The Winds of Change (31 page)

If Melrose had had the Black Diamond shears in his hand right then, they’d’ve been in Jury’s heart. He could have whipped Jury with the thorn branch Lulu was using to hector Roy, but instead he rattled off a street and number. Any street within barking distance of the British Museum, what difference did it make? And any number.

They had finally all walked away from their sideshow, Jury off to collect Cody, who would drive him to the train. Only Roy remained, he having decided to stick with Melrose as a dependable source of entertainment. He had followed him into the kitchen, where Melrose now sat. After all that, Melrose thought himself worthy of a banquet, but had settled for cozying up to the teapot and some of Rebecca Owen’s superior tea breads.

She had poured tea for both of them and said, ‘How are you getting on with your turf, Mr. Plant?’

He winced, wishing people would stay away from that, as if it mattered anyway, as if it were painting frescoes on the walls of the Brancacci Chapel; he wasn’t Masaccio, turfing the Garden of Eden, for God’s sakes. Oh, to be in Florence! ‘It takes time. No, these things can’t be rushed. Ah, thank you.’

She was passing him the cake–Madeira, cherry, poppy seed-and he took a slice of the Madeira. He welcomed the quiet after the production outside.

‘Most things can’t, really,’ she said.

‘Pardon?’ What was she talking about?

‘Be rushed. As you were saying.’

‘Oh.’

‘I expect that Scotland Yard superintendent knows that better than most.’ She sipped her tea. ‘They have to be so meticulous, don’t they?’

She sounded–tentative, probing. As if she wondered at the wisdom of asking–or perhaps telling–him something. ‘He’s very good at his job. I’ve known him quite some time.’ This was no secret, so Melrose didn’t mind saying it.

‘Mr. Scott said he was the one who recommended you.’ Was she suspicious? He couldn’t tell. She struck him as an astute woman. All he said to this was, ‘Yes, he did.’ He waited for her to go on, but she merely drank her tea in silence. Finally, he said, ‘How long have you been with the Scotts? Or, rather, with Mrs. Scott?’

‘Since Flora was a baby. When Mary was married to Viktor Baumann. She needed help. Oddly, they had no servants at all.

They lived in this huge flat at St. Katharine’s Dock, very luxurious it was, yet they had no maid, no cook, nothing. They ate out all the time. Mary wasn’t much of a cook.’ Remembering this made her smile until the smile saddened. Then she picked up again. ‘She said she was tired of supporting half the restaurants in London. But after Flora was born, she put her foot down about having help. I was taken on as some sort of housekeeper, nanny. It was quite pleasant.

‘One night when her husband was away I cooked dinner for Mary. She was impressed enough to double my salary if I’d cook two or three nights a week. Viktor Baumann was an inveterate restaurant goer, but even he agreed to sit still three nights a week.’

‘I’m not surprised. Your cooking is nothing short of fabulous.’ She chuckled. ‘Thanks. I’m a chef, actually. Many years of training, had my own restaurant in London for a few years. Then I tired of the hectic pace of it and sold up. I didn’t really need a job. I didn’t go in search of that one; a mutual friend recommended me as someone who’s good with children. I always have been for some reason, even though I have none of my own. Flora–’ Here she propped her chin in her hand and turned away. Too painful to speak of.

So Melrose took another tack. ‘Why did his wife have to insist on having help?’

‘Viktor Baumann didn’t like having strangers in the house. That was one reason. I think he felt women belonged in the kitchen and the nursery.’

Melrose frowned the deeper. He was thinking of Ruthven and his cook, Martha. But then of course that was completely different; they’d been around all of Melrose’s life. ‘But all staff, unless you’ve got old family retainers on it, are strangers to begin with. Actually, Mr. Baumann sounds paranoid.’

She gave him a frank look. ‘Oh, he is. He’s completely untrusting. I’ve always found, you know, that a person like that can’t be trusted himself. In the same way that liars find it hard to believe anybody else. And of course there’s the belief that women are pretty much chattel. Mary should’ve been able to do all that herself, kids, housekeeping, cooking, according to him.’

Melrose ventured a comment: ‘You don’t care for him much, do you?’

