Martha Grimes - The Old Silent

After the divorce of the first and the death of the second husband, she had stuck her thumb in the pie again and apparently pulled out the biggest plum thus far, Sir Robert Crewes, safari buff, a Knight of the Royal Victoria Order, higher than the OBE her cousin had managed to reel in. Mavis Crewes was very impressed by the title, though knighthoods abounded among civil servants, members of the Royal household, and the foreign service. It was peppered with them probably as a reward for one's going off somewhere (anywhere) to represent the country.

It was not that Jury doubted that Mavis Crewes's grief was genuine; it was just that he wondered how deeply she felt about anything-except, perhaps, the venomous anger for Healey's wife. Although she seemed to refuse to acknowledge her as such: "that woman" was the phrase she used when speaking of Nell Healey.

"Hard as nails," she said now, still twisting the delicate glass between thumb and forefinger as if it were a stem she might snap. She sighed. "That woman."

"Tell me about her, Mrs. Crewes."

"Nell was the second wife." Jury wondered that Mavis Crewes, who had second-wifed it aplenty, could rationalize this. "And not the boy's mother." She threw Jury a basilisk glance.

"What happened to the mother?"

"Went off to the Swiss Alps. Had a skiing accident."

"You think the stepmother couldn't have cared about Billy, then?"

He had said the wrong thing, or in the wrong tone. She sat back again, arms resting on the arms of the white wicker chair, flexing her fingers. "You sound as if you sympathize with her, Superintendent. That's absolutely astounding. But you couldn't have known her well." She gave him a small, cunning smile, as if they'd reached an agreement. "I'm not sure what your role is in this. What are you investigating? That she killed Roger is not open to question. That she managed to be released until her trial certainly is . Women like Nell Healey always seem to get what they want. She's flint, she's stone."

Jury hoped his smile would offset his words. "Stone generally meets with hard resistance itself."

"If you're implying Roger was hard, you've got it all wrong. He was totally devastated. You didn't know the man. You didn't know his warmth, his charm, his-"

"But you did," said Jury innocently.

She was smart enough to sidestep that. "They'd nothing in common. He loved travel, new experiences, new… sensations. He had an appetite for life. She was content to do nothing but stay in that godforsaken part of Yorkshire …" She looked round at the masks and guns as if Tanzania were more accessible.

"With Billy," said Jury. She flashed him a look. "You've been their guest, I take it."

"Yes. Several times. Charles Citrine thought of Roger as his own son."

"Mr. Healey sounds like a paradigmatic husband, father… friend." He let that word hang there. "Martin Smart admired him." He tried to smile, found it tough going.

"Oh, Martin. .." She forgot the Evian, went for the whiskey decanter, giving Jury a dismissive glance. "Martin seems to think publishing's a sort of game; he sometimes hires the most inappropriate people-"

"They certainly looked, from the offices I passed, very old-school-tie-ish."

"Then you didn't pass Morpeth Duckworth. God. What a vile person. Do you know I caught him in my office one day with a mop and pail. Cleaning."

Jury wiped his hand across his mouth. "Why?"

"God knows . Well, he looks like a janitor, doesn't he? He's done it to others, too. Even Martin. Martin finds it excruciatingly funny. I think Duckworth's going through our files. He's American."

"Oh."

He heard calfskin whisper as she shifted in the wicker chair, crossing and recrossing her legs. "What are you asking these questions for? What's all this to do with Nell Healey?"

"I was thinking more of Billy. That case was never solved. I'm sorry." He rose. "You've been very helpful at what must be a terribly painful time."

That he would leave with so little resistance took her by surprise. "No, no. I'm just on edge." The tan, sinewy hands waved him down again.

Jury sat, gave her that reassuring smile, said, "How long had the Healeys been married before the boy disappeared?"

From the murky depths of her eyes came a glint like a spearhead. She ran the hand with the whiskey glass over the folds of her skirt, her head down. "Five or six years," she said vaguely.

Jury was sure she knew exactly how many years. The five years between six and eleven would have been awfully important for any child, especially a child with a new mother. But as he felt Mavis Crewes was disengaging, was pulling away from his questions now, he did not want to explore the relationship-or her version of it-between the little boy and his stepmother directly.

"Nell was-is-a Citrine." Impatiently waving away Jury's puzzlement, she went on. "The Citrine family is one of the oldest in the county. Old blood, old money. Charles refused a peerage."

If you can believe that . The hefting of her neatly plucked eyebrows implied that Jury must himself find this unimaginable. He kept his smile to himself, this time, wishing his friend Melrose Plant could hear this. "Kindly Call Me God" was his acronym for the holders of the KCMG. The OBE was the "Old Boy's End."

Only the cockatoo, beating a wing and turning round on its stand, reacted to Charles Citrine's crazy behavior as Mavis went on. "Don't misunderstand me, I've nothing against the Citrines. In spite of her . Yes, I expect I do resent that they've enough money and influence to bail her out after the arraignment. They can get her out, but they cannot get her off. No question of that!" She took a tiny black cigar from a silver-chased box and accepted Jury's light before she sat back behind a plume of smoke. "He's really quite a fine person, Charles. He's had a lot to do with improving the quality of life up there. In West Yorkshire, I mean. Gotten subsidies for the mills, created work where others seem to be destroying it-well, that's Thatcherism, isn't it? Charles is very public spirited, has been appealed to again and again to sit for Commons…"

And she went on at some length about Nell Healey's father, ending with, "I wrote him a note. I wanted him to know that I sympathize. I thought it appropriate."

The interview that had begun an hour ago with the appearance of a lover's display of grief seemed fast degenerating into a discussion of unemployment and politics. No. All of this talk suggested to Jury that Charles Citrine's high visibility was for Mavis Crewes something other than as a possible political candidate. She must have been ten years older than Healey. And was probably ten years younger than Citrine.

"Of course, it's lonely for him, I expect, living in that enormous place with only Irene. Calls herself Rena. Not much company, I shouldn't think, for a man with Charles's intellect. To tell the truth, in the last few years I think the sister has gone quite mad. Well, that sort of thing usually goes downhill, doesn't it?"

"Not uphill, at any rate. If you're speaking of a psychosis."

"Charles excepted, I'd say the entire family's round the twist. God knows, Nell's testament to that ." Having given over the Evian water to the whiskey now, she poured herself another glass, drank it off, topped it up, restoppered the bottle. "To tell the truth: I wonder if Roger didn't marry her for it. Money, I mean." She looked at Jury as if he might confirm this, since he'd been in the same room with Nell Healey, circumstances notwithstanding.

"It's not uncommon." His smile was a little icy. "But couldn't he have loved her?"

She tossed back the whiskey. "What was there to love except money? Oh, she's not unattractive , but…"