The Black Cat Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Red Soles

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Old Dog in a Doorway

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  The Cat Came Back

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  RICHARD JURY NOVELS

  The Man with a Load of Mischief

  The Old Fox Deceived

  The Anodyne Necklace

  The Dirty Duck

  Jerusalem Inn

  Help the Poor Struggler

  The Deer Leap

  I Am the Only Running Footman

  The Five Bells and the Bladebone

  The Old Silent

  The Old Contemptibles

  The Horse You Came In On

  Rainbow’s End

  The Case Has Altered

  The Stargazey

  The Lamorna Wink

  The Blue Last

  The Grave Maurice

  The Winds of Change

  The Old Wine Shades

  Dust

  OTHER WORKS BY MARTHA GRIMES

  The End of the Pier

  Hotel Paradise

  Biting the Moon

  The Train Now Departing

  Cold Flat Junction

  Foul Matter

  Belle Ruin

  Dakota

  POETRY

  Send Bygraves

  VIKING

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, U.S.A. Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario, Canada M4P 2Y3 (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.) Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R oRL, England Penguin Ireland, 25 St. Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd) Penguin Books Australia Ltd, 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty Ltd) Penguin Books India Pvt Ltd, 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi—110 017, India Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, North Shore 0632, New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd) Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty) Ltd, 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa

  Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices:

  80 Strand, London WC2R oRL, England

  First published in 2010 by Viking Penguin,

  a member of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  Copyright © Martha Grimes, 2010

  All rights reserved

  Grateful acknowledgment is made for permission to reprint an excerpt from “Waving Adieu, Adieu, Adieu” from The Collected Poems of Wallace Stevens.

  Copyright 1954 by Wallace Stevens and renewed 1982 by Holly Stevens. Used by permission of Alfred A. Knopf, a division of Random House, Inc.

  Publisher’s Note

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Grimes, Martha.

  The black cat : a Richard Jury mystery / Martha Grimes. p. cm.

  eISBN : 978-1-101-19005-0

  1. Jury, Richard (Fictitious characters)—Fiction. 2. Police—England—Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3557. R48998B586 2010

  8I3’.54—dc22 2009030814

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrightable materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  http://us.penguingroup.com

  To my old cat, Blackie

  November 1989—April 23, 2007

  That would be waving and that would be crying,

  Crying and shouting and meaning farewell

  —WALLACE STEVENS

  Red Soles

  1

  It was already in the bloody London tabloids, the case not yet three days old and his own face plastered all over the paper when it was really Thames Valley police, and not the Met, not he, who owned the case.

  Superintendent Richard Jury, high-ranking detective with the Metropolitan police, but without much feeling for rank, and who’d climbed the ladder without much feeling for the rungs, found himself at the moment in High Wycombe in Buckinghamshire, in a mortuary looking down at the body of an as yet unidentified woman.

  What had made it so fascinating, he supposed, was not simply that the glamorous girl (woman, surely, only “Glam Girl” made much better copy) had been shot dead in the grounds of a pub not far away, in Chesham, but that forty-eight hours on, they hadn’t discovered who she was.

  Jury looked at her and wondered why the portrait of Chatter-ton came to mind; then he remembered Millais had also painted Ophelia, or his idea of her. And there was that larger concept that had looked so familiar—the Pre-Raphaelite period—that Romantic period of Rossetti, Holman Hunt, Millais, and rich fantasy, vibrant colors, and the death of youth. The Pre-Raphaelites were really into dying young.

  Dr. Pindrop. Jury loved the name, although it didn’t suit the doctor. Silence was not the doctor’s milieu. He sputtered a lot, showing signs of being about to erupt but managing not to do so.

  “Two shots,” said Pindrop, “one missing the vital organs—” Here he pointed at the badly wounded shoulder in case Jury was blind. “It was the second one in the chest that did for her.”

  Jury nodded, said nothing, tried to memorize the woman’s classically sculpted face.

  “Superint
endent?”

  Jury looked up.

  “You’ve had a right good look. Can I cover her up now?”

  Jury assumed the irritation was for the usual reason: why was New Scotland Yard sending people round? “No. Leave it for a moment.” Jury continued his “right good look.” A .38 had done the job, according to forensic. No gun had been found, a couple of casings had.

  The doctor had shown him the clothes she’d been wearing, designer dress, shoes, small handbag.

