Jerusalem Inn (22 page)

And here, the other old lady — more stately-looking than the first — put in, “He's the Marquess of Meares.”

My God, thought Cullen. Still wet behind the ears and a marquess, yet.

 • • • 

“Skis?”
Cullen leaned across the papers brought into Charles Seaingham's study by the Scene of Crimes man and stared at Melrose. He shook his head, smiled his unenergetic
smile. “Are you telling me, Mr. Plant, that you and this —” He looked at Trimm, who supplied the name. “ — young Whittaker were out there
skiing
to a pub?”

Plant offered his cigar case around, got two turndowns, lit up himself. “That's what I'm telling you. We were coming back from the local — Jerusalem Inn, it's called —”

“Aye. Outskirts of Spinneyton. But could we please get straight just why you felt compelled to
go
there in the first place?”

“It was the snooker match, you see — so we made for Jerusalem Inn. It was on our way back we stumbled over her.” Cullen stared at him, eyes narrowed. “Well, she wasn't there
before,
Sergeant.”

“How do you know that?”

“We took the same route. Tommy had it down —” Melrose stopped. No sense in telling them more than he had to.

But neither of these policemen were fools. Constable Trimm looked up, his cherubic face bright in the lamplight and asked, “ ‘Had it doon'? What's that mean?”

“Nothing, really. He'd marked the route carefully so we wouldn't get lost on the way back.”

“What time did you leave?”

“Nineish. After dinner.”

“And what time back?” asked Cullen.

“When the pub closed. Time was called at eleven, and we might have hung on for another ten minutes. Twenty minutes to get back, that made it —”

“Eleven-thirty,” said Trimm, as if Plant couldn't add.

“That's it, yes.”

“Then what happened?” asked Cullen.

“The tips of the Whittaker lad's skis caught on the body and he went over. I helped to pull him off.”

Cullen shook his head, almost sadly, as if they had been listening
to an amateur practitioner of the lying arts fail miserably once more. “Could we back up? You say you and Whittaker just suddenly decided to put on skis” (another headshake) “and go cross-country to the Jerusalem. Why did you get this sudden impulse on
this
night?”

“It seemed a good idea. Something of an adventure, you know.”

“An adventure.” Cullen looked up from the papers on the desk and said, “It puts you and the Whittaker boy right in the thick of it, doesn't it? More opportunity than anyone else had. The rest of them weren't out
skiing.”
He aimed a quick little dart of a smile at Melrose.

“I couldn't say, Sergeant. Not having had a report from the doctor on the time of death. And what was Beatrice Sleight doing out on the chapel walk at that time —?”

“I'll ask the questions, if you don't mind.”

Just what the inspector in
The Third Pigeon
would say. Melrose sighed.

“She was shot in the back with a .041, smallbore shotgun. The gun wasn't found in the snow. And where would you suppose it was?”

The question was no doubt rhetorical. “In the gun room.”

“Which you had to pass on the way out and on the way in.”

“You don't think we skied to the Jerusalem carrying a shotgun, do you?”

“Well, I don't know, do I?” Cullen folded another stick of gum into his mouth, smiling thinly. He looked back at the papers on the desk. “You're the Earl of Caverness?”

“No more. Plant's the family name.”

“Why don't you use your title?”

“Because I don't want to.”

Plant was obviously not conforming to the rules these non-lovers of the aristocracy had laid down for aristocratic behavior.
Either that or they might have thought they had stumbled on some dark secret in Plant's past which would illuminate the present proceedings. “Sorry you don't approve.”

“Political reasons? Like that communist Benn? You want to run for Commons, or something?”

“No. Surely my title or lack of one seems a little irrelevant, Sergeant, considering you've got a corpse in the snow.”

“Are you good with firearms, Mr. Plant? Being an earl, and everything, I imagine you do a lot of hunting? Shooting?” Cullen smiled.

“No.”

They regarded him with skepticism. How much more skeptical would they be of the Marquess of Meares, a crack shot?

 • • • 

Tommy, however, seemed to feel he had come through trumps up. “I think they liked me, especially the chubby one.”

