The Old Success Page 3

  Tom raised his. “Perfect, right down to the chips. Cheers.”

  “You were talking about your granddaughter. Do you see her often?”

  Tom shook his head. “Not since Daisy died.”

  “Her mother?”

  “Her name was actually Drucilla but she hated it and insisted we call her Daisy. She was in her early forties.” Tom paused. “Suicide, according to the medical report.”

  Jury rocked back in his chair. “My God, Tom. How terrible. But you said ‘according to’—which sounds as if—”

  “I’m still finding it hard to believe. Though all of the evidence pointed that way.”

  The waitress chose that moment to put down plates of eggs and sausage that had Tom looking at the food as if he’d never eaten it before. Then he said, “Sydney has grown far more introverted and far less trusting. At least of me. She doesn’t really want to talk to me in any real sense.” He set down the fork he’d just loaded up with sausage and egg without eating.

  “Why is that, Tom?”

  “She’s disappointed that I couldn’t sort out what happened to Daisy.”

  “That’s expecting an awful lot, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, but that’s what grief often does: turns something impossible into something possible. Turns something unpreventable into the preventable. And who knows but what she’s right? I was very close to my daughter, after all. Sydney has some idea that I should have known something was wrong, being such a hell of a good detective.”

  “But your daughter supposedly committed suicide.” Jury frowned.

  “That’s what I should have sorted.” Now he put down the piece of toast, untasted. “The thing is, Daisy just wasn’t the—” He stopped and shrugged.

  “The type? That what you were going to say?”

  Tom nodded. “Which we know is absurd. There is no type.”

  “Not necessarily absurd. There’s no ‘type.’ Anyone could be driven to kill himself given certain circumstances. Of course, some people would be more likely to do it than others.” Jury knew he wasn’t saying anything at all, just chewing air, and stopped.

  One of the kids moved to the jukebox and shoved in a coin.

  The quivery nasal of Roy Orbison was replaced by the silky tones of Nat King Cole.

  Tom went on. “The thing is, as I said, we were really close. Always had been. And Sydney couldn’t seem to understand why I didn’t pick up on her mother’s obvious distress.”

  “For one thing, it wouldn’t have been obvious.”

  “Sydney would have thought, maybe not to others, only—” He reached for his pack of Silk Cuts, pulled one out, and looked at it like a man trying to decide whether to quit smoking. “Only I’m Tom Brownell. The great success. The one with the perfect clear-up rate. But I couldn’t detect my own daughter’s mental anguish. I couldn’t see the signs; I couldn’t read the evidence.”

  “Come on, Tom, don’t—”

  “If you tell me don’t be so hard on myself, I might hit you.” The match he lit flared weakly, went out.

  Nat Cole’s voice flared, much like the flame, on “it’s in-credible—” and died down.

  Tom lit another match. That died too.

  Jury was about to take out his ancient Zippo, then thought better of it. “I wasn’t going to tell you that. I was going to say, don’t let forensics outweigh your intuition.”

  Over the third lit match, Tom said, “No you weren’t. Forensics is forensics.” The match burnt Tom’s fingers before it died. He regarded the cigarette uselessly. He shrugged.

  Jury thought this was not a man to shrug off anything. There was a mystery here, a deep and disturbing one. “What was she like? Daisy?”

  Tom looked at the cigarette he couldn’t light and then tilted his head toward the jukebox as Nat Cole wound down. “That.”

  “‘Unforgettable.’” It wasn’t a question.

  There wasn’t an answer.

  6

  “I’m in!” declared Mrs. Withersby, standing with her mop and pail hard by the window-table in the Jack and Hammer, at which sat the pub’s regulars and Long Piddleton’s most prominent citizens. Withersby, herself the small town’s most prominent char, gave not a whit for the vast wealth and fame of the indolent lot sitting at the table.

  “But in what category do you picture yourself, Withers?” said Marshall Trueblood. He had just read them the article about family rentals, a new enterprise that Trueblood wished he had thought of himself.

  “What in heaven’s name could they be thinking?” said Vivian Rivington. “It’s ridiculous.”

