"Clever?" said Sylvia. "I thought him quite common."
"You met him?"
Sylvia sniffed. "Lord Kennington had one small gathering to show off his collection. Egyptology seemed to be his forte. She is certainly no hostess."
"How did Tree come to work for Lord Kennington?"
"I understood he'd been employed by Christie's. Now we have always dealt with Sotheby's. We find them much more satisfactory." Jury only smiled and looked at the reproductions, the japanned screen, the ornate moldings. They had managed to stamp out elegance without the help of either of the famous auction rooms. She picked up her narrative along with a couple of dropped stitches. "I can't think how the widow runs the place anyway. When I was there no one was about and I was finally forced to tap on panes and peer through the French doors when no one answered to my knock. Finally, she appeared. A rather drab person. Of course, we never see much of her because she does her shopping, I expect, in Horndean. I explained to her about the fête and asked her to take the Jumble table. The woman simply has no community spirit."
Derek yawned. "Why the hell should she, as she's not right in Littlebourne?"
"She's close enough," said Sylvia, and returned her damp gaze to Jury. Her eyes were the color of fungi one is always afraid of picking in the wilds. "And do you know, the woman had the nerve to open her purse and hand me twenty pounds! As if I were out doing collections! The odious person had the nerve to say that twenty pounds would be as much as the whole Jumble would bring and why go to the trouble of carting dribs and drabs of junk about when here was the case and we could just forego the table. My dears!" Sylvia spread her arms wide, taking in everyone, even "her dear" Jury. "We always have a Jumble!"
As far as Jury was concerned, Lady Kennington's reasoning seemed imminently sensible, and he tried to bring them back to the matter of the murder. Sylvia was too quick, though.
"And I, who already have too much to do-I'm President of the Women's Institute, after all-I've already the Bring-and-Buy and I suppose now I shall have to take over the Jumble." She looked to her husband for support, but Miles did not appear to be listening, busy as he was with trying to scratch the dried egg from the ascot.
Derek said, "Same thing, nearly. Shake 'em up together and see which falls out first."
"They are decidedly not the same, Derek. And remember, you have charge of the Bottle Toss."
"Christ, not again."
"Julia is to take over the phaeton rides-"
"Not I. Emily's doing that. I'm not about to do rides for whining kiddies."
"I merely meant to supervise, my darling. Just be there to see Emily doesn't get up to something. Polly Praed is to handle the tea tent-"
"Glad it's not the Pennystevens person. She shorted me ten pence last year. And what's old Critchley to do?" continued Miles. "After all it's his church. Should think he'd do some work instead of standing about looking holy."
"I hope Ramona Wey isn't to have a stall," said Julia. "I don't think it's right the antiques people from Hertfield just come along and use our fête to do business."
"Ah, but that's not really why, is it, old girl?" said her brother, hands clasped behind his head. "It's because of Riddley, isn't it? You don't-"
"Shut up!" yelled Julia.
"Children, children," said Sylvia, blandly. Jury wondered if she were about to suggest they go out and play. There were times when he was glad he had no children. And then a real one would come along and he'd be sorry once more.
"As to those letters, Superintendent," said Sylvia, needles clicking faster. "I can see why Ramona Wey got one. Calls herself a ‘decorator' and has that tarted-up little shop on the Row, but the woman's nothing in the world but a jumped-up little secretary from London. There is talk, too, about her and Freddie Mainwaring, but I'm sure he's got too much sense-"
"I find her rather jolly," said Derek. His soft face split in a mocking smile.
"I have always been able to keep an open mind on such subjects," said Sir Miles, his face turned to the ceiling as if about to receive the angels' blessings. "I suggest you would all do well to follow my example. I do not approve of the woman, no, but at least she does keep herself to herself, even to drawing her shades. Mrs. Pennystevens told me, when I inquired, that the Wey woman must keep a poste restante somewhere, for she receives no mail through our carrier. I'm surprised we any of us get our mail, as he is none too quick either. But we must suffer fools gladly, I expect." He smiled benignly, and opened his mouth to say more.
But Jury cut him short with a smile even more benign, having as it did the blessing of the Metropolitan Police Department. "Where were all of you on the Thursday night? Two nights ago, that is?"
