methods of a stockbroker.
Trueblood was showing Jury the secrétaire when Melrose wandered back, past a collection of jade and a syllabub table he considered purchasing.
“You’ve no idea what I had to go through to pry this from Lady Summerston’s clawlike grip.” He inserted a small key into the brass escutcheon at the top of the closed writing surface.
“It’s a fall-front desk, is it?” asked Jury.
“A secrétaire à abattant . There was a matching commode, but she wouldn’t part with it. She lives in this great peeling but noble villa called Watermeadows,” said Trueblood, lowering the writing surface to expose an array of pigeonholes and tiny drawers.
“Very nice. It needs some refinishing,” said Melrose. “And a few of the pigeonholes could do with fixing. Looks like dry rot —” He stuck his finger in one of them.
Trueblood sighed. “Four thousand I paid, and all you can talk about is dry rot.”
Melrose peered closer into another of the pigeonholes and then stepped back. He blinked and shook his head. “I think —” His voice broke. He cleared his throat. “— you’ve got a little more there than dry rot. Have a look, will you,” he said to Jury.
Bewildered, Jury peered into the pigeonhole, paused, and then quickly pulled the blossoming yellow handkerchief from Trueblood’s pocket.
Astonished, Trueblood said, “What in the hell . . . ?” He shouldered his way between Melrose and the bank of pigeonholes and quickly turned round, his back to the secrétaire . “An eye. There’s an eye in there.”
With both hands holding the handkerchief, Jury slowly pulled out the whole array of holes and drawers.
The pale blue shirt of the torso was stippled in blood. The head fell forward with a thud onto the writing surface of Trueblood’s four thousand quid’s worth of secrétaire à abattant .
Seven
“S IMON L EAN .”
Melrose and Trueblood said the name simultaneously, and all three of them stepped back, Melrose nearly toppling a Lalique vase, which he managed to catch before it hit the floor.
Jury looked at the neck and upper arms. Rigor had passed off, which might have meant he’d been dead for twelve hours, since late the night before or early morning. Jury knew how unreliable such estimates of time of death were. “Ring up your local doctor.”
“Carr? God, you don’t want him. He’s half blind —”
“Nevertheless,” said Jury, frowning.
“All right, all right.” Melrose moved to the telephone.
“His name is Simon Lean?” said Jury to Trueblood, who had collapsed on a love seat so deeply cushioned in down he looked as if he might never rise again.
“Watermeadows. Yes. That’s where he lives. Lived. Lived. Why isn’t he there? What in the hell is he doing in my secrétaire? ” Trueblood seemed trying to make some further objection to this desecration of his premises, couldn’t, and merely flailed with his arms. “I bought the desk, not the body; send it back.”
“Where was this secrétaire , then?”
“Where?” Trueblood’s eyes were still hypnotized by thesight of Simon Lean’s torso lying on the writing surface as if he’d fallen asleep over a boring piece of correspondence. “Watermeadows, of course. Not in the house proper; in what they call a summerhouse. Gathering dust. I just happened to be walking by and took a peek inside. The old lady is loaded with the most priceless pieces of late-eighteenth-century stuff —”
“Just a minute, Marshall. You were ‘walking by,’ you say? . . . What are you doing?” This was directed to Melrose, who was now redialing.
“Doing? Ringing Pluck.”
“Hang up, will you?”
“But he’s going to have to get Northampton —”
“Leave it.” He turned to Trueblood. “Go on.”
“After I saw this secrétaire à abattant, which is something I’ve been on the lookout for for years, I thought I’d just go along to the main house and try to talk Lady Summerston into selling it to me. The
Trueblood was showing Jury the secrétaire when Melrose wandered back, past a collection of jade and a syllabub table he considered purchasing.
“You’ve no idea what I had to go through to pry this from Lady Summerston’s clawlike grip.” He inserted a small key into the brass escutcheon at the top of the closed writing surface.
“It’s a fall-front desk, is it?” asked Jury.
“A secrétaire à abattant . There was a matching commode, but she wouldn’t part with it. She lives in this great peeling but noble villa called Watermeadows,” said Trueblood, lowering the writing surface to expose an array of pigeonholes and tiny drawers.
“Very nice. It needs some refinishing,” said Melrose. “And a few of the pigeonholes could do with fixing. Looks like dry rot —” He stuck his finger in one of them.
Trueblood sighed. “Four thousand I paid, and all you can talk about is dry rot.”
Melrose peered closer into another of the pigeonholes and then stepped back. He blinked and shook his head. “I think —” His voice broke. He cleared his throat. “— you’ve got a little more there than dry rot. Have a look, will you,” he said to Jury.
Bewildered, Jury peered into the pigeonhole, paused, and then quickly pulled the blossoming yellow handkerchief from Trueblood’s pocket.
Astonished, Trueblood said, “What in the hell . . . ?” He shouldered his way between Melrose and the bank of pigeonholes and quickly turned round, his back to the secrétaire . “An eye. There’s an eye in there.”
With both hands holding the handkerchief, Jury slowly pulled out the whole array of holes and drawers.
The pale blue shirt of the torso was stippled in blood. The head fell forward with a thud onto the writing surface of Trueblood’s four thousand quid’s worth of secrétaire à abattant .
Seven
“S IMON L EAN .”
Melrose and Trueblood said the name simultaneously, and all three of them stepped back, Melrose nearly toppling a Lalique vase, which he managed to catch before it hit the floor.
Jury looked at the neck and upper arms. Rigor had passed off, which might have meant he’d been dead for twelve hours, since late the night before or early morning. Jury knew how unreliable such estimates of time of death were. “Ring up your local doctor.”
“Carr? God, you don’t want him. He’s half blind —”
“Nevertheless,” said Jury, frowning.
“All right, all right.” Melrose moved to the telephone.
“His name is Simon Lean?” said Jury to Trueblood, who had collapsed on a love seat so deeply cushioned in down he looked as if he might never rise again.
“Watermeadows. Yes. That’s where he lives. Lived. Lived. Why isn’t he there? What in the hell is he doing in my secrétaire? ” Trueblood seemed trying to make some further objection to this desecration of his premises, couldn’t, and merely flailed with his arms. “I bought the desk, not the body; send it back.”
“Where was this secrétaire , then?”
“Where?” Trueblood’s eyes were still hypnotized by thesight of Simon Lean’s torso lying on the writing surface as if he’d fallen asleep over a boring piece of correspondence. “Watermeadows, of course. Not in the house proper; in what they call a summerhouse. Gathering dust. I just happened to be walking by and took a peek inside. The old lady is loaded with the most priceless pieces of late-eighteenth-century stuff —”
“Just a minute, Marshall. You were ‘walking by,’ you say? . . . What are you doing?” This was directed to Melrose, who was now redialing.
“Doing? Ringing Pluck.”
“Hang up, will you?”
“But he’s going to have to get Northampton —”
“Leave it.” He turned to Trueblood. “Go on.”
“After I saw this secrétaire à abattant, which is something I’ve been on the lookout for for years, I thought I’d just go along to the main house and try to talk Lady Summerston into selling it to me. The
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