Martha Grimes: The Lamorna Wink

He had broached this topic of the dogs’ queer behavior to Mr. Pfinn. No joy there. Mr. Pfinn was, for a publican, strangely taciturn. He was a moper, disliking equally every topic introduced, including the weather reports. Small talk, around Mr. Pfinn, was nearly microscopic.

Melrose sat debating where he would have dinner and decided here was probably as good as anywhere. Last night he’d tried Bletchley’s other pub, the Die Is Cast. Wondering at this penchant for names of ill omen, he remarked on it to the pub regulars but raised no smiles. So he bought a round of drinks and still raised no smiles. Melrose thought of himself as a fair raconteur and a fairly generous one. His ego really took a beating in the Die Is Cast. There was also a café called the Poor Soul up the street in the opposite direction, but seeing on the menu in the window that “fish fingers” figured prominently among the selections, he decided against it. Bletchley might be “village noir, ” destined to become a turning point in Britain’s representation in films.

Agatha had rung and left a message she was dining with Esther Laburnum. He would be dining alone. Oh, happiness! Agatha had put up at a bed-and-breakfast called Lemon Cottage, which was owned by one Miss Hyacinth Rose, who was quick to tell them she was processing milk into clotted cream and pointed out the pans all round the house sitting atop radiators. This was the real way of making the Cornish clotted cream that tourists went so daft over.

Mrs. Laburnum would probably come away from the meal with a quite different view of (the profligate, the irresponsible, the dandified) Lord Ardry from that which she had formed earlier of (the easygoing, well-heeled, thoughtful) Melrose Plant. Indeed, given the dramatic difference between Ardry and Plant, he might have been the Scarlet Pimpernel. There was nothing, though, that Agatha could say that would put Esther Laburnum off letting Seabourne to him; he had the money to pay the rent all at once, if she chose. Also, given the house had been standing there for four years or more, she would probably simply like to get it off her hands.

Throughout these warm and pleasant ruminations before the fire, where licks of flame were turning the gray logs black, the Pfinn dogs had now come to join not Melrose but themselves, one by one to flop down on the hearth like big beanbags, snoring or whinnying in the grip of some dream. Why was it that dogs could fall asleep in five seconds? Mr. Pfinn could start a kennel. Another husky or two and there’d be enough of them to run the Iditarod. He enjoyed that image, picturing himself in a fur-lined hooded parka, yelling mush as the dogsled knifed its way across some frozen tundra.

He yawned. Time for the Drowned Man’s dining room. He hoped there was a decent bottle of wine. Lord knows there would have to be a decent piece of fish. He polished off the excellent malt and hove himself up from the wing chair. The dogs did not mark his exit except for the quarrelsome sheepdog, who bared her teeth and growled halfheartedly and put her head down again.

“I don’t believe it!” exclaimed Melrose.

“Mr. Plant,” said Johnny Wells, filling up his water glass, setting the jug down, and whisking both menu and tasseled wine list from under his arm.

“Do you ever stop in this job-crazed life you lead?”

“Not much custom this time of year.” Johnny extended his arm out over the dining room. “As you can see.”

“Yes. Still.” Melrose studied the menu. Not bad, really.

“The special tonight’s the cod with cucumber sauce or apricot confite. That’s kind of emulsified apricots.”

“I prefer the word confite, thanks.” He was going over the wine list with some care. “This is extensive, I must say. Here’s a Côtes-du-Rhône ’85, here’s a Côtes-du-Lubéron ’86, here’s a Bourgeuil from Domaine des Raquie‘res.” Melrose looked at Johnny over the top of his gold-rimmed glasses. “Tell me another.”

“What about the Puligny-Montrachet?” Johnny dusted the table a bit, whisking imaginary crumbs.

“Yes, well, that’s certainly another!” He closed the list. “Do you have a nice little Bordeaux? In a bottle, I mean?”

“That’s doable. But depends on what you’re having, doesn’t it?”

“What would you recommend?”

“The cod, hands down.”

“Since that’s the only thing you’ve mentioned, I believe I’ll have it.”

“Righto. And a white Bordeaux?”

“Whatever.”

Johnny left for the kitchen. He was back within five minutes with bread and the bottle of wine. And an elaborate corkscrew which he seemed to enjoy working. He got the cork out, poured a bit into Melrose’s glass.

Melrose pronounced it excellent-of its kind-and asked, “Listen, in addition to the chicken king, what do you know about the Bletchley family? Incidentally, is this village named after them?”

“Could be. Way back in time immemorial, there was a Bletchley gave the place its name. Maybe they’re descendants, I don’t know.” Slapping the napkin over his arm, Johnny said, “I heard it’s a bit of a strange family.”

“All families are strange until they’re something else. I was thinking of the children.”

“Oh, aye. That was awful. I wasn’t here when it happened; I was away at school. The house has been empty since that. I mean, the parents moved back to London or Penzance or somewhere. There was a spell when a couple of men moved in, always spoken of as ‘the Decorators,’ wink wink nod nod, you know. Gay, I guess. They were quite nice. They did things to the house-decorating, I mean. Moved out suddenly.” Johnny frowned.

He did not ask why. It’s written in the script. Somebody always moves out suddenly.

Johnny shook his head. “That’s all I know. I’ll get your starter.”

“Did I order one?”

“You’ll want it. It’s avocado baked with Roquefort. Outstanding.”

“I’ll take your word. As in all things.”

Melrose sat looking out over the empty room at the dozen white-clothed tables, each with its small vase of blue cyclamen. He turned his spoon over absently, thinking about that house. He would be insane to buy it. If not structurally unsound, it must still have a lot of problems-with the heat or the water supply or the electricity. And there was that eerie atmosphere…

… which he himself was fabricating, as he’d been doing ever since walking into the place. No, it was not sinister, not macabre. His trouble was that he was bored at Ardry End, and this was Cornwall, this was Daphne du Maurier territory, Manderley-inflames country.

Johnny brought his starter and then whizzed off again as Melrose was entertaining thoughts of hauntings. Could any serious spirit choose to haunt the house of Chick’nKing? He wondered how chickens were dispatched around here. Tell them they were going for a weekend to Brixton-on-Sea and slam the door of the crate down?

He was beginning to feel sorry for the chickens. Were it not for this divine avocado and Roquefort dish, he’d be unable to eat. If he started identifying with doomed fowl he would be setting his feet straight on the road to vegetarianism. He would have to send back his cod! He hit his head with the heel of his palm, trying to dislodge these morbid thoughts. A little compassion is fine; too much and you wind up calling a dish of peas or potatoes “veggies.” He could end up carrying a sign in front of poor Jurvis the Butcher’s shop. Nobody would boycott Jurvis (“What? Give up my Sunday joint? You must be mad!”).

“Something wrong, sir?”

Johnny stood with his dinner, steam rising from the fish and from the divided dish of cabbage, roast potatoes, peas.

“No, no. Just trying to get water out of my ear.” He took another swipe at his head as Johnny set down his plate. It looked delicious, the pearl-white flesh just done enough to make it segment. The sauce was in a cup on the side.