Jury went on: "Friends sometimes tell us things. . . . I remember when I was a lad, I had this great friend. Jimmy Poole, his name was. We were always together. Jimmy Poole and I used to tell one another secrets, and sometimes we'd even stick pins in our fingers and swear on the blood we'd never tell-"
"Don't talk about blood."
"Okay." Jury lit a cigarette, tossed the match in the ashtray. "Jimmy Poole and I used to go out in the woods and smoke fags and stuff like that, which we weren't supposed to. We did a lot of things we weren't supposed to-"
"Like what?" she asked without looking up from her book. But the crayon had stopped moving.
"Oh, you know. Swimming in water too deep. Staying out after dark. We used to put pillows in our beds to make our mums think we were asleep and then crawl out of our windows. Jimmy Poole was really clever when it came to finding places where no one could find us. He left false trails. There was a cave where we liked to go and where we hid stuff we didn't want our mums finding. I remember once I stole a comic from a news agent's." He watched as both Emily Louise and Melrose looked at him in mild astonishment. "Oh, yes, I did things like that. Honesty came to me late in life, I expect. I swore Jimmy Poole to secrecy." Jury looked at Emily. "He didn't tell, so I was safe." He noticed Emily was scrubbing away at the line of ducklings with deep concentration now. "That cave was a good place to get away from our mums."
"Didn't you like them?" Emily had laid down her crayon and was frowning horribly at the book.
"Sometimes, I guess. Sometimes not. We used to have to make up incredible stories to explain where we'd been and what we'd been doing. I mean, if we came home with our clothes muddy or torn we'd have to make up stories."
"Who made up the stories, you or Jimmy Poole?"
Jury considered. "Jimmy Poole. He was smarter."
"Why doesn't he work for Scotland Yard, then?"
"I don't know."
She was looking at him now, hard. "I wish I had a lemon squash."
"I'm sure Mr. Plant would be happy to fetch one."
Melrose, who had been feigning a light doze, opened one eye and said, "I might miss an installment." Sighing, he got up.
"Go on, then," said Emily Louise, prodding Jury's arm.
"Well, Jimmy Poole told me lots of strange things and made me swear I'd never breath a word to anyone. But then something happened to someone in the village." Emily Louise had clasped her hands over the top of her head as if she meant to push herself under the table. "This one person had an . . . accident."
Emily slid down in her seat. "A bad one?"
"Pretty bad. She fell downstairs. That is, maybe she fell. Some people thought she might have got pushed downstairs. We were never sure, though, who did it." Jury studied the coal-end of his cigarette.
"Well, didn't the police come?" Emily frowned mightily at Jury, apparently much irritated at this dereliction of duty on the part of England's finest.
"Not the Yard, no."
Emily shook her head sadly, disappointed that Jury's villagers hadn't had the foresight to call in the Yard.
"Of course," said Jury, "they might have done. If only Jimmy Poole had told what he knew."
There was a deep silence on the part of Emily, a silence interrupted only by Melrose's rattling three glasses onto the table. One lemon squash and two brandies. Emily took a sip of her drink and then said, "But he didn't tell."
"No. But I did."
"You! But it was a secret!"
"I know. Believe me, I thought about it and thought about it. See, the trouble was Jimmy Poole was sick and I couldn't ask him if it was okay to tell."
"What was wrong with him?"
"Mumps. He couldn't talk, his throat was so bad."
"Did he die?"
"No. But you see, as long as he couldn't talk, I couldn't get him to agree to letting me tell the secret. I had to decide for myself, and that's what always makes it hard. Deciding for yourself. You know why I finally did?"
Emily shook the head beneath the clasped hands, but kept her eyes riveted on Jury.
"Because I was afraid that someone else might get pushed downstairs. Or maybe even the one that they pushed might get pushed again."
"Didn't she die?"
Jury shook his head. "No."
"That's good. Who did you tell?"
"The rector. He seemed the right sort of person."
"Well, why didn't you tell the constable, then? Didn't your village have one?"
"Yes. Only, I was afraid of police."
"I'm not!" Her answer rang out.
"You're not, I know."
She rolled her blue crayon back and forth. "Was Jimmy Poole mad at you?"
