The Knowledge

Martha Grimes

• Publisher: Atlantic Monthly Press
• Year: 2022
• Print ISBN: 9780802128010
• eBook ISBN: 9780802146250
• Topic: Literature
• Subtopic: Crime & Mystery Literature
• Index: Literature

As the New York Times–bestselling series continues, a double murder in front of an exclusive club takes a London detective on a wild ride.
Robbie Parsons is one of London's finest, a black cab driver who knows every street, every theater, every landmark in the city by heart. In his backseat is a man with a gun in his hand—a man who brazenly committed a crime in front of the Artemis Club, a rarefied art gallery-cum-casino, then jumped in and ordered Parsons to drive. As the criminal eventually escapes to Nairobi, Detective Superintendent Richard Jury comes across the case in the Saturday paper.
Two days previously, Jury had met and instantly connected with one of the victims of the crime, a professor of astrophysics at Columbia and an expert gambler. Feeling personally affronted, Jury soon enlists Melrose Plant, Marshall Trueblood, and his whole gang of merry characters to contend with a case that takes unexpected turns into Tanzanian gem mines, a closed casino in Reno, Nevada, and a pub that only London's black cabbies, those who have "the knowledge," can find. The Knowledge is prime fare from "one of the most fascinating mystery writers today" ( Houston Chronicle).
"Grimes' twenty-fourth mystery starring Richard Jury gets off to a breakneck start. . . . Besides the fast action, it's fascinating to see how Robbie uses a London's cabdriver's deep familiarity with the streets to keep himself alive. . . . Jury's devoted readership will find much to enjoy." — Booklist
"Solid. . . . Readers will appreciate the elements that have made this a long-running bestselling series, notably a complicated case and distinctive characters." — Publishers Weekly
"Martha Grimes' Richard Jury returns in a new mystery that is every bit as clever and suspenseful as her others. The plot is intriguing and unusual, featuring the usual cast of characters Grimes fans have come to know and love, as well as a set of streetwise, worldly children that could have come straight out of a Dickens novel." —Patricia Uttaro, Rochester Public Library

THE BLUE DEER SEE

South Kensington, London

Nov. 8, Friday morning

31

Jury had visited several small galleries by way of determining if Masego Abasi’s contract was being honored by the artist and by dealers.

One was in Bond Street, one in Regent Street; two were in South Ken. Three of the dealers were familiar with the name, one was with the paintings, all were with the Zane Gallery, of which they had a high opinion, although some questioned the taste of combining it with a casino. Rather tawdry, said the Bond Street dealer.

For some reason, Jury felt moved to defend Leonard Zane. “But what a marketing idea!”

It was clear the dealers who found the casino of questionable taste were jealous, because of their own lack of custom. In Bond and Regent Streets, no one at all came in while Jury was speaking to the dealers; in South Kensington, one or two people stepped in every so often, but it was hardly a steady flow. Given their proximity to the Victoria and Albert Museun, Jury would have expected that the V&A’s own collection might have inspired at least a trickle of people to stop into the nearby galleries.

The marketability of Zane’s gallery was clearly not lost on the South Kensington dealers, who certainly had no high rollers stopping by, indeed no rollers at all. Their rooms were largely empty except for the presence of New Scotland Yard.

In the last gallery in South Ken, where the manager, Mr. Gibbons, was acquainted with Abasi’s work, Jury spent more time talking—or, rather, listening. There were intermittent interruptions, caused by potential customers, and the manager quite naturally attended to them tout de suite.

During these little breaks, Jury studied a few of the paintings, sculptures and other artifacts. He saw an object hanging on one of the walls that at first confounded him, then intrigued him, then enthralled him. It was a circular piece of glass that contained something that looked like blue sand, hanging between a Jackson Pollock–type piece of art and a sentimental rendering of farm animals in a meadow. When, he wondered, would a pig be chomping grass? The price of this pig was seven thousand pounds. The price of the fake Pollock (a painter he kept trying to connect with and not doing so) was one hundred and fifty thousand. My God. Since the price of the blue sand was a mere two and a half, he thought it a bargain.

He was so fascinated by this blue sand that he hadn’t noticed Mr. Gibbons come up to him until the man said, “Unusual, isn’t it?”

Jury nodded. “Tell me, do you ever give discounts to Scotland Yard?”

Mr. Gibbons laughed. “The subject has never arisen, as Scotland Yard pretty much steers clear of the place.”

Jury liked that turn of phrase and laughed himself. “Okay. This is a first, then, and the question still stands.”

Holding an arm across his front, Mr. Gibbons buried his small chin in his small hand and looked thoughtfully at the objet d’art. “Hmm. Let me just ring the owner. Back in a tick.” He took himself off toward a landline on the desk at the opposite side of the room.

Jury kept telling himself that his savings were earmarked for a place in the sun following his retirement from the Met. This internal harangue continued for another few minutes as he stood there, hypnotized by the circle.

“Superintendent,” said Mr. Gibbons, breaking into Jury’s mental picture of the Côte d’Azur, “Mr. Tallow—he’s the owner—has agreed that a discount is in order, saying we should support the Metropolitan Police.” Mr. Gibbons smiled broadly, or as broadly as his narrow face permitted.

“Great!” said Jury.

“Would a reduction of, say, five hundred pounds be of interest?”

Since Jury hadn’t expected nearly that much, he also smiled broadly. “It certainly would, Mr. Gibbons. I’ll take it.”

