[02] The Old Fox Deceived by Martha Grimes

Author:Martha Grimes
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Publisher: Scribner
Published: 2014-01-15T20:00:00+00:00

19

Melrose Plant was in bed, or rather on it, but not in the way Jury meant.

He was lying fully clothed, staring up at the elaborately painted ceiling of miniaturized scenes of gods and goddesses and cupids. He was smiling; he was thinking of Julian Craels’ rooms — three doors down from his own room.

Melrose had just taken the picture he was turning round in his hands from those very rooms. It made him, actually, quite happy.

First Melrose had made quite sure that Julian would be going for his morning walk by offering to accompany him. Julian had given him the same look he might have used had Melrose offered to share his bath water. Walking for an hour on the moors (as Julian said he intended to do) when one could be sitting by a warm fire drinking Cockburn’s Very Superior Port seemed to Melrose the act of a madman, but it would give him an opportunity to undertake his search.

They did not like one another, that was clear. Similarities of age, rank, wealth, position created no bond between them. And Melrose felt guilty: he had really wanted to get something from Julian — an impression, if nothing more — which would alleviate the Colonel’s anxiety. Deny it as he might, Melrose felt the elder Crael was very worried about the younger — alibi or no alibi.

Blood out of stones. That was about as far as he’d got with Julian Crael, though he could hardly blame the man, he supposed. Now, with Jury, it was more like St. Peter striking the rock: all he had to do was walk into Percy Blythe’s cottage and fountains of conversation had gushed forth.

Thus Melrose had decided that if he couldn’t get information one way, he’d try another, and so he had. Perhaps searching a gentleman’s rooms was not a gentlemanly act. But neither was murder.

• • •

He had gone to Julian’s rooms, not sure what sort of evidence he was looking for. Nor had he thought he’d be lucky enough to find it. But he had.

The house had been very quiet. The Colonel was out slopping around in the kennels in Pitlochary. Olive Manning was in Whitby, and the servants were doing nothing, as servants will.

So Melrose had the house virtually to himself. And he was wise enough to leave the door to Julian’s room wide open in the unlikely chance someone should walk by; that way it would not look as if he were snooping. He could just make up any old story about borrowing a book or some such rot. Julian had a marvelous library of old books on Yorkshire.

Melrose quietly searched everything — every drawer, every shelf, every closet. It hadn’t taken long, for the rooms were spartan, almost dreary with their moss-colored draperies and heavy Tudor furniture.

Melrose parted the draperies and looked out of the long windows which faced the sea to assure himself Crael hadn’t decided to make an early and sudden return. It was a morning of weak sunlight and not so much fog, so that he could see for a little distance along the cliff walk.

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