Free The Man with a Load of Mischief by Martha Grimes Page A

artists, writers, that sort.”
    â€œI imagine, being in the trade, you’ve got to know people hereabout pretty well? The gentleman who runs The Man with a Load of Mischief . . . ?”
    â€œSimon Matchett? Lovely person, but all that old English oak is going to fall apart from woodworm some day. Well, I daresay inns must look inn-ish. Isabel Rivington simply adores it. Or him.” Trueblood winked. “I can’t imagine anything less rustic than Isabel.” As he rose to pass Jury the cake plate, he glancedout of the bay window. “Well, there she goes, all got up like a dog’s dinner.”
    â€œWho’s that?”
    â€œLorraine Bicester-Strachan.” He made a face. “Louis Quinze.”
    â€œIs that her companion? Or a period?” asked Jury, dryly.
    Trueblood laughed. “That’s rich. The period, Inspector. She couldn’t tell the difference between an original and a copy if she had to. She’s a proper little bitch. I wouldn’t be old Willie — that’s her husband — even if you offered me an Oeben original. She’s another one after Matchett. Gets her knickers in a twist every time Simon so much as glances at Viv Rivington. After anything in pants, Lorraine is. Except yours truly.” He adjusted his glasses. “Nearly killed old Lorraine, I’m sure, when Melrose Plant told her to scarper. Now, that Plant has good taste. One of my best customers. Queen Anne, he goes in for. It nearly kills that crazy aunt of his; she’s Victorian. Been in her cottage? All those awful humps and lumps, the place writhes with ugliness!”
    â€œHer nephew, I understand, is — was, rather — Lord Ardry.”
    â€œCan you credit that, Inspector? Just giving up being a lord as easy as kiss your hand? I mean, people just don’t do that sort of thing, do they? But then, Melrose isn’t just anyone.”
    â€œCan you tell me more about Small?”
    â€œNo, not really. I asked him where he was bound for, and he just laughed and said, ‘I’ve arrived.’ He struck me as the sort one always sees coming out of the turf accountant’s.”
    â€œInteresting.” Jury set down his cup. “Thank you for letting me take up your time this way, Mr. Trueblood.” Jury stood. “Incidentally, you wouldn’t know the vicar’s housemaid, Ruby Judd, would you?”
    Trueblood shifted uneasily in his chair, then he, too, stood. “I know her, yes. Doesn’t everyone? Perhaps the closest thing we have to a Lady of the Evening. If one doesn’t count Sheila. Well, mustn’t be catty, must I?” Trueblood smiled. “What about Ruby?”
    â€œJust that she’s been gone for nearly a week now, from what I hear.”
    â€œI shouldn’t wonder. Rumor has it that Ruby’s got men here and there, you see.”
    â€œYes, well, thank you again.” Jury looked over the room once more. “You’ve got some beautiful stuff here. I’m pretty stupid about antiques.”
    â€œOh, I doubt you’re really stupid about anything, Inspector.”
    The compliment seemed not insincere, but quite studied. Jury felt an odd moment of empathy for Trueblood. There was something about Trueblood that might have attracted both men and women. He might be a homosexual, yes, but was he this kind — the silk scarves, the tinted glasses, the swishings and mincings?
    Jury stopped at the front door and said, “I wonder if he meant it literally.”
    Trueblood looked puzzled. “Who meant what?”
    â€œSmall. I’ve arrived.’ He must have meant to come to Long Piddleton.”
    Trueblood laughed. “Who could possibly mean to come here in dead winter? And a perfect stranger?”
    â€œPerhaps he wasn’t a perfect stranger. Good-bye, Mr. Trueblood.”
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    When Jury and Wiggins were shown into the saloon bar of