Martha Grimes - The Lamorna Wink

“I think that’s a good idea.”

And she did. Melrose watched. He saw Johnny turn to face her and watched as Johnny listened. Honey talked for a little while, leaving her hand on his arm as she looked up at him.

Melrose watched as Johnny’s expression changed. It was as if the lid of a coffin had opened and the person who lay there, mistaken for dead, at last could breathe again.

Honey had the touch.

Murder or no murder, funeral or no funeral, Agatha could not be avoided forever. Melrose was to have tea with her that afternoon and he talked Richard Jury into coming along.

It surprised him that the Woodbine Tearoom was open and full, as it usually was, at four o’clock. That it was open for business at all was in part owing to the efforts of Mrs. Hayter, whom Melrose recalled saying that she often baked her popular berry pies for Woodbine, and that when Brenda was called away she would come in and help out.

Brenda had certainly been “called away.” And, Mrs. Hayter declared, “Enough said on that subject, I’m sure.”

Melrose could see tears forming on her lower lids, but her mouth was pinched with barely contained rage. But it wasn’t “enough said,” judging from the whispers flying from behind hands at the other tables.

And God know it would never be “enough said” for Agatha. She was so eager to get down to it she could barely spare a hello for Richard Jury, whom she was usually all over like a fishnet. “I knew the first time I had dealings with that woman Brenda that something was wrong.”

“What dealings, Lady Ardry?” asked Jury, as he sipped his tea. There were still things that didn’t add up, that made no sense-most important, the murder of Tom Letts.

“No dealings,” said Melrose. “Unless you count your vain attempt to pry her recipe for Sweet Ladies out of her.” Melrose watched as Johnny came through the swinging door, a boy who shouldered his responsibilities as if they were the heavy tray he carried. It was piled high with cups, pastries, and buns.

“Don’t be absurd,” said Agatha. That being the brunt of her rebuttal, she changed the subject. Lowering her voice to a whisper, she said, “With his aunt shot just last night, I’m surprised to see that boy working.”

Melrose watched him. His movements were heavy and his smile a mere remnant of yesterday’s. “ I’m not surprised. Do you think he’d be better off lying about in bed, thinking of her and how she died?”

“Work,” said Jury, “is the best antidote for what ails you, at least according to my boss, who has little experience to back him up. I’m sure Sergeant Wiggins would disagree about the best antidote, he having a great deal of experience to back him up.”

Johnny came over to their table. He was introduced to Jury, who stood up to shake his hand. “Johnny, I’m very sorry for your loss.”

He looked at Jury and seemed in danger of crumpling. Jury often had that effect on people; he could project an empathy that breached their defenses and frequently had them turning away, weeping. This was one thing that made him so good with witnesses.

“Thanks,” said Johnny. Then, as if this response might be too perfunctory, he said it again: “Thank you.” He blinked several time. “Chris was great, wasn’t she?” he asked Melrose.

Melrose had told Johnny about Chris’s visit to Bletchley House. “The greatest, Johnny.” He had only been with her for a very short time, but he felt that he spoke the truth. “The greatest,” he repeated.

Even Agatha managed to mumble a few words meant to console. “Sorry… great pity… awful for you.”

Melrose asked, “Where’s Honey? Did she go back to Dartmouth?”

Johnny looked over his shoulder. “No, actually. She’s in the kitchen.”

And to Melrose’s surprise and as if she were waiting for her cue, Honey came through the door, butting it with her hip; she was carrying both a pot of tea and a tiered cake plate. Both of these she set on Melrose’s table.

“This is for you, compliments of the house,” said Honey, as if she’d worked here for years. Her smile was brilliant.

Agatha’s was hardly less so when she saw the selection of cakes and meringues. “My goodness, thank you.”

Johnny said, “It’s for all your help.”

“We do what we can,” said Agatha, taking credit.

“What help?” asked Melrose, quite sincerely. “I don’t feel I was much help.”

“You certainly were, Mr. Plant,” said Johnny. “For starters, it was you got police here by knowing Mr. Macalvie.”

“I don’t think he’d claim to have been much help, either.”

“Okay,” said Jury. “I’ll make the claim for Sergeant Wiggins and give you his recipe for herbal tea so it’ll be ready for him when he comes in.”

Seeing that Johnny was distinctly brighter when Honey was around, Melrose asked her how long she was staying.

Honey sighed. “I’d like to stay longer, but I’ve got to go back to school. I got excused for three days and tomorrow’s the third day, so that’s when I have to leave.”

“I want her to come and work here during the summer.” As if he needed a reason for this, Johnny said, “There’s only Mrs. Hayter and me to run this place, and I’d like to keep it going. It was Chris’s life, after all.”

Honey said, “I’d really like to but I promised this family that’s going to the south of France I’d go along to watch the kiddies. You know, as an au pair. But I might be able to get out of it if I can find someone to take my place. I hope so, at least. I always did like Bletchley, and maybe I can take Mr. Bletchley’s mind off things by being around.”

Melrose had stopped listening. He was staring off across the room, his mind elsewhere; he was trying to remember. Something Tom had said. Or Moe Bletchley. Had they been talking about the south of France? He frowned. No, that wasn’t it. His look at Honey must have been so probing, she asked if something was wrong.

And then he had it.

The au pair!

He stood up, setting the teacups to rattling. “Come on,” he said to Jury.

“Come on where? I’m not finished.”

“Now! Agatha can take care of the bill.”

Jury rose. There’s a first time for everything, he thought.

Mr. Bletchley,” Jury said, “I’m Richard Jury, New Scotland Yard.”

Morris Bletchley shook the proffered hand. “You’re a little late, aren’t you, sir?” He could not keep his face from clouding over. “A little late.”

“I’m sorry,” Jury said, with all the earnestness of one who felt he really should have appeared earlier.

“He’s been in Northern Ireland,” said Melrose, as if he had to justify Jury’s dereliction of duty, and that a stint in Northern Ireland would justify anything.

“Of course,” said Moe Bletchley. “Just a little black humor and not very funny at that. Let’s sit down.”

They’d been standing in the wide hall between the blue and red rooms. Moe led them into the blue room and asked if they’d like something: tea? whisky? Both declined.

“There’s something I want to ask you,” said Melrose. “Tom described your house in Putney, said it wasn’t very big, three bedrooms, one of them for the au pair. You had one for when the children came to visit.”

Moe’s gaze was puzzled. “That’s right.”

“Who was she?”

Morris Bletchley looked very unhappy. “Mona Freeman was the name she gave me. She was actually Ramona Friel.” Moe looked at them and gave a helpless little shrug. “I wouldn’t have known if she hadn’t told me, much later, just before she came back to Bletchley.” His frown deepened. “I was completely surprised. I didn’t know Ramona by sight because she’d been away at school for years, and hardly ever went into the village the times I was at the house. Wouldn’t’ve seen her anyway because she’d been away, like I said. She never told her mother she was working for me-well obviously, since she’d changed her name to hide the fact. Brenda didn’t want her in London, working.