Richard Jury Mysteries 10: The Old Silent (14 page)

"Plant. Melrose Plant."

"And are you here for long, Mr. Plant? Are you walking the Bronte
way? Are you climbing to the oxygenless heights of Top Withins so that
you can faint near its crumbled remains? Are you a Pilgrim?"

"No Pilgrim, no." Melrose grinned. "Quite beautiful country though,
isn't it?"

He had seen little of it except for his gloomy meditations by the
stream.

"Beautiful? My God!" Her eyebrows rose.

In a bored way she turned her head toward the fire, and Melrose saw
she must once have been far more a beauty than this countryside. That
beauty had retreated somewhat behind the creased brow and the
heavy-lidded eyes, but remained in the high cheekbones, the straight
nose, and the elegant posture.

"Viacinni di Belamante?" Melrose looked at the snake-eye of his
cigarette, and said, "An Italian nobleman, was he?"

"Oh, yes. A wonderful man, though somewhat fanatical in his
politics. He had, surprisingly, a passionate love for England. It was
here that I met him—"

As she talked about her dead husband, Melrose could only think,
oh
no
. Would these Italian noblemen be crossing his path now, always,
wherever he went? Would he see them strolling in Kew Gardens? In a
bookshop near Northampton? Punting on the Cam—? Was he crazy? When had
he seen
anyone
punting on the Cam? It was as if Vivian's
deciding to marry one were similar to symptoms one associated with a
dread disease: they turned up everywhere—in casual conversation, on
Underground signs, in newspapers.

"So," she was saying, "through a little luck, a littler bit of
beauty, a great deal of social grace, and a greater deal of finagling,
I became a princess." She spread her hands in childlike and
disingenuous wonder.

A basso voice that preceded its owner into the room proclaimed, "I
heard that, Rose. 'Little bit of beauty,' my eye—" A tall gentleman
entered. "You'd have all London at your feet if you'd only go there
more often."

Melrose was uncertain as to whether good manners dictated his
rising from the sofa for Major George Poges's presence—it could only
be Major Poges, despite the mental image Melrose had formed of him.
Major Poges he had mistakenly pictured as a stooped, withered army
pensioner, black-suited and with rows of antique medals, a plastic
shopping bag, and a drool.

This
Major Poges (who now sat on the sofa opposite Melrose
like a rider who had mounted a horse) had an exuberant self-confidence
and a good-humored manner that would have made one overlook any
imperfections of face, figure, or clothes. The thing was, there weren't
any. Melrose calculated he must be in his late sixties or early
seventies, but he was one of those men whose looks, like the Princess
herself, were ageless. The taut, slightly ruddy skin; the chilly, but
startling blue eyes; the neat gray mustache; the appearance of
privilege that he did not exercise when he talked; his perfectly cut
tweeds—all of this called up other images in Melrose's mind:

He had seen Major Poges before, oh, not
this
Major Poges,
but his counterpart: at Wimbledon, seated center court in white duck;
at Newmarket races in a tweed jacket and cap, binoculars trained on the
starting gates; in white tie and tails at the opening of a concert at
the Royal Victoria and Albert Hall; at the Proms; in the early mists at
Viscount-Somebody's estate in Scotland, sighting along his gun at the
bird which simply hung against the light-veiled, malt-colored sky for
the sheer delight of dropping as a sacrificial dinner for Major Poges;
in pinks galloping over a sea of grass, a warren of fences, his bay
leaping hedges with the Quorn or Cottesmore; or cantering along Rotten
Row or deer-stalking on the Isle of Mull; at Traquair House, Ham-bledon
Hall, Brown's Hotel . . . Major Poges was the England there would
always be, the essence of anthem.

What in hell was he doing here? In this once-glorious, now shabby
house whose owner catered for the likes of the Beastlies.

"Where's the sherry?" Poges asked, grabbing up the decanter by its
long cut-glass neck as if he meant to throttle a crane. In disgust he
sat down and drew out a leather cigar holder, offered it round, even to
the Princess, who merely smiled, wiggling her cigarillo.
No, thank
you
. He settled back, tapping the tips of his shoes with his
swagger stick, and frowning. Then he looked up. "Aha! The sherry has
found its way down the gullet of the Braine person—ye gods! Have you
ever seen so much color? Turquoise, at that. Did she set fire to an
Indian reserve?" He ripped away the brown paper from his package and
brought out a bottle of Tio Pepe.

