"I take it you, ah, got one of these letters."
She nodded. "Green. Please don't ask what was in it."
"Wouldn't dream of it. Haven't the police an idea who's responsible?" She shook her head. "Have there been many?"
"Half a dozen. They all came at the same time." Polly explained Mrs. Pennystevens's parcel.
"That sounds very odd. Hardly the right psychology for poisonpen letters."
"What do you mean?" She frowned.
"Imagine yourself with this queer perversion. You want to make people suffer. Then you'd draw it out as long as possible. Think of poor old Augusta Craigie in an absolute muck-sweat every time she goes to collect her post, or watches it being dropped through the door, or whatever. She's wondering, Will I be next? The writer can keep people on a string for ages that way. Finding a letter in an unknown hand. Imagine the letter-writer imagining all that. You see? You wouldn't want just to go and dump the lot all at once. It would take away all of the imagined secret suffering."
"You certainly know a lot about the psychology. You didn't write them, did you?" She buttered another muffin.
Melrose ignored that. "The way this person's done it, everyone knows who else got one and police are called in straightaway. After some initial embarrassment probably no one takes it awfully seriously. And done in rainbow hues. That's even more distracting. Very odd. Do you think there's any connection with the murder?"
"I've been thinking and thinking about that. I'm a mystery writer-"
"You are?"
"Yes. But it's not all that fascinating. Pretty routine, really. And it's very discouraging I can't come up with some idea. I imagine that superintendent from the Yard thinks I'm quite stupid." Sadly, she looked down at her muffin half. "Trouble is, if you're clever in fancy, you're not always clever in fact, I'm not. I'm even awful at the simplest kind of conversation, as you've probably noticed."
"I've noticed nothing of the sort."
"You must have done. I'm an absolute nincompoop in social situations. I don't go to dinners or teas because I just stand in the corner like a stick trying to think what to say." In blistering detail, and with a mouth full of muffin, she ran down her list of social failings. Then she tossed it all over her shoulder like salt, ending with, "May I have the last muffin?"
"Yes. I think all that you just said is absurd. You might have been describing someone else. I mean, you've been sitting here talking to me sixteen-to-the-dozen-"
"Oh, you." She waved her hand dismissively.
Was it a compliment? Or did she mean they were in the same basket, two nincompoops together?
She shoved her plate and cup aside and leaned toward him. "Listen. I know you're not here to buy Stonington. You'd have to have packets of money. Though it would be nice if you were to buy it. That would kill the Bodenheims, to have someone else in the area taking over the number one spot. The only worse thing for them would be to have someone titled move in-" Polly looked hopefully at him. "You're not, are you?"
Sadly, Melrose studied his cup. "Well . . . "
"You are! Say you are!" Her face was shoved closer to his in her enthrallment. The proximity was not displeasing.
"I'm not." The face moved back and he almost felt he had betrayed her. "But I used to be," he added, brightly.
"Used to be? Whatever do you mean?"
"The Earl of Caverness. And twelfth Viscount Ardry, et cetera. But now I'm plain Melrose Plant."
What he was now did not seem to interest her in the least. Open-mouthed astonishment was her response to the loss of the title. "How did you lose all that?"
"Oh, I gave them up."
"Why?" She simply glared at him, obviously furious he had given away something that would have come in so useful. Then her expression softened. "Ah, I see. You had gambling debts or did something awful and didn't want to heap disgrace on the family name." Her eyes sparkled, now that she had forged out a history for him. In another moment, she'd have him inside an Iron Mask.
"Unfortunately, nothing so romantic as all that." He wondered what tempted him to justify his action to her. He found her unsettling, though he couldn't understand why, violet eyes or not. There was nothing at all wonderful about the rest of her, sitting there dressed in that unbecoming shade of brown. Her curls were havocking all over her head, and the upswung glasses and pencil stuck there did nothing to enhance the general appearance. "I didn't want them anymore, I guess," he ended, weakly.
She shrugged. "Oh, well, even without the title, Julia Bodenheim'll be prancing herself up and down on horseback before you. You'd best clear off; you're the perfect catch."
