if that’s what you mean. He was upstairs with Eleanor. Serving her coffee.”
“That was usual?”
With a sigh, she sat back. “ Everything that happens is ‘usual.’ Her dinner is taken up to her at eight-fifteen; her coffee at nine. They chat for a while; the routine never changes.” Abruptly, she rose, went to the mantelpiece, and opened the silver cigarette box. Empty.
Jury took out his own. “Here, have one of mine.” He got up and lit hers, then his own. “You don’t like her, do you? Lady Summerston?”
She closed her eyes, exhaled a long stream of smoke as if she’d been dying for a cigarette all this time, and said, “It’s the other way round: she doesn’t like me . Somehow I think she resents me being alive when my mother is dead.”
As she smoked her cigarette with quick little jabs, the tears ran down her face carelessly, as if they were standing in the rain. No sound came from her, no attempt to wipe them away or hide them.
Jury put his hands on her shoulders, pushed her down gently to the sofa again. He himself remained standing, hands in pockets after tossing the cigarette into the grate. “That’s not at all the impression I got from your grandmother. If anything —” Jury stopped. He was saying too much.
“ ‘If anything’?”
What he thought was She was trying to protect you . What he said was “It wasn’t especially kind of me to bring you here, to the summerhouse, but I frankly wanted to see —”
“My reactions.” She set down her mug of cold tea and rose.
That she knew this so clearly made him feel — guilty. He wondered if Hannah Lean didn’t have this effect on most of the people she knew. It was, he suddenly saw, a dangerous quality to have. It put people off; it made peoplewant to throw up their hands, figuratively speaking, and let her be. He said, “We understand each other, then.” The smile he had meant to be genuine felt false even to him.
“No. No, I don’t think we understand each other. I thought we did, but not now.” She was walking toward the door, where Sergeant Burn was making a fuss with his chair, assuring the visitors he was fully awake. There she turned and said, “You haven’t given thought to the fact that this morning my husband was murdered. I’ve been questioned by the Northampton police and now you drag me here to see my reactions. My reaction is that the police, number one, have decided I’m the prime suspect — because, I assume, I’m the wife deceived. My reaction, number two, is that both the Northants and the London C.I.D. are goddamned sadists.” She picked the framed snapshots from the mantel and let them fall on the tiled hearth. The glass shivered like a broken windshield. “Good-bye, Superintendent.”
He looked from her departing back to the small photograph. Hannah and Simon Lean, smiles fixed on their faces that gave no clue as to how they felt about one another. Why had she broken it? Perhaps to symbolize the wounds this inquiry was causing her? In any event, it hardly seemed a gesture of affection toward her late husband.
He cleaned up the bits of broken glass and deposited them in the dustbin in the kitchen and pocketed the photographs. Then he stood looking down at the cold grate. Perfumed blue paper.
Why would Simon Lean have waited to burn it?
• • •
“Sir!” said Sergeant Burn, quickly rising and rolling up the Private Eye , which he jammed in his back pocket.
Jury smiled. “At ease, Sergeant. Where’re the men who were here twenty minutes ago? Have they gone back to Northampton?”
Burn pointed to the left-hand path that followed the stream going in the opposite direction from which he’d come. “Inspector MacAllister and two others said they were going to have another look at where the car was parked. The Jaguar,” Burn added with a note of truculence.
• • •
“They’re fresh tracks,” MacAllister told Jury with much the same truculence, snapping shut his
“That was usual?”
With a sigh, she sat back. “ Everything that happens is ‘usual.’ Her dinner is taken up to her at eight-fifteen; her coffee at nine. They chat for a while; the routine never changes.” Abruptly, she rose, went to the mantelpiece, and opened the silver cigarette box. Empty.
Jury took out his own. “Here, have one of mine.” He got up and lit hers, then his own. “You don’t like her, do you? Lady Summerston?”
She closed her eyes, exhaled a long stream of smoke as if she’d been dying for a cigarette all this time, and said, “It’s the other way round: she doesn’t like me . Somehow I think she resents me being alive when my mother is dead.”
As she smoked her cigarette with quick little jabs, the tears ran down her face carelessly, as if they were standing in the rain. No sound came from her, no attempt to wipe them away or hide them.
Jury put his hands on her shoulders, pushed her down gently to the sofa again. He himself remained standing, hands in pockets after tossing the cigarette into the grate. “That’s not at all the impression I got from your grandmother. If anything —” Jury stopped. He was saying too much.
“ ‘If anything’?”
What he thought was She was trying to protect you . What he said was “It wasn’t especially kind of me to bring you here, to the summerhouse, but I frankly wanted to see —”
“My reactions.” She set down her mug of cold tea and rose.
That she knew this so clearly made him feel — guilty. He wondered if Hannah Lean didn’t have this effect on most of the people she knew. It was, he suddenly saw, a dangerous quality to have. It put people off; it made peoplewant to throw up their hands, figuratively speaking, and let her be. He said, “We understand each other, then.” The smile he had meant to be genuine felt false even to him.
“No. No, I don’t think we understand each other. I thought we did, but not now.” She was walking toward the door, where Sergeant Burn was making a fuss with his chair, assuring the visitors he was fully awake. There she turned and said, “You haven’t given thought to the fact that this morning my husband was murdered. I’ve been questioned by the Northampton police and now you drag me here to see my reactions. My reaction is that the police, number one, have decided I’m the prime suspect — because, I assume, I’m the wife deceived. My reaction, number two, is that both the Northants and the London C.I.D. are goddamned sadists.” She picked the framed snapshots from the mantel and let them fall on the tiled hearth. The glass shivered like a broken windshield. “Good-bye, Superintendent.”
He looked from her departing back to the small photograph. Hannah and Simon Lean, smiles fixed on their faces that gave no clue as to how they felt about one another. Why had she broken it? Perhaps to symbolize the wounds this inquiry was causing her? In any event, it hardly seemed a gesture of affection toward her late husband.
He cleaned up the bits of broken glass and deposited them in the dustbin in the kitchen and pocketed the photographs. Then he stood looking down at the cold grate. Perfumed blue paper.
Why would Simon Lean have waited to burn it?
• • •
“Sir!” said Sergeant Burn, quickly rising and rolling up the Private Eye , which he jammed in his back pocket.
Jury smiled. “At ease, Sergeant. Where’re the men who were here twenty minutes ago? Have they gone back to Northampton?”
Burn pointed to the left-hand path that followed the stream going in the opposite direction from which he’d come. “Inspector MacAllister and two others said they were going to have another look at where the car was parked. The Jaguar,” Burn added with a note of truculence.
• • •
“They’re fresh tracks,” MacAllister told Jury with much the same truculence, snapping shut his
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