The Stargazey (32 page)

But Ralph interpreted the comment in his favor. “I'm extremely encouraged by all this attention.”

Ralph's smile was so candid, so ingenuous, Jury felt a stab of sorrow, even of shame, that he'd come so close to insulting his work. The poor chap must really believe in what he was doing. “He'll probably be back.”

“Who?”

“Your British aristocrat. They're never satisfied with just one of anything, not if there's more to be had. I know one who drives a Rolls
and
a Bentley.”

Ralph looked doubtful. “He didn't say.”

Jury smiled. “Trust me.”

M
elrose Plant was making his way to the desk to settle his bill on Tuesday before lunch and was still debating the least unsavory mode of transport back to Long Piddleton. Trueblood had left several days before, saying he had to get back to his business.

There was the train to Sidbury and then to Long Piddleton by cab, or he could give Diane Demorney a ring and ask her to collect him at the Sidbury station. She was so often in the offices of the
Sidbury Star
these days that it wouldn't inconvenience her. Diane appeared to enjoy performing minor acts of mercy for Melrose, as he was, after all, eligible, rich, and even—the highest virtue in the Demorney canon—“amusing.” She had finished with her fourth husband years before and was getting bored with being on her own.

It struck Melrose that Diane was the polar opposite of someone such as Simeon Pitt, for she was unable to find her own company tolerable; whereas Pitt found little tolerable in others' company and could amuse himself endlessly on his own.

Because of her lack of inward resources, Melrose was surprised that she was finding the content for her column exclusively within herself. She certainly wasn't finding it in the zodiac. She couldn't be bothered to do
research.
Perhaps Diane was a more layered person than he had given
her credit for. He considered this on his way to the telephone. Well, at least as layered as the jam on yesterday's jam roll.

In the Members' Room he saw the usual fleet of faces—not faces, actually, but newspapers and the hands holding them, the legs stretched out from under them, elbows, feet, ankles. The Members' Room was more a collection of body parts than bodies. There was Neame behind his
Daily Mirror;
there were Pitt's highly polished shoes jutting from the wing chair whose back was to Melrose. It saddened him to think of saying good-bye.

When Diane's bored yet mellifluous voice came over the line, Melrose said, “Diane! Listen, be a sport and collect me at the Sidbury train station, will you? I'll take the three o'clock so I'll get in just in time to buy you a drink.” That should do it!

“Train? Good God, Melrose! What happened to your Bentley?” If he'd announced a ten-car collision, she couldn't have been more appalled. Public transportation was intended only for the needy—that is, the non-Bentley, non-Roller crowd. She herself had two.

“Diane, you seem to have forgotten: Trueblood drove me to London last week. We used his van, remember? So will you pick me up?” He heard what sounded like papers crackling in his ear. “What're you doing?”

“Melrose, I've just realized you've missed your horoscopes.”

Horoscopes?
How many had there been?

“I'll read this to you.”

“Please don't bother.”

“Oh, but it's no bother at all. Now let me just find . . . Capricorn, Capricorn. . . . ”

He was sorry he'd furnished her with his date of birth.

She read:
“Charm will get you nowhere in this mess. Although you are used to sailing through any difficulty, you will find you're up against a stronger adversary than even you can put down.”

“What in heaven's name are you predicting?”

Her sigh would have leveled a field of poppies. “
Mel
-rose. Why can't you understand your Fate lies in the pattern of the stars?
I
can't tell you
what's going to happen.” She continued.
“Since you are generally self-sufficient, you are subject to egocentrism and—”

“Ego
what?”

“Cen—trism. It means you're altogether too pleased with yourself. Don't take it personally. It's Capricorns in general, and that's not your fault, is it?

“As the moon transits Venus, you will find old friendships are the best.”
She paused, then said, “I'll just fix this next bit:
Pack up and go home. And above everything, Watch out!”

Since she fairly yelled this, Melrose nearly fell off his seat. Then he thought for a moment the line had gone dead until he heard the crackling of what might have been cellophane, topped off by a bark and a voice shouting.

“Just getting out a fresh cig. Sorry.”

“Diane, I called your house. Did you get a dog?”

