Martha Grimes - The Blue Last

Book 17 in the Richard Jury series, 2001

Poet, it says, died from stab of rose. Must be a thorn that stabbed him. Who do you suppose that is?

Richard Jury looked up and across at Sergeant Wiggins. Rilke. What is that, the crossword? Rilke, if memory serves me. Memory served up entirely too much. Jury sat reading a forensics report while Detective Sergeant Wiggins, seated at a desk across the room, was stirring up ever more esoteric means of dying. Wiggins was really into death, Jury remarked not for the first time. Or at least into the ills that flesh is heir to. Wiggins was heir to the lot, to hear him talk.

Rilke? said Wiggins. He counted the spaces. Thatd fit all right. Youd be a whiz at crosswords, knowing things like that. He poured out the tea.

Thats the only thing I know like that.

Wiggins was spooning in sugar, and, having dumped four teaspoonfuls into his own tea, started in on Jurys.

One, said Jury, not even looking up from his folder. Tea making in this office had achieved the status of ritual, one so long undertaken that Jury knew where Sergeant Wiggins was at every step. Perhaps it was the spoon clicking against the cup with each teaspoonful that sent out a signal.

Was he hemophiliac, then, this Rilke?

Beats me. Trust Wiggins to put it down to a disorder of blood or bone. A lengthy silence followed, during which Jury did look up to see Wiggins sitting with his hands wrapped around both mugs as he stared out of the window. Is my mug going to grow little mug legs and walk over here on its own?

Wiggins jumped. Oh, sorry. He rose and took Jurys tea to him, saying, when hed returned to his own desk, I just cant think of other blood conditions that would result in death from a rose-thorn prick.

Lines of a poem came unbidden to Jurys mind:

O Rose, thou art sick.

The invisible worm

William Blake. He wouldnt mention this to Wiggins. One rose death was enough for one morning.

Wiggins persisted. A prick could cause that much blood to flow? I mean, the guy could hardly bleed out from it. He frowned, drank his tea, kept on frowning. I should know the answer to that.

Why? Thats what police doctors are for. Call forensics if youre desperate.

That flies in the night

In the howling storm

Jury closed the file on skeletal remains and watched the slow-falling snow. Hardly enough to dampen the pavement, much less a ski slope. Well, had he planned on skiing in Islington? He could go to High Wycombe; they had all-season skiing around there. How depressing. In two weeks, Christmas would be here. More depressing. You going to Manchester for Christmas, Wiggins?

To my sister and her brood, yes. You, sir?

You mean am I going to Newcastle? No. That he would not go to his cousin (and her brood) filled him with such a delicious ease that he wondered if happiness lay not in doing but in not doing.

Wiggins appeared to be waiting for Jury to fill him in on his Christmas plans. If Newcastle was out, what then? When Jury didnt supply something better, Wiggins didnt delve. He just returned to death and its antidotes, a few bottles and vials of which were arranged on his desk. Wiggins looked them over, hit on the viscous pink liquid and squeezed several drops into a half glass of water, which he then swirled into thinner viscosity.

He said, But were on rota for Christmas, at least Christmas morning. I wont get to Manchester until dinnertime, probably.

Hell, just go ahead. Ill cover for you.

Wiggins shook his head. No, that wouldnt be fair, sir. No, Ill be here. Christmas can be hell on wheels for people deciding to bloody up other people. Just give some guy a holiday and he goes for a gun.

Jury laughed. True. Maybe well have time for a bang-up lunch at Danny Wus on Christmas Day. He never closes on holidays. Ruiyi was the best restaurant in Soho.

Then came silence and snow. Jury thought about a present for Wiggins. Some medical book, one that might define Rilkes disease of the blood, if thats what it was. A thorn prick. O Rose, thou art sick. He tried to remember the last four lines of this short poem, but couldnt.

Wiggins had gone back to the newspaper. Theyre starting to clear the old Greenwich gasworks. To put up the dome, that millennium dome theyre talking about.

Jury didnt want to hear about it or talk about it. Wiggins loved the subject. Thats years away, Wiggins. Lets wait and be surprised.

Wiggins regarded him narrowly, not knowing what to make of that runic comment.

Jury got up, pulled on his coat and picked up the folder which held Haggertys report. Im going to the City; if you need me Ill be at Snow Hill police station with Mickey Haggerty.

All right. Wiggins drank his pink stuff and turned toward the window. He said, as Jury was going out the door, It sounds like something out of a fairy tale, almost.

What does? The millennium dome?

No, no, no. Its this Rilke fellow. Its like the princess who pricked her finger spinning, falling asleep forever. Dying from the prick of a rose thorn. He looked at Jury. Its sort of a breathtaking death, isnt it?

I guess I dont want to be breathtaken, Wiggins. See you.

The City of London, that square mile which was Londons commercial and financial heart, had never been a hive of industry at the weekend. At the weekend, it was quaintly dead.

Jury left Tower Hill underground station and stood looking across Lower Thames Street. He couldnt remember the last time hed been this close to the Tower of London. The tourists were snapping pictures, a few with disposable cameras, others with more sophisticated ones. Christmas was in two weeks, a popular time for tourists. He passed an Indian restaurant on Fenchurch Street, and if that was closed he could pretty well bet that everything was.

But not the Snow Hill station, of course. An unhappy-looking constable was on duty behind the information desk and looked almost grateful that Jury wanted nothing more than a direction to Haggertys office. Detective Chief Inspector Haggerty? Through there, down there, his door there. Jury thanked him.

Haggerty was sitting at his desk, looking at police photographs when Jury walked in. Mickey Haggerty got up and walked around the desk to take Jurys hand and punch him on the shoulder a couple of times, making it more than a handshake, less than an embrace. Jury hadnt seen Mickey Haggerty, or his wife Liza, in several years and felt guilty for allowing the friendship to languish. But that wasnt entirely down to him, was it? Mickey must bear some of the brunt.

No cop (thought Jury) was more in place than Mickey Haggerty. He fit the Job as snugly as a paving stone in a new-laid path. Hello, Mickey. Its been a long time.

Too damned long, said Mickey, who indicated a chair for Jury before reseating himself. Howre you keeping, Rich?

Fine. This sort of exchange would have been banal between most people, but not with Mickey on the other end of it. He genuinely wanted to know. They talked for a minute about Liza and the kids, and then Jury slid the file hed brought across the desk to Mickey. Looks like a dig. This is a case youre working on? Was I supposed to come up with some helpful response? I dont know much about forensic anthropology-