Vivian's favorite drink. Melrose flinched.

"Reserves, one must always have reserves." He poured each of them a
glassful. He had his smoke, his drink, and he sighed with relief. From
what, Melrose wasn't sure. He hadn't been down the mines or at the
mills all day. "You know why this village is glutted with tourists,
don't you, Mr. Plant?"

"No, I don't. Seems off-season."

"My God, hasn't anyone told you about what happened at the inn down
the way? About a mile. The Old Silent. Woman shot her husband and we
know her." He was pleased as punch.

The Princess sighed. "I was
about
to tell him, Major.
There's one
more
story you've beaten me to."

He feigned distress. "My dear Princess, I
am
sorry."
Meaning he was one-up. As she was about to speak, he went on. "It's all
very strange, and I cannot believe the woman is deranged, not to look
at her face; and do you know she's been—"

"Been here," snapped the Princess, turning upon Melrose a
self-congratulatory smile, having stolen the story right out of the
Major's mouth.

"You know this woman, do you?"

With a little gesture of his hand, Major Poges graciously allowed
the Princess to answer.

She sat forward on the chaise and leaned toward Melrose. "I can't
say I know her well, but I do believe she's a friend of Ann Denholme.
She didn't mention it? The entire village is aghast; the Citrine estate
is only about two miles from here."

"Two and one-half," said the Major, uncorking the Tio Pepe again. "I
walk about Keighley Moor nearly every day." He refilled his and
Melrose's glasses; the Princess put her hand over hers and shook her
head.

"Miss Denholme said nothing, no."

Major Poges turned to the Princess. "Well, I doubt she would, Rose.
Don't you find her an altogether secretive woman?" To Melrose he said,
"When I asked her where the marmalade had got to this morning, she
reacted as if there were some subterfuge at work, some double-meaning,
as if one of us was running spies—"

The Princess laughed and shook her head. "What hyper-bole! He always
talks like that. We cannot depend on anything you say, George."

He smiled sheepishly and raised his glass. "Can't help it. Life is
so damned dull otherwise. But I expect you're right." The sheepish look
suggested that he had no intention of stopping, however. "Only, you
must admit Ann Denholme seems to see life as a locked box of secrets.
Sexual, I hope." His mustache twitched.

"Hope away," said the Princess.

Given his brief talk with her earlier, Melrose would say that Major
Poges's metaphor was right on the money. It accounted for the literal,
rather steamy bodily presence of Ann Denholme, yet mental absence—the
rather remote look, the look of a woman who was not really there.

The Princess leaned even farther forward, her eyes no longer
milky-gray but glinting like steel shards. "What I understand from
Ruby—she's the maid and stumbling server of our delectable meals—was
that Mrs. Healey would bring her boy here to play with Abigail. That's
Ann's niece."

But Abby couldn't have been more than three or four then, a strange
playmate for a twelve-year-old boy. Still, given that it was the Fury,
she was probably interesting even at two.

"A terrible tragedy, that. Mrs. Healey's son and a local boy from
Haworth were kidnapped. I can't imagine you haven't read about it. It
was in the
Times
, after all," said the Major, thereby
questioning Melrose's possible taste and wiping out every other
newspaper on Fleet Street.

Before Melrose could extract any more local information, Ann
Denholme stuck her head round the door and announced dinner. It was
eight o'clock.

"Hell," said the Major sotto voce, shredding his cigar in the big
ashtray. The Princess sighed. Both of them were just revving up for a
wonderful gossip. Raising his voice he said, "Thank you, Miss Denholme.
I was wondering, though, if we are all to be seated at the long table."
The tone suggested they damned well better not be. "I cannot envision
dining with Master Malcolm." He gulped down his drink.

"But you've taken tea with Abby, Major Poges."

He snorted, got sherry in his nose, and pulled out a huge
handkerchief. "My God, madam, that is apples and oranges. Your niece is
human—in a strange little way, granted—but the Braine boy is a swarm of
wasps. He better hadn't land on
my
plate."

