The Blue Last

had advanced to the English Channel.

There were a number of marginal notations, which was not surprising, considering how conscientious a note taker Croft was. In one margin was penned in RALPH (?). Not familiar with Herrick’s wartime maneuvers Jury couldn’t, of course, see the relationship between Ralph Herrick and the account in the book of the GAF daytime raids on aircraft fields in the southeast of England. The bombers were turned back or brought down by RAF fighter pilots. Then again, two pages later in the margin, RALPH (???). Here, again, several pages were devoted to accounts of Goring’s near success in wiping out the RAF airfields, which would have meant wiping out the RAF. In other words, winning the war in the air. Winning, period.

For some reason, those three question marks disturbed Jury. The single question mark on the page before might simply have indicated curiosity. But here the marks suggested a real need to know. Know what? This entry was also cross-referenced: (CF. P. 208, F.H.).

“F.H.” A title, perhaps? An author? He went back to the bookshelf and ran his finger along the spines of the books Croft seemed to have used most for research and found the title Finest Hours (a borrowing of one of Churchill’s titles). He thumbed up page 208 and read an account of German bombers over the Isle of Wight. In the margin was written “R”? What was Simon asking? Whether Ralph had participated in this particular battle? Or that Ralph had talked about it? What could Simon otherwise be alluding to? Jury went to the three other pages indicated in the margin, but the details of the combat meant little to him.

Except, of course, in his own private world, where they meant a great deal. Jury had not known his father except as the face in his mother’s photographs, and whatever he himself had contrived to imagine about his father, a litany to repeat again and again before he fell asleep. Definitely handsome, undoubtedly brave.

He thought of photographs. Croft would probably have an album; anyone this precise, this organized, this dedicated to preserving memories would have pictures, snapshots and so forth. The book itself, wouldn’t it contain photographs as studies of this kind so often did? He made a cursory examination of the shelves on which were kept the journals and diaries, but saw nothing.

Frustrated he went back to his chair and picked up Finest Hours again. What was Croft thinking about? Jury riffled the pages and stopped at more marginalia, this time a column of dates:

Jury skimmed the page in whose margin these dates appeared, in a neat row. There were no corresponding dates in the text of this page or the ones before or after. He went to every page where Simon had made marginal notes. No such dates appeared in the text, so there were obviously other sources he was using. But he could not find reference to them. How could he match up dates to events? How could he find the common denominator?

Was there one and was it Ralph? No one had talked very much about him, but, then, he’d been around so little that the family hadn’t really known him well. Simon and Ian had idolized Ralph; that did not constitute knowledge. The marriage to Alexandra was brief and wartime. What all knew and mentioned was that the young flier had been awarded the Victoria Cross.

On the last page of the book at the very bottom, Simon had written,

COVENTRY

ULTRA

CHICK. BED.

HATSTON

ENIGMA B.P.

– GOD I DON’T BELIEVE THIS.

“Enigma.” Jury frowned.

He sat thinking in the chair for some time. Then he crossed to the telephone and took out his small notebook. He rang Marie-France Muir.

After that, he rang Boring’s.

Forty-two

Marie-France Muir lived in Chapel Street. The house was not commodious, but knowing the value of square footage in Belgravia it didn’t have to be to mark the owner as well off. The furnishings would also have told the story. Against one wall sat a walnut kneehole desk flanked by an ornate pier glass and an exceptionally beautiful painting of woods, sheep and drifted snow that seemed to be lit from within. In an embrasure near the fireplace sat a walnut chest on chest of rich patination. The fireplace itself was an ornate green marble, guarded by an elaborate fire screen, decorated with birds and butterflies. A glass and rosewood paneled display piece holding fine china that Jury would have lumped under etagere was undoubtedly something else, something rarer. It was over six feet tall, nearly as tall as he was. Through the door into what must have been the dining room he glimpsed carved walnut chairs and the end of a dark dining-room table.

Yet what dominated the living room was not the furniture but the art, paintings largely of the French Impressionists and post-Impressionists. They hung one above the other in rococo gilt frames. It looked like a gallery. He wondered how many of them were originals; he wondered if all were originals.

The sofa and chairs were of humbler origins and more comfortable ones, slipcovered in a restful gray linen. “This is really a nice room,” Jury said, sitting back in the deep chair with the coffee Marie-France had had the foresight to make. He was almost hesitant to lift the paper-thin cup, which looked as if it would break if he blew on it.

“Thank you.” She looked around as if assessing everything anew, in light of his comment. “Much of the art was acquired by Ian. It’s his field, painting. A few pieces came from Simon’s house-” The fragile cup trembled in the saucer and she set it on the table beside her chair. She was silent for a while and so was Jury. He did not intrude upon such silences, the ones caused by grief. He did not intrude unless the other person made it clear there was something he could offer.

“It’s just made such a difference,” she said. “Simon and I didn’t see each other all that much, but you don’t have to, do you? To know the other person is there. The thing is, we were quite self-sufficient, and though we might give the impression of living in one another’s pockets, we really don’t, and didn’t. I mean all of us, including the Tynedales. I think his self-sufficiency might be the reason Ian never married, or, at least, one of the reasons.” She smiled. “Lord knows, he could have had his pick. It’s too bad in a way, none of us having children. I certainly wanted them and so did my husband.” She shrugged, almost by way of apology.

“Then you wouldn’t have-” Jury rephrased it. “How often had you seen your brother in the past two months?”

Marie-France considered. “Once at his house, once here. The last time was, oh, back in early November.”

“Did he seem in some way different?”

She frowned slightly. “No. All of us are always pretty much the same. Boring, but true.”

“A few people I’ve talked to got the impression he was afraid of something or someone. To the point, really, of paranoia.”

The smile she gave Jury could have charmed the gold butterflies right off the fire screen. “Mr. Jury, that’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.”

His smile matched hers. “Perhaps. But remember, you’d seen him only twice and the last time was over a month ago.”

“I’m not basing my opinion on seeing him; I’m basing it on knowing Simon. He was the easiest person I’ve ever known, the most composed. Simon and paranoia just don’t go together. Who’s said he was afraid and why?”

“He asked DCI Haggerty to come by the house when he could; your brother appeared to be afraid of someone. He wouldn’t admit tradespeople to the house or family members. Maisie Tynedale, for instance.”

“But he didn’t say what he was afraid of?”

Jury shook his head.