Dessert-sticky toffee pudding-came and went, and at about that rate of speed.

Polly put down her napkin and announced she was off to the ladies’ room. This, Melrose knew, was to give him an opportunity to take care of Alice. Melrose did. But not without difficulty. His best excuse was that, really, he and Alice could hardly get together with Polly here. To which Alice acted surprised the arrangement hadn’t been made already and that they could still… No, no, we couldn’t, said Melrose, slipping Alice the money for the evening’s encounter, feeling he had got off lightly; feeling, indeed, twice that sum wouldn’t have paid for the information.

So he paid her twice that sum.

“Polly, you were marvelous.”

“It’s a curse.”

They were finishing up brandies in the Members’ Room. Polly had to make the last train back to Littlebourne.

“You’ve been checking your watch about every thirty seconds, so you obviously want to check in with Superintendent Jury.”

They both got up. Melrose recalled just then that he’d stuffed Polly’s book in between the cushion and arm of the chair and now dug it out. Naturally, he hadn’t read enough of it to say anything halfway intelligent. He held it out. “Will you autograph this for me?”

She looked at the book, then up at him. “When you’ve read it.” Smiling, Polly walked out.

47

Jury put down the phone and sat staring at Wiggins. He was not really seeing Wiggins, only the images in his own mind, his response to Melrose Plant’s telephone call.

“What?” said Wiggins, indisposed because he couldn’t sort out what was wrong with the plug on the flex to the electric teakettle. “What?” he said again.

Jury flinched a little, Wiggins being as far from his mind as the electric kettle. “Sorry. That was Plant on the line. He said the woman he had a meal with last night knows Rose Moss, aka Adele Astaire.”

Wiggins stopped fiddling with the plug. “What did he find out?”

“They’d been school chums years ago. The woman-the one Melrose Plant was with-is one of Smart Set’s escorts.”

“Mr. Plant…” Wiggins snorted. “Can’t picture Mr. Plant-him who was Lord Ardry-in company with a slag.” But apparently he could picture it, for something was putting him in a better humor. He snickered.

“Don’t enjoy it too much, Wiggins. He did it because I told him to. Her name’s Alice Dalyrimple.” Jury smiled at the name.

“But then if she’s with Smart Set… so was Deirdre Small.”

“Yes. And DeeDee, as she called Deirdre, was worried about something, was even thinking of going to police.”

“Is this Alice involved, then?”

“I don’t think so. She was just the one supplied by the agency.”

“Then if she knows the Moss woman, does she-or did she-know Stacy Storm… Mariah Cox?”

“No.”

“Well, then, it doesn’t sound very significant, boss.” He had finally fitted the plug into an outlet. The kettle had water in it.

“But it is. It’s the connection. Look: we assume because three women working for these different escort outfits are murdered, the connection is the work itself-all three on the game. As the newspapers have made bloody sure people would think that’s the connection. But the connection between the three victims could have nothing at all to do with the sex angle, the escort service. It’s the women themselves. Here, at least, are two who know each other. It was reasonable to assume that the women working for these agencies were going with some psychopath who hated girls on the game. That’s what people think.

“We dug around in the past of the three victims and found nothing. Maybe that’s because we didn’t know what to look for. Now, I want you to look in on Myra Brewer. She knew Kate Banks all her life. I bet she has photos, albums of them, maybe stuff from her school days. I want to know if Kate knew either of the others.”

Jury was up and wrestling his arms into his coat. “Me, I’m off to have lunch with Harry Johnson.”

“You don’t mind my saying so, you seem a little obsessed with Harry Johnson, guv.” The blessed kettle whistled. Wiggins immediately popped a Typhoo bag in his mug and poured water over it.

Self-satisfaction steeped along with the tea.

Coat on, Jury went to Wiggins’s desk and leaned on it. “Harry Johnson was in Chesham the night Mariah Cox was murdered; he was at home, he says-his only witness being Mungo-the night Kate Banks was shot; he was supposed to be in the Old Wine Shades, which is but a few minutes from St. Paul‘s, around eight or nine the night Deirdre Small was murdered at nine o’clock. He showed up at the Shades nearer to ten. I was there.”

“But, sir-what’s his motive?”

Jury turned at the door with a wicked smile. “Because he could.”

The spot of lunch, more a spot of Château Latour, was overseen by Mungo, who unwedged himself from between the legs of Harry’s bar stool to stand at attention when Jury walked in.

“Mungo, how’s it going?” Jury scratched him between the ears.

Mungo sat with his tail threshing the floor.

“And how’s your case going?” asked Harry. Not waiting for an answer, since he knew he wouldn’t get one, Harry went on. “Remember the Poe story? ‘The Black Cat’? Do you believe in evil spirits?”

“Only you, Harry.” Jury nodded to Trevor, who then set a glass before him and poured the Burgundy.

“I’ll just get your lunches.”

“Ploughman’s okay?” asked Harry. “That’s what I ordered.”

“Excellent.”

Harry nodded to Trevor, who went off for the food.

“As I was saying, the cat may have more to do with the whole thing than you credit it with.”

Jury raised his glass and looked at the shifting grape red colors against the light. “Really?” He smiled.

“The cat disappears the night after what’s-her-name…?” Harry snapped thumb and finger together, frowned as if making a real effort.

“Stacy Storm.”

“What a ridiculous name. Anyway, after that night…”

Jury knocked back nearly half of the wine. “That night you were in Chesham. The Rexroth party. Ms. Storm was also meaning to attend but was, you could say, detained.”

Trevor returned with two white oval plates of cheese (cheddar, Stilton, Derbyshire), bread, Branston pickle, and pickled onion and set the plates before them.

Harry’s eyebrows rose. “Is that a fact?”

“But her gentleman friend attended, the one she was supposed to meet.”

“And you pulled him in and roughed him up and now you can leave me alone.”

Jury shrugged. “For all we know, her friend might’ve been you.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Harry was arranging a pickled onion on top of cheese on top of the thick bread.

Trevor had come with fresh glasses and a fresh bottle of another Bordeaux Jury had never heard of, but then he’d never heard of most of them.

Harry nodded at the label, and Trevor uncorked the bottle and poured.

They had four glasses now on the counter. Fine with Jury, who was having a swell time. They ate and drank in a silence that might almost have been called companionable, when Harry said, “Let’s go back to ‘The Black Cat.’”

“The pub?”

“The story. What’s fascinating is the pure randomness of the crime.”

“By random, you mean lacking motive? Any crime that looks as if the perpetrator simply picked off the subject arbitrarily could be said to be motiveless, right?”

“I suppose that’s so. But there’s a sense of power in doing something just because you can.” He smiled and drank off the rest of his wine, then crumpled his napkin on his plate. “Ah, that was good. But now I really have to run. Sorry.”

Then Jury said, “Police want to talk to you, Harry.”

“You are.”

Jury hoped he could ruffle him, but apparently not.

“Will you be in later this afternoon? There’s a City policeman, Detective Inspector Jenkins, who might want to drop by. With me.”