Read Online The Five Bells and Bladebone by Martha Grimes - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Martha Grimes
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nothing in it was less than a hundred years old, he bet, except for the rough-looking gray dog coiled on a flimsy bit of rug before the fireplace screen, and he even wondered about it. Occasionally, it yawned, creaked up on all fours, turned and turned and collapsed again.
“Thanks. Couple of mates you two are.” Trueblood gave them as black a look as the Black Russian he was taking from a cloisonné box. “Why am I letting it get to me?” he asked, standing with head bowed, the very picture of tragedy. “The Northants police have practically turned my cottage into one of their incidents rooms, have questioned me round the clock —”
“The clock hasn’t gone round; only a couple of hours —” said Melrose helpfully.
“— And, ” said Trueblood, “they are on the verge of reading me my rights. I can’t imagine why that makes me nervous.”
“Come on, now,” said Jury, who’d slid onto the sofa vacated by Trueblood. “You wouldn’t hurt a fly.”
“Neither would Norman Bates.”
Melrose went on: “The body could much more easily have been disposed of in the lake or in the grounds or downriver. Even fetched over to my property . . . now there’s an interesting possibility . . . .”
“Let’s not explore it, if you don’t mind,” said Jury. “Instead, the body was stuffed into a chest that was to be collected almost immediately. Hmm. You don’t really think it was Browne, do you?” he asked Trueblood.
“Why not? The man can’t abide the idea that he’s a mere dilettante and I’m an expert. I don’t write, of course, but then neither does he. Joanna the Mad told me about that manuscript of his. Now there’s a thought: why didn’t he kill her instead of Simon Lean?”
“What manuscript?” asked Jury.
“About an hallucinating terrorist at Wimbledon. Or was it Doncaster? He thought Joanna might use a little clout. Send it to her editor, I expect. She said her editor would hire a terrorist to kill her for forcing Theo’s manuscript on him. Well, T.W.B. hasn’t spoken to her since, of course. Won’t carry her books in that bird’s nest of his . . . Stop prodding my dog, damnit.”
Melrose drew back his walking stick. “Sorry. Didn’t Simon Lean have something to do with a publishing house? Did he work at one?”
“Work? Him? . . . Or do I recollect that he said something about a publishing house that the Summerstons counted amongst their investments?” Trueblood raised his foot, shod in Italian leather, to inspect the shine.
“So you did know him, more or less?” asked Jury.
“Less, much less. He came into the shop once . . . well, Pratt’s going to find out anyway.”
“Find out what?”
“That I sold him a dagger-cane. He collected stuff like that.” Trueblood nodded toward Melrose’s cosher. “Tried to buy that, too, but I was saving it for Melrose. It was some time ago, two months, three.” He sighed and slid down on the sofa. “How grim.”
Jury helped himself to a Black Russian, which he looked at with some suspicion before lighting up. “Don’t worry; that won’t count for much except to MacAllister.”
“He’s a sweetheart, isn’t he? Thick as two boards and probably can’t stand one of my sexual persuasion.” Trueblood rose and started pacing.
Melrose said, “I didn’t know you had one.”
“It would be interesting if Mr. Browne had approached Lean about his book.”
Trueblood stopped to study himself in a cheval glass — adjusting his cravat, smoothing back his hair, his flirtation with the gallows apparently over for the time being. “I’m sure T.W.B. approached him, but I doubt it was just for a manuscript.”
“You’re not suggesting Lean was gay, are you?”
“Lord, no. That was the trouble, as far as T.W.B.’s concerned. And then to have his sister-in-arms, that Demorney person, meeting him on the sly . . . The more I think of it, the better Theo Wrenn Browne looks as a candidate. Kill two birds with one
“Thanks. Couple of mates you two are.” Trueblood gave them as black a look as the Black Russian he was taking from a cloisonné box. “Why am I letting it get to me?” he asked, standing with head bowed, the very picture of tragedy. “The Northants police have practically turned my cottage into one of their incidents rooms, have questioned me round the clock —”
“The clock hasn’t gone round; only a couple of hours —” said Melrose helpfully.
“— And, ” said Trueblood, “they are on the verge of reading me my rights. I can’t imagine why that makes me nervous.”
“Come on, now,” said Jury, who’d slid onto the sofa vacated by Trueblood. “You wouldn’t hurt a fly.”
“Neither would Norman Bates.”
Melrose went on: “The body could much more easily have been disposed of in the lake or in the grounds or downriver. Even fetched over to my property . . . now there’s an interesting possibility . . . .”
“Let’s not explore it, if you don’t mind,” said Jury. “Instead, the body was stuffed into a chest that was to be collected almost immediately. Hmm. You don’t really think it was Browne, do you?” he asked Trueblood.
“Why not? The man can’t abide the idea that he’s a mere dilettante and I’m an expert. I don’t write, of course, but then neither does he. Joanna the Mad told me about that manuscript of his. Now there’s a thought: why didn’t he kill her instead of Simon Lean?”
“What manuscript?” asked Jury.
“About an hallucinating terrorist at Wimbledon. Or was it Doncaster? He thought Joanna might use a little clout. Send it to her editor, I expect. She said her editor would hire a terrorist to kill her for forcing Theo’s manuscript on him. Well, T.W.B. hasn’t spoken to her since, of course. Won’t carry her books in that bird’s nest of his . . . Stop prodding my dog, damnit.”
Melrose drew back his walking stick. “Sorry. Didn’t Simon Lean have something to do with a publishing house? Did he work at one?”
“Work? Him? . . . Or do I recollect that he said something about a publishing house that the Summerstons counted amongst their investments?” Trueblood raised his foot, shod in Italian leather, to inspect the shine.
“So you did know him, more or less?” asked Jury.
“Less, much less. He came into the shop once . . . well, Pratt’s going to find out anyway.”
“Find out what?”
“That I sold him a dagger-cane. He collected stuff like that.” Trueblood nodded toward Melrose’s cosher. “Tried to buy that, too, but I was saving it for Melrose. It was some time ago, two months, three.” He sighed and slid down on the sofa. “How grim.”
Jury helped himself to a Black Russian, which he looked at with some suspicion before lighting up. “Don’t worry; that won’t count for much except to MacAllister.”
“He’s a sweetheart, isn’t he? Thick as two boards and probably can’t stand one of my sexual persuasion.” Trueblood rose and started pacing.
Melrose said, “I didn’t know you had one.”
“It would be interesting if Mr. Browne had approached Lean about his book.”
Trueblood stopped to study himself in a cheval glass — adjusting his cravat, smoothing back his hair, his flirtation with the gallows apparently over for the time being. “I’m sure T.W.B. approached him, but I doubt it was just for a manuscript.”
“You’re not suggesting Lean was gay, are you?”
“Lord, no. That was the trouble, as far as T.W.B.’s concerned. And then to have his sister-in-arms, that Demorney person, meeting him on the sly . . . The more I think of it, the better Theo Wrenn Browne looks as a candidate. Kill two birds with one
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