Melrose was flooded with relief.
Trying to break the sound barrier, the motorcycle ripped up the rocky road and came spitting to a halt in the gravel outside of the drawing room. The room itself vibrated and the gray cat went rolling off the sill when Malcolm threw open the casements, leaned out, and shouted something lost in the January night.
Music in the form of a death-beat of drums that sounded like a funeral dirge came with her through the door.
Ellen came pounding down the hall, threw open the door, and stopped there, with the sort of portable stereo propped on her shoulder that Melrose had seen being carted about Piccadilly by gangs of thugs. Now a voice had joined the drum-bass-beat which seemed surprisingly inappropriate for the background havoc: it was grainy but soft:
“Hi,” said Ellen, in a general salute and with a particular look at Jury. She had not changed her clothes, although she wore different earrings: they were long overlapped triangles of dull black that looked heavy enough to anchor a small boat. There also seemed to be a different layering of chains around her neck.
sang the mournful voice raised now against the dirge of drums and guitars.
Ellen turned the volume down, and handed the set to Melrose, general dogsbody, before she turned to Jury, who had risen from the sofa and was introducing himself as a friend of Mr. Plant.
Melrose sighed. He set the stereo on one bookcase shelf and leaned against the row of John D. MacDonalds.
He was getting interested in Caroline, who appeared to be mainlining drugs.
“… one of the funniest books I’ve ever read,” Jury was saying to Ellen.
It was the first time Melrose had seen Ellen Taylor lose her cool. She gaped. “Are you saying you’ve actually read
“Not all of it…”
How, wondered Melrose, had he read
Melrose turned up the volume on the stereo. There was the sound of tinkling glass. Caroline had thrust her hand through a window-
The voice suddenly blared.
“How about turning that off,” Jury called over, “and joining us?”
The two of them were sitting on the sofa, comfy as long-lost friends.
Afraid that he might never know Caroline’s fate, he turned the volume down, but not off.
Caroline should have a go at West Yorkshire, he thought, as he took the wing chair George Poges had vacated, trying to bury the stereo between himself and the chair arm.
“… ‘hot’?” Jury was asking. “Does that mean successful? Or absolutely famous?”
She was certainly overworking that word, he thought grumpily, twisting the volume up just a mite. The song had changed; things were getting worse, apparently. They were taking Caroline’s children away.
“Good question.” Ellen half-smiled. “To tell the truth, it probably does mean famous, but only in the Warholian sense…”
Dickensian, Shavian, Warholian. Well, thought Melrose, perhaps one could turn anyone into an adjective these days. He was beginning to feel extremely Carolinian.
“Andy Warhol?” Jury laughed. “Don’t be modest-“
No danger of that, thought Melrose. “Fame,” he said, and they both looked at him. “It’s just as well, perhaps, you’re not famous.” He looked up at the ceiling moldings. “It comes from
Anyone can make a mistake.
“You’re right, I guess. The old bitch-goddess, success.”
“You’ve been biking around England, have you?”
“Umm. On a BMW. Picked it up in London.”
“It’s a K-100 RS. Ninety horsepower. Pretty powerful.” Good grief, thought Melrose, could the man see through walls?
Surprised, she said, “Yeah. Very.”
A bum trip, thought Melrose, definitely.
So Caroline was… well, “loose.” Melrose wrapped his arm protectively around the stereo. The gray cat swayed over and sat at his feet, blinking up at his benefactor. At least, thought Melrose-part of his mind still studying Jury studying Ellen-I inspire awe in some living creature. The gray cat yawned and walked away.
“You weren’t around to talk to the Yorkshire police,” said Jury, lighting her cigarette.
Ellen hitched an old footstool over with her foot and propped her heavy laced-up shoes on it as she exhaled a bale of smoke. “You know why?” She looked at Jury through lowered lashes.
“Because I didn’t know they were here.” She flattened her head against the sofa, blew three smoke rings toward the ceiling.
When Jury gave him a look, Melrose turned down the volume, but just a mite. The dreadful, sleazy, heartrending story of Caroline and her lover or husband was too gripping. He knew the questions Jury would ask.
Who was he kidding? No he didn’t. His stomach turned over.
“Where were you, then?” Jury smiled. Melrose glowered.
Ellen raised her eyebrows. “Har-ro-gate.” She rounded the syllables as if she were teaching first form. “It’s famous. The spa, et cetera.”
