The Anodyne Necklace(45)

"Sergeant Wiggins is a very good policeman."

"A strong wind would blow him over. Got all sorts of things the matter-" He picked up the cream crackers, checked the price and replaced them. "-with him. I can't under-" Melrose was saved from further defense of Wiggins by Sir Miles's attention being diverted onto fresh paths. "There go the Craigies," he said, craning his neck to look out the window. "Please do excuse me, dear fellow, but I must have a word with them. I know they must be prostrate. . . . " And out the door he sailed. Melrose heard him trumpeting Ernestine! Augusta! all across the High.



Having posted his card (a view of Hertfield from the air) to Agatha, telling her that the village was a singularly unexciting place, he wondered what to do with himself. No one seemed to be about. It had started to rain and the sky was dull and the Green wind-whipped. Littlebourne reminded Melrose at the moment of one of those old movie sets, deserted and desolate.

As he was crossing the Green, heading toward the Magic Muffin, he heard the clip clop of a horse's hooves.

It was Julia Bodenheim, up on Jupiter, all kitted out for a nearby meet, boots polished, stock crisply white. He was awfully glad she did not stop. All she did was raise her crop to her cap and smile and sit a bit taller, giving him the advantage of her trim profile.

He watched her go. Three deaths in as many days and Julia Bodenheim was going out to chase a fox, demonstrating to Melrose the remarkable English propensity for silliness.

II

Most of Littlebourne seemed to have converged on the Magic Muffin, muffins and tea being considered, presumably, not quite so celebratory as ale and beer. The Bold Blue Boy was closed, at any rate, leaving the eleven o'clock tipplers without much choice.

Polly Praed was, fortunately, one of them. She was seated at a corner table with an elderly woman with gray hair who was just in the process of leaving, but who looked Melrose over carefully before giving up her seat.

"Everyone is simply . . . astounded. Did you guess it was Peter Gere?" She was leaning toward him, her glasses scooped up on top of her head, her eyes shining with a mixture of excitement and sadness.

Melrose decided not to lie. "No. I was wondering, Polly-"

She did not seem the least interested in whatever he was wondering. "And Emily! My God! Going after a poor little girl like that."

Melrose nodded, though he found it very difficult to think of Emily Louise as a "poor, little girl." "Yes, absolutely dreadful. I thought perhaps-"

What he thought was no more of the moment than what he was wondering. "I always liked Peter Gere. He seemed so . . . mild. Unassuming. The very picture of the village bobby."

"Polly-"

This time he was interrupted by Miss Pettigrew, who whisked over with a tray to clear up the used teacup and plate before Melrose. Her hair was flyaway, her cheeks pink. Whatever terrors had befallen the village, Miss Pettigrew was right there to offer succor in the form of tea and muffins.

"Nothing, thank you," said Melrose. She whisked the tray from the table.

"Well, I suppose you'll be leaving now it's all over."

Although he was delighted she had finally given him an opportunity to extend his invitation, he was less than delighted that her tone, when she said this, was hardly one of sadness, not even one of resignation.

"Yes. Tomorrow, after the funeral. I thought perhaps sometime, when you weren't in the throes of your latest attempt to kill off the Bodenheims, you might consider visiting me at Ardry End. It's quite a lovely old place; it's been in the family-the Earls of Caverness-for several centuries."

She broke off part of a muffin and buttered it. "I suppose you have heaps of money."

"Heaps."

"That's very nice of you, but I don't know. I never go anywhere, really. Travel is all in the mind, isn't it?"

He did not attempt to answer that conundrum. "We used to have a mystery writer in Long Piddleton. He's gone now," Melrose added, hinting that the vacancy was open.

But her mind was, apparently, still on the subject of money. "I wonder how much policemen make?" She studied her muffin.

Oh, hell, thought Melrose.

III

To Jury's eyes, the steps of Stonington were as wide as water and its gray facade even more impenetrable than before. The sky was like slate; the rain had stopped, but the trees rained on; rime edged the empty urns.

Not wanting to take her by surprise with the nature of his mission, Jury had asked Carstairs to ring up Jenny Kennington and tell her what had happened. Cowardice, that-his wanting to pretend he was only the messenger bearing news he had had little hand in bringing about.



