The Stargazey (33 page)

Seeing he was an acquaintance of Jury, Milderd and Webber both looked at Melrose afresh—and with far less interest. Webber pocketed his pen and flipped his notebook shut. Waste of time, talking to this yob.

Melrose said to Jury, watching their retreating backs, “Why in hell aren't they spending their time more resourcefully, instead of jamming me up between them?”

“You must admit,” said Jury, “you're the best bet in the room at the moment.” He swept his arm over the room to take in the stout woman with the two canes and two other older women who had come for the Ladies' Day luncheon. All three women had drawn themselves up and stayed that way throughout the police presence. Then there were the four elderly gentlemen (including Neame and Champs) gathered round Higgins, who now had clasped his spidery fingers about his throat to demonstrate the full range of his knowledge of murder methods.

“God, I knew Simeon Pitt for just a few days.” Here Melrose's irritation—misplaced emotion—evaporated and gave way to real sadness. “We had coffee and drinks together. He was one of the most enjoyable souls I've ever met.” Had that, indeed, been the scope of their friendship?

“I'm sorry,” Jury said kindly.

“Your DI Milderd appeared to think I was about to be written out of his will.” He added, “I told them he was expecting his niece—Barbara something. Damn, I don't believe he gave me the last name. Anyway, she's from around Oxford, or near it. . . . There's the porter!”

Mr. Budding, who had gone out for forty-five minutes to run some errands, looked white as a ghost. He seemed to take it personally that a murder had been committed in his absence. Yes, he'd said there was a young lady (at Boring's that could be any woman between fifteen and fifty) visited Mr. Pitt noonish—no, ‘twas earlier; elevenish, it was—as Mr. Pitt ordered morning coffee for her. Budding was now behind the desk opening the register.

Jury frowned. “But neither Mr. Higgins nor your young porter remembered a visitor.”

“They wouldn't, see, as I served them coffee. Here we are!” He twirled the guest book on its carrousel so that Jury could read it:
Mrs. Amons for Mr. Pitt.
“I remember saying to her he was expecting his niece and was she Mrs. Amons? She said yes and signed the guest book.” He tapped it with a shaky finger.

“Describe her, would you?” said Wiggins, his notebook out.

“Let's see. Attractive, she was, and well dressed. Tallish, light hair. I do recall she was only here for twenty minutes, if that.”

“You watched her leave?”

“Certainly. She said her uncle had fallen asleep and she didn't want to disturb him. If you'll excuse me, sir, I believe I'm wanted.” Mr. Budding scurried off to answer the young porter's signal.

Melrose said, “Fell asleep? That's ridiculous. The man would never have fallen asleep in the middle of a visit from a relation. He was too aware of things.”

Mr. Budding was back, looking paler than when he left. “I've just been informed of something very odd. Our Mr. Neal, there”—and he nodded toward the young porter with the spiky hair—“has just told me that whilst I was gone a Mrs. Amons called and left a message for Mr. Pitt. Said she was having a bit of car trouble and waiting for the RAC.” Mr. Budding removed a large handkerchief from his back pocket and wiped it across his forehead. “I don't see how this is possible, sir, as the woman who was here at eleven o'clock said
she
was Mrs. Amons, and I must say I'm very much upset by this.”

Jury nodded. “I can understand, Mr. Budding. But you'd never seen Mrs. Amons, I take it, so how were you to know?”

Mr. Budding, somewhat reassured, left them.

“Am I surprised? I don't think so. I'll tell Milderd.”

Jury walked over to confer with Milderd, leaving Melrose to his own thoughts. They weren't pleasant. Melrose sat down heavily and tried to bring back the whole of Pitt's conversation. Who was the “expert” he was going to call? What was he “expert” in? Something to do with fraud in the art world? He had referred to “Jay.”

Having reminded himself he must call Diane and tell her not to meet the train, Melrose was distracted momentarily by the sight of Pitt's body, enclosed in a black body bag, being loaded onto a gurney. He walked over to where Jury was standing.

“Listen.” He drew Jury aside. “There's something that may or may not be important.” He told him about Pitt's telephone call and his intention to “go round and have a word with Fabricant.”

