Martha Grimes - The Blue Last

Perhaps it was talk of Waterloo Bridge that caused Jury to keep walking and looking over at the child between the line of trees, enjoying the cinematic effect of all this. It was as if he were watching a shuttle weaving a tapestry, a picture of a garden. All of its discrete elements-the white columns, the cypresses, the girl, the statue, himself-coming together, locking into one another to form this picture. Jury liked this; it was something like the feeling he got when a solution to what had seemed an impenetrable mystery finally locked into place.

He had come to the end of the covered walk marked by two wide, shallow steps, going down to a pool or pond, in the center of which a maiden was pouring water from a jug. When he saw the little girl (why had no one mentioned her? A grandchild? A great-grandchild?) emerge from the line of trees, Jury crouched down and pretended to be tying his shoelace. He did not want her intimidated by six feet two of police. His head was down, examining this shoe as if it were as fascinating as the tapestry he had just woven in his mind.

She stopped and was watching.

Raising his head and, in a taken-by-surprise tone, he called to her, “Oh, hullo. I’m just trying to get this lace-do yours ever break?”

In response, she took a few steps closer and raised her shoe, which was a buckled sandal, and shook her head. Her sandals were not winterproof, but she did wear white socks with them. The rest of her was covered in a sprigged muslin dress (too long) and a heavy green coat-sweater the color of her eyes.

Pretending finally to have fixed the lace, he said, “You’re smart to wear shoes without laces.” He saw now that what she had been talking to all along in her walk was a doll, oddly clothed in a lace-fringed bonnet and a dress also too long, which flowed over the doll’s feet. When she stepped even closer (though not within handshaking distance) he took in her burnished black hair, pearlescent skin, dark green eyes. He did not know if Vivien Leigh had green eyes. If she didn’t, poor Vivien.

“This garden is lovely, even in winter. I imagine you spend a lot of time here.”

She nodded. Solemn and beautiful. Who did she belong to? With her black hair and translucent skin, of course she resembled Alexandra Tynedale. “My name’s Richard Jury, incidentally.” There was no name response from her. He said, “Your doll is all covered up. Is she cold?”

The little girl shook her head. “She always wears this; it’s her baptismal clothes. I saw one once.” Her look at Jury was slightly challenging as if he might contest the kind of clothes worn to a baptism.

He assumed she meant she’d seen a baptism. “I never have.”

This was a comfort as now he couldn’t dispute the details she offered. “They pour water on your head. It’s like they do in beauty shops except in baptisms they don’t have soap and you don’t wash your hair. It just gets rinsed.”

This was a place of metaphor, certainly. Jury smiled. “So is your doll baptized, then?”

“Not until I find a name. I’ve been looking for a long time. I’m all the way to the R s right now. I just can’t decide. I’m thinking about Rebecca.” She glanced at him to see if he was thinking about that, too.

Jury said, “Could we sit down over there?” He motioned to a white bench enclosed on two sides by vine-covered lattice.

“Okay.”

They settled on the bench-the three of them, the doll sitting between-and Jury said, “Are you sure your doll is a girl?”

Gemma looked at him wide-eyed. “What?” It had been wearing this dress when she found it. No matter what she told others, she believed the dress meant it was a girl.

Jury shrugged. “I was just wondering why you’re having a hard time finding a girl’s name. Maybe it’s really a boy and doesn’t want to walk around with a girl’s name. I wouldn’t either.”

She had often wondered on this subject, but never knew whom to ask. Turning away a little, she lifted the doll’s christening dress and looked. Then she turned it so Jury could see. But said nothing.

Jury said, “Oh, you’re in luck. It could be either a boy or girl, you have your choice. Not many people do. You’ve got the evidence right there in case anyone disputes it.”

Gemma thought this wondrous.

“Speaking of names, you haven’t told me yours.”

“Gemma Trimm.”

“You live here, Gemma?”

“I’m Mr. Tynedale’s ward. A ward is different from being adopted. I’m not related to anybody; I’m kind of left over. Mr. Tynedale’s sick, and he likes me to read to him. I do that every day, nearly. I read The Old Curiosity Shop and I’m a lot like Little Nell, he says. But I don’t think so. She’s kind of sappy.”

“You’re young to be reading complicated books like that. Even adults sometimes find it hard to read Charles Dickens.”

“I’m nine.” She seemed pleased with herself, being able to read what adults couldn’t. “I skip the hard parts, but it doesn’t hurt because he wrote so many pages about everything.”

“He did, that’s true.” After a few moments’ contemplation of Gemma and Dickens, Jury said, “I’m here because of Simon Croft. Did you hear what happened to him?”

“Yes. He’s dead. He got shot.” She pulled the bonnet down over the doll’s head, hiding the eyes. “What did he do? It must’ve been bad to make somebody shoot him.”

“We don’t know yet. I’m a detective, incidentally, and I intend to find out.”

Her look was one of utter astonishment. “ You are? Did Benny send you?”

“Benny? No, he didn’t. Is he a friend?”

“My best one. He argues a lot, though. If you’re a detective, you should work out who’s trying to kill me. ”

“ Kill you? Why do you think that?”

“Because they already tried a bunch of times. Once was in the greenhouse.” She pointed to it. “They tried to shoot me when I was thinking about planting something in a pot. Mr. Murphy takes care of the garden.

Next time when I was asleep in my room somebody tried to choke me and smother me. Next time it was trying to poison me and Mrs. MacLeish nearly quit because she was afraid they blamed her cooking.”

Jury did not shock easily. But this compendium of crime, delivered by such a small person, in such a matter-of-fact tone, shocked him, although he doubted it had all happened. He could appreciate the melodrama in all of this. Take a child with apparently no family and put her down in the midst of one who wasn’t hers and perhaps indifferent (except for the elderly Oliver), and it would not be surprising that she might concoct this story of these attempts on her life. Still… “Tell me more about these incidents, Gemma. I mean, give me more details.”

“I was in the greenhouse, like I said. I was looking at the cuttings Mr. Murphy had in there. I was wondering when he’d plant the snowdrop bulbs. Those over there.” She pointed at the drift of snowdrops he’d noticed before, white petals with a green spot positioned with such regularity in each petal they looked painted. “They’re called Tryms. Like my name, only it’s spelled different. They’re very unusual. I planted one in a pot and looked around for the Day-Gro. I was holding my doll in my other hand, that’s when I heard the glass shatter and felt something whiz by me. I thought maybe somebody threw a rock. That’s that time.

“The second time I was in bed asleep so I can’t tell you more than I did. Something woke me up; I guess it was because I couldn’t breathe. I yanked open a window and stuck my head out. They got a doctor and they called the police again. I saw a film with a murderer in it who used to put pillows over his victims’ faces.” Gemma stopped to move her doll to a sitting position and then went on for a fascinated Jury.