Wiggins went on: “A DS doesn’t make that kind of money.”
“No. But his wife’s family apparently has that kind.”
“Oh.” Wiggins frowned and drove on.
33
They found Kit Rexroth on her own, Tip, the husband, absent in the City, performing whatever financial wizardry had made them rich.
Wiggins produced his warrant card, holding it close enough to Kit’s face that she could have kissed it.
“Something else, Superintendent? I can’t imagine anything we didn’t tell you the other night. Will you sit down? Will you take tea?”
The question barely had time to leave her mouth before Wiggins stepped on it, saying, yes, they would.
“Not if it’s any trouble,” Jury tacked on, loving the accusatory look he got from his sergeant. Traitor.
“Not for me, it isn’t. I’m not fixing it.” From the table between them, she raised a tinkly little bell.
Jury thought the summoning bell was a fairy story, but apparently not. A maid entered as if she’d been at the door just waiting. Kit asked for tea and some of “those little cakes the cook is hoarding.”
A slight bow. An exit.
The myth of the English country house and its workings seemed to be right here in the flesh. But of course it didn’t really exist. Staff should hide their dissatisfaction, unlike the maid, who looked as if she were sucking a lemon. Would she spit in the tea?
“What is it, then, Superintendent?”
There was no hostility in the tone, just honest curiosity.
“Your party, Mrs. Rexroth…”
She looked off, bemused. “You mean the night of the murder? Whether I saw that young woman? Whether she was here?”
“No. You’ve answered that. This is about another guest: Harry Johnson.”
“Harry Johnson.” She again looked bemused. “I don’t believe… well, there were a lot of people here, as you know, friends of my husband or even friends of friends.”
“Still, you claim the dead woman wasn’t.”
“No. What I claim is I would have known her had she been. A very striking woman. But this Harry Johnson-”
“He was on your guest list. He’s tall, about my height, very blond hair, very blue eyes. He said that your husband often lunched in a pub in the City called the Old Wine Shades.”
She rubbed the tips of her fingers against her chin, eyes narrowed. “I can ask Tip.”
“Johnson said he was here, that he knew you, albeit slightly.” Why would he lie about something so easy to check up on? Perhaps because it wasn’t really that easy. He’d been here only an hour, Harry had said. Given the large number of guests, it would have been possible that his hosts hadn’t seen him. They were an easygoing couple to the point of being vague. Well, if Kit was vague, Harry could always be vaguer.
Tea arrived and was drunk, heartily by Wiggins, despite his earlier three cups. Following this, they left.
“Was he at that party or not?” Jury said, more to himself than to Wiggins. They were sitting in the Black Cat, eating pub food.
“He was invited, that’s clear. But Harry Johnson likes to play games.”
Jury let out a half-laugh. “You’re right there. He certainly likes to tell stories.” He called to mind that Gothic tale of Winterhaus, that story within a story within a story. It was Melrose Plant who had pointed out all of those concentric rings moving away from the center each time a fresh stone was skipped in the widening water of Harry’s story.
“Plant wonders if Harry Johnson’s elaborate story really had anything to do with the murder of Rosa Paston.”
Wiggins was having fish and chips. He stopped a limp chip on its way to his mouth. He thought for a moment, said with a shrug, “Maybe he’s right.”
Jury dropped his knife on his plate. “Don’t be daft, Wiggins!” He went back to his bread and cheese and Branston pickle.
“If he wasn’t at that party, why would he say he was? Does he want you to suspect him?”
“I wouldn’t be surprised. He’s winding me up. He wants to see how I’d work it out.”
“So much that he’d have you think he had something to do with Mariah Cox’s murder?” Wiggins shook his head. “The man must be barmy.”
Jury smiled. “Right. That point’s already been settled, Wiggins.”
34
Mungo trotted out to the kitchen and trotted back to the music room. She’s out of the kitchen, so let’s eat dinner; we have a lot to do.
Morris was slow to follow him; Morris did not want to do a lot, especially his, as Mungo’s “lots” were so complicated.
“Come on, Mrs. Tobias could be back in a minute.”
Morris moved quicker.
In the kitchen, across the granite countertop, a profusion of white packages and little white tubs were lined up and open. A stool stood conveniently placed before this cold collation. There were herring, two kinds of cheese, wafer-thin slices of Westphalia ham, smoked salmon, wild Alaskan salmon (or what was left of it), thinly sliced summer sausage.
Morris picked up her paws, one after the other, set them down, again and again. Where had all this food come from?
From that stuck-up deli on Sloane Street, where you drop a week’s wages just going through the door. Harry’s rich; he doesn’t care. Come on, don’t just sit there. Get up on the stool. Mungo was earnestly glad for cat-agility. He disliked bounding up to the counter.
But like a fan unfolding, Morris went from floor to counter in a single shake. Amazing how cats could do things-fold their paws in, spring from floor to table.
Go on, toss some food down. I’ll have a piece of sausage and some ham and some of that salmon.
Almost on tiptoe, Morris went down the line, here and there stopping to sniff. Umm! Which? Smoked or plain?
Either, I’m not fussy. Don’t bother with the white tubs, they’re mostly salads.
This one’s chopped liver. She slid in her paw and spooned out a bite. Um-um!
Sausage? My sausage?
Oh. Sorry. She slid two summer sausage slices from the paper to the counter’s edge.
Mungo caught both pieces, together, in his mouth.
That was brilliant!
He thought so, too. He chewed and thought about his plan for the evening before them. It should work.
This is really good herring. Here-A piece went over the counter and sailed through the air; Mungo swatted it down.
They ate in silence for a minute. Then Mungo’s ears perked up. We’d better get out; I think I hear her… What’re you doing?
Straightening up so she won’t suspect-
Never mind, she’ll blame it on Schrödinger.
Footsteps sounded on the staircase, and Mungo said, Out! Morris slid from counter to floor like water spilling. Didn’t even bother with the stool, thought Mungo wonderingly.
They sped from the kitchen and through the dining room just before Mrs. Tobias hove into view.
And right on her heels was the cat Schrödinger.
The kitchen door closed behind them.
“Look what you’ve gone and done!” came shrieking from the other side of the kitchen door.
Mungo, lying under the living room sofa with Morris, enjoyed the sight of a screeching Schrödinger hurled out of the kitchen. It was almost as much fun as watching Jasper land on his arse.
Then he got down to business:
Harry will be back soon. He’ll take the car tonight to go to the Old Wine Shades. The idea is to get you into the car-
Why?
You’ll see. The window’s stuck on the passenger side, stuck about halfway up. Once you’re through the window, just climb over into the back and lie down on the floor. When we come to the car, he’ll never notice.
You haven’t said why we’re going there, said Morris.
Because the Spotter might be there.
How am I going to get out of the house without Harry seeing me?
Simple. When he comes in, I’ll bark and bounce around as if I’m really glad to see him-that’d make a change-and he’ll have all his attention on me. All you need to do is stay close to the wall behind the door, then when he opens it, you slither round the edge and out. Even if he sees you, he’ll think you’re Schrödinger. She’s always running outside.