Gratified by this, he said, "I'm glad you think so."
"I didn't say I thought so," she said, munching the last of the muffin.
V
"I have come," said Sir Miles Bodenheim to Melrose Plant, "to invite you to cocktails at Rookswood."
It was said in what Melrose supposed might have been the tones used by the Angel Gabriel when he made his announcement to Mary. One should only stammer one's grateful acceptance.
Sir Miles apparently inferred why Melrose did not immediately do so. "Please don't think that just because you are a stranger to town you need hesitate about accepting. It is quite true that we are very particular, but I am sure you will find the gathering the sort you yourself are used to. We are all there-" Which wonderful revelation was accompanied by his swinging his walkstick over his shoulder and giving a good crack to one of the Blue Boy's Tiffany-style chandeliers. "-Derek is home. You haven't met Derek, our son. He's reading history, you know. Besides ourselves there will be only the Craigie sisters. I just now passed them on the walk and Ernestine was very particular in wanting to include you in one of our jaunts. And as you have our map-she gave it to you-you can see this will be an excellent opportunity to get acquainted. We need to straighten out the details of the fête, which is to be tomorrow. So say no more and come." Sir Miles scratched at the egg on his ascot, and added, "I know you've just been having tea with Miss Praed, but as you probably had nothing decent to eat at the Magic Muffin, I imagine a few canapés would suit you. How did you meet Miss Praed?" Sir Miles seemed clearly put out that this stranger to town was already looking toward fresher fields beyond the boundaries which he himself had so recently erected. "The woman writes rubbishy thrillers. I mean, if you like that sort of thing . . . " He shrugged off the possibility of liking it at all. "I know you will find Ernestine interesting. She's-"
"I wish I were clever enough to write mysteries."
"Clever? I don't see anything clever about it. What's clever about killing someone and then having everyone run about cock-a-hoop trying to decide who did it? Seems an infernal waste of time to me. And as you can see, it doesn't happen in real life that way, does it? You don't see anyone like her detective inspector-all that sharp-witted slyness-in on this case, do you? Ho ho, not by a long chalk."
"So you've read her books," said Melrose, smiling.
Having given up on the egg yolk, Sir Miles stared at the air above Melrose's head. "Oh, I glanced over one we decided to give Cook for Christmas. Well, if this lot of police comes up with anything, I'll be the more surprised. That Carstairs person seems a bit slow-witted; and the Scotland Yard chap certainly puts himself forward, I must say. But come along, come along, old chap." Sir Miles exhorted Melrose to rise from his chair. "It's already gone five and we might as well go along together."
Inwardly, Melrose sighed. If he meant to ingratiate himself with the locals, he guessed he had better trot along to Rookswood. And Mrs. O'Brien had said Jury would be several hours, so dinner would be very late. "And what is to be the subject of Miss Craigie's talk?" he asked as they left the Bold Blue Boy.
"The molting habits and flight patterns of the Great Speckled Crackle."
"How jolly," said Melrose.
VI
"The molting habits of the Crackle are not at all what one would expect . . . " The voice of Ernestine Craigie droned on.
Funny, thought Melrose, his tepid glass of whiskey sweating in his hand, he had never expected much of anything from the Crackle, including that it might molt.
It was a slide show.
Was there anything worse, he wondered, except perhaps pictures being handed round of everyone's vacation or baby? Derek Bodenheim had walked in over an hour ago, poured himself a very large whiskey, invested his "Hullo" to Melrose with as much boredom as was humanly possible, and walked out, bottle in hand: all of this despite his father's assurances in their walk from the Bold Blue Boy to Rookswood that Melrose was to expect only high entertainment from his son.
Augusta Craigie had found herself a chair within reaching distance of the drinks table and was having a marvelous time with the sherry decanter, something that had escaped everyone's notice but Melrose's.
One plate of cardboard canapés had been handed round by a maid-a small, olive-skinned person whose movements were silent and parsimonious.
The only relief from tedium was Julia Bodenheim's trying to engage Melrose in something other than conversation by continuously crossing and recrossing her silken legs and heaving her silken bosom to lean toward glass, ashtray, or canapé plate.