Richard Jury Mysteries 10: The Old Silent (17 page)

"A notable exception, perhaps."

Jury made a circle with his wineglass and thought of Rena Citrine.
"The aunt dislikes the family
except
for Nell Citrine.
Though she strikes me as so self-engrossed she wouldn't do a hell of a
lot by way of saving her."

"That's three for our side, though."

"Actually, four."

Melrose smiled as he watched the sweet trolley lumbering across the
oak boards, Sally behind it. "Who's the fourth?"

"Brian Macalvie."

"How could he
possibly
remember her after a brief meeting
eight years ago? Pardon me. Divisional Commander Macalvie never
forgets." As the trolley came closer, he saw an enormous glass bowl of
trifle wobbling about.

"He referred to her as 'one awesome lady.' "

"Good Lord, that's better than the Queen's patronage. So the cause
is not lost."

"When it comes to Macalvie no cause is lost. As long as it's his."

"What'll it be, gentlemen?" asked the Old Silent's manager, later
in the lounge.

"Pike liquor," said Melrose. "Or if that's unavailable, a glass of
Remy. And coffee, thanks."

The telephone brr-ed insistently as the manager looked a question at
Jury. "Just coffee."

"Old Silent Inn," said the man into the receiver, rather grudgingly,
as if he feared the name would bring a new onslaught of inquiry. He
then turned, handed the receiver to Jury, and went about serving up the
cognac.

"Just hope to God it isn't Racer."

It was Wiggins. "How are—" Jury decided not to complete the routine
how are you;
for Wiggins, the question was never routine. He
settled for "Hullo, Wiggins."

Lack of inquiry notwithstanding, Wiggins proceeded to tell Jury both
how he was and how the weather was, the two states being mutually
dependent. "Right rotter, it is, here, sir. Winter rain. You know what
that's like. . . ."

"I'd never noticed a difference between winter and summer, Wiggins.
What have you—?"

"There definitely is, sir." Patiently Jury waited for him to
complete the forecast for both Wiggins's bronchitis and his personal
rain. Wiggins finally realized that the point of his call was the
investigation he had undertaken in London and not the state of his
health. "Sir, there's good news and bad news. Which do you want first?"

"Any news."

"The bad news is that not one single person I've talked to has
anything negative to say about Roger Healey. I've talked to ten people
on the staff of that magazine, and they all say the same thing,
different words. Roger Healey was to them a marvelous person, an
incisive critic, a practiced musician. Several of them said little
Billy was close to a prodigy, and his father was that proud of him.
This all came up when several of them mentioned how Roger was a tower
of strength and a monument to grief over the boy's loss. . . ."

To Jury, such strength in the face of heavy loss seemed a bit
appalling, a bit stone-cold, just as Wiggins's cliches implied.

"—but what's strange is that even the people, at least the three I
talked to, whom Healey had cleverly insulted in his column didn't bear
him any grudge or dislike him. The librettist, for instance, whose
experimental opera Healey had dissected with a good deal of
blood-letting actually laughed and said himself it was a rotten piece
of work. His opera, not Healey's column."

Plant had taken his glass and coffee over to the fireplace where he
was trying to knock the cat out of the sedan chair. "Did you talk to
Mavis Crewes?"

"No, sir. She said she saw no reason to, as she'd enough of Scotland
Yard and its insinuations. What did you insinuate?"

"That Nell Healey wasn't a combination of Scylla and Charybdis. What
about Martin Smart?"

"I did. He was quite pleasant about it, though he didn't understand
why I was there, since you'd already been."

"Incidentally, does Racer know you're questioning people?"

"The chief superintendent never thinks I'm working at all, sir,"
responded Wiggins with no hint of rancor.

Jury could hear crackling sounds in the background that could have
been anything from a wrapper on a packet of throat lozenges to a
crumbling of black biscuits. The persistence of telephone sounds when
talking to Wiggins was like snow on a tape with the volume turned up.

"Now, the flutist, name of William Browne, was a bit more grim;
still, he had to admit that Healey hadn't attempted to trash him:
there was one piece out of the five he'd played Healey had liked in
part."

