The Stargazey (17 page)

“All right, then,” Melrose went on, as he watched a wizened old gentleman lever himself up from the depths of one of the leather sofas. “The two women are either related—twins, even—or they're look-alikes. Well, that's obvious. Doppelgangers.”

Jury nodded.

“Let me review the scene: she—the woman you saw that night—leaves this Stargazey pub, boards the bus, rides it for ten minutes or so, then disembarks at—where?”

“Fulham Broadway. Roughly a mile from Fulham Palace, or rather the palace grounds.”

Melrose nodded. “And you observe her walking. She gets on yet
again,
and the bus then arrives at the intersection with Fulham Palace Road. Whereupon she gets off again and you leave the bus and follow her on foot to Fulham Palace. How far was that?”

“A short distance. No more than a five-minute walk.”

“You see her go through the gates.” When Jury nodded, Melrose repeated it. “You
did
see her go through the gates?”

“Yes. The gates weren't closed. Apparently, they're open nearly all the time.”

“Thus far the only question this raises, aside from your behavior—” Melrose smiled.

“Thanks.”

“—is why she walked when she could just as easily have ridden. First possibility: She wasn't sure where Fulham Palace was and got off at the
wrong place. Second possibility: She changed her mind about something and left the bus, changed her mind again, and reboarded.”

“Third possibility: She wanted to be remembered. I mean, she wanted the
victim
to be remembered.”

They were silent for a moment.

Melrose said, “The woman on the bus and the dead woman aren't the same person. There's not one but two women. Anyone who might have come forward to help police with their inquiries, as you say, would have said, ‘Yes, that's her, that's the one I saw walking along the Fulham Road.
I remember the coat.'
No one would ever have known there were two women. Right?”

They both contemplated the fire. Then Jury turned the conversation back to the Fabricant Gallery. Melrose told him about Rees's series of vacuous paintings labeled
Siberian Snow.

“That whole display is simply too awful. Nicholas might see genius there, but then he's Ralph Rees's special friend, I think. His significant other. Love is blind. But Sebastian, he's certainly shrewd enough about painting.” Melrose shrugged. “It's fishy.”

“I imagine a lot of people thought Jackson Pollock was fishy at first. It could simply be taste.” At Melrose's dubious look, Jury said, “So how do you account for this fishiness?”

“I don't know. How does one flummox the art world?”

“Easily?” Jury shrugged.

“But here's a surprise: Guess who else they're representing? Beatrice Slocum.”

“You're joking!”

“Her painting was hanging right there between two awful ones.”

“I thought it was
her
old significant other, Gabe Merchant, who was the painter.”

“So did I. So did everyone. I did, before I had dinner with her—” Melrose hadn't mentioned this before and was sorry he had now.

“Dinner? Where?”

“Bethnal Green. It was when you went rushing off to Santa Fe.” Melrose glanced over to see if Jury was smiling in some supercilious
fashion. He wasn't, but then he never did. “She talked about her painting, called it her ‘blue period.' Not, however, like Picasso's. Said she was depressed, but depressed with no talent.” Melrose laughed. “You wouldn't think it to either look at or listen to her, but she's extremely modest, or maybe”—Melrose thought this to be true—“being very good at what she does, she doesn't have to showcase her talent. Like you.” This prettily framed compliment Melrose meant to get him off the hook about Beatrice Slocum.

Of course, it didn't. “She was on the list, as I recall.”

Melrose feigned ignorance. “What list?”

“The one you were making at Ardry End, with the names of all the women you knew who you said would make convincing witnesses.”

Good lord, didn't the man ever forget anything? “Oh, that. Anyway, they had two other paintings of hers stuck in the back among the ones they keep in reserve. One's a painting of Catchcoach Street. That brings back old times, old memories, doesn't it?”

“Not really. Since we saw the whole lot of them, the Crippses, only this past February.”

“I had no idea you were so literal.”

Jury smiled.

“It occurs to me”—Melrose placed his drink on the piecrust table between their chairs and sat forward—“Beatrice must know something about the gallery and Ralph and the two brothers. I called her before you came, but she wasn't in. I'll try again tomorrow.”