‘Does anyone? Oh, except for the ones who don’t really know him and are charmed. I think another reason he didn’t want staff around is that he’s extraordinarily jealous. He was of anyone Mary was fond of, man or woman. He was of me, I know that, but also of her women friends. Not to mention any men friends. The poor girl had very little company, mostly acquaintances because of this. Patricia Quint kept up; she’s a very loyal person.’

‘She knew Mrs. Scott back then?’

‘Yes.’

‘You were close to her, weren’t you?’

‘Yes.’ She looked off. ‘She insisted I come along here. Marrying Declan Scott was the best thing that ever happened to her. Outside of Flora, that is. He’s as different from Viktor Baumann as a man could be. He doesn’t deserve what’s happened to him.’ Her arms were folded on the table and she looked down into her empty cup, scattered with tea leaves as if she meant to read them. ‘Viktor used Flora as a weapon, either that or a chess piece. He thought it was all one of his games.’

‘Do you think she’s dead?’

Rebecca Owen seemed to shiver at the very thought of it. She rubbed her arms as if she’d caught a chill. ‘I really can’t stand to think that.’

‘I don’t doubt it. Only, you know, there are worse scenarios.’

‘And better,’ she quickly said. ‘It might not have been someone who meant her harm.’

A pedophile, thought Melrose, is probably convinced he means no harm. He did not say this. ‘Then you believe it was a person who simply wanted a child for herself?’

‘Yes, I expect I do. It happens all the time, doesn’t it? Women who snatch babies out of prams in front of Waitrose, things like that.’

Melrose thought she was being truthful in this instance and that she did believe it, or at least wanted to believe it so much she’d convinced herself. It was possible, he thought: wanting to believe a thing so much you finally did. ‘You’re probably right. But then you must not think this woman’s murder has anything to do with Flora.’

‘You’re right. I don’t.’

‘Then... what?’

She shook her head. ‘Perhaps it was the wrong person shot.’ Now, that was novel. ‘The wrong person? Well, but why?’ She leaned toward him, as if her physical presence could better convince him. ‘What if they had a meeting planned, an assignation? And the wrong woman turns up? It would have been too dark to tell straightaway.’

‘But wouldn’t a rendezvous–’

‘I doubt it was that.’

‘–point to Declan Scott?’

As if Melrose were a trifle slow, she gave a short laugh. ‘Doesn’t it point to him anyway?’

Melrose’s eyes widened in surprise as she rose abruptly and took her teacup off to the counter. He could understand she might believe it was Scott who’d shot this woman. But that the woman who was shot was not the one he planned to meet? That was preposterous: a woman he knew–this Georgina Fox (as far as he’s concerned)–simply strays into the garden even though she had no plan to meet him or anyone? No, Rebecca Owen didn’t believe that; she was too intelligent. ‘Do you–?’ But he was being too curious. ‘I suppose anyone would wonder. I don’t mean to be intrusive.’ He smiled, he hoped, sheepishly.

‘Yes, you’d hardly expect this sort of thing out here in the country, especially this country, Cornwall. It seems so far removed from everything.’ She paused. ‘What does this Scotland Yard man think?’

She was back to it again. ‘I’m afraid you’ll have to ask him. These policemen don’t talk much.’

‘Really? Well, I’ll be sure to tell Cody Platt He never stops talking.’

Again, Melrose was surprised. He frowned. ‘You know him, then? I mean aside from this awful business?’

‘Oh, yes. Cody was here even before Flora disappeared. Declan called in the police to report a break-in–we’d had a few things stolen. Cody came. He was a constable then. For some reason, Flora took to him and he to Flora. And he also to Mary. I know his presence after what happened to Flora was a comfort to her. He’s a detective, after all, and perhaps a–symbol? Proof that they hadn’t stopped looking for Flora. And, of course, that’s what he told her, that this Commander Macalvie never stopped. He wasn’t commander then; I think he was a detective chief inspector. But all the same. Yes, Cody Platt was a comfort.’

Through the window, Melrose watched Lulu throwing something for Roy to run after. He asked, ‘What happened to Lulu’s parents, Mrs. Owen?’

