The Blue Last

A new piece of furniture had been delivered and occupied a space near the library shelves, behind whose bottom doors Racer kept his supply of whiskey. It was locked up as tight as a crowd of Millwall supporters at a match. This had not been done to keep out people, but to keep out the cat Cyril.

Jury would have been delighted to give Cyril a home-so would Fiona, so would Wiggins-but removing him from these offices would so seriously curtail Cyril’s activities, it would be cruel. Racer had tried every way imaginable of getting rid of Cyril-poisoning, trapping, electrocuting. The bowl of milk on the floor with the live wires running into it hadn’t worked either, surprise, surprise.

The doors of the secretary were open, revealing a line-up of little cubbyholes, much like the ones behind a hotel desk into which mail and keys are slotted. Behind the cubbyholes was empty space. Jury knew this well, remembering a similar piece of furniture in Trueblood’s antiques; that one had housed a dead body. The cubbyholes were no doubt intended to house little writerly items such as quills, wax, ink or cat’s eye. This is what Jury saw peering from behind a cubbyhole. The eye looked at him and then moved on to another hole. Jury smiled.

(Not for long.) “Jury!”

Jury flinched. “Sir!”

“I can do without your damned sarcasm today. You’ve been working on that murder in the City that’s none of our business-”

“Begging your pardon, sir, but it is our business now as the City police asked us for help.” Well, me, at least.

“They don’t need our help. They’ve got their own little fiefdom there.”

Jury scratched down a number, tore it from his notebook and handed it across the desk. “Call DCI Michael Haggerty and he’ll tell you.”

“Then why in hell didn’t this go through me?”

“An oversight, I expect.”

“You’re doing nothing about this Dan Wu business. Except eating for free at his restaurant.”

“His restaurant is where he is nearly all the time.”

“Yeah, but that doesn’t mean you’ve got to stuff yourself with spring rolls and Jeweled Duck just to talk to him.”

“You’ve been there yourself, I see.”

Racer flapped a dismissive hand. “I want you working more closely with Limehouse police on this.”

“To coin a phrase, they don’t need our help.”

“Oh, yes they do.” Racer was getting up and into his black vicuna coat. “Get over there. See if there’s anything new-I’m late!” He looked at his watch and stormed toward the door.

“Christmas shopping, sir?”

Racer was through the outer office and slamming the door behind him.

Jury moved over to the secretaire, knocked twice on the loose top and said, “All clear.”

He was talking to Fiona Clingmore, who was busy with an overhaul of her face-green eyeshadow, blush, mascara-when Cyril ambled in, looking as if he headed a royal procession, looking as if his brilliant copper fur were a robe of state.

Fiona said to the cat, “You’ve been in that desk again, haven’t you? Don’t look for sympathy here if he catches you.” She clicked her compact shut.

Cyril yawned. He sat with his tail lapped about his legs and gave Jury and Fiona slow blinks. He was sitting in a patch of sunlight and when the sun wavered, he sparked. Why would he bother with live wires, being one himself?

“Have you ever had a heart attack, Wiggins?”

They were driving across Southwark Bridge, Jury looking out over the gray and wind-troubled Thames.

“Me? Heart attack? My god, no. Why?”

“I thought I might be having one this morning. I mean even before I went to Racer’s office.”

“What kind of pain? A squeezing one?”

“No. Sharp. Just very sharp. It hurt to breathe. It didn’t last longer than a minute, probably not even that.”

“That sounds like heartburn, indigestion. Or a panic attack.”

“Why would I be having a panic attack?”

“Don’t know. Too much on your plate, maybe.”

“No, I don’t think so.”

They were silent for a moment, then Wiggins gave a little bark of laughter. “If I was having a heart attack, believe me, you’d have heard about it.”

Jury smiled. And heard. And heard.

Thirty-eight

Barkins opened the door, clearly displeased to see policemen again. Jury told him he wished to see Maisie Tynedale. The butler sighed. Any time, night or day, you people call. Scotland Yard simply doesn’t care. You run rough shod over everyone. “Nothing,” said Barkins, in his most disapproving tone, “must stand in the way of a police investigation.”

“Good of you to recognize that. Most people aren’t so obliging,” said Wiggins, unwinding his endless black wool scarf.

Barkins looked as if he’d choke, and Jury wondered if Wiggins was making a rare foray into irony. “Thanks,” he said, “I’ll keep it.” Jury was referring to his coat, which Barkins had made no move to take.

“If you’ll just wait, sir, I shall see if she’s available.” Barkins swanned off toward the double door to their right, knocked and entered. He was back in a tic, telling them Miss Tynedale would see them.

“Just me,” said Jury. “Sergeant Wiggins will go with you to the kitchen, where he’ll have questions for the staff.”

Barkins stiffened even more and informed them that Mrs. MacLeish was extremely busy with all of the Christmas preparations.

Wiggins drew out his notebook and flapped it a couple of times in front of Barkins.

Heaving a great sigh, Barkins said, “Oh, very well.” To Jury he said. “I’ll just show you in-”

“Never mind; I can find my own way.”

“Superintendent Jury.”

“Miss Tynedale. How are you?”

“I’m all right.” Her hand gestured to a chair, which Jury took. She sat behind the desk in the window embrasure, as she had before. Through the window Jury could see the brittle winter garden-sacking covering the more delicate plants, flowerbeds mulched down, roses and rhododendron cut back, hanging matting over the climbing vines on the garden wall. It should have looked bleak, but it didn’t, not to Jury. The colonnade, the white arbor, the weak sunlight to him looked romantic.

“You said you weren’t surprised that Mrs. Riordin didn’t marry again.” Jury wondered if her eyes grew wary, or if it was simply his imagination. She flicked a lighter before he came up with the folder of matches he carried about for old time’s sake.

Maisie frowned. “Her husband walked out on her.”

Jury thought that rather an oblique answer. “Are you suggesting that because of the way her husband treated her, she couldn’t trust any man?”

“It’s possible.” With a degree of impatience, she pushed her chair back. “I don’t see what Kitty’s marrying or not has to do with Simon’s murder.”

“I don’t either. But I think it does have to do with Mrs. Riordin’s devotion to the Tynedale family. You’d hardly disagree that she is devoted to all of you.”