“That’s a distance,” said Jury, “on a motorcycle.”
She slapped her forehead dramatically. “My God, I just
“Yes,” Melrose snapped as the drums and bass got slower and heavier.
She sort of leaned her shoulder toward Jury. “Ellen.”
“Ellen. What exact route did you take, then?” He smiled.
She stubbed out her cigarette and stuffed her hands in her jeans pockets. “You know something? You sound like a cop. I’m calling the embassy.”
“Good idea,” said Melrose.
Jury ignored both of them and pulled the map out again. “Let’s see, now. Did you come by way of Ilkley?”
Ellen had turned her head toward the window, intent upon the distant hills and dark gray horizon. She stuffed a stick of gum in her mouth and looked at the map.
This, thought Melrose, discomfort rising in him like bile, was beginning to sound too much like the scene with Major Poges.
She shrugged. “Dunno. Probably around here-” Her finger punched at a place on the map.
Jury handed her the pencil.
Melrose felt a
Handing the map back to Jury, she put her hands behind her head. “You dig Lou?”
His gaze on the mantle of clouds beyond the window, he heard her, but it was a moment before he realized Ellen was addressing him, not Jury.
He turned off the stereo; he’d have to leave the two of them to their wretched fate. Getting up, Melrose felt a stiffness in his joints, as if he were a recent accident victim.
“East? No wonder.”
Irritably, he moved to the window near the sofa, where he half-sat on the windowsill. He watched her mouth purse; she blew a pink balloon of gum in his direction until it smacked back against her face.
His eyes still on the map, Jury put out his hand to Ellen: “Mind if I have a stick of that gum? I’m all out.”
Melrose had never known him to be all
Ellen shrugged. “Sure.” She pushed out a stick, which Jury took and put in his pocket. “Thanks.”
Little tricks, little tricks, thought Melrose… just Jury’s police tactics to raise her anxiety level and make her squirm. The suspect, however, was simply sitting there in a sloppy heap and making circles with her thumbs. She yawned like the cat. Yawned? A
Richard Jury? He squinted out the window. Were the stars all in place?
“How’s Abby taking all this?”
“Very stoically.” Jury turned the map around.
“She’s one cool kid.”
Jury turned the map back. “I agree. One cool kid.”
Ellen’s head snapped round. “You mean you talked to her?”
Melrose was getting nervous again. He left the window and sat on the arm of the cabbage-rose chair. Between the arm and the cushion was a bright card. He plucked it out. The Hanged Man. He stuffed it back.
“Well, but is there some big
“I mean, did she say I stuffed her in a snowdrift or tossed her over a wall and then went off she knew not where?”
Melrose said from under the tent of his hand, “Oh, shut up, for God’s sakes; stop being dramatic; and you’re talking to a fiendishly clever policeman.”
“Clever,” said Jury. “But fiendishly? You don’t have to hang around, Ellen.”
But she seemed unwilling to go. Now her fingers were spread against her buttocks, thumbs jammed into rear pockets.
It was, Melrose thought, irritated with himself, a very sexy pose. Although with all of that black leather and those nerve-jangling chains, he couldn’t see why. For Vivian Rivington, it had always been twin-sets, good wool, or some Italian designer. He shook himself. Jury was handing him the map.
Melrose looked at it, at the line George Poges had drawn across Keighley Moor, at the Oakworth Road and the Grouse Inn. He looked at Ellen’s own line. He looked at Jury.
Ellen turned from one to the other. “You two going to communicate by semaphore?”
Jury smiled. “You’re free to go.”
” Free to go.’ You guys actually
“Dinner?” asked Melrose. They were standing in the courtyard, shoulders shrugged up against the cold.
“Afraid not. I’ve got to get back to London.” Jury was facing the barn. At the bottom of the drawn curtain over the small window he could see a ragged edge of light. “Perhaps you should take your friend Ellen to dinner.”
“All of that business about the route, Ilkley, Harrogate. You don’t really think she was out on that moor… you know.”.
“Did I say that?”
“You meant that.”
Jury turned up his coat collar and smiled. “Tell her I love her.”
“The hell I will.” Melrose’s footsteps crunched across the broken shale as he turned and started back toward the house.
Jury walked to the door of the barn, took out one of his cards, folded it lengthwise twice, and wedged it in between the outside wrapper and the silver that covered the stick of gum Ellen Taylor had given him.
He knelt and shoved it under the door.