The Lamorna Wink (9 page)

He returned to that letter time and again, reading it so often he had worn down the fold so the two parts barely hung together. Nicholas Grey was Irish (the letter said), and it was that which one could say killed him. He had died in Armagh in a skirmish with the IRA. He had himself at one time when he was younger been a member of it, until he finally couldn't put up with what he felt were random and arbitrary assassinations. Grey himself had been a hot-head but not an anarchist. He was a man sublimely caught up in his cause and had the reputation of being a brilliant strategist, a matchless orator, and an inspiration to the men under him. Grey had disliked the aristocracy, not in theory but in fact; he had hated it for what it had become.

What Lady Marjorie, his mother, had done was to trade a fairly amiable and undemanding man born to wealth and leisure for one who it would be very hard for Melrose, his son, to live up to, a father who had stamped Melrose with a nearly impossible romanticism for which he could find little or no outlet.

He thought she had been wrong to tell him, and yet her motives, if clouded, had been good ones. His mind, he hoped, was large enough to allow for this. His own motives he felt were equally cloudy. He told himself that in relinquishing the title of eighth Earl of Caverness he was squaring things with his nominal father, the seventh earl. But he suspected what he was really doing was squaring things with Nicholas Grey, though he couldn't say why.

He wondered if it was his vanity, rather than his heart, that had been bruised.

He would much rather weigh in as the real Melrose Plant than as the bogus Earl of Caverness.

S
he had said:

She was not telling him “
to unburden myself and thereby place a heavier burden on you
” but to fill in what she saw as a tremendous distance between what he, Melrose, really was and what he had to think he was, “
gentleman, an aristocrat without a past
—” Melrose still wondered what she meant here—

Melrose laughed. He always did, here.

It could still catch him unawares, this letter, the concreteness of it, which made him live these scenes over again, or the sense of loss, washing across him like those waves at the bottom of the cliff. The letter answered some questions but opened up others: Why hadn't she divorced her husband or, at least, gone off with Nicholas Grey? He remembered her as a very independent woman. Had she been stopped by her husband's threat to keep Melrose? She had left these important issues unexamined.

Or perhaps she hadn't. Perhaps she felt that the “important issues” were exactly what she had written: Nicholas's idealism, the sticky-toffee pud, the dogs being lectured, the sign with the misspelled words.

He must have been very important to her, even more than Nicholas Grey had been.

Melrose had all but forgotten the drab landscape at which he'd been looking; he had certainly forgotten the bunched sheets, but they were now doing service as a handkerchief he could wipe his eyes on.

Here he was, a gloomy person in an empty house looking out on gray cliffs and sea, wondering what he was doing here. . . .

Just trying to get organized, Mum.

H
e took the pile of sheets into the big kitchen (getting closer, surely, to some meaningful laundry-disposal system). He deposited the sheets by a door that led down to some underworld he had no intention of venturing into unless Dante were with him. He would have made a hopeless detective, if a cellar could cause him such trepidation.

Turning to the making of tea, he took an old tin kettle from a shelf above the cooker, filled it, and set it over the gas flame. He watched it. Would a watched kettle ever boil? He decided not to subject it to this particular laboratory study and turned again to the shelves. Crockery abounded; he saw three tea-pots of various sizes. Cups ranged from stout white to slender floral ones. From a small market in town he had purchased the bare necessities (tea, milk, sugar, butter) and from the Woodbine Tearoom had bought several hot-cross buns.

When the kettle boiled, he poured water over the tea leaves and then arranged everything on a metal tray that he carried into the snuggery. This was the small library, with a view similar to the one above in the piano room (as he had christened it). It looked out over the broad-shouldered rock, the edge of the cliff, but had not that feeling of suspension above the rocks. If one were given to vertigo, the view from the piano room might present difficulties.

Melrose sipped his tea and ate his bun in perfect peace. How wonderful! Solitude even at Ardry End was hard to come by. Perhaps he was fit for the life of a hermit. Give up all of his worldly possessions and go live in a hut on a shelf of rock and watch the sunrise every morning. Up before the sun! What a dreadful idea; he shuddered.

He thought of the Bletchleys. He could empathize with them and their painful memories; what had happened in this house was too painful for them to continue here. And yet . . . memories could never be eradicated. Was it even possible that they gathered force from having been torn from a place one no longer came to?

He regretted selling the Belgravia house. He saw that gesture now for what it was: an act of revenge or, worse, spite. Punishing his mother and Nicholas Grey. His memories of Nicholas Grey were even more abundant or, at least, more finely wrought because now they couldn't be diffused.

Melrose tried not to think of
this
Nicholas Grey—of heroism and courage and self-denial—preferring instead to picture him as the snake in the Eden grass, the betrayer of his father and seducer of his mother.

The trouble was, he could not love his father much because he always drew back from Melrose. This did not happen because his father knew the boy was not his son; Lady Marjorie would never have admitted this. Had his father known, she would have had to pay a high price; there would literally have been hell to pay. He would not have divorced her, no. That would have rewarded her behavior, for she could then have gone immediately to Grey.

