Help the Poor Struggler (20 page)

“What's likely to happen to
her?”
The whiskey hadn't softened her up enough, apparently. Nor did she respond to the implication of what Jury had said. “That's no way to leave an inheritance — you have to wait until somebody
dies.
It's Riley, that's what it is! Robert Ashcroft is too much of a snob to have us round. But then they always were the worst kind of snobs.”

Jury was sympathetic as he topped off her glass. “That does seem a bit unfair.”

She hooted. “Unfair?
I'll
say it's unfair. Listen: we were perfectly willing to take the girl in, to be mum and dad to her —”

(Like you were mum to Simon, Jury thought.)

“— but, no. She was handed over bag and baggage to him. As if he'd ever done a thing in his life for the child.” She turned on Jury one of the most vindictive smiles he'd ever seen. “Though I wouldn't deny he might have done a good deal for the mother. Barbara.”

The implication was clear. But Jury didn't want to give her the satisfaction, at the moment, of indulging her fantasies.

They were interrupted by her husband's coming into the sitting room, dazzled to see Jury there, as if he'd stepped into white light from the darkness of a theater. He blinked. “Superintendent?”

Jury rose. “Mr. Riley.” They shook hands. “I was just asking your wife a few questions that I thought might be relevant to Simon's death. I've got to be going now.”

Riley led him to the top of the stairs. He looked back over his shoulder, then whispered to Jury. “She gets a bit tearful after a drink. Not much of a drinker, is Beth. What about Simon?”

“Nothing new, I'm afraid. I was just trying to sort out the family connections. You see, I didn't know your wife was related to the Ashcroft family.”

He was not so far gone in sorrow that he couldn't laugh at this. “You must be the only one in Dorchester who doesn't know it, then. What a row she made after the funeral.” He sighed. “Water under the bridge, why quarrel? Are you anywhere nearer finding out who did this?”

Jury debated his answer. “Yes, I think so, Mr. Riley.”

“Dear God, I hope so. After reading about the other two — it's a dreadful thing to say, Mr. Jury,”— another confession —“but I'm glad Simon wasn't in it alone.” He gave Jury a furtive look, as if there stood the messenger of God who would condemn him to the everlasting fire for such a thought. “I can't help it.”

“I know. I only wish I could.”

And Jury went down the stairs and out of Riley's: Fine Meat and Game.

T
HE
black cat, tail twitching, sat on the stone balustrade tracking the progress of two seagulls on their unwary way toward half a discarded sandwich. When Jury's appearance disturbed this tableau — the oafish stranger walking between the tourist's camera and its vision of scenic wonders — the cat turned its yellow eyes on Jury as if any sacrificial victim were better than none. Then it jumped down and walked over to sit on the stone step and stare the door out of countenance. There was food in there somewhere.

Jury was surprised to see the curtains undrawn. And she must have been watching from a window, because the door opened as he raised his hand to knock. The cat marched straight in.

Molly looked down and up and smiled. “He'll make straight for the kitchen and glare until I give him something. Come on in.”

He felt an odd reluctance to put his foot over the sill. The sensation might have been something akin to what a medium feels when suddenly, across a sill, there's a cold spot. It only lasted a second or two, his hesitation, but she noticed it. Her
smile now seemed almost left over, and she glanced at the windows as if she'd like to close the curtains, in the way she had just, in a flash, drawn one across her smile.

He had let her down, the last thing he wanted to do. But with Molly Singer he supposed it would be very difficult not to; it was not that she expected too much of the world, but that she expected too little.

She took his coat and went to feed the cat. From the kitchen she asked him if he'd like some coffee and, in an attempt at banter, told him he'd better take her up on the offer; it didn't come round often. He could not see her, only hear her. Her voice was strained as it hadn't been when he'd come to the door.

“Then you'd better bring it quick,” he called back.

She must have had it ready, for she brought it in straightaway, after he'd heard dry food rattle into a bowl.

