The Blue Last (26 page)

“Lord, yes. Wish I had those pajamas, too.” They were printed all over with Mickey, Goofy, and Tweetie Bird.

Oliver had left the trolley behind Jury and come back to sit on the edge of his bed, whereupon he looked down at his pajamas. “Well, you're not getting these, unless I decide at some point I need to bribe you. I know the commissioner, by the way. Word to the wise and so forth.” He swung his legs up and under the covers and sat back again among the cushions with a sigh.

No wonder his son Ian was so easy to deal with. He'd inherited his father's pleasant nature and springy genes.

But then Oliver's expression changed and he looked off toward the wide window which showed nothing but a bleak, oyster-colored sky, a few black branches tapping the glass. He had gone lax.

“Mr. Tynedale?”

Oliver looked around at Jury and said, “What happens is, for a moment you forget. You forget what's happened. Maybe that's the merciful side of life. Simon really was like a son. He really was.”

Jury leaned toward him and put his hand on the older man's shoulder. It seemed so natural a gesture that he didn't hesitate. “I'm sorry. I'm honestly sorry.”

Oliver sighed and pulled the blanket up toward his chin in the way children do. He looked around the room as if something of Simon Croft had materialized there, sitting in that chair, or standing by that window looking down, or pulling a book from those shelves. Jury wondered if the air would grow so thin with desolation they would all need oxygen.

“If you're going to ask me do I know of anyone who could have done this? No.”

Jury thought for a moment. “Simon Croft was writing a book, I understand. Did he talk about it?”

Oliver seemed surprised at this turn in the inquiry. “The book about the war and the pub being bombed? His father, Francis, you see, owned a pub—”

“The Blue Last. Yes, I know. I know it was bombed in December of 1940. Mickey Haggerty told me.”

“Yes. His father was one of Francis's very good friends. I knew Haggerty, too, but not so well. I don't really know his son, except for the one time I tried to help him out, but I have it on good authority he's a very good policeman. I think Simon was really enjoying writing this book—though ‘enjoy' sounds like the wrong word. What I mean is, he felt he was doing some good for himself and perhaps for the rest of us by delving into it. Like the expiation of a sin, though there was no sin involved. The working out of something. But why do you ask about the book?”

“Because there was no sign of it. No manuscript, no notes, and whoever did this took Croft's laptop, too, and diskettes, assuming there were some and I can't imagine there not being. From what I've heard of him he was a careful man. He'd back up his work.”

“I know there
was
a manuscript. He read me a little of it now and then, to see, I think, if he could jog the old memory.” Oliver tapped his temple. “He was hoping I'd remember more and more if he could furnish details—you know, setting a scene, putting in details, just as—” he swept his arm over the room “—describing a chair or a sofa might help you see someone out of the past sitting there.”

Which Jury had just done.

“They took the damned thing? The manuscript?”

“As far as we can determine. I wasn't questioning its existence, but whether there was something in it that could injure someone—I'm assuming there is, or was. Mr. Tynedale, think.”

Oliver nodded and pursed his lips. “You wouldn't have a fag on you?”

Jury laughed. “I wish I did. I stopped.”

“Oh, hell. Didn't you find it was easier to think when you had a smoke?”

“No doubt at all.”

Oliver leaned back, heavily. There was a silence. “I'm thinking.”

Jury smiled and nodded. Behind him he heard a brief hiss and looked around, wondering if something had happened to the oxygen canister. It was Snowball. How had that cat got in here? The door was shut.

“That's the surliest damned animal I've ever come across,” said Oliver. “Always in a bad mood. Always turning up where he isn't wanted, which is bloody everywhere. Belongs to Kitty Riordin; she should keep him on a short lead.” He scratched his bald pate. “Ralph Herrick—have you come across his name? He was my daughter Alexandra's husband. Not, unfortunately, for very long. He was a fighter pilot, RAF. Very young for a captain, but good enough to shoot down a slew of Messerschmitt 109s. That was the German fighter, the main one. Ralph was pretty dazzling. Just plowed right into them and—” He made a machine gun of his arms and
rat-tat-tatt
ed as if he were ten years old.

