Jury wondered how well she knew Simon Croft. “But he didn’t ask Katherine Riordin herself?”
“That I don’t know.”
“Could he have been upset or incensed by things that we come to take almost for granted anymore? Abortion, divorce, unmarried couples, homosexuality. Things that-whether rightly or wrongly-the public finds more acceptable now?”
“Yes, he was old-fashioned in that respect. But not sanctimonious or sermonizing, if you know what I mean. It’s just that he believed so fervently in-attachments.”
“Loyalty, for instance?”
“Absolutely. Yes.”
“To king and country?” Jury smiled.
“You might laugh, but-”
“I’m not laughing, Miss Penforwarden.”
“He was very fond of Alexandra’s husband, Ralph Herrick. Ralph was in the RAF. Simon himself was quite young and Ralph was his hero. Ralph Herrick really was a hero, too. He was awarded the Victoria Cross for valor. I don’t remember precisely what he did; Simon said he was a daredevil pilot.”
Jury thought for a moment, absently regarding Wiggins, who was faithfully taking notes. There was loyalty for you: sitting there with his third cup of tea (having poured himself another) and his notebook on his knee. Jury smiled. He knew how he’d feel if Wiggins was shot and killed. He’d get the bastard who did it. One could not, however, get the entire Luftwaffe.
“Simon talked about impostors,” said Miss Penforwarden.
“What?”
“You know, the enemy posing as someone else, the ridiculous notion that the Germans would pop up everywhere in England disguised. Such as the idea circulated about German parachutists-that they’d fall to earth disguised as nuns. That and the fifth column idea. Traitors out in their gardens signaling to the German planes with electric torches. Silly stuff. But once such an idea takes hold, he said, it’s very hard to disabuse one’s mind of it.”
“Yes. He would not like the idea of betrayal.”
Wiggins put in, “Would you, sir? Would any of us?”
Miss Penforwarden pursed her lips and returned her cup to its saucer. The tea was cold, anyway. “You know, I sometimes felt there was something other than the war that urged him on to do this research.”
“But he didn’t say what it was.”
“Outright? No.”
“You say you saw him two weeks ago. Did you notice a difference in his behavior?”
She looked puzzled. “No. He was the same as always. He’d talk about the forties, the devastation. Hitler would send over five hundred planes a night. Simon had a journal, or notebook he kept, and he’d tell me facts such as that. I wondered how he remembered them and he held up the journal that he always carried. ‘Never be without this,’ he said.”
“Some people seem to think he’d grown a little paranoid during the last weeks of his life. To the extent that he wouldn’t let family members come into his house. And the owners of the flower shop weren’t admitted when they brought flowers he’d ordered.”
“But how did they know, these people who were turned away?”
“How did they know?”
“That he’d changed; that he’d grown a little paranoid.”
“Perhaps because he wouldn’t see them. He appeared to be afraid.”
She was obviously doubtful. “I can only say he seemed the same to me.”
“Well, perhaps that’s because he felt far more comfortable around you than he did around others.”
She waved a self-deprecating hand. “I can’t imagine that’s so.”
“I can.” Jury rose and gathered up his coat. “I think we’ll be going. You’ve been extremely helpful, Miss Penforwarden. You ready, Wiggins?”
“Sir,” said Wiggins snappily.
A moment ago he’d looked rather dozy. Jury said as they ducked under the low lintel, “That’s what three cups of tea and three pieces of cake do to a person, Sergeant.”
“But it was worth it, wasn’t it?” They walked toward the car. “We got a different picture of Simon Croft.”
“So eating all that cake was a kind of martyrdom that paid off?”
“You could say that. I’m pretty full. Now where to?”
Jury shoved himself into the cramped seat, thinking he’d be just as comfortable riding in the trunk. “Drop me off at the Croft house.”
“What would you expect to find? The crime scene people did a thorough check-”
“Yes. But sometimes it helps to look at things on your own.”
Forty-one
Private residences on the Thames were rare, especially in the City, which had always been the financial and trading heart (if trade can have a heart) of London: the Bank of England, Mincing Lane, Lloyd’s. Now, such conversions were seeping into the City as had been going on for years in Docklands, and continued throughout the areas of Whitechapel, Limehouse and Wapham. These were the old buildings that sentimentalists would still have preferred to be left standing, memorials to London’s past, the docks, the stews. But what had been lost in the way of romance had been made up for in eye-catching livable space. The developers and builders were right for a change. The improvement really was an improvement, except to those sentimental souls who believed the past was inviolate and did not want change.
Jury knew he was one of those souls. So had Simon Croft been. This useless romance that Jury was caught up in did not profit his work, though for the most part he could set it aside. But then came a case that demanded one take a long look back.
Simon Croft’s house was not the result of a conversion. It was Georgian, not terribly interesting architecturally, but its gray stone bulk was imposing, partly because of its age. It was flat fronted, with long windows on the ground and first floors, smaller sash windows on the two upper floors. In front was a small forecourt large enough for five or six cars. The only one presently here was Croft’s own Mercedes.
When he had been here the night of Croft’s death, he had noticed the house was full of stunning antiques, a fortune in furniture. He was standing now in a large, nearly empty drawing room or reception room. Against one wall stood a credenza, probably seventeenth century, on whose door and sides were painted fading flowers in pink and green. The only other furniture sat near the center of the room: a fainting couch, covered in deep blue velvet, and a Chippendale elbow chair with a silvery green damask seat.
The same feeling of emptiness Jury had courted outside came back to him now. It was the sort of emptiness one associates with houses whose occupants have suddenly packed and fled. It reminded him of his first visit to Watermeadows, that beautiful Italianate house and gardens which had Ardry End as its neighbor, despite their grounds extending over a quarter mile before meeting. He shut his eyes and thought of Hannah Lean. Don’t go there, he told himself. But, of course, by the time you think of that, you’re already there. That room in Watermeadows had been even larger than this one, emptier, with scarcely any furniture-a sofa, a chair-giving rise to that same baffled feeling that the owners had made a quick departure, and, as in war, as in an enemy occupation, had taken whatever transportable belongings they could and vanished. He left the room.
He walked down the black and white marbled hall, bisected by a wide mahogany staircase, to the library where Mrs. MacLeish had discovered Simon Croft and called City police. It was quite a different room, crowded with chairs and tables and books. Jury switched on the desk lamp, an elaborate one with a brass elephant as its base. He looked over what the police hadn’t taken away in evidence bags. There was a chased silver inkpot, several Mont Blanc pens, a blotter and a stack of printer paper held down with a heavy glass weight, the printer itself on a small table in the window embrasure. There was a handsome rosewood piece that looked like a bureau but was really a filing cabinet. Chairs were the roomy sort, deeply cushioned and covered with linen or leather. Jury could almost feel the room embracing him.