Jerusalem Inn (23 page)

“You mightn't,” said Sir George. “I don't discuss my patients' conditions.”

Jury watched Cullen folding yet another sliver of gum into his mouth. He was wearing his mild, noncommittal expression. “Not even with police?”

“Do you wish to subpoena my records?” asked Sir George, acidly.

“Not especially. I mean, it'd be simpler just to tell us.”

Sir George said only, “Sergeant, I've an important meeting at the Royal Hospital tomorrow — or today, that is. Might I go? Or are we all under arrest?”

“Maybe,” said Cullen. “Thing is,” he went on, screwing up the gum paper and taking aim a basket, “you want to keep her alive, I expect. I mean that's what you've been trying to do, you being her doctor?”

Sir George sighed. “Mrs. Seaingham is, admittedly, in a poor state of health —”

“Well, she'll be in a hell of a lot poorer if someone shoots her.”

“I'm a trifle confused, Sergeant. I thought we were talking about the bullet wound in the body of Miss
Sleight.
” There was a distinct suggestion here that the Northumbria police couldn't remember the name of the victim.

Cullen leaned back and stuck his feet on the polished surface of Charles Seaingham's desk. “Oh, but that was a mistake, wasn't it? It was Mrs. Seaingham they meant to kill. That's the top and bottom of it.” Methodically, he chewed away.

 • • • 

As if in imitation of Cullen's motion, Jury tipped his chair back against the wall and smiled slightly as the silence in the room was broken only by Sir George coughing before he said, “Grace? Why on earth would anyone want to kill Grace Seaingham?”

“Tell me and we'll both know. But from what I've heard of the Sleight woman, what'd she be doing going to say her prayers? And dressed in Mrs. Seaingham's cape? A bullet in the back on an unlit walk. Why don't you just tell us about Mrs. Seaingham's condition and save some trouble? Right, Superintendent?”

Jury only said, as Sir George turned to stare him down, resentful
of this further intimidation, “Probably. I was wondering, though, if I could ask Sir George a question?” Cullen nodded.

“Do you remember a Dr. Lamson? Back in the nineteenth century.”

Sir George laughed artificially. “Not quite that old, Superintendent.”

Jury's smile was somewhat more disarming than Cullen's chewing gum. “Obviously not, Sir George. Didn't this Lamson poison a young fellow —?”

Sir George broke in. “That's right. It was aconite.
Aconitum napellus,
” he added, his surprise at this policeman's knowing about the case giving way to his superior knowledge of poisons. “At that time, aconitine poisoning was nearly impossible to trace. Told his victim it was medi —” Sir George stopped suddenly.

“Medicine, that's right. A notorious case. Administered in a gelatine capsule, wasn't it?”

Sir George looked from Cullen to Trimm to Jury and slowly rose. “You are surely not suggesting that any medication I have been administering to Mrs. Seaingham . . . ” His face was suffused with blood, as he fisted his hands and leaned on the desk. “Mrs. Seaingham has been unwell for some months now. She has lost weight and at first I was suspicious that she might be anorexic. Though knowing Grace as I do, such a thing seems impossible.”

To his back, Jury said, “She hasn't been eating properly, is that it?”

Sir George looked at Jury as he might look at a specimen in formaldehyde. “That's correct. She has told me nothing at all except that she feels vaguely ill.”

“Blood tests would surely —”

Sir George straightened, and with his military bearing, was an imposing figure. “Grace doesn't want any tests. Not with all my insisting. Simply says, with God's help, it'll go away.”
Sir George stuffed the pipe in his mouth with an aggressive gesture, apparently incensed that Grace would choose God over Sir George.

“Oh, it'll go away all right,” said Cullen, with a smile like splintered wood.

G
RACE
Seaingham was an enigma.

Parmenger had captured it all, had gotten behind that cool, blond detachment to the combination of opposites beneath it: to the chilly beauty, but warmth of manner; to the glasslike fragility, but inner toughness; to the sanguine attitude, but businesslike approach.

It was that with which she confronted Jury's question about her husband and Beatrice Sleight. “I've known for some time, of course.”

