The Blue Last (18 page)

“Okay, give me a weaker one.”

As Young Higgins came to clear their plates away, Jury said, “Resentful, maybe, of me getting so much attention from my uncle. It was my uncle who took me in. My aunt was kind, but not really too keen. And after he died, she didn't feel she could keep me on, not with three of her own. The other two are dead now.”

Young Higgins cleared his throat and said, “Your treacle tart will be up in a moment. Would you care to have coffee in the Members' Room?”

Melrose said, yes, they would and stared at Jury as Young Higgins moved off. “You win it all.”

Jury smiled and shrugged.

 

 

 

Back in the Members' Room, in the same seats they had occupied, Jury said, “The thing is, she had pictures—snapshots, you know—of me and these other kids. They were kids I remember, too. But that was several years later, in Devon. They were foster children this woman was drawing stipends for—”

“Instead of the kids being the evacuees you thought you'd been among?”

“Yes.”

“Pictures may tell part of the truth but not necessarily all of it.”

A log split and fell, sparking. The flames sputtered, became no more than live coal and leaped once again into flame. He said, “Lately, that's what I seem to be dealing with—pictures. Memories. Neither being completely reliable as a reconstruction of the past. I have a friend, a DCI in the City police, who showed me some pictures.” He told Melrose about Mickey's suspicions.

“Why doesn't he investigate this himself? I know you're awfully good, but it seems odd bringing Scotland Yard into it.”

“It does, yes. We're old friends, we go back a long way.”

“Still—”

“He's dying.”

“Oh. I'm sorry.”

“His father was a regular at the Blue Last. He knew the owner, Francis Croft, quite well. Oliver Tynedale and Francis Croft were like brothers. It's impressive that they'd remain that close to each other and stay friends for that long, and also be in business together.”

“I can't imagine anything that could sour a friendship quicker than a business relationship. Who was at the helm?”

“Tynedale, I expect. The business seemed to fall roughly between the public relations end and the financial end. I imagine the line between them was pretty much blurred.”

“So Francis Croft died and his own fortune got divided among his children?”

“Actually, no. That's another unusual thing. Some of it went to Tynedale's children, as some of Tynedale's will go to Croft's. They really are like one extended family.”

“Which sounds as if it complicates things.”

“Yes.” Jury watched the fire over the edge of his glass of cognac.

“Let's just say that, unlike his father, Simon Croft was crooked. Say he embezzled funds, and a major stockholder found out and—” Melrose mimicked a pistol with his thumb and forefinger. “Except you don't think so, do you?”

“It's more that Mickey doesn't think so.”

“He's convinced it's a member of the family.”

Jury answered obliquely. “The thing is, Tynedale is very sick; murdering him would be, well, superfluous for an heir of his. His granddaughter, Maisie, will probably get the lion's share. The fortune would then be split—not necessarily equally—among the remaining Tynedale and Croft children—Ian, Simon, Marie-France—oh, and there's Simon's sister, Emily. She's living in Brighton in one of those assisted-living places.”

“Hmm. If the motive's getting a larger share of the inheritance, why would the killer choose Simon Croft over the granddaughter? You've just said she'll undoubtedly get more than the others.”

“Depends, I suppose, on how much more,” Jury said.

“Isn't it equally likely there's another motive for shooting Simon Croft? What if he knew about this imposture?”

“Which points to the Riordin woman, or, of course, Maisie. She might know, she might not. Anyway, they're the ones who wouldn't want Oliver finding out Maisie isn't Maisie. To wait fifty years for the payoff shows a hell of an emotional investment on the part of Kitty Riordin. To have that snatched away now—” Jury shrugged.

“Perhaps Simon Croft's killing isn't connected to the identity of Maisie Tynedale. DCI Haggerty could be dead wrong.”

A porter came on hushed feet to deposit two more cognacs. Jury insisted on paying for this round and slapped down Melrose's five-pound note.

“Oh, thanks,” said Melrose. “You're too generous.”

“I know.” Jury swirled the cognac, sniffed it and drank. “Another thing that bothers me is this little girl who's Tynedale's ward. Gemma Trimm her name is. She claims someone's tried three times to kill her.”

Melrose sat up. “My god. But do you believe her?”

“They found a bullet casing. Southwark police certainly believe there was a shooting; they seemed to put it down to a rash of robberies, that, or some young punk proving how cool he is. As to the choking and poisoning, well, I'm not so sure.”

“And what would be the motive in this case?”

“I've no idea. Her presence in that house is mysterious. She seems to be largely ignored except by staff and Oliver Tynedale, who apparently dotes on her.”

“Is she a dotable little thing?”

Jury smiled. “Oh, my, yes. Extremely dotable—an earnest child. They say nothing about her. I came upon her quite by accident outside, walking.”

“They say nothing about her?”

“I questioned all of them, except for Oliver Tynedale, and no one so much as mentioned Gemma.”

“That's damned strange. If the old man is so fond of her you'd think the others would be discounting her all over the place. His ward, you say?”

Jury nodded. “According to her friend Benny.”

“God, don't bring anyone else into this tale. I'm back with the cook and the gardener as it is.”

“Benny's extremely resourceful. He has four or five shops in the main street he runs errands for. He's the local messenger service. You know, if the bookshop wants a delivery made, he does it. Same for florists, same for butcher and newsagent. What I admire is his ability to fend off questions about home and family. I don't blame him. A lot of people I'd rather not show my ID to, either.”

Melrose laughed, sliding down in his chair. “You sound like you're the same age as this boy.” He kept laughing, stopped and said, “Maybe that's the secret.”

