Jerusalem Inn (18 page)

Jury thanked Isobel Dunsany and rose to leave. An inspector, he assured her, would be visiting shortly. There might not be dances, but there might be a let-up in the tinned soup. Jury smiled.

“I do hope you find what you're looking for. Good-bye, Mr. Jury.”

She turned her face again to the fire, dying in spite of all of their efforts.

“ ‘I
'm going to have an early night,' said Lady Stubbings.”

It was a line that Melrose Plant could easily have dispensed with — weren't they
forever
having their “early nights”? — but in this case, he found the line especially excruciating and wished the whole lot of them would have an early night.

Thus far he had counted half-a-dozen bodies down in the study or sprawled over the terrace or out in the potting shed. Melrose yawned and tossed
The Murders at Stubbings
aside. It was obvious who the murderer was and he was only too happy she was making an early night of it. . . . Instead of having their early nights, why didn't the entire cast of characters simply remain in bed in the morning — as he had managed to do — thereby saving the trouble of getting murdered, the murderer the trouble of murdering them, the reader the trouble of reading about them and — most important — the writer the trouble of writing about them. He had gone on this thriller-reading kick ever since meeting Polly Praed. Each of hers he had read twice, so that he could make appreciative and astute comments about them in his letters.
These she seemed to fail to appreciate, as witnessed in the last letter to
Mr. Plant (Lord Ardry? Your Grace??).
Really.

Melrose pushed the pillows at his back, trying to prod them into a more supportive position. Then he picked up
The Print on the Ceiling
from the stack of books on his bedside table, noticed the name of the author was Wanda Wellings Switt, and put it on the pile of rejects for that reason alone. He did not care how the print had landed on the ceiling, even if it was the bloody foot of a fly.

The Third Pigeon,
by Elizabeth Onions. The dusk jacket showed a cloud of pigeons (the smart ones) flying off against a backdrop of dark and snow-threatening sky. And in the foreground, the dumb one who had hung around long enough to get itself shot by the ominous rifle barrel protruding from the bushes into which the third pigeon was dropping like lead. Why was someone writing about murdered pigeons when one had the entire human race to draw upon?

He would have to get up, he supposed. The morning headache he had pleaded could not keep him from the other guests forever — although given Agatha's prognostications, it was always possible. Her gray head had popped in and out of his door like a cork as she ran down the list of possible diseases: they began with the terminal, and, having failed to get Ruthven to call for a priest, had descended to the acute, and lately to the merely chronic.

Melrose got up now to go to the long window in hopes that the gods had pulled off a small miracle of weather-legerdemain, and he could throw his bags into the old Flying Spur and —

Snow.

Snow, snow, snow. Lady Assington had announced it as “ever such an adventure,” as if they were all being asked to rub sticks together to make a fire and live on whale blubber, when actually they were being sustained by crackling logs, cigars, Grand Marnier, and Sambuca.

Ruthven entered and inquired if his lordship would be taking afternoon tea with the others.

Melrose studied the ceiling, found it cold, cloisterlike and without so much as a bloodprint, and more or less fell out of bed like the third pigeon.

T
EA
was a singular affair that could have sustained anyone but Agatha for days: smoked salmon sandwiches, partridge pâté, something imprisoning truffles, and, of course, the cake plate, which Agatha was scavenging for fairy cakes.

Since the interesting ones like Parmenger and MacQuade appeared to have taken vows of silence in keeping with their surroundings, the conversation was dominated once again by Beatrice Sleight and Agatha.

Taking a break from the subject of the Ardry-Plant titles, Agatha was now onto the Ardry-Plant money. Having none of her own, she was now busily spending Melrose's: “ . . . and one of the finest collections of Lalique at Ardry End. We're going to Christie's next month to the auction. . . . ”

Of which Melrose knew nothing, nor would attend. To some vague question, Agatha replied with a laugh that sounded more like camel bells than windchimes. “My late husband, the Honorable Robert Ardry —”

As she piled courtesy titles on top of Christie's, Melrose wandered from the dining room into the hall, but not before he heard her say, in response to a question from Beatrice Sleight —

“I? Oh, no, my dear, not a sou.” She laughed artificially. “I'm right down to my diamonds and, ah —
ma devise.”