They all looked at one another and then at Jury, as if he were rather a rude child inquiring into his elders' affairs. After a moment of improvised dismay, however, Derek seemed to enjoy the question immensely.
"It appears the Super thinks one of us had a hand in the dirty deed! As for myself-let's see-I was in the White Hart in Hertfield. Must be able to scare up some witnesses, though we were all so pissed-"
"Derek! Really! I'm quite sure the superintendent is suggesting nothing at all. I was at my Women's Institute meeting. We meet at eight-thirty, first Thursday of the month. I was a wee bit late because I had to come back and get my records."
The victim's bus had stopped at 8:05. What held you up? thought Jury, smiling. Sylvia hadn't got the time frame of the murder fixed, or she was innocent of anything. "Alone?"
"Yes, of course. I do drive, Superintendent." That was to be listed among her other accomplishments-like knitting and raising children.
When Sir Miles saw that Jury's notebook was open, he was moved once again toward speech-making. After all, one never knew what mortal form the recording angel might take. "As is always my custom on Thursday evenings, I have a jaunt down to the Bold Blue Boy. I say it never hurts to have a bit of a laugh and a drink with the locals. One must keep the common touch. You can ask there. Anyone will vouch for me. Ho ho, there's an alibi for you, Superintendent!"
"It closes at eleven, doesn't it?"
Sir Miles winked. "Well, you know country pubs. Cheat a bit. Eleven, eleven-fifteen. Not that Mary O'Brien would keep open after hours-" Since he'd just accused Mary O'Brien of precisely that, the comment seemed irrelevant. "And, of course, since that accident to the girl-"
Julia, apparently seeing a way to get back at Derek, said, "Too bad, Derek. No more grope and grapple in the stableyard." She laughed unpleasantly.
Derek went beet-red. "Sod off!" His soft face hardened.
"Are you talking about Katie O'Brien?" asked Jury. They turned once again to stare, except for Miles, whose eyes were riveted on some point in space, devising or revising his next speech. The others looked uncomfortable, even Julia, who had brought it up in the first place.
"You, Miss Bodenheim. You haven't told me where you were on Thursday evening."
"Out in the stables."
Derek giggled. It was an unpleasant sound coming from a twenty-four- or twenty-five-year-old man. "That's a laugh. You working."
"Well, I was!"
"Getting back to the O'Brien girl. Did you know her well?"
"No. She exercised my mare sometimes."
"I was given to believe that this little girl, Emily Perk, took care of the horses at Rookswood."
"She does. Only my mare is nearly sixteen hands and too big for Emily to do properly, so we got Katie to do it."
"She's in hospital," said Sylvia, snipping a strand of wool. "A great pity, but if guhls must be roaming the streets of London . . . Not only that-" Sylvia glared at Jury-the streets of London were, after all, his responsibility, "she was attacked in an Underground station. Playing her violin, good gracious, for money."
Sir Miles looked over the church steeple of his fingers and intoned, "Really, my dear, we mustn't be too hard on the girl. After all, given she was raised in a pub, and hadn't the advantages of our. . . . "
Jury listened as the angels looked down.
II
It was after three when Jury got back to the Blue Boy to find Sergeant Wiggins already there spooning up soup.
"Oxtail," said Wiggins. "Mrs. O'Brien gave me some. She just left for the shops in Hertfield. But I'm sure there's more in the pot-"
Wiggins had made himself right at home. "No, thanks," said Jury.
"You don't eat right. You didn't have any lunch. If I ate on the run like you, I'd have no resistance at all. This is good soup."
"Aside from the quality of the soup, what did you learn?"
Unoffended, Wiggins quartered and buttered a breadroll. "Mainwaring didn't know the murdered woman, and couldn't imagine why she'd be out in the woods-"
"No one can. Go on."
"He works part of the time in London, in the City, in insurance. Then he's got a part-time estate agency in Littlebourne."
"He commutes to London some days?"
"That's right."
"He saw the pictures of the murdered woman?"
"Yes. Said he'd never seen her before. Also said he was with the Wey woman on Thursday night. Which she confirmed. You want him to go along and have a look at the body?"