The Old Silent

their slope increased by the tentlike dress. Her hair was a vibrant red that fell from a center part to her shoulders and seemed to have a life of its own, the way it sprang up and out as if it were plugged into an electrical socket. It was sprigged with gray, and because of the fanciful play of light it looked caught up in a loose net of silver.

'Cheers!'

Jury took the sticky, fluted glass, sipped at a liquid the color of which only Sergeant Wiggins could love, and choked again. His throat was on fire.

'You get used to it. I've been into rum ever since Archie -my late husband-and I went beachcombing in Barbados. Do you like my posters?'

Jury nodded. 'Is that your husband sitting in the club, there?'

'Him? No, that was just a couple we met in Bimini. My favorite place. Spent two months there. Archie was camera-shy. Also cash-shy. A fact that Charles never lets me forget. He probably didn't tell you I was married, did he?'

'No,' said Jury, his eye resting on the blue and mauve poster of Atlantic waters breaking on the beaches of Bimini. The sunset matched the drink, which he shoved a little way from him in case it was combustible.

'He wouldn't. He refuses to acknowledge a Citrine would run off with a fortune-hunting American.' She raised her glass again. 'To Archie Littlejohn, God rest him.'

'I'm sorry.'

'About what?'

'Well, that you lost him.'

'Lost me would be more like it. Last time I saw Archie was three years ago when he took out a deep-sea fishing boat off Bimini. There went my last thousand quid. My part of Daddy's money. Dear Daddy was very Victorian and thought women couldn't be trusted with the stuff; so Charles got the lion's share. I have to admit Charles did work for much of his; still, he's one of those lucky people that money just seems to stick to. So… Archie floated away and I decided to come back to the old homestead. Well, I was dead broke, wasn't I? We'd spent all my money.' She looked round the tower happily. 'It suits me. I do a lot of reading, walking, go grouse- and pheasant- shooting with Charles, largely because it irritates him so much I'm a better shot than he is. But, mostly, I have my painting to keep me busy.'

Jury squinted over his shoulder at one of the canvases. Cutting across its dark surface was the merest splinter of light. 'Not much light for painting.'

She shrugged. 'Well, my work gains a lot in visual impact in the dark. You won't believe this, but I've actually sold some.'

True, Jury found it hard to believe, but he said, 'That's grand.'

'They don't think so after they get them home and see them in daylight.'

Jury looked up at the boarded-over hole in the roof of the turret. 'Are you building yourself a skylight, or something?'

She squinted upwards. 'That's my passive solar heating. Happened a couple of weeks ago. Some firm was supposed to come fix it.' Three Tequila Sunrises had made her, apparently, quite tolerant of the indifference of the contractor. 'I get the odd bat or two.'

She was picking up the thick candlestick to light another cigarette.

When she leaned across the table toward Jury, the tops of her rounded breasts were thrust against the neckline of the muumuu, in the candlelight white as the hibiscus, and the gold wedges of her eyes flickered. Jury wondered if she knew that her Archie might not have married her for her money after all. 'What happened?'

'Helen. Our family weren't exactly poor, the Citrines. But I'm talking about what they take to National Westminster in an armored car. Real money.' Rena sat back, turned the stem of her drink slowly, looked a little sad. 'I liked Helen. She was wooly-headed, extremely pretty, silly, but a good person. Left me a handsome bequest which I managed to run through with the speed of light. All the rest went to Nell. My saintly brother Charles has Daddy's money. Am I supposed to be talking to you?' The 'supposed' came out with a bit of a slur along with the smile.

'Superintendent Sanderson wouldn't think so.' Jury returned the smile.

'You're better looking than he is.'

'So are you.' Jury raised his glass as if in toast to her looks, but really to keep her from frothing more of the flammable cocktail into it. 'There're only the three of you here now, is that right?'

'Except for the odd servant or two. I seldom venture downstairs except for dinner. That's always good for a laugh. The aperitif, a few acid smiles handed round; first course, trumped-up laughter; main course, squabble; and for afters, silence.'

'False smiles, fights, and silence. Doesn't sound too inviting.'

'That's when we're having fun. Or were, I should say. Roger-' She looked away, past the fireplace and the posters toward the narrow window. Then she took a cigarette from a little tray, struck a wooden match across the underside of the table, and said, '… provided some amusement.' Her tone was wry. 'He was the essence of a Ralph Lauren advert. Polo. The cologne, not the sport. Although I could certainly imagine him playing it.'

'Then you don't agree with your brother?'

'I never agree with my brother, if only on principle. You mean about Roger?'

'Mr. Citrine talked about him as a fine man. Devoted father, husband.'

Rena wiped some ash from the table to the floor. 'Oh, 'fine.' Whatever that means in Charles's lexicon. Roger was charming-handsome, witty, sophisticated, talented. And shallow. I don't know much about music but I'd be willing to bet he failed as a musician because there was nothing behind the technical razzle-dazzle. I mean, doesn't one need a soul or something to be a great musician? Even Billy had more substance. He was a nice enough child if a bit lazy. Sweet, charming-well, that was probably in his genes-but he didn't really apply himself. Unfortunately, he wasn't all that crazy about being a prodigy, which Roger didn't like at all. He could be a real tyrant.' She smoked and studied the shifting shadows thrown by the candles. 'Not nice to speak of Roger that way, perhaps, after what he'd been through with Billy and that other child, Toby. God. What a decision to have to make…'

'What would you have done?'

'Paid up, of course. But then I never take anyone's advice.' Her face hardened. 'What a bastard.'

Jury frowned. 'Roger Healey on his own didn't have the money to pay that ransom.'

'It might have been Citrine money, but the father, certainly, would have the say. If he didn't insist, then-' She shrugged.

'You don't know the statistics on-'

'I don't care about the effing statistics, Superintendent. Poor Nell hadn't nearly as much say, had she? She was 'only the stepmother.' Well, she was a better mother than most I've seen. There's something about Nell that just reaches out to kiddies. Toby Holt adored her; he did little jobs round the place for which she overpaid him.' Rena smiled. 'She'd read to them for hours, tell them stories, read poetry, play the piano. She even tried to give Toby piano lessons. But he hadn't any talent.' She lit another cigarette from the tallow beside her.

'You think that's why your niece killed her husband.'

'She waited a bloody long time to do it, then.' She punctuated this by thumping the candlestick back on the table. 'Roger might not have been the devoted husband Saint Charles makes him out to be.'

'Meaning?'

'Talked to anyone Roger worked with? There's a woman named Mavis Crewes. She's visited here two or three times. Edits one of the magazines, pretended she wanted to do a travel piece on this part of the country. Loved our house. So feudal. Talk to her.'

'And you believe Nell Healey found out about it?'

'Nell is not dim. Quiet, but perceptive. Then, again, also trusting. Perhaps a bit naive.'

Naive was not the word Jury would have chosen, not after Macalvie's account. 'How does-did-she speak of her husband?'

Rena Citrine smiled slightly. 'She didn't.'

'But after what happened, they must have been… estranged.'

'They were probably that from the beginning.'

'Why, then, didn't they divorce?'