The Man With a Load of Mischief E-Book

Martha Grimes

• Herausgeber: Grove Press UK
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2018

Beschreibung

Two pubs. Two murders. One chocolate-box village convinced of its own perfection - until now. Long Piddleton is an unlikely setting for a crime, and yet it's the scene of two. With one dead body upended in a keg of beer at The Man with a Load of Mischief, and another swinging from the sign above the Jack and Hammer, tensions are high, and Scotland Yard's Richard Jury is called in to calm the waters. On arrival, Jury finds himself confronted by a community spooked by the idea that the murderer could be amongst them. That is, apart from Melrose Plant - the eighth Earl of Caverness and a keen observer of human nature whose astute eye directs Jury's investigation straight into the heart of the village, leaving the community questioning everything they ever thought they knew and trusted.

Leseprobe

Praise for the novels of Martha Grimes

The Blue LastA New York Times Bestseller

“Grimes’s best . . . a cliffhanger ending.”

—USA Today

“Explosive . . . ranks among the best of its creator’s distinguished work.”

—Richmond Times-Dispatch

The Lamorna WinkA New York Times Bestseller

“Atmospheric . . . an elegantly styled series.”

—The New York Times Book Review

“Swift and satisfying . . . grafts the old-fashioned ‘Golden Age’ amateur-detective story to the contemporary police procedural . . . real charm.”

—The Wall Street Journal

The StargazeyA New York Times Bestseller

“Wondrously eccentric characters. . . . The details are divine.”

—The New York Times Book Review

“The literary equivalent of a box of Godiva truffles. . . . Wonderful.”

—Los Angeles Times

The Case Has AlteredA New York Times Bestseller

“The way Martha Grimes tells it, there is no more atmospheric setting for murder in all of England than the Lincolnshire fens. . . . Richly textured.”

—The New York Times Book Review

“Grimes is dazzling in this deftly plotted Richard Jury mystery. . . . Psychologically complex. . . . The novel also boasts Grimes’s delicious wit. . . . [She] brings Jury triumphantly back where he belongs.”

—Publishers Weekly

I Am the Only Running Footman

“Everything about Miss Grimes’s new novel shows her at her best. . . . [She] gets our immediate attention. . . . She holds it, however, with something more than mere suspense.”

—The New Yorker

“Literate, witty, and stylishly crafted.”

—The Washington Post

The Five Bells and Bladebone

“[Grimes’s] best . . . as moving as it is entertaining.”

—USA Today

“Blends almost Dickensian sketches of character and social class with glimpses of a ferocious marriage.”

—Time

“Holds the attention throughout.”

—The New York Times Book Review

Praise for Martha Grimes

“Read any one [of her novels] and you’ll want to read them all.”

—Chicago Tribune

“Her wit sparkles, her plots intrigue, and her characters are absolutely unforgettable.”

—The Denver Post

“Grimes is not the next Dorothy Sayers, not the next Agatha Christie. She is better than both.”

—The Atlanta Journal-Constitution

“She really has no superior in what she does. Grimes’s books are powerful comedies of no-manners, of the assumed gap between the blue-blooded and the red-blooded people. . . . Her world is enriched by every new novel and our admiration grows.”

—Armchair Detective

“Martha Grimes, America’s answer to the classic British detective novel, is winning the hearts of readers who long to return to the golden age of the dagger beneath the tea cozy and the butler lurking at the drawing-room door.”

—San Francisco Chronicle

“A class act. . . . She writes with charm, authority, and ironic wit.”

—Kirkus Reviews

“The spirit of Christie, Allingham, and Sayers lives on.”

—Los Angeles Times

Also by Martha Grimes

Richard Jury series

The Man with a Load of Mischief

The Old Fox Deceiv’d

The Anodyne Necklace

The Dirty Duck

Jerusalem Inn

Help the Poor Struggler

The Deer Leap

I Am the Only Running Footman

The Five Bells and Bladebone

The Old Silent

The Old Contemptibles

The Horse You Came in On

Rainbow’s End

The Case Has Altered

The Stargazey

The Lamorna Wink

The Blue Last

The Grave Maurice

The Winds of Change

The Old Wine Shades

Dust

The Black Cat

Vertigo 42

The Knowledge

Andi Oliver series

Biting the Moon

Dakota

Emma Graham series

Hotel Paradise

Cold Flat Junction

Belle Ruin

Fadeaway Girl

Other novels, short stories, and poetry

Send Bygraves

The End of the Pier

The Train Now Departing

Foul Matter

The Way of All Fish

Memoir

Double Double

First published in the United States of America in 1981 by Little, Brown

First published in Great Britain in 2018 by Grove Press UK, an imprint of Grove/Atlantic Inc.