Jury thought for a moment. “So did Fabricant send someone round to have a word with Pitt?”

J
ury stood outside the gate and watched Olivia Inge trimming back the rosebush with shears that cut like butter through the tough stems. He stood there for a few moments, wondering about her, wondering why such a woman would see herself as the needy poor relation. Olivia mystified him. Her brief and early marriage had availed her little, apparently, in terms of either financial or moral support. But she was Clive Fabricant's daughter, with as much right to whatever Clive had left as Nicholas, and surely more than Sebastian, Jury would have thought. Yet she seemed to have relegated herself to the role of hanger-on. Stepdaughter to Ilona Kuraukov. Not an enviable relationship.

“Mrs. Inge.”

She had been focusing so completely on her task that the sound of her own name appeared to frighten her. She looked behind her.

“Olivia,” said Jury. The first name had slipped out unbidden. He was not quite as easy with first names as Sergeant Wiggins.

“Oh!” She pressed her gloved hand across her breast. “You startled me.”

He smiled. “Sorry.”

“The rest of them aren't here. Did you want—?”

“You, actually. Could we talk?”

“Of course. Let's go inside. It's too cold out here and it's getting dark. And as far as my name's concerned, I much prefer the first. It doesn't sound so suspect-like.”

“Suspect? Did I say you were?”

“You don't have to.”

She stripped off her gloves, and Jury was reminded of Phyllis Nancy. The thought of an autopsy made him feel somber. His expression must have reflected this, for Olivia asked, “Is something wrong?”

He held the gate for her. “Something's always wrong. It comes with the job.”

The warmth was welcome inside. And it appeared that tea had been laid (probably by Hedda). “This is wonderful! Hedda's timing is always perfect. That, or she's a mind reader.” She took his coat, asked if he'd like tea.

“Yes, I would.”

Jury sat down in the sofa Ilona Kuraukov had stood behind. He could almost feel her presence at his back. As he settled into it, Olivia handed him his tea in a delicate cup, china that looked thin as a veil.

She sat opposite him, in the armchair, and raised her own cup. “Cheers.”

“Cheers.” He took a drink of tea, felt better. “Why would I suspect you?”

She shrugged. “I've no idea, since I haven't done anything.”

“Where were you late morning, early afternoon?”

“Here it comes.” Her voice grew theatrical.
“And where were you at the time old Chalmers was shot?”

Jury smiled. “Not Chalmers; not shot.”

She regarded him quizzically.

“His name wasn't Chalmers.”

“Are you saying someone else was murdered?”

He nodded.

Looking round the room as if for something to come to her aid, she said. “I've been here all day. By myself, doing some gardening.”

“Do you get the
Times?”
When she nodded, seeming even more confused, he said, “Read the arts section?”

“Of course. It's usually the first thing I read.”

“Ever hear of Simeon Pitt?”

Her contemplative frown seemed genuine enough. “No . . . wait, yes. Yes. He used to write a column, didn't he?”

“Highly regarded in the art world. Your world.”

“You mean my brothers', Superintendent. Just before Ralph's show, I heard Seb laughing about something in a review he was reading and saying, ‘Just thank God Pitt's gone.' ” Then she quickly put her hand to a cheek that had flushed. “Oh, good lord. You mean it was he? This Simeon Pitt?”

“Yes.”

She looked down at her cup. “That's—” She shrugged.

“This review. Your brother knew Pitt's review would be negative. Pitt had written negative reviews before about shows at the Fabricant Gallery?”

“Once or twice. But it's my understanding that Mr. Pitt is—was—usually hard on new painters.”

“What about Rees's reviews? Were they good? Bad?”

“One or two have been good. I'd hardly think a bad review a motive for murder.”

Jury said nothing to that. He set his cup and saucer back on the silver tray, got up, and walked close to one wall where a large canvas hung. It was a still life: flowers, fruit, and a triangular guitarlike instrument. “What is this instrument?”

“A balalaika. I've always liked that music.”

“I don't believe I've ever heard one.”

