The Old Fox Deceiv'd E-Book

Martha Grimes

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

Beschreibung

In Rackmoor, a Yorkshire fishing village, the twelfth night of Christmas comes to a dramatic and disturbing end when the corpse of a young woman is discovered. Once again, Inspector Jury's assistance is required. However, Jury finds himself struggling at the first hurdle - the girl's identity - and learns that, before he can grapple with the village's future, and even its present, he must first face confront its past which turns out to be a tangled maze of unrequited loves, unrevenged wrongs, and even undiscovered murders. Who was this girl? Was she Gemma Temple, an impostor, or was she really Dillys March, Colonel Titus Crael's long-lost ward, returning after eight years to the Colonel's country seat to claim a share of his fortune? And who could possibly want her dead...?

Leseprobe

Praise for the novels of Martha Grimes

The Blue Last

A New York Times Bestseller

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

—USA Today

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

—The Richmond Times-Dispatch

The Lamorna Wink

A 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 Stargazey

A 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 Altered

A 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

The Man with a Load of Mischief

The first Richard Jury novel

“For readers who value wit, atmosphere, and charm in their mysteries. . . . Grimes has soaked up the atmosphere of English villages and pubs in her travels. She has learned her sleight-of-hand from Christie and delights in the rich characterizations of Marsh.”

—The Washington Post Book World

“[Grimes’s novel] is cast in the mold of the great British mysteries and comes complete with all the classic elements.”

—The San Diego Union-Tribune

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 1982 by Little, Brown

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

Copyright © Martha Grimes, 1982

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 919 5

Grove Press, UK

Ormond House

26–27 Boswell Street

London

WC1N 3JZ

www.groveatlantic.com

To my brother Bill

CONTENTS

I

Night at the Angel Steps

II

Morning in York

III

Afternoon in Islington

IV

Rackmoor Fog

V

Limehouse Blues

VI

The Old Red Rag

VII

Simon Says

I

Night at the Angel Steps

1

She came out of the fog, her face painted half-white, half-black, walking down Grape Lane. It was early January and the sea-roke drove in from the east, turning the cobbled street into a smoky tunnel that curved down to the water. The bay was open to the full force of gales, and the scythe-like curve of Grape Lane acted as a conduit for the winds from the sea. Far off the fog siren known as the Whitby Bull gave its four mournful blasts.

The wind billowed her black cape, which settled again round her ankles in an eddying wave. She wore a white satin shirt and white satin trousers stuffed into high-heeled black boots. The click of the heels on the wet stones was the only sound except for the dry gah-gah of the gulls. One strutted on a ledge above her, pecking at the windows. To avoid the wind she clung to the fronts of the tiny houses. She looked up alleyways that seemed to end in cul-de-sacs, but from which steps like hidden springs curled down to other passages. The narrow street came right up to the cottage doors and black iron bootscrapers. She stopped for a moment beneath the dim streetlamp when someone passed her on the other side of the lane. But in this fog, no one was recognizable. She could see the pub at the end of the lane by the breakwater, its windows glowing mistily like opals in the dark.

When she came to the iron gates of the Angel steps, she stopped. The wide stair was on her left and connected Grape Lane and Scroop Street above with Our Lady of the Veil, the church at the top of the village. She unlatched the gates and walked up, a long walk to a small landing where a bench served as a resting place. Someone was sitting there.

The woman in black and white took a step back and down, startled. She opened her mouth to speak. The figure had risen, two arms coming out suddenly as if jerked by strings—out, up and down. Struck again and again, the woman finally fell like a puppet and was kept from rolling down the steps only because the other one grabbed at her cape. Her body lay collapsed, sprawling, head down the steps. The other person turned and stepped over her, almost casually, and walked down the Angel steps back to Grape Lane, keeping close to the wall so as not to step in the blood.

It was Twelfth Night.

2

“Certain kinds of people have always got away with murder!” Adrian Rees slammed his glass on the bar. He had been extolling the virtues of Russian literature and Raskolnikov.

No one in the Old Fox Deceiv’d was especially interested.

Adrian tapped his empty glass with his finger. “Another, Kitty me love.”

“Don’t ‘Kitty-me-love’ me, and you’ll not be gettin’ another until I see your money.” Kitty Meechem wiped the counter where he’d banged the mug, sending his neighbor’s beer over the sides of his glass like sea spray. “Drunk as a lord.”