  “Just what it says: if you want a family, or any part of one, you can hire one. Husband, wife, kids, cousins. They’re all rentables … Oh, don’t look so horrified, Viv. Just consider the time and effort saved in searching for and finding your own husband, marrying him and then being disappointed. With this new thing you just send him back and get someone else.”

  “I do see one big problem with that,” said Diane Demorney, who could find a big problem with anything, from the ratio of vodka to vermouth to hiring a husband.

  “What?” said Joanna Lewes, who could write an entire suite of books without a big problem.

  “Alimony,” said Diane. “I wouldn’t get anything, so what would be the point, anyway?”

  Vivian said, “That’s not the only reason to have a family.”

  “I’m not talking about a family.” If there was one thing Diane Demorney didn’t need, it was a family.

  “There is love, Diane.”

  About to pull a cigarette from her silver case, Diane just stared.

  Melrose Plant, who had turned in his seat to look out of the bay window, saw his aunt stumping along the pavement with Lambert Strether, apparently headed in their direction. “Here comes Agatha. Not a word.” He tapped the Times. “Keep this amongst us.”

  “Amongst us,” however, included the London Times. They were to discover this when Agatha and Strether entered, she with a copy of the paper taken from the doorstep of her neighbor, Mr. Simmons. As they sat down, she pointed out this little business-theory of relativity, saying, “The most absurd thing I’ve ever come across. It’s called ‘FamilyHire.’ Can you imagine anything worse?”

  “Yes,” said Diane, “actually having to buy one.”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” said Melrose. “Apparently, if you wanted, you could offer yourself for hire. I think it’s a rather good idea.”

  “You’re just being argumentative, Melrose.”

  “No, I’m just being available. Might someone not like to hire an earl? A viscount? Someone to lend one’s dinner party a bit of tone? Indeed, I’ve considered from time to time renting Ardry End. This way I could rent it and everything in it, owner, staff—I could hire out Ruthven, Martha, even Pippin. There are all sorts of possibilities. You could even hire a policeman. I wonder if Richard Jury would be interested. Or, if you wanted to smarten up your drinks party, you could rent an author.” He looked at Joanna Lewes. “My God, the possibilities are endless!”

  “Well, don’t talk about ‘renting’ people. You don’t want to be considered a ‘rent boy.’ That’s what brought down Oscar Wilde.”

  “Somehow, Diane, I can’t imagine anyone making that mistake with me.” Melrose’s mobile sounded its little chime, an event so rare that he looked all round the room and finally determined it was his own phone. He pulled it out. It was Richard Jury.

  “Richard! Where are you?”

  “Cornwall. I want you to get out your horse trailer and take Aggrieved to Bedford.”

  Melrose took the phone from his ear and stared at it. “I beg your pardon?”

  “There’s a farrier just outside of Bedford named Sydney Cooke. She’s got her own business, called ‘Horsepitality.’ Don’t blame me for the name. This might have some connection with a death on Bryher Island—you know, in the Scillies—”

  “I don’t know what in hell you’re talking about, no.”

  “Come on, don’t
give me a hard time over this. Just do as I ask. You’re the one with the horse.”

  “How about the Queen? She has a bunch—”

  “Very funny. I’ve just been with Brian Macalvie on Bryher, where a woman was murdered who has some connection with—maybe this will get your interest—your Flora Flood.”

  “She’s not mine, but it does get my interest, yes.”

  “The victim is a French woman who looked after Gerald Summerston when he was ill.”

  “Fine. But why don’t you talk to this horse person?”

  “Because she won’t talk to a copper. Her granddad is a famous one, Tom Brownell, and she won’t talk to him about her mother’s death—”

  “Hold on, hold on. I’m trying to follow this. So her mother died in suspicious circumstances and you think this—what’s her name?”

  “Sydney Cooke. I think she knows something and you’re very good at prying information out of people. She doesn’t like people; she’s crazy about horses. So I need a horse person.”

  “Get Diane to do it. She knows all sorts of arcane things about horses and she’s sitting right here.”

