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Authors: Martha Grimes
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constabulary in general — not to mention Scotland Yard — had positioned himself like someone shouldering his way to the center of a photograph and seemed to be enjoying the situation immensely. Thus when Pratt asked him if he knew Simon Lean’s wife, the constable said he’d known the people up at Watermeadows as well as anyone. The statement was the perfect truth; however, since no one reallyknew them, apparently, Pluck was caught in the uncomfortable position of middleman.
Pratt pushed the phone toward him. “Then call — what is it? Watermeadows — and inform them the police would like to talk with Mrs. Lean and her grandmother.”
Then he turned to Jury. “You’ve said precious little, Superintendent.”
“Precious little call to. This isn’t my patch. And,” he added, smiling, “I’m on holiday.”
MacAllister gave him a look that said he’d wished he’d stay on it.
“More or less a busman’s holiday, I’d say.” Charles Pratt leaned his chin in his hands and gave Jury a piercing blue glance. “You’ll make one of the best witnesses it’s ever been my luck to round up.” He sat back, still smiling, and rocked a little in the swivel chair. “We’ve just been called away from a messy domestic killing in Northampton. Time-consuming, half of the constabulary is on that job.” He paused. “I’m taking my men there, and I’ll break the news to her. It would be nice if you could just stop by later on . . . .”
“ ‘Just stop by.’ ” Jury sighed. “Either that or I am to make myself available for questioning — as we say in the Job — at any old hour of the night or day. Charles, aren’t you ashamed of yourself? Anyway, it’ll have to go through headquarters —”
It was as if Pratt were simply completing Jury’s sentence for him: “— and Chief Superintendent Racer, after one or two acerbic comments about a murder having occurred the moment you turned up, said that the least you could do would be to assist. As he put it, you’re at the disposal of the Northamptonshire constabulary, and he expressed regrets —”
“— that my holiday would be interrupted. A policeman’s life is full of grief, Superintendent Pratt.”
Pratt was unzipping a ten-packet of Benson and Hedges. “His very words. Cigarette?”
Eight
“W AS THE KILLER ,” asked Melrose, studying the ragged hindquarters of a pewter-colored dog curled on Marshall Trueblood’s hearth, “trying to conceal or reveal? Good Lord, it must have been obvious Marshall here would discover it as soon as he opened that writing desk.”
“Truer words have never been spoken, old sweat.” The words were muffled, coming as they did from a face pressed against the back of an ivory brocade sofa. He was lying there, arms hugging his waist. “And to top it all, I haven’t got my Ulysses .”
“Oh, stop it,” said Melrose. “Sit up like a man.” Melrose punctuated this statement by rapping his walking stick several times on the coffee table.
“First time I’ve ever been asked to do that .”
Jury smiled as Trueblood sighed hugely, unwound himself from his fetal position, and sat up. His hair was ruffled, his silk shirt wrinkled, his scarf hanging limply.
“And this, ” said Melrose, “is the first time I’ve seen you looking anything other than sartorially perfect. Why are you letting all of this mess get to you? We know you’d nothing to do with it.” He looked innocently at Jury. “Don’t we?”
Trueblood nearly strangled himself with an adjustmentto his scarf, mimicking Melrose. “ ‘Don’t we, don’t we?’ ” He looked accusingly at Jury. “Nor did I hear you answer him. Well?”
Jury pulled at his earlobe as if considering. He was sitting on the arm of the couch from which Trueblood had now risen, since all the chairs in the room with their gilt legs, fretwork, or little claw feet looked entirely too delicate to bear his weight. It was a room as sleek and silky as its owner, and
Pratt pushed the phone toward him. “Then call — what is it? Watermeadows — and inform them the police would like to talk with Mrs. Lean and her grandmother.”
Then he turned to Jury. “You’ve said precious little, Superintendent.”
“Precious little call to. This isn’t my patch. And,” he added, smiling, “I’m on holiday.”
MacAllister gave him a look that said he’d wished he’d stay on it.
“More or less a busman’s holiday, I’d say.” Charles Pratt leaned his chin in his hands and gave Jury a piercing blue glance. “You’ll make one of the best witnesses it’s ever been my luck to round up.” He sat back, still smiling, and rocked a little in the swivel chair. “We’ve just been called away from a messy domestic killing in Northampton. Time-consuming, half of the constabulary is on that job.” He paused. “I’m taking my men there, and I’ll break the news to her. It would be nice if you could just stop by later on . . . .”
“ ‘Just stop by.’ ” Jury sighed. “Either that or I am to make myself available for questioning — as we say in the Job — at any old hour of the night or day. Charles, aren’t you ashamed of yourself? Anyway, it’ll have to go through headquarters —”
It was as if Pratt were simply completing Jury’s sentence for him: “— and Chief Superintendent Racer, after one or two acerbic comments about a murder having occurred the moment you turned up, said that the least you could do would be to assist. As he put it, you’re at the disposal of the Northamptonshire constabulary, and he expressed regrets —”
“— that my holiday would be interrupted. A policeman’s life is full of grief, Superintendent Pratt.”
Pratt was unzipping a ten-packet of Benson and Hedges. “His very words. Cigarette?”
Eight
“W AS THE KILLER ,” asked Melrose, studying the ragged hindquarters of a pewter-colored dog curled on Marshall Trueblood’s hearth, “trying to conceal or reveal? Good Lord, it must have been obvious Marshall here would discover it as soon as he opened that writing desk.”
“Truer words have never been spoken, old sweat.” The words were muffled, coming as they did from a face pressed against the back of an ivory brocade sofa. He was lying there, arms hugging his waist. “And to top it all, I haven’t got my Ulysses .”
“Oh, stop it,” said Melrose. “Sit up like a man.” Melrose punctuated this statement by rapping his walking stick several times on the coffee table.
“First time I’ve ever been asked to do that .”
Jury smiled as Trueblood sighed hugely, unwound himself from his fetal position, and sat up. His hair was ruffled, his silk shirt wrinkled, his scarf hanging limply.
“And this, ” said Melrose, “is the first time I’ve seen you looking anything other than sartorially perfect. Why are you letting all of this mess get to you? We know you’d nothing to do with it.” He looked innocently at Jury. “Don’t we?”
Trueblood nearly strangled himself with an adjustmentto his scarf, mimicking Melrose. “ ‘Don’t we, don’t we?’ ” He looked accusingly at Jury. “Nor did I hear you answer him. Well?”
Jury pulled at his earlobe as if considering. He was sitting on the arm of the couch from which Trueblood had now risen, since all the chairs in the room with their gilt legs, fretwork, or little claw feet looked entirely too delicate to bear his weight. It was a room as sleek and silky as its owner, and
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