The Blue Last

would you?”

Sparky was standing there flinging his stubby tail from side to side. Did he want Melrose to go someplace? He was making those small, backing up movements that, had he been a puma, would have been worrying.

Melrose deposited his unlit cigarette behind his ear and sat back on the cold ground. “That does it for now. Where’s your companion boy?” He heard a hiss, looked behind him and saw the thug-cat Snowball, its face looking as if it were mashed up against a pane of glass. He was glooming away, sitting between Sparky and Snowball and wondering what his attraction was to these animals when he heard his name called.

“Mr. Plant!”

When he couldn’t immediately make out the direction from which it had come, the voice called “Ambrose!” as if being staff, he could only recognize his given name. He turned and saw Ian Tynedale standing in the open doorway that led to the patio. He motioned Melrose toward him. “I’ve something I want to show you.”

“Certainly, sir.” Melrose would have tugged at his forelock, except he couldn’t find it.

He followed Tynedale into the library, the same place where Ian had interviewed him. The interview had quickly veered off into art and Melrose had disclosed he was a great fan of the Italian Renaissance. Melrose had balked at doing this, but Jury had thought it a good idea, even if a little out of character for a gardener.

“Just tell him your mum was Italian. An Italian countess or something.”

“You sound like Diane Demorney.”

How was it, Melrose wondered, the Tynedales managed to hold on to their looks? Genes, most likely. Old age sank into most people over sixty like Dracula’s teeth. He only hoped that when he got to the geriatric stage he’d look half as good as Ian Tynedale. And as far as he could see, the Tynedales had all sorts of bad habits-drinking, smoking, eating rich food (an impression formed seeing the creme brulee the cook had prepared)-that made no inroad on them. How refreshing. Tynedale drew a cigar out of a black humidor and sat back in his leather swivel chair. Melrose wondered: Did Ian Tynedale suspect he wasn’t who he said he was? No, Melrose doubted he suspected anything. All he wanted was to have someone as an audience for his acquisitions. It was the art enthusiast in him; he’d have had Snowball and Sparky in here if they’d shown the least inclination toward Italian Renaissance art.

That was what Ian was now talking about and Melrose said, “Isn’t that redundant, sir?”

Ian raised his eyebrows. “How so?”

“Italian Renaissance art. The Italians owned the Renaissance, didn’t they?” Melrose thought maybe all of this was a bit thick, coming from an undergardener, even an overeducated one. He decided he was a show-off and told himself to stop it. “What I mean is, I, uh, read that somewhere.”

Ian seemed pleased that here was a person who read. “Good point! Of course, you’re right. Sit down, sit down, man.” He waved Melrose into the chair opposite.

Melrose sat. Why wasn’t Tynedale suspicious? Probably because he wanted only to have someone to talk to about Florentine art and Florence. I’m your man! thought Melrose.

Ian pulled a heavy paper out from between two thin boards and held it up for Melrose to look at. “What do you think?” Ian tapped the paper.

It wasn’t a painting; it was a sketch. Melrose chewed his lip. It looked like a study of perspective, two flat surfaces, one probably a mirror, held opposite one another, lines intersecting. Melrose cast his mind back to Di Bada talking about Brunelleschi. It could have been done by a number of artists but Melrose thought Brunelleschi a safe bet since the drawing wasn’t an original, anyway. “Well… I’d say Brunelleschi. Uh… maybe.”

“I think this is Giotto. He rediscovered perspective, didn’t he? The Greeks would have known about it. Indeed, Plato called perspective ‘deceit. ’ ”

“Plato called everything deceit.”

Ian laughed. “It’s plain to see you haven’t always been a gardener.”

“Undergardener,” Melrose corrected him. “But this sketch, you’re not saying it’s an original.”

“Oh, don’t I wish!” Ian laughed again and pulled out another sketch, this one of the Duomo. “I don’t remember how I came by this one. The dome of Santa Maria Novella. I have no idea who the artist is. But it’s quite beautiful.”

“Well, if that sketch was by Brunelleschi, it’d be worth the contents of the London silver vaults.”

His eyes still on the paper, Ian rubbed the back of his neck. “Of course, it isn’t about money.”

A sentiment generally favored by the rich, Melrose had found. While Ian brooded over this picture, Melrose took the opportunity of looking around the walls on which were hung priceless paintings. The collection reminded him of what Jury had said about Simon Croft’s collection. He wished he could steer the conversation around to that.

He didn’t have to.

Leaning back in his chair and holding the drawing up at arm’s length, Ian said, “A very good friend of mine died a week ago. He’d have appreciated this.” He sighed and placed the paper back between the protective boards. “He was murdered.”

“How awful. How did it happen?”

“Someone broke into the house-a place on the Thames-”

Melrose interrupted. “But that was in all the papers. His name was-” Melrose paused, in an effort of remembrance.

“Simon Croft. Our families were very close.” Ian picked up the other drawing, the one of the Duomo. “A marvel of engineering. I wish I’d been there.”

“Up on the scaffolding drinking watered wine?”

Ian laughed. “No. Down on the piazza, drinking Tynedale beer.” He picked up the neglected cigar. “Imagine the company we’d have: Brunelleschi, Leonardo, Masaccio…” He shook his head slowly in wonder.

“You know, I read somewhere that Masaccio was so worried someone might steal his work, he wouldn’t let anyone in his rooms except his grocer.”

Ian laughed. “Sounds like Simon.”

“Does it?”

Ian seemed contrite at having mentioned Simon’s name in this facetious context. He changed the subject. “How are you getting on with Murphy?”

“Fine.”

Ian smiled. “He’s an irascible fellow. The last person quit without notice. Just stopped coming. Well, she was young. One makes allowances. Maybe she was scared off by the shooting incident. I expect Murphy told you.”

“Told me what?”

“Back in October, someone fired into the greenhouse. At first the Southwark police put it down to another in a rash of attempted robberies around Southwark and Greenwich. Lewisham, too, I seem to recall.”

“Was anything stolen here?”

“No, thank God.” Ian glanced around the walls.

Melrose tried not to seem any more inquisitive than any curious person would have been. “You said, ‘at first.’ What did the police finally put it down to?”

“Kids running around with a gun. Will Southwark soon be Miami?”

“Would we really mind, considering the weather? Tell me something: this house is surrounded by a high wall. If you were a kid bent on shooting things up for no particular purpose, would you go to the bother of trying to scale the wall just for a target that meant nothing to you?”

“No, now you mention it. You think the police were wrong?”

“Don’t you?”

Ian thought for a moment. “Oliver-Dad-doesn’t exactly have the chief constable in his pocket, but he does have clout. The commissioner’s a good friend. I don’t think they’d blow off an investigation. Gemma-the little girl-is sure the shooter was shooting at her because she was in the greenhouse. Gemma’s imagination works overtime.”

“But you say she was in the greenhouse when this happened.”

Ian shook his head. “Police didn’t think she had anything to do with it-I mean, that she was the target.”

“Generally speaking, a person standing in the path of a bullet usually is the target.”

“I see what you mean, only-well, why would anyone want to hurt Gemma? She’s only nine years old. It doesn’t make sense.”

“It makes as much sense as some boy with a gun climbing over your wall.”