“Drunk is it? Ah, Kitty me gurhl . . .” His tone was wheedling as he reached out a hand towards Kitty’s light brown locks, a hand she slapped away. “You’d not even stand one of your own countrymen?”

“Har! And yer no more Irish than me ginger cat.”

The cat in question was curled up on a scrap of rug before the blazing hearth. It was always there, like a plaster ornament. Adrian wondered when it was ever up and around enough to get the cuts and scratches it sported. “Looks lazy enough to be Irish,” said Adrian.

“Would you listen to the man? Him who spends his days dabbin’ and daubin’ and paintin’ women without a stitch on.” That comment earned a few sniggers up and down the line at the bar. “That cat does more an honest day’s work than many I know.”

Adrian leaned across the counter and stage-whispered: “Kitty, I’ll tell all Rackmoor you posed for me in the nude!”

Titters to the left, giggles to the right from Billy Sims and Corky Fishpool. Imperturbable and rocklike, Kitty merely kept swabbing down the bar. “I’ll have none a yer darty paintings and none a yer darty mouth. But”—she knifed the foam from a couple of glasses of dark beer—“only yer darty money. Or will I be seein’ any this night a tall a tall?”

Adrian looked hopefully from Billy to Corky, both of whom immediately struck up fresh conversations with those beside them. No buyers. Not for his paintings, either, which was why he had no money.

“You should be worrying about the state of your souls, not your purses!”

Corky Fishpool looked at him and picked his teeth. Adrian returned to the tale of Raskolnikov: “He came back to the conniving old woman again and again to pawn his few belongings . . . tight she was.” (And here he leveled a glance at Kitty Meechem, who ignored him.) “Then one day he crept up the stairs . . .” Adrian’s fingers walked slowly towards Billy Sims’s glass, which was quickly pulled out of reach. “And when he got inside and her back was turned—VROOM! He let her have it.” He noticed he had drawn a few more listeners, coming up to stand behind him. But no one offered to buy. Not even Homer could get a drink out of this lot.

“What’d t’fool do that fer, it’s daft, fer a bit a money as ’e got.” This came from Corky’s cousin, Ben Fishpool, a humorless, literal man, a beefy fisherman with a face like a slab off the cliffside, and a dragon tattooed on his forearm. He kept his own pewter mug hanging above the bar. He drank by holding it finger in handle, thumb on rim, as if making sure no one would wrest it away.

“Because he wanted to understand the nature of guilt, something you swillers of ale would not appreciate.” Adrian reached for a pickled egg in a bowl and Kitty slapped his hand away.

“Summat daft, ’e be,” mumbled Ben, not satisfied with that explanation.

“Guilt, redemption, sin! That’s what it’s all about.” Adrian twirled round and addressed the room at large. The air was almost fruity with the pungent smoke of many tobaccos. Smoke hung suspended over the tables as if the sea-fret had crept in, penetrated the walls, slid under the door and across the sills. Adrian thought it should have been a grand place to talk about guilt and sin; the expressions of those still hanging on till closing time seemed fairly to dote on life’s being a trial. Any burst of laughter was soon quelled, as if the offender had caught himself having a giggle in a graveyard.

“Raskolnikov wanted to show that certain kinds of people could do murder and not suffer for it.” No one seemed to be listening.

“And don’t you go wheedlin’ money out a Bertie,” said Kitty, as if she hadn’t heard a word about sin, guilt nor Raskolnikov. “I seen you do that only this last week. Shameful, it is.” She flicked the bar-towel in his direction. “A grown man gettin’ beer money from a wee bairn, a pore, pore, motherless lad.”

Adrian hooted. “Bertie? A ‘pore, pore motherless lad’? Christ, he charges more interest than the banks. I think Arnold keeps the books.” Even behind those thick glasses, the kid had eyes like rivets. He’d have a confession out of Raskolnikov inside of two minutes.

“And you needn’t go sayin’ nasty things about Arnold, neither. I’ve seen Arnold walk down wee paths along these cliffs, no wider’n a wee snake. While you can’t even walk a straight line up to the High.”

“Ha ha ha,” said Adrian, unable to outtalk Kitty, as usual, or think of a witty reply. His eye fell on Percy Blythe’s glass of bitter. Percy Blythe’s sharp little eyes screwed up and he put his two hands quickly over the glass. Then he went back to his reading.

