The Grave Maurice (34 page)

Maurice saw Jury as he came out of the second turn and pounded on past. He then stood up in his saddle and slowed Samarkand, rode the horse from the track and dismounted.

“Maurice.” Jury held out his hand.

Maurice shook hands with him, tossing his head to get the dark hair off his forehead and out of his eyes. Jury thought it a gesture something like Samarkand's shaking out his mane. “You must have been frustrated watching yourself get taller and taller. It took you out of the race.”

“I guess I was. Why are you here? Has something happened?” Anxiety raised his voice a notch.

Another five minutes of not knowing wouldn't hurt him. “You told me you weren't much of a rider. You were being modest.” Jury smiled. “You know, I'm still wondering about Aqueduct—” Jury paused and looked at him.

“Wondering what?”

“That night. Just how sick the horse was. You recall telling your grandfather he—Aqueduct—had a bad cough—what you called, I think, stable cough?”

“That's right. It's like an allergy; it could be a reaction to hay or straw.”

“And you told Nell this, too.”

Maurice nodded.

“Knowing Nell would stay with the horse, as she often did.”

Maurice said nothing. His normally pale complexion paled even more.

Jury waited, but Maurice wasn't going to say any more. “Nell said she didn't see any signs of it.”

Maurice started to answer this charge, but then did a double take. His eyes widened. “She
said?
What're you talking about?”

“Nell's come back. She's up at the house.” Jury started to say something else, but Maurice jumped up on Samarkand (to the horse's apparent dismay) and was off. Walking to the house from this spot would have taken three minutes, maybe four. But Maurice must have found even three or four minutes too long. That was going to be some reunion! Jury wanted to see it, yet he stayed here by the track.

Scene of the crime.

“O
wning that horse”—said Agatha as she marmaladed a scone—“will permit you to join the hunt.”

Melrose set aside his book, took a sip of tea and said, “Agatha, if there is one thing not on my short list, believe me, it's joining the hunt.”

Having made quick work of the scone, she dusted her fingers. “You should; you should do more as befits your social standing here.” She scanned the cake plate as she lifted her teacup.

“And why should I engage in something befitting my social standing when around here, there is no society?”

“Oh, stop being whimsical, Plant, it doesn't—”

Melrose saw her glance toward a window, openmouthed, and heard the scream: “Aaaa-rrrr-aaaaah.”

“Good lord, Agatha! What's the matter?”

She was pointing at the long window on the south side of the living room. Melrose looked just in time to see the unkempt hair of Mr. Bramwell disappearing from view. Well, about time he earned his pike, or whatever hermits scratched around to get. Melrose could hardly contain himself, seeing Agatha's reaction, which was even more than he could have hoped for had there been rehearsals. Her face was chalk white; her eyes stared. Nor had she dropped her finger, for she was unable to move.

“Oh, come on, Agatha. It's only the hermit.” He reclaimed his book as if nothing had happened.

“The
what?
What on
earth
are you talking about? Have you gone
mad
? Have you gone
zany
?”

That was a nice word, thought Melrose. “Don't you remember the book I was reading the other day? We were talking about ornamental hermits”—
this
was better than he'd expected for now she was gathering up her things (and his, if that little jade horse was any proof)—“ornamental hermits were a lot like ornamental shrubs—”

“That's it, Plant! I'm done! Finished! Finished with you and your crazy ways.” Hefting her voluminous carryall, she rose. “Completely round the twist, that's where you've gone.” She repointed her finger at the window. “That
creature
has apparently been permitted the freedom of your grounds. You surely don't think this place is
safe
with him running about. Probably a sexual deviant to boot.”

“I don't know, but I'll ask.”

“
Oh!
And to think all of the time I've given over to seeing that Ardry End runs smoothly. It's either your hermit or
me
!”

Melrose slipped down in his chair and stared at the ceiling, considering a dozen rejoinders and discarding each in turn as not quite worthy of the occasion. Life offers few such delicious moments, moments that taste like his father's hundred-year-old port, stashed in the cellar, must taste like. He decided no, nothing made of words was up to it. An answer to “either your hermit or me” should be fashioned out of jewellike words, words spilled across the table like a velvet sackful of rubies.

He settled for “We've a contract. And hermits have a union, you know, just like bus conductors. So—?” Melrose shrugged slightly, his eyes brilliant, at least he felt they must be brilliant for he certainly
felt
brilliant. He saw that in all of her consternation, she was still holding on to the jade horse.

“Very well. You shan't see me again anytime soon.”

“No, but I hope I'll see that little jade horse.”

 

Melrose stood drinks for Diane and Trueblood later in the Jack and Hammer, rewarding them for the trouble they'd gone to. “It couldn't have been fun, interviewing a lot of men like Bramwell.”

“Oh, it wasn't bad at all, sport. Helped me sharpen my investigator's prowess, my detective's instincts.” Trueblood lit up one of his sunset-colored cigarettes and said, “For instance, the one who wanted to know what newspaper he'd be getting was a definite no. I mean, I don't think a person who reads the
Times
is to be trusted as a hermit, do you? And the one who wanted to know what pubs were in the area, same thing. Got rid of that lot in a quick hurry. Then there were demands for days off, nights off, even half days and early closings. ‘Well, you're not going to be running a hermit
shop,
' I told them. ‘You're not going to be selling bloody hermit
souvenirs.
' ‘Awright, mate, exactly wot
does
this 'ermit fella do, then?' I immediately stepped on anyone who asked what the duties were. Quite amazing some of them. You'd almost think”—Trueblood knocked off the ash that had been teetering on his coral cigarette—“that they'd never seen a hermit before.”