Copyright © Martha Grimes, 1981

The moral right of Martha Grimes to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of the book.

Every effort has been made to trace or contact all copyright-holders. The publishers will be pleased to make good any omissions or rectify any mistakes brought to their attention at the earliest opportunity.

1 3 5 7 9 8 6 4 2

A CIP record for this book is available from the British Library.

E-book ISBN 978 1 61185 918 8

Grove Press, UK

Ormond House

26–27 Boswell Street

London

WC1N 3JZ

www.groveatlantic.com

ToJune Dunnington GrimesandKent Holland

Come here, my sweet landlady, pray how d’ye do?

Where is Cicely so cleanly, and Prudence, and Sue?

And where is the widow that dwelt here below?

And the ostler that sung about eight years ago?

Why now let me die, Sir, or live upon trust,

If I know to which question to answer you first;

Why things, since I saw you, most strangely have varied,

The ostler is hang’d, and the widow is married.

And Prue left a child for the parish to nurse,

And Cicely went off with a gentleman’s purse.

—Matthew Prior

1

SATURDAY, DECEMBER 19

Outside the Jack and Hammer, a dog growled.

Inside, his view of the High Street obstructed by the window at his shoulder, Melrose Plant sat in the curve of the bay drinking Old Peculier and reading Rimbaud.

The dog growled deep in its throat and started barking again, something it had been doing intermittently for the last fifteen minutes.

Sun streaming through the cerulean blue and deep green of the tulip-design of the leaded panes threw rainbow colors across his table as Melrose Plant rose up to peer over the reverse letters advertising Hardy’s Crown. The dog sitting in the snow outside the public house was a scruffy Jack Russell belonging to Miss Crisp, who ran the secondhand-furniture shop across the street. Usually it launched its barks from a chair set outside her door. Today, however, it had wandered across the street to occupy itself with the Jack and Hammer’s frontage. It barked on.

“I direct your attention, Dick,” said Melrose Plant, “to the curious incident of the dog in the daytime.”

Across the room, Dick Scroggs, the publican, paused in his polishing of the beveled mirror behind the bar. “What’s that, my lord?”

“Nothing,” said Melrose Plant. “Just paraphrasing Sir Arthur.”

“Sir Arthur, my lord?”

“Conan Doyle. Sherlock Holmes. You know.” Melrose took a swig of his ale and went back to Rimbaud. But he didn’t get very far along before the dog started barking again.

“Actually,” said Melrose, snapping shut the book, “I believe it was the dog in the nighttime.”

Scroggs applied his cloth to the mirror. “Nighttime, daytime, I only wish the bleedin’ dog’d stop it. He be driving me crazy. Ain’t it enough me nerves are in a state with this murder over at Matchett’s place?” Dick was, for all his height and girth, a very nervous individual. Long Piddleton’s murder had him constantly looking over his shoulder and regarding any stranger who walked into the Jack and Hammer with suspicion.

It was the murder, Melrose supposed, that had put him in mind of Conan Doyle. Murder in fact was not nearly so intriguing as murder in fancy. But he did have to admit their own murder had a certain flair: the head of the victim had been shoved down in a keg of beer.

The dog still barked.

It was not the sort of bark one hears when dogs greet each other over fences, nor was it especially loud. It was merely maddeningly persistent, as if this particular dog had chosen this post outside the Jack and Hammer’s window to stand sentry and deliver its canine message to the world.

Dick Scroggs threw down his bar towel and went to the row of casement windows just beyond Plant’s table, fronting the High Street. Scroggs wound out one of them and a blur of snow flew in around the corners. He shouted at the barking animal: “I be out there to kick your scruffy, bleedin’ head off, just see if I don’t.”