“Try the Crippses. She spends a lot of time there.”

“I will. But just what are we trying to find out?”

“I don't know.”

“That's helpful. Look”—Melrose spoke with some earnestness—“the only tangible thing connecting the Fabricant family and the Dresser person with your mystery woman, or women, is this sable coat.”

Jury nodded, looking sleepily at the fire.

“That sounds extremely ten—”

“Tenuous. Yes. I often hear that word.” He yawned.

“What will your Fulham CID man do?”

“Drag her in for questioning, which he may already have done.” Jury looked at his watch. “I'd better call him.”

 • • • 

“Since you told her you saw her, we couldn't spring it on her that there was a witness, could we?” Chilten's tone was acerbic.

Fulham police had picked her up earlier, at her flat in Redcliffe Gardens. Chilten told Jury she had stopped in Soho for dinner and hadn't got home until after eight. She was, understandably, shocked.

“And she has an alibi, Jury. She was having a cuppa with the old lady upstairs.”

Jury thought about that. “You checked it yet?”

“I'm sending someone now.”

“She was on that bus at nine o'clock, Ronnie.”

“The
victim
might have been on that bus, Jury. McBride insists you were wrong.”

“I'm not wrong, Ronnie. What's this old lady's name?”

Chilten turned away from the phone and said something to somebody. “Laidlaw. A flat on the first floor, right above McBride's.”

“Do you mind if we talk to her, this Mrs. Laidlaw?”

“Suit yourself.”

“What about the McBride woman's flat?”

“You got a subpoena? Neither have I, yet. Kate McBride lives a pretty quiet life. Widowed. No family, except for some in-laws, relations of a husband who she never sees; they live in the States—‘upstate New York' is what she said. She doesn't work; she doesn't need to because the husband left her provided for. Not rich, but enough to live on. He was with the embassy, and they lived for several years in Paris.” He shrugged. “That's the lot. She wants to talk to you.”

Something gripped him. It felt almost like fear. “Why?”

“Well, Jury, she didn't favor me with that information. Can you get down here in the
A.M
. tomorrow?”

“Yes.” He thought for a moment, then asked, “Why didn't she come forth when that photo was published?”

“Probably thought it would implicate her. The thing is, it hangs
more and more on you, Jury. You're the one who places her at the scene.” There was a rustle of papers on Chilten's end. “The only one,” Chilten added. “You're pretty positive that it wasn't the victim herself you saw.”

Jury hesitated. “I hear a question in that. I am pretty positive.”

“No room for doubt?”

Jury sighed. “There's always room for doubt.”

Chilten gave a small explosive grunt. “You sure as hell aren't making any. Look, R.J., we can't hold her for effing ever, not without charging her. And we've got sod-all for reasonable grounds.”

Jury smiled. “Oh, I don't know, Ronnie. You've got
me
.”

Chilten made a noise deep in his throat and rang off.

P
hyllida Laidlaw invited them into her kitchen at the Redcliffe Gardens mansion house, saying, “I've just put the kettle on, so we can have tea in a few moments.” The smile on the ninety-year-old face was dreamy, as if Jury and Wiggins had walked into her fantasy.

Wiggins sat himself down on a wooden chair and lost no time in dispensing advice. “Maybe you should look into those new electric kettles. Plastic, mine is, and it boils the water three times faster.”

“Really? But I don't like plastic. And the metal ones are so expensive.”

Jury, hoping to force Wiggins off the information highway, said, “Mrs. Laidlaw, you know Kate McBride?”

“Oh, my, yes. The other policemen asked me about her. They could have told you and saved you all the trouble. But I don't mean I'm not delighted to have your company.” The kettle screamed, as if to give the lie to Wiggins's “three times faster” comment.

Wiggins put a hand on her shoulder when she started to get up and said he'd fix the tea.

“I'm afraid I've only tea bags—there, in that tin box. And the sugar's in the cupboard. Milk in the fridge.” That crucial step taken, she folded her hands in her lap and looked at Jury from wash-blue eyes, indicating he could get on with whatever trivial thing he was there for.