  “You mean like that horse-racing walk-around thing?”

  “I don’t think ‘walk-around’ is the right word, but—” The mobile was yanked from his hand by Diane. “Superintendent, you mean ‘walkover.’ It hardly ever happens. Spectacular Bid did it in the Woodward Stakes in—I don’t remember the year. ‘Walkover.’ A horse that runs by itself because it’s so incredible no other horse will take it on. Here.” The “here” was for Melrose, to whom she returned the phone.

  “As I said, let Diane talk to the girl.”

  “No,” said Diane. “To whatever.” She held up her glass toward Dick Scroggs, who was chewing on a toothpick behind the saloon bar.

  Strether broke into this phone business, announcing his own welcome by asking, “What are you all drinking?”

  They knew it was a hint and not an offer, and each one chimed in with his separate request.

  “Can’t expect me to remember all that, can you?” Strether fluttered his fingers as if he were about to bring down the house with a piano concerto, but only brought down the handle of Mrs. Witherby’s mop on his shoulder.

  “Gin. That’s easy enough, ain’t it?”

  Caught, Strether brought out his old wallet, creaked it open, and every moth in town made its weary way home. “Uh, I’m a bit short today. We should really have a Barclay’s branch in town.”

  “In this village?” said Vivian. “Hardly. There’s a branch in Sidbury, right next door, so to speak.”

  “Want me to run you over?” said Trueblood.

  “Uh, no, no,” said Strether, returning his wallet to a dusty pocket.

  Trueblood caught Dick Scroggs’s attention and circled a finger round the table for refills.

  “Why would you want a bank in Long Piddleton, Mr. Strether?” said Joanna Lewes. “You don’t even live here.”

  “But I soon will do.” He smiled a toothy grin.

  “You’re actually buying a place?”

  “Not buying. I’m negotiating with the owners of Watermeadows to let that little cottage on their property.”

  “What?” said Melrose, alarmed that Strether would be living next to Miss Flood when he himself had barely got to know her! “Do you mean the Floods? But they don’t own Watermeadows.”

  “No, but they’re free to let that carriage house. Lady Summerston gave them the run of the place.”

  How in hell could Strether know what Lady Summerston did or did not do, for she, the owner of Watermeadows, had been absent for some months and wouldn’t have had him as a candidate for cottage rental for all the money in the world, which he clearly didn’t have. But Eleanor Summerston had a large part of it. Having turned over Watermeadows temporarily to close friends but distant relations, the Floods, Lady Summerston had returned to her house in Belgravia.

  “There you are, Melrose!” said Agatha. “We’ll have Lambert for a neighbor!”

  Since his aunt wasn’t even a neighbor, that was unlikely. “If you call being a quarter of a mile away neighborly, Agatha.”

  “Don’t be so literal,” she said as Dick plunked a sherry before her, for which Trueblood and Tio Pepe would remain forever unthanked.

  “One has to be,” said Melrose, grimly. He decided at that moment that he would visit Watermeadows, something he had never done for he was afraid of seeming intrusive. But this matter needed to be intruded upon.

  7

  “He just turned up at the front door,” said Flora Flood, shrugging.

  Melrose smiled. “You mean, like I did.”

  “No, not at all. He came on his horse. And I didn’t mean you aren’t welcome.” She beamed her welcome.

  Melrose certainly had turned up immediately after leaving the Jack and Hammer. He imagined turning up in a Bentley was a bit more acceptable than turning up on a horse. “It’s none of my business, Miss Flood—”

  “Oh, Flora, please.”

  “Flora. As I said, none of my business, but—”

  “We’ll make it your business. Come on into the library.” One of her legs was in a brace and dragged.

  He had met up with Flora Flood a few times before, but always in the Blue Parrot, a scruffy pub off the Northampton Road. And from their brief, Blue-Parrot-relationship, he realized he knew absolutely nothing about her, including what had happened to her leg.

  “You must find it hard, keeping this place up.” Melrose had just stopped himself from asking why she didn’t have a butler.

