Frustrated he went back to his chair and picked up Finest Hours again. What was Croft thinking about? Jury riffled the pages and stopped at more marginalia, this time a column of dates:
Jury skimmed the page in whose margin these dates appeared, in a neat row. There were no corresponding dates in the text of this page or the ones before or after. He went to every page where Simon had made marginal notes. No such dates appeared in the text, so there were obviously other sources he was using. But he could not find reference to them. How could he match up dates to events? How could he find the common denominator?
Was there one and was it Ralph? No one had talked very much about him, but, then, he’d been around so little that the family hadn’t really known him well. Simon and Ian had idolized Ralph; that did not constitute knowledge. The marriage to Alexandra was brief and wartime. What all knew and mentioned was that the young flier had been awarded the Victoria Cross.
On the last page of the book at the very bottom, Simon had written,
COVENTRY
ULTRA
CHICK. BED.
HATSTON
ENIGMA B.P.
– GOD I DON’T BELIEVE THIS.
“Enigma.” Jury frowned.
He sat thinking in the chair for some time. Then he crossed to the telephone and took out his small notebook. He rang Marie-France Muir.
After that, he rang Boring’s.
Forty-two
Marie-France Muir lived in Chapel Street. The house was not commodious, but knowing the value of square footage in Belgravia it didn’t have to be to mark the owner as well off. The furnishings would also have told the story. Against one wall sat a walnut kneehole desk flanked by an ornate pier glass and an exceptionally beautiful painting of woods, sheep and drifted snow that seemed to be lit from within. In an embrasure near the fireplace sat a walnut chest on chest of rich patination. The fireplace itself was an ornate green marble, guarded by an elaborate fire screen, decorated with birds and butterflies. A glass and rosewood paneled display piece holding fine china that Jury would have lumped under étagère was undoubtedly something else, something rarer. It was over six feet tall, nearly as tall as he was. Through the door into what must have been the dining room he glimpsed carved walnut chairs and the end of a dark dining-room table.
Yet what dominated the living room was not the furniture but the art, paintings largely of the French Impressionists and post-Impressionists. They hung one above the other in rococo gilt frames. It looked like a gallery. He wondered how many of them were originals; he wondered if all were originals.
The sofa and chairs were of humbler origins and more comfortable ones, slipcovered in a restful gray linen. “This is really a nice room,” Jury said, sitting back in the deep chair with the coffee Marie-France had had the foresight to make. He was almost hesitant to lift the paper-thin cup, which looked as if it would break if he blew on it.
“Thank you.” She looked around as if assessing everything anew, in light of his comment. “Much of the art was acquired by Ian. It’s his field, painting. A few pieces came from Simon’s house-” The fragile cup trembled in the saucer and she set it on the table beside her chair. She was silent for a while and so was Jury. He did not intrude upon such silences, the ones caused by grief. He did not intrude unless the other person made it clear there was something he could offer.
“It’s just made such a difference,” she said. “Simon and I didn’t see each other all that much, but you don’t have to, do you? To know the other person is there. The thing is, we were quite self-sufficient, and though we might give the impression of living in one another’s pockets, we really don’t, and didn’t. I mean all of us, including the Tynedales. I think his self-sufficiency might be the reason Ian never married, or, at least, one of the reasons.” She smiled. “Lord knows, he could have had his pick. It’s too bad in a way, none of us having children. I certainly wanted them and so did my husband.” She shrugged, almost by way of apology.
“Then you wouldn’t have-” Jury rephrased it. “How often had you seen your brother in the past two months?”
Marie-France considered. “Once at his house, once here. The last time was, oh, back in early November.”
“Did he seem in some way different?”
She frowned slightly. “No. All of us are always pretty much the same. Boring, but true.”
“A few people I’ve talked to got the impression he was afraid of something or someone. To the point, really, of paranoia.”
The smile she gave Jury could have charmed the gold butterflies right off the fire screen. “Mr. Jury, that’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.”
His smile matched hers. “Perhaps. But remember, you’d seen him only twice and the last time was over a month ago.”
“I’m not basing my opinion on seeing him; I’m basing it on knowing Simon. He was the easiest person I’ve ever known, the most composed. Simon and paranoia just don’t go together. Who’s said he was afraid and why?”
“He asked DCI Haggerty to come by the house when he could; your brother appeared to be afraid of someone. He wouldn’t admit tradespeople to the house or family members. Maisie Tynedale, for instance.”
“But he didn’t say what he was afraid of?”
Jury shook his head.
She sighed. “As for the tradespeople, I don’t particularly put out the red carpet for the butcher and baker, either. And as for Maisie-” She looked away and waved her hand in a dismissive gesture. “Simon never liked her.”
“Why not?”
“He thought she was pushy on the one hand and somewhat of a sycophant on the other. Probably a few other things in between.” She picked up the silver pot and poured Jury more coffee. No question, coffee tasted better coming from a silver pot and delicate china.
“How about you? Do you agree?”
“About Maisie? Yes. I find her very cold.”
“And her grandfather? How does he feel about her?”
“When it comes to Oliver, I can’t really say. Maisie’s not only Alexandra’s daughter, but the only grandchild. Those are two reasons for him to adore her.” She frowned. “But he doesn’t seem to. Adore her, I mean. Certainly, not in the way he does that little girl, Gemma. But of course she’s only eight or nine. Perhaps when Maisie was nine, Oliver felt the same way…” She shrugged. “The one person who seems to get on with Maisie is that Riordin woman. I don’t like her at all. There’s something almost, ah, creepy about her. When she was still a young woman she tied herself down to living at the Lodge. I find that odd.”
“She must think there’s something in it for her. I imagine she expects to come into at least part of Mr. Tynedale’s estate. Don’t you?”
“Yes, but, well, certainly there’ll be a bequest, but I shouldn’t think enough to warrant giving over one’s life to it.” She sighed and sipped her coffee.
Jury leaned forward. “Have you ever thought there might be more to it than that?”
“What do you mean?” She looked off toward the window as if a fresh aspect were to be found there. “My lord, are you suggesting they were lovers?”
Jury laughed. “That never entered my mind. Perhaps it should have.”
With an oblique look at Jury, she said, “No, it shouldn’t. I’m surprised it entered mine. Oliver is simply not-I don’t know how to say it. Anyway, he’s not, take my word for it. Then what did you mean?”
Given that Ian Tynedale and Marie-France disliked Maisie and Kitty Riordin, and also were such obviously intelligent people, he was surprised neither of them wondered about Maisie’s parentage. But they were also ingenuous; maybe they couldn’t comprehend something so monstrous as an imposture lasting more than half a century. “I don’t know. I’m fishing, I expect.”