Mickey washed his hands down over his face. He looked exhausted. “It makes some kind of sense, I guess.” Mickey smiled wanly. “Look, it’s Christmas and we’ve both been up most of the night.” He sighed. “Looks like we’re back to bloody square one with Simon Croft. Unless we don’t believe her.”
“No, I do believe her. We’re not back to square one. And you haven’t talked to Erin Riordin yet.” Jury looked at Mickey, concerned. “You’ve found out what you wanted to know. You were right.”
“I found out more than I bloody wanted to know.” Mickey chuckled.
“As you said, it’s Christmas. Look, go home to Liza and the kids. Go. I can work on this.”
“I think I will. What are you going to do?”
“Track down wherever that wee babe was taken. Somehow I don’t think it would have been a regular orphanage. Alexandra had money; she would have sought out something better.”
“Money, yes. But the presence of mind to sort through that kind of information? I mean, with no one helping her-?”
“Oh, I think she had help. She had Francis Croft.”
The City police wouldn’t hold the children any longer than absolutely necessary, so Gemma would no doubt be back at Tynedale Lodge. Where Benny would be, he couldn’t be sure. Jury knew he could have commandeered a car and driver, but he wanted to think. The element of thought right now was not a car. So he took the tube to Charing Cross station. His fellow passengers looked even more disenfranchised than he himself: an unshaven man who could have been old, who could have been young, impossible to say, talking to himself; a woman wearing a hat with a bird perched and bobbing on its brim; a teenager slipped so far down in his seat, his spine was nearly on the floor. Jury thought about Erin Riordin. Since she was not the daughter of Ralph Herrick, would she (or Kitty) be scandalized by the appearance of Simon Croft’s book? Maisie would be, certainly; she’d be the daughter of a traitor to her country. Yes, it was still a strong motive for murder because Erin intended to go on being Maisie Tynedale.
He left Charing Cross station and walked down Villiers Street to the Embankment. When he was near Waterloo Bridge, he stopped and thought: how arrogant of him to think this boy who had been making his way for years with his friends under the bridge would need him, Jury, to take his interest to heart. Jury had come here probably more for his own sake than for Benny’s. He crossed the rain-slick road, walked along the pavement, then down the few stairs to the area beneath the bridge. There were only two people there now, an older woman swathed in a blanket and a hat not unlike the one he had just seen on the underground and a man in a greatcoat. They were talking but stopped when he walked up to them.
“I’m looking for a lad named Benny Keegan. Would you know him?”
“An’ who be you?”
Jury wasn’t going to get anything out of these two; they knew he was a cop. “Just a friend.”
The man in the greatcoat sputtered his disbelief. “Ah, sure, and I’m on the short list for the bloody Booker Prize.” He drew a slim book from his pocket and waved it at Jury. “We don’t know no Benny. Never ’eard o’ ’im. Right, Mags?”
“Right,” said Mags.
“Right,” said Jury and walked away.
He should have realized Benny wouldn’t be there this night; he wouldn’t have led police to their spot beneath the bridge. Probably, he went to the Lodge with Gemma; if not there was always the Moonraker. Miss Penforwarden would always be glad to see Benny.
He climbed the steps to Waterloo Bridge and walked a little way, and stopped. He looked off toward the South Bank and thought again about that last scene in the movie, Robert Taylor-Roy-and his artful little smile. Jury sighed. He thought about Alexandra Tynedale and Erin Riordin, about Gemma Trimm who looked like Alexandra: black hair, heart-shaped face-
Oh, for God’s sake, man, so will the next dark-haired woman you pass. You’re obsessing. Stop this bloody romanticizing everything.
It had been so early when he had started this Christmas Day that he could hardly believe it wasn’t yet noon. The sun floated dully in the sky, throwing off a scarf of light and mist about the Houses of Parliament. London. London did not have the allure of Paris or the burning energy of New York, but it was still a knock-out city, London.
Fifty-five
“If a Tynedale wants the birth of a child kept secret-?” Wiggins’s shrug was his silent assessment of Jury’s and his mission. Useless. And he was to go to Manchester in an hour to have Christmas dinner with his sister and her “brood,” as he called them.
“We’ve got it pinned down to a few hours, Wiggins. Can’t be that many babies born on Guy Fawkes night in 1939.” Jury had found an almanac to tell him at what time on that day in November it had turned dark.
Wiggins looked at the last document he had put in his pile and removed it. He removed the one underneath, too. Too early. Night had fallen around five P.M.
They were looking at documents in the registry office at Somerset House. There were tons of them it looked like, judging from box after box on shelf after shelf. The clerk they’d found and dragged down here to open the place hadn’t been happy. “It’s Christmas, after all.”
“Yes, sir,” said Wiggins. “But I could use some hot-” He raised his paper cup of cooling tea.
Jury nodded. “Go ahead.” Wiggins left Somerset House for the kiosk out on the pavement, its owner keeping the canteen full even on Christmas morning. “Some people,” he had said when Wiggins expressed surprise at this diligence, “still gotta push the envelope, well, look at you lot.”
“Push the envelope? Been too many American CEOs hanging about his tea canteen,” said Jury, as he added another certificate to the stack before him. There must have been three dozen here. He winnowed out several as having been born too early in the day for the fireworks. It was amazing how many children seemed to be born all of the time. He was looking only at babies born after five P.M. Staggering, really.
“Here’s something, sir. Baby girl, Olivia-” Wiggins paused in surprise.
“What?”
“The baby’s name here is given as Olivia Croft.”
Jury snatched the paper out of Wiggins’s hands. “That’s a turn-up, that is. Croft.” He continued reading. “Born eight P.M., November 5, 1939. At a place called Chewley Hill. It’s near Princes Risborough in the Chilterns. Call the place, will you? Tell them I’m on my way. Tell them who it’s about. And when they say, ‘But it’s Christmas!’ just pretend you didn’t know.”
“But, it is Christmas, sir!”
Jury was shoving his arms into his coat. “Could’ve fooled me. Do that, Wiggins, then get the hell out of town and on your way to Manchester.” Out the door, Jury came back. “And thanks, Wiggins. Happy Christmas.”
“And to you, sir.”
Chewley Hill, both house and hill, sat at the edge of the Chilterns in a winter light that lent the surroundings a dreamy quality. The ambient light informed the surrounding fields and the bell tower of the church in the town below as if nothing too bright, too harsh should disturb the house’s serenity-hard won, Jury would say.
He stood in a galleried hall, looking up the gracefully arcing staircase on both sides and thought that any young woman with the means to come here should feel lucky-though, of course, she wouldn’t. Two very pregnant young ladies (girls, really) standing near the stairwell with their heads together and giggling looked his way. He smiled. Surely, they’d had enough of flirting for the time being, hadn’t they?
That the woman who had headed up this tastefully appointed house in 1939 was still heading it up struck Jury as little more than miraculous. Miss Judy Heron did too, and she enjoyed the miracle. “Fifty-five years, Superintendent. I was twenty-four back then and I’m seventy-nine now.