Jury grinned. “Yes, I was told that. Had he something to do with this book?”

“Not directly, at least I think not directly. What Simon seemed especially interested in was that Bletchley Park operation. The cryptanalysts, that lot, you know? The Enigma machines. Alan Turing. Anyway, Ralph was involved in that. It was after he was wounded and mustered out that he went to Bletchley Park. He was, apparently, as good at decoding as he was at blasting German planes out of the sky. I don't know what particular skills he had; he'd read philosophy at Oxford. He wasn't a mathematician. But apparently he could read a monalphabetic code just by looking at it. I think he was part of the group in Bedfordshire, an RAF intercept unit. Or Cheadle. A nice boy, a sort of ‘glory boy.' Alexandra was besotted with him.” Oliver shook his head, sighing.

“No, there's nothing Simon told me about feeling he was in danger. But then—” he looked at Jury “—I'm not sure he would have, anyway. You're suggesting it might be someone in the family who killed Simon, and I doubt Simon would have told me if he suspected such a person had a grudge against him. Could be he thought he shouldn't spring any bad news on me. Simon would have wanted me to die in peace, with my illusions intact. He'd have been surprised at how few I have.” Tynedale smiled at Jury. “He was a good man. I'll miss him.”

His voice had grown thin and distant, rain in the wind. Jury changed the subject to one he thought would be a happier one. “I'd like to know more about Gemma Trimm.”

Oliver perked up. “Ah! Now
there's
someone to be reckoned with! I take it you've met her?”

“I have indeed. I agree with you about the reckoning. What I've been wondering is, why doesn't anyone speak of her? I had fairly long talks with your son, with Marie-France Muir and with your granddaughter. No one mentioned her. I came upon Gemma by accident.”

Oliver gave Jury a whack on the knee. “Just the way
I
did! By accident! It was about three years ago. I'd had lunch with Simon in the City, a place in Cheapside, then wandered around. I like to do that in that area. Things just spring out at you for some reason. Well, one thing that sprang was this little girl standing in the middle of the pavement, in Bread Street. She was completely alone, except for that doll she still carries everywhere. It didn't have any clothes on, just a naked doll. She wasn't crying. She looked serious and abstracted. I asked her if she'd lost someone—her mother, maybe? She shook her head. I told her we should go together to someplace where they could find out where she lived. I took her hand—she didn't resist at all. It was as if she'd been waiting for someone to come along. It was the strangest thing that ever happened to me. Anyway, I walked her to the Snow Hill station, where the police were very kind, but couldn't get anything out of her except her name. ‘Gemma Trimm,' she said, just like that. Just hammered it right out, as if she were hammering tin. But she didn't know where she lived. Well, they got a doctor in and he suggested some sort of aphasia or amnesia. A social worker, naturally, got in on it, but I scotched that idea in a hurry. After I'd failed to find any relations or anyone for Gemma—and I looked for a long time—I made her my ward. And to this day, I have never found out one thing about Gemma.”

“There's this belief of hers that someone tried to kill her.”

He nodded. “That shooting incident. Police didn't know what to make of that, but it did happen. Gemma was out after dark in the greenhouse with a light switched on and someone took a shot at her. Scared the hell out of me, I can tell you.” He closed his eyes. “Someone must be damned jealous, that's all I can figure out. Except Ian. I don't think he forgets she's there. Ian's just got his head a little in the clouds, I think. As for the others, I expect they think I'm going to settle a walloping big chunk of the Tynedale Brewery money on Gemma.”

“Are you?”

“Of course. In any event, Mr. Jury, everyone in this family is already rich, really. I can't imagine one of them killing for money. I simply can't.”

Jury shook his head. “For some people, there can never be enough money. It's an addiction.” He rose. “I really appreciate your talking to me, Mr. Tynedale. I think it's been a big help.”

“I hope so.” Oliver put out his hand. “I hope you come back, too.”

“Thank you. I expect I will.”

“But since you're going—”

Jury followed his line of vision.

“—take that goddamned cat with you.”