‘They’re both dead. Both in an auto accident a few years ago. It was absolutely terrible, Ben and Sara were on their way to St. Ives for a little holiday. At a roundabout near Camborne, a lorry plowed right into them. Ben had piled up so much in the backseat, he couldn’t see out the rear window. At least that was what I thought might have happened.’ She rose and went to the sideboard and pulled out a drawer. From this she took out a newspaper clipping she brought to Melrose. It gave the details of the accident.

‘They’d left Lulu with me for the time they’d be gone. Otherwise, well, she’d be gone, too.’

Rebecca Owen looked so sad that Melrose didn’t know what to say except something banal: ‘I’m sorry. What a horrible loss.’

‘I wonder if her being so young made it easier on her? She didn’t seem that disturbed.’

‘Throwing up a front, I expect,’ he said. Everything about this case seemed to be ‘throwing up a front,’ where the victim was as hard to identify as the murderer.

‘She seems to be by herself most of the day. Doesn’t she have school chums?’

‘Oh, yes, of course. She goes to a very good school; Mr. Scott sees to that. He’s extremely generous. They’re on holiday at the moment. Something to do with staffing problems. I believe two of the teachers had to leave–well, some kind of scandal, and I expect the less said the better, as far as the children were concerned.’ Melrose wanted to laugh. No, the more said, the better, as far as Lulu was concerned.

‘But she gets on well with adults, doesn’t she?’ said Rebecca.

‘You certainly have an effect upon her, and a very good one. I think you light a fire in her.’ Smiling, she took the cake plate to the sideboard.

What? He fired Lulu up? He didn’t know if he believed in this fire-lighting business, but still he felt warmed by it.

At that moment Lulu walked in with Roy and they stood there. ‘You’ve been having tea for ages. You were supposed to come out...’

Nag, nag. Bark. Fire extinguished.

Lulu was stopped from following him out by her aunt and made to ‘have a lie down or you won’t be able to last out the evening.’

Ha! thought Melrose, as he walked to the secret garden. Lulu could outlast the Pleistocene. He studied his enameled mead design. Well, ‘design’ might be too fine a word, but it did look rather good. The snowdrops were a nice accent. What he hadn’t boned up on was exactly how to cut round the enameled patches. That’s why the grass was cut before the little flowers were planted; otherwise one had to do it by hand.

‘That’s quite pretty, Mr. Plant.’

Melrose turned at the sound of Warburton’s voice and his tweedy, tobacco-y smell. Warburton was pointing with his pipe.

‘Snowdrops. Now that is original. Never seen that before. Rather white, wouldn’t you say?’

‘I used a similar design first in my own garden in Northants. Indeed I designed one entire slope in silver and gold. Used marigolds for the gold (that was a bit too obvious wasn’t it?), but only for a band running down the center.’

Warburton’s usual sunny expression deepened into a frown.

‘But wouldn’t the marigolds be too large for achieving this jewellike effect?’

Drat! How stupid of him. He might as well try to plant shoes.

‘Oh, yes, but this was your dwarf marigold.’

‘Dwarf?’

‘It’s a hybrid, isn’t it? I happened on it by chance. A chap I know who’s very much into hybridization–you wouldn’t believe his greenhouse! At any rate, I don’t expect he’s put the dwarfs on the market yet. I’ll send you a sample, shall I?’

‘I’d like that, yes. You’re really on the cutting edge, Mr. Plant. Ah! No pun intended!’ Warburton laughed.

So did Melrose, just to stay on the good side of him. ‘One tries to keep abreast.’

Warburton sucked on his pipe and mused.

What, wondered Melrose, could he possibly be thinking about? The snowdrop situation? The murder? Given Warburton, who generally had his drawings with him. Warburton without his drawings could think of nothing, could advance no theory, could come to no conclusion. The comment about snowdrops—‘rather white, wouldn’t you say?’–had pretty much exhausted his conversation.

Melrose wondered if Henry James’s Lord Warburton had been as shallow. No, he was sure James’s character was a man with some depth. Lord Warburton’s life had simply appeared to Isabel as lacking the freedom she craved and which she thought she had found in Osmond. Deluded girl! Good lord, had he taken to admonishing fictional characters ? Anyway, this Warburton was easily as shallow as the brass dish of the fountain nearby and in constant need of replenishment by the boys with the buckets. When the water was turned on, Melrose imagined that sculpture would be even more delightful. He could use a blast of cool water.