The Man with a Load of Mischief by Martha Grimes Page B

in about six months.”
    â€œThen she’ll have control of her money?”
    Angrily, Isabel stubbed out her cigarette, the end fragmenting like a shell. “Why do you make it sound as if I’m juggling the books?”
    All innocence, Jury said, “Was I? All I’m attempting to do is gather the facts.”
    â€œI still don’t see what this has to do with two men coming here and getting killed.”
    â€œHow long have you lived in Long Piddleton?”
    â€œSix years,” she answered and glumly drew another cigarette from a silver case.
    â€œAnd where before?”
    â€œLondon,” was her unembellished answer.
    London, thought Jury, had certainly discovered Long Piddleton. “A bit different, isn’t it?”
    â€œI’ve noticed,” she said.
    â€œVivian’s — your stepsister’s — father was quite wealthy, wasn’t he?”
    The subject of money having arisen again, she turned her head sharply away, and did not answer.
    â€œThere was some sort of accident, wasn’t there? Miss Rivington’s father?”
    â€œYes. When she was about seven or eight. He was killed by a horse kicking him. He died instantly.”
    Jury noticed this brief recital was not very remorseful. “And her mother?”
    â€œDied right after Vivian was born. My own mother died about three years after marrying James Rivington.”
    â€œI see.” Jury watched her as she crossed and recrossed her legs, nervously making little jabs toward the ashtray with a fresh cigarette. He thought he’d take a shot in the dark. “Your stepsister is going to marry Mr. Matchett, is she?” Not precisely true, but it riveted her attention on him. Her fingers were poised over the ashtray, her head snapped around, her feet were planted firmly on the floor. Then she smoothed out her expression, and bland indifference reasserted itself. Jury wondered if her interest in Simon Matchett were more than merely friendly.
    â€œWhere did you hear that?” she asked, casually.
    Jury immediately switched the subject. “Tell me about this accident to James Rivington.”
    She sighed, a woman whose patience was wearing thin. “It was in Scotland one summer. When I was down from school. God, I hated it — the north of Scotland. Sutherland. An isolated, windy place — nothing to do but count the rocks and trees and heather. No-man’s-land, as far as I was concerned. We couldn’t even keep servants, except for one old cook. They loved it — Vivian and James. Well, Vivian had this horse she specially liked, stabled with the others out back. One evening Vivian and her father had an awful row, and she got so furious she just rushed right out in the dark and jumped up on that horse and he — James, I mean — came out after her. They were yelling at one another, and the horse shied and kicked her father in the head.”
    â€œIt must have been very traumatic for your sister — being so young, to have that happen, and herself up on the horse at the time. Was your sister very spoiled? Did she get much supervision?”
    â€œSpoiled? No, not really. She had a lot of fights with James. As to supervision, I suppose she had her complement of nannies and so forth. And James was pretty strict, certainly. As I said, a bit of a chauvinist. Of course, Vivian was quite sick about the accident. I even think it might have . . .” She paused and picked up the smoldering cigarette, which had turned half to ash in the glass ashtray.
    â€œÂ â€˜Might have —’?”
    Isabel blew out a narrow stream of smoke. “Unhinged her mind a bit.”
    Strange that these were Lady Ardry’s very words. “You think your sister is psychotic?”
    â€œNo. I didn’t mean that. But she’s certainly a recluse. You wonder why we left London. It wasn’t my choice, certainly. All she does is sit and write