“You know, you haven’t mentioned your friend Detective Inspector Aguilar. I assume she’s still in hospital?”
“Yes. Not good. She’s in a coma.”
Melrose stopped. “Good Lord. That’s terrible. I’m so sorry.”
Jury nodded.
They resumed their walk. Through the window of the local library, Miss Tooley, the librarian, waved at them. Melrose raised his hand in a dispirited way to return the wave. “What’s the chance she’ll come out of it?”
“Just that-a chance. But if she doesn’t, she’s signed a paper saying she doesn’t want what they call ‘heroic measures’ instituted. The doctor says a person usually comes back from a coma in a couple of weeks, or not at all.”
Melrose shook his head. “I’m really sorry.”
Across the village green sat Vivian Rivington’s house. “That place is beautiful,” said Jury. “I wouldn’t mind a house like that.”
“Then marry her. I bet she’d be delighted.”
How dense can you be? thought Jury. “I bet she wouldn’t. I proposed once and got turned down.”
Melrose stopped again. “You didn’t!”
“She was engaged, if you remember, to Simon Matchett. Didn’t love him, though, that was clear.”
“I’ve never understood her.”
“I know. That’s because you’re as thick as two planks.”
29
Melrose tapped on the leaded window of the Jack and Hammer, and the group sitting at the table in the bay window peered out and waved. Except for Marshall Trueblood, apparently not finished with his morning calisthenics, who stood and threw his arms about in meaningless gestures.
Inside, Melrose asked, “What in God’s name was all of that semaphore about?”
“To warn you off,” said Trueblood. “Theo Wrenn hyphen Brown saw the two of you and is now leaving his shop and coming here. Hell.”
Jury said hello to the four-no, five, for here was Dick Scroggs the publican, bringing fresh drinks; no, six, for here was Mrs. Withersby, Dick’s char, who was slapping her slippered feet toward them. She had a cigarette behind her ear and was hoping for another, along with her free favorite pint.
“Wrenn hyphen Brown? What’s that about?”
“He thinks a double-barreled last name has more cachet.”
Said Melrose, “I have the care of a new dog. A homeless man came to the door and I’m sure he had the dog with him, but he denied it, so we don’t know where the dog came from. He’s lost or something. Maybe got free of his owner.”
“What kind of dog?” asked Diane Demorney.
“Sheepdog.”
“Mountain dog,” said Jury, who had remained standing.
Melrose looked at him. “You know the difference?” Nonchalantly, Jury shrugged. “You can just tell about this dog.” Melrose frowned, then said, “For heaven’s sakes, sit down, will you? You’re making us nervous.”
Jury laughed, looking at the group slouched comfortably round the table. “Yes, I can see all of you are a bundle of nerves.”
Diane Demorney, taking precious time from her martini, asked, “Does the dog have a name?”
“No,” said Melrose.
“Joey,” said Jury at the same time.
They stared at Jury; they wanted evidence.
“It’s on his collar.”
“When did you ever see his collar?” said Melrose.
“I told you. When he went by, I got up close to him.”
Vivian Rivington frowned. “He stopped for you?”
“Well, no, not exactly.”
They were all frowning at Jury now. He knew why, too. They wanted to have a name contest and he could be throwing a spanner into the works with his “Joey.”
Right, Trueblood apparently decided. He said, “We’ll have to name him.”
Theo Wrenn-Brown had come and pulled a chair round as if he were welcome. He shoved it in between Trueblood and Diane. He called over to Dick Scroggs, who was reading the Sidbury paper, leaning over it on the bar. Theo called for a gimlet. He could have called for his fiddlers three with more success.
He then settled in to get attention paid him. “Superintendent! Solved any cases lately?” “Hee-haw” was precisely and phonetically what Theo’s laugh sounded like. Hee-haw. “Where’s my drink? Dick!”
Dick blew his nose with a big handkerchief and went back to his paper.
“Oh, for God’s-” Theo shoved back his chair and stomped over to the bar.
“Should we do the naming the same way we did for Aghast?” said Joanna Lewes, who wrote books that were a commercial success.
“Nobody won that,” said Diane. “Melrose rejected all of our suggestions and went with his own name.”
“Well, it was my goat. Anyway, it was really Agatha who came up with it, by accident, of course. She was ‘aghast’ that I had a goat.”
“All right, all right.” Trueblood leaned over the table next door and plucked up a few small paper napkins. These he dealt out like a card shark.
Jury sighed. “I don’t have time to stay through another one of your contests. I’ve got to get to Chesham.”
“You mean Amersham?” asked Trueblood.
“No. I mean Chesham. Thanks.” The thanks was for Dick Scroggs, who had just handed Jury a pint of Adnams. “Besides, the dog’s already got a name: Joey.”
Diane said, “Yes, but you don’t know if it’s really his name.” On the edge of her glass, she tapped the toothpick that had lately speared the olive in her martini.
Jury knew better than to use reason with this crowd, but his line of work condemned him always to try. “Then is ‘Aggrieved’ real? Is ‘Aghast’ the goat’s real name?”
“Well, of course. We named him.”
That made sense. Jury drank half his pint and set it down. “I’ve got to get going. I’m meeting my sergeant in Chesham.”
“Yes, old scout. You didn’t tell us what was going on in Chesham.”
“A killer-naming contest. See you later.”
They stared after him openmouthed, clearly wondering, and he let them.
30
Mungo had paced for so long, he felt he’d worn his paws to nubbins.
Morris was lying on the carpet in the music room, watching him. She yawned and slowly closed her eyes; all that pacing tired her. Most things did.
Mungo stopped. Why is it all down to me? This is your fate we’re talking about. I’m not the one who wants to get back to Amerslum.
Amer-sham. Anyway, it’s Chesham. I told you, more than once.
More than once. More than once. He lay down and tried to curl his legs into his chest. Do you have more joints than me?
I don’t know. Morris yawned again: How are you going to get me back to Chesham?
Mungo didn’t answer. He went over to the walnut bureau and its bottom drawer, looking at the pile of kittens, looking for Elf. He needed to relax. The kittens were piled on top of one another. Was there nothing but black cats in this whole wide world? No wonder Mrs. Tobias thought Morris was Schrödinger. It was amazing that the two cats could coexist in this house without anyone’s knowing.
Mungo rolled two kittens away from the pile. They spat at him. Then he unearthed Elf.
What are you doing with that kitten? Morris asked.
Nothing. Mungo had Elf in his mouth, looking around for a hiding place. This activity relaxed him a bit; he could do it and think about a problem at the same time. He looked over the music room. Not the grand piano; he’d done that, along with the coal scuttle, the umbrella urn, the planters.
Put that kitten down, said Morris.
Boss, boss, boss, boss. Mungo didn’t care; he wasn’t all that interested in hiding Elf, so he dropped him.
Elf made his way fuzzily back to the drawer, trying to think nasty thoughts about his tormentor, but he couldn’t, as he was too little and his mind was formless and without messages.