I Am the Only Running Footman by Martha Grimes Page A

the Mortal Man; Lucinda was to stay behind to keep David company. The only company that David seemed interested in was the fresh bottle of vodka he’d found.
    It was down that staircase that the woman in the portrait came. She was tall and dark like her brother, her hair a shimmery mahogany, swept up on her head in a carelessly done knot, dressed in a velvet morning robe of deep sable brown.
    If this was poor Marion, there was something to be said for the ennobling effects of misfortune.
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    Inclining her head toward Melrose, she apologized for not coming down earlier. “I have a fierce headache, Mr. Plant. I hope you’ll pardon me.” That she remained standing on thestairs testified to her intention of going up them again as quickly as possible. Still, she struck Melrose more as a withdrawn, distant woman than a cold one. And very well bred. After all, she hadn’t needed to come down at all; she could merely have conveyed her regrets, or indeed said nothing. He thought she gave Lucinda a chilly look, probably for having gotten her son to invite this stranger here in the first place.
    Melrose wished she would stay; he would have liked to get more of an impression of her, which was why she was leaving, probably. In the circumstances, he supposed she thought the briefer the acquaintance, the better.
    â€œGood Lord, Marion,” said David, “why do you give that layabout couple leave to go when you’re not feeling well?”
    She smiled, but the smile did little toward warming the high, cold brow. “Too tired to pour your own brandy, David?” There was no real recrimination in the tone. “Don’t worry, they said they’d be back today or tomorrow.”
    â€œI don’t think you should be here alone and fending for yourself, that’s all.”
    â€œWell, now I have you to fend for me.” The humor in her voice was mixed with concern.
    The expression on David Marr’s face was strange, looking up the staircase. A strained, almost rapt expression, as if he were looking but not hearing.
    Indeed, Melrose thought, all of them in this moment of silence and studied attention might have been grouped here, sitting for the portrait in the library.
    A telephone rang in the distance, and Edward made a move toward a door across the wide hallway.
    â€œOh, hell!” said David. “That’s the police, I’d bet my last drink on it.” As Edward disappeared through the door, David called, “Don’t answer it, Ned, let the damned answering machine do it. That’s what it’s there —”
    He must have realized what he’d said the moment thewords were out, for he broke off abruptly and polished off the rest of his drink.
    There goes the alibi, thought Melrose.
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    â€œIs this the garden that Mr. St. Clair seems to feel is the happiest in Sussex?” asked Melrose. They had come to the end of a path that led through beeches to an informal garden at one side of which ran a long, serpentine wall overgrown with moss, covered in wisteria, and under the shelter of overhanging laburnum whose branches dripped rain.
    Edward Winslow laughed. “Yes, this is it. It might be larger than his, but it’s hardly impressive. Still, try to tell Sinjin that. If he owns it, it’s dreadful. Modesty run amok. He’s a nice man, though. Actually, I’m surprised that John manages to keep things in such good shape.” Ned waved to the gardener, who seemed to be hacking away at a monkey-puzzle vine in the distance. “Crusty old beggar thinks he’s Gertrude Jekyll; still, he does a good job out here. You see the garden wall there?” Ned nodded toward the laburnum grove. “It’s our family plot. Several great-aunts and my grandparents are buried there. And Phoebe.”
    â€œThat must have been pretty dreadful.”
    Ned was silent for a moment, staring at