The Anodyne Necklace(19)

Melrose had simply not been able to keep their minds on murder. From Sylvia's announcement that it should not have occurred, so to speak, just beyond their property line; to Augusta's shuddery silence; to the Honorable Miles's brief lecture on police inefficiency and pushiness-their minds could only light on the subject like small blue tits, peck, and flutter away. Even Ernestine, solid and square as a pint of stout in her brown suit, seemed to resist the subject.

There had been, however, an enthralling discussion of the plans for the fête-flinging up tea tents and coconut shies and phaeton rides before Melrose's eyes like an image of Atlantis. The carousel had arrived and most of the stalls gone up.

Could Emily Perk (Miles had asked) really be trusted to deliver the goods and not short the children on time during the carriage rides? You know how she hates the idea of horses pulling people. Yes, Daddy, but she's the only one who can do it and who's willing, Julia had replied, flipping through a Country Life and, apparently not finding herself in it, flinging it aside. Then Sylvia Bodenheim's knitting needles had flown like twin rapiers over the refusal of Lady Kennington to take the Jumble table.

Thus, from the way they all managed to avoid the subject, a person might have thought, One: the murder hadn't occurred at all; or Two: they were so used to fingerless corpses being flung out in the Horndean wood, what did one more matter?

Or, Three: someone here was feeling rather uncomfortably guilty.

The slide show continued: now flashed upon the projection screen was a pattern of multicolored lines running off from east to west, north to south, and curved variants thereof. The Crackles seemed to be having a right old rave up, flying all over the British Isles from the Outer Hebrides across Manchester and down to Torquay. As Melrose began to doze off, Miss Craigie's pointer was tracing a horizontal red line indicating one of their favorite flights, apparently. He squinted his eyes and tried to remember what it reminded him of. Emily's River of Blood, perhaps? Or maybe just an advert for British Air. . . .

He yawned and wondered how soon Jury would be back. It shouldn't take too long to drive from London to Littlebourne. He wondered if somewhere a Great Speckled Crackle was having a slide show, demonstrating to a roomful of captive and bored Crackles, the British Motorway System. This is their flight pattern: note this red line ending in a clover leaf. That is the exit to Doncaster. . . .





Part Two




WIZARDS and WARLORDS





TEN


I

IT was clear how Catchcoach Street had come by its name: it was a daggerlike, blind alley, far removed from the fashionable cul-de-sacs of Belgravia and Mayfair. Narrow, rundown houses huddled together, closer at the blade-tip end. The air smelled of fish and brakish Thames water.

Number twenty-two was distinguished from the houses on either side only by virtue of its fresher trim, tidier yard. Nell Beavers, the slum landlady of the street (she had told them proudly that she owned this and both houses on either side) was adding to their store of information on Cora Binns. She had left the house on the Thursday evening, sometime around six, and saying something about hoping she'd get to the Highbury station after rush hour in the Underground.

"I think it was six. I don't keep tabs, do I?"

Jury bet. He could tell she was the type who lifted the lids of dustbins and counted the empties. Cora Binns had the upstairs flat and Jury was sure the landlady knew every creak in the floorboards.

"A bit late for a job interview, wasn't it?" asked Wiggins.

Nell Beavers shrugged. "I wouldn't know, would I? Expect she didn't want to lose a days work. Anyway, she said she was going to Hertfield," continued Nell Beavers, rocking slowly, and proud of her control. She was not one to crumble in a crisis. They knew because she'd told them three times. "She told me the agency-Cora was a temp-sec-rang her up and said someone in Hertfield needed a steno. All you have to do is check with the agency. It's called the Smart Girls Secretarial Service. I'd just hop right round there if I was you."

Jury thanked her. He was often taught his job by the British citizenry. "You told Inspector Carstairs she said she was coming back that same night."

"That's right. That's what Cora said. And then the agency rang up and asked me did I know where she was, and she never did go to the place she was supposed to. Right shirty the woman got about it and all I said was, well, I don't keep tabs, I'm not her mum, am I?" Nell Beavers smacked dry lips. "But after Cora doesn't come back Friday night, I says to myself, Nell, time to call the authorities. Beavers-my late husband, God rest him-always did say a problem don't take care of itself."