“How awfully un-English of you, Dick,” said Plant, adjusting his gold-rimmed spectacles over his fine nose and returning to Rimbaud. It was his fortieth-birthday present to himself: an early edition of Les Illuminations, for which he had paid a ridiculous price, telling himself he deserved it, then wondering why.

But Scroggs’s shouts had only exacerbated the barking, since the dog now thought it had got some attention and meant to keep it. Dick Scroggs threw open the door and went outside to show the dog he meant business.

Plant had managed to read partway through “Enfance” when he heard Scroggs gasp: “My God, my lord, come quick!”

Plant looked up to see the publican’s head framed in the snowy window. The face was gray and ghastly, a blown-up version of the gargoyle heads beneath the beam outside which gave the ancient building a quaint, ecclesiastical air.

Plant made for the door. Outside, he plowed through ankle-deep snow to where Dick Scroggs and the small, brown Jack Russell stood side by side, looking upward.

“Good God,” whispered Melrose Plant, as the clock chimed the noon hour and another clump of snow fell from the figure atop the wooden beam that jutted out over the walk. The figure was not the mechanical smith usually located there, whose hammer made simulated strikes at a forge.

“It’s that Mr. Ainsley that come in last night, my lord. For a room, he did.” Scroggs’s voice cracked hoarsely. “How long’s he been up there, I wonder?”

Melrose Plant, ordinarily a man of extreme self-possession, was not sure how his own voice would sound. He cleared his throat. “Hard to tell. Could have been there for hours, all night, perhaps.”

“And no one seen him?”

“Twenty feet overhead and shrouded in snow, Dick.” As he spoke, another chunk fell, molten in the sun, plop, at their feet. “I suggest one of us trot along to the station and get Constable Pluck.”

But it wasn’t necessary. The barking of the dog and Plant’s and Scroggs’s attendance at this macabre affair seemed to have waked the High Street from its snowy sleep and people were appearing out of shops, in windows, down walks and alleyways. Melrose saw that Constable Pluck had appeared outside the station up the street and was dragging on his dark blue overcoat.

“And here was the missus,” said Dick with a hoarse whisper, “wondering if he be wanting a bit of breakfast.”

Said Melrose Plant, polishing the lenses of his spectacles, “I’d say it makes no odds to Mr. Ainsley.”

The Jack and Hammer was wedged between Trueblood’s Antiques and a haberdasher’s sensibly called The Shop, which only changed its window display of bits and pieces of threads, tea cozies, mittens, dribs and drabs of dry goods, at Christmas and Easter. Across the street were a small garage with one bay; Jurvis, the butcher’s shop; a dark little cycle shop; and Miss Crisp’s. Farther along, just before the bridge that spanned the Piddle River, was Long Piddleton’s police station.

The pub had once been painted a rather distinct ultramarine. But its most unusual feature was the structure attached to its front and from which it derived its name: standing atop a sturdy beam was a mechanical smith, carved out of wood and holding a copy of a seventeenth-century forge hammer. When the large clock beneath the beam told the hours, “Jack” would raise his hammer and strike away at the invisible iron forge.

The beam was twenty feet off the ground, about seven feet long and two feet in girth, and it jutted over the walk below. The carved figure (now removed from the beam), although not life-sized, was not far from it. Originally, he had been painted into a bright blue coat and aquamarine trousers, but the paint was dull now, chipped and peeling. “Jack” was a favorite butt of jokes and horseplay, especially among the village children, who sometimes dressed him up and sometimes took him down. The wooden figure was treated very much like a rugby trophy, something to be carted away by delinquent boys from the nearby market town of Sidbury, and later rescued by equally delinquent boys from Long Piddleton. It was, in a way, the town mascot.

Just this past Guy Fawkes Day, several children had sneaked into the pub while Dick and his missus were fast asleep. They had gone up the back stairs and into the box room just above the beam outside. And they had lifted “Jack” from his supporting pole (from which he had been loosened by much tom-foolery over the years) and carried him off to the graveyard of St. Rules Church and buried him.

“Pore Jack,” Mrs. Withersby had lamented from her post by the Jack and Hammer’s fire, “not even a Christun burial, buried on the dog’s side, he were, not even in confiscated ground. Bad luck it’ll be all round, mark me. Pore Jack.”