While Mr. Gibbons had been having his chin-wag with the owner, Jury had kept looking at the circle of sand. Of course he could not afford it, even discounted. He had the money, as he had for years had virtually no expenses: dirt-cheap rent for his flat, considering what was going up now; he spent little on clothes, cars or pricey electronics. Most of his expenses involved taking Carole-anne to the Mucky Duck, or taking Phyllis Nancy to dinner in more expensive venues, but this was a rarer experience than he would have liked, anyway. Consequently, he spent a mere fraction of his Met check. And for God’s sake, he chided himself, when were you ever interested in a place in the sun? You loathe places in the sun.

Thus he could afford it, or at least rationalize its purchase. He could indulge himself and, as an added bonus, probably drive Sergeant Wiggins—already half crazy from Jury’s colored circle drawings—into full-time craziness.

New Scotland Yard, London

Nov. 8, Friday afternoon

32

Sergeant Wiggins walked into the office after one of his cleansing lunches—farro and alkaline water—and stopped dead.

His “murder board” had been appropriated: photos taken down, pictures of the Artemis Club driveway gone. In their stead were his boss’s highly questionable colored circles, headed by the names of the places to which they referred—or, rather, to which the string of names written inside each referred.

Only now there was something else hanging on the other wall. His boss had obviously hung this up—him, that had never so much as tacked a family picture to a bulletin board—the superintendent had actually got a hammer and nail and hung up this circle of glass. It was filled with something like sand. Blue sand. Moving sand. Wiggins quickly took a step back. Then he squinted and stepped closer to the circle. The container itself—that is, the glass—was moving, but the movement was so incremental that it was almost impossible to see; it had to be, since the sand was dispersing itself into little hills and hollows, especially around the perimeter. It was shifting spookily, falling away in tiny drifts, beginning at the top, moving, stopping, as if micro-movements of ghostly hands were rotating the glass. Well, at least it was another circle, thought Wiggins, aiming for consistency of purpose in Jury’s new approach to crime.

It was, in some strange way, hypnotic, so that Wiggins hadn’t noticed the door open until the cat Cyril walked in and jumped up on Jury’s desk, sitting motionless to stare at the sand.

“Interesting, right?”

Wiggins was almost afraid it was Cyril who’d spoken, until Jury hooked his coat on the wooden tree at his back. “Cyril certainly likes it. Fiona helped me hang it up.” DCS Racer’s long-suffering secretary.

As if that explained things. Wiggins tried to pretend noninvolvement by moving around his desk and plugging in the kettle. “It’s another circle.”

“But isn’t everything circular?” Jury came to lean against the sergeant’s desk. “Is that all you see in it?”

“It’s blue sand.”

“Right. It helps me think.”

“Think? I assume you’re talking about this case, and I don’t see how blue sand is connected.”

“I’m trying to connect in different ways.”

“With what? Dodgem cars and Ferris wheels?” Wiggins swept his arm out in a gesture meant to take in the new office. “It’s all like a fair, isn’t it? Kids’ games. Why don’t we set up a little bowling alley and name each pin and see how they fall?” Wiggins sniffed and set out the tea mugs.

“Not a bad idea at all. What I meant was I’m trying to make connections in different ways. The point is, once you get your mind running along the same old lines and your thoughts in the same old trenches, it’s hard to shake them loose. Think of the word ‘left.’ If asked to name an opposing word, practically everyone would say ‘right.’ How many would say ‘taken’?”

“That’s hardly got anything to do with this case,” said Wiggins, dismissively, and ignoring the point. “It just seems logical to me that as we know who the shooter is, and where it happened, and—” (here Wiggins took himself over to the murder board) “and that the same person, Leonard Zane, was in charge of both casinos, here—” (he put a finger on Reno) “and here—” (another finger inside the London circle) “that there’s every likelihood he’s behind these shootings. Remembering, too, that he’s probably personally involved with the shooter.” Wiggins threw up his hands. “What more evidence do you need?”

“A lot. You’re making the same old connections, Wiggins.” Jury nodded toward the whiteboard. “But how about this? The people inside those circles are all connected. All of them.”

Wiggins frowned. “I don’t see any connection between, say, Danny Morrissey and David Moffit.”

“I do. Leonard Zane, for one.”

“We went all through that, sir. Gamblers. Crime. Shootings. Coincidence that Zane was connected with both casinos in Reno and London.”

“That’s what Leonard Zane said. Uh-uh.”

“You say they’re all connected. May I remind you you’re the one who filled in the names yourself. They didn’t just pop up inside those circles.”

“They’re the principals.”

“But you don’t know they’re the principals! There were probably a hundred other people in that casino in Reno. You’re just selecting these names; it’s completely arbitrary.” He pointed to the Reno circle. “Marguerite Banado, for instance.”

“It’s not arbitrary. She was the assistant to Leonard Zane.”

“Well, he had other people working for him.”

“Not people who would have known as much as she did.”

Wiggins opened his mouth as if trying to draw in air or perhaps reason. “What about the witnesses? The couple who saw Morrissey come out of the office? They’re not in the bloody circle.” He slapped Reno.

“They’re not suspects. They’re not connected. They don’t turn up in either of the other two places.”

“Neither does Danny Morrissey.” Wiggins t...

Table of contents

• Cover
• Dedication
• Also by Martha Grimes
• Title Page
• Copyright
• Black Cabs
• Spooky Action
• Razorbite
• Heart of Dimness
• The Blue Deer See
• Oceana
• Back Cover