Rainbow's End (37 page)

Melrose was dictating the bit about his meal in Bethnal Green, being quite colorful in his description of Bea Slocum (whom he recalled now with real fondness), occasionally pausing for Ruthven to catch up. It was to send this lot to Richard Jury in Santa Fe that he wanted a fax machine.

“Well, who has one? Someone must.”

“I wonder but what Mr. Trueblood might have one, m'lord. Being in business as he is.”

“Good Lord, I hope not.” What Trueblood got up to without the help of technology was bad enough.

Ruthven thought some more as he flexed his tired fingers. “You might inquire at the Wrenn's Nest. Mr. Browne would likely have one.” Ruthven gave a sniff of distaste.

“I'm not asking him for any favors. There must be another.”

They both thought. Then Ruthven said, “I wouldn't be at all surprised if you'd find one at the Blue Parrot. You know, Mr. Sly likes to be up on the latest of everything. A bit pushy, Mr. Sly is.” Ruthven coughed gently as his fingers hovered like fairy wings over the keys.

The Blue Parrot was but a short distance from Ardry End (a fact that Dick Scroggs had often noted with a withering glance at anyone from that end of town who might be disposed to have a drink in Sly's establishment). It was about the same distance from Watermeadows as from Ardry End. It was the thought of Watermeadows and Miss Fludd, perhaps more than the fax machine, that made Melrose clap Ruthven on the shoulder. “Brilliant! Get me the fax number of Jury's hotel. If Sly doesn't have a fax machine I'll go on to Sidbury.”

SLY DID HAVE
a fax machine. And he was delighted that Melrose Plant wished to use it, offering its use as if he were doing the customer a personal favor while all the time he was charging an arm and a leg.

Trevor Sly stood behind his copper-lined bar like a child's stick-figure drawing, impossibly tall and thin, washing his hands, as usual, in his best Uriah Heep manner as he said, “That'll be just three pound per page, Mr. Plant.” His several-toothed smile would have looked marvelous carved on a pumpkin. Sly had returned from his living quarters with Melrose's three-page fax to Richard Jury.

“A bit steep, isn't it, Mr. Sly?” Melrose nodded toward the beer pulls and added, “And give me a half-pint of that Cairo Flame stuff.” Melrose felt as if he needed a sudden jolt. He placed three five-pound notes on the bar—for his three pages and the beer. “Have one yourself.”

As Sly's long-fingered hand closed round a glass, he said, “Three pound is only but a trifle more than what it costs me, Mr. Plant, as it's going to the States, now isn't it? And one has to consider the convenience, too.”

“What convenience? You're out here in the middle of nowhere. The potholes on that half-mile of road down here nearly took out my
muffler. You ought to fix it—it can't be doing business any good.” Melrose cared not a jot about road or business; he had been hoping Miss Fludd would emerge from one of the Blue Parrot's shadowy corners. The room was, alas, empty.

Trevor Sly had given Melrose an opening to probe her whereabouts: “ ‘Convenience' might apply to people who live within walking distance and don't drive.” Carelessly, he added, “The Fludds, for example.” He paused. Sly said nothing; he was looking off past Melrose. “Has, ah, Miss Fludd been in lately?”

“I don't know but what I preferred the camel to her.”

At this conundrum, Melrose started. “What in hell are you talking about?”

Trevor Sly had apparently been lost in contemplation of his newest acquisition, for he pointed a bony forefinger toward the door. “My lady, Mr. Plant.” Melrose turned to look at the plaster-of-Paris figure of the painted Arabian woman who served to advertise the menu of the day. “The camel was a bit cleverer, I think.” He cocked his head.

“Also moth-eaten.” Melrose was annoyed they'd got off the subject of Miss Fludd. “Anyway, what the devil difference does it make, you never have those specials.”

Sly's smile managed to convey both sycophancy and superiority. “Now, that's not quite true—”

“The hell it isn't. The meat's supposed to be lamb and all you ever have is beef mince.”

“I don't deny that once or twice that's happened, but—”

“Ha! All right—” Melrose slid from the stool and walked over to the menu holder, tried to make out the pseudo-Arab script, and said, “I'll just have an order of this
fatta
stuff. It says here it's ‘lamb stew.' ” He marched back to his stool.