“Philistines! You none of you understand sin and guilt!”

“That and fifty pence’ll buy you a pint,” said Kitty. “TIME, GENTLEMEN, PLEASE!”

The door slapped shut behind him and Adrian buckled up the oilskin over his blue guernsey and pulled his knitted cap down over his ears. January in Rackmoor was hell.

The Old Fox Deceiv’d was so near the water that waves once washed its outer walls. At one time, high waves had swept the bow of a ship straight through it. Finally, a seawall had been erected. The front of the pub faced the little cove where tiny boats slapped about in the water. From the north toward Whitby came the mournful dirge of the Whitby Bull.

Four narrow streets converged here: Lead Street, the High, Grape Lane and Winkle Alley. The High was the only one of them wide enough for a car, if any intrepid driver felt like daring the incredible angle of descent from the top of the village. It was on the High that Adrian lived, near the other end where the street dog-legged before continuing its gravity-defying ascent. He decided to walk along Grape Lane, though; it was not quite so steep and there were fewer booby traps of broken cobbles. Behind him as he walked he could still hear the regulars in the Fox hanging on until the quarter-hour closing. Philistines.

He heard her before he saw her.

Just as he was passing the Angel steps, he heard the tiny hammer-taps of the high heels. She came out of the fog on the other side of Grape Lane, walking towards the Angel steps and the sea. The wind whipped her black cape round her white trousers. Adrian thought he was proof against any odd sight in Rackmoor, yet he shrank back a bit against the cold stone of a cottage. For the barest moment she stopped in the arc of one of the few lamps and he took her in.

When Adrian wanted to remember something—the scattered pattern of colored leaves; the lay of the moonlight; the fold of velvet across an arm—he didn’t have to look twice. The shutter of his eye snapped it, fixed it in his memory, filed it for future reference. He had always thought that he would make one hell of a police witness.

In those few seconds beneath the lamp she was painted in his memory: the black cape, white satin shirt and pants, black boots, black cap on her head. But it was the face that was memorable. As if a line had been drawn absolutely evenly down the bridge of her nose, the left side was painted white, the right side black. And a small, black mask completed the weird, checkerboard look.

She walked on quickly toward the Angel steps and the sea, the high heels drumming back into the fog. He stood staring into nothing for a few seconds.

Then he remembered it was Twelfth Night.

3

“Shall I be Mother?”

Bertie Makepiece held the stoneware teapot aloft. It was very late to be up making tea, but with no school tomorrow, Bertie felt he could indulge himself; he’d been peckish ever since their evening meal. He was wearing an apron much too large so he had secured it with the tie running round his chest and under his arms. Now he stood with teapot poised over cup and waited patiently for Arnold’s answer.

None was forthcoming from the occupant of the other chair. One might have felt, though, looking into Arnold’s earnest eyes, that his failure to respond was not because he was a dog, but because, No, he really didn’t want to be Mother.

Arnold was a Staffordshire terrier the color of a Yorkshire pudding or a fine, dry sherry. The unnervingly steady look of his dark eyes might have made one think he was not a dog at all, but someone doing an impersonation, zipped up in a dog suit. He was a quiet dog; seldom did he bark. It was as if he had decided one couldn’t make it through life on mouth alone. The other village dogs followed him, but respectfully, at a distance. Arnold was a dog’s dog. Whenever he snuffled along walks and through alleyways, he always gave the impression of being onto something big.

“Did you hear something, Arnold?

Arnold had nearly finished the milk in his bowl—laced with a bit of tea—and sat up, ears pricked.

Bertie slid off his chair and padded over to the window. Their cottage on Scroop Street was wedged between two others: one belonged to some summer people and the other to old Mrs. Fishpool who put out scraps for Arnold which he took up the alley and buried in the dustbin.

The Makepiece cottage was near the Angel steps. The hardier parishioners trudged up them every Sunday to Our Lady. Looking out and down, Bertie could see nothing through the fog except the ghostly outlines of peaked roofs and chimney pots below.

There was a tapping above him on the window of his bedroom. Bertie jumped. A herring gull, maybe, or a fulmar: ag-ag-aror, it seemed to be chuckling, as if it had a joke on the village. They were always doing that, waking him in the morning sometimes, coming like visitors to knock at the door. Gulls and terns—bloody old birds acted like they owned the place.