“No. I'm at the
Star
offices, of course. I've got a deadline.”

“But the number I dialed was your house.”

“I have call forwarding. And don't forget my pager, if you ever need to get in touch with me quickly. Didn't I give you the number?” She read it off.

Melrose wasn't going to bother jotting it down, but then he did. It might be good for a few laughs. He recapped his pen.

“Incidentally, Melrose, why have you been in London a whole week?” Her voice was a little whiny, as if his absence were a slap in the face.

“No special reason. Going to Harrods, doing one or two things for Richard Jury.”

“Ah, Richard
Jury!”

Talk about eligible, thought Melrose. But unmoneyed, untitled, uncountrified.

Another brief pause while she did something. “He's a Leo.”

“He is? How do you know?”

“Marshall told me. Marshall knows everything.”

“We're talking about the same Marshall, are we?”

“I should send Richard a copy of this week's
Star.
What's his address?”

“Scotland Yard, as always.”

“What street's it in?”

“I'm not sure the street is absolutely essential, but I think it's in Victoria Street.”

“Um.” Silence. Probably writing it down. “Now, to continue with Capricorn,” she said.

Ye gods, he might as well fire up a cigarette himself.

“Let's see, we were at the warning. Here:
If you aren't careful you might find yourself encountering something dire.”

“That's a rather gloomy old forecast, isn't it?”

“If you think Capricorn's bad, you should see Jupiter. Well, I'm off. Deadline. Ta-ta.”

Melrose replaced the receiver, shook his head to clear it, and wandered back to the Members' Room, nearly colliding with a heavyset woman with two silver-handled canes who stared down her nose at him as if she were a victim of road rage. She was used to getting the right-of-way, obviously, and Melrose stood aside, extended an arm, and bowed slightly to usher her out of the room. He remembered then it was Tuesday, Ladies' Day. He hoped this woman wasn't Pitt's relation. No, that was a niece, wasn't it?

They were still in place, Neame dropping his
Mirror
long enough to see Melrose and wave. Melrose smiled and nodded and walked over to the wing chair on the other side of Simeon Pitt's. With the arts section resting against his chest, Simeon Pitt was having one of his catnaps. Well, he'd soon wake up. Melrose signaled Young Higgins, who bobbed over as if a strong wind were at his back.

“Coffee, please, Higgins.” Melrose noted the cup on the table beside Pitt. “And might as well bring enough for Mr. Pitt, too.”

“Yes, sir. I'll bring a fresh cup for him.”

Melrose watched Young Higgins with the usual anxiety of wondering whether he'd make it to the bar or not, then turned to his
Telegraph.
After reading yesterday's news, he decided Monday must have been a real bore for most people and set it aside.

He watched Simeon Pitt for a moment. The newspaper wasn't moving.

He bent his head so that he could see Pitt's downturned face. Melrose went cold. For Pitt's eyes were not peacefully closed in sleep, they were half open.

Without thinking, Melrose yanked the newspaper back and threw it to the floor. He stood there, utterly paralyzed, any sound he might make caught in his throat. He was not even aware that the old waiter had come up to him with his tray.

The cups and French press slid precariously as Higgins nearly dropped the lot. “Oh, my! Oh, my!” said Higgins, his rasping voice gone up a register or two. “A stroke, oh, my, the gentlemen's had—”

“Fetch the doctor. Call the police.” Melrose didn't recognize his own voice.

As much as Young Higgins could rush, he rushed. Melrose looked after him and then down at the body of Simeon Pitt, where the blood around the wound in his chest would be nearly invisible to a man with Higgins's vision. It had almost passed Melrose's inspection, given the dark brown plaid of Pitt's waistcoat. The bleeding must have been largely internal.

Melrose straightened up and saw his hands were shaking as badly as Young Higgins's.

For a moment, he heard Diane's voice:
Watch out!

T
he Members' Room moved into something resembling wakefulness, if not into outright excitability, over the death of Simeon Pitt. It had not yet been bruited about that Mr. Pitt had died not of cardiac arrest but of stab wounds—wound, rather—a single one artfully delivered to a spot just over the sternum.

