The Blue Last

She sighed. “As for the tradespeople, I don’t particularly put out the red carpet for the butcher and baker, either. And as for Maisie-” She looked away and waved her hand in a dismissive gesture. “Simon never liked her.”

“Why not?”

“He thought she was pushy on the one hand and somewhat of a sycophant on the other. Probably a few other things in between.” She picked up the silver pot and poured Jury more coffee. No question, coffee tasted better coming from a silver pot and delicate china.

“How about you? Do you agree?”

“About Maisie? Yes. I find her very cold.”

“And her grandfather? How does he feel about her?”

“When it comes to Oliver, I can’t really say. Maisie’s not only Alexandra’s daughter, but the only grandchild. Those are two reasons for him to adore her.” She frowned. “But he doesn’t seem to. Adore her, I mean. Certainly, not in the way he does that little girl, Gemma. But of course she’s only eight or nine. Perhaps when Maisie was nine, Oliver felt the same way…” She shrugged. “The one person who seems to get on with Maisie is that Riordin woman. I don’t like her at all. There’s something almost, ah, creepy about her. When she was still a young woman she tied herself down to living at the Lodge. I find that odd.”

“She must think there’s something in it for her. I imagine she expects to come into at least part of Mr. Tynedale’s estate. Don’t you?”

“Yes, but, well, certainly there’ll be a bequest, but I shouldn’t think enough to warrant giving over one’s life to it.” She sighed and sipped her coffee.

Jury leaned forward. “Have you ever thought there might be more to it than that?”

“What do you mean?” She looked off toward the window as if a fresh aspect were to be found there. “My lord, are you suggesting they were lovers?”

Jury laughed. “That never entered my mind. Perhaps it should have.”

With an oblique look at Jury, she said, “No, it shouldn’t. I’m surprised it entered mine. Oliver is simply not-I don’t know how to say it. Anyway, he’s not, take my word for it. Then what did you mean?”

Given that Ian Tynedale and Marie-France disliked Maisie and Kitty Riordin, and also were such obviously intelligent people, he was surprised neither of them wondered about Maisie’s parentage. But they were also ingenuous; maybe they couldn’t comprehend something so monstrous as an imposture lasting more than half a century. “I don’t know. I’m fishing, I expect.”

“Well, you need some better bait, Superintendent.” This was accompanied by her immensely charming smile. “The rest of us manage to rub along with Kitty, but not Emily. Emily never did get along with her; Emily thinks she’s a fraud.”

“In what way?”

“Kitty took credit-no, that’s not exactly right-she was being credited with something she didn’t do: she didn’t save Maisie’s life. It was chance, pure chance. But Kitty began to believe she saved the baby’s life.”

Jury nodded. “There’s something I wonder, though: why would she have taken either child out during the blitz? That was savage bombing the Luftwaffe was doing.”

“Savage, but erratic. Simon talked about it often. He was moved to write this book, not surprisingly, because our father, Francis, had died in the blitz. Simon thought what a lot of people mistook as strategic bombing was simply systematic bombing. Goring’s last-ditch stand. He’d already lost in his attempt to destroy our air force by bombing the airfields.

“For us young ones, the whole thing was exciting-look at those ruins, that rubble we could investigate for treasure. It was rather like a film. Well, I’m trying to answer your questions. That sort of illusion wasn’t restricted to children. Grown-ups felt it too.”

Marie-France went on. “What I’m saying is that there were times we thought of it as a fairy tale. That sounds outrageous, I know, but that was the climate of opinion sometimes. Add to that that Kitty Riordin was a headstrong girl, and if she thought a baby needed some fresh air, I suppose she wasn’t going to hide in the Blue Last waiting for the war to blow over.”

“And Alexandra?”

“Alex was more sensible, more realistic.”

“Why would she allow her baby to be taken out, then?”

“It’s a good question. I can’t answer that. But you know we’re sitting here second-guessing what happened fifty-five years ago.”

Jury smiled. “I spend most of my life doing that.”

“I can see you’d have to.”

Jury put down his cup. “This book your brother was writing. Ralph Herrick apparently figured in it.”

This surprised her. “Ralph?” Bemused, she repeated the name as if it were some magical incantation. “Ralph. I don’t recall Simon mentioning him with regard to his book, though when we were children, I know Ralph seemed to us ever so glamorous. He was a hero; he was handsome; he was married to Alexandra. Simon and Ian both idolized him. They thought it wizard that he flew a Spitfire.”

“Do you remember Herrick as anything other than an icon?”

Marie-France thought for a moment, sipping her coffee. “You know, that’s well put, Superintendent. I think that’s just how we saw him. He represented something in the war that was noble and good. But as for knowing him, Ralph wasn’t really around much. He was rarely at home, even after he married Alex, and they were married only a little over a year when she was killed. And then…?” She paused, trying to remember. “I’m not sure what happened to him.”

“Herrick joined the people at Bletchley Park. You remember, the mathematicians like Turing who were working on Hitler’s Enigma machines.”

She looked at Jury with raised eyebrows. “Really? No, I don’t think I ever did know that. I would think Simon must’ve, though.” She was looking out of the window to where a shaft of sunlight was turning a vase of roses a deeper shade of pink. The small gilt clock on the mantel chimed seven.

“I’ve got to go. I really appreciate you talking to me.” Jury rose.

“You’re very welcome, Superintendent.” As she rose to see him out, she laughed. “I really can’t get over someone’s saying Simon was paranoid. If there was ever a person I can’t picture having enemies, it was Simon.”

Jury looked at her. “Then I’m afraid you’d be wrong.”

Forty-three

“I have my coat on and money,” said Gemma. From the coat pocket she drew a small, shiny-blue change purse with a zipper and decorated with a bright pink plastic flower. She was sitting with Benny on the wooden plank in the beech tree.

“I can’t take you to Piccadilly,” he said, feeling guilty. “I’m too-busy.” He was too young, he meant. Not for himself-he could go to Piccadilly and back ten times over. He was too young to take the responsibility of Gemma is what he meant. He’d never get permission. That made him laugh. He was too young to be doing most of the things he was doing. The thing was, Benny wanted to see the windows at Fortnum and Mason, too. “They’re really the best Christmas windows around, is what I’ve heard.” But it did worry him something might happen to her.

“I know. Don’t you want to see them?”

He shrugged. “I wouldn’t mind.”

“Then let’s.”

He sighed. “Gemma, they’d never let you go with me, even if we did take a cab there and back.” He’d seen she had a lot of money in that little purse. Enough for cabs, he bet.

“Then don’t ask.”

Benny sighed again. He’d been watching Sparky make his way over the ground, stopping at stalks and hedges, sniffing as if he’d never been in this garden before. Now he was going into the greenhouse. He never dug up around