|
Until this morning, John Somerset had been a respected member of the House of Commons. Now he was a corpse, and a particularly annoying one. Ian McCloud appreciated a clue as much as anyone at Scotland Yard, but not in the form of a nursery rhyme, and certainly not when it was written with indelible black marker across a victim’s naked arse. God help him if one of Rupert Murdock’s “journalists” got wind of this—or worse, got their hands on a picture.
As if on cue, a reporter from one of the rags came into Ian’s favorite pub, close on the heels of a familiar-looking codger in brown tweed. The bartender nodded to the tweedy newcomer and started to fill a pint glass.
“The usual, professor?”
“No, I think a jack will do me tonight. But keep on with that one—no need to dirty another glass.”
The old man settled down at the bar next to Ian and raised his half-filled glass to no one in particular. Ian glanced down at his own beer. There was a line at the half-pint mark, with a crown etched above it. With the nursery rhyme playing through his mind like a schoolroom taunt, the professor’s request seemed significant.
“Excuse me, sir, but I heard you call for a jack. Is that another word for a half-pint?”
The older man beamed. “Indeed it is. Not commonly used, though, thanks to our first royal Charles.”
“Bloody hell,” the bartender muttered. “Now you’ve done it.”
“King Charles and Parliament were not on the best of terms, you might say,” the professor began. “At the time, establishments such as this one were taxed for each glass served. The king requested an increased rate and was soundly rebuffed. Since Parliament would not permit Charles to raise the tax on a glass, he sought to make the glasses smaller, so to collect the same tax more often. The jack was decreased in size, and the gill—that’s a half jack—followed suit.” He tapped the line on his glass. “As a protest, pubs and taverns serving the old, full measure started to mark the jack on their tankards and glasses, with a crown above it. Keep out of our beer, the message was. Not long after, Charles lost his crown—not to mention the head that wore it. Some folk say—”
“That this was the origin of the Jack and Jill nursery rhyme,” Ian murmured.
The professor looked a bit put out by the interruption, but he nodded. “Indeed. Some early illustrations of the rhyme show two lads climbing the hill—Jack and Gill.”
“Jack fell down and broke his crown—Charles’ crown, apparently—and Gill came tumbling after.”
“It’s just a theory,” the professor admitted, “but a compelling one.”
Ordinarily, Ian wouldn’t think so, but it fit rather neatly into the day’s strange events. Rather too neatly, in fact.
From the corner of his eye, Ian noted that the reporter had taken a seat near the bar, well within earshot of the professor’s impromptu lecture. Matt Taylor, his name was. Ian knew him slightly—an unpleasant fellow, not half as clever as he thought himself. Ian recalled a nasty piece he’d written some while back about John Somerset and another Member of Parliament—something to do with buggery, totally unfounded. Taylor had lost his post because of it. Somerset had seen to that.
Small wonder Taylor was dogging the inspector charged with investigating Somerset’s death. This story could mean a vindication, reinstatement . . . and perhaps something more?
Ian swung back to the professor. “Has the rhyme any other meaning?”
“Oh, yes. Some say it refers to Louis XVI and Marie Antoinette, others to a young couple in Somerset, still others say it’s a metaphor for sexual congress. It could have roots in all these things, or none of them.”
Sexual congress, Ian mused. John Somerset, known to his friends as Jack. Jack and . . .
Gilbert Winter.
The name of Jack Somerset’s supposed partner in buggery came to Ian, and with it, a certain twisted logic fell into place.
In a low voice, he asked, “You’ve told that tale here before?”
“Many times, I’m afraid.” The professor shrugged. “At my age, men do tend to repeat themselves.”
And that, Ian surmised, was exactly what the reporter was counting on. This was a story tailor made for the tabloids—quite literally.
And Gill came tumbling after.
The last bit of the nursery rhyme suddenly took on a new and ominous meaning. Ian tossed back the rest of his pint and went out to his car. A few phone calls confirmed his suspicions.
He was not surprised to see Taylor slink out of the pub and into a battered blue Mini. Ian dialed a colleague at Scotland Yard and then pulled out into traffic. A moment later, the Mini followed.
“Send some men over to Gilbert Winter’s home. That’s right, the MP. It’s open season on Parliament, I’m afraid. You know Matt Taylor, used to report for The Sun? He’s right behind me. I plan to lose him in traffic on my way home, but I expect he’ll show up at Winter’s house, regardless.”
Ian glanced at the light up ahead. He could make it, but only just. “Hold a moment.”
He shifted lanes and made a quick left turn, leaving Taylor sitting three cars back. There was no chance of him catching up before Ian reached the roundabout. It was almost a shame, really. A man who’d go to so much effort to create a story should get a chance to tell one.
A grim smile lifted one corner of Ian’s mouth.
“You’ll need to arrest Taylor for the murders of Jack Somerset and Gill Winters. But first, be sure to let him tell you how he happened to be the first reporter on the scene.”
|
