“He didn’t think anything of it at the time—this was years ago, they bought the car—but then when he happened to read about the accident—it got some play in the London papers—he started to wonder a little. There’s record that he called police about it a month or so after the accident.”

“About what?”

“All of the interest in this car and what would happen in a collision. Maybe you should talk to him. He was kind of vague, trying to remember the details.”

“You got a number for this Crenshaw?”

“Sure. Alex Crenshaw.” Brierly gave Jury the number and repeated the location.

“Thanks, Ian. Hold it. Hasn’t Flora Flood been charged yet?”

“No. She’s got one hell of a legal team. Treadwell—”

“That’s Melrose Plant’s firm, I think. Best in London.”

“She’ll need the best,” said Brierly, ringing off.

When he was some ten miles from Long Piddleton, Jury called Ardry End and asked Ruthven if Melrose was there, or—

“At the Jack and Hammer, Superintendent, although he should be back shortly.”

Knowing “shortly” could mean a lot of things, Jury thanked Ruthven and told him he’d be at Ardry End “shortly” but that he thought he’d check the Jack and Hammer first.

14

Which Jury was now entering—or trying to, as the door was blocked by Dick Scroggs, whose broad back Jury was trying to maneuver around, and Mrs. Withersby, standing in front of Dick, holding something.

“Shoot, Withers!”

The voice was Trueblood’s and the “something” looked like a kid’s water gun. Jury got a small spray on his neck. “What the hell’s going on?” He edged past the two and saw Trueblood some ten feet away, also holding some gun-like thing that delivered its peanut-bullet to Scroggs’s shoulder—or slightly past it—and then another to the molding of the door.

Behind Trueblood was a large cardboard cutout, roughly drawn as a double door. Joanna Lewes was holding it steady.

“Richard!” called Vivian Rivington, who, along with Diane Demorney, served as audience.

“What’s going on?” Jury asked again.

Trueblood answered: “A reenactment of the crime scene. Clever, isn’t it?”

“No,” said Jury, taking the chair beside Vivian. “What’s that alleged gun you’re using?”

“It fires peanuts. Picked it up at Windsor from a lad who was on a tour who held me up for ten quid.”

“I’m done. Where’s my gin?” Mrs. Withersby moved toward the public bar where Dick Scroggs was shoving a glass under one of the optics.

“You wasn’t supposed to wet me, Withersby.”

“Where’s Plant? Ruthven told me he was here. I’m amazed he isn’t part of this tableau.”

“Just left ten minutes before you came,” said Trueblood.

“I think Marshall’s been rather clever,” said Diane, who then called to Dick for another drink. “Really, drinks all around,” she added.