Arnold was standing behind him, waiting to go out. “Well, hop it, then, Arnold.” Bertie opened the door and Arnold slipped through like a shadow. Bertie called after him, “Mind you’re back soon.”

The dog stopped and looked back at Bertie; probably, he understood. Bertie stood there awhile, looking out at the moving mist. What he had heard had sounded like a scream. The birds were always screaming.

One scream sounded pretty much like another in Rackmoor.

4

It was the Wakeman who found her.

Billy Sims had continued his evening revels with Corky Fishpool long after the closing of the Fox, visiting first one crony, then another in Lead Street and Winkle Alley. It was a night of celebration, after all.

Now, with his tricornered hat and fawn tunic on backwards, he decided to gain his own small cottage in Psalter’s Lane, beside Our Lady, by walking up the Angel steps, although he knew they were unlit and unsafe in the winter darkness. With his horn tucked under his arm, he weaved upwards.

His foot struck something. Something unyielding and yet soft, not stone. He had no torch, but he did have matches. He struck one.

The match spurted up and he saw the upside-down and blood-covered face, the limbs going off in impossible directions, making the black-and-white figure look like a huge doll.

Billy Sims nearly took a dive down the steps. When he remembered that it was Twelfth Night, and that this was but some mummer who had strayed from a party, it only served to turn the nightmare real.

5

Detective Inspector Ian Harkins of the Pitlochary C.I.D. was furious. The first really meaty case to come his way and the Chief Constable wanted to throw it to somebody from C.I. in London. Over my dead body, thought Harkins, grinning a little at his own gallows humor. Harkins had the face to go with it, sunken-eyed and skeletal.

His knuckles whitened on the telephone. “I see no reason for calling London. I’m not even there yet and you’re talking about Scotland Yard. Kindly give me a chance.” There was a certain acidity in his kindly.

Superintendent Bates reluctantly allowed him twenty-four hours. It sounded like the kind of case that might turn up complications; Leeds would not be happy.

Harkins finished dressing. For Ian Harkins, this was not a matter of dragging on unmatched socks and unpressed suit. He did it in front of a cheval mirror. He had a tailor in Jermyn Street and a rich aunt in Belgravia who doted on him, although she questioned his strange predilection for the frozen North and talked about his work as if it were a sometime hobby which had suddenly become addictive.

It wasn’t a hobby; Harkins was an excellent policeman. His mind was shrewd, incisive, uncluttered by sentiment.

Harkins adjusted the belt on a camel’s-hair coat, specially lined against the Yorkshire winter, and drew on gloves of a leather so fine they nearly melted on his hands. It was true he was an excellent policeman, but he was damned if he’d go about looking like one.

But a C.I.D. man is not supposed to waste time in dalliance over his clothes. To make up for it he hopped into his Lotus Elan, drove it up to ninety, and almost hoped some idiot patrolman would try to stop him on the fifteen miles of icy road to Rackmoor and the coast.

“Been bashed about pretty smartly, hasn’t she?”

Detective Constable Derek Smithies grimaced. The description seemed much more appropriate to a rugby game than a bloody murder.

Ian Harkins got up from where he had been kneeling and adjusted the coat round his shoulders. His emaciated face made him look ten years older than he was. To make up for the skeletal look—cheekbones as prominent as small wings—he wore a long, full mustache. He had removed his beautiful, butter-leather gloves to examine the body. He drew them on again like a surgeon.

From the station in Pitlochary, a town five times the size of Rackmoor, but still with only a small police force, Inspector Harkins had called in half-a-dozen men, including a local doctor and the constable scratching down notes behind him. The Scene of Crimes man had already been and gone. A fingerprint expert was yet to come, a man who had the reputation for being able to lift stuff off the wings of flies. The pathologist got up, grunted, wiped his hands.

“Well?” said Harkins, shoving a thin, hand-rolled Cuban cigar back in his mouth.

The doctor shrugged. “I don’t know. It looks like somebody took a pitchfork to her.”

Harkins looked at him. “A rather unwieldy weapon, man. Try again.”

The doctor matched Harkins’s own acerbic tone. “Vampire bats.”

“Funny.”

“Ice pick, awl, God knows. She looks like a sieve. But the ice pick’s out because it looks like whatever it was had more than one prong. I can tell better when I have the body back at the morgue.”

