Jerusalem Inn by Martha Grimes

no longer the policeman in some routine investigation, but like some sailor who’d come from the sea with the remarkable tale that in a foreign port, he’d come upon her long-lost relative. “It was a chance meeting. I didn’t know her all that well.”
    â€œAye, she was that nice, she was.” She fixed Jury with worried eyes. “Why are you asking questions, though?” It had apparently only now occurred to her that a Scotland Yard Superintendent wouldn’t be showing up on the doorstep because a woman had died a natural death.
    Jury’s answer was indirect. “I wanted to know about her relations with her family — her uncle, her cousin. Or anyone who might possibly have had a grudge against her.” This time when Wiggins discreetly produced his notebook, Jury didn’t sign him to put it back.
    â€œÂ â€˜Grudge’?” Maureen looked from one to the other, saw they were serious, gave a strained sort of laugh. “It almost sounds like you think she was —” She couldn’t get the word out.
    Jury did it for her. “Murdered? There’s always that possibility, yes.”
    â€œThat’s daft.” Her little laugh was far less certain than her words. “There was no one that’d wish Helen any harm.” Friendship outweighed formality in her forgetting the “Miss.” “She didn’t have enemies; she’d hardly any friends, even. I mean, she didn’t go out much, nor have people in.”
    â€œShe had her cousin.”
    â€œMr. Frederick? That’s different.”
    â€œDo you know where he is? We haven’t been able to turn him up. The Northumbria police would like to talk to him.”
    She shook her head. “He’s often away. He goes to Franceand places like that.” Maureen did not appear to approve of such places.
    â€œWhen Helen was living here — after her parents died, she got along with Edward Parmenger, did she?”
    Maureen didn’t answer; she was watching Wiggins scratch away with his pen and quite clearly resented it. Her gaze made Wiggins look up and he laid his notebook aside. Then he said, “Did you make the cake, miss? It’s the best I ever ate. I’m careful what I eat, especially sweets.”
    Hiding a smile, Jury looked away. As a loyal, plodding, and energetic note-taker, Wiggins was invaluable. Lately, he’d been polishing up his charm.
    This time it seemed to work, for Maureen was quite happy to replenish his plate, and with his mouth full, Wiggins took up where Jury had left off: “This Mr. Edward Parmenger — I sort of got the idea he wasn’t too fond of the girl. What do you think about that?”
    Sergeants didn’t bother her as much as superintendents, apparently — at least not those who were having their third helping of her cake — and she answered: “Like I said, he seemed a bit cold towards her. But then he was a hard man, to tell the truth.”
    â€œLike that with everybody, you mean?” asked Wiggins, pressing the tongs of his fork down on cake crumbs.
    â€œNo. No, not exactly.”
    â€œWell, then, like what, miss?”
    â€œHe didn’t like her. Mrs. Petit was always saying how he didn’t.”
    â€œThat’s the cook, is it? Or was?”
    â€œYes. Mrs. Petit — she’s dead now — felt sorry for Miss Helen.”
    Jury smoked and stared at the fire and waited for Wiggins to ask the question, Then why did Parmenger take her in?
    â€œCould I have another cup of tea, do you think?” The sergeant’sdesire to charm answers out of witnesses had its limits.
    As Maureen poured the last of the pot, Jury asked, “How old was she? Where was this school?”
    â€œIn Devon. It was very expensive.” If Edward Parmenger had been a bit tight-fisted with his love, he wasn’t with his money, her tone suggested. “About fifteen, I guess. She was there