I Am the Only Running Footman by Martha Grimes

portrait above. It was a portrait of the three of them — the woman there looked enough like David Marr to be his twin. Melrose could not put his finger on what was so compelling about the painting: it was perhaps what it said of the relationship between the three. Melrose wondered where the husband was. Perhaps St. Clair was right. “They won’t because you had nothing to do with it,” said Ned.
    â€œIf only the police would see it that way.”
    â€œThey will.”
    David rolled his head, resting against the back of the sofa, back and forth, sighing. “Well, not to worry. It’s just a damned nuisance being told not to leave the country. Why does one always want to leave the country when one is toldnot to? Why does one always have the urge to visit Monte Carlo or the Himalayas when someone insists one stay at home? Why—?”
    â€œThe Himalayas might do you good. The last time you were in Monte, Mother had to send money.”
    There was great good humor in Ned Winslow’s tone. Melrose had the impression they all indulged one another’s weaknesses.
    David shrugged. “Maybe I shall do a Bunbury. Incidentally, Marion is having a lie-down; she’s not feeling well. I hope it’s not because of me. Where’s the coffee, Lucinda?”
    Lucinda went as she was bid, Edward to help her. Melrose wondered how she could think she had a chance with this man, who watched her departing back without a flicker of interest. It was too bad; Edward and Lucinda seemed a suitable couple, though he wondered why “suitability” had anything to do with it; love was not a well-cut suit of clothes.
    â€œLucinda says you’re quite an authority on the French Romantics.” He smiled. “About which I know sod-all. But did you know Edward is a poet.” David rose with his glass; this time, however, he headed for the bookshelves rather than the commode. He drew out the volume Melrose recognized as Edward Winslow’s. “You should read it.”
    â€œI have; Lucinda gave me the copy intended, I fear, for Pearl St. Clair.”
    David laughed. “I’m sure Pearl didn’t mind; that relieves her temporarily of having to pretend she can read.” He leafed through the book, and said, “It’s so simple, Ned’s poetry. I guess I mean old-fashioned or something. “ ‘ Where have you gone to, Elizabeth Vere—? ’ ” David snapped the book shut, replaced it, moved to the lacquer commode. “Ned isn’t very happy. He should get married again.”
    â€œI’m a little surprised you’d think that an antidote for happiness.” Melrose smiled. “In their refusal to gossip, the St.Clairs did manage to let slip that your nephew was once married . . . to a woman who was, well —”
    â€œNot terribly reliable. No, Rose was not reliable at all.” His smile this time was decidedly chilly, a crack in ice. “He’s very deep, Ned. Not at all like me. I’m about this deep.” He held up the bottle with the remaining measure of vodka.
    â€œOh, I’d say you’re a great deal alike.” Melrose looked up at the portrait above the marble mantel. “The artist who painted that seems to think so, too.”
    â€œPaul Swann. Well, he’s known us for a long time, but I don’t see that in the painting, really.”
    â€œHe’s a friend of yours?”
    â€œYes; he lives near me in Shepherd Market. Paul was in the Running Footman that night. Only he’d left, I think. If my memory of events weren’t so clouded by this” — he held up the glass — “it would be easier. Fortunately, there’s that telephone call to my sister.”
    Fortunately, thought Melrose.
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    After coffee, they stood in the entry hall, a vast expanse of walnut paneling and sweeping staircase. Ned Winslow was to return Melrose to