The Old Silent

round face with her hand. 'I'll get the coffee.' He took a companion mug from the sink, poured the coffee, and asked, 'Got anything to put in this?'

'Bottom shelf, cupboard near the door,' she answered, her eyes on the burning coals.

Jury brought over her brandy-laced coffee and sat down. 'How long have you been working here, then?'

'Nearly twelve years. Just bring over the bottle, will you? I could do with a proper drink. And there's glasses on that shelf, too,' she called to his departing back.

Jury poured the drinks into little balloon glasses and set the bottle down. 'I'm sorry about what you must be going through.'

The seriousness of his tone threatened to provoke more tears. But she wedged her hand over her mouth and held them back. Under control again, she said, 'Whyever the poor girl bought this place is a puzzle. Had it for a dozen years. She must have got it on the cheap. The Denholmes are London people; why'd she want to live out here in the wilds? There's many a time I've thought of going back to Harrogate-ever so lovely it is-but I'd've felt I was letting her down. I don't think Miss Ann had all that much business sense.'

Jury thought for a moment, and said, 'What about her niece?'

Mrs. Braithwaite looked up, slightly surprised that the conversation had taken this turn and said, 'Abigail? We call her Abby.' She looked up at a few snapshots stuck round an old mirror in need of resilvering and said, 'That's her, with her Aunt Ann.'

Jury got up and looked at the snapshot. Small as it was even with the light silhouetting her outline, he could still see the strong resemblance between the little girl and the aunt.

'Why did Abby come here? What about her own mother and father?'

Warming to the fire, the brandy, and the turn of the conversation (something to keep her mind off the death of Ann Denholme), Mrs. Braithwaite leaned forward and said, 'That'd be Ann's sister, Iris. And right strange that were. Poor girl, she'd had two miscarriages already and her doctor wanted to see she got proper nursing.' Her manner grew even more conspiratorial as she went on:''Twasn't the husband who could do it; he had his job, after all. That Iris was a pale, thin little woman; sometimes I thought I could put my hand through her. Ann went off for six or seven months to take care of her. And three years later, after poor Iris died, Ann took on Abby. Trevor came here-Trevor Cable, Abby's Da. I'll have another little sup of that brandy, thanks. He didn't want her, or felt he couldn't do for her, apparently. He seemed to think Abby needed a woman about.'

'And was Ann Denholme fond of her niece?' Jury asked as he poured a little more into her glass.

'Fond? Well-I expect so.' She seemed alarmed at the notion that such a question would arise. 'Ann was a broody type. All those long walks on the moors…' she ended uncertainly. Then Mrs. Braithwaite sniffed. 'It's not because she's been turned out, if that's wha' yer thinkin'.'

'Why would I think that?'

The question went unanswered.

From the cooker came the abrasive sound of a clattering lid. As Mrs. Braithwaite grumbled and struggled from her chair, Jury said, 'Never mind, I'll see to it.'

'Oh, would you now? It's that soup. If you'd just give it a stir and turn down the gas.'

'What do you expect will happen to her now?' Jury asked, his back to her as he stirred the thick stew. 'Back to the father? Or will Social Services step in?'

As he returned to his chair, he saw her face hot with anger. 'Not back to that man, not if I've a breath left. Oh, no.' Vehemently, she shook her head. 'He doesn't want her, anyways, is what Ann said.'

Jury waited awhile, made some small talk about the countryside then said, 'You've certainly had your share of bad news in these parts. There was that killing at the Old Silent Inn-'

'Yes. Terrible, that is, about Mrs. Healey. Mr. Citrine was over here just this noon to pay his respects. Brought over a brace of pheasant.'

Jury looked at her, but her head was down. 'Charles Citrine was a particular friend?'

'I wouldn't say 'particular.' Ann knew the family; and Mrs. Healey would come over here with…' Her hand wedged over her mouth again as she squinted down at the coals, spitting, turning to gray ash. 'That poor little boy, Billy.'

'Billy?'

With her forearm she wiped away tears, ignoring the ball of tissues in her pocket. 'I niver did understand it, sir. Such a niceman was Mr. Healey. He fairly doted on that son of his. It must've nearly killed him-' She stopped suddenly as if she'd realized a truth inherent in this, though not what the truth was.

'I would imagine the same could be said for the mother-' Jury checked himself.

'Oh, yes, yes,' she said quickly. 'But she wasn't the realmother, was she? I mean, I know she was that fond of the boy. But she couldn't have a real mother's feelings.'

Jury felt himself grow cold. He leaned over to freshen her drink; brandy didn't seem to affect her that much. 'I've taken up too much of your time.' Jury rose.

But from the way she held on to the hand he offered, apparently she didn't agree. 'Would you just give that stew another bit of a stir?'

25

A black and white collie sat just outside the double door to the barn, using its nose to track the weather. It looked curiously at Jury, but did nothing, except to turn and follow him in, keeping close to Jury's heel.

The sun was nearly down; light cast squares upon the ground that stretched across the center of the barn. The large doors at the other side were tightly closed, cracks stuffed with cloth. To his left, in the rear and in the shadows, was the byre from which came rustles and the lowing sound of a cow. Part of a stone wall held a fireplace, and in front of it were a table and mismatched chairs. There was an old sink beneath another small window.

At the end of the barn opposite the byre was a cot, layered in quilts. Beside this bed an upturned crate served as a case for books and a few records and beside it was a record player, older even than his own. On a low stool at the foot of the bed was the outline of a box beneath a black drapery. It appeared to be a little larger than a shoe box. A small table lamp stood on the crate, the light fanning out through the open circle of the shade over the bottom part of a big framed print of a house amidst dark trees. It was no more out of place in a barn, he thought, than the faded travel pictures of Venezio (which reminded him, for God's sakes, to call Vivian) and a view of the Cornwall coast, the frilled waves lashing the cliffside. Between them was an empty space with blobs of gum, as if another picture had hung there. Venice and Cornwall were faded, but the one of Elvis in his younger days appeared in mint condition.

The little girl came out of the shadows of the byre, rolling up a poster that she held against her stomach. She was making a long and solemn job of it. Although she did not acknowledge the presence of a stranger in her barn, her down-turned eyes so firmly engaged with her task, he felt she knew he was there.

'Hello,' Jury said.

She didn't answer; instead she concentrated on her rolling-job, stopping now and then to shove in the ends. Then she said, 'I'm taking down Ricky Nelson.'

'The singer, you mean.'

The dark head nodded, still downturned. 'He's dead.' There was in her tone a finality that would have silenced any sentimental remark about finding comfort in mementos. She looked over to the hearth where lay the new poster pinned down by a hammer-weight on top and the sleeping dog on the bottom. The corners at the top curled inward. 'I'm putting them up in his place.'

'They' were the members of the Sirocco band and, however they measured up to Ricky Nelson, they were, at least, alive. That seemed to be her estimate of the affair. It was the poster he'd seen further enlarged in the window of the record shop in Piccadilly. It was a rather austere and studied pose, Charlie Raine leaning against a leafless tree, which was the focal point, and the four others, looking off in other directions in an otherwise blasted