“Mrs. McBride had tea with you on the Saturday night. Do you recall what time it was that she was here?”

“Well, it was just before
Homicide
.”

“I beg your pardon?”

Wiggins filled him in as he doused tea bags with water. “Remember? I told you about it. You haven't seen it. We just started getting it over here. It's real, like.”

“Oh, it certainly is—only one spoonful for me, thank you. They've got such
interesting
characters. That wonderful black lieutenant.”

Wiggins set down the three mugs for them. “G.”

Both Jury and Mrs. Laidlaw looked at him.

“G, that's what they call the lieutenant.”

“We don't have biscuits,” said Mrs. Laidlaw reproachfully.

“Right. I'll have 'em in a tic.” As if he'd stocked the cupboards himself, he drew out a package of Rich Tea Biscuits, put some on a plate.

“And that's how you're determining the time, Mrs. Laidlaw?”

She looked at him as if he were throwing spanners in the works, interrupting sense with senselessness. Wiggins stirred his tea and looked at him in much the same way.

Jury cleared his throat. “Kate McBride, Mrs. Laidlaw. She was here while this television program—”

“
Homicide
.”

“
Homicide
.”

They said it simultaneously, Mrs. Laidlaw looking pleased as punch that at least one of England's finest was keeping up with daily events.

“Right. So when did Mrs. McBride leave?” Jury's eyes were searching the room.

“Oh, nine-twenty-ish. Just before nine-thirty. I'd missed most of
Homicide
by then—”

“I missed it too.”

Jury glared. Wiggins shut up.

“—so I just watched this silly quiz program I can't tell you the first
thing
about, so if I have to account for my time, well . . . ” She raised her hands and shrugged slightly. Her smile was almost beatific.

Jury smiled too. “No, your movements seem quite believable. There's just one thing I'm wondering about. When Mrs. McBride visited, did you have tea here in the kitchen?”

“Yes. I always do have it in here.”

“I notice you don't wear a wristwatch, and I don't see a clock. How did you know your program was on?”

“She had one. A wristwatch, I mean. That's how I knew it was after nine. She told me.”

 • • • 

W
hen the WPC brought her into the interview room at Fulham HQ, Jury was sitting at the table still wearing his raincoat. That, he supposed, gave the impression of a man who wasn't going to stop here for very long. He didn't know whether or not it was the impression he wanted to give. He only knew that Kate McBride threw him.

She looked exactly the same as when he had seen her on Shaftsbury Avenue in the St. James—same suit, same hairstyle—but she would, of course, since Chilten had picked her up last night, had waited outside her flat in a car until she returned. Chilten had, of course, already questioned her, together with another of his men, and had her testimony on tape. She had not requested a solicitor be present. She had been so certain of her immediate release that she hadn't felt she needed one.

Kate McBride sat down on one of the uncomfortable folding chairs opposite Jury and said, “I appreciate your coming.”

The voice was the same, too. It didn't waver; it was not tight with anxiety; it gave none of the signs of anything but confidence that all of this was some dreadful mistake, easily cleared up if she could simply tell the right person where the mistake lay. Jury was, apparently, the right person.

He did not remark on her “appreciation.” He inclined his head slightly in response. Then he asked, “Why did you want to see me?”

Kate McBride didn't answer immediately. She spent a few moments taking in the room that he'd have thought would be, by now, quite familiar to her. It was hardly a place one would want to commit to memory, anyway. Then she said, “Would you tell me what you saw—what you thought you saw—on that Saturday night?”

“I did tell you.”

“You saw me in the Fulham Road boarding a bus. The one you were on.”

“Yes.”

“And?”

If she thought his going over it again would help, he would comply. “About ten minutes later, at the Fulham Broadway tube station, you got off and started walking. Perhaps because of the traffic tie-ups; you may have thought you could get where you were going more quickly on foot. The bus was in stop-go traffic for another ten minutes, at least, because of the daytime roadworks. Later, when the bus stopped opposite a pub called the Rat-and-something, you reboarded. At Fulham Palace Road, you got off and headed for Fulham Palace.”