Since Mrs. Withersby’s oracular powers were somewhat diminished by gin, not many people listened. But bad luck it was. Just one night before the discovery of Mr. Ainsley’s body, another body had been found in an inn less than one mile from Long Piddleton’s High Street—the body of one William Small, Esq.

With word that a killer was on the loose, the villagers were sticking to their parlors and fireplaces, something they might have done in any case because of the snow. It had been snowing for two days all over Northamptonshire, all over the north of England, indeed—lovely, soft stuff, which mounded on roofs and settled in corners of windows whose leaded panes were turned to squares of gold and ruby by reflected firelight. With the snow coming down and the smoke rising up from the chimney pots, Long Piddleton looked like a Christmas card of itself, despite the recent murder.

On the morning of December 19, the snow had finally stopped, and a bright sun had come out and melted enough of it so that the cottages could be seen to be prettily, even lavishly, painted. The High Street, down to the bridge, was fascinating, or beguiling, or weird, depending upon one’s tastes. It looked like it had been done by a convention of crazy housepainters. Perhaps bored with the usual limestone, in this limestone belt of Northamptonshire, they had gone rioting with ice-cream-parlor colors: a hint of strawberry here, of lemon there, and farther on, a glimmer of pistachio, and then a sudden splash of emerald. When the sun was at its highest, the street fairly glittered. Sunlight dyed the russet bridge at the end so deep it was almost mahogany. To a child, it must have been like walking between big gumdrops down to a chocolate bridge.

An odd place for one murder to occur, much less two.

“If you could just tell me what happened, sir, the circumstances in which the body was found,” said Superintendent Charles Pratt of the Northamptonshire constabulary, who had been in Long Piddleton just yesterday.

Melrose Plant explained, while Constable Pluck stood by eagerly taking notes. Pluck was thin to the point of emaciation, but he had a cherubic, rosy face, made even rosier by winter’s bite, so that he looked like an apple on a stick. But he was a good man, if a bit of a gossip.

“And you say, so far as you know, this Ainsley chap was a stranger hereabouts. Like the other—” Pratt consulted his own notebook, then slapped it shut—“William Small.”

“As far as I know, yes,” said Melrose Plant.

Superintendent Pratt cocked his head and looked at Plant out of mild, blue eyes that seemed innocent, but that were, Melrose was sure, anything but. “Then you’ve reason to believe these men weren’t strangers, sir?”

Melrose raised an eyebrow. “Well, naturally, Superintendent. Haven’t you?”

“I’ll have a whiskey, Dick—neat, if you please.”

Pratt having left and taken his lab crew, Melrose Plant and Dick Scroggs were alone once more in the Jack and Hammer.

“And have one yourself, Dick.”

“Don’t mind if I do,” said Dick Scroggs. “It’s a right old mess, init?” Several hours had elapsed, but Dick was still white, having watched closely the examination by the pathologist and the removal of the body, wrapped in a polyethylene sheet. The superintendent had left Pluck to see to the sealing off of the victim’s room. There, they had been shocked to discover the murderer had added the further grotesque touch of placing the mechanical figure “Jack” in the victim’s bed.

It was no wonder that Dick Scroggs was still trembly as he plucked up the 50p piece Melrose Plant had dropped on the bar. They studied their glasses for a moment, each alone with his thoughts.

Alone, that is, except for Mrs. Withersby, one of the many whom Pratt had questioned, who charred for Scroggs sometimes to get her drinking money. At the moment she was sitting on her favorite stool, spitting into the fire that had not been extinguished in a hundred years.

Now, seeing that the hard stuff was exchanging hands, she hove herself up from her stool and shuffled over, carpet slippers slapping the floor. Cigarette butt and spittle vied for position in the corner of her mouth. She removed the one between thumb and finger and wiped the other with the back of her wrist. She said—or shouted, rather—“His lordship buyin’?”

Dick raised a questioning eyebrow at Melrose Plant.

“Certainly,” said Melrose, placing a pound note on the bar. “Nothing is too good for the woman with whom I danced all night in Brighton.”

Dick was setting up a half-pint when Mrs. Withersby changed her tune: “Gin! I’ll have me a gin, not that cat-lap.” Then down she sat at the bar beside her benefactor, her faded yellowish hair standing up all around her head like a fright wig. She watched closely for her full measure as Dick poured. “If’n you’d add a pinch of dried mole’s body to that there gin, wouldn’t none of us have the ague.”