“What secret?”

“You're so good with children. They seem immediately to sense a kindred spirit in you.” He sighed. “Whereas with me, it's sensing an unkindred one.”

“That's not true—” The doomed lament of the longcase clock gave the half hour. “Christ, ten-thirty already. I've got to go.” Jury drank off his cognac and rose.

They were moving toward the door when Colonel Neame called out to Jury, “My dear chap, did you like the avocado and Stilton?”

Jury nodded and waved.

The colonel again called out, “I'd hated to have steered you wrong on that.”

At the door, Melrose stopped dead. “I don't
believe
it. That you'd stoop so low . . .”

Jury grinned. “That's why they call us the Filth.”

M
r. Gyp handed the freshly wrapped packets over the counter to Benny, saying, “Here's chops and chine. Just you mind you get that up to the Lodge this morning as Mrs. MacLeish wants to get 'em stuffed and on their way.”

Benny really hated meat deliveries and especially Mr. Gyp's as Gyp liked to talk about the cut-up meat as if something about it still lived: “get 'em on their way.” It was as if the poor pig was going off on a trip.

Mr. Gyp was always inviting Benny back to the abattoir and when Benny said no thanks, Gyp told him he hadn't the stomach for life if he couldn't make himself look it in the face.

“All of life ain't an abattoir, Mr. Gyp. Not all of it.”

“You'll learn, young Bernard. And your dog.” Benny didn't like the way Mr. Gyp said this, sort of sinister like. He was always looking at Sparky, as if taking measurements in his mind. Probably more to make Benny uncomfortable than for any humane reason, Gyp would give him, occasionally, some leftover chops or a bit of mince and often a bone for Sparky. Gyp would slyly hand over a damp, blood-smeared packet of things for Benny to take to his “family.” Was it a big one? It must be for all the meat they eat, said Gyp. He was always trying to get Benny to tell him where he lived.

Benny had heard noises coming from the back that would send him flying from the shop, out to the curb where he'd sit with his head on his knees, dizzy. He might have fainted with the horror of it if he hadn't got out. He swore he'd quit, but he didn't. It wasn't because he needed the money. It was because of the way Gyp asked him about his family, asked him why he wasn't in school. Benny told him he was getting home schooling. Mr. Gyp said he ought to be in a proper school and maybe he, Gyp, should do his duty and “call the Social.” Benny didn't know whether he would or not, but he was afraid to take the chance. Funny, but none of the others he worked for ever went on the way Gyp did. Not even Mr. Siptick, who was bad enough. But with the others, there'd only been some friendly questions asked and answered and then forgotten.

Benny didn't have a large family, but what he had—Nancy and the rest of them—were all under Waterloo Bridge.

 

 

 

Before Benny's mother died she'd told him if anything ever happened to her, not to hang around, for if the Social got wind of him, they'd slap him in an orphanage. Never mind about her, she said, just grab up Sparky and run for it. Get to the bridge.

But of course Benny couldn't do it. When his mum died on the pavement outside Selfridges, he'd stood there waiting for her to come back. A crowd gathered and one of them summoned a constable who'd been strolling and enjoying a rare sunny day in June. It was this officer who collected Benny and took him along to the station to see what could be done for him.
Never let the Social get you in its clutches, love.

But the Social had, in the form of a Miss Magenta who had stood looking at Benny there in the station, measuring him up with her eyes (the way Gyp did later). You could tell she loved her job, even if she didn't love the children who made it possible. For she didn't care about him; he sensed this, but he didn't take it personally. She'd have been this way around any kid, with her cheap shiny smile and her cold pebble eyes.

While the constable was making out some sort of report, Miss Magenta was tidying Benny up. She'd been to the water fountain down the hall and was wiping his face with a damp handkerchief.

Disconsolate, but holding fast to Sparky's thin rope he used for a lead, Benny looked around and saw an elderly lady, rather thin and gray-haired, but still pretty and so richly dressed the effect was stunning. She was sitting on a bench against the wall, waiting for someone or something, and was watching the social worker washing Benny's face with the wet handkerchief. Benny knew what his mum had meant by getting in the “clutches” of someone, for he was definitely in Miss Magenta's. Her small hand on his shoulder felt like an armored mitten.

Her other hand kept washing his face. She said,
“Cleanliness is next to—”

“Dog turds,” Benny interrupted.

She rocked back on her heels, then collected herself and once again applied the damp handkerchief to his chin.

But the old lady, Benny noticed, was laughing, and it made him feel better, as if there were someone else in this chilly room who could share his feelings. He watched her open her purse, take out what looked to be bills and then sit there, seemingly waiting.

When Miss Magenta went once again to the fountain for a good soak of cleanliness, this lady moved with surprising speed to put her back between the fountain and Benny. She stuffed some bills in his cardigan pocket and whispered, “I'll create a diversion; as soon as I've got their attention, run like hell.”

“Who is that woman?” asked Miss Magenta in a rather dangerous tone, as if, once the Social got you, you were no longer free to have chance encounters. Nothing from here on in would be left to chance.

The richly dressed lady called to her, “He reminds me of my greatgrandson. I'm Irene Albright.”

As Miss Magenta was finally putting the damp handkerchief away, there came a loud moan and Irene Albright fell in a heap on the floor. The constable, the desk sergeant, Miss Magenta and two or three others rushed to her aid. Benny was alone with the door only a few steps behind him. He backed up carefully with Sparky, and they were out on the pavement, where they both turned and ran like hell.