Her directness was disorienting. It was as if, having locked away the truly valuable knowledge — more than the person she talked to would ever crack open — she could afford to deal in the small change of frankness.

She went on in that mild (and, to Jury, vaguely irritating) manner: “In a way, I could hardly blame him. After I got over being hurt,” she added, as if apologizing for a childish infraction of some adult rule.

“Why should you get over it? Why should you even try?” Jury had taken out his notebook but was not really taking notes. He doodled. It helped him think.

Grace Seaingham looked indulgent as she tilted her head and smiled. “Don't you think we should — well, take the longer view, Superintendent?”

He smiled back. “I think you mean the higher view. Forgiving all sorts of things, because God would?”

She moved her head, that pale blond hair that reminded Jury of angel's hair, but her smile stayed in place. “Yes. Because God would.”

“I don't know what God has in mind.”

She looked away, down at the hands clasped in her white satin lap. It was a handsome dressing gown. He wondered if she always wore white.

Jury went on: “It must have been . . . difficult for you having her here. As a matter of fact, I'm rather surprised you'd want to have a houseparty so near to Christmas, Mrs. Seaingham.”

“I didn't want to, really. But Charles is used to London. I love this isolation; my husband doesn't. He's used to having lots of people around. You can't keep a man like Charles . . . locked up, can you?”

Thinking of the high stone walls of the abbey, Jury wondered if that wasn't more or less what she had in mind. It was she, she had told him earlier, who had scouted it out and bought it. Grace Seaingham apparently had packets of money of her own, handed down to her by a father whom she loved to describe as having been “in trade.”

“Mrs. Seaingham, why would Miss Sleight be wearing your cape and be walking to the Lady Chapel? From what I've heard, she wasn't an especially devout sort of person.”

“I've no idea. She rather coveted that cape, I know. Do you think the, ah, murderer could possibly have tossed it over her — since it was white — to hide her body?” Grace Seaingham looked bewildered. “But I simply have no notion as to why someone would want to . . . murder her.”

“She didn't sound very popular . . . but that's not the point.
I don't want to distress you, but after all it
was
your habit to go to the chapel late at night, wasn't it?”

Her control seemed to be cracking just a little: “You're not suggesting it was
me
someone wanted to —?”

Jury nodded. “Your idea about hiding the body in the snow might be a good one, except the shot went
through
the cape. So she must have been wearing it. That solarium is never used, you said, in winter. It's dark. Someone might easily have been waiting in the dark and seen the person he or she expected to see, given that long and hooded cape. You. Only it wasn't you.”

“I have no enemies, Superintendent. Certainly not amongst
these
people. It's impossible.”

“Tell me about them. You've known them for some time?”

“Some longer than others. I just met the Assingtons a short time ago. And Bill MacQuade is perhaps more my husband's friend than mine.” From the slight tinge in her cheeks, Jury wondered if that were true. Or if, perhaps, she wished it were. Grace Seaingham certainly did not strike him as a lady who would have a lover — most certainly not under the same roof as her husband. She went on: “He's a marvelous writer. Charles thinks the world of him. And my husband's good opinion is not lightly bought. Not bought at all, really.”

“Not even by Her Majesty?” Jury smiled and doodled.

She seemed perplexed. “I beg your pardon?”

“It was just I heard some rumor of a possible knighthood.”

Grace smiled. “Her Royal Highness has not, to my knowledge, painted a picture or written a book she wants viewed or reviewed.”

Jury looked at her. She was certainly nobody's fool. “I only meant that everyone has a pressure point. Push it hard enough, who knows what might happen?”

She simply didn't comment.

“What were MacQuade's relations with Beatrice Sleight?”

“Relations? He didn't have any. I mean, I don't believe
he'd ever met her before this week. Bill's very —” she seemed to be having difficulty finding words to describe him “ — withdrawn.”

“Um. And the Assingtons? Did they know her at all?”

“Very slightly. I think at one of her book signings they might have met her. But then anyone who keeps up with the literary scene — if you could call Bea ‘literary' —” she added wryly, and let it go. “Sir George is rather a well-known doctor, and Susan is his third wife.”

“The others — except for Mr. Plant and his party — I take it are good friends?”