Mole’s body? wondered Plant, taking out his slim, gold cigarette case and extracting a cigarette.

“Or mebbe it was the malaria fever. Me mum always kept a bit of dried mole about. Drink it in gin nine mornin’s runnin’ and you’d be fit as a fiddle.”

Or under the table, thought Melrose, offering his case to Mrs. Withersby. “And did you answer Superintendent Pratt’s questions truthfully, madam?”

Her arthritic fingers grabbed up two of the cigarettes, one of which she planted in her mouth, the other in her checkered-gingham dress pocket. “Truthful? A’course I answered truthfill,” she said with a falsetto whine. “It’s more’n I can say for the Fairy o’ the Glen next door.” She hooked her thumb in the direction of Trueblood’s Antiques. The sexual persuasion of its proprietor had long been under discussion in the village.

“Don’t go casting irresponsible aspersions about, now,” said Plant, who had just purchased the cure for ague and malaria she now raised to her warty lips. He lit her cigarette for her and was rewarded with a stream of smoke blown in his face.

Then she leaned closer, her tobacco-beer-gin breath rolling over him like a sea fret. “Now we got this crazed murderer runnin’ about, doin’ in us innercent folk.” She snorted. “Oney this ain’t no human hand. It’s the divil his-self, mark me. I knew there’d be a death the day that bird fell down yer chimbley, Dick Scroggs. And we ain’t had no watchin’ at the porch on St. Mark’s Eve for five years. The dead will walk! Mark my words! The dead will walk!” She nearly fell off her stool in her excitement, and Melrose thought the dead might be walking past them right now. But she quieted down when she regarded her now-empty glass, which no one was paying any attention to. Slyly, she said, “And how’s yer dear auntie, m’lord? Gen’rous to a fault, is she. Always buys me a drink, friendly-like.” Melrose signaled to Scroggs to refill the glass. Having secured her gin, she went on. “Lives simple-like, not givin’ herself airs, and comes round every year with them Christmas baskets—”

For which Melrose paid. As she continued to extoll his aunt’s virtues, Melrose studied their reflections in the mirror and wondered which was the toad and which the fairy princess. He was about to tuck into his pickled egg when Dick broke into a fit of violent coughing, for which Mrs. Withersby had her remedy ready: “Tell yer missus to fix up a bit of roast mouse. Me mum always had a bit of roast mouse for the whoopin’ cough.”

Melrose looked at the egg lolling on the plate and decided he wasn’t so hungry, after all. He paid up his bill—their bill—and bade farewell politely to Mrs. Withersby—Long Piddleton’s village apothecary, village drunk, and village oracle.

2

SUNDAY, DECEMBER 20

“These murders,” said the vicar, “put me in mind of The Ostrich, in Colnbrook.” He bit into his fat rascal, and crumbs cascaded down his dark suit-front.

Around a mouthful of fairy cake, Lady Agatha Ardry said, “Far as I’m concerned, we’ve probably another Ripper amongst us.”

“Jack the Ripper, dear Aunt,” said Melrose Plant, “only fancied women. Of dubious virtue.”

Lady Ardry finished her fairy cake and dusted her hands. “Perhaps this one’s queer.” She surveyed the tea table. “You’ve taken the last of the fat rascals, Denzil.” She eyed the vicar accusingly.

Outside the mullioned panes of the vicarage, a fine English rain drifted its delicate veil across the churchyard. The Church of St. Rules and its vicarage sat on a hump of earth not quite a hill, directly behind and above the village square. It was on the other side of the bridge which ended the High Street, and a more sedate temperament reigned here. The square was enclosed by Tudor buildings, thatched roofs and pantiled roofs, all snug and wedged together.

Melrose disliked coming to tea at the vicarage, especially when his aunt was invited. The vicar’s housekeeper was never at her best in the food department. Her baked goods would have helped in the Battle of Britain had the country run out of bullets and bombs. Melrose scanned the tiered cake plate, looking for something digestible: the rock cakes lived up to their name; the Maids of Honor looked left over from Victoria’s wedding; the Bath buns must have walked. He had been listening to his aunt and the vicar rehash these two murders for nearly two hours, and he was horribly hungry. He reached out with some trepidation for a brandy snap. Politely, he inquired of the vicar, “You mentioned The Ostrich?”

