The Black Cat

The inimitable Richard Jury returns in a thrilling tale of mystery, madness, and mistaken identity

Three months have passed since Richard Jury was left bereft and guilt- ridden after his lover's tragic auto accident, and he is now more wary than ever. He is deeply suspicious when requested on a case far out of his jurisdiction in an outlying village where a young woman has been murdered behind the local pub. The only witness is the establishment's black cat, who gives neither crook nor clue as to the girl's identity or her killer's.

Identifying the girl becomes tricky when she's recognized as both the shy local librarian and a posh city escort, and Jury must use all his wits and intuition to determine the connection to subsequent escort murders. Meanwhile, Jury's nemesis, Harry Johnson, continues to goad Jury down a dangerous path. And Johnson, along with the imperturbable dog Mungo, just may be the key to it all.

Written with Martha Grimes's trademark insight and grace, The Black Cat signals the thrilling return of her greatest character. The superintendent is a man possessed of prodigious analytical gifts and charm, yet vulnerable in the most perplexing ways.

Richard Jury, book 22, 2010

It was already in the bloody London tabloids, the case not yet three days old and his own face plastered all over the paper when it was really Thames Valley police, and not the Met, not he, who owned the case.

Superintendent Richard Jury, high-ranking detective with the Metropolitan police, but without much feeling for rank, and who’d climbed the ladder without much feeling for the rungs, found himself at the moment in High Wycombe in Buckinghamshire, in a mortuary looking down at the body of an as yet unidentified woman.

What had made it so fascinating, he supposed, was not simply that the glamorous girl (woman, surely, only “Glam Girl” made much better copy) had been shot dead in the grounds of a pub not far away, in Chesham, but that forty-eight hours on, they hadn’t discovered who she was.

Jury looked at her and wondered why the portrait of Chatter-ton came to mind; then he remembered Millais had also painted Ophelia, or his idea of her. And there was that larger concept that had looked so familiar-the Pre-Raphaelite period-that Romantic period of Rossetti, Holman Hunt, Millais, and rich fantasy, vibrant colors, and the death of youth. The Pre-Raphaelites were really into dying young.

Dr. Pindrop. Jury loved the name, although it didn’t suit the doctor. Silence was not the doctor’s milieu. He sputtered a lot, showing signs of being about to erupt but managing not to do so.

“Two shots,” said Pindrop, “one missing the vital organs-” Here he pointed at the badly wounded shoulder in case Jury was blind. “It was the second one in the chest that did for her.”

Jury nodded, said nothing, tried to memorize the woman’s classically sculpted face.

“Superintendent?”

Jury looked up.

“You’ve had a right good look. Can I cover her up now?”

Jury assumed the irritation was for the usual reason: why was New Scotland Yard sending people round? “No. Leave it for a moment.” Jury continued his “right good look.” A.38 had done the job, according to forensic. No gun had been found, a couple of casings had.

The doctor had shown him the clothes she’d been wearing, designer dress, shoes, small handbag.

“Label’s messed up. Looks like Lanvin. That’s the French chap.”

“No. Saint Laurent. The other one.”

Pindrop smirked. “Oh. You know this French lot, do you?”

“I know a lot of things.” Jury wanted to laugh.

The doctor gave a Dr.-Watson-as-played-by-Nigel-Bruce sort of grunt-laugh.

The dress was beautiful. It was sedate and yet not. The neckline consisted of layered ruffles. The sleeves were transparent as glass, reaching nearly to the elbow. The dress was the same color as her hair, a burnt orange. It was made of silk or air. He’d never seen a dress that looked so decorous and so sexy at the same time. The shoes were designed by Jimmy Choo. That name was writ large across the instep of a sandal of exquisitely crisscrossed, narrow leather ribbons of iridescent copper. The bag was Alexander McQueen. Jury didn’t know him but imagined he ran with the others, along Upper Sloane Street. All of this getup would run to a couple thousand quid, he bet.

“Expensive,” said the doctor. “Must’ve been well-fixed.”

“Or someone was.” He looked up. “Do you live in Chesham?”

“No. In Amersham. Old Amersham, not the one on the hill.”

A proud distinction, apparently. “You can’t say if she’s a local, then?”

Dr. Pindrop ran his hand through thinning hair. Jury figured him to be at the back end of his sixties. “I’d swear I’d seen her before.”

This surprised Jury, since the doctor brought this out with a bit of sympathy that he hadn’t shown until now.

“She looks familiar to you.” This at least was something.

“Yes, for some reason. Perhaps she is a local. If not Chesham, perhaps Amersham, Berkhamsted… well, you know.”

“I’m not familiar with the area.”

The doctor pulled up the sheet and dropped it over her face. “Then why did they want you?”

It was the same question Jury had posed and Detective Chief Superintendent Racer had answered, or rather half-answered. “Because they asked.”

Oh, well, thought Jury. He waited for Racer to embellish. Racer didn’t. “That’s it? That’s all? Who’s ‘they’? And why? Thames Valley is the best, certainly the biggest nonmetropolitan police force in the country, and they need us?”

Racer flapped his hand at Jury the imbecile. “No, no. Of course they’re perfectly capable. Chief constable’s a friend of mine. Discretion. You know how it is.” He started shuffling the papers on his desk, which wasn’t easy, as there were only three or four.

Again, Jury waited. The “why?” was still in abeyance, though he was the only one to realize this, apparently. He let it pass. “When did all of this happen?”

“You mean this woman’s murder? On the Saturday night, as far as they can make out.”

Jury looked at him. “Today is Monday.”

“I’ve got a calendar, man; I know what day it is.” Shuffle, shuffle.

And he also knew perfectly well how cold the trail was by now.

Racer glared. “I’m sorry we can’t have a perfectly fresh body for you, lad. But there it is. Enough time’s been wasted-”

As if Jury were the waster.

“So you’d better get your skates on. They’re putting her on hold.”

On hold. As if this poor woman had been making a phone call rather than being murdered.

“Chesham. Near Amersham in Bucks. I’ll give police there a jingle, have somebody pick you up.”

“That’s all you can tell me, then, about this murdered woman? But if Thames Valley police don’t know who she is, I fail to see the need to be discreet.”

“You’re no master of discretion yourself, man!” came the non sequitur.

Detective Sergeant David Cummins of the Thames Valley CID met Jury at the Chesham underground stop. The underground was a godsend for the residents here who worked in London. To be let off driving in London traffic was a miracle, in addition to the weary businessman’s being able to lead a bucolic life out here in almost-country.

DS Cummins had kindly darted into the café by the station to purchase tea for Jury. Cummins was obviously impressed, not only to get a CID man from New Scotland Yard, but a detective superintendent, no less. They don’t come much higher than that.

Jury didn’t bother telling him that his boss was higher than that. He wondered when the last time was that Racer had actually worked a case.

“What can you tell me?”

Cummins took a deep breath, as if he were going to let loose a long and intricate story. “Not much, sir. Taxi picked her up at Chesham station, said she had him drop her at the Black Cat. Told her he’d get as close as he could; it’s because the roadworks had burst pipes along the street and in front of the pub.”

Cummins went on: “According to him she didn’t say anything about a party or anything else. You’ll want to talk to him, I expect. The body was found by a woman who’d been walking this way with her dog, an Emily Devere.”

“A local?”

“No. She lives in Amersham.”

“But she was walking her dog in Chesham?”

“It’s a public footpath that she especially likes. And the Black Cat’s always been a favorite, she says.”

Jury guessed the attraction was more pub than path.

“Did you get anything helpful from her?”

Cummins shook his head. “She was pretty rattled by the whole thing. She couldn’t raise anyone in the pub, so she called police on her mobile.”

“What way did she come onto the patio and tables?”

“She often came round from the footpath, walked behind the pub, and then up to the back and the patio through the trees. It’s not really a wood, is it? Just the trees behind the pub. Said she saw a cat, a black cat, run off into the trees. Probably the pub cat.” Cummins plowed on. “Now, as to the party idea: a well-to-do couple named Rexroth were throwing a pretty big one at their home, and it’s near the pub. Deer Park House. According to them, they’d never seen the woman, didn’t know anything about her. I’m pretty sure they were being truthful.”

“Just how big a party?”

“Eighty or more, probably more. On that score they were a bit vague.”

Jury smiled. “If I had eighty people around, I’d be more than vague; I’d be dead drunk.”

Cummins liked the levity. “There was plenty of that, too, they said. Good-natured couple, the Rexroths.”

“Then they’ll be glad to see us.”

The Black Cat was on the Lycrome Road, on the edge of Chesham. They were by then pulling into the small car park. The pub itself was pale yellow-washed, pleasant and unassuming. “Do Not Cross” tape cordoned off the back of it.

“Place has been closed off since,” said Cummins, “but I expect that’ll be taken down now. No reason to interfere with business any more than’s necessary. Owners are on an extended holiday, and it’s being looked after by a friend of theirs. Name’s Sally Hawkins and she lives in Beaconsfield but helps out if they need it. Her niece, I think the child is, lives with her.”

Jury turned from the small collection of trees to look at the pub. “Is Ms. Hawkins in?”

“Should be. I called to tell her you’d want a word with her. She wasn’t happy.”

“They never are. Show me where the Devere woman found the body.”

They walked across the car park and a patch of grass, wet and in need of cutting, to a patio where several tables were set out for the use of the customers in fine weather. Each had an umbrella on it, furled now. On one of them lay a black cat, also furled, thought Jury, curled tightly and peacefully sleeping. Jury ran his hand along the cat’s back. “Hello, cat,” he said. To Cummins: “Pub cat?”

“I shouldn’t wonder. Well, they’d have to have a black cat, now, wouldn’t they?”

The place looked deserted, but any place would, thought Jury, with a streamer of police tape across its car park.

“It was this table here,” said Cummins, moving to the table farthest from the car park. “She must’ve been sitting at it, we can’t be sure, but she was found sprawled behind it. Body was lying mostly on the patio, shoulders and head on the grass. It was as if she’d fallen off the seat at the impact. Forensic say the shooter was probably standing, given the path of the bullet, the way it hit the victim.” Cummins raised his hand, simulated a gun pointing downward.

“Drinks on the table?”

Cummins shook his head. “No. Nothing.”

“It would seem, then, they weren’t friends sharing a quiet drink together.”

Cummins looked at him. “It would certainly seem they weren’t friends.”

Jury smiled; he liked the mild put-down. “Suppose we have a word with Ms. Hawkins.”

They went through the door at the side, near the stone terrace, into a little hall and then into the bar. The room was long, narrow, not especially large, but certainly pleasant. Jury heard the tapping of high heels on stairs and a blond woman came into the room.

She wasn’t bad-looking, only a bit hard. Her eyes were like slate, her blond hair brassy, weighed down with the extra color that came out of a bottle. “Saw you two messing about outside, so I thought I’d better come down.”

DS Cummins told Sally Hawkins who Jury was. “He’d just like to put a few questions to you about the Saturday night.”

She tossed a lock of yellow hair from her shoulder. “Well, I told you what I know, which is sod-all. I’m having a drink, me. You want something?” Without much interest in the answer, she went behind the bar, expertly flipped a glass down from a rack, and placed it under the optic that held one of the lesser-quality gins.

Jury wouldn’t have expected her to be drinking Sambuca with coffee beans floating on top. He sat down on one of the bar stools. Cummins stood. “I’m sorry to be covering the same territory that you’ve already gone over, probably more than once,” said Jury. “But things can always use a fresh perspective.”

Her grunt said she didn’t agree, but she drank her gin happily enough.

“You’re here just temporarily?”

She nodded.

“You have a niece who lives with you?”

“Not a niece; she’s by way of being a ward.”

A vague designation, he thought, for a little girl’s life. He waited, but she didn’t enlarge upon “by way of being.”

