The Old Fox Deceived Page 5

  “Nothing. She didn’t talk to me. That Julian, the son. He’s odd.”

  “Odd? How?”

  “Keeps to himself. Never see him in the village hardly. Forty and never married.”

  She said it as if it summed up all possible behavior aberrations.

  “I’m forty and not been married, Kitty.”

  She stared at him. “Well, that’s a bit hard to believe. Don’t fancy it, is that it?”

  “Oh, I fancy it. You didn’t know the Craels’ ward, Dillys March, did you? You wouldn’t have been here that long ago, I expect.”

  “No. I’ve heard about her though. Went off and got married, didn’t she?”

  She’d got marriage on the mind. “Not that we know. This costume, I understand, belonged to a girl named Lily Siddons —”

  Kitty was nodding her head. “Lily, yes, sir, that’s right. Lily gave it to her, loaned it to her, I don’t know. And then Lily went with Maud Brixenham as —” Kitty pursed her lips. “Somebody out of Shakespeare, I can’t remember.”

  “Is Lily Siddons a special friend of the Craels?”

  “Aye. Her mother was Cook at Old House before she died. Mary Siddons.”

  “Daughter of the Craels’ cook? Sir Titus must be very egalitarian —” Jury helped Kitty over her puzzlement. “I mean, to socialize with his servants’ children?”

  “It’s not the same a tall a tall. Lily’s special to him. She lived up there with her mother for a while when her da just took himself off.”

  “People certainly disappear around here, don’t they? Did you see Lily the night of the murder?”

  “I did. We always have a bit of a talk round closing time. She lives just across the way. That funny little house where the High and Grape Lane come together. I ran on over after closing—”

  Jury took out his notebook. “What time was that?”

  “Eleven twenty-five, it was. I saw her light on.”

  “I thought she went to the party.”

  “She left early. With Maud Brixenham and Maud’s nephew — that’s Les Aird. Lily didn’t feel good, she said.” When she saw Jury opening the folder, she added: “I know it’s important because of when the Temple girl was killed.”

  Jury looked up at her. “You know the exact time she was killed?”

  “O, la, sir. Everybody in Rackmoor knows. Stabbed a dozen times she was.”

  “How long does it take to get from here to the Angel steps, Kitty?”

  Kitty smiled winningly. “And isn’t that just what that Mr. Harkins asked? Ten minutes to get up there where she was killed. Now I couldn’t have done that and got back to Lily’s place at eleven twenty-five, could I?”

  Jury smiled. “Both you and Lily have pretty good alibis, then.” Kitty beamed, and he added: “Not airtight, of course. One or the other of you might have run like hell . . . ”

  Kitty felt safe enough to laugh. “Oh, come now, sir.” She lowered her voice. “What was it killed her?”

  “I thought you might tell me. You know everything else. Tell me, Kitty, who’d want to kill Lily Siddons?”

  She looked shocked. “Lily, sir? What do you mean?”

  “You were a friend of hers. Didn’t she tell you she thought someone had mistaken Gemma Temple for her? In the costume?”

  “My God. No, she never mentioned it.”

  “Did they look alike?”

  “No, but in that costume . . . it’d be hard to tell, I mean, in the fog and the dark.”

  “Hmm. I think I’d better see this Temple woman’s room.” Jury drained his glass.

  Through the door, she led Jury up the narrow stair and down the hall to a large airy room facing out on the seawall and the slate-gray waves beyond.

  As Jury went over the room—through closets, behind furniture and mirrors — Kitty was saying that she seldom let the rooms. “Not much call for it in winter. Why, the first stranger I’ve seen in two months is a gentleman yesterday afternoon, sitting over there in the corner reading some French book and drinking Old Peculier — whoever drinks that anymore? Bitsy —that’s the girl waits on tables here, when she works at all—says he was on his way to Old House and was having a look round the village. Bitsy chatted him up as long as she could. Anything to keep from working—”

  Old Peculier and French literature. “What did this gentleman look like?”

  “Kind of tall. Fair hair. Quite smashing eyes.”

  “Green?”

  “Green is right. They fairly glitter. How’d you know?”

  Melrose Plant. What the devil was he doing in Rackmoor?