Trevor Sly said serenely, “Well, now of
course
that dish ain't ready yet, Mr. Plant. Trouble is, I've to depend on Mr. Jurvis, haven't I, just like the rest of you, only with me it's crucial, and here his lad was to bring my order at nine sharp, and it's already gone—” Sly looked around and above him at a clock face implanted in the shoulders of a Sphinx (as he seemed to favor hollowed-out objects)—“half-eleven, and him not here as yet.”

Melrose sighed and shoved his half-pint across the bar for a refill. So now it was the fault of Jurvis's Fine Meats and Game.

Sly went on: “I went in Tuesday, regular, as is my way, to place my weekly order. Well, it does create a problem, when one is in the restaurant business. And no sign of that delivery van yet.”

Melrose thought maybe he'd just stick around until the van came and bribe the delivery boy, if need be, to tell him whether there was any lamb in Sly's order. He felt irritable, excitable sitting here trying to work out a way of reintroducing the subject of Miss Fludd as he watched Sly draw him another half-pint. He said, “Just where does most of your custom come from anyway?”

“Northampton, I'd say. The young people like my disco nights. That's every Saturday. And there's people come from Sidbury, too, even though the Jack and Hammer's closer to them.” At this he simpered with pleasure. “But a lot of my trade's right off the road, so to speak; you know, people on the way to Northampton wanting to stop for a bit of a drink or a meal.”

“A lot of people like beef mince.”

“Oh, you are a caution, Mr. Plant.”

“Well, there aren't many locals come here, do they?”

“Well . . . no-ooo—” Sly pursed his lips. “Mostly, those that live in Long Pidd of course frequent the Jack and Hammer. More convenient, as you say.”

“So, actually, you don't have many regulars, do you? I mean, there aren't that many actual homes right around here.” Six or seven, and four of those were probably five miles away. That left two. “I mean there's me, of course . . . ” Melrose drank his Cairo Flame and waited. Nothing. He sighed. “And now, there's this Fludd family—”

“Mr. Trueblood stops by occasionally when he's out antiquing. Said he'd spotted a nice series of pyramids, and would I like them. It was his thought I could spot them about the room, you know, one in each corner, like with the palm to go with it. But I don't know. Be a bit, well, overbearing, don't you think?” In the rear, a telephone jangled. “Back in a tick.”

Well, at least it saved him answering that incredible question, he thought, as he looked around at all of the pharaonic items on display: miniature gold pyramids on every table, the odd cardboard Sphinx set here and there. Glumly, he studied his glass and wondered how he'd put down nearly a whole pint of Cairo Flame.

Trevor Sly came writhing back through his beaded curtain, dragging the black telephone on its long extension cord. “It's for you, Mr. Plant.”

“Me? Must be Ruthven—”

“No, it's a woman.” Sly leaned across the bar, all ears.

“Hello . . . Diane? How did you know I was here?” Ruthven, of course. Melrose sighed. He did wish Ruthven wouldn't bruit his whereabouts to all and sundry. But, she said, it was quite important. Would he
please
stop by and let her give him a drink?

“No. Sorry, Diane, but I'm—quite busy. Waiting for a fax, and all that.”

Trevor Sly wiggled his eyebrows as if he were in on the deception.

Irritated, Melrose turned his back. “Jury's supposed to fax me.”

“But I think I've worked it out, Melrose. How it was done.”

Melrose held the receiver away from him, then drew it back. “What was done?”

“How they were
mur
-dered,” she said, impatiently.

Melrose looked up at the ceiling fan, turning dustily. That should be a treat.

IN DIANE DEMORNEY'S
arctic living room, Melrose sat sunk in a shapeless white leather chair that reminded him of an ice floe. He did not like this chair and never had, but it was either this or the settee (Diane herself commanding suzerainty over the long sofa), and if he sat on the settee, he'd have to share it with the cat. Melrose despised Diane's cat; the feeling (he knew) was mutual. It had squinty golden eyes buried in a mess of soft white fur and an enormous, showy tail that it liked to flick in a warning gesture whenever Melrose looked its way.

At Diane's insistence, he accepted a preluncheon martini, which he did not intend to drink, not on top of the Cairo Flame, but he had agreed to it to be sociable.