“Is she here now?”

“No. She’s in Bletchley at her cousin’s. She’ll be here later tonight. I sent her off when that happened.” Here, Sally Hawkins dipped her head toward the car park.

“Bletchley?” said Jury. “I’m going there with a friend. Bletchley Park. I expect you know it.”

“Place where they messed about with codes during the war? Sounds bloody boring to me. What I want to know is, when are they taking down that tape out there? Don’t I ever get the gawkers, though?”

Cummins said, “It should be down this evening, I expect. But you can understand the need for it; we don’t want people trampling up the scene.”

“Well, who’s going to trample it, I’d like to know, what with that roadworks out there mucking about? Business is down over seventy-five percent because of that lot. No one could park until today. They’ve had it blocked off for nearly a week. I tell you.”

She shook her head at a world bent on making her miserable; then, with nothing left to complain about, she sank further into discontent, pulling a cigarette out of a pack on the bar.

Jury asked, “Had you ever seen the woman before or had any idea who she was?”

“Course not. It’s what I told the bloody police. I don’t know what she was doing out there.”

“There was a party Saturday night at…” Jury looked at DS Cummins.

“Rexroths’. Deer Park House, just up the road.”

Jury went on: “Given the way the woman was dressed, the thought is she might have been there, or been going there.”

“Funny old way to be going,” said Sally, giving Jury a big helping of smoke right in his face. “In those shoes. I don’t think so.”

“You’re right there. Jimmy Choo,” said Cummins.

“Ha!” said Sally. “Would you listen to him.” Her glass standing empty, she turned back to the optics.

Cummins’s face flushed a little. “It’s the wife. She’s really into shoes. Loves them.”

“Well, let’s hope she loves you more, dearie,” said Sally, back turned. “Those shoes cost the earth.” She turned back to them, her glass holding two fingers of gin.

“She could have been at the Black Cat to meet someone. Was there anyone in the pub, any stranger, on the Saturday night?” But if the “stranger” was planning murder, he’d have avoided putting himself on display.

Sally tapped ash from her cigarette into the aluminum tray. “Ha! Any stranger? Not even the regulars were here except for Johnny Boy and his old dog and Mrs. Maltese.”

When Jury looked at Cummins, the sergeant nodded. “Police have talked to them. No joy, no one saw a thing. No one was in the car park, no one sitting at the tables outside.”

“Was there any other function around that might have called for dressing up?”

“Not bloody likely,” said Sally.

The woman must have been bound for the Deer Park House party, then, going to or coming back. Despite the hosts’ denying they knew her. It was quite possible they didn’t, but it was also possible she was a guest, invited or not, perhaps the lady friend of someone who was invited. It made sense. You don’t put on Yves Saint Laurent, Jimmy Choo, and Alexander McQueen, then take a train and a cab only to go to the Black Cat. Look: meet me at the pub before you go to the party. Or after, or during. Just slip away. I can’t go there, after all. Why would the killer want to meet the victim in a public place? Because the victim would not have agreed to meet otherwise? The Black Cat was a good venue. Even on a Saturday night, it wouldn’t have been crowded.

“Thank you, Sally,” said Jury. “I might think of something else and be in contact with you.”

“I’m sure you will; police always think of something else.” But she said it in a good-natured way, and they left by the same door they’d entered.

They crunched across the gravel, Jury saying, “My guess is she wasn’t involved; she hasn’t enough passion for it.”

“I dunno.” David Cummins sighed. “People can fool you.”

“Enough have.” Jury moved to the table and patted the cat’s head. “What about the Rexroths, then?”

“They own Deer Park House, as I said. There’s a Deer Park Road, but the house isn’t on it; it’s across Lycrome Road and back a bit. If the woman was headed there, the Rexroths say they’d no knowledge of it.”

“Let’s have a talk with them.”

Cummins got out his mobile.

The black cat looked up, its amber eyes staring intently into Jury’s gray ones.

Did you see anything?

Jury tried to send the cat a message.

Tell me.

The black cat closed its eyes and told him nothing.