Whatever occupants of Bletchley Hall were able to leave their beds were there, along with staff. The Hoopers, black-suited, stood next to Morris Bletchley, on whose other side stood Daniel and Karen. Little Miss Livingston, her acorn face obscured by a small black veil, seemed more bent than even before. Beside her stood Mrs. Atkins; Mr. Bleaney and Mr. Clancy were on the other side of the grave.
Melrose stood beside Johnny, who had insisted on coming, despite his having to endure, in the following days, his aunt’s own funeral. Her body now lay in the police morgue in Penzance. It would be released to “the family” (the medical examiner speaking here) when the autopsy was complete.
The first person to step forward and let fall a handful of earth onto the coffin must have been Tom’s sister, Honey; she was a slight, very blond, and pretty girl. She stood back, and Morris Bletchley stepped forward, repeating the sad ritual. Then the rector of Bletchley’s single church finished the ceremony.
It would probably have been no compliment to tell Honey Letts that black became her, as if she’d been designed for sad occasions such as this. It made her fragile blondness more intense, deepened the blue of her eyes to black.
She was only sixteen, but she had the composure of a woman decades older. He wondered how it had been bred in her, certainly not by her mother and father, given what Tom had told him.
The mother and father were not even with her today. Melrose found it difficult to believe that parents could be so hard and unforgiving.
“Honey,” said Melrose, looking down at her, “I didn’t know Tom for long, but I still felt I knew him.”
She nodded and looked up at him out of those bottomless dark blue eyes.
“You have no idea how much you did for him,” Melrose said.
“No, people don’t, usually. But it certainly wasn’t any sacrifice on my part. I don’t know many people and certainly no one as interesting as Tommy.” She looked off toward the bottom of the garden and Tom’s grave. For some moments she held that silent pose, a young person who could bear silence.
“Your parents didn’t come.” It was as close to accusation as he could get; that they hadn’t come made him furious.
With her eyes still on the grave, she shook her head. “They couldn’t get over that Tommy had AIDS. They couldn’t get past it. It’s the way some people are; they get stuck and can’t go on. The really tragic thing is that Tommy wasn’t gay.” Honey turned to look up at Melrose. “He didn’t bother telling people because they wouldn’t believe it; besides that, he didn’t think it should make a difference. He told Mum and Dad, finally, but they didn’t believe him either. After all, he had the mark, so what difference did it make if he was or wasn’t gay?”
Melrose remembered what Johnny had told him. He said, “I’d have believed him, Honey. I think I’d have believed anything he told me. He was that kind of person; you believed him, that’s all.”
A tear ran straight down Honey’s cheek. “Thanks. Thanks. It was only this one fellow-would you like to hear about this?”
She asked this as a real question, not a rhetorical one. Honey, apparently, took things seriously.
“Of course I would, Honey. Of course.”
“It was just one time, a long time ago-it must’ve been fifteen or sixteen years. It was with a friend of his who’d got really sick; he died just after Tom was diagnosed. This was his best friend since childhood. They’d been through school together, dated together; he’s always been popular with girls-they’d been through just about everything together. After Bobby got the virus it was hardly any time, less than two years, before he had full-blown AIDS. He was dying and Tom went to visit him. He stayed for less than two weeks. He told me about it when he got sick himself; he’d wanted to comfort Bobby, Tom said. That’s all, just comfort. It was only a few times. He told me he’d gotten tested afterwards, more than once after Bobby died, but there wasn’t any sign Tom had it. Not until three years ago.” Honey had to look away. “It’s awful this should happen to Tom because of that, and yet I wonder if Tom’s being that sort of person, if it didn’t make all of us better somehow. If you know what I mean.”
The little eulogy was so heartfelt that Melrose could say nothing; he simply nodded.
There was another silence, shared. Then Melrose said, “You see that boy over there?” He nodded in Johnny’s direction.
“Yes. He looks really sad.”
“He is. His aunt was murdered last night.” Melrose would have thought it impossible for Honey’s face to grow even paler, but it did.
“
“Police think the same person’s responsible.” But that’s hardly a consolation to Honey.
“Poor boy. How awful for him. Do you think I should go talk to him?”
Melrose smiled. If anyone could infer human need well enough to answer that question, it was Honey herself.
“I think that’s a good idea.”
And she did. Melrose watched. He saw Johnny turn to face her and watched as Johnny listened. Honey talked for a little while, leaving her hand on his arm as she looked up at him.
Melrose watched as Johnny’s expression changed. It was as if the lid of a coffin had opened and the person who lay there, mistaken for dead, at last could breathe again.
Honey had the touch.
60
Murder or no murder, funeral or no funeral, Agatha could not be avoided forever. Melrose was to have tea with her that afternoon and he talked Richard Jury into coming along.
It surprised him that the Woodbine Tearoom was open and full, as it usually was, at four o’clock. That it was open for business at all was in part owing to the efforts of Mrs. Hayter, whom Melrose recalled saying that she often baked her popular berry pies for Woodbine, and that when Brenda was called away she would come in and help out.
Brenda had certainly been “called away.” And, Mrs. Hayter declared, “Enough said on
Melrose could see tears forming on her lower lids, but her mouth was pinched with barely contained rage. But it wasn’t “enough said,” judging from the whispers flying from behind hands at the other tables.
And God know it would never be “enough said” for Agatha. She was so eager to get down to it she could barely spare a hello for Richard Jury, whom she was usually all over like a fishnet. “I knew the first time I had dealings with that woman Brenda that something was wrong.”
“What dealings, Lady Ardry?” asked Jury, as he sipped his tea. There were still things that didn’t add up, that made no sense-most important, the murder of Tom Letts.
“No dealings,” said Melrose. “Unless you count your vain attempt to pry her recipe for Sweet Ladies out of her.” Melrose watched as Johnny came through the swinging door, a boy who shouldered his responsibilities as if they were the heavy tray he carried. It was piled high with cups, pastries, and buns.
“Don’t be absurd,” said Agatha. That being the brunt of her rebuttal, she changed the subject. Lowering her voice to a whisper, she said, “With his aunt shot just last night, I’m surprised to see that boy working.”
Melrose watched him. His movements were heavy and his smile a mere remnant of yesterday’s. “
“Work,” said Jury, “is the best antidote for what ails you, at least according to my boss, who has little experience to back him up. I’m sure Sergeant Wiggins would disagree about the best antidote, he having a great deal of experience to back
Johnny came over to their table. He was introduced to Jury, who stood up to shake his hand. “Johnny, I’m very sorry for your loss.”
He looked at Jury and seemed in danger of crumpling. Jury often had that effect on people; he could project an empathy that breached their defenses and frequently had them turning away, weeping. This was one thing that made him so good with witnesses.