“Somebody knew how to do it,” said Phyllis Nancy, stripping off her gloves. “The bleeding is almost exclusively internal; the lungs are full of blood.”

Wiggins asked, “Why in God's name would someone do this in full view of these people?”

Jury just shook his head. “One stab wound. That's rather incredible.”

“As I said, someone knew what weapon to use. Stiletto, it could have been. Long, thin. I can't be more precise than that.”

Melrose had called Jury, who together with Sergeant Wiggins had arrived just before Detective Inspector Milderd and Sergeant Webber from police division C. They in turn had been preceded by several uniforms who had been, handily enough, by a linen van at the curb, whose driver they appeared to be questioning. One of the Boring's staff had called to them frantically and they had come on the double.

Jury had brought not only Wiggins but his favorite medical examiner, Phyllis Nancy, aware he might be treading on the toes of
C Division, and had explained to DI Milderd that since Dr. Nancy had been with him at the time he'd received the call, he had brought her along.

Dr. Nancy never missed a trick. Once, she had seen on a body what might be taken for a tiny pinprick as an entryway for a poison (later discovered to be ricin), after another doctor had set down cardiac failure as cause of death. Heart failure it certainly had been, but caused by the poison, introduced on a heavy embroidery needle discovered in the embroidery basket of the victim's cousin. Jury had always admired Dr. Nancy's imaginative grasp of factors that lesser medical examiners couldn't put together. She was also captivatingly feminine and didn't mind being told so, in one way or another.

No, Phyllis Nancy missed nothing; only, in the case of poor Pitt's chest, there was nothing that could be missed. She said death had occurred within the last three, possibly four, hours, and could anyone here pin it down better?

Melrose could help only by way of saying he'd seen Simeon Pitt at breakfast. That had been around nine-fifteen or nine-thirty, when Melrose had come down. Pitt seemed much as usual. It was his habit to sit in the Members' Room after breakfast, sometimes for the whole of the morning, reading various papers.

DI Milderd asked Melrose, “Did he have visitors usually?”

“No,” said Melrose. “I mean, I never saw him with anyone, although, yes, he did mention a niece. This is the club's Ladies' Day. I believe he said she was to lunch with him.”

Milderd asked, “Did he say anything else about her?”

“No, that was all.”

Sergeant Webber said, “You were friendly with Mr. Pitt?”

“Well, yes. I certainly liked him. He was art critic for the—” Melrose stopped. In the wake of the morning's happenings, he had all but forgotten Pitt's telephone call yesterday.

“Yes, sir?”

“It's probably nothing, but Mr. Pitt made a phone call yesterday.” Melrose told them about it.

“This Jay person, he never said a last name?”

Melrose was tired of these two sticking to his tweed jacket like burrs. “No. Look,” said Melrose, “I met Simeon Pitt only last week. That's as well as I knew him.”

“Yes, Lord Ardry, but—”

Aha! There's the problem, right here. The way he'd said it. Cops hated the aristocracy.

“—but three other gentlemen, who rarely did more than exchange a good-evening with Mr. Pitt, said you often sat with him and had lively conversation and drinks,” Milderd said.

Webber added, as he slowly (and smugly) batted his eyelashes at Melrose, “And were out and about with him, some days.”

“Three times! That's how often we had drinks and talk. As far as out and about goes, we went once to an art gallery not far from here.” As Milderd was going on, Melrose stopped listening. He was instead thinking about Pitt's telephone call and the Fabricant Gallery. He came out of this daze to hear Milderd addressing him.

“Lord Ardry?”

“What?”

“As I
said—”

(The aristocracy never pays attention.)

“—the waiter confirmed that you often joined Mr. Pitt for a drink. Mr. Higgins, that would be.”

Melrose looked over to where Young Higgins seemed to have grown visibly more sprightly since the murder. Look at him! Over there in a huddle with Neame and Champs, demonstrating what he'd heard when he'd hovered near the medical examiner. Hands clasped, shoving an imaginary knife into his chest. God! Another murder would bring him tap-dancing out of the kitchen like Fred Astaire. Well, thank the Lord, here at last came Jury.