Harkins crouched down again. “The face . . . Shine that torch over here, will you?” he called to one of the men combing over the steps. There were three or four torches in use, up and down the steps like giant fireflies. One swiveled over to shine on the woman’s face. “Under the blood it looks like makeup, greasepaint of some sort. Black one side, white the other. Weird.” Harkins rose, dusted his trousers by slapping his gloves against them. “Time?” he snapped.

Elaborately, the doctor took out his turnip watch and said, “Precisely one fifty-nine.”

Harkins threw down his cigar, ground it under his heel. “You know goddamned well what I mean.”

The doctor clicked his bag shut. “I don’t work for you, remember. I’d say she’d been at least two hours gone, maybe three. I’m just a country doctor; you called me. So be civil.”

As if civility were a term only in the lexicon of country doctors, Harkins turned to Constable Smithies: “I want blocks put up at both ends of these steps with notices to keep clear. And get those people out of here.” Down on Grape Lane, ghostly faces were still appearing and disappearing as they had done ever since Harkins and then the other police cars had showed up. More and more villagers were tumbling out of bed to see what all the ruckus was. Harkins managed to ask the next simple question in the most withering of tones: “Her name was Temple, you said?”

Smithies tried to make himself small, difficult for such a big man. “Yes, sir. They tell me she was staying at the Fox Deceiv’d, the pub down by the seawall.”

“Stranger to town?”

“I suppose so.”

“You suppose so. Well, what’s a stranger doing in that weird get-up? Does Rackmoor often get such visitors?” Smithies might have been personally responsible for the turning up of the woman in black and white.

“It’s a costume, sir . . .”

“You don’t say so.” Harkins lit another cigar.

“. . . because of Twelfth Night. There was a costume party up at Old House. She must have been going to it. Or coming back.”

“Where the hell’s Old House?”

Smithies pointed up the Angel steps, jabbing his finger as if to make it pass the church. “If you’re from these parts, you must know it, sir. That’s the Old Fox Deceiv’d Manor House.”

“I thought you just said that was the name of the pub.”

“It is, sir. Only the pub half belongs to the Colonel, and he named it after the house. So we just call one Old House and the other the Fox to keep them straight. Kitty’s place used to be the Cod and Lobster, see. But the Colonel, Colonel Crael, he’s that crazy over fox hunting—”

“I don’t care if it used to be called my Aunt Fanny, what’s—wait a minute. Are you talking about Sir Titus Crael? That Colonel Crael?”

“That’s him, sir.”

“You mean she”—he pointed to the place where the body was in the process of being carried down the steps in a rubber sheet—“she was a guest of his?”

“I guess so, sir.”

Under his breath, Harkins muttered something, looking down at the chalked-off place as if he wished he could get her back here again.

Inspector Harkins had little respect for his superiors, whether in Pitlochary, Leeds, or London. He certainly had no respect for his inferiors, assuming they were down there because that’s where they deserved to be.

But one thing he did respect: privilege. The Craels had as much as anyone in Yorkshire.

And now he was at war with himself: on the one hand he’d simply like to dump the body back where he’d found it and give London the headache.

But on the other, he was Ian Harkins.

II

Morning in York

Melrose Plant rested his paper on his knee and turned over the hourglass.

“Where’d you get that contraption?” Lady Agatha Ardry was separated from her nephew by a splotch of Axminster carpet and a tiered cake-plate. She had been sitting for the last hour like a baby whale on the Queen Anne couch, shoving in fairy cakes and brandy snaps and calling it her “elevenses.”

Fairy cakes at eleven in the morning? Melrose shuddered, but answered her question. “In an antique shop near the Shambles.” He pushed his gold-rimmed glasses back on his elegant nose and returned to his newspaper.

“Well?” She held her teacup with little finger extended. It was, he noted, somewhere around her third or fourth cup.

“Well, what?” He turned the page, looking for a crossword puzzle to break the tedium.

“Why have you been sitting there turning it over every minute?”

Melrose Plant looked at her over the rims of his spectacles. “It’s an hourglass, dear Agatha. Were I to turn it over every minute it would defeat its purpose.”

“Don’t be cryptic. Aren’t you having any of this lovely tea Teddy had done for us?”