  “Label’s messed up. Looks like Lanvin. That’s the French chap.”

  “No. Saint Laurent. The other one.”

  Pindrop smirked. “Oh. You know this French lot, do you?”

  “I know a lot of things.” Jury wanted to laugh.

  The doctor gave a Dr.-Watson-as-played-by-Nigel-Bruce sort of grunt-laugh.

  The dress was beautiful. It was sedate and yet not. The neckline consisted of layered ruffles. The sleeves were transparent as glass, reaching nearly to the elbow. The dress was the same color as her hair, a burnt orange. It was made of silk or air. He’d never seen a dress that looked so decorous and so sexy at the same time. The shoes were designed by Jimmy Choo. That name was writ large across the instep of a sandal of exquisitely crisscrossed, narrow leather ribbons of iridescent copper. The bag was Alexander McQueen. Jury didn’t know him but imagined he ran with the others, along Upper Sloane Street. All of this getup would run to a couple thousand quid, he bet.

  “Expensive,” said the doctor. “Must’ve been well-fixed.”

  “Or someone was.” He looked up. “Do you live in Chesham?”

  “No. In Amersham. Old Amersham, not the one on the hill.”

  A proud distinction, apparently. “You can’t say if she’s a local, then?”

  Dr. Pindrop ran his hand through thinning hair. Jury figured him to be at the back end of his sixties. “I’d swear I’d seen her before.”

  This surprised Jury, since the doctor brought this out with a bit of sympathy that he hadn’t shown until now.

  “She looks familiar to you.” This at least was something.

  “Yes, for some reason. Perhaps she is a local. If not Chesham, perhaps Amersham, Berkhamsted ... well, you know.”

  “I’m not familiar with the area.”

  The doctor pulled up the sheet and dropped it over her face. “Then why did they want you?”

  2

  It was the same question Jury had posed and Detective Chief Superintendent Racer had answered, or rather half-answered. “Because they asked.”

  Oh, well, thought Jury. He waited for Racer to embellish. Racer didn’t. “That’s it? That’s all? Who’s ‘they’? And why? Thames Valley is the best, certainly the biggest nonmetropolitan police force in the country, and they need us?”

  Racer flapped his hand at Jury the imbecile. “No, no. Of course they’re perfectly capable. Chief constable’s a friend of mine. Discretion. You know how it is.” He started shuffling the papers on his desk, which wasn’t easy, as there were only three or four.

  Again, Jury waited. The “why?” was still in abeyance, though he was the only one to realize this, apparently. He let it pass. “When did all of this happen?”

  “You mean this woman’s murder? On the Saturday night, as far as they can make out.”

  Jury looked at him. “Today is Monday.”

  “I’ve got a calendar, man; I know what day it is.” Shuffle, shuffle.

  And he also knew perfectly well how cold the trail was by now.

  Racer glared. “I’m sorry we can’t have a perfectly fresh body for you, lad. But there it is. Enough time’s been wasted—”

  As if Jury were the waster.

  “So you’d better get your skates on. They’re putting her on hold.”

  On hold. As if this poor woman had been making a phone call rather than being murdered.

  “Chesham. Near Amersham in Bucks. I’ll give police there a jingle, have somebody pick you up.”

  “That’s all you can tell me, then, about this murdered woman? But if Thames Valley police don’t know who she is, I fail to see the need to be discreet.”

  “You’re no master of discretion yourself, man!” came the non sequitur.

  3

  Detective Sergeant David Cummins of the Thames Valley CID met Jury at the Chesham underground stop. The underground was a godsend for the residents here who worked in London. To be let off driving in London traffic was a miracle, in addition to the weary businessman’s being able to lead a bucolic life out here in almost-country.

  DS Cummins had kindly darted into the café by the station to purchase tea for Jury. Cummins was obviously impressed, not only to get a CID man from New Scotland Yard, but a detective superintendent, no less. They don’t come much higher than that.

  Jury didn’t bother telling him that his boss was higher than that. He wondered when the last time was that Racer had actually worked a case.

  “What can you tell me?”

  Cummins took a deep breath, as if he were going to let loose a long and intricate story. “Not much, sir. Taxi picked her up at Chesham station, said she had him drop her at the Black Cat. Told her he’d get as close as he could; it’s because the roadworks had burst pipes along the street and in front of the pub.”