"It's a very long table, Major, as you know. They'll be sitting at
the other—"

"Rubbish. I'm sure the boy keeps an air gun for just such occasions.
Oh, very well, come along, Prin———" He stopped short and stared at the
person coming through the door now, upon whom Ann Denholme bestowed a
welcoming smile.

Since the person was in the process of removing a huge black
helmet—cyclist? dare-devil stuntman? driver?—it was impossible to tell
whether it was male or—

Female, definitely. An absolute mess of long hair the color of oats
she shook out like a mane, dangling the helmet in her hand. She was
dressed, or swathed, in black leather, collar to toe. She had
apparently held up a hardware store, for she had so many metal chains
round her neck and hammered metal earrings and bangles encircling her
wrists she clattered through the room like Marley's ghost.

Ann Denholme introduced this young woman as Miss Ellen Taylor. The
Major bowed, the Princess murmured, Melrose smiled. Miss Ellen Taylor
was totally self-absorbed; she had a vague smile that she hung on
various points in the air, never quite getting round to the three
guests.

Major Poges bent over to put out his cigar and said, very low, to
Melrose, "The Eagle has landed."

The Princess, her hand on the door, smiled at Miss Taylor and said,
"I heard Dior was bringing back the bomber's jacket: that is
&
fascinating
ensemble."

Melrose declined the Major's request that he join them. He had to
meet someone in Haworth.

And anyway, the curtain had just gone up on the next act.

Weavers Hall appeared to be a cabaret or theater in which the
curtain rises in folds and cascades down. The sofa was a front-row
seat; all he had to do was wait to be entertained as one act followed
another. The trained seals should be along any moment now. He smiled.

Miss Taylor was too busy studying the bookshelves to see the smile.
All of that black leather simulated, indeed, a seal-like hide. It was
supple; it glimmered wetly; light caught in its pliable folds as she
bent, rose, bent again to remove and replace various books.

In a dismissive tone, she said, "God, but someone here sure goes in
for mysteries."

An American. But "heah shoe-ah"? He did not, however, have some
stereotypical image in his mind of Americans as always dressed in black
leather and riding motorcycles and having loud voices and hard
accents—as Miss Taylor certainly did.

He put hers down to nervousness, for some reason he couldn't
explain, as she threw herself down on the opposite end of the sofa,
with some loud talk about the weather, the brittle air, the ice-patched
road, the ruts that had nearly thrown her. The helmet she stashed on
the floor and was wrenching her long hair about as if she meant to
strangle herself with it; from a secret little pocket (the leather
jacket had many) she drew some hairpins which now bristled from her
mouth like thorns as she plucked them out and stuck them here and there
to bunch her hair up and back. Around them she said loud,
indecipherable things ("Chris-bu'thr'snurumin'lage"), while Melrose
made umms and ohs in his throat. In the streak of light from the
anglepoise lamp, he imagined the oriental carpet rippling, the
floorboards tremoring slightly from the voice that was still loud
despite the strictures imposed by the hairpins.

Ellen Taylor was extremely attractive, although she hadn't done much
to enhance the qualities that made her so. The bountiful hair could use
a good wash, the hands that fooled with it were oil-streaked and
nail-bitten, and the only makeup she wore was on her eyes, with too
much shadow, as if overdoing them made up for underdoing everything
else. Her lashes were so heavily mascaraed they looked like tiny, dry
twigs that hid rather than enhanced the dark brown eyes beneath.

What interested him even more was her ambivalence: her voice was
raised as if she meant to separate herself from others; at the same
time, when she could easily have chosen a half-dozen other places to
sit, she had plopped herself down by Melrose.

Far from projecting her chosen image of Brash Young American,
Melrose thought she was more a play of light and shadow. He wished,
though, that she hadn't chosen shouting as her vocation. . . .

Ah, but it wasn't, he discovered when he asked her if she was
touring or just what?

"I'm researching my next book." Having bunged up her hair into a
sort of large blossom, she scooped down on the sofa and pressed her
head against its back. From a zipper pocket in the black leather jacket
she pulled out a packet of Benson and Hedges cigarettes and shook one
out for Melrose, then one for herself. When her loops of linked metal
necklace clanged and the hammered bronze earrings clapped, she sounded
like someone on a chain gang.