The Old Silent

Healey had dissected with a good deal of blood-letting actually laughed and said himself it was a rotten piece of work. His opera, not Healey's column.'

Plant had taken his glass and coffee over to the fireplace where he was trying to knock the cat out of the sedan chair. 'Did you talk to Mavis Crewes?'

'No, sir. She said she saw no reason to, as she'd enough of Scotland Yard and its insinuations. What did you insinuate?'

'That Nell Healey wasn't a combination of Scylla and Charybdis. What about Martin Smart?'

'I did. He was quite pleasant about it, though he didn't understand why I was there, since you'd already been.'

'Incidentally, does Racer know you're questioning people?'

'The chief superintendent never thinks I'm working at all, sir,' responded Wiggins with no hint of rancor.

Jury could hear crackling sounds in the background that could have been anything from a wrapper on a packet of throat lozenges to a crumbling of black biscuits. The persistence of telephone sounds when talking to Wiggins was like snow on a tape with the volume turned up.

'Now, the flutist, name of William Browne, was a bit more grim; still, he had to admit that Healey hadn't attempted to trash him: there was one piece out of the five he'd played Healey had liked in part.'

'Sounds pretty trashy to me, one out of five.'

'But I've read these reviews, sir. I have to admit that Roger Healey doesn't appear to be out to get the subject, or to be grinding an axe. His negative criticism is almost apologetic.'

'Which would be an effective way of putting someone down.'

Wiggins was silent. Then he said, 'You appear to be somewhat biased against Healey, if you don't mind my saying so.'

Jury smiled slightly. 'I don't mind. And you're right.' Jury was watching the black cat's progress round the sedan chair and Plant's attempts to ignore it.

'Though, actually, there might be something in what you say.'

'Thanks. Go on.'

'As I was saying about this piece in Segue: it was a review of a charity concert. Healey is handing out plaudits for most of the participants except for the oboe player and one other. Listen: 'The event of the evening was the appearance of Stan Keeler of Black Orchid. I say 'event' because of the awe in which this 'underground' group is held by its devoted (fanatic) fans. Mr. Keeler displayed a formidable technique. Surprisingly, his technique is what he so often buries in Black Orchid's rare appearances aboveground. Black Orchid is the most exhibitionistic group to walk on a stage since Peter Townshend and The Who. I joined the audience in its applause for Mr. Keeler's rendition of his most famous song, 'Main Line Lady.' I applauded because Mr. Keeler didn't do a couple of lines right on stage.' My point is, sir, that not even Stan Keeler was much bothered by that.'

'You mean you talked to him?'

There was a dramatic pause-or perhaps Wiggins had only turned to the hot plate and the kettle to refill his cup. 'I certainly did, sir. Went to his flat in Clapham. He's got some kind of crazy landlady who protects him from the press, from reporters. I mean she's weird.'

'What was his opinion of that review, then?'

'He laughed and had another drink. He was lying flat out in the middle of the floor. Said it helped him to think.' The pause suggested that Wiggins himself was thinking things about this behavior. 'Keeler just didn't seem to care.'

'What about the good news, Wiggins? Or was that it?'

'Something like that, but more so. When I was in the magazine's offices, as I was leaving, I met a chap walking down the hall. At first I thought he was a janitor. Jeans and a black T-shirt. Carrying a mop and pail.'

Again Wiggins paused as if waiting for Jury to agree that, yes, such a person might have been a janitor. 'See what you mean. But he was one of the staff.'

'Yes. He's the most popular columnist they have. He's their Pop person. You know-jazz, rock-and-roll. His name's Morpeth Duckworth. I thought I recognized him because his column's always got a little picture of him over his by-line. I stopped him and asked him about Healey's death. 'His wife did the greatest service to musical criticism ever done,' was his answer. He was just leaning on his mop and smoking I think it might even have been grass. I mean, in the offices-'

'You're right, Wiggins; go on.'

'Of course, I asked him what he meant. What he said was-' Here Jury could hear the rasp of pages quickly turned. '-he said, 'Healey's generous contributions to this magazine have done a lot toward shining shit.' But this bit is more to the point. 'Healey was the quotidianal phony of the music world.' Then he picked up his mop and bucket and went on down the hall. I definitely think you should talk with him. Only-'

'Only what?'

'Well, if you don't mind me saying, sir, I think you better educate yourself just a little on the rock scene. To understand him.'

Jury smiled, as much as Plant's manuevers with a rolled-up Country Life as at his sergeant's injunction. 'Why bother, when I've got you? Terrific job, Wiggins. For the first time in this investigation I feel there's some hope. Mr. Healey may not be tapped for sainthood, after all. Maybe we can get him down off the monument. You did a good job.'

'Always glad to be of assistance,' said Wiggins, sounding almost priggish. But Jury could tell from the tone and the rhythmic tapping of the spoon against the cup that Wiggins was himself elated by the compliment.

'I'll definitely see him. Anything else?'

'That's the lot, sir.'

Jury was about to say good-bye, when he remembered the earlier interview. 'Wiggins. How did you manage to get past Stan Keeler's landlady?'

'I more or less collapsed in her hallway.'

Jury frowned. 'What was the matter?'

'I pretended I was ill.'

17

The lop-eared dog Stranger had been busily digging about in the ice-crusted earth when, upon seeing Melrose's approach down the road from the Hall, he had immediately stopped to go and stand sentry at the door of the stone barn.

At this hour of ten in the morning, Abby Cable was going silently about her tasks together with another little girl, whose name was Ethel (Melrose heard)-as in 'Ethel, you didn't get this mash right again,' and 'You can't stick that into stone.' The first complaint was directed toward a small tub with a spoon sticking up in it, the second toward the figure of Ethel, standing on a chair before a poster.

Ethel was the same size and probably the same age as Abby Cable. Stubbornly, she returned to trying to push a drawing pin (or so it looked to Melrose) into the corner of the poster. The luckless pin merely bounced out and the corner curled downward again. The other top corner held, since it was pinned to the wooden frame of the barn door, the walls made up of blocks of millstone grit.

Seeing it was useless, she jumped down from the chair, the face turned toward Abby a study in frustration.

Ethel's color began and ended in her light red hair. Her complexion was as pale as anything Melrose expected to see this side of the grave, dotted here and there with tiny buttery freckles. She had an etiolated neck set on small sloping shoulders above a white shirtwaist, a long white apron, and white stockings. She made Melrose think of a pint of cream.

Ethel nearly glowed with neatness, as if she'd been licked clean by cats. This was in contrast to the Fury, who, although at the moment living in the eye of the storm, still looked mud-splotched. Perhaps it was just the contrast;