“What kind of dog?” asked Diane Demorney.

“Sheepdog.”

“Mountain dog,” said Jury, who had remained standing.

Melrose looked at him. “You know the difference?” Nonchalantly, Jury shrugged. “You can just tell about this dog.” Melrose frowned, then said, “For heaven’s sakes, sit down, will you? You’re making us nervous.”

Jury laughed, looking at the group slouched comfortably round the table. “Yes, I can see all of you are a bundle of nerves.”

Diane Demorney, taking precious time from her martini, asked, “Does the dog have a name?”

“No,” said Melrose.

“Joey,” said Jury at the same time.

They stared at Jury; they wanted evidence.

“It’s on his collar.”

“When did you ever see his collar?” said Melrose.

“I told you. When he went by, I got up close to him.”

Vivian Rivington frowned. “He stopped for you?”

“Well, no, not exactly.”

They were all frowning at Jury now. He knew why, too. They wanted to have a name contest and he could be throwing a spanner into the works with his “Joey.”

Right, Trueblood apparently decided. He said, “We’ll have to name him.”

Theo Wrenn-Brown had come and pulled a chair round as if he were welcome. He shoved it in between Trueblood and Diane. He called over to Dick Scroggs, who was reading the Sidbury paper, leaning over it on the bar. Theo called for a gimlet. He could have called for his fiddlers three with more success.

He then settled in to get attention paid him. “Superintendent! Solved any cases lately?” “Hee-haw” was precisely and phonetically what Theo’s laugh sounded like. Hee-haw. “Where’s my drink? Dick!”

Dick blew his nose with a big handkerchief and went back to his paper.

“Oh, for God’s-” Theo shoved back his chair and stomped over to the bar.

“Should we do the naming the same way we did for Aghast?” said Joanna Lewes, who wrote books that were a commercial success.

“Nobody won that,” said Diane. “Melrose rejected all of our suggestions and went with his own name.”

“Well, it was my goat. Anyway, it was really Agatha who came up with it, by accident, of course. She was ‘aghast’ that I had a goat.”

“All right, all right.” Trueblood leaned over the table next door and plucked up a few small paper napkins. These he dealt out like a card shark.

Jury sighed. “I don’t have time to stay through another one of your contests. I’ve got to get to Chesham.”

“You mean Amersham?” asked Trueblood.

“No. I mean Chesham. Thanks.” The thanks was for Dick Scroggs, who had just handed Jury a pint of Adnams. “Besides, the dog’s already got a name: Joey.”

Diane said, “Yes, but you don’t know if it’s really his name.” On the edge of her glass, she tapped the toothpick that had lately speared the olive in her martini.

Jury knew better than to use reason with this crowd, but his line of work condemned him always to try. “Then is ‘Aggrieved’ real? Is ‘Aghast’ the goat’s real name?”

“Well, of course. We named him.”

That made sense. Jury drank half his pint and set it down. “I’ve got to get going. I’m meeting my sergeant in Chesham.”

“Yes, old scout. You didn’t tell us what was going on in Chesham.”

“A killer-naming contest. See you later.”

They stared after him openmouthed, clearly wondering, and he let them.

30

Mungo had paced for so long, he felt he’d worn his paws to nubbins.

Morris was lying on the carpet in the music room, watching him. She yawned and slowly closed her eyes; all that pacing tired her. Most things did.

Mungo stopped. Why is it all down to me? This is your fate we’re talking about. I’m not the one who wants to get back to Amerslum.

Amer-sham. Anyway, it’s Chesham. I told you, more than once.

More than once. More than once. He lay down and tried to curl his legs into his chest. Do you have more joints than me?

I don’t know. Morris yawned again: How are you going to get me back to Chesham?

Mungo didn’t answer. He went over to the walnut bureau and its bottom drawer, looking at the pile of kittens, looking for Elf. He needed to relax. The kittens were piled on top of one another. Was there nothing but black cats in this whole wide world? No wonder Mrs. Tobias thought Morris was Schrödinger. It was amazing that the two cats could coexist in this house without anyone’s knowing.

Mungo rolled two kittens away from the pile. They spat at him. Then he unearthed Elf.

What are you doing with that kitten? Morris asked.

Nothing. Mungo had Elf in his mouth, looking around for a hiding place. This activity relaxed him a bit; he could do it and think about a problem at the same time. He looked over the music room. Not the grand piano; he’d done that, along with the coal scuttle, the umbrella urn, the planters.

Put that kitten down, said Morris.

Boss, boss, boss, boss. Mungo didn’t care; he wasn’t all that interested in hiding Elf, so he dropped him.

Elf made his way fuzzily back to the drawer, trying to think nasty thoughts about his tormentor, but he couldn’t, as he was too little and his mind was formless and without messages.

The Spotter had been talking about Chesham and a case. Then he’d gone on about the “two kids”-oh, what an adventure that had been! But if there was a “case” in Chesham, was it possible it was Morris related? Mungo stopped his pacing and stared at Morris (who was taking a nap, no help there). Morris had been witness, if not to the murder, then certainly to the dead body.

Mungo hitched up one paw, set it down, picked up the other paw, set it down, the other up, down, up, down. Nervous excitement. He paced again, head down as if he meant to ram through a-Wait! Morris might not have known what she was seeing. How could you see a murder and not know?

He trotted over to Morris and gave her a shove where she lay.

Wake up!

Morris shifted and recurled herself.

Wake up! Listen-Think! Did you see a murder? Did you see anything at all that might have been a murder?

Morris narrowed her eyes. Of course not. I saw this person lying there, and then the woman and dog came along.

Mungo paced again and wished he smoked cigars. He could stand reflectively by the bay window, tapping ash. All right, maybe she hadn’t seen anything. What if she had? What would they do with the knowledge? Go to the local station and fill out a report?

Pacing. Stopping. But… what if the Spotter were to see Morris?

Well, maybe…

What did they have to lose?

Nothing at all.

Mungo went over and plopped himself down beside Morris. Listen: Here’s what we’ll do. There’s this pub called the Old Wine Shades Harry’s always going to. The Shades, for short.

I’d rather go to my own pub.

Don’t go all weepy on me. Life’s hard enough.

It is for Dora.

Oh, God, thought Mungo, I’ll run away and be a hobo dog. But he knew he wouldn’t. The food was tasty here, and the beds were good. And there was Elf and the rest.

He said, The Shades.