"Sounds pretty trashy to me, one out of five."

"But I've read these reviews, sir. I have to admit that Roger Healey
doesn't
appear
to be out to get the subject, or to be
grinding an axe. His negative criticism is almost apologetic."

"Which would be an effective way of putting someone down."

Wiggins was silent. Then he said, "You appear to be somewhat biased
against Healey, if you don't mind my saying so."

Jury smiled slightly. "I don't mind. And you're right." Jury was
watching the black cat's progress round the sedan chair and Plant's
attempts to ignore it.

"Though, actually, there might be something in what you say."

"Thanks. Go on."

"As I was saying about this piece in
Segue
: it was a
review of a charity concert. Healey is handing out plaudits for most of
the participants except for the oboe player and one other. Listen: 'The
event of the evening was the appearance of Stan

Keeler of Black Orchid. I say "event" because of the awe in which
this "underground" group is held by its devoted (fanatic) fans. Mr.
Keeler displayed a formidable technique. Surprisingly, his technique is
what he so often buries in Black Orchid's rare appearances aboveground.
Black Orchid is the most exhibitionistic group to walk on a stage since
Peter Townshend and The Who. I joined the audience in its applause for
Mr. Keeler's rendition of his most famous song, "Main Line Lady." I
applauded because Mr. Keeler didn't do a couple of lines right on
stage.' My point is, sir, that not even Stan Keeler was much bothered
by that."

"You mean you talked to him?"

There was a dramatic pause—or perhaps Wiggins had only turned to the
hot plate and the kettle to refill his cup. "I certainly did, sir. Went
to his flat in Clapham. He's got some kind of crazy landlady who
protects him from the press, from reporters. I mean she's weird."

"What was his opinion of that review, then?"

"He laughed and had another drink. He was lying flat out in the
middle of the floor. Said it helped him to think." The pause suggested
that Wiggins himself was thinking things about this behavior. "Keeler
just didn't seem to care."

"What about the good news, Wiggins? Or was that it?"

"Something like that, but more so. When I was in the magazine's
offices, as I was leaving, I met a chap walking down the hall. At first
I thought he was a janitor. Jeans and a black T-shirt. Carrying a mop
and pail."

Again Wiggins paused as if waiting for Jury to agree that, yes, such
a person might have been a janitor. "See what you mean. But he was one
of the staff."

"Yes. He's the most popular columnist they have. He's their Pop
person. You know—jazz, rock-and-roll. His name's Morpeth Duckworth. I
thought I recognized him because his column's always got a little
picture of him over his by-line. I stopped him and asked him about
Healey's death. 'His wife did the greatest service to musical criticism
ever done,' was his answer. He was just leaning on his mop and smoking
I think it might even have been grass. I mean, in the offices—"

"You're right, Wiggins; go on."

"Of course, I asked him what he meant. What he said was—" Here Jury
could hear the rasp of pages quickly turned. "—he said, 'Healey's
generous contributions to this magazine have done a lot toward shining
shit.' But this bit is more to the point. 'Healey was the quotidianal
phony of the music world.' Then he picked up his mop and bucket and
went on down the hall. I definitely think you should talk with him.
Only—"

"Only what?"

"Well, if you don't mind me saying, sir, I think you better educate
yourself just a little on the rock scene. To understand him."

Jury smiled, as much as Plant's manuevers with a rolled-up
Country
Life
as at his sergeant's injunction. "Why bother, when I've got
you? Terrific job, Wiggins. For the first time in this investigation I
feel there's some hope. Mr. Healey may not be tapped for sainthood,
after all. Maybe we can get him down off the monument. You did a good
job."

"Always glad to be of assistance," said Wiggins, sounding almost
priggish. But Jury could tell from the tone and the rhythmic tapping of
the spoon against the cup that Wiggins was himself elated by the
compliment.

"I'll definitely see him. Anything else?"

"That's the lot, sir."

Jury was about to say good-bye, when he remembered the earlier
interview. "Wiggins. How did you manage to get past Stan Keeler's
landlady?"

"I more or less collapsed in her hallway."

Jury frowned. "What was the matter?"

