The Blue Last (52 page)

“Something broke faith long ago, Miss Heron. The war did. Alexandra was killed in the London blitz.”

“I know, yes, I know.”

Jury supposed she had a battery of lawyers beamed in her direction, but they probably wouldn't get far when the confidentiality angle was obstructing the investigation of a homicide. He thought she probably was considering this.

He sat regarding her for a moment and then nodded toward the folder her arms were crossed over. “Is that Alexandra's file?”

“Yes.”

They looked at each other while the clock ticked softly. It occurred to Jury that her eyes were as intelligent as any he had ever seen and he thought then of Emily Croft. They were much alike. Jury cocked his head. “You've spoken to the parents already, haven't you?”

“Olivia's adoptive parents are dead. But there is an aunt. I felt I should alert her to the possibility of your going there. I do hope that's not stealing New Scotland Yard's thunder?”

Jury laughed. “Thunder is in short supply, believe me.”

She smiled and handed him the folder. “The parents' name, and also the aunt's, is Woburn, Elizabeth Woburn. She lives in Chipping Camden. The Woburns, Alice and Samuel, lived there also. There is really little else I can tell you.” She handed him the file. “But I expect Elizabeth Woburn can tell you a great deal more. She's expecting your call.”

“Thank you.” Jury opened the file and looked at the one page.

Judy Heron nodded. “You may keep that, Superintendent. After your sergeant called, I made you a copy.”

He grinned. “God, you certainly do anticipate, Miss Heron.”

“I know. It's a faculty I've developed over the years. I deal largely with overwrought people. You can infer that these young women are hardly jubilant when they come here. It's such a pity to be a mother and not be able to feel good about it.” She looked at Jury. “Couldn't you get by without knowing the ending, Superintendent?”

It recalled to him the question put to Trueblood by the Italian art experts.
Can't you live without the answer, Mr. Jury?

“No. I can't.”

He thanked Judy Heron, and rose and left.

A
wakened by a sharp tug on consciousness, Melrose sat straight up in bed and looked wildly around.

“The grocer!” he said to himself. “My God, the
grocer
!”

He reached for the phone, realized he hadn't the number, started to buzz Ruthven, changed his mind and, fueled by like amounts of fury and fright, ran downstairs to the library to the phone and his small phone book. He found the number and yanked up the receiver. Although Jury probably wouldn't be there, he dialed and heard the phone ring in the Islingon flat. He listened to the repeated
brr-brr
and then an answering machine switched on. Thank God, at least there was a chance of getting a message to him. After Jury announced himself and told the caller to leave a message after the tone, Melrose waited. There was a series of clicks and then the tone, which went on and on. Who in hell was calling Jury? The cast of the Royal Shakespeare Company? The Bolshoi Ballet? The “tone” was not a tone; it was a total eclipse of all other sound bites. Melrose slammed down the receiver to call—where? New Scotland Yard? Jury wouldn't be there, surely. Hadn't Jury said he was going to have Christmas dinner with Carole-anne . . . last name?
last name?
and Mrs., Mrs., Mrs.—hell! How could he get their numbers if he didn't know their last names. Zimmerman, Zinneman, Walterson . . . Hell!

I'll have to get going.
He was glad he'd fallen asleep fully dressed.

When he turned to the library door, Ruthven was there. “Can I do something for you, m'lord?”

“Absolutely. Get me some tea and the car keys. I'm going back to London.”

Ruthven frowned. “You're going
back
, m'lord? But you only just returned two hours ago.”

Melrose had passed by him and was already taking the stairs two at a time. “That's right.”

“Which car?” Ruthven called up the stairs.

“Batmobile.”

 

 

 

The three of them sat about, relaxed and drinking whiskey, beer and sherry, talking about old times they'd shared—pints at the Angel pub, that rock concert at the Hammersmith Odeon, all of those prospective tenants for the flat upstairs that Carole-anne had turned away . . . Until Stan Keeler came along, and
voilà
!

Primly, Carole-anne said, “It's because he was most suitable, that's all. I could tell Stan was a responsible, dependable person.”