“Teddy will never notice I didn’t eat.” Teddy. Any woman who permitted herself to be called Teddy deserved Agatha for a fortnight’s visit. He wondered what the Teddy stood for: Theodore, from the look of her. She was a very large woman with red hair like a burning bush. This morning she was out doing the shops.

“You still haven’t answered my question about the hourglass. Why did you turn it over? There’s a perfectly good clock on the mantel.” She squinted her eyes at it. “Wonder how much Teddy gave for it? Looks Italian.”

She’d have the entire room appraised and priced inside of ten minutes, thought Melrose. “It used to be that pews had curtains, and parsons kept hourglasses on the pulpits. If there were to be further oratory from that quarter, the parson would turn over the hourglass. If one were bored by all of the sermonizing, one could draw the curtain. It is my understanding that Lord Byron, while visiting some friends in Yorkshire, attended church with them and immediately drew the curtain.”

Agatha chewed this over, both literally and figuratively, while she ate a fairy cake with awful blue-y icing. After one of her infrequent silences, she said, “Melrose, do you remember that strange Uncle Davidson? The one on your dear mother’s side of the family? Lady Marjorie’s?”

“I remember the name of my mother, certainly. As to this uncle, what of him?”

“He was quite mad, everyone knew that. He talked very strangely, and I sometimes wonder . . .” She was stripping another fairy cake of its little paper coverlet. “It’s just that you say and do the oddest things. Now here you are thinking of going off to some rubbishy little fishing village by the sea—”

“Fishing villages generally are.” He remembered she had called it a “quaint little fishing village” before she discovered the invitation to visit did not include her.

She shuddered. “The North Sea, and in dead winter! Now, if it were Scarborough in summer, wouldn’t that be jolly?”

Decidedly unjolly, thought Melrose. Scarborough in summer would be boardwalks and bathers and Agatha sticking to him like a barnacle. Melrose yawned and turned another page of the York Mail. “Well, there it is, then.”

“I still do not understand why you are even thinking of going.”

“Because I have been invited, dear Aunt. Which is why one ordinarily goes places.” Of course, the arrow fell wide: Agatha had invited herself to Teddy’s when she found Melrose was motoring to Yorkshire. Well, he thought he could hardly refuse to take her as far as York; it was straight on his way. Nor did he truly mind the stopover, for York was a wonderful place. There was the Minster with its golden pulpitum; the crooked Shambles with its closely tilting shops and cottages. And he had even discovered a nice little tucked-away men’s club yesterday where he could relax in a cracked leather armchair until rigor mortis set in. This morning he had taken a walk part way round the walls. Beautiful old York—

“. . . only a baronet.”

Melrose roused himself from his reflections on the walls and the gates of the city. “What?”

“This Sir Titus Crael. He’s only a baronet. Whereas you—”

“Whereas I am only a commoner. There are lots of us. We are popping up all over Britain. I heard, though it might be mere rumor, we have London surrounded and have already captured the whole of Cornwall. Though we might give it back.” He snapped his newspaper.

“Oh, do stop being silly, Melrose. You know exactly what I mean. No one will let you off with being just plain Melrose Plant. Instead of the Earl of Caverness, I mean. And twelfth Viscount Ardry, and grandson of—”

She was gearing up like a monkey-grinder and would be cranking out the whole lot of titles, tunelessly, if he didn’t interrupt: “I am afraid they will have to let me off, since I have let myself off. Funny how the old world keeps turning without my title.”

“I still don’t see why you pretended to give it up. You’re not political. Your father might have been, but you’re not. You’re not running for anything.”

Only the door, though Melrose. She would keep on about it, but he had no intention of telling her. He leaned back and stared at the ceiling, thinking of his father, whom he had very much loved and admired. Except for all of that hunting tomfoolery. It was the hunting, he supposed, which had made him such a friend of Titus Crael, whom Melrose hadn’t seen in thirty years. His only memory of Sir Titus was of that day Melrose had gone cubbing, and of a tall, imposing figure standing next to him, the dead fox in his hands. They were going through that ghastly initiation, the ritual of blooding. Melrose found his ten-year-old face being wiped with the blood of the fox.

Where had it been? He could not remember. Somewhere in the Shires? Rutland, maybe? Or even up here on the Yorkshire moors. He could only remember drops of blood on the snow. Hunting had never appealed to him after that. . . .

“Quite a decent old house this,” said Agatha, interrupting his reverie once again. “Bring a lot on today’s market, I should think. That’s an Adam ceiling.”

Melrose had been studying its delicate pastels and white moldings. “A copy.” Ceilings were his métier. He knew each ceiling in his own home, Ardry End, inch by inch. It came from staring up at them when his aunt was over to tea.

“The plates are Crown Derby. And that table’s a very nice Sheraton,” said Agatha.

Melrose watched her small eyes travel the length and breadth of the room, raking in Staffordshire figures, papier-mâché, cameo glass—the cash-register of her mind adding it all up. In her previous incarnation she had probably been an auctioneer.

‘‘And did you see the size of that ring Teddy was wearing this morning? What sort of stone do you suppose it was?’’

Melrose turned back to the front page of his paper. ‘‘A gallstone.’’

‘‘You really do hate it, don’t you, Melrose, when someone has more than you.’’ She looked at the cake-plate. ‘‘Let’s have that butler in; there aren’t any more brandy snaps.’’ She plucked at the bellpull. Then she settled back, fluffing up the cushions. ‘‘I’d no idea Teddy’d done so well by her marriage. I believe her things are quite as fine as the ones at Ardry End.’’

‘‘You mean by the late Mr. Harries-Stubbs’s death.’’

‘‘How cold-blooded of you, Melrose. But, then, I might expect you to take that line about marriage.’’

He refused to engage in any discussion of marriage. He was beginning to despair of ever finding that elusive She with whom to share himself and Ardry End. It was Ardry End, of course, that Agatha worried over. She liked to probe, was always dragging old names, old memories of women he had known like dead bodies across his path to see if she could trip him up, make him disclose some secret amour to which she was not privy and which might cut her out, as his only relative, of Ardry End—its real Adam ceilings, its early Georgian, its Meissen and Baccarat. What had ever given her the impression she had a right to this inheritance, Melrose couldn’t imagine. And, although she was over sixty and Melrose only forty-one, it did not seem to occur to her he’d outlast her. Wishful thinking, no doubt.

‘‘Is Vivian Rivington ever coming back from Italy, I wonder?’’

It was another of her sidesaddle questions.

But Melrose did not answer because his eye was riveted on an item on the front page of the York Mail.

There was murder in Rackmoor.

According to the account, a body of a woman clad in some sort of mummer’s costume had been found sprawled in a backwater street. Yorkshire constabulary sure to make an arrest soon. (Meaning they had no idea what was going on.) Murdered woman supposedly a relative of Sir Titus Crael, M.P. and M.F.H.—one of Yorkshire’s wealthiest and most influential citizens.

A relation of Sir Titus—now Melrose found himself in a real quandary. To be barging in at this bleak hour of the Craels’ lives, invited or not . . . perhaps he should just pack up and go back to Northants and send his apologies. . . . Northants, Agatha, and general malaise. There was no malaise in Rackmoor, he bet, at the moment.

There was blood on the snow. . . .

“What’s the matter with you, Melrose? You’re sitting there all white as death.”

Fortunately, he was saved from comment by the entrance of Miles, the Harries-Stubbs butler, to whom Agatha said, “I’d like some more tea and one or two of those brandy snaps. But do ask Cook to see the cream’s fresher. Just tell her to whip up some more.”

Miles looked at her out of bulletproof eyes. Agatha always managed to depopularize herself with servants very quickly.

“Yes, madam,” was his stony answer. In warmer tones, he addressed Melrose: “And you, my lord. Is there anything you’d be requiring?”

“The telephone,” said Melrose. “I mean—would you mind ringing up this number for me and seeing if this party is there?” He tore a leaf from his memorandum book and handed it to the butler.

“Certainly, my lord.”

“Who are you calling, Melrose?”

“ ‘Spirits from the vastly deep,’ ” he said, trying to shove the newspaper down between the arm and cushion of the chair. If she knew a murder had been done in the very place to which he was going, she’d be right beside him, tramping along and stamping out whatever poor clues there were. Agatha fancied herself a mystery writer. She had never got over what she called “her solution” to those murders in their own village.

The butler swanned into the room. “I’ve got—” (quick look at Agatha) “—your party on the line.”

“Thank you. I’ll just take it in the other room.” Butlers were amazing. Melrose thought of his own butler, Ruthven. They could read minds even where there were no minds to read. He looked at Agatha and left the room.