“I can’t imagine anything that could sour a friendship quicker than a business relationship. Who was at the helm?”
“Tynedale, I expect. The business seemed to fall roughly between the public relations end and the financial end. I imagine the line between them was pretty much blurred.”
“So Francis Croft died and his own fortune got divided among his children?”
“Actually, no. That’s another unusual thing. Some of it went to Tynedale’s children, as some of Tynedale’s will go to Croft’s. They really are like one extended family.”
“Which sounds as if it complicates things.”
“Yes.” Jury watched the fire over the edge of his glass of cognac.
“Let’s just say that, unlike his father, Simon Croft was crooked. Say he embezzled funds, and a major stockholder found out and-” Melrose mimicked a pistol with his thumb and forefinger. “Except you don’t think so, do you?”
“It’s more that Mickey doesn’t think so.”
“He’s convinced it’s a member of the family.”
Jury answered obliquely. “The thing is, Tynedale is very sick; murdering him would be, well, superfluous for an heir of his. His granddaughter, Maisie, will probably get the lion’s share. The fortune would then be split-not necessarily equally-among the remaining Tynedale and Croft children-Ian, Simon, Marie-France-oh, and there’s Simon’s sister, Emily. She’s living in Brighton in one of those assisted-living places.”
“Hmm. If the motive’s getting a larger share of the inheritance, why would the killer choose Simon Croft over the granddaughter? You’ve just said she’ll undoubtedly get more than the others.”
“Depends, I suppose, on how much more,” Jury said.
“Isn’t it equally likely there’s another motive for shooting Simon Croft? What if he knew about this imposture?”
“Which points to the Riordin woman, or, of course, Maisie. She might know, she might not. Anyway, they’re the ones who wouldn’t want Oliver finding out Maisie isn’t Maisie. To wait fifty years for the payoff shows a hell of an emotional investment on the part of Kitty Riordin. To have that snatched away now-” Jury shrugged.
“Perhaps Simon Croft’s killing isn’t connected to the identity of Maisie Tynedale. DCI Haggerty could be dead wrong.”
A porter came on hushed feet to deposit two more cognacs. Jury insisted on paying for this round and slapped down Melrose’s five-pound note.
“Oh, thanks,” said Melrose. “You’re too generous.”
“I know.” Jury swirled the cognac, sniffed it and drank. “Another thing that bothers me is this little girl who’s Tynedale’s ward. Gemma Trimm her name is. She claims someone’s tried three times to kill her.”
Melrose sat up. “My god. But do you believe her?”
“They found a bullet casing. Southwark police certainly believe there was a shooting; they seemed to put it down to a rash of robberies, that, or some young punk proving how cool he is. As to the choking and poisoning, well, I’m not so sure.”
“And what would be the motive in this case?”
“I’ve no idea. Her presence in that house is mysterious. She seems to be largely ignored except by staff and Oliver Tynedale, who apparently dotes on her.”
“Is she a dotable little thing?”
Jury smiled. “Oh, my, yes. Extremely dotable-an earnest child. They say nothing about her. I came upon her quite by accident outside, walking.”
“They say nothing about her?”
“I questioned all of them, except for Oliver Tynedale, and no one so much as mentioned Gemma.”
“That’s damned strange. If the old man is so fond of her you’d think the others would be discounting her all over the place. His ward, you say?”
Jury nodded. “According to her friend Benny.”
“God, don’t bring anyone else into this tale. I’m back with the cook and the gardener as it is.”
“Benny’s extremely resourceful. He has four or five shops in the main street he runs errands for. He’s the local messenger service. You know, if the bookshop wants a delivery made, he does it. Same for florists, same for butcher and newsagent. What I admire is his ability to fend off questions about home and family. I don’t blame him. A lot of people I’d rather not show my ID to, either.”
Melrose laughed, sliding down in his chair. “You sound like you’re the same age as this boy.” He kept laughing, stopped and said, “Maybe that’s the secret.”
“What secret?”
“You’re so good with children. They seem immediately to sense a kindred spirit in you.” He sighed. “Whereas with me, it’s sensing an unkindred one.”
“That’s not true-” The doomed lament of the longcase clock gave the half hour. “Christ, ten-thirty already. I’ve got to go.” Jury drank off his cognac and rose.
They were moving toward the door when Colonel Neame called out to Jury, “My dear chap, did you like the avocado and Stilton?”
Jury nodded and waved.
The colonel again called out, “I’d hated to have steered you wrong on that.”
At the door, Melrose stopped dead. “I don’t believe it. That you’d stoop so low…”
Jury grinned. “That’s why they call us the Filth.”
Twenty-one
Mr. Gyp handed the freshly wrapped packets over the counter to Benny, saying, “Here’s chops and chine. Just you mind you get that up to the Lodge this morning as Mrs. MacLeish wants to get ’em stuffed and on their way.”
Benny really hated meat deliveries and especially Mr. Gyp’s as Gyp liked to talk about the cut-up meat as if something about it still lived: “get ’em on their way.” It was as if the poor pig was going off on a trip.
Mr. Gyp was always inviting Benny back to the abattoir and when Benny said no thanks, Gyp told him he hadn’t the stomach for life if he couldn’t make himself look it in the face.
“All of life ain’t an abattoir, Mr. Gyp. Not all of it.”
“You’ll learn, young Bernard. And your dog.” Benny didn’t like the way Mr. Gyp said this, sort of sinister like. He was always looking at Sparky, as if taking measurements in his mind. Probably more to make Benny uncomfortable than for any humane reason, Gyp would give him, occasionally, some leftover chops or a bit of mince and often a bone for Sparky. Gyp would slyly hand over a damp, blood-smeared packet of things for Benny to take to his “family.” Was it a big one? It must be for all the meat they eat, said Gyp. He was always trying to get Benny to tell him where he lived.
Benny had heard noises coming from the back that would send him flying from the shop, out to the curb where he’d sit with his head on his knees, dizzy. He might have fainted with the horror of it if he hadn’t got out. He swore he’d quit, but he didn’t. It wasn’t because he needed the money. It was because of the way Gyp asked him about his family, asked him why he wasn’t in school. Benny told him he was getting home schooling. Mr. Gyp said he ought to be in a proper school and maybe he, Gyp, should do his duty and “call the Social.” Benny didn’t know whether he would or not, but he was afraid to take the chance. Funny, but none of the others he worked for ever went on the way Gyp did. Not even Mr. Siptick, who was bad enough. But with the others, there’d only been some friendly questions asked and answered and then forgotten.
Benny didn’t have a large family, but what he had-Nancy and the rest of them-were all under Waterloo Bridge.
Before Benny’s mother died she’d told him if anything ever happened to her, not to hang around, for if the Social got wind of him, they’d slap him in an orphanage. Never mind about her, she said, just grab up Sparky and run for it. Get to the bridge.
But of course Benny couldn’t do it. When his mum died on the pavement outside Selfridges, he’d stood there waiting for her to come back. A crowd gathered and one of them summoned a constable who’d been strolling and enjoying a rare sunny day in June. It was this officer who collected Benny and took him along to the station to see what could be done for him. Never let the Social get you in its clutches, love.