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

the Man with a Load of Mischief by the elderly waiter, Simon Matchett was in close colloquy with a dark-haired, handsomely dressed woman, one of those whose age is always a mystery. She could have been anywhere between thirty-five and fifty-five.
    In the simple process of the proprietor’s introducing himself, Jury understood easily how much Simon Matchett might appeal to women. Had Jury not known from Pratt’s report that the man was forty-three, he would have put him at ten years younger. Light brown hair, close curling, a squarish face, thin mouth, but amiable. Indeed, the overall impression was one of amiability, but of a rather studied sort. The whole face seemed an aristocratically chiseled mask. The eyes were a brilliant blue, like chips from a frozen sky, and it was his ability to concentrate their expression which must have suggested to each woman that she was the sole object of his interest and perhaps thesingle repository of his affections. Today, the color of Matchett’s eyes was enhanced by the open-necked blue wool shirt he wore, the long sleeves rolled above the wrist.
    This Miss Rivington was certainly not mousy and subdued; she wore a stylish dress of blue wool, which looked as if it had been chosen to set off Matchett’s eyes, perhaps to underscore how well they suited one another. A waterfall of Russian amber beads hung nearly to her waist. A mink wrap was draped over the stool in front of the bar.
    Matchett introduced her as Isabel Rivington, and then pulled out two of the oak stools and said, “Let me get you and the sergeant a drink.”
    Wiggins, who had been standing about like a lamppost, asked if he might just have something hot, a cup of tea perhaps. He felt he was coming down with a cold. Matchett excused himself to fetch it.
    â€œI’d like to call on you, if I may,” said Jury to Isabel Rivington. “I’ve a few questions.”
    â€œWell, I can’t see what else there is to tell. I’ve gone over everything for that superintendent who was here.”
    â€œI appreciate that. But there might be one or two small points you’ve forgotten or overlooked.”
    â€œWhy not ask me now?” She looked at the door through which Matchett had exited, as if she needed moral support. Over the rim of her small glass of some deadly-looking potion, she appraised Jury. Her eyes were dark, heavily done up with lavender shadow and mascara that beaded the tips of her lashes.
    â€œRight now, I have a few questions to put to Mr. Matchett,” said Jury.
    She put down her glass and picked up the mink. “I take it that’s an invitation to leave.”
    Matchett was back, telling Wiggins that the cook had the kettle on.
    â€œWell, I’m off,” said Isabel Rivington, sliding down from the stool. “I’ll see you later, Simon. Notwithstanding any more murders,” she added with icy sweetness.
    When she had gone, Jury asked Matchett to get the register.He found December 17 and the name of William T. Small, Esq., written in a rough hand.
    â€œHe came in that afternoon, around three I think it was. I was just going over to Sidbury to pick up a wheel of Stilton, and since it’s early closing on Thursday, I wanted to be sure I got there whilst the shops were still open.”
    â€œAnd he didn’t mention any particular reason for stopping here?”
    â€œNo, he didn’t.”
    Jury repeated the names of those who had been at the inn the evening of the seventeenth. “Is that everyone?”
    â€œYes. Oh, there was Betty Ball, too. Came to bring the sweet for dinner, oh, around six or seven. She keeps the bakery in the village. I mention it because she came around back, and might have noticed the cellar door. Of course, it was earlier when she was here . . .”
    â€œYes. I’ll speak to her. Wiggins,” Jury called. The sergeant appeared to be dozing off, in company with a large dog, also sitting by