Martha Grimes - The Blue Last

“This was the attack on Coventry? There was no advance warning?”

Maples seemed to be studying the pattern in the wallpaper behind Jury. “Not precisely true, although a lot of people think it is. We knew Coventry and Birmingham were possible targets, but an enciphered map showed the locations to be London and the Home Counties. I’m simplifying the code business here, but the map misled us; the decrypt was wrong. That wasn’t the only time I wondered,” Maples said, musingly. “Rather I didn’t wonder at the time or I’d have done something. I wondered when it did no particular good.”

Jury frowned. “You had reason to believe Herrick had something to do with the mistaken decrypt?”

“Oh, I’m fairly certain he did; it was through his hands the map passed. I mean, he did the final decrypt.”

“An honest mistake?”

“Could have been, yes. But the ‘honest mistakes’ were building. There was the Bismarck business.” Maples motioned with two fingers toward Jury’s notes. “That date you have there. May 24, 1941. That was the day of the attack on the Bismarck. We had one hell of a time with the naval Enigma. It was some time before we finally broke it.” Reflectively, Maples scratched the neck beneath his collar. “The biggest problem was not being able to read the code far enough in advance to take action.”

“But could someone have been working on both keys? The RAF and the Admiralty?”

“Good question. Ordinarily, no. But Ralph had clearance to go from one place to another. At Bletchley, the keys worked on were in different huts. Security was hard to maintain. It was too easy for things to slip out. And there were so many people involved. I expect it wasn’t until after Herrick had gone to the Orkneys that I seriously started wondering. Hatston, that’s where our Fleet Air arm base was. Also we had one of our satellite interception sections based there.”

“Herrick died there, I understand.”

“Hmm. You haven’t, I suppose, talked to anyone in military intelligence? MI5, MI6?”

Jury shook his head.

“I mention that because I think they were on to Herrick and posted him there, as a temporary measure. Or, indeed, intelligence outfits being the bastards we always were, sent him on a permanent basis. You see, he was murdered a few months later. Of course, it was made to look like an accident, a drowning. Very convenient, I think.” Sir Oswald puffed out his cheeks and sat forward fixing Jury with steely gray eyes. “Then there was ‘Julia.’ ”

“Julia? Who was she?”

Maples smiled. “She turned up in the GAF-German Air Force-traffic. We had been having great success with that particular traffic until ‘Julia’ appeared. This was a word that kept turning up in decrypts that we could never pin down. I’ll tell you it messed things up for quite a while. You see, it’s the main reason I know that Herrick was one of theirs. Indeed, I wouldn’t be surprised to discover he’d been a double agent. It would have suited his love of game playing. Anyway, just before the end, which I think he could see coming, he wrote me a note.” Maples pointed with one of the canes at the bookshelves behind Jury’s chair. “Would you just get me the large volume on the end of that bottom shelf?”

Jury rose and pulled out a thick and much-used book. He took it to the sofa.

Maples adjusted his glasses and opened the book to a page with a note for a marker. “This is quite famous. Listen:

Whenas in silks my Julia goes,

Then, then (methinks) how sweetly flows

That liquefaction of her clothes.

There are at least a dozen poems, all written for Julia, not just that one. That one, though, is the best known. It’s that wonderful word ‘liquefaction’ that makes us remember it, I suppose.”

Sir Oswald paused and Jury prompted him: “And-?”

“Well, it’s the poet, isn’t it, Superintendent? Robert Herrick.”

There was a lengthy silence in which they regarded one another. Then Jury said, “It really was a game for Herrick, wasn’t it?”

Sir Oswald nodded. “It was, yes.” He removed the paper and unfolded it. Adjusting his glasses, he read: ‘I’m surprised at you, Ozzie, for never having worked out Julia. You, such a lover of seventeenth-century poetry.’ It’s signed, simply, ‘Ralph.’”

“What a bastard.”

Maples nodded again. “Exactly. Especially”-here he shut the book with a snap-“for calling me Ozzie.”

Snow fell, carelessly, languidly, large flakes drifting by the window of the drawing room at Ardry End where Melrose sat, musing. It was Christmas Eve, or rather Christmas Eve late morning. He was waiting for Jury to arrive.

He imagined some weary sojourner stopping to look in from outside, finding the scene so agreeable he might be transported back to his childhood in a cozy house, sitting before a fireplace with a dog like Sparky and a cat like Cyril. Melrose could almost see a pale face at the window, begging, Letmein letmein letmein.

Misguided soul.

“Did you finish your shopping, Melrose, or did you just waste your time in London?” Agatha set about dolloping jam on her scone.

How many scones was that? Eleven? “You mean after Marshall and I wasted our time all over Florence?”

“Now that would be the place to do one’s Christmas shopping!”

“It was and one did.” Melrose checked his wristwatch. Ten-thirty. Jack and Hammer not open yet.

Agatha was so surprised by this answer she nearly forgot to put double cream on top of the jam. “Really?” She simpered, spooning on the cream. “Well, I’ve always said you can be quite thoughtful when you want to be.”

“Isn’t it a shame how seldom I want to be?”

“It’s too bad you had Trueblood along. With his ridiculous picture.”

“It’s the reason we went to Italy in the first place, Agatha. If the ridiculous picture is really a Masaccio, it’s worth a fortune.” Which was not the point, certainly, but money was one of the few things Agatha could understand as a motive for doing anything.

“I seriously doubt it was.” She polished off the scone. “I saw one just like it in Swinton Barrow.” She looked at the cobalt blue plate. “Are there no more scones?”

Melrose stared at her. “What?”

“More scones.”

“No, I mean what painting?”

“A painting just like Trueblood’s in a Swinton Barrow shop. Well, not exactly like it, but the same sort of subject.”

“Where in Swinton Barrow?”

“One of those antique shops; you know Swinton Barrow has so many of them. Trueblood thinks he’s so lucky in that painting. Wait until he finds out!”

“The shop wasn’t Jasperson’s, was it?”

“I don’t recall the name. It faced the green… yes, and directly opposite a pub. The Owl, I think it’s called. I’m sure you could find the pub.” Simper, simper. “I told Theo about it. He was so amused. Both of us were.”

To think the painting’s fate-meaning Trueblood’s fate-lay in the hands of Agatha and that snake, Theo Wrenn Browne, was not to be borne. Melrose sat with his unlit cigarette, his fingers turning the lighter over and over, his mind in time with it-over and over: buy her silence, scare her witless, kill her where she sits. He rather favored the last of these (as it was the only surefire way of stopping her). The trouble was that Agatha never kept her word so he couldn’t really buy it; she would be holding the blackmail bag and could hit him for money whenever she felt like it. The only way he would have half a chance to shut her up was to convince her that this new painting she’d seen made no difference to anyone. “Oh, yes, I’ve just remembered. That painting. You needn’t bother telling Trueblood; he’s already seen it. He isn’t interested.”