He looked around the living room, done so relentlessly in white—carpets, furnishings, slipcovers—that Admiral Byrd would have felt at home. Even the paintings were mysteriously white on white, form sinking into background, redundant against the white
walls. Sunlight, in this room, did not bisect carpets in golden rhomboids, or stripe sideboards and walls with delicate lemony fingers. Rather, it flashed and knifed, sparred with mirrors, cut across paintings, looked for a duel.

Diane herself, as if not to disturb the arrangement, was wearing a fine white wool outfit of perfect cut and subtle drape. Her very black hair (also cut and seemingly draped either side of her chin) was a wonderful contrast to all of this. Melrose had to hand it to her: she was always
dressed
, always, whether on her way to market or to the Jack and Hammer or London or college gaudy. He admired that a person could be so self-respecting, she'd go to all of this trouble for no reason beyond her reflection in a mirror, and would also manage to do this in Long Piddleton. Long Piddleton was (except for Marshall Trueblood) pretty much a fashion vacuum. Vivian, for instance, who would dress to the nines in Venice, bumbled about over here in her dusty-colored skirts and jumpers, uncaring.

Whether she really had anything to tell him was anybody's guess; she could do, or it could have been a ruse to get him here. Though Diane was usually too clever to stoop to ruses. In any event, she was evading his pointed questions, so he had been telling her about his London visit while she stirred the martini jug with a long glass icicle-wand which was full of oil in which hundreds of tiny silver stars were suspended. A sudden flash of sun lit the glass stirrer and moved off in its laser search. Melrose only hoped it would rest its pinpoint beam on the cat. Zap.

In the midst of talking about the Tate Gallery, he looked around at the brightness and said, “I wouldn't be surprised but what Turner would like this room.” As she raised her black eyebrows in non-comprehension, he added. “The painter. J.M.W. Turner.”

Diane's mouth formed in a thoughtful little moue as she looked off towards the big bright window and he knew she was exploring her mental Rolodex of tidbits . . .
Tolstoy . . . Trieste . . . Tristram (& Isolde) . . . Turner . . . Tutenkha—back up a bit, yes, that's it
! “Turner's black dog.”

“What?” She was outdoing herself.

She took a long time with her white cigarette holder and her Silk Cut, screwing in the cigarette, then waving the lot at Melrose for a light. He heaved forward in his chair and lifted the cigarette lighter. Now, with cigarette, martini, and Turner firmly in hand, she sat back,
looked up at the ceiling through a ribbon of smoke, and told Melrose the story:

“There's one of the paintings—I forget which one—”

(Naturally, thought Melrose.)

“—in which he's painted a long terrace beside some river or other—”

(Thames, Seine, Rubicon, Styx.)

“—the terrace being lined with houses, trees, and heaps of other things—”

(Heaps of things.)

“—and a long wall, all in the most dazzling sunlight, the sunlight striking the wall.
Well.
On this wall is a black dog, standing there, facing the river—” She smiled, almost conspiratorially, over the rim of her big glass. After sipping, she set it down on the glass coffee table.

“Well? Well, what?”

“He'd finished the painting, and just left it to dry, and one of his painter friends walked in and looked at it. He cut the dog out of black paper and pasted it in!” She sat back, beaming. “The dog was just an afterthought.”

The cat flicked its tail.

“My. That's—” He wondered if Bea Slocum knew this about J.M.W. Probably not. But, unlike Diane, who wouldn't know a Turner if she ran into a wall of them, Bea knew them, chapter and verse. “—really interesting.” Which it was, he supposed, in some weird way.

“I wonder why his friend didn't just paint it in,” said Diane, chin cupped in hand, ruminatively.

Melrose looked at her. “The varnish. The painting was—” Hell, why bother. “Diane, you told me on the telephone you had something important to say. About this case Jury's working on?”

She refilled her glass, getting down to business. “I've been thinking . . . ”

Oh, that's a treat. Melrose held his glass out to be topped up. “Yes?”

“I started thinking about what could be the connection among these three women. I mean, how they could have been murdered. If they were, of course.” She lit another cigarette and went through her lazy exhalations. “I worked it out.” She sighed a little, smoked, swung her foot.

“You did? You mean, you worked out how they were killed?”