They went through the business of how much sugar and cream, and she had some toasted teacakes, which she cut with a knife that might have done them more service in cutting the tension. Finally, she said, “It was nice of you to send the message you were coming.” She was studying her teacake. “I don't think Superintendent Macalvie would have.”

Certainly,
that
couldn't have been truer. “You know police.” He nodded toward the kitchen door where the black cat was washing its kingly self. “We're worse than
him.
Hell on wheels, beat down doors, storm right in.” Jury mustered the best smile he could.

It was, apparently, good enough, for the invisible curtain opened and she said, “You didn't. You're not very frightening for a policeman, Mr. Jury.”

“Richard. For God's sakes, don't tell Macalvie I don't scare people. He'll send me back to London.”

“I doubt one just sends Scotland Yard ‘back to London.' ”

Jury laughed, and she sat back with her coffee and relaxed a little. Today, she had relinquished her Oxfam-special for
what looked more like Jaeger — a wool dress in such a warm shade of gold she should have been able to cut through the cold spot, send the ghosts packing, tame the demons. She couldn't. Could anyone? “Macalvie —” He hadn't meant to say it aloud. He added quickly, laughing again. “You don't know Macalvie . . .”

Although he hadn't meant to bring it up that way, or to make light of her dilemma, he knew it was as good a way as any. So he didn't retract when he saw the look on her face, a look of disappointment replaced quickly with a getting-down-to-business smile. He thought of that scene in the hotel. Molly could rise to an occasion. With a vengeance. That worried him.

“I didn't imagine,” she said, “you'd come on a social call.”

But one could always hope. Jury said nothing.

“Superintendent Macalvie will twist things into whatever shape suits his purposes.”

“No. Macalvie's too good a cop; he doesn't twist things.”

As the black cat positioned itself on the twin of Jury's chair and gave him a fiery-gold look, so did Molly Singer. “Well, he might not ‘twist' them into shape, but he doesn't seem to mind battering them.” She reached down to the bottom shelf of the table by the little couch and brought out a bottle of whiskey. She raised it slightly. “Want some in your coffee?”

Jury shook his head, watching her as she held the bottle on her knee. It was a fresh bottle, and she broke the seal. But she didn't uncap it; she stared at it as if the bottle were an old friend turned stranger. He did not think she really wanted a drink; he thought she wanted something to do for distraction. Her need for something no one was able to give her was so intense, it drained him to think that any comfort he could offer would be pretty cold comfort coming from a policeman.

That's a swell rationalization, Jury,
he said to himself. He could have given it. The truth was, there was something about Molly Singer that made him feel afraid of being drawn in.

“Why is Chief Superintendent Macalvie so certain I'm this Mary Mulvanney?”

“She was hard to forget.” He smiled. “So would you be.”

“Because we throw things?”

“No. You're afraid that Mary Mulvanney would be even more of a suspect?”

“She would be.”

“Why?”

“Because Chief Superintendent Macalvie thinks so.”

Jury smiled. “He could be wrong.”

“Oh? Why don't you try telling him that? Because you value your life.” She made a poor attempt at a smile, and then said, not looking at him, “Do you remember what it's like to be in love when you're sixteen?”

“Same thing as when you're forty, I guess.” He looked at her long enough to force her to turn her eyes back to his. “Why?”

She sat forward on the couch, slowly, as if she were very tired and, even, very old. “Oh, Superintendent . . .”

 • • • 

You understand nothing.
She didn't say it, but from her expression, she might as well have.

Mary Mulvanney would certainly have a reason to hate the world. Indeed, Mary Mulvanney might have become obsessive. Like Molly Singer . . .

“You're thinking the same thing he is.”

Jury looked up, surprised. She had been studying his face — carefully, he was sure — for hints of increased suspicions, and found them.

He tried to pass it off with a smile. “You read minds.”

Leaning her head against her hand, she returned the smile. And her face had a tinge of the glow it had when he'd first come. “Faces.”