“Liked you?
Liked you?
My dear chap, I don't think it's a popularity contest; I mean they're not in there marking scorecards. What on earth do you mean?” Melrose felt twinges in his legs. He was sure he would awaken — if they ever let him get to bed — with cramp.

“I explained to them that I wasn't carrying a gun in my oboe case. Just a cue stick. Constable Trimm was fascinated. They're both of them snooker fans. Though I get the feeling they go more for the studied approach. You know, Ray Reardon and that lot. Nothing like Hurricane Higgins. I asked them if they'd kind of keep it under their hats about the Jerusalem, naturally.”

“Naturally,” said Melrose.

“Sorry if you think it's cold-blooded, me talking about snooker when poor old Beatrice Sleight —”

“Never mind,” said Melrose. “If Cullen and Trimm can take it, I can.”

A
FTER
five minutes with Charles Seaingham, Jury was glad he wasn't a writer or a painter — or at least one with no talent. Seaingham was a man who almost compelled one to believe him, not only because of his deep convictions, but because he neither embroidered nor evaded; he apparently believed in sweeping away the debris in order to look at the shell of the actual wreck. If the wreck were a badly done book or painting, Seaingham would make no attempt to refurbish the building.

In this case, the wreck was himself and he lost no time in getting down to the fact he'd been having an affair with Beatrice Sleight. “It was stupid of me. Done a lot of stupid things, but never over a woman. I only hope to hell Grace doesn't find out. I'd hate to hurt her. Well, I have no excuses; there it is.” He half-raised his arms as if in some attempt to importune heaven, but let them drop again as he himself dropped into his leather armchair.

Stupid, perhaps. But Jury wondered if Seaingham's choice of Beatrice Sleight wasn't in some way to be expected. He bet it was more the grossness of her mind than the voluptuousness of her body that had made him vulnerable, ironically enough. Perhaps he was simply tired of fine-tuning his own mind in order to deal with the really good stuff — occasionally, even, with genius.

They were talking in his small study off the long gallery, dominated now by the portrait of his wife. On the table beside Seaingham's chair was a copy of
Skier.
Seeing Jury glance at it, he said, “MacQuade is the first really good writer to come along in some time. I hope unrequited love will help and not hinder him.”

Jury smiled. “Meaning?”

“He's in love with Grace. But then I think rather a lot of men have been. Sometimes I think she should have been living in England in the 'twenties and had a
salon.
She'd have been wonderful. Grace bolsters egos; I don't. Cigarette?” He offered Jury a black leather box. “No, I'm afraid I don't. Sometimes I dislike my job because I'm not really out to ‘get' our artists. They'll get themselves sooner or later.”

“I read some of MacQuade's book. He could teach a survival course. What do you think of him personally?”

Seaingham's eyes rested on the Manet as if looking for the sustenance of great art to get him through a difficult time. “Likable. No harm in him, certainly. At least I don't think so. I daresay he can handle a rifle, but then so can the lot of us. We do grouse-shooting, pheasant, that sort of thing.”

Jury said what he'd said to Parmenger: “Beatrice Sleight's murder doesn't seem to have touched you deeply —”

Seaingham cut in, sharply: “Her
murder,
yes. Her death, perhaps not. She was becoming — difficult. That sounds terrible, but it's true. Trouble.”

“What kind?”

“She seemed to think she could hold me hostage somehow — or at least my good opinion about her vile books — by threatening to tell Grace about us.”

“And would you have prevented that at any cost?”

“Meaning, did I kill her? Could have done, I suppose. But I didn't.”

It seemed to Jury that Seaingham was expecting the next question to be other than it was. “Do you know of a woman named Helen Minton?”

Seaingham got up to pour himself a drink from the whiskey decanter. “Could I offer you a drink?”

He was playing for time, Jury thought. “No, thanks.”

“What was the name of this woman —?”

“Helen Minton.”

“No, I don't think so.”

“Read the papers today?”

“Haven't read them for days, no. We've been snowed in. Why?”