  3

  Melrose Plant was sitting at one end of the Craels’ dining room table, which was dark and glassy as a moonlit tarn and seemed a quarter of a mile long. He was having a late breakfast of buttered eggs. He had overslept to an embarrassing degree and had asked Wood, the butler, if a cup of coffee were available. Although it was clear Colonel Crael was genuinely pleased to have him there, it was equally clear Julian was not. Yet, it was not Melrose himself that Julian seemed to resent, but the appearance of anyone new on the spot. That made it very hard going for Julian, given the intrusion of the police.

  Wood assured Melrose that the Colonel had insisted breakfast be kept hot as long as necessary. Colonel Crael (Wood had informed him) had gone to kennels in Pitlochary. Julian Crael had gone for his morning walk.

  Melrose was just as glad. He thought the Colonel a grand old man, but he did not like Julian. Among other things, he was suspicious of terribly handsome men, and Julian had more than his share in that department. Or was he, in early middle-age, simply jealous of youth? Yet, Julian was not really youth. He was probably no more than five or six years younger than Melrose. It was just that Julian looked eternally young. That, thought Melrose, was even more reprehensible.

  As Melrose was dissecting his second smoked herring, Olive Manning, the housekeeper, walked into the dining room, jingling. Melrose had thought that chatelaines went out with the Brontë sisters and Gothic novels. But here was one in truth, a host of keys suspended from the housekeeper’s waist.

  “Colonel Crael asked me to see if there was anything you needed and if you’d care to join him later for a ride?”

  Hell’s bells, thought Melrose. Served him right for telling the Colonel about his horse at Ardry End. “That’s very kind of him. But I’ve this dicky knee, must have stretched a tendon when I was doing a bit of jumping last week.” (Melrose always fell into this Old Boy idiom when he was lying. It was as if he had to invent a persona for the purpose.)

  Beyond a brief nod of her head, Olive Manning’s expression did not change, dicky knees not coming within her purview. But she did murmur something insincerely sympathetic. “I hope it will be better; otherwise, you’ll miss the hunt.”

  “Oh, my. No, we wouldn’t want that, would we?” He rose and pulled out a chair. “Join me for a cup of coffee?”

  She looked uncertain, and not, he suspected, because of her position in the household — Olive Manning was treated almost as one of the family — but because she seemed to regard him with something like suspicion. He would have to pivot round the subject of the Twelfth Night party, which was what he wanted to question her about.

  He did not like Olive Manning, either. He did not like her tight features, her narrow chin, constricted brow, mouth bunched like grapes. She seemed to register a perpetual and controlled anger with the world. The head of black hair was set on a body like a stalk and dressed in (the very finest, he was sure, of Liberty’s) dark lawn. She sat down, declined coffee, and lapped her hands on the table. On her finger was a rose-pink topaz that could have choked a horse. Nobody at Old House was starving.

  “Sir Titus says that you were Lady Margaret’s closest . . . companion.” He didn’t want to say “maid” or “servant.”

  “Aye.” The single syllable was soft; for a fleeting moment her mouth relaxed.

  “I’m very sorry I didn’t know her. My father, Lord Ardry, spoke of her . . . said sh
e was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen.”

  It was clearly the right line to take. Mrs. Manning very nearly smiled. “Indeed, I’ve yet to see a lovelier woman. Her hair, when she let it down, was like a wash of sunlight. The boys both got it, Julian and Rolfe.” She looked away. “Rolfe is dead, too, as you know.”

  “Yes. Awful to have both of them, the mother and the son, die at the same time. A motor accident, the Colonel said.”

  She sighed. “Eighteen years ago, it was. Rolfe was only thirty-two.” She turned a silver knife over and over as if she might lift it at any moment and plunge it into her own breast. Or into his. The tightfisted look had begun to resolve itself into something akin to suffering. He knew she had a son in a mental institution, but he was not going to broach that subject. He glanced at her sideways.

  “Terrible. So there’s only Julian left.”

  “Yes.” She gave him a whiplash look. It was too near the subject she didn’t want to discuss. Melrose stuck what was left of a cigar in his mouth and leaned back, hands clasped behind his head. He blew a smoke ring. “Do you like to hunt, Mrs. Manning?”