W
hen Jury walked into the Members' Room of Boring's, he found Melrose Plant with whiskey in hand, sunk into his leather armchair as if he'd been dropped there by a crane.

“Good lord,” Jury said, “did you walk back?”

“Heh heh, very funny.” Melrose sat up a bit, took a drink of whiskey. “I'm exhausted.” The fire near his chair sparked once and then went back to doing little but licking hot coal as if in sympathy with Melrose's state of mind and spirit. “Whiskey?” He held up his glass.

Jury took it.

“I didn't mean
mine.
” Melrose retrieved his own drink, then lifted his hand to beckon Young Higgins.

Jury sat down. “Florence is supposed to energize rather than exhaust.” He set some books he'd been carrying on the little drum table by his chair.

“Then Florence never met Marshall Trueblood. If one can level a thing by mere looking, the Brancacci Chapel lies in ruins. Take off your coat. We can dine on my memory of
tagliatelle alle noci.
”

“Wow,” said Jury. “Chips on the side?”

Young Higgins had come so slowly he might have been doing the Stations of the Cross.

“Two whiskeys, Higgins, please.”

“And a hair shirt,” said Jury.

Higgins left without questioning either request.

“He'll probably bring one, too. What's it for? Haven't you done your share of suffering today?” said Melrose.

“It's for you. The martyrdom of St. Jerome can't hold a candle.”

Melrose slid down in his chair. “My god, don't tell me you're a Masaccio fan.”

“Sunderland, actually.” Jury heaped his coat across the armchair nearest the fire and sat down again. “You're planning on staying here at Boring's for a while, then?”

“I'm too tired to go home. Anyway, I have to wait for Trueblood.”

“You know, you're not really all that well traveled for one of your money and leisure.”

“I've been to Baltimore.”

“Are you telling me that you didn't enjoy Florence?”

“Oh, I
enjoyed it.
One
enjoys
Florence, after all.”

“One hopes one does.”

Melrose continued. “And one can't help but have tender feelings toward a place like San Gimignano and those spires. Or Siena, that looks as if some spellbinder put it to sleep and it's only partially awoken. Everything is narrow there—streets, houses—everything echoes.” He sighed. “It was just this race Trueblood had me doing, running from one expert in Renaissance art to another—authorities on Masaccio. Imagine devoting your entire life to just one thing.”

“Given one or two of my cases, I probably can.”

Melrose lit up a cigarette, blew the smoke away from Jury and tilted his head to look at the books. “What are those?”

Jury looked at them. “Couple of books on gardening.”

“Well, I'll be jiggered. Are you retiring to till your own pea patch?”

“Not I.”

Melrose picked up the larger book and riffled the pages.
“A Fool and His Garden.”
He smiled. “Now there's a fresh approach to gardening.”

“It's the acerbic approach. I thought it suited you better than
Sweet Sue's Sweetpeas,
or
Lazy Days with Lobelias.
”

Melrose took the book and opened it. “I like the little drawings.” He turned the book, showing Jury an unhappy gardener trampling the petunia patch.

Young Higgins was back with the drinks, setting a glass at each man's elbow, taking up Melrose's old one.

“Bets are off with you,” Melrose said to Jury. “Higgins, what have we to dine on tonight?”

Holding his small silver tray to his chest and coughing gently into one fisted hand, Young Higgins said, “We've steak and kidney pudding and roast pork. Both quite delicious.”

“No Portobello mushrooms?”

Young Higgins gave him a blank look. “Sir?”

“Never mind. Thanks, Higgins.” When the ancient porter had crept off, Melrose sniggered. “See why I come here? What more could one ask of a place that's never heard of Portobello mushrooms?”

“It hasn't heard of much of anything since the Great War, has it?”

“Let's hope they keep it that way.” Melrose returned to
A Fool and His Garden.
“Listen to this.” He laughed. “‘There is something homicidal about he who would prick and prune and plunder thick hedges into the abysmal shape of swan and urn, a man so dangerous he needs stabbing with a sharp-pointed trowel.' Indeed, I like that.” He set aside the larger book and picked up the smaller:
Gardening Primer.