That she thought Jury had a particularly nice one was pretty clear, and he looked away, toward the cricket stool where he imagined the house-ghost stirring the ashes. At least
her reply brought him to the point: “You'd be pretty good at that, being a photographer.” He looked back at her. “We'd like you to do us a favor.”

Her head came up from her hand, and her body tensed. Even before he'd asked, she saw the red light of danger. “Me? I can't imagine what.”

“There's a place in Dartmoor more or less equidistant from Princetown, Wynchcoombe and Clerihew Marsh.” Her expression didn't change. “It's called Ashcroft. Quite a large manor house —”

“Go on.” It was as if the suspense that clung to that word
favor
— which could only mean action of some sort — was pulling her from the couch. She was leaning forward, hands clasped so tightly the knuckles were white.

Jury simply brought it out. “We need a photographer —”

“No.” She shook her head slowly, her eyes shut. “No.”

“Say No, if you want, but let me finish. There's a little girl in that house; she's ten years old. She's the sole heir to the Ashcroft millions. Her father was a peer. There've already been three children murdered, Molly. We're not looking forward to a fourth.”

Molly looked up then, astonishment stamped on her face. “Whatever it is you want from
me
— dear God,
why?
I'm your main
suspect!”

“
A
suspect. Okay, I won't deny it, though I doubt you had anything to do with these killings.” Doubt was not certainty; but the doubt was strong.

Astonishment gave way to something like hope and a half-smile. “You're outvoted.”

“Macalvie?” Jury smiled. “Then it's one against one. Not outvoted.”

“If Chief Superintendent Macalvie has the other vote, believe me, you're outvoted. But go on. I'll just say no at the end, but go on.”

“We want pictures — photographs — of, well, everything.
Your bona fides are all arranged. There's an expensive, sleek new magazine that specializes in classic and antique cars. You're their top photographer: and you know what a professional does because you've done it.” He smiled. “Piece of cake.”

“Dipped in cyanide. Are you crazy?” Her voice was going up a ladder of tension. “Richard —”

As she leaned toward him, he felt his name in her mouth as something strange, saltwater on the tongue. “Molly.” Again he smiled.

Quickly she looked away, and for something to do, tried petting the black cat taking its ease beside her in this tension-filled room. It merely looked around and glared at her. “I don't even go out of the house here. And you think I'd have the nerve to gather up my Leica and go and do an
impersonation
in the manor house of a millionaire? God. I'd almost rather talk to the gracious Chief Superintendent Macalvie — don't tell me
he
expects me to do this?”

Jury nodded and offered her a cigarette, which she took, saying, “Thanks, it's an excuse for a drink. I don't suppose you'd care for one?”

Try me.

Having poured the drinks into mismatched water tumblers, she sat back, raised her glass in a salute. “To your crazy idea. First of all, if you want a photographer, the Dorset police, the Devon constabulary — and Scotland Yard — must have darkrooms full of them. Why me?”

“Because they wouldn't be suspicious of you, Molly.”

“I don't see why they would of a clever cop — you are trained in the lively art of worming your way into people's confidence.”

It wasn't anger but pain he heard in that remark. “The people at Ashcroft would sniff out a cop all the way across Dartmoor. At least one of them would, I'm sure.”

In spite of herself she was curious. “Who?”

“Better you don't know, or you'd be falling all over your tripod every time the person said Boo.”

The whiskey was relaxing her. “I'd be falling all over it
anyway,
you idiot.” Her raised voice disturbed the black cat. It moved, recurled itself, and gave them both a squinty gold look. “And if I don't agree to this incredible scheme — I suppose you'll blackmail me into doing it: ‘Go along with us, baby, and maybe we'll go easy on you —' ”

Jury laughed. It was a perfect mimicry of Macalvie's hard-boiled-detective tone.

“Thinks he's Sam Spade.” She took a drink. Two. “Photos of what? What are you looking for?”

“Given the mag and Ashcroft's collection, you'd be concentrating on the cars. And the people at Ashcroft. We need some photos for identification purposes —”