I Am the Only Running Footman by Martha Grimes

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    On this rare December morning Melrose sat at the rosewood dining table, the Times folded beside his plate of eggs. He penned in two down and one across. But he was only giving part of his mind to the crossword; the rest was on the call he had made to Richard Jury, who had told him certainly, absolutely to go to Somers Abbas. That he was acquaintedwith someone who knew the Winslow family could be extremely helpful. And for all of the past help, well, Jury thought he deserved a knighthood. A bit redundant, perhaps, but anyway  . . .
    â€œI doubt very much that Chief Superintendent Racer would oblige with a knighthood. I doubt very much that Racer has been pleased . . . .”
    Melrose looked down the length of the table and out the French windows that on this unseasonable day had been opened. Their creamy curtains billowed slightly in the breeze. Beyond the window he caught a glimpse of the serpentine path that wound through the grounds and down which he loved to stroll. All of those grounds out there — the wide expanse of gardens, the silver wintercrust of the lake, the yew hedges and willows — reminded him of the walk he had taken with Lucinda St. Clair at Lady Jane’s party. Melrose could imagine, all the while, Sybil St. Clair watching with the patience of a puma straddled on a branch, waiting for the least flicker of movement from the quarry below. It was maddening to feel sorry for Lucinda, and impossible not to. She had, of course, been delighted that he was coming. And in face of all her mother’s objections, Melrose had insisted at a room at the local inn.
    He sighed and looked up, his eye moving round the walls and the portraits there that hung in such stately procession that the whole crowd of them might have been on its way to Westminster Abbey. Viscount Nitherwold, Ross and Cromarty, Marquess of Ayreshire and Blythedale, Earl of Caverness  . . . one could hardly name them without pausing for a stiff drink in between. His eye came to rest on the portrait of his mother, one of the most beautiful women he had ever seen, and one on whom that coronet must have weighed awfully heavily at the end. Filtered sunlight fell in dancing sequins on her pale gold hair, and humor was written all over her face.
    He smiled. His mother, if not the Queen, he was sure had been pleased . . . .
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    â€œMore coffee, m’lord?” asked Ruthven, Plant’s paradigm of a gentlemen’s gentleman, who had been in the family practically as long as the portraits on the walls. He held the silver pot aloft.
    Melrose shook his head and put down his pen. “No thanks, Ruthven. I’d better be on my way.” He pocketed his gold-rimmed spectacles and shoved back his chair.
    â€œWill you be requiring the Flying Spur or the Rolls, sir?”
    Melrose looked again at the portrait of Lady Marjorie. Was she smiling? “You know, Ruthven, I think anyone who’s asked a question like that should be shot.”

7
    T HE last time Jury saw him, Brian Macalvie put his foot through a jukebox. Today, at least, he was only playing it. For a man whose sentiments ran toward moving through his men like Birnam Wood and shouting at suspects, the divisional commander showed a remarkable affinity for old songs and soft voices. It was probably Macalvie’s choice now that filled the Running Footman with its whispery tristesse.
    He barely raised his eyes from the menu of songs when he spoke. “Hi, Jury. Took you long enough.” Macalvie slotted another ten-p piece into the jukebox and hit the side when it didn’t respond.
    Jury could have run all the way from headquarters like the footman in the huge picture that gave the pub its name. However fast he was, it couldn’t be fast enough. Time did a peculiar dance around Macalvie; he picked up exactly where he left off. Two years ago, ten