“Helen Minton was from London, living in Washington. The Old Town. Her body was found in Washington Old Hall two days ago.”

“My God.” Seaingham looked utterly perplexed. “I don't understand though what that has to do with —” He indicated the gallery, the solarium beyond.

“Helen Minton was Frederick Parmenger's cousin.”

Jury thought Seaingham looked for the first time as if he really couldn't assimilate the information given him. He simply shook and shook his head.

“You never heard Parmenger mention her?”

“Well . . . no. Never. But then he talks little about himself. Have you asked Grace? She's more the one to inspire confidences.”

Jury didn't answer that question. “My showing up here was not exactly fortuitous — as I imagine Sergeant Cullen would agree.” Jury smiled. “I was on my way here to talk to Parmenger. And find, strangely enough, a dead body on your doorstep.”

When Seaingham got up to replenish his glass, Jury noticed his hand was shaking. He imagined it would take a lot to unnerve Charles Seaingham.

 • • • 

But much less to unnerve MacQuade — or so Jury thought. MacQuade came near to stammering over answers to obvious questions. No, he had heard nothing that sounded like a rifle shot.

At Jury's elbow was a copy of
Skier.
“I've read reviews and some of the book. You seem to keep getting better.” He pointed to
Skier.
“It was short-listed for two other awards.”

“And the critics keep waiting for me to fall on my face.
But not on this particular book.” He sat back, relaxed a bit. “You certainly are up on the literary scene, Superintendent. Charles Seaingham should have invited you to his party.”

“He did.” Jury smiled. “You must have loathed Beatrice Sleight.”

“I did.” The match that struck and flared reflected MacQuade's dark eyes like burning coals. “Ever read any of that trash she wrote? A good writer would gun her down — for cluttering up the landscape.”

Very clever,
thought Jury. Still, he was relieved that MacQuade's intelligence had overridden his rather adolescent manner.

“But,”
MacQuade went on, “if Bea Sleight was having an affair with Charlie — that would give me a hell of a lot less motive —” He stopped, apparently realizing he had overplayed his man-of-the-world persona; he had strongly hinted here at his own feelings for Grace Seaingham.

But Bill MacQuade had so many personae, Jury was having some difficulty pinning down the real one.

Recovering his poor attempt to appear indifferent, MacQuade said, “And I hardly think I'd kill her because she was a penny-dreadful who couldn't write prose. Let me make things easier for you, Superintendent. I could shoot your eye out at a hundred feet and I'm a cross-country skier. I had to do a great deal of research for that damned
tour-de-force” —
he nearly shoved the book off the table — “and I could survive easily overnight between here and Washington. In case that's somebody's theory. Except for Tommy Whittaker — and God knows,
nobody
would be stupid enough to think . . . ” He paused.

Jury thought it was quite a dramatic ending to whatever scene or chapter MacQuade was leading the reader on with.

“ . . . would think
he
had anything to do with it. His aunt doesn't believe in guns — so he probably can't even shoot straight.”

“Probably,” said Jury. “Who told you about Helen Minton?”

“Parmenger.” MacQuade looked at Jury, and another persona, maybe the real one, came through. “I never heard of her before now.”

J
URY
walked into the study as Cullen was questioning Sir George Assington, and after waiting for a nod from Cullen, sat down in a chair against the wall. He felt as if he were a guest at a theater performance.

Not that Cullen, and certainly not Trimm, were in any way theatrical. There was, however, a bit of the monologuist about Sir George. Jury imagined Sir George was not unmindful of his reputation. He had certainly been discoursing long enough on hematology and blood types to make even Trimm decide to interrupt. “You coom up here to shoot, do you?”

“You mean pheasant and grouse, I assume, and not people? If you're asking me if I can handle a gun, yes,
Constable,
I can.” Sir George emphasized the word just enough to let Trimm know the vast difference in their positions.

Cullen interceded and Trimm leaned back against the bookcases. “You're Mrs. Seaingham's physician, is that right?” When Sir George nodded, Cullen asked, “And what's ailing the lady, might I ask?”