"No. He was glad. He said he'd have told himself, finally, only he couldn't talk."
"He had mumps." Jury nodded. Emily Louise blew out her cheeks, then poked them with her fingers, one on each side. For a long while the three were silent-Melrose with eyes narrowed to slits, Jury staring out of the casement window, Emily Louise puffing out and collapsing her cheeks. Finally, she said, "Did Jimmy Poole ever give you anything?"
Jury thought for a moment, stubbed out his cigarette and said, "Yes."
Another silence. "Did he tell you not to give it to anyone else?"
"Yes."
"Was it before he got sick?"
"Yes."
"What was it?"
"A tin box."
"What was in the box?"
"Money. Some letters. Some jewelry. A strange message."
"What sort of message?"
Jury shook his head. "I never figured it out."
Now, only Emily's eyes appeared above the table rim, contemplating Jury. Then, suddenly, she jumped up, gathered her crayons and book together, and said, "I've got to go now." It was as though she'd suddenly remembered ten previous appointments.
As she disappeared through the doorway, Melrose said, "That was absolutely fascinating-"
Jury interrupted. "Keep an eye on her, will you? You were right, I'm sure. She knows something, all right."
"Well, she'll never tell me!" When Jury didn't respond to this, he went on: "She's to do the phaeton rides tomorrow. There's a fête tomorrow, didn't you know?"
Jury shook his head. "First thing I have to do is talk with this Lady Kennington. Right now, I think I'll have a kip. Christ, I'm tired."
"It's all that mucking about with Jimmy Poole."
Jury smiled and yawned as he cranked open the casement window, disturbing the brown-edged climbing roses.
"I seem to remember," said Plant, "that you told me you were born and bred in London. There never was that village, was there? There never was a Jimmy Poole?"
Jury thought of the bluish-cold lights coming on in the Fulham Road, the girl with the doll, the mum with the pram, the boy with the guitar standing in front of the Saracen's Head. The blurred outlines of rose petals drifted by in the dark.
"There's always a Jimmy Poole." He drank off his brandy and said good-night.
FIFTEEN
I
AS Melrose stood breathing in the heavily scented air of the roses which had escaped Sylvia Bodenheim's ministrations, he heard a shrill yell coming from some point beyond the privet hedge. The stable block was back there, so he cut through the hedge, much to the distress of the gardener who craned his neck to see what this stranger was doing to his topiaries.
Melrose wasn't sure what had woken him at first light, but as he hadn't been able to sleep again-perhaps sharing Jury's unease regarding Emily-he'd got dressed and fiddled around for a bit over a pot of tea and finally made for Rookswood. He knew she would be there, grooming the horses in preparation for the fête.
The voice was definitely hers, and it was now yelling, Give it back, give it! The rather unpleasant laugh, in answer to this demand, was male.
As Melrose rounded the stables, he glimpsed the white sweater-sleeve of Derek Bodenheim raised on high and holding a book. Neither Derek nor Emily saw Melrose, as he was standing to the side of the stable door. Anyway, they were too engaged in their game of grabs-although it didn't appear to be a game to Emily.
Derek's back was to Melrose as he stepped forward, raised his silver-knobbed stick, and brought it down smartly, catching Derek just in the crook of the arm. "Really, old chap. She asked you nicely, now, didn't she?"
"What the bloody hell-?" said Derek, rubbing his arm and glaring at Melrose.
Emily had moved swiftly to collect her book. Her face was very red with all of the exertion.
"Stupid," said Derek to her. Then he turned his temper on Melrose. "You oughtn't to go about hitting people with that stick on their own property, you know. What are you doing here, anyway?"
Melrose didn't bother answering. He was very curious about the sort of man who could possibly get pleasure out of teasing a ten-year-old. "Why don't you just run along, there's a good lad."
"Run along! Who the hell do you think you're talking to?" Then he turned to Emily: "I'll tell your mother, see if I don't, you've been reading dirty books."
"Go away! It's not dirty. I never read it anyhow."
Derek, furious, crunched across the gravel of the stableyard.
Emily looked from the silver-knobbed stick to Melrose. "Did you ever kill anyone?" She seemed hopeful.