She laughed. “Well, if you went to Russia, you would. There's something nostalgic about the sound of a balalaika. Rather like the zither in that Orson Welles film. Haunting.”

He drank his tea and looked at her. “Do you go with the others? To Russia, I mean.” He was still looking at the still life.

“I have done a couple of times.”

He turned. “St. Petersburg?”

Now it was her turn to regard him over the rim of her cup. “Is this germane to your investigation, Mr. Jury?” Her smile was slightly ironic. “Our holidays?”

“Yes.” He said it easily and smiled.

Her smile was quickly lost to him. “Why?”

With a shrug, Jury turned back to the painting. “I'm not sure.”

“You're not sure, but you seem quite serious.”

He said nothing and turned and looked from wall to wall. There were perhaps a dozen or more paintings. “Who chose this art?”

“They did—Sebastian, Nicholas, Ilona, of course. That's one of hers. I mean, she painted it.” Olivia indicated the one he'd been studying.

“Really?” Jury looked at it again. “It's lovely.”

“Don't let Ilona hear you say that.”

“What's wrong with loveliness?”

“To her it means decorative.”

“Shallow?”

“Yes, I expect she'd say that.”

Jury still looked at the painting. “What I've been wondering is why Madame Kuraukov can still have such—well, generous feelings about Russia after what happened to her husband.” He turned to regard Olivia. “Michel—was that his name?” When Olivia merely nodded, he went on. “His execution wasn't, of course, an isolated case, but that's cold comfort.”

“I agree. I certainly agree. Communism was murderous. But, you know, St. Petersburg was her home for most of her life.”

Jury nodded. He was still up and turning to take in every painting in the room. “There's not a bad painting here.” He accepted the cup she had refilled.

She laughed. “Would you expect there to be?”

“In view of the Rees exhibition, yes, I expect I would. I find it strange there'd be only that one example of highly questionable art. I don't think it's just me and my failure to appreciate it to think Rees's paintings are non-art—”

She interrupted him. “Non-subject matter, perhaps, but then people have said the same thing about Mark Rothko.”

“Surely you're not telling me there's a similarity between the two.”

Olivia smiled slightly, almost apologetically. “I suppose not.”

“Rothko's stuff intimidates me. Rees's simply makes me feel duped.” He returned to his seat and took a sip of cold tea. “What's really strange is that Rees's work would garner favor with not just one of them—Nicholas, say, which would be understandable—but all three of them. Nicholas might be soft on Ralph, but the other two would have to be soft in the head. Which they so clearly aren't.”

“But perhaps they're just humoring one another. They are family, after all.”

Jury shook his head. “No. Sebastian is too good a dealer and has a reputation for taste. Why would he risk it to humor his brother and his brother's boyfriend? And you'll never make me believe Madame Kuraukov would humor anybody. There has to be another reason.” He looked into her eyes, their sheen softly fuzzed by firelight. “Why don't we have lunch?”

Olivia laughed. “That's a quick change of topic.”

“There's a great little Indian restaurant in the Old Brompton Road.”

“Well—yes, that would be very pleasant.” She rose. “What about the other reason you say there has to be?”

“What?”

“For the Fabricants' supporting Ralph's work.”

Jury had wondered if she'd prompt him on this. “I wish I knew. Come on.”

I
t was the afternoon for the palace tour and Linda insisted on taking it. “You'll learn a lot.”

Melrose was not sure he liked the implication that he came up wanting in the knowledge department. And he had just bought her an icecream cone, which he had depended on to make her less mobile. That was a joke. For a few moments, he'd lost her, couldn't see where she'd gone. And then he picked her out, running across the grass, heading for a clutch of visitors who were making their way around to the main entrance and the courtyard.

Melrose sighed and followed her.

The palace guide was talking about Tudor brickwork. She pointed out that the black triangles of brick on three sides of the courtyard were formed by the actual ends of the bricks themselves. On the fourth side, the black design had actually been painted on to match; hence it was slowly wearing away from exposure to the elements. Satisfied with her prologue, the guide was shepherding them toward the front door when Linda said, “Aren't you going to tell them about the wicked gate?”