“Yes. Vivian Rivington's poetry impressed Charles. He was at a small party her publisher gave. He was delighted to have her bring the others. Charles thinks the more people, the better. Lady Ardry, I understand, is an old friend of Betsy — Lady St. Leger.”

Jury smiled. He seriously doubted it. “Go on.”

“We've known Betsy for years. She's taken over Meares Hall.”

“Taken over?”

“I mean that after Tommy's parents — Irene and Richard — died, Betsy was really the only one who seemed to care enough to keep him. Believe me, she doesn't need either the money or the privilege. The St. Legers have a pedigree as long as your arm. Betsy was sister to Tommy's grandfather. He was the eleventh Marquess of Meares.”

“An old family.”

She nodded. “And Betsy simply dotes on Tommy. She has no children of her own. Her husband Rudy died a few years ago. He was a painter, too. Though Freddie wouldn't agree.” She smiled.

“How long's Parmenger been here?”

“Several weeks. Doing my portrait.” She colored a little, as if Jury might think this a self-indulgence. “Charles insisted.”

“I've seen it. It's wonderful.”

“Freddie's got quite a reputation.”

“Do you know any of his family?”

Puzzled, she shook her head. “He never speaks of them.”

“Not of his cousin? Her name was Helen Minton.”

It was clear Grace Seaingham thought it decidedly odd Jury would know Parmenger's cousin. “No, never. And you said ‘was.' Is she dead, then?”

Jury found he had been drawing Father Rourke's square on the pad. He threw it down. “Yes. Northumbria police found her in Washington Old Hall just two days ago. She'd been poisoned.”

Grace Seaingham's skin was as white as her gown. She rose slowly from her chair, seemingly more disturbed by this death of a stranger than by the implied threat to her own life. “But that's dreadful. Poor Freddie . . . does he know?”

“Yes. I told him. Since you've been snowed in here, you hadn't got the newspapers. Until the autopsy was done, it was just put down to accidental death.” Jury paused. “Has Mr. Parmenger not been away from Spinney Abbey, then, in all the time he's been here?”

Even the small frown did not seem to disturb the placidity of that expression. “Yes, of course he has. We all have. Into Durham, to Newcastle. Why?”

“I just wondered if he'd been to Washington. Seeing that it's so close. And of such historical interest.”

“You mean — to see his cousin. I would certainly think he'd have mentioned it, if he had. As you say, it's so close. I'd have been delighted to have had her here.”

But perhaps Frederick Parmenger wouldn't have, thought Jury.

“I
T'S
taken you long enough, Inspector, to get around to us,” said Lady Ardry, nodding her head in the direction of Lady St. Leger and Vivian, who pulled her robe more tightly about her and looked everywhere but at Jury. “I'd be glad to give you my impressions —”

“Thank you, Lady Ardry. I'm sure you've kept your eyes and ears open. But at the moment, I'd like to talk with Lady St. Leger.”

Agatha had started to rise and sat down, plump, again, obviously unhappy at playing second fiddle to her friend.

Elizabeth St. Leger apparently felt more like getting the business over with than in the protocol of police interrogation. “If you have some questions to put to me, Superintendent, I'd be happy to answer them. Though I'm afraid I haven't much to tell you.” As she started to rise, Agatha laid a plump hand on her arm. “No reason Mr. Jury can't take us both together. After all, we've known one another for years. He's well aware
I've
no part in the beastly business.”

Lady St. Leger smiled and rose. “That might be true for you, Agatha. Unfortunately, I can't offer a long-standing acquaintance with Scotland Yard as a defense.” Her eyes actually twinkled.

 • • • 

“I'm sorry if I seem to be making light of this — business,” said Lady St. Leger, once settled across from Jury in Seaingham's study. “To be honest, I'm more concerned, I think, about Tom's — my nephew's — involvement than about Beatrice Sleight's death. I'm not sorry she's dead, and, as they say up here, that's the top and bottom of it.” Elizabeth St. Leger smiled slightly and tapped her stick on the floor. It was silver-knobbed and resembled Melrose Plant's, though Jury doubted it was a sword-stick.