“Well-” She seemed uncertain of going on. “The children told me, perhaps a month or so before this happened- it was this time of year, in September-that more than once somebody would stop to talk to them. I mean somebody taking a walk in the woods. They loved to play out there.” She nodded to the wood to the left of the house. “It was fun for playing hiding games, you know, and for fantasizing. This person, or persons, came upon them in the woods. A man, a ‘nice man,’ they said. And, once, a ‘nice lady.’ ” Karen sipped her drink. “I didn’t always pay the strictest attention to what they said because they invented so much; Noah and Esme were always pretending; they had a number of imaginary playmates. And tourists like to walk in those woods, too.”
Melrose was thoughtful. “This Mrs. Hayter. She’s reliable?”
“I’ve never had reason to think she’s not. Believe me, I asked myself that question many times. But why wouldn’t she tell the truth?”
“Perhaps to make it appear that she wasn’t here alone, that other people were involved. It could even have been you and your husband. The police must have questioned you pretty thoroughly. It’s the parents who immediately come under suspicion.”
“That’s dreadful.” She looked away, toward the window.
“Yes, but it happens all too often. Yesterday I read in the paper an account of a mother whose boyfriend didn’t want her child around. The mother first fed the boy barbiturates to knock him out before she drowned him in the bathtub.”
In dismay, Karen shook her head. “No.” She was silent for a moment, then said, “You said you had something to tell me.”
“It’s rather strange. Do you know a woman in the village named Chris Wells?”
“Chris? Of course. She owns the Woodbine tea place.”
“Her nephew-”
“Johnny?”
Melrose nodded. “Says she’s disappeared.”
“
“He pretty much exhausted every place she might have gone and reason for going there.”
Karen shook her head again in disbelief. “Did he try Bletchley Hall? Chris does a lot of volunteer work there. But when did this happen?”
“Before I went to Northamptonshire to collect my gear. So it’s been over a week. Clearly, the boy’s right: she’s disappeared. And there’s something else. Perhaps you’ve already heard about the murder in Lamorna Cove.”
“Murder?” She sat forward, eyes wide. “My God, you mean Chris-?”
“No, no. A woman named Sada Colthorp.”
“Lamorna. I’ve been there; it’s not much, just a few cottages and a pub and a little cafe operated for tourists. And a hotel, I think. Lamorna Cove’s popular with tourists; it’s quite lovely.”
“This Sada Colthorp was murdered at the same time Chris Wells disappeared.”
Karen looked at him. “Police think there’s some connection?”
“I don’t know what they think.” He changed the subject. “You mentioned Bletchley Hall. It’s owned by your father-in-law?”
“Daniel’s father.”
“The elder Mr. Bletchley.”
“Morris, his name is. He seems to prefer Moe. He bought the place and donated it to the village, by way of a trust. He gave it his name, as he does everything. Except for Chick’nKing. I suppose even he couldn’t see ‘Chick’nBletchley.’ He lives at the Hall. That does not mean he’s dying. Far from it. Having told everyone he knows how to live, he’s now telling them how to die.”
There seemed to be no rancor in her tone. Only amusement, a half-remembered smile.
Melrose smiled too. “Domineering.”
“You’ve no idea. Can you imagine choosing to live there?” She made a sweeping gesture with her arm, taking in the whole room. “This wonderful house is his. He could live here or anywhere. The man’s a billionaire. That fast- food chain; I can’t begin to estimate how much it’s worth. And he’s got a large investment in real estate. I can’t comprehend it: living at Bletchley Hall among the dying.”
“Perhaps,” said Melrose, reflecting, “he’s overwhelmed by the fear of death.”
She’d been about to sip her whisky; her hand stopped in midair. “Moe? He’s not afraid of anything. And if he were of
“Not necessarily. Someone with business genius might think he could master anything, including death, by meeting it head on. You know, to gain some sort of control. We don’t think about death nearly enough. We run from it.”
She frowned. “Isn’t that rather morbid?”
Melrose was disappointed. The “isn’t-that-morbid response” was what he’d expect of a mind cluttered with cliches. It was also begging the question. “No, it isn’t.” Inwardly he sighed. No wonder he had problems with women if he were going to contradict them at every turn. Anyway, Karen Bletchley was a woman he shouldn’t be considering as a “problemswith-women” candidate. Melrose lighted her cigarette, then returned to the subject of Lamorna Cove and Sada Colthorp. “Does she sound at all familiar to you? Her maiden name was Sada May. Or Sadie, she seemed to have called herself. I mean, you wouldn’t have known her, would you?”
“I? Why should I have known her?”
The question had been innocent enough. Melrose thought she was being defensive. “Only because she’s from Lamorna, apparently.”
The silence now was not particularly companionable. She wore the look of one who, having accepted an invitation, was wondering how to renege on it. Melrose felt not so much uncomfortable as sad, the sadness attendant on something at best ephemeral, unnamed or unnameable, finally slipping away. A little too heartily, Melrose slapped the arms of his chair and said as he rose, “Time to get to the spuds. They’ll be mush, but who cares, since they’ll be mashed anyway.”
Her frozen look melted a bit as she said, “The sole won’t take long. By the time you get the lumps in the potatoes, it’ll be done.”
It was a shot at the former easy exchange that didn’t quite make it.
At dinner, they both pronounced the sole good enough to pass the inspection of the fishmonger and the potatoes properly lumpy and the wine exquisite. Bletchley had a wine cellar which Melrose hadn’t known about until he apologized for the Nouveau Beaujolais, which he claimed could hardly be considered “nouveau.” Karen asked, why, if he didn’t like it, had he bought it?
“Because the Oddbins fellow was so thick in his praise of it; I didn’t want to seem to be doubting him.”
She laughed. “Good lord, but you are a pushover. The fishmonger, the wine merchant.”
It was then she had told him about the wine cellar and invited him to choose his own. They went down together. He had found half a dozen bottles of Puligny-Montrachet, a Premier Cru, and his favorite Meursault. He commented upon her husband’s excellent taste.
“More his father’s. Though it’s not necessarily his knowledge of wine. It’s more Morris’s insistence that if it costs a lot, it’s good.”
Melrose was dusting off the bottle. “It’s true, though, isn’t it? At least when it comes to wine.”
Her tone was a trifle acidic. “You sound like someone Morris would like.”
“Oh? But then I must sound like someone you wouldn’t.”
Having drunk a bottle and a half of the Montrachet between them, Melrose said, “Who was the investigating officer when the… accident occurred?” He reproached himself for the coldness of the question.
Karen flinched, but she gave it some thought. “I’m afraid I don’t remember their names. I do remember, though, the high-ranking one was very… intense. A chief inspector or superintendent, he was. I remember his eyes. It wasn’t just that they were very blue, they were a burning blue. I could almost see the tiny flame. I also remember he made me feel that his priorities were mine.”
“They were. You’re talking about Commander Macalvie. Another thing about him: He never gives up.”
