Free Jerusalem Inn by Martha Grimes

shifted gears from her Cinders-by-the-ashes to her social persona, and struggled toward the table, carpet-slippers slapping on bare oak. Mrs. Withersby’s idea of “social” did not, however, quite square with the norm, and even as she shoved her glass toward Trueblood, she said, “Gin-and-lager, Marigold. The Pansy Palace’ll be thieved one a these fine days, you sittin’ over here.” She hooked her thumb in the direction of Trueblood’s Antiques. She then turned her attention to Melrose Plant, who had thus far bought her three drinks, and her dented face broke, thin blue mouth like a bat trying to smile.
    â€œOney I must say, this ’un” — she looked toward Trueblood, who had gone to get her drink — “at least don’t sit about all day in some great lump of house doin’ nothin’ when others is workin’ theirsen to skin and bone.”
    â€œWithers, old bean,” said Trueblood, handing her her freshly filled glass, “we were all planning a rave-up at Harrogate. Orchestra laid on and everything. Black tie. You could wear your chiffon, the lemon yellow —”
    â€œPiss off, Marigold,” said Mrs. Withersby, by way of thanks, as her slippers slapped away.
    Trueblood shrugged, examined his perfectly manicured nails, and said, “So tell me. Why are you going up to the Northeast? You never go anywhere at Christmas; you always sit in your socks and drink Cockburn’s port in front of your blazing fireplace. And whatever will dear Auntie Agatha do without her Christmas goose?”
    â€œWe could take her along,” said Vivian.
    Melrose ignored that comment. If Vivian insisted on being idiotic . . .
2
    A WORD which might better have been saved for the dear auntie who was now filling the door of the saloon bar in her black cape.
    â€œAgatha, old sweat,” said Marshall Trueblood, shoving out the fourth chair with the toe of his highly polished shoe. “Do join.”
    Lady Agatha Ardry, who disliked nearly everyone in Long Piddleton except herself and the new vicar, especially loathed Marshall Trueblood. To her nephew, Melrose Plant, she had often expressed the opinion that Trueblood should be tarred and feathered and run out of town.
    Melrose had replied that they did that sort of thing in hernative America but over here they suffered fools to live. His glance (he hoped) had been full of meaning.
    â€œI see the Withersby person is here. No, thank you.” So she stood as she said, “What’s all this nonsense about going up to the North now Christmas is coming?”
    As if it hadn’t come around for years. Without looking up from his crossword, Melrose said, “For once I agree, dear Aunt. It is nonsense.” He ignored Vivian’s black look.
    â€œThought so.” Apparently this was such good news she plumped herself down in the proffered chair.
    But her face fell when Melrose continued: “Nonsense, but true, nonetheless.”
    Clearly, the announcement whetted her thirst, if not her mind. She called to Dick Scroggs for a double shooting sherry. His parted and oiled head looked up from his newspaper spread on the bar, saw who it was, and kept on with his reading.
    â€œI don’t understand this at all. You never go anywhere on holidays. Confirmed bachelor. Set in your ways . . . Mr. Scroggs!” she called again.
    â€œA bachelor, perhaps, but as yet unconfirmed. Nor, apparently, set in my ways if I’m willing to go to a house party. But since it’s Vivian who’s asked me —” He looked up and gave his aunt a darling smile, designed to turn her blue. She had always been afraid that something might happen between Melrose and Vivian. That Vivian had got herself engaged to another did little to alleviate Agatha’s anxiety, since the other was in Italy. “A weekend in the country. Some sort of artsy soiree. Vivian, not satisfied with suffering