The Old Wine Shades Read Free Page A

and deep reds and blues. There were tea things set out, a silver tea service and cups and saucers and so forth.’
    ‘You mean in the way of Miss Havisham in Dickens? Didn’t she keep everything regarding her near wedding exactly as it had been for years?’
    Harry had lit a cigarette and was now exhaling. ‘No, I don’t mean that.’ He seemed mildly annoyed that Jury was using fictional metaphor. He went on:
    ‘The house sits about two hundred feet from the road. All of the front was overgrown–grass, hedgerow, shrubberies, very large trees front and back–a wood, actually at the edge of the gardens behind the house, all of it almost luxurious in its wildness. But it certainly wasn’t anyone’s idea of a country cottage. Hugh said he couldn’t understand why the agent had even had it on her list of possible properties for Glynnis to see or that Glynnis would even bother going inside. It was quite an imposing place, but much too large.’
    ‘Well, I imagine she’s not the first agent to show a client unsuitable property. Could it be someone was waiting for Mrs. Gault? What about the boy? And Mungo, here–’
    They both looked down. Mungo looked up, again eying one and then the other. The look, thought Jury, did not appear to be yearning, but more bafflement or at least puzzlement.
    ‘Had he or she or they really planned on taking all three?’
    ‘Perhaps they had to; they could hardly let the boy go,’ said Harry.
    ‘But they did Mungo.’
    Harry rolled his eyes. ‘I expect they thought Mungo wasn’t about to write up a report on what happened.’
    ‘But an abduction doesn’t seem very likely with whatever was going on in the house, anyway. So you don’t know that there’s any connection between the house and Glynnis and Robbie Gauh’s disappearance. It could be simply a coincidence.’
    Harry studied his drink.
    ‘Who owns the house?’
    ‘A man named Ben Torres. Benjamin della Torres, actually.’
    ‘Sounds aristocratic.’
    Harry shook his head, picked up his glass.
    ‘Also sounds Spanish.’
    ‘Italian. He lives near Florence.’
    ‘You know a lot about this.’
    Harry nodded. ‘‘I had to, given everything that happened.’
    ‘Everything?’
    ‘What I’m telling you.’ Harry smiled and looked at his watch.
    ‘Look, it’s nearly nine. Would you like to get a meal? I know a terrific restaurant.’
    Jury looked at his own watch, astonished that he’d been talking to Harry Johnson for upward of two hours. ‘Why not? It’s a good idea. What about Mungo?’
    They both rose to put on their coats (Harry, cashmere; Jury, anything but). When Mungo saw this, he too got to his feet, tail wagging.
    ‘Oh, Mungo’s welcome to join us. I’ll just ring the place to tell them we’re coming.’ He pulled a cell phone from his coat pocket and turned away from Jury to make the call.
    Jury knelt down and scratched around Mungo’s ears. He wondered what the poor dog had been through. He wondered how an animal could have such a sense of direction to make a trip from God knows where back home. He wondered if ‘home’ meant more to animals than it did to humans.
    Harry flipped his cell phone closed. ‘Done. You’ll like this place.’ Then he smiled down at Mungo. ‘Incredible dog. I just don’t know what to make of him.’ He paused. ‘I don’t know what to make of any of this, actually.’

2
    ‘The house itself–it’s named Winterhaus, incidentally–I don’t know where that German bit came from. I wanted to know more about the house itself. It struck me as a place that would serve as a setting for something.’
    They were seated now in one of those pleasant restaurants where the food and the service clearly took precedence over the packaging: no terribly modern blue Lucite or smoked-glass room dividers or etched wall sconces; no sumptuous, sinuous leather and bright white linens. Just a comfortable arrangement of tables far enough apart that you didn’t feel the people at the next