"I pretended I was ill."

The lop-eared dog Stranger had been busily digging about in the
ice-crusted earth when, upon seeing Melrose's approach down the road
from the Hall, he had immediately stopped to go and stand sentry at the
door of the stone barn.

At this hour of ten in the morning, Abby Cable was going silently
about her tasks together with another little girl, whose name was Ethel
(Melrose heard)—as in "Ethel, you didn't get this mash right
again
,"
and "You can't stick that into
stone
." The first complaint
was directed toward a small tub with a spoon sticking up in it, the
second toward the figure of Ethel, standing on a chair before a poster.

Ethel was the same size and probably the same age as Abby Cable.
Stubbornly, she returned to trying to push a drawing pin (or so it
looked to Melrose) into the corner of the poster. The luckless pin
merely bounced out and the corner curled downward again. The other top
corner held, since it was pinned to the wooden frame of the barn door,
the walls made up of blocks of millstone grit.

Seeing it was useless, she jumped down from the chair, the face
turned toward Abby a study in frustration.

Ethel's color began and ended in her light red hair. Her complexion
was as pale as anything Melrose expected to see this side of the grave,
dotted here and there with tiny buttery freckles. She had an etiolated
neck set on small sloping shoulders above a white shirtwaist, a long
white apron, and white stockings. She made Melrose think of a pint of
cream.

Ethel nearly glowed with neatness, as if she'd been licked clean by
cats. This was in contrast to the Fury, who, although at the moment
living in the eye of the storm, still looked mud-splotched. Perhaps it
was just the contrast; Abby was wearing her Wellingtons and a dark
dress made of wool stuff and, this morning, a black shawl, as if there
were no length to which she would not go to prove she was plain and
grim.

Melrose observed them from the distance of the shadowy doorway,
since Stranger had now been joined by a much larger dog, smooth-haired,
about the size of a Scotch deer-hound, a hundred pounds, give or take.
It slouched over to see if anything interesting was happening and stood
there giving the impression that it wasn't any more eager to develop a
more intimate relationship with this person than the border collie was.
It annoyed Melrose that his championing the gray cat did not seem to
admit him into the closed world of other animals. The cat itself was
stretched out in a pool of cold sunlight and showed even less interest
in his savior than did the dogs. They sat side-by-side, looking up at
him.

He was not sure whether it was a barn or one of the old long houses
that provided shelter for both people and animals. The roofbeams were
high with heavy crucks and, at one end, three rows of loopholes that
allowed for needed ventilation (given the somewhat pongy dung-smell
coming from the other end) and on this brighter-than-ordinary morning
tossed confettilike patterns of sunlight on the floor.

At the other end, off to his left, where Abby seemed to be
ministering to a cow, was the byre with wood-framed slate boskins that
partitioned off the animals: in this case, the pony and donkey he had
seen earlier behind the barn.

What must have been the old threshing floor lay between doors on
either side of the barn. The door across had been boarded up. Melrose
stood on a large slate floor with small rugs strewn about to make it
appear homey, he imagined.

In front of a stone fireplace were a makeshift table (an oblong
board across two sawhorses), a heavy mahogany chair, and a high stool.
He concluded this was the dining area, and the kitchen was beside it:
here was a table covered with oilcloth on which lay a loaf of bread and
some meat and cheese. Refrigeration was left to the window ledge, where
a bottle of milk sat beside a square of butter on a plate. A kettle
hung on an iron rod that swung into the fireplace.

Against the end wall to the right was a creaky-looking cot covered
in a layer of quilts. Beside it was a crate piled with books and a lamp.

But what especially struck Melrose was the number of posters and
prints decorating the walls—Dire Straits, Elvis Presley. The recent
acquisition that Ethel had labored over was a poster of the rock group
Sirocco. Indeed, it might have been that same glossy one lately in
Malcolm's possession. It was tacked up beside a smaller scene of a
Cornwall cliffside and beside that one ... oh, hell, Venice. Venice
floating in its unearthly way, distant across the water. Insubstantial
as it was, it still looked more real than the Cornwall cliffs dashed
with high plumed waves. . . .