Thus encouraged, Denzil Smith went on eagerly. “Yes. You see, when the proprietor came across a traveler with a good bit of money, he would book him into the room with a bed set over a trapdoor.” The vicar paused to select a stale-looking bun from the plate. “When the unfortunate and unwary guest was sleeping soundly the trapdoor sprang open, and he fell into a cauldron of boiling water.”

“Are you suggesting that Matchett and Scroggs are disposing of their own guests, Vicar?” Lady Ardry sat there in the library, solid and square and gray as a cement block, her stubby legs crossed and her pudgy fingers busy with her second Eccles cake.

“No, no,” said the vicar.

“It’s obviously a psychotic madman,” said Lady Ardry.

Plant let the redundancy pass, but asked, “What makes you so sure the murderer is psychotic, Agatha?”

“Are you barmy? To shove a body up on that beam outside the pub? Why, it must be twenty feet up. Whoever would stick a body up there?”

“King Kong?” suggested Melrose, running the brandy snap under his nose like the cork of an old wine.

“You seem to be taking this horrible business rather lightly, Melrose,” said the Reverend Denzil Smith.

“Don’t expect compassion from Melrose,” put in his aunt righteously, as she sank back into the huge Victorian armchair. “Living in that enormous house all alone, no one but that Ruthven person to do for you—it’s no wonder you’re antisocial.”

And yet here he was at tea, being terribly social. Melrose sighed. His aunt always could fly in the teeth of the evidence. Cautiously he bit into the brandy snap and wished he hadn’t.

“Well?” said Lady Ardry.

Melrose raised his eyebrows. “ ‘Well’ what?”

She made brief forays toward their cups with the Spode pot, then plunked it down. “I should think you’d have more to say than that about these murders. After all, you were there with Scroggs.” This clearly rankled. She added slyly: “It was Dick Scroggs who actually found him, though. So, of course, you didn’t get the awful shock I did when I went down to that cellar and saw this Small actually dangling out of that beer thing—”

“You didn’t find him. The Murch girl did.” Melrose ran his tongue over the roof of his mouth. The cream had a decidedly metallic taste. But a pellet of poison would be better than listening to Agatha. “Are you sure the cream in these brandy snaps hasn’t gone off? They taste strange.” He returned the confection to his saucer and wondered how long he had before they sent round the van.

“There was a similar case back in—let’s see—was it 1892? Woman named Betty Radcliffe, landlady at The Bell. That’s in Norfolk. Murdered by her lover, I believe, the gardener.”

Denzil Smith was not a particularly pious man, but he was a curious one, which made him excellent company for Lady Agatha Ardry. They were dependent on one another in the mindless way of two gibbons dedicated to picking fleas off one another’s fur. He was the village repository of old scraps of history, both village and extravillage, a walking book of memorabilia.

Looking around, Melrose thought the vicarage the perfect milieu for Denzil Smith. It was dark; it was as dusty as the waxen fruits that sat under glass globes. A stuffed owl, spread-winged, was stuck on the mantel. The thick-armed chairs and couch had incongruous animal feet sticking out from under their chintz dresses, so that Melrose had the feeling he had come to tea with the Three Bears. Clematis and bindweed roved freely along the windows. He wondered how it would feel to be strangled by a bindweed. No worse, surely, than the rock cakes. That reminded him of the murder of William Small: strangled with a length of wire used to wrap around the cork of a champagne bottle.

Lady Ardry was talking about the expected visit from Scotland Yard. “The Northants police are calling in the Yard. Pluck told me. Wonder who they’ll put on the case.”

Melrose Plant yawned. “Old Swinnerton, probably.”

She sat up suddenly, her glasses perched on top of her frizzy gray head like the goggles of a racing driver. “Swinnerton? You know them?”

He was sorry he had made up the name—wasn’t there always a Swinnerton?—for now she would worry it like a dog an old rag. Because Melrose had been born to his title (unlike his aunt, who had merely married one), she seemed prepared to believe he knew everyone from the Prime Minister on down. He diverted her attention by saying, “I don’t know why they need Scotland Yard here, when they have you, Agatha.”