“They never have,” said Diane, running a finger above the rim of her glass as a signal to Dick Scroggs.

Melrose said, “The thing now is—how do I get rid of him?”

“Why, you just tell him his talents are no longer needed.”

“
Fire
him, you mean.”

“Yes, or just, you know, make him redundant. Tell him the war's over.”

Diane arched an eyebrow. “Just tell him you're finished. You don't have to elaborate or explain yourself.”

“Isn't it obvious I can't fire people? Momaday's living proof of that.”

“Well, yes, but Momaday's ostensibly being useful. Or at least he's in a potentially useful line of work as grounds-keeper,” said Diane.

“Wait! Wait!” Trueblood jumped up, nearly overturning everyone's drink. “I've got it!”

Diane clutched her martini with both hands to avert further disaster.
“Stronzo!”
Diane liked to trot out an Italian expression once in a while since Melrose had come back from Florence. She didn't speak Italian, but her accent was impeccable. It annoyed him to death.

“The answer to getting rid of Bramwell: Theo Wrenn Browne is the answer. His shop. You've seen that CURRENTLY HIRING sign he just hung in the window, as if he were some corporate chain, like Waterstones? If we play our cards right, Theo could be coaxed into hiring Bramwell.”

Melrose frowned, turned this over, then smiled. “Excellent! How?”

“There's only one way to do that, old trout.” Trueblood now lit up a jade-green cigarette. “Make Browne believe
I
want to hire Bramwell. He'll be all over him then.”

 

“This 'ere milk's gone off, mate,” said Bramwell to Melrose, raising the jug from the breakfast tray Martha had fixed for him.

This person was being waited on hand and foot. Melrose ignored the milk and said, “Mr. Bramwell, you really aren't suited to the hermit life.”

“I coulda tol' you that from the beginnin'. But t'pay's good.”

“I've found you a far superior job. Of course, you'd have to be interviewed for it.”

“Wot's it pay? I gotta collect me dole money, don't forget.”

Melrose pushed a hanging vine out of his face. He wasn't interested in discussing government fiddles. “I don't know precisely what it pays, but at least as good as this job, I'd think.”

“I'll take it.”

“You don't know what it is.”

“Well, it's gotta be better'n sleepin' rough in this lot.” He waved his arm around the hermitage.

“If you live in Sidbury you could easily commute. There's a bus between Sidbury and Little Blunt.” Melrose had never seen this bus (he'd never seen Little Blunt, either), but he'd heard about it, as one might a distant star beyond one's galaxy. He took out a small notebook (the one that looked much like Jury's except Melrose's was all leather and Jury's was all plastic), wrote the address of the Wrenn's Nest, tore it off and handed it to Bramwell. “You can see Mr. Browne tomorrow—and one suggestion: don't call him ‘mate'; he's not as good-humored as I am.”

Bramwell made a wheezy noise meant to sound like the end of hysterical laughter.

“Never mind, just don't. Tomorrow afternoon. But first you'll want to stop in the antique shop and have a word with Mr. Trueblood.” If Theo didn't see Bramwell go into Trueblood's shop, he would certainly see the both of them go into the Jack and Hammer together. Browne stood at his window half the day just to see what was going on.

Bramwell's face was contorted with confusion. “Why the bloody 'ell do I want t'see 'm for? Or 'is shop?”

“Because he has a position open, too, and you might want to compare the two.”

“I don't know nuffin about bleedin' antiques.”

No, and you don't know nuffin about hermits, either. “Just talk to him, will you? He's right across from the Wrenn's Nest. I'm sure he'd take you to the pub next door for a drink.”
That,
thought Melrose, was a brilliant stroke!

Bramwell thought so, too, apparently, for his frown un-pleated. “Yeah, well, I guess. Anyway, it's time for me lunch.” He started to shove the tea tray at Melrose just as a cab drove up and stopped before the front door of Ardry End. It was too far to actually recognize the face of the man who got out, but he was tall.

Jury! About time, too. Melrose started off across the grass at a trot.

“ 'Ey? Wot about me lunch, then?”

Melrose threw the answer back over his shoulder. “Have your people call my people.”

 

“Who were you yelling at?” Jury was looking into the distance, his hand shading his eyes.

“Just the hermit. Come on inside!”

But Jury didn't move while he pondered this answer. “Were you intending to elaborate on that, or—?”

“What? The hermit?” Melrose recounted the Bramwell saga.

“You're crazy,” said Jury, as they walked across the lawn toward the hermitage.

Melrose stopped. “Crazy?
Crazy?
Do you see any sign of Agatha?” He spread his arms to take in Ardry End, its tower and gardens, its trees and paths, its hermitage.

Jury laughed. “You're right there.”

Ruthven was on the steps of the house calling to Melrose, who stopped. Jury stopped, too. Melrose said, “Oh, no, you go on, hermit expert; I'll catch you up.”

Jury walked on.

When Melrose did get to them, Bramwell was making a call on a cell phone.

“A cell phone, Mr. Bramwell?”

“Gotta call me turf accountant, don't I? Mr. Jury 'ere was just tellin' me what 'e liked in the fifth at Newmarket.”

As Bramwell turned away, Melrose gave Jury a look. “Oh, this is rich, this is.” He could hear Bramwell's mumbled request of his bookie.

Bramwell turned back and slapped the little phone shut. “There now. Thanks, mate.” He had taken to Jury immediately.

“Come on!” Melrose veritably pