ever plagued him. Don’t you think so?”
“Not in the case of Jane, no. She was too attached to her son, for one thing.”
Kamir looked up from his empty cup. “And to you.”
Jury picked up the red box. “Perhaps not. I might have totally misread her.” He could not keep the bitterness from his tone. He felt, he might as well admit it, duped.
“It’s possible your anger is clouding your judgment.”
“I’m not—oh, the hell with it. Yes, I am angry.”
Kamir nodded in understanding. “We were speaking of the dress. But I was wondering about the shoes.”
“Shoes?”
In his diffident way, as if not wanting to burden Jury with any more than he had to, he gently pushed one of the photos toward him. It showed Jane Holdsworth stretched out full length on the chaise lounge. Her feet were stockinged, but she was not wearing shoes. Jury remembered looking at the black pumps, set so carefully together beside the bed. “I must be dim, Mr. Kamir, but I don’t know what you mean. If she took a handful of pills, it’s unlikely she meant to go for a stroll.” Abruptly, he shoved the photo back.
“My point is that if she had imagined, before she took those pills, her own appearance—as we were remarking about the dress—then why did she not put on the shoes?”
Jury was silent.
“You had, or meant to have, dinner with her last evening?”
“Meant to have, yes. But she said she couldn’t, that she had another appointment. How did you know?”
A deferential shrug. “The calendar. ‘R, din.’ was written in. And then crossed off.” Kamir shrugged. “You don’t know who it was she intended to see?”
Jury shook his head. “No.”
“But you must have questioned—”
“No, I said. For some reason, she wouldn’t tell me.”
Again, a silence fell. Kamir finally broke it. “Who would have reason to kill her?”
11
Jury stared at Kamir.
“Do you think, Mr. Jury, we could walk a bit, sit on the heath, perhaps? I’m finding this café extremely depressing.” Wearily, he looked at Jury. “I see you are too.”
Jury had more than the café to be depressed about, he thought, as he agreed.
• • •
They were sitting on a bench along one of the paths crisscrossing the common. When Jury was a boy, Blackheath had been more exciting a prospect to visit than the Tower. He could almost see the coaches, hear the horses’ hooves, hear the thunder and yell of the highwaymen as they halted the great coaches.
He had told Kamir during their walk here that, unless one counted the grandparents, Jane Holdsworth had no enemies. Looking out over the enormous green, whose horizon had seemed endless when he was a lad, he told Kamir that Dick Turpin must have been on his mind.
Enemies. The word seemed to have no relation to Jane at all. And yet, she did not have particular friends, either; acquaintances, one or two of whom he’d met, but close friends, no.
Kamir was looking down at the spiral notebook, talking about the Cumbria family. In-laws, Jury reminded him. Except for the sister,she had no family. And Alex, of course. He seemed to have made up an entire family for her on his own.
“What I’ve learned about them,” said Kamir, “you already know. You know far more, I’m sure. But I will tell you what I know. The husband, Graham—”
Jury felt an upsurge of jealousy.
“—is dead. The second Mrs. Crabbe Holdsworth—Graham’s father—Genevieve, who insists on the French ‘ve- ev’ pronunciation, seemed far more concerned about her grandson’s whereabouts than about the death of the mother.”
“Hardly surprising. The death of the mother, as far as Genevieve is concerned, would land Alex on her doorstep. I believe she’s suffering under a misapprehension there, from what I’ve heard of Alex.” Jury was able to smile at that.
“There is the grandfather, Crabbe (what strange names you English have) Holdsworth, to whom I did not speak. There is his brother, George, unmarried; a
“Not in the case of Jane, no. She was too attached to her son, for one thing.”
Kamir looked up from his empty cup. “And to you.”
Jury picked up the red box. “Perhaps not. I might have totally misread her.” He could not keep the bitterness from his tone. He felt, he might as well admit it, duped.
“It’s possible your anger is clouding your judgment.”
“I’m not—oh, the hell with it. Yes, I am angry.”
Kamir nodded in understanding. “We were speaking of the dress. But I was wondering about the shoes.”
“Shoes?”
In his diffident way, as if not wanting to burden Jury with any more than he had to, he gently pushed one of the photos toward him. It showed Jane Holdsworth stretched out full length on the chaise lounge. Her feet were stockinged, but she was not wearing shoes. Jury remembered looking at the black pumps, set so carefully together beside the bed. “I must be dim, Mr. Kamir, but I don’t know what you mean. If she took a handful of pills, it’s unlikely she meant to go for a stroll.” Abruptly, he shoved the photo back.
“My point is that if she had imagined, before she took those pills, her own appearance—as we were remarking about the dress—then why did she not put on the shoes?”
Jury was silent.
“You had, or meant to have, dinner with her last evening?”
“Meant to have, yes. But she said she couldn’t, that she had another appointment. How did you know?”
A deferential shrug. “The calendar. ‘R, din.’ was written in. And then crossed off.” Kamir shrugged. “You don’t know who it was she intended to see?”
Jury shook his head. “No.”
“But you must have questioned—”
“No, I said. For some reason, she wouldn’t tell me.”
Again, a silence fell. Kamir finally broke it. “Who would have reason to kill her?”
11
Jury stared at Kamir.
“Do you think, Mr. Jury, we could walk a bit, sit on the heath, perhaps? I’m finding this café extremely depressing.” Wearily, he looked at Jury. “I see you are too.”
Jury had more than the café to be depressed about, he thought, as he agreed.
• • •
They were sitting on a bench along one of the paths crisscrossing the common. When Jury was a boy, Blackheath had been more exciting a prospect to visit than the Tower. He could almost see the coaches, hear the horses’ hooves, hear the thunder and yell of the highwaymen as they halted the great coaches.
He had told Kamir during their walk here that, unless one counted the grandparents, Jane Holdsworth had no enemies. Looking out over the enormous green, whose horizon had seemed endless when he was a lad, he told Kamir that Dick Turpin must have been on his mind.
Enemies. The word seemed to have no relation to Jane at all. And yet, she did not have particular friends, either; acquaintances, one or two of whom he’d met, but close friends, no.
Kamir was looking down at the spiral notebook, talking about the Cumbria family. In-laws, Jury reminded him. Except for the sister,she had no family. And Alex, of course. He seemed to have made up an entire family for her on his own.
“What I’ve learned about them,” said Kamir, “you already know. You know far more, I’m sure. But I will tell you what I know. The husband, Graham—”
Jury felt an upsurge of jealousy.
“—is dead. The second Mrs. Crabbe Holdsworth—Graham’s father—Genevieve, who insists on the French ‘ve- ev’ pronunciation, seemed far more concerned about her grandson’s whereabouts than about the death of the mother.”
“Hardly surprising. The death of the mother, as far as Genevieve is concerned, would land Alex on her doorstep. I believe she’s suffering under a misapprehension there, from what I’ve heard of Alex.” Jury was able to smile at that.
“There is the grandfather, Crabbe (what strange names you English have) Holdsworth, to whom I did not speak. There is his brother, George, unmarried; a
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