His aunt simpered, and passed him the awful cakes, his reward for recognizing genius. “I do spin intriguing plots, don’t I?”

Long Piddleton had lately begun to attract artists and writers, and Lady Ardry, who had lived here for many years, fancied herself a writer of mysteries, having taken up the cudgel after the passing of the great lady of detective fiction. She did nothing with the cudgel, Melrose observed, except wave it. He had never seen any finished product; he assumed she regarded her writing in the light of a well-beloved child, a kind of fairy sprite who darts prettily about the yard but never knocks to have its dinner fixed. Never, to his knowledge, had she finished one of her “intriguing plots.”

Hitting her fist into her hand, Agatha said, “Scotland Yard’ll want to talk to me straightaway, of course—”

“I’ll be off, then,” said Plant, dreading the resumption of his aunt’s recitation of her role in these murders, which he’d heard several times before. He rose and bowed slightly.

“I should think you’d be a bit more excited,” said Agatha. “Of course, it was Scroggs who actually found your body.” She didn’t want to allow Melrose a larger part than she absolutely had to.

“More precisely, it was a Jack Russell. The Yard will question it first, no doubt. Good day, Agatha.”

As the vicar walked Plant through the Gothic arch of the library and to the front door, Lady Ardry’s voice trailed after him—around corners, down the hall. “Your facetiousness in the face of this terrible business hardly becomes you, Melrose.” Then louder: “But it’s what I might have expected.” Louder, still: “Remember you’re taking us to Matchett’s for dinner this evening. Pick me up at nine.”

Melrose Plant felt slightly doomed himself, as he listened to the vicar relate the grisly murder, some years ago, of a barmaid in Cheapside.

3

Ardry End was known to the villagers as the Great House. It was a turreted and towered manor house built of sandstone—hues ranging from rose to russet, depending upon the angle of the sun. Its approach was as elegant as the house itself, over a bridge of the same stone, which crossed the Piddle River on a road routed through acres of green land, now patched with snow. Ardry End’s situation, amidst the streams and the sheep and the lavender hills, nearly brought Lady Agatha Ardry to tears because she didn’t own it. That her own husband had not been the eighth Earl of Caverness and twelfth Viscount Ardry had always been a searing wound. The Honorable Robert Ardry had been, instead, the useless younger brother of Melrose Plant’s father. Where her nephew had dropped the title of Lord Ardry, Agatha had picked it up and dusted it off, transforming herself overnight into “Lady” Ardry. Melrose’s uncle died in a gaming room at the age of fifty-nine, having lost what little money remained to him, so that Lady Ardry was more or less dependent upon the generosity of her brother-in-law—a fact that did not add to Melrose’s popularity. His father had been an industrious member of the House of Lords and vice-president of a stock brokerage. Richer when he died than he had allowed when he was living, he had seen to it that his brother’s widow had received a comfortable annuity.

Thus, the marble and parqueted halls of Ardry End being forever beyond her grasp, Agatha never ceased in her nudges and hints to Melrose about “needing a woman round the place.” He pretended to believe the broad winks and nods were pointers that he should take a wife, knowing full well that a wife was the last thing his aunt wanted him to have, since he assumed she was fervently counting the hours until some rare disease would bring about his premature demise, and she would come into the inheritance she was apparently certain he would be willing to provide, there being no other relatives of whom she was aware. And she was aware of everything that applied to Melrose Plant’s estate—or so it seemed.

Melrose Plant regarded his aunt as the albatross which his uncle had shot down and left to hang around his nephew’s neck. Lord Robert had shot her down in Milwaukee, Wisconsin, when he had been on a pleasure tour of the United States. Agatha was an American. But she buried this as well as she could under tweed suits, walking sticks, sensible shoes, interminable plates of cucumber sandwiches, and a good ear for the English idiom but a terrible one for proper names.

