[16] The Lamorna Wink - Richard Jury Mysteries by Martha Grimes

Author:Martha Grimes
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Publisher: Penguin USA, Inc.
Published: 2013-11-06T17:40:47.670000+00:00

32

A meeting ordained by the gods was how Melrose pictured the meeting between Sergeant Wiggins and Bletchley Hall. Imbued with the aura of death, death still missed being an actual fact.

Wiggins was talking about these “homes for retired gentlefolk” as they drove toward Bletchley Hall in pale afternoon sunlight. “There’s of course your typical nursing home; it’s small and gloomy and cramped, furnished with iron beds and the yellow light cast by forty-watt bulbs and old magazines. So old you can’t even hold out for the May issue, no, sir, May’s been and gone and if May didn’t revive you, well, June’s gone too.”

The rental car was a cheap model and ground its way up the shallow incline as if it were making for Everest’s peak. It rattled, but no more than did Sergeant Wiggins, who could obviously speak at great length when a topic inspired him. (He must often have been muffled by Jury when they were on a case together.)

“—metal tray with scrambled eggs from a dry mix and weak coffee, a thimble of juice, thin toast—”

“Sounds like the B-and-B circuit, Sergeant Wiggins.”

Wiggins carried on. “Would you even have your own room? Or have to share. Well, I’d hate that, I would. I’d think you could at least expect a little privacy when you’re dying; it’s a safe bet you won’t get any after.”

Melrose wondered what sort of talkathon Wiggins thought he was bound for in the afterlife. If an imaginary nursing home could furnish him with this banquet of topics, what would imagining heaven do for him?

“Sergeant, you’re a master of detail.”

Said Wiggins, “They say the devil’s in them.”

He certainly was in these, thought Melrose.

In the next five minutes, blessedly silent, they rounded the curve that gave them the first glimpse of Bletchley Hall. It was indeed an imposing facade, and Wiggins’s surprise said he appreciated it. It left him—thank God—speechless.

They paused at the stone pillars that flanked the entrance. Ground into stone as if it had grown there was a brass plaque: BLETCHLEY HALL. The long drive-way passed between low honey-colored stone walls over which dripped lush vegetation. Behind the walls were gardens of orchids and beds of bright marigolds. In this temperate climate, even the occasional palm tree seemed at home.

Wiggins pointed one out. Surprised, he said, “Palm trees, Mr. Plant?”

“Well, you know what they call this part of Cornwall: Little Miami.”

“Surely not.”

“Just watch your back and your wallet.”

They stopped on the gravel between the marble steps and the fountain, in which bronze fish, weathered into green, spewed up streams of water and cherubs frolicked, strangling the dolphins they rode. Even the gravel at their feet glittered like crushed diamonds. In the distance was the stream, the orchids, the tall grasses.

“My lord,” said Wiggins in a wondering way, as he shut his car door. “This must cause the earth to keep up.”

“I’m sure. Morris Bletchley has the earth. The unfortunate viscount and his lady didn’t.”

The front door was open; during the day it might always have stood so to suggest either freedom of passage or a four-star hotel.

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