What he realized now was that he had rescinded the titles not because it was the honorable thing to do but because he hadn't wanted them. It would have been nice to believe that he felt like an impostor, unfair to the Caverness line and especially unfair to his father. He would have preferred to believe he was doing the honorable thing, only it wasn't so. He just wanted to be rid of the Earl of Caverness and be, as his mother had written, “a plain old fellow.”

M
elrose was seated at his regular table in the Drowned Man's dining room, trying to stare down the dogs in the doorway, when Johnny Wells slapped through the swinging door of the kitchen with a jug of water and a basket of bread.

“Ah!” exclaimed Melrose. “We've looked for you at your various places of employment. That is to say, the Devon and Cornwall police looked.”

Johnny took a step back, wide-eyed. He still held the jug of water, slices of lemon floating on top like pale flowers. “Me? Why?”

“I'm glad you were gone. Police were called to a place—Lamorna Cove, you know it?” Johnny nodded, waiting. “A woman—
not
your aunt;
not,
I repeat, your Aunt Chris—was found dead, probably murdered. I was, as I said, extremely glad you weren't here to be asked to look at the police photos taken at the scene.” Melrose went on to describe what Brenda Friel had said.

“Christ! I'm glad I wasn't here, too.” He filled Melrose's water glass and handed him the tasseled wine list. “I was in Penzance. My uncle lives there, and I thought he might know something.” Johnny shrugged. “He didn't. I didn't expect him to. I'd already rung him up once. I guess I just wanted someone to worry along with me. And you:
you're
leaving, Mr. Pfinn says.”

There was that note of accusation in his tone over Melrose's hurried—and irresponsible?—return to Northamptonshire. He was flattered to be included in those people Johnny chose to worry along with him, and said, “But I'll be back in no time, within the next few days, as soon as I can pack up a few clothes and my car. I've rented Seabourne for three months.”

At this Johnny looked relieved. “Good. I'll look for you, then.”

“I'll be coming here on a fairly regular basis for dinner. I'm not much of a cook.” Melrose felt abashed at the truth of this and looked down at his napkin. Was he much of
anything
when it came to looking out for himself? He removed a card from his silver card case and wrote his telephone number on the back and held it out to Johnny. “If you hear anything about your aunt, give me a ring, will you? I'd truly like to know.”

“I will.” Johnny studied the card.

“This detective, Divisional Commander Macalvie, is head of homicide and is very, very smart. If anyone can get a lead on your aunt, he can.”

“But isn't his time going to be taken up by this murder in Lamorna Cove?”

Before Melrose could respond, Pfinn stuck his head round the swinging door to the kitchen and motioned to Johnny.

“He doesn't like me being friendly with guests. Do you know what you want?”

“Certainly. Same as last night. The cod and a salad.”

“Wine?”

Melrose opened the list, ran a practiced eye down the page (doubting that the Drowned Man could really be host to all of these wines), said, “the Puligny-Montrachet.”

“Right. Is your friend going with you?”

Friend? What friend? Oh, God—Agatha. Having been Agatha-free for the last twenty-four hours, he had managed to forget her. “You mean my aunt? Yes, I expect so, unless she's joined the staff of Aspry and Aspry.”

Johnny laughed—not loud, not long—but a laugh nonetheless, before he left to get Melrose's wine.

Melrose sighed. He did not fancy another BritRail experience with her. But then he brightened at the thought that he would be free of Agatha for three months!

E
xcept he wouldn't be.

Melrose could not absorb what she was saying. It was such freakish bad luck that he went blank. This was in the Woodbine the following day where morning coffee was the excuse for collective gossip. The talk was, of course, about Chris Wells's sudden leave-taking. They avoided words such as “disappear” and “vanish,” feeling them too weighted with dread. “Up and gone” or “left without a word”—these were the phrases used, and they were bad enough.

The news had spread quickly; Chris Wells's leaving was the most dramatic thing that had ever happened in Bletchley. Combine that with the murder in Lamorna Cove, and they had enough to talk about for months. The village was aghast—pleasurably so, as Melrose inferred from the buzz going on around him, talk as rich and spicy as the gingerbread and tea cakes.

Not, however, at the table where Melrose sat with Agatha, since death and disappearance took a back seat to anything befalling his aunt. She was saying, “The flat is quite a nice one and being let on a month-to-month lease, so it should suit me quite well.”

Melrose made no comment. His mouth felt as if it had just gotten a shot of morphine. But his lack of commentary didn't bother Agatha.

“Anyway, it's only a month, as I'm not sure how I'd take to the sea air, and besides I have much too much business to take care of in Long Pidd to permit me to stay away longer. I'm not like you; you've nothing whatever to keep you from stopping here. And I think it would be good for me to learn a trade. Esther is an excellent agent and will teach me the ropes.”