The Stargazey by Martha Grimes Page B

overhanging thatch, which had loosened from the roof. Light was thrifty here; the parlor was steeped in darkness. Melrose called it the Twilight Zone.
    He was employing himself (while his aunt made tea) by picking out objects; from his ability to do so, or not, he could conclude whether he needed his glasses changed. Over there on a rusty floor stand meant for a birdcage sat the stuffed owl whose burning copper eyes were enhanced by the darkness. He had often wondered how E. A. Poe would have fared if the owl had been the poet’s inspiration. Indeed, Poe might have found Agatha’s cottage on the whole quite to his liking. There were the items sitting on the mantel over the fireplace: candlesticks, a pair of potteryshepherdesses, a Limoges knockoff—no, wait, perhaps not an imitation but the real thing, one of the Countess of Caverness’s real Limoges figurines. The Countess, Lady Marjorie, his mother. Melrose had discovered quite a few of the Ardry End collection here in Plague Alley. He could go to the mantel and look, but he did not feel like prying his way out of the overstuffed chair he was wedged into.
    He heard rattlings and clangings going on in the kitchen—Agatha organizing the tea. Her brute of a cat swayed in, an odd-looking creature that always seemed to have something wrong with one or more of its limbs. It sidled up to Melrose, stood there staring, then jumped up on one of the chairs and lay down. It had the queerest, most colorless eyes, which glowed like silver discs in the dark. Trueblood might consider him a candidate for the coffee bar, if worst came to worst.
    â€œMelrose!”
    â€œYes?” He had always disliked the practice of people shouting through rooms.
    â€œOh, never mind.” The exasperated tone suggested Agatha had been beseeching him for hours to do something, only to meet with his cold refusal.
    â€œAll right, I won’t.”
    She came, stoutly lugging a tea service that could also have been the Countess’s. The unreadable, intertwined initials could have stood for anything: Marjorie, Countess of Caverness; Lady Agatha Ardry; Dead Mouse in Pot.
    â€œHere, permit me to help you, dear Aunt.”
    â€œNever mind.” She muscled him out of the way. “You always do it wrong.”
    Could one pour tea wrong ?
    She clattered cups and saucers and cake plate around, stopping to inspect the silver creamer and complain that Mrs. Oilings hadn’t polished it properly. “I don’t know why I bother with that woman. She’s not worth half what I pay her.”
    â€œThank you,” said Melrose, accepting a cup of tea that he was quite sure was being presented in one of his mother’s Crown Derby cups. “I don’t know, I rather think the Oilings woman is perfect for this cottage.”
    Agatha regarded him suspiciously. “Why?”
    â€œWhenever I see her she’s always leaning on a broom, puffing a Gitane, thinking dark thoughts. Goes with the owl.” Mrs. Oilings, he fancied, wove cobwebs wherever she stood.
    â€œTalking nonsense, as usual. I must say I was surprised to see you.”
    â€œWhy? You’re always seeing me.” Melrose hesitated over taking a rock cake from the plate and thought it would be as safe as anything. “I just wanted to tell you I’m going up to London.”
    â€œWhat do you mean?”
    Melrose thought it had been fairly clear, so he repeated it. “I’m going up to London.”
    â€œVery well. I could do with a day at Harrods.”
    But could Harrods? “You may come along, if you don’t mind sitting in the back on a stack of old quilts.”
    â€œBack of what?”
    â€œWe’re going in Trueblood’s van.” He knew she’d refuse. She would forego Paradise if it meant driving there with Trueblood. “There’s to be a big catalog sale at Sotheby’s, and he needs the van to bring back what he buys.”
    â€œI’ve no