I’m very fortunate and so, I think, is Chewley, having that kind of continuity. No, you could say there’s little turnover in help here.” She smiled.
So did Jury. “I can see why, Miss Heron.” He felt the name suited her, for she struck Jury as some tall, thin, graceful wading bird, slow moving and delicate. The unhurried movement was not a sign of her advanced years, but more one of temperament. He could see her even at twenty-four moving in this same, underwater way. She was a calm and calming presence. And so was this room, with its mingling of easy chairs and antique settee, its wall of books, its pale gray walls and warming fire. Even time passed effortlessly, softly ticked away by the longcase clock near the window.
“Sometimes I regret that these girls do not come back to visit. But it’s not an experience one cares to be reminded of, I expect. An unwanted pregnancy is a very sad thing. It was then, and it is now. In spite of all the new freedom that women enjoy, there are some heartbreaks that never change, never.”
“That’s what you find it to be?”
“Of course.”
“I don’t know, Miss Heron. The two women I saw out there looked pretty much to be taking pregnancy in their stride.”
“I’m glad. It won’t last long. That will end when their babies are born and they have to give them up. It’s emotionally devastating. Frankly, I favor abortion.”
Jury tried to mask his shock, but didn’t manage it. “You? But-”
She smiled. “You’d think just the opposite, because I run this house? That’s rather sanctimonious of you, Superintendent. Abortion as an issue is beyond the means of common morality to penetrate, I think. Oh, common morality is necessary of course. But it’s an abstraction. If you saw, time after time, the effect giving up her child has on a young woman, you might agree with me.” She looked sadly around her office, more a drawing room with a desk. She sat behind it, surrounded by neat stacks of paper and a folder positioned on the blotter beneath her hands. “I’m sorry for going on. How can I help you? You said-or, rather, your sergeant did-that you were on a case that had to do with the Tynedale family. Alexandra’s family.”
“That’s right. It’s a homicide. A man named Simon Croft.” He waited for her to react to the name.
“Croft.” She looked at him. “I thought she’d just chosen the name out of the clear blue. I see not. Olivia was the baby’s first name. The couple who adopted the baby probably changed her first name as well as her last. They often do that; I expect it makes them feel a bit more like her real parents.”
Jury waited.
She was silent; then she said, “Superintendent, you can understand that I wouldn’t want to break faith with these young women-”
“Something broke faith long ago, Miss Heron. The war did. Alexandra was killed in the London blitz.”
“I know, yes, I know.”
Jury supposed she had a battery of lawyers beamed in her direction, but they probably wouldn’t get far when the confidentiality angle was obstructing the investigation of a homicide. He thought she probably was considering this.
He sat regarding her for a moment and then nodded toward the folder her arms were crossed over. “Is that Alexandra’s file?”
“Yes.”
They looked at each other while the clock ticked softly. It occurred to Jury that her eyes were as intelligent as any he had ever seen and he thought then of Emily Croft. They were much alike. Jury cocked his head. “You’ve spoken to the parents already, haven’t you?”
“Olivia’s adoptive parents are dead. But there is an aunt. I felt I should alert her to the possibility of your going there. I do hope that’s not stealing New Scotland Yard’s thunder?”
Jury laughed. “Thunder is in short supply, believe me.”
She smiled and handed him the folder. “The parents’ name, and also the aunt’s, is Woburn, Elizabeth Woburn. She lives in Chipping Camden. The Woburns, Alice and Samuel, lived there also. There is really little else I can tell you.” She handed him the file. “But I expect Elizabeth Woburn can tell you a great deal more. She’s expecting your call.”
“Thank you.” Jury opened the file and looked at the one page.
Judy Heron nodded. “You may keep that, Superintendent. After your sergeant called, I made you a copy.”
He grinned. “God, you certainly do anticipate, Miss Heron.”
“I know. It’s a faculty I’ve developed over the years. I deal largely with overwrought people. You can infer that these young women are hardly jubilant when they come here. It’s such a pity to be a mother and not be able to feel good about it.” She looked at Jury. “Couldn’t you get by without knowing the ending, Superintendent?”
It recalled to him the question put to Trueblood by the Italian art experts. Can’t you live without the answer, Mr. Jury?
“No. I can’t.”
He thanked Judy Heron, and rose and left.
V Vanishing Point
Fifty-six
Awakened by a sharp tug on consciousness, Melrose sat straight up in bed and looked wildly around.
“The grocer!” he said to himself. “My God, the grocer!”
He reached for the phone, realized he hadn’t the number, started to buzz Ruthven, changed his mind and, fueled by like amounts of fury and fright, ran downstairs to the library to the phone and his small phone book. He found the number and yanked up the receiver. Although Jury probably wouldn’t be there, he dialed and heard the phone ring in the Islingon flat. He listened to the repeated brr-brr and then an answering machine switched on. Thank God, at least there was a chance of getting a message to him. After Jury announced himself and told the caller to leave a message after the tone, Melrose waited. There was a series of clicks and then the tone, which went on and on. Who in hell was calling Jury? The cast of the Royal Shakespeare Company? The Bolshoi Ballet? The “tone” was not a tone; it was a total eclipse of all other sound bites. Melrose slammed down the receiver to call-where? New Scotland Yard? Jury wouldn’t be there, surely. Hadn’t Jury said he was going to have Christmas dinner with Carole-anne… last name? last name? and Mrs., Mrs., Mrs.-hell! How could he get their numbers if he didn’t know their last names. Zimmerman, Zinneman, Walterson… Hell!
I’ll have to get going. He was glad he’d fallen asleep fully dressed.
When he turned to the library door, Ruthven was there. “Can I do something for you, m’lord?”
“Absolutely. Get me some tea and the car keys. I’m going back to London.”
Ruthven frowned. “You’re going back, m’lord? But you only just returned two hours ago.”
Melrose had passed by him and was already taking the stairs two at a time. “That’s right.”
“Which car?” Ruthven called up the stairs.
“Batmobile.”
The three of them sat about, relaxed and drinking whiskey, beer and sherry, talking about old times they’d shared-pints at the Angel pub, that rock concert at the Hammersmith Odeon, all of those prospective tenants for the flat upstairs that Carole-anne had turned away… Until Stan Keeler came along, and voilà!
Primly, Carole-anne said, “It’s because he was most suitable, that’s all. I could tell Stan was a responsible, dependable person.”
“Oh, sure,” said Jury.
“Old times, old times,” said Mrs. Wasserman, still caught up in that cloud of nostalgia we all keep our heads in from time to time. And why not?
“Only the times can’t be that old, Mrs. Wasserman,” said Jury. “Carole-anne’s only fifteen.”