“Oh, sure,” said Jury.

“Old times, old times,” said Mrs. Wasserman, still caught up in that cloud of nostalgia we all keep our heads in from time to time. And why not?

“Only the times can't be that old, Mrs. Wasserman,” said Jury. “Carole-anne's only fifteen.”

Carole-anne, the soberest of the three, picked a copy of
The Lady
from the coffee table and gave Jury a couple of thwacks with it. She was wearing a dress of some sort of glimmering material that shifted, in different lights, from violet to turquoise. Jury warded off the blows with his forearm.

Carole-anne stopped the magazine in midthwack and looked up at the ceiling. “That your phone, Super?” They fell deathly quiet in that way people do when trying to make out sound that vanishes just as one listens for it. Carole-anne shrugged and said, “If it is, your answering machine'll pick it up. Aren't you glad I got you one?”

“No. It never works right.” Jury yawned, completely full of the best turkey and stuffing he could ever recall eating, a dinner, on the whole, as good as the dinner at Ardry End, though in a different way.

“Yes, it does. It does for me, anyway. You're one of those people machines don't like is what I think. I'm surprised your watch runs right with you setting off negative vibes the way you do. Next, you need a cell phone. Like that call right then—” she looked up at the ceiling “—you wouldn't've missed that call if you'd had your cell phone.”

“I'm glad I didn't, then. You want a cell phone ringing during Christmas dinner? The world is a damned call box these days.”

“Never mind. I think it's scandalous the department doesn't issue cell phones. Scandalous!”

“You're probably right, but I'd send out the same vibes over it, too.”

“It's a disgrace, Mr. Jury,” said Mrs. Wasserman. “With the life you have to lead. Yes, Carole-anne is right.” She made her way out to the kitchen to start the next round of fat-fueling food. Dessert was to be Christmas pudding
and
trifle. She was weaving ever so slightly and turned to wag her finger at Carole-anne. “But don't call him negative, Carole-anne. You should be ashamed, with all he's done for you!” She went on to the kitchen, calling for Carole-anne to come and help her with the dessert.

Carole-anne followed, carrying her beer, and saying, “All I done for
him,
I'd say!”

Jury smiled up at the ceiling, wondering if that
had
been his telephone, and if he should check out the answering machine to see if it was working for once.

He had called Elizabeth Woburn, probably interrupted her Christmas dinner, but she had been quite civil nonetheless, and said he would be welcome, though not on Christmas Day, of course; if he could come Boxing Day or the day after? He really had to let Mickey know what had happened at Chewley Hill.

He called to Mrs. Wasserman that he was just going up to his flat for a few minutes and would be right back. Of course, she couldn't hear him because Carole-anne was in there with her, talking a mile a minute.

Upstairs, Jury checked the answering machine, found nothing on it but that damned clicking sound and wondered into what answering machine graveyard the call had gone, assuming that it had been his telephone that rang. He dialed Haggerty's number.

“Mickey,” said Jury, “I've got something that may be helpful, maybe not, but—”

“Hold it while whoever's choking on a turkey bone coughs it up—
quiet
! for God's sakes.”

There was the briefest lull while Mickey turned back to pick up the conversation and then the background noise erupted at even greater pitch, amplified by a host of giggles. Christmas was certainly giggling season. He was relieved that Mickey and his family were having what sounded like a genuinely good time. It might be the last good time.

“Sorry, Richie, you were saying—?”

“I found the people who adopted Alexandra Tynedale's baby. It was a girl; she named it Olivia Croft.”

“
What?
Why would she do that, for God's sakes? She wants to keep the birth a secret and then names the baby
Croft.
Why?”

“An acknowledgment is my guess. According to the woman who runs the place, giving up a child is the most painful thing a woman has to do. Alexandra said to Kitty that it was the worst thing that ever happened to her. Oh, of course, the adoptive parents would change the name, but at least the child would be a Croft to Alexandra until that happened. The couple themselves, named Woburn, are both dead now but an aunt is still alive and living in Chipping Camden. Her name's Elizabeth Woburn. I'm seeing her tomorrow, noonish. Little Olivia was an only child and Elizabeth Woburn sounded extremely fond of her.”