She must have been watching from one of the windows, for she opened the door before he reached it. She was dressed as she had been yesterday, in a skirt and the same silver-gray sweater.

"Lady Kennington. I've come to-" Was he intending to hand over the necklace on the doorstep?

"I know why. Inspector Carstairs rang me. Come in. He rang up late last night . . . " She looked as if she hadn't slept very well afterward. She gave a vague little shrug, seemed about to say something, changed her mind, shook her head. "It's awful. I couldn't believe . . . I didn't know Peter Gere very well at all. But . . . " Once again, she led him through the door to the chilly-looking library and once again apologized for the cold. "It seems useless trying to heat these rooms, especially with the moving and everything."

The leather couch and chairs were under dust covers. "I'm leaving all of this. I've never liked it." There were packing cases by the bookshelves.

They walked through to the other, smaller room. Jury felt a twinge of regret when he saw the flowered, chintz-covered chair was gone. He had not realized until just then how it must have hung in his mind like a picture, that arrangement-the chair, the shawl, the teacup on the floor. "Where are you moving to?"

"I don't know. Once we lived in Stratford-outside Stratford, rather, in the Avon valley. A friend of mine wants to sell a cottage in the old part of town. Very tiny, two up and two down." She smiled slightly. "That's what I need."

"Do you?" Jury asked, not looking at her, but through the French window. Outside in the cloistered courtyard, where no trees were, leaves had gathered mysteriously below the figure in the dry fountain. Color had fled completely from the day, leaving behind only the monochromatic scene of white marble, gray stone, dark leaves.

Thinking his question perhaps rhetorical, she didn't answer, but led him through to the dining room. It was unchanged, of course, for there had been nothing here to change. "I thought we could go into the kitchen where there's a fire." Still, she lingered here, looking out the long windows. It was almost ritualistic, the way she stopped in each room, as if paying obeisance to some house-god to keep him from loosing his potent magic.
 
 

 

Certainly, she seemed in no hurry to collect her necklace, which Jury felt was burning in a small, green fire in his pocket.

In a moment she said, "Katie O'Brien's dead, too."

"Yes," said Jury, bringing out the necklace. "This is yours."

There was nothing for her to do now but hold out her hands, cupped like someone taking a drink from a stream. He dropped the emerald into it. She held it up, turning it in the light. "Four people died because of this."

"Don't be stupid about it," said Jury, brusquely. She looked at him, surprised. "I mean, it's yours, it belongs to you. If you don't want to wear it, then hand it over to Sotheby's or someone and let them auction it off. With that kind of money, you won't have to leave and move to Stratford-upon-Avon or anywhere else."

If she had paid any attention to this, she gave no sign. The next thing she said was, "You know, I always thought the burial rites of the Egyptians were somehow more hopeful than ours. Leaving food and wine and money and gems in the tomb, so that the person would have plenty in the afterlife."

"What are you suggesting now? That the necklace carries the Curse of the Pharaohs, or something?"

"No." Her cool eyes appraised him. "I get the feeling you think I'm not properly grateful. . . . Believe me, I am."

"I don't expect you to be grateful. I expect you to take proper care of yourself, though." He turned away to look out at the mournful statue, feeling irrationally angry.

"Oh," was all she said. Her hands fooled with the clasp of the necklace, which she then placed round her neck. "There, you see. I don't think it's cursed at all."

Jury was trying not to smile; he had no idea why he felt so cross. Indeed, she did look comical standing there in that droopy, gray sweater adorned with so much emerald elegance. "Okay," he said. "Just so long as you're sensible about it."

"I'm a very sensible person."

Jury wondered. He was moved to give her another brief lecture, but was saved from such foolishness by the door's creaking open at the other end of the room, and a reincarnated Tom entering. The black cat sat in the middle of the floor, slowly washing his face, as if its brush with death were a long-faded memory.

"The cat's back already?"

"Yes. It wasn't as bad as the vet thought after he looked at the X-rays. But it was still expensive."

Jury pointed to the necklace. "That'll pay a lot of vet's bills."