“Thanks,” said Johnny. Then, as if this response might be too perfunctory, he said it again: “Thank you.” He blinked several time. “Chris was great, wasn’t she?” he asked Melrose.
Melrose had told Johnny about Chris’s visit to Bletchley House. “The greatest, Johnny.” He had only been with her for a very short time, but he felt that he spoke the truth. “The greatest,” he repeated.
Even Agatha managed to mumble a few words meant to console. “Sorry… great pity… awful for you.”
Melrose asked, “Where’s Honey? Did she go back to Dartmouth?”
Johnny looked over his shoulder. “No, actually. She’s in the kitchen.”
And to Melrose’s surprise and as if she were waiting for her cue, Honey came through the door, butting it with her hip; she was carrying both a pot of tea and a tiered cake plate. Both of these she set on Melrose’s table.
“This is for you, compliments of the house,” said Honey, as if she’d worked here for years. Her smile was brilliant.
Agatha’s was hardly less so when she saw the selection of cakes and meringues. “My goodness, thank you.”
Johnny said, “It’s for all your help.”
“We do what we can,” said Agatha, taking credit.
“What help?” asked Melrose, quite sincerely. “I don’t feel I was much help.”
“You certainly were, Mr. Plant,” said Johnny. “For starters, it was you got police here by knowing Mr. Macalvie.”
“I don’t think he’d claim to have been much help, either.”
“Okay,” said Jury. “I’ll make the claim for Sergeant Wiggins and give you his recipe for herbal tea so it’ll be ready for him when he comes in.”
Seeing that Johnny was distinctly brighter when Honey was around, Melrose asked her how long she was staying.
Honey sighed. “I’d like to stay longer, but I’ve got to go back to school. I got excused for three days and tomorrow’s the third day, so that’s when I have to leave.”
“I want her to come and work here during the summer.” As if he needed a reason for this, Johnny said, “There’s only Mrs. Hayter and me to run this place, and I’d like to keep it going. It was Chris’s life, after all.”
Honey said, “I’d really like to but I promised this family that’s going to the south of France I’d go along to watch the kiddies. You know, as an au pair. But I might be able to get out of it if I can find someone to take my place. I hope so, at least. I always did like Bletchley, and maybe I can take Mr. Bletchley’s mind off things by being around.”
Melrose had stopped listening. He was staring off across the room, his mind elsewhere; he was trying to remember. Something Tom had said. Or Moe Bletchley. Had they been talking about the south of France? He frowned. No, that wasn’t it. His look at Honey must have been so probing, she asked if something was wrong.
And then he had it.
He stood up, setting the teacups to rattling. “Come on,” he said to Jury.
“Come on where? I’m not finished.”
“Now! Agatha can take care of the bill.”
Jury rose. There’s a first time for everything, he thought.
61
Mr. Bletchley,” Jury said, “I’m Richard Jury, New Scotland Yard.”
Morris Bletchley shook the proffered hand. “You’re a little late, aren’t you, sir?” He could not keep his face from clouding over. “A little late.”
“I’m sorry,” Jury said, with all the earnestness of one who felt he really should have appeared earlier.
“He’s been in Northern Ireland,” said Melrose, as if he had to justify Jury’s dereliction of duty, and that a stint in Northern Ireland would justify anything.
“Of course,” said Moe Bletchley. “Just a little black humor and not very funny at that. Let’s sit down.”
They’d been standing in the wide hall between the blue and red rooms. Moe led them into the blue room and asked if they’d like something: tea? whisky? Both declined.
“There’s something I want to ask you,” said Melrose. “Tom described your house in Putney, said it wasn’t very big, three bedrooms, one of them for the au pair. You had one for when the children came to visit.”
Moe’s gaze was puzzled. “That’s right.”
“Who was she?”
Morris Bletchley looked very unhappy. “Mona Freeman was the name she gave me. She was actually Ramona Friel.” Moe looked at them and gave a helpless little shrug. “I wouldn’t have known if she hadn’t told me, much later, just before she came back to Bletchley.” His frown deepened. “I was completely surprised. I didn’t know Ramona by sight because she’d been away at school for years, and hardly ever went into the village the times I was at the house. Wouldn’t’ve seen her anyway because she’d been away, like I said. She never told her mother she was working for me-well obviously, since she’d changed her name to hide the fact. Brenda didn’t want her in London, working.
“All Ramona wanted from me was to help her-not an abortion, mind you, but just to sustain her until the baby was born. I told her she really should tell her mother, but she didn’t want to. Finally, though, she did. I guess Mona just had to have her mother’s support. And that’s the last I ever saw of her until I heard the poor girl had died. I could certainly feel for Brenda, I’ll tell you.”
“Did she tell you who the father was?”
Sadly, Moe shook his head. “No. I knew it was Tom. But that, I’m sure, Ramona didn’t tell her mother; she swore me to secrecy on that score. I’d have known anyway, wouldn’t I? She refused to tell him, adamantly refused. If she had, Tom would have done something; he’d have married her. But she didn’t want to marry anyone. Very stubborn girl.” He smiled slightly but then looked from Plant to Jury, as if he feared what was coming. “I was told she died of that non-Hodgkins leukemia.”
“That’s what Brenda Friel told people. But I’ll bet you any amount of money that Ramona Friel died from some complication of AIDS. If not AIDS directly, then indirectly. Whatever was wrong with Ramona was exacerbated by this virus. Didn’t Brenda know Tom Letts? Didn’t he drive you here from London?”
Moe shook his head. “Maybe once or twice. It’s a hell of a drive from London. No, Brenda didn’t know Tom; she certainly didn’t know he’d worked for me in London.”
“Brenda Friel didn’t know who the father was and found out only recently about this Putney arrangement. Then she knew the father must have been Tom Letts.”
Morris Bletchley looked away then sharply back again. “Brenda Friel’s the one who shot him? Jesus.” Moe leaned over, his head in his hands.
“She had a motive, certainly.” said Jury. “She found out somehow.”
His head still in his hands, Moe shook it back and forth, back and forth. “A couple of weeks ago-feels like years-Tom was talking to her about Putney. She said she had family-some cousins, whatever-in Fulham. You know, right next door. Brenda’s not stupid. Ramona’d worked in Putney and Ramona’d died of AIDS.”
Melrose and Jury were silent, watching him.
Finally Moe asked, “And Chris Wells? What did she have to do with all this?”
“I’m guessing again, but I’d say Chris Wells presented a danger after Tom was murdered. Chris would have been the
Morris Bletchley set his head in his hands again, shaking it. “Poor Ramona, that poor girl. Ramona was so good with Noah and Esme.” He stood up. “It’s too much. You know whom I suspected: my daughter-in-law. I’ve never really liked Karen. She’s just so
Melrose knew exactly what he meant. Plausible. He remembered that enjoyable evening at Seabourne, marred by a moment of discomfort, when she’d shown her resentment of Morris Bletchley and a certain banal turn of mind. Small things, and perhaps he’d been small-minded, but he supposed a person should attend to his intuitive