  Safe ground. The face relaxed again. “I do, yes. I’ve hunted ever since I was a girl. And in this house it would be difficult not to do it.” Light, so watery it might have come through frosted glass, touched her hair. At one time she might have been a handsome woman, before whatever fury which possessed her had taken hold.

  “Julian doesn’t much like it, though. That must not go down a treat with his father.” Melrose smiled.

  “No, Julian’s —” Again, her glance veered off him like a slap and she turned to look through the long windows.

  “Doesn’t like parties, either, eh?” Melrose looked every-where in the room except at her.

  She stiffened up, sat back in her chair. “Julian is simply not a very sociable person. Not like—”

  When she stopped he picked it up, quickly. “ ‘Not like’—?”

  “I was thinking of Rolfe. Rolfe was more his father’s son. And his mother’s, if it came to that.” Her tone was neutral, matter-of-fact. Whether she did or did not approve of Julian, he was left to guess.

  Melrose decided to be more direct. “Well, it’s a pity he’s come under suspicion. Julian, I mean.”

  “I know who you mean, Lord Ardry. It’s ridiculous, of course.” She rose, wiped back the sides of her hair, which was twisted into a chignon at her neck. “I must make a few calls for Cook. How long will you be with us, Lord Ardry?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. I’ve just nipped up from York. Possibly another couple of days. Two or three.” Or four or five. “And it’s just plain Plant, Mrs. Manning. Not Lord Ardry.”

  She did not seem to question the oddity of the only son’s not tricking himself out with the deceased father’s title. “I see. If you’ll excuse me, then.”

  • • •

  Brilliant, he said to himself, wandering from the dining room into what Colonel Crael called his “snug.” Brilliant, the ease with which you extracted all that information from her. You might as well have been doing a root canal. Disgusted with himself, Melrose flopped in a chair and crossed his legs. He put out the stub of the old cigar, lit a fresh one, looked round for some decanters, saw two that would have brought the price of a trip to Heaven, fetched himself a glass of port, sat back smoking and drinking and staring at the ceiling. Ceilings were decidedly his métier. This one was a wonder to behold. Angelica Kauffmann? Joseph Rose? He didn’t know. Whoever it was had been a brilliant stuccoist and the ceiling was relaxing. It helped him think. He turned the conversation of the previous evening over in his mind like the leaves of a book.

  • • •

  “Blackmail?” Julian Crael had said to him. A frosty smile. “Why on earth would this Temple woman think she could blackmail me?”

  Melrose smiled serenely. “Well, I don’t know, old bean. What have you been up to?”

  They had been in the drawing room, Julian standing by the fire under his dead mother’s portrait. Melrose wondered if those ice-blue eyes could be melted even by flames. “I’m afraid there’s nothing in my past that anyone’d pay good money to know.”

  “A life without blemish? Do you mean if someone called you and said, ‘I know what you did,’ you wouldn’t run like hell?”

  The chilly smile stayed in place, but no answer accompanied it.

  “Good heavens,” Melrose persisted, “even innocent I, whose days drift by like flotsam in a stream — even I can think of one or two little incidents I’d sooner not have anyone else remark on.” Melrose smiled winningly.

  “Then I suggest,” said Julian, placing his glass on a table, “that you do not remark on them yourself.” With that he excused himself and simply walked out of the room.

  • • •

  Melrose sighed, eyes on the ceiling. He was afraid Sir Titus Crael was going to be disappointed if he thought that Melrose —the disinterested party — was going to get Julian to tell all. The unbending Julian Melrose regarded as a taciturn and charmless fellow. The sort from whom dogs and children flee. But not women, he bet. Julian Crael had not married, but Melrose would wager there wasn’t a lass from York to Edinburgh who wouldn’t have walked through water to Holy Island for a shot at Julian Crael. Those looks, that money, that position, that — privilege!