  “The thing is, Uncle Frank—who’s seldom here anyway—and I don’t have staff. And Aunt Eleanor naturally took Crick with her to London. He’s sort of her life’s blood.”

  Remembering the condition of Crick, Melrose wondered whether the man could even be his own life’s blood. He should be working at Borings. “It’s an awfully large place to be managing on your own.”

  “There’s not that much to do. Would you like some tea?”

  “I’d love some tea.”

  “Right. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

  “Please don’t go to any—” But she’d already gone. He’d forgotten she’d be doing it herself.

  While she was in the kitchen, Melrose had a look at some pictures hanging on the wall around the fireplace mantel. He recognized Lady Summerston in several of them, but not the group of men around her. A hunting party, it appeared to be, for several of the men were looking self-important with their shotguns on display. Melrose was surprised to see, in one of them, Lady Summerston holding a shotgun. She was the only woman in the party. He studied the surroundings. In the background was a large house, mansion-large. He wondered what connection this estate had to the Summerstons.

  When Flora reappeared with a tea tray, Melrose moved quickly to take it from her and set it on a coffee table, which he cleared of a large vase of cut flowers.

  “Thanks,” she said, picking up the silver teapot.

  “I was looking at the pictures there—” He nodded toward the mantel. “Are they of an estate somewhere?”

  “Yes. Gerald Summerston’s family home. It’s quite large. Or was. I don’t know what it is now.” She held up the sugar bowl, then the jug of milk.

  “Both, but not much of either, thanks. Are some of those of a shooting party? And does your aunt shoot?”

  “Oh, my goodness, yes. She’s a better shot than most of the men; that’s probably why they’re looking so grim, standing round her.” Flora laughed.

  “Your uncle stays in London, then?”

  She nodded, sipped her tea. “He doesn’t care for the country. I do. This place is so wonderful—But go on. Tell me about this Mr. Strether. Is his name really Lambert?”

  “’Fraid so.”

  “Henry James would probably rather face down that audience for his poor play than face Mr. Strether.”

  “Poor Henry. Though it’s hard to think of James as ‘poor’ in anything. You know, I actu
ally took over Lamb House in Rye for a short while when—” But he didn’t want to bring up the death of Billy Maples. That would sidetrack them for the rest of the afternoon.

  “When what?”

  “The National Trust’s resident had to vacate the place early. Lamb House was fascinating. But back to the present Lambert Strether. When I heard him talking about it, I was a little concerned for you because Strether isn’t the best candidate for a tenant.” Melrose told her about Strether’s various schemes without actually saying “con man.”

  She said it for him. “He’s a con artist. Good grief.”

  “Artistry has little to do with it. But were you actually looking to let your carriage house?”

  “Heavens, no. Especially since it’s not ours.”

  “I’m happy to hear that. I’d hate to have the man as my neighbor. He’d be forever at my place. My aunt is his particular friend. And she’s forever at my place.”

  “I don’t believe I know her.”

  “Perhaps you could join us, say, for dinner one evening.”

  “That would be grand.”

  Now, though, he wasn’t sure how to proceed. His shyness irritated him. “What I’d like to do is get a few friends together.” He was thinking of Trueblood and Vivian, and Jury was to come for a visit the following weekend … Wait a minute! Would he want to put Richard Jury in the same room with Flora Flood? Was he mad? Richard Jury was the “ideal man” for any woman over fifteen. No, forget fifteen! For any female old enough to talk. “Do you know the owner of the antiques shop on the High Street, Marshall Trueblood?”

  “I’ve spoken with him when I’ve been in there. He’s very entertaining.”

  “He is indeed. A few of us gather in the Jack and Hammer quite often. Have you been in that pub?”

  “Yes, but I don’t stay. It’s not like the Blue Parrot. I mean, it’s quite a nice pub, but in the Blue Parrot you find people by themselves. The Jack and Hammer has groups—”

  Groups? Plural? He thought the only group he’d ever seen was his own.

  “—and I feel, you know, left out. So I walk to the Blue Parrot. The walk is good for my leg, too.”