"You did exactly right, Mrs. Beavers." She remained tight-mouthed, proof against the compliment she was so well aware she deserved. Her rocking got a bit brisker, though, when she said, "If I was you, I'd ask the Crippses." She hooked a thumb to her right. "Next door. Though why Cora'd want to hang about with her beats me. It's disgraceful, it is, landlords ain't got no rights in this country? Just tenants. God knows I been trying to get rid of that one for years. Ash the Flash running around getting up to Lord knows what." Primly she folded her hands in her aproned lap. "I ain't no stranger to police, believe me. Seen enough of them come round about Ash Cripps. Beavers always did say that sort of pervert had a problem." And then to Jury's and Wiggins's infinite surprise, she opened her old blue cardigan and quickly closed it again. "You know what I mean. Been in most of the parks and lavatories in the East End and probably no stranger to the West, I'd say."
 
 

 

"Which Underground station did Cora use?"

"Same's we all do. Wembley Knotts. Cora complained a lot about the tube. Shocking how much it's gone up. Just from Wembley Knotts it's eighty p to King's Cross. But they keep building more, don't they? Still, I guess police don't have to travel that way." She seemed resentful of this. Not only were the authorities keeping her tenants safe and sound, they didn't have to share the Underground.

II

Outside number twenty-four, a ring of grubby children were holding hands and skipping round a battered pram. They were all coatless, despite the September evening, and one of them was completely stark except for its vest.

In their frolic round the perambulator, they kept to the tune of "Ring-round-the-rosy," but supplied more robust lyrics, dependent largely upon a series of obscenities directed to the innocent occupant.

"Your mum home?" asked Jury, after checking to make sure the baby wasn't smothered or otherwise dead. It lay sleeping on its stomach, tiny hands fisted, with rosy cheeks like small flames not even the soot of Catchcoach Street could extinguish.

Without a break in the tune or the skipping, the children merely exchanged their fuck you's to "Mam's home, mam's home, mam's home"-interspersed with high giggles that they could be so resourceful in giving out information without suspending important operations. Thus inspired, they continued their chant, bouncing even higher with feet and bobbed hair, changing now to "Makin' mash, makin' mash, makin' mash." This further commentary on "mam's" doings brought forth fresh peals of laughter and also the opening of the door.

"Shut yer mouths and get yer knickers on. What you want?" The last of this was directed at Jury and Wiggins.

A rat-faced dog saw its chance to escape and sprinted through the crack in the door. Through that opening Jury saw half a face and half a figure and doubted the other half would be any improvement over the oily hair, metallic eye and pendulous breast. When she opened the door wider, the extraordinary girth completely filled it. The whole figure sported a cotton frock straining at its buttons.

"Police officers," said Jury, showing his ID.

"Come about Ashley, well, no wonder. Come on in." Before he could correct her misapprehension, she was shouting at the ring of children to come on in and get their mash.

"You were expecting police?" asked Wiggins.

"It's always police, innit? In them macs and blue suits you ain't the Two Ronnies. Come on, come on-" Exasperated by their dimness she motioned them through the door. "So what's Ashley been gettin' up to? Showin' hisself in the ladies again? Stop that!" she yelled to the goblin-ring, climbing all over the pram and nearly upsetting it. "An' come get yer tea."

Two of them had stuffed themselves into the pram with the baby while the others shook it violently. At the mention of food, they nearly toppled the carriage, and Wiggins with it, in their rush for their tea.

"Shut yer filthy mouths and get yer knickers on, Joey." She smacked the child's bald bottom as he darted between Wiggins and Jury.

"Back here." She motioned Jury and Wiggins along like a tour guide.



"Back here" was the dirtiest scullery Jury had ever seen. Crusted dishes, spent crockery and pockmarked pots covered every surface. Icicles of grease hung from the cooker. Sergeant Wiggins stared with perverse fascination at a frying pan which held an inch of hardened lard.

"Mrs. Beavers from next door told us you might be able to help us, Mrs. Cripps."

"You mean Beavers ain't down t' the pub 'avin 'er ten pints and callin' it 'er ahfternoon sherry?" She made a primping movement with her hand and then hung over the gas cooker, relighting an old cigarette. At the wobbly kitchen table, the urchins shouted threats and imprecations at their mam, all the while beating their cutlery on its surface. Seemingly oblivious to it all, she spooned out mashed potatoes into their several bowls. They all grabbed for the tomato catsup to douse their bowls. Wiggins stood near the table, fascinated by this red and white mélange.