Since the diamonds were entirely his mother's, she would at least snatch at her share of the family coat of arms.

“D
ON'T
stick your hand in the flames,” said Melrose, wandering into the drawing room after luncheon to see Tommy Whittaker sitting by the fire. “You wouldn't be able to play the oboe.”

Tommy looked up and smiled. There was not a blotch on his handsome face, yet he seemed oblivious of mirrors, certainly the ornate one above the fireplace. “I
am
dreadful, aren't I? I should practice more.”

“Not here, please.”

Tom Whittaker's pervasive gloom was broken by his laughter. “Sorry you've been subjected to my music.”

“Don't apologize.”

“Do you read?”

“I know how, yes.” Melrose lit a cigar.

“I wonder if I ever shall again.” He looked over his shoulder. “All these writers . . . ”

“Ah, but you'd be denying yourself the delights of
The Third Pigeon,
and very possibly the entire Elizabeth Onions canon.” Tom looked puzzled, and Melrose said, “Just a thriller writer. Don't worry, the Onions woman won't show up. Mr. Seaingham probably draws the line at thriller writers.”

Tommy sighed. “Maybe a murder'd be a good idea. They could make me the victim.” Cupping his chin in his hands, he looked like he might commit himself to the flames.

“Such sacrifice is noble, but unnecessary. I understand what you mean, though.”

“I'm glad
somebody
understands.”

Melrose was not sure he wanted to be thought “understanding.” It could lead to all sorts of complications.

Tommy got up. “Look, let's have a walk round, what do you say?”

“Walk? Where?”

Impatiently, he shrugged. “Well, outside. We could walk round the ruins.”

“How delightful. Haven't you noticed the snow's nearly to our knees?”

“We could walk about the cloisters, or what's left of them. We could sit in the chapel, or something.”

Cloisters, chapel, how jolly. Melrose had simply thought to go back up to his room and be ill again with
The Third Pigeon.

“I wanted to talk to you about tonight. Where no one can overhear us.”

“Tonight? Is something happening tonight?”

“Yes.” Tom Whittaker was already going for their coats.

 • • • 

Even the walk down the long gallery, at the near end of which was Charles's study, found the temperature dropping by degrees. The gallery lay in the East Wing of the main building, once the abbot's home, and its end had been converted into a sort of solarium, pleasant enough in summer, Melrose imagined, but a depressing surround of glass in winter. One felt the snow coming up to the tips of one's shoes. The Lady Chapel where Grace Seaingham said her nightly prayers was down a covered walk to their right and the cloister-ruins off to their left. At least the cloisters were covered, what was left of them. Nothing at all was left of the basilica, so from where they now stood, it was a clean sweep of snow to the main entrance, broken only by the narrow road made by the plow over which Seaingham had driven his Land Rover the night before and which was now half-buried again.

The air was fresh, the wind died down, and one could have found in his surroundings a whole creaking history of the Cistercian Order. It simply made Melrose colder to imagine cloaked monks on their way to morning matins.

Melrose's attention was soon riveted, however, not on history
but on what Tommy had just said:
“Skis!
You expect me to put on skis and go down to the Jerusalem Inn with you?”

“Oh,
come
on. It's a lark. You could have snowshoes if you'd rather. There's a whole arsenal of sports equipment in the gun room. It's just this end of the gallery, next to the solarium, and Mr. Seaingham's got all that stuff—”

“Hold on! I have never skied, and certainly never snowshoed, in my entire life.”

“Neither had I until I got slapped up here. Look, we may be here for the rest of our lives—”

Melrose looked up through a hole in the stone and uttered a mute prayer. “Don't say things like that.”

“It's quite simple really, the skis,” said Tommy, eminently rational, even if Melrose wouldn't be. “You said you'd read
Skier.
That book is practically a manual on skiing. That's how I figured it out how to work them. MacQuade's an expert cross-country skier. And that's what we're talking about: cross country.” Tommy pointed out the country ahead of them, as if Melrose were snowblind.

