Trueblood’s place? Isn’t he coming over? Dick!” he shouted. “The superintendent will have a Thunderbolt!”
Her voice was getting testier as she said to Jury, “I’m surprised you didn’t go to Woburn Abbey, I mean, as long as you were almost there. She’d probably have liked that, the weather being so beautiful and all.” Her face was burnished as if she’d been sitting too long beside a fire.
Jury was searching her face as one does when one is looking for signs of mild lunacy, as Melrose was leaning across her to get a better look, over the stained glass that said “Hardy’s Crown,” at the shop next door. “There’s Trueblood, directing the removal men. He’s pulling his hair and shrieking . . . .”
Trueblood’s shrieks made no difference to Vivian, who by now had got herself in so deep she couldn’t pull herself out, as if her wellingtons just kept sucking mud. She was talking about the lions at Woburn Abbey. Jury was fascinated, his chin propped in his hands, staring at her and smiling as she made her mental journey with him and his old friend through the safari park.
Fortunately, Dick Scroggs’s enthusiasm for his Thunderbolt matched Vivian’s apparent enthusiasm for wild animals. He interrupted and told Jury all about the new pub that probably wouldn’t stay in business long, not where it was located. If that didn’t kill it, it would be snapped up by one of the big breweries and sell nothing but the Yellow Peril. “Sly’s only a manager, now. You can always tell them what’s managed, I mean there’s not the extra little bit of trouble took to have things just right, is there, sir? An owner now, he can’t let up a minute, that’s what I say.”
Jury agreed wholeheartedly, and Scroggs left with a big smile and went behind the bar, stuck a toothpick in his mouth, and started reading the local paper, the Bald Eagle .
• • •
Marshall Trueblood walked in, dressed in his usual rainbow fashion — Italian silk shirt, splotch of russet neckerchief, spread of pale yellow cashmere cap. In his kaleidoscope of colors, he reminded Plant of one of the Tiffany lamps in his antiques shop. His greeting to Jury was as effusive as his costume. Melrose thought for a moment Trueblood might be going to hug him, but he settled for a handshake, catching Jury’s in both of his, and making a little moue with his mouth as if he were blowing kisses. It was all such an act on Trueblood’s part, though Melrose had no idea who the intended audience was — probably Trueblood himself.
“What a pity about your breakdown, Superintendent. Well, you’re here now —”
Said Vivian, “I was just telling him —”
“What’s the van doing in front of your place?” asked Melrose hurriedly.
“Delivering my furniture. You really must see it. Cost me four thousand and I expect I can only get six or seven for it.”
“That’s hardly worth your time,” said Vivian.
“Wouldn’t you like to see it? Come along, come along.”
“No thank you,” said Vivian, her mind still on Woburn Abbey.
The others rose and trooped next door.
• • •
Crammed as it was with what Melrose calculated to be a million quid’s worth of silver and gilt, display cases filled with Lalique and Georgian crystal, inlaid firescreens, commodes, mahogany shelves filled with leatherbound books, Trueblood had still found space for his prized acquisition, a rosewood fall-front desk with brass handles.
His manner notwithstanding, Marshall Trueblood was nobody’s fool; excepting Melrose himself and Vivian Rivington, he was the richest person in Long Pidd. He had a feeling for the marketplace that seemed more an act of grace than of business perspicacity; when no one would touch Empire, he snapped it up everywhere and made a tidy fortune; when everyone else was buying oak, he stored his in a back room and waited for it to go out of fashion in order to come in again. He had the nose of a bloodhound and the
Her voice was getting testier as she said to Jury, “I’m surprised you didn’t go to Woburn Abbey, I mean, as long as you were almost there. She’d probably have liked that, the weather being so beautiful and all.” Her face was burnished as if she’d been sitting too long beside a fire.
Jury was searching her face as one does when one is looking for signs of mild lunacy, as Melrose was leaning across her to get a better look, over the stained glass that said “Hardy’s Crown,” at the shop next door. “There’s Trueblood, directing the removal men. He’s pulling his hair and shrieking . . . .”
Trueblood’s shrieks made no difference to Vivian, who by now had got herself in so deep she couldn’t pull herself out, as if her wellingtons just kept sucking mud. She was talking about the lions at Woburn Abbey. Jury was fascinated, his chin propped in his hands, staring at her and smiling as she made her mental journey with him and his old friend through the safari park.
Fortunately, Dick Scroggs’s enthusiasm for his Thunderbolt matched Vivian’s apparent enthusiasm for wild animals. He interrupted and told Jury all about the new pub that probably wouldn’t stay in business long, not where it was located. If that didn’t kill it, it would be snapped up by one of the big breweries and sell nothing but the Yellow Peril. “Sly’s only a manager, now. You can always tell them what’s managed, I mean there’s not the extra little bit of trouble took to have things just right, is there, sir? An owner now, he can’t let up a minute, that’s what I say.”
Jury agreed wholeheartedly, and Scroggs left with a big smile and went behind the bar, stuck a toothpick in his mouth, and started reading the local paper, the Bald Eagle .
• • •
Marshall Trueblood walked in, dressed in his usual rainbow fashion — Italian silk shirt, splotch of russet neckerchief, spread of pale yellow cashmere cap. In his kaleidoscope of colors, he reminded Plant of one of the Tiffany lamps in his antiques shop. His greeting to Jury was as effusive as his costume. Melrose thought for a moment Trueblood might be going to hug him, but he settled for a handshake, catching Jury’s in both of his, and making a little moue with his mouth as if he were blowing kisses. It was all such an act on Trueblood’s part, though Melrose had no idea who the intended audience was — probably Trueblood himself.
“What a pity about your breakdown, Superintendent. Well, you’re here now —”
Said Vivian, “I was just telling him —”
“What’s the van doing in front of your place?” asked Melrose hurriedly.
“Delivering my furniture. You really must see it. Cost me four thousand and I expect I can only get six or seven for it.”
“That’s hardly worth your time,” said Vivian.
“Wouldn’t you like to see it? Come along, come along.”
“No thank you,” said Vivian, her mind still on Woburn Abbey.
The others rose and trooped next door.
• • •
Crammed as it was with what Melrose calculated to be a million quid’s worth of silver and gilt, display cases filled with Lalique and Georgian crystal, inlaid firescreens, commodes, mahogany shelves filled with leatherbound books, Trueblood had still found space for his prized acquisition, a rosewood fall-front desk with brass handles.
His manner notwithstanding, Marshall Trueblood was nobody’s fool; excepting Melrose himself and Vivian Rivington, he was the richest person in Long Pidd. He had a feeling for the marketplace that seemed more an act of grace than of business perspicacity; when no one would touch Empire, he snapped it up everywhere and made a tidy fortune; when everyone else was buying oak, he stored his in a back room and waited for it to go out of fashion in order to come in again. He had the nose of a bloodhound and the
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