The Lamorna Wink

Wiggins carried on. “Would you even have your own room? Or have to share. Well, I’d hate that, I would. I’d think you could at least expect a little privacy when you’re dying; it’s a safe bet you won’t get any after.”

Melrose wondered what sort of talkathon Wiggins thought he was bound for in the afterlife. If an imaginary nursing home could furnish him with this banquet of topics, what would imagining heaven do for him?

“Sergeant, you’re a master of detail.”

Said Wiggins, “They say the devil’s in them.”

He certainly was in these, thought Melrose.

In the next five minutes, blessedly silent, they rounded the curve that gave them the first glimpse of Bletchley Hall. It was indeed an imposing facade, and Wiggins’s surprise said he appreciated it. It left him-thank God- speechless.

They paused at the stone pillars that flanked the entrance. Ground into stone as if it had grown there was a brass plaque: BLETCHLEY HALL. The long drive-way passed between low honey-colored stone walls over which dripped lush vegetation. Behind the walls were gardens of orchids and beds of bright marigolds. In this temperate climate, even the occasional palm tree seemed at home.

Wiggins pointed one out. Surprised, he said, “Palm trees, Mr. Plant?”

“Well, you know what they call this part of Cornwall: Little Miami.”

“Surely not.”

“Just watch your back and your wallet.”

They stopped on the gravel between the marble steps and the fountain, in which bronze fish, weathered into green, spewed up streams of water and cherubs frolicked, strangling the dolphins they rode. Even the gravel at their feet glittered like crushed diamonds. In the distance was the stream, the orchids, the tall grasses.

“My lord,” said Wiggins in a wondering way, as he shut his car door. “This must cause the earth to keep up.”

“I’m sure. Morris Bletchley has the earth. The unfortunate viscount and his lady didn’t.”

The front door was open; during the day it might always have stood so to suggest either freedom of passage or a four-star hotel. Matron immediately came walking toward them. In her gray dress sprigged with tiny roses she looked like a tea cozy. Plant still didn’t know her name, but as she seemed to enjoy being called “Matron,” that’s how he introduced her.

Wiggins handed her one of his cards and the name seemed to freeze on her lips as she mouthed “New Scotland Yard.” Nervously she ushered them in. Fumbling with her belt, she asked, “What can I do for you?”

“I’d like to have a word with Mr. Bletchley, if you could just fetch him?”

Matron nodded and weaved off as if struggling through deep water, dolphins, perhaps, and cherubs impeding her progress.

Melrose had detected a whiff of something mixed with her toilet water. A bit of gin in the l’heure bleu, perhaps? He wouldn’t be a bit surprised to find Moe Bletchley had designated a cocktail hour in between dominoes and dinner. And why not, for God’s sake? If you’re at death’s door what difference does it make if you go through it half potted? Melrose watched her walk the length of gorgeous Kirman carpet that led down the long gallery, off which were the dining and other communal rooms.

Wiggins was admiring the drawing room in which they waited, with its blue brocades and velvets, dark blue curtains and carpeting, and overhead a chandelier that, touched by the sun, showered confetti light across the rug.

They shared the room with two old women sitting in wing chairs who looked as if they’d just been caught in a spell and commanded neither to speak nor to move. They seemed-well, stuck there.

“Begging your pardon, gentlemen.”

The voice crept up behind them, and they turned to see a tidy-looking, dark-suited man of indeterminate years, who made one think of a funeral director.

“I’m Dr. Jaynes. What is it you wanted?”

“To see Morris Bletchley.”

Wiggins handed Dr. Jaynes another of his cards.

“You’re from Scotland Yard?”

“He is.” Melrose nodded toward Wiggins. “I’m from Northants.”

Dr. Jaynes seemed puzzled by this strange coupling of places. He said to Wiggins, “You’re here in an official capacity?”

My God, thought Melrose, if it was this hard to convince them of what a calling card clearly stated, how would you ever convince them you weren’t dead yet?

“No, sir,” said Wiggins, “I’d merely like to talk to Mr. Bletchley, as we told your matron.”

He still didn’t seem convinced. Life at Bletchley Hall must really ride the rails of ritual if two strangers turning up created such a stir.

Dr. Jaynes seemed at a loss. “Of course, Mr. Bletchley hasn’t the time to see people unless they’ve an appointment.”

Melrose sighed. How was it he had missed the pleasure of Jaynes’s company when he was here before? He told Jaynes he’d already talked to Morris Bletchley.

“I see, I see.” Jaynes was as tentative as one can get and still remain on the scene. “Then I’ll just have a word with Mr.-”

But he could have saved his breath to cool his porridge, for here came Morris Bletchley at full tilt across the doorsill of the blue drawing room. He pulled up and braked. Melrose thought he saw sparks.

“Dr. Jaynes, I’ll see to these gentlemen. Hadn’t you better get back to your patients?”

Dr. Jaynes smiled grimly at Moe Bletchley and departed.

“What’s going on?” Moe Bletchley fiddled with a lever on his wheelchair. “I don’t mean with you two, what’s going on with my brakes? I nearly ran down Mrs. Fry back there.” He chuckled. “Could someone be trying to bump me off?”

Wiggins said, stepping into I’m-on-the-job mode, “I don’t think it would be efficient to use a wheelchair for that, sir.”

Morris Bletchley apparently got a real kick out of this pointing out of the obvious. “And you’re”-he looked at the card Matron must have turned over to him-“Mr. Wiggins, Scotland Yard, that right?”

“Yes, sir. Detective Sergeant Wiggins.”

Melrose knew this slight condescension would end smartly when Wiggins got a deeper whiff of this hospice- nursing-home outfit.

“Well, Sergeant, I reckon I don’t know any more about the Wells woman than I did when I talked to your cohort here.” He leaned his head in Plant’s direction. “Chris Wells helps us out, and she’s damned good at it, too. Drove one or two of the guests to see their families, took ’em to hospital, that sort of thing. So I did have contact with her, but I didn’t know anything about her family or friends. Come on, let’s go in the drawing room-they won’t mind,” he added, with a look at the old ladies.

Who hadn’t, Melrose decided, moved an inch in any direction. Light wavered, shadows shifted in these blue environs, creating an underwater effect much lovelier than that of the Drowned Man. Melrose found it as good as a sedative and wasn’t surprised that the old ladies had fallen asleep. He was having a hard time keeping his eyes open himself.

“Let’s go out to the sunroom; I need a smoke and you can’t do it in here. It would be hard on our emphysema patients.”

“And yourself,” Wiggins said sententiously.

Moe rose from his wheelchair and shoved it out into the hall. “I need to stretch my legs. Come on.”

They sat around the same table. The two old chess players were absent, but an old woman at the other end of the sunroom was feeding coins into a slot machine with her face so close to the display she could have licked it.

“Are your patients here all wealthy?” asked Wiggins.

“No. Why? Are you supposed to be if you’re dying?”

“Oh, no, it’s just that this is clearly an expensive operation.”