“Don't I know it. If you feel compelled to set out on this venture, why not get MacQuade to go with you?”

“Because I can't
talk
to adults.”

Then what, wondered Melrose, did that make him? “Well, why must you ski around the countryside
anyway?”

“It's the match. At Jerusalem Inn. You see, I've been playing there for some time; Meares Hall is just the other side of Spinneyton. Didn't you know that? Aunt Betsy and the Seainghams have always been great friends. Well, there's no one else about, is there?”

“The Spinneyton Slasher, maybe.”

“I've never heard of him.” Nor did he, apparently, hold any horror for Tommy Whittaker, who was interested only in his pool game.

“Not
pool!
Snooker.” Tommy frowned as if his new friend
had made some hideous social gaffe. “Anyway, the Jerusalem's a great place. Naturally, I've had to think up ways to get there and the regulars don't know who I am, of course.”

“Neither do I,” said Melrose, as he turned to go in.

“I can show you about the skis in five minutes. All we have to do is wait till right after dinner. It'll be dead dark and no one will see.”

“They will miss me over the brandy,” said Melrose, knowing no one would miss anyone at this point.

“Lie and say you're sick. Like you did this morning.”

By now they had reached the door to the chapel. “I am not a liar.”

“Sure you are. Listen, you've forgotten what it's like, being young, and not being able to do as you please, no smoking, no drinking, no snooker. I'm not permitted to play at home. We've this huge games room, but after Aunt Betsy discovered how much I liked it, she was afraid . . . well, to tell the truth, I think poor Aunt Betsy is afraid I'll turn out like Father. Though she'd never say it. It's her one blind spot, really. She's managed to have Parkin — that's our butler — serve up all sorts of reasons for keeping the room locked.”

“That does seem a little severe, I'll agree. This is a pretty place.” They were standing in the nave. Before the pale blue and gold figure of the Virgin, votive candles burned.

Tom Whittaker was not interested in heaven. “Severe. You bet it is. If I told you what I go through to get my practice in . . . oh, well, never mind that. The thing is, I've got to play every day.”

“Why on earth do you need
me
, then? If you've been cross-country skiing now for two nights —”

“An alibi.”

“What?”

“It's chancy for me. I mean, no one's seen me yet. But if Aunt Betsy were to find out, there'd be hell to pay. This way,
I could just say we were out looking about the ruins, or something. You can make up some good lie.”

Melrose looked at the face of Mary, frozen in time, wearing her inscrutable smile. He could have sworn she was smiling at him, egging him on.

“Oh, very well,” Melrose said, as crossly as he could, to make sure the young marquess didn't think he was a pushover, and would be calling him out on other harebrained adventures.

As Tom gave him a comradely clap on the shoulder, Melrose had to admit that anything would be better than a night with
The Third Pigeon,
even skiing to Jerusalem Inn.

R
OBBIE
was playing Pac-Man and Nell Hornsby was behind the bar. The kitten was back in the straw of the manger, Alice removed for presumably more interesting pursuits.

In Jury's wake, a few of the regulars put in a casual appearance at the bar. Dickie was already there with his leek beside him like a date, still with his teeth out, smiling across at Jury. “Aa'm clammin fer a pint, man. Buy yer one?” Jury thanked him. Dickie was no welcher, that was certain.

Nell Hornsby threw the bar towel over her shoulder and drew off two pints of bitter, set Jury's down, took Dickie his.

“Have one yourself, Nell,” said Jury. She turned to the optics and got herself a small whiskey. “You know where Spinney Abbey is?”

“Aye. Through Spinneyton, turn right. You too?” She laughed.

“Me, too? What do you mean?”

“Last night four people were asking for it. From Northants, Joe said. An earl, one of them was. Walked in right in the middle of one of Nutter's — ah, awright, ya fond bugger!”
She yelled across the room to Nutter. “Oney got two hands.”