  Cummins went on: “According to him she didn’t say anything about a party or anything else. You’ll want to talk to him, I expect. The body was found by a woman who’d been walking this way with her dog, an Emily Devere.”

  “A local?”

  “No. She lives in Amersham.”

  “But she was walking her dog in Chesham?”

  “It’s a public footpath that she especially likes. And the Black Cat’s always been a favorite, she says.”

  Jury guessed the attraction was more pub than path.

  “Did you get anything helpful from her?”

  Cummins shook his head. “She was pretty rattled by the whole thing. She couldn’t raise anyone in the pub, so she called police on her mobile.”

  “What way did she come onto the patio and tables?”

  “She often came round from the footpath, walked behind the pub, and then up to the back and the patio through the trees. It’s not really a wood, is it? Just the trees behind the pub. Said she saw a cat, a black cat, run off into the trees. Probably the pub cat.” Cummins plowed on. “Now, as to the party idea: a well-to-do couple named Rexroth were throwing a pretty big one at their home, and it’s near the pub. Deer Park House. According to them, they’d never seen the woman, didn’t know anything about her. I’m pretty sure they were being truthful.”

  “Just how big a party?”

  “Eighty or more, probably more. On that score they were a bit vague.”

  Jury smiled. “If I had eighty people around, I’d be more than vague; I’d be dead drunk.”

  Cummins liked the levity. “There was plenty of that, too, they said. Good-natured couple, the Rexroths.”

  “Then they’ll be glad to see us.”

  The Black Cat was on the Lycrome Road, on the edge of Chesham. They were by then pulling into the small car park. The pub itself was pale yellow—washed, pleasant and unassuming. “Do Not Cross” tape cordoned off the back of it.

  “Place has been closed off since,” said Cummins, “but I expect that’ll be taken down now. No reason to interfere with business any more than’s necessary. Owners are on an extended holiday, and it’s being looked after by a friend of theirs. Name’s Sally Hawkins and she lives in Beaconsfield but helps out if they need it. Her niece, I think the child is, lives with her.”

  Jury turned from the small collection of trees to look at the pub. “Is Ms. Hawkins in?”

  “Should be. I called to tell her you’d want a word with her. She wasn’t happy.”

  “They never are. Show me where the Devere woman found the body.”

  They walked across the car park and a patch of grass, wet and in need of cutting, to a patio where several tables were set out for the use of the custo
mers in fine weather. Each had an umbrella on it, furled now. On one of them lay a black cat, also furled, thought Jury, curled tightly and peacefully sleeping. Jury ran his hand along the cat’s back. “Hello, cat,” he said. To Cummins: “Pub cat?”

  “I shouldn’t wonder. Well, they’d have to have a black cat, now, wouldn’t they?”

  The place looked deserted, but any place would, thought Jury, with a streamer of police tape across its car park.

  “It was this table here,” said Cummins, moving to the table farthest from the car park. “She must’ve been sitting at it, we can’t be sure, but she was found sprawled behind it. Body was lying mostly on the patio, shoulders and head on the grass. It was as if she’d fallen off the seat at the impact. Forensic say the shooter was probably standing, given the path of the bullet, the way it hit the victim.” Cummins raised his hand, simulated a gun pointing downward.

  “Drinks on the table?”

  Cummins shook his head. “No. Nothing.”

  “It would seem, then, they weren’t friends sharing a quiet drink together.”

  Cummins looked at him. “It would certainly seem they weren’t friends.”

  Jury smiled; he liked the mild put-down. “Suppose we have a word with Ms. Hawkins.”

  They went through the door at the side, near the stone terrace, into a little hall and then into the bar. The room was long, narrow, not especially large, but certainly pleasant. Jury heard the tapping of high heels on stairs and a blond woman came into the room.

  She wasn’t bad-looking, only a bit hard. Her eyes were like slate, her blond hair brassy, weighed down with the extra color that came out of a bottle. “Saw you two messing about outside, so I thought I’d better come down.”

  DS Cummins told Sally Hawkins who Jury was. “He’d just like to put a few questions to you about the Saturday night.”

  She tossed a lock of yellow hair from her shoulder. “Well, I told you what I know, which is sod-all. I’m having a drink, me. You want something?” Without much interest in the answer, she went behind the bar, expertly flipped a glass down from a rack, and placed it under the optic that held one of the lesser-quality gins.