That sounds about right.”

W
iggins opened a fresh pack of black biscuits and talked about television.

“It's much the best thing I've seen in years. Have you?”

Jury had been lost in his own thoughts. “Have I what?”

“Seen this American program on the telly. It's called
Homicide: Life on the Street.
It's set in Baltimore, which is one of the reasons we'd especially enjoy it. I mean, having been there and all.”

“I was thinking more along the lines of something set in Fulham, Wiggins, if you don't mind. Having been there and all.”

“Oh, sorry, sir.” Wiggins then relayed to Jury the information he'd obtained about the offices rented out by the council: “Couple of insurance companies, small architectural firm, a priest, Father Charles Noailles—who I haven't spoken to yet because he's in France; he's writing a book on the Bishops of London—and a Captain Bread who runs the Siddons Trust. Had a bit of luck there, sir. The Siddons Trust is a fund for elderly seamen, set up by an old naval officer named Siddons, administered now by one of those elderly seamen it was set up for; he's the one I talked with. It was hard keeping him on course, the way he liked to talk about himself and the sea; it was all like a travelogue.” Wiggins sniggered. “I learned more about the Paradise Isles than one would care to know. Did you know that the puffin population—”