  Melrose thought (but very modestly; only a small voice whispered it) I should know. Melrose had less looks, though. Up now and prowling the room, he couldn’t resist a passing glance in an ornate mirror, whose gilt frame sported frolicking cherubs. Acceptable looks, but no match for Julian Crael. Who would be? He thought of the portrait over the mantel in the drawing room. He looks just like his mother. Now he passed behind a library table on which were spread out some papers, pens, books. He looked at the spines: Whyte-Melville, The Best of the Fun, Jorrocks — all hunting stuff. Then he poured another glass of port, stoppered up the Waterford decanter, resumed his seat and his ceiling-staring.

  Julian Crael had the perfect motive. It wasn’t simply the money which this Temple woman could have claimed if she’d really been the ward. She would also have laid claim to the old man’s affections. She’d have been a constant thorn in the younger Crael’s side . . .

  Unfortunately, Julian Crael also had the perfect alibi.

  That was what rankled. At the time of the murder Julian was in his room. He had come in from his walk, bypassed the party, gone straight to his room, and stayed there. And he could prove it.

  Melrose Plant shut his eyes, rubbed his hair, trying to jog his brain to squeeze out an answer to this riddle.

  He took his hands away, his fair hair now a froth of cowlicks. He wasn’t going to quail before some Carter Dickson locked-room mystery.

  Where was Jury?

  4

  The gray brindled cat uncurled itself from its window ledge, looked at Jury, yawned through the glass and recurled itself, doughnut-fashion. Stuck between glass and window molding was a small sign: OPEN. Another sign hung on the door: PLEASE COME IN. Jury and Wiggins went in.

  A bell tinkled. From regions above, a rich baritone called down to wait just a moment. The owner of the voice then clattered downstairs. He was wearing jeans, a blue guernsey, a nautical cap (its shiny beak turned backwards), a leather apron streaked with magenta paint, and a cigar behind his ear.

  “Mr. Rees? My name’s Jury —”

  “Chief Inspector, C.I.D., Scotland Yard. And Sergeant Wiggins. I know.”

  Jury pocketed his identification. “News travels fast, does it?”

  Rees pulled the cigar stub from his ear, got it going again. “In Rackmoor, Chief Inspector, there’s nothing else to travel. You’re here to question me about this murder. Couldn’t I just say I didn’t do it and let it go at that?”

  Jury smiled. “It won’t take long, Mr. Rees.”

  “Oh, sure. That’s probably what they said to Thomas More as he was stepping up to the block.”

  “To which he replied something like, ‘He
lp me up. I won’t need any help down.’ ”

  Adrian looked astonished, more at Jury’s having read it than More’s having said it. “God, did he really say that?”

  “Far as I know. I wasn’t there, of course.”

  Adrian shook his head. “My God, they had flair back then. Why must we be such mewling kiddies in the face of death? Why so weak?”

  “Raskolnikov’s philosophy?”

  “Oh, Christ.” Adrian’s fists gripped his hair. “Is that going to hound me to my dea—never mind.”

  Jury was running his eyes over the paintings which covered the walls of the long room in which they stood. “Wonderful work. I’m sure you didn’t do the postcard-type of the Abbey down there at the end.”

  Adrian looked around. “Bloody right, I didn’t. But I have to take stuff on consignment to make ends meet. Local artists, local color, local garbage. But it sells in summer.”

  “I suppose so. You like that one, Wiggins?”

  Sergeant Wiggins had eased his way over to an oil of a decomposed nude. He cleared his throat. “Interesting.”

  “Look, I wonder, would you mind coming upstairs where I do my work and question me? I’m not trying to impress you with the Dedicated Artist bit, but the paint’s drying on a canvas and I won’t be able to mess it about if it does. Okay?”

  “Sure.” Jury plucked at Wiggins’s shoulder. The sergeant had his head bent at an odd angle, surveying the nude — or nudes, as there seemed to be more than one — done in some sort of cubist style so that the varying parts of the anatomy were strangely placed. They also seemed to be engaged in revels which Jury did not care to contemplate at the moment.

  Jury and Wiggins followed Adrian Rees up a small, enclosed staircase into a very large room, awash in gray light coming largely through the skylight. “It’s why I bought the place,” said Adrian. “Every house I’ve been in in Rackmoor is as dark as sin. It’s the way the village is all crammed into these cliffs. The houses above shut the light out from the houses below. They’ve got to keep lights lit in some of the rooms in full daylight.”