“I'll be damned. Well, good work, but my money's still on Kitty or Erin.”

“Maybe.” Jury sat with one shoe off, an ankle across the other knee, trying to work a pebble or whatever it was out of his sock. Maybe, but Jury didn't think so; he didn't think Kitty Riordin had shot Simon Croft. Erin? Perhaps. Admittedly, this would come under the heading of “hunch.” “What about Maisie? Or, rather, Erin? What did she say?”

“Zilch, zero—nothing until her lawyer shows up. What? No, I told you”—Mickey had turned away from the phone—“come on, don't ‘But, Dad' me. Go ask your mother.” Mickey laughed, returned to Jury. “That's discipline, right? ‘Ask your mother'?” Voices rose again in the background. “Listen: I stopped by the Croft house earlier and—” He was cut off again by a child's screaming demands. “Rich, this place is an effing madhouse. I want to talk to you; I want to show you something at the Croft house. Whenever you're done with whatever monster celebration you've got going, do you think you could meet me there?”

“It's pretty much wound down, except for dessert, which I don't think I could eat anyway. I could meet you there, sure. I could do it now, if you like.”

“Say, a half hour or forty-five minutes?”

“Right.” Jury hung up, checked the answering machine again and would happily have thrown it out of the window, except he'd never hear the end of it from Carole-anne.

 

 

 

Melrose sat in one of Boring's soft leather armchairs as if he'd been painted there. His hand was not so much holding a glass of whiskey as it was wedded to it. He had hoped the drink would unstick his mind, but it didn't seem to be helping.

Snow Hill! That was it; that was the name of DCI Haggerty's station. The Snow Hill station. The telephone was sitting on a table at his elbow and he put in a call. He asked if Superintendent Jury happened to be there or if they knew where he was. Jury hadn't been seen since that morning, the sergeant said and, no, DCI Haggerty was at home. It was Christmas, after all. Melrose wished people would stop saying that. He asked for Haggerty's home phone and was refused it. Melrose inveighed against this refusal, insisting it was an emergency and the sergeant said, yes, sir, it always is.

Damn! He decided to try Jury again. What he got was the same sandblast tone that went on and on and—stopped! He was permitted now to leave a message at least. He got through the first bit of what he wanted to say and then
click click click click.
The damned machine cut him off. He dialed the number again and heard the endless tone.

Melrose slammed down the receiver. Even if Jury hadn't the foggiest notion as to what the truncated message meant, he would at least know that Melrose was trying to get in touch with him and that it was important. Maybe he'd call Ardry End. Yes, he probably would. Ruthven could tell him—wait! Ruthven didn't know he was at Boring's. Melrose dialed again and when Ruthven answered (thank the lord a
person
on the other end)
,
Melrose told him he was at Boring's and that if Superintendent Jury called to tell him not to speak to anybody until Melrose had had a chance to talk to him.

There. Not much, but something was better than nothing. Catching Young Higgins's eye, Melrose made a circle over the rim of his glass, signaling for a refill. Then he continued to think. Who else, who, who,
who
did he and Jury know in common? The Crippses. Not bloody likely Jury would be checking in there. Melrose ran the cold glass across his forehead, glad of the ice cube, even though it diluted (slightly) the effect of the whiskey, and slid down in his chair. He felt he should be actively
finding
Jury—

Keeler!
Was he in town? Was it possible that club was open on Christmas Day? Melrose motioned Higgins to come over, which the old porter did, if slowly. “Higgins, would you please get a number for a club called the Nine-One-Nine, ring it and see if it's open and ask if a Mr. Keeler is doing his gig there? Thanks.”

Young Higgins frowned. “Gig, sir?”

“Ah . . . never mind, Higgins, just ask if the club is open tonight.”

The old porter shuffled off, leaving Melrose to drum his fingers on the arm of his chair. Young Higgins was back in record time telling Melrose that yes, the club was open.