His aunt used every pretext to appear suddenly at Ardry End to look covetously at the bisque statuary, the portraits, the Chinese and William Morris wall coverings, the Waterford, the pleasaunce, the swans—all of those appointments of the serene, stately home. Lady Ardry would turn up at all hours, and in all weathers, uninvited. It was nerve-racking to go into the study at midnight with the rain slicing through the winter darkness to see a black-caped, white-faced figure outside the French windows, suddenly illuminated in a flash of lightning. It was equally unnerving to have the figure enter, bulky and sopping, puddling the Persian rugs like a big dog and taking the attitude that it was all Melrose’s fault—why hadn’t that silly twit of a butler, Ruthven (a name she always mispronounced), why hadn’t he answered the front door? Then she would sigh and look about with that “no room at the inn” expression, as if her nephew had been the flint-hearted tavernkeeper relegating her to her hayrick back in the village.

*     *     *

Cycling along, Melrose took deep, appreciative gulps of the December air, and thought of these two murders which had been done within twenty-four hours of one another. They had given the village something to speculate about other than his marital status. And had made everyone wary, very wary, of doing what Plant was doing now—traveling down a lonely road by himself. It was not that he was particularly brave, only that he was particularly commonsensical. He had already deduced a pattern into which he, as a victim, did not fit. Both murders had taken place at inns, and both were grotesque almost to the point of absurdity. Whatever the murderer had in mind was something definite, and the criminal seemed to be the sort whose diabolical crimes were planned to please himself. At least, he seemed to be making quite a production of it.

Plant rolled his bike up the last remaining feet to the iron gate of Ardry End. The gate was guarded by two gilt lions set atop high stone pillars. His aunt audibly and frequently wondered why he didn’t have a few large, noble dogs to rush forward and greet his visitors: The Hound of the Baskervilles had taken its toll in her youth. Melrose unhinged the gate, closed it again, and pushed the bike along up the sweep of drive, looking at the place with his aunt’s practiced eye. The hawthorn hedges on either side were high and neat. Melrose had nearly had to beat the gardener back with a hoe to keep him from turning the hedges into a topiary showplace, the sort of thing Lorraine Bicester-Strachan, his nearest neighbor, went in for.

If Ardry End didn’t resemble Hampton Court, Mr. Peebles, the gardener, thought its grounds certainly extensive enough to be compared favorably with Hatsfield House. Peebles was applauded in all of his attempts to turn Ardry End into a showplace by Lady Ardry. These two got on like a team of old dray horses, pulling imaginary loads of ornamental and exotic plants through the grounds, to shape, form, and re-form these green expanses which Melrose only wanted to leave to the pleasures of wind and weather. His aunt plumped for views and vistas and coups d’oeil, perhaps the surprise of a miniature Pantheon across the lake, its Corinthian columns blinding white in the sun. Left to Aunt Agatha and Mr. Peebles, his natural lawns and woods would have been strangled with knot gardens and stylized patterns drawn in clipped dwarf box, privet, thorn, and yew. Peebles, seconded by his aunt, had been victorious in the one lily pond enclosed in a clipped yew hedge, with a small, discreet fountain at the center. The gardener had tried to sneak lead fish into the bottom of the pond, but Melrose made him remove them. To make amends for the lead fish, Melrose had agreed to two real swans and a family of ducks for the lake. But the swans and the pond were his only concession. Lady Ardry and Mr. Peebles would have spelled out the Mountardry-Plant name on the front lawn in flowering plants, like a municipal building.

The door to Ardry End was opened by the butler, Ruthven. To say that Ruthven was of the old school was to put it very mildly. Plant speculated that every other manservant in England might have gone to school to Ruthven. Melrose could remember him from the time he was a tiny tot; Ruthven could be anywhere between fifty and a hundred—he had always looked the same to Melrose.

Plant had inherited Ruthven along with the portraits and stocks and Morris wallpapers, and during the course of their relationship, the master had done only one thing to upset the butler. Melrose had given up his title several years ago, after a few sessions in the House of Lords. It had nearly brought Ruthven to his bed. The news had been handed the butler one morning at breakfast, casually, like someone giving back the plate for more kippers: Oh, incidentally, Ruthven, it won’t be “my lord” any longer. And Ruthven had stood there, carved out of rock, his expression magnificently unchanged. I thought it inappropriate, you know, holding down a job, at the same time having that awkward title. Ruthven had merely bowed and held out the silver dish of buttered eggs circumscribed by plump sausages. And, anyway, I never have fancied taking my seat in the House of Lords. What a bloody bore that would be. As a sausage went plop on the plate, Ruthven begged to excuse himself, saying he felt a bit unwell.