Free Rainbow's End by Martha Grimes

she opened up the small package. “I just got these from Czechoslovakia. They come from Marienbad. Or what was Marienbad. I wonder if they’ll change the name back again. Want a piece?” She held out the big circle of wafer-thin vanilla biscuit.
    Melrose broke off a bit, tasted it. “Delicious.”
    She nodded. “If you live next door, you should come and see us.”
    Melrose smiled. Sounded like Ardry End and Watermeadows were a couple of terraced houses. “Thank you. I shall.”
    â€œWell, goodbye, then.”
    He looked around. There was no car except for his; he hadn’t heard one before, he remembered. “But how did you get here?”
    â€œWalked.”
    â€œBut—look, I’ll be more than happy to give you a lift.”
    â€œNo, thank you.”
    Melrose frowned. It must be a good mile from here to Watermeadows. And the dirt road to the highway was hard and rutted. Difficult walking in the best circumstances.
    She saw his expression. “It’s good for me. I need to walk.”
    â€œI see. Well, goodbye, then.”
    She made her difficult way across the sandy courtyard and onto the road, where she turned and waved.
    â€œThanks for the biscuit!” Melrose called, and watched her wave again.
    Watching her progress on that hard road, he recollected his first sight of her. He couldn’t have been more surprised if the goddess Diana had appeared in his door with the moon under her arm.
    Miss Fludd.
    â€œWell?” asked Trueblood, excitedly. “Well, well ?” A stagey whisper: “Who are they? How many? Little brother and sister? Alistair and Arabel—”
    â€œOh, be quiet !” Melrose said, irritated. “Her name is . . . Miss Fludd.”
    â€œI bloody well know that, old sweat. Sly told us that. ”
    Trevor Sly came from the back room in a tinkling of bead curtain. “Gentlemen, gentlemen, anything?”
    Grumpily, Melrose shoved his pint down the bar. “Give me a Tangier.”
    Marshall Trueblood put his hand on Melrose’s shoulder in a comradely and (Melrose thought) even commiserative gesture. Melrose didn’t answer. He just sat, feeling inexplicably miserable, with his chin in his hands.
    â€œWhat about the chocolate Labs?”

EIGHT
    The small, shy-looking maid-servant wearing a black uniform and an uncertain look admitted Jury to the Belgravia house.
    In a living room full of exquisite pieces, exquisitely upholstered in variations of blue and gray, Lady Cray herself was setting fluted glasses on a silver tray beside a silver wine cooler, when the maid showed Jury in. Lady Cray was wearing one of the silvery-blue outfits she favored, a long dress with a fold of chiffon collar and cuffs encrusted with tiny pearls around the edges. The dress matched the room, that elusive blue-gray of Waterford crystal, when the facets are turned at certain angles. Jury had always thought Lady Cray had the look of old crystal.
    Champagne was her favorite drink, the hell with tea for one’s elevenses. She said, “If you tell me you’re on duty and can only drink Ribena you won’t be getting any information out of me during this interview.”
    He accepted the glass she held out. “Actually, I was going to ask for a tumblerful of gin.”
    â€œAh. I take it the investigation isn’t really proceeding. Whatever the investigation is. Cheers.” She tipped her glass in his direction, made a sweep of her arm toward the sofa behind him.
    Jury sank into its impossibly soft, deep cushions. He thought he could have stayed here for days on this sofa, drinking champagne, listening to Lady Cray.
    â€œIt’s about Fanny, again?”
    Frances Hamilton had been her best friend and, when she died so suddenly in the Tate Gallery, had been living here in the house in Belgravia. Jury wondered if he had told Lady Cray that the last image on thedead woman’s eyes had been the portrait of