“I’d say it was an exceptionally nice position. I told you before: Grandfather was so grateful I was alive, he’d have given her almost anything. Look, you have no idea what the loss of my mother meant to him.”
“I think I do.” Jury paused. “I want to talk some more about Gemma Trimm. What about these alleged attempts on her life?”
Maisie laughed. “Gemma has an overactive imagination.”
“She’d better, since she’s all by herself. A bullet shattering the glass of the greenhouse isn’t really explained by imagination, now is it?”
She hesitated. “Police thought it might just be a stray bullet-”
“Someone hunting the queen’s deer in Southwark, you mean?”
Maisie gave Jury a look and a strained smile. “The police said it was probably ‘some kid got hold of his dad’s gun.’ Those were his words. But then there was that night when she swore somebody was trying to smother her and then somebody was trying to poison her. Why would
Jury didn’t answer.
“And why do you need to know all of this in relation to Simon’s murder, though?”
“It’s family history. Family history might be helpful. You’ve employed a new gardener, have you?” Jury nodded toward the window. Melrose Plant was passing by carrying a bucket in each hand.
“What?” She turned. “Oh, him. Yes. Ian just hired him. I don’t know how he’d heard I wanted one; he simply came here and applied. Our main gardener thinks he’s quite good, if a little overeducated.” Her short laugh was edgy. “You certainly do switch the conversation around.”
“It isn’t conversation.” Jury drew a notebook from his inside pocket. “He replaced another gardener-a Jenny Gessup?” He flipped the notebook shut. “I’d like to talk to Miss Gessup.”
Maisie sat down again. “Why?”
“Did she give notice? Or did you sack her?”
She flinched. “Neither. She just didn’t turn up for work one day.”
“When was this?”
“Back in October”
“How long did she work here?”
“Six months, perhaps. You can ask Angus Murphy, he’d be more exact as to times. He’d remember where she lived, too. She wasn’t much good, you know.”
“Meaning?”
“She wasn’t really interested. She was careless and somewhat lazy, although she did stay sometimes until after dark. The thing is, she’d sometimes be out in the greenhouse late, just as an excuse to stay after dark and I believe she’d come into the house and, well, go through things, papers, that sort of thing, not that she ever took anything; at least I never missed anything. She was a bit of a flirt, too.”
“With whom?”
“Ian, for one. I know, I know he’s far too old for the likes of Jenny Gessup to be flirting with. But he looks much younger than he is, and with some women, age makes no difference.”
“It would make a lot if she could interest him. He’s a wealthy man.”
“That’s just ridiculous. For a man like Ian-” She made a dismissive gesture. “And she kept flirting with Archie, kept him from his work. Archie Milbank, he’s employed to do a little of everything. Maintenance things.”
She turned and Jury saw her profile outlined in pale gold light. Her dark hair was webbed with it. She looked much younger than she was, too; they all did. With some people, the older they grew, the more elusive time became. To a young person, fifty would seem antique. If only the young knew how quickly they’d come to it.
Jury said, “Simon Croft’s sister Emily. She lived here, with you, at least for a while” When all he got was a nod of the head, he went on. “She’s living in an assisted-living facility in Brighton?” Jury loved the euphemism.
“Emily. Yes, she is.”
“Why? You could afford in-house care, if that’s what was needed.”
Her arms folded, she turned to him. “I can’t explain that very easily. Of course, we could afford home care. Emily has a steadily worsening heart condition, but it doesn’t require constant monitoring, at least not yet. Her doctor wanted someone around, though, in case of emergency. She refused to have anyone in her flat, so we asked her to come here. Occasionally, she returns to the flat, but not for long.”
“You’re right, that doesn’t explain it.”
Maisie sighed, played with the curtain’s tassel. “Emily and Kitty just didn’t get along.”
Jury waited, assuming there must be more. When there wasn’t he said, “Mrs. Riordin is staff. Instead of turning out a member of the staff, you’d turn out a woman who is, for all intents and purposes, family?”
She flushed. By way of defense, she went on about the “facility.” “The place is quite lovely. She has her own rooms, so she’s really independent.”
Jury hated this sort of rationalizing. “I don’t see how, if her living has to be assisted.”
“Yes. Well. St. Andrew’s Hall, it’s called.”
“I know. I’ve been there.”
Maisie was astonished. “Been there? Then you’ve already talked to Emily. I’m sure she told you about her condition. Why are you asking me these questions?”
“Police do that sort of thing.” His smile was chilly.
“Granddad wouldn’t hear of Kitty’s leaving. I’ve told you how attached he was to her.”
This didn’t sound like the Oliver Tynedale Jury had met. He would never have allowed one of the Crofts to leave because Kitty Riordin didn’t like her. “Did he know?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Did your grandfather know the reason for Emily Croft’s leaving?”
“No.”
There was a silence while, Jury imagined, she examined this cold-blooded removal of a woman who was probably surrogate aunt to her. More than that he wondered at the influence over the family Kitty Riordin had achieved.
“It’s really quite a nice place, St. Andrew’s Hall. It overlooks the sea. I’ve always thought the sea a sort of balm to the soul.”
Jury rose. “So did Virginia Woolf. For a while.”
Small deposits of the recent snow had been driven between the colonnade’s white pillars and clung to the cypresses that lined the path across the way. From one of the closely packed branches an icicle dropped silently to the leaf-packed ground.
Gemma was sitting on the same bench she and Jury had shared two days ago, the one closed in on two sides by lattice. This bench and the seat in the beech tree seemed to be her favorite places. She sat with her doll, dressed up this time in trousers and shirt much too big and a scrap of red material as a neckerchief.
“Hello, Gemma. Remember me?”
“Yes. You’re the policeman.”
“That’s right. Richard Jury.”
With some gravity she said, lifting up the doll, “His name’s Richard, too. You can sit down if you want.”
“Thanks.” Jury sat down and picked up the doll from where she had lain it. He looked at it for some time.
“Does he look okay?” said Gemma. “I know his pants are way too big.”
She sounded anxious about the doll’s transformation from supposed female to supposed male. “Oh, yes, he’s fine. I was just thinking-”
Gemma’s eyes, wide and dark, seemed to implore him not to think about the doll, or at least not too much.
“-thinking how nice it must be to be a doll.”
Her expression changed to simple curiosity. “Why?”
“Well, you can be pretty much anything you want to be.”
Curiosity changed to doubt. “No, he can’t. Not if I don’t want him to be.”
Jury made no comment. This apparently made her more anxious still and she edged closer to him. He said, “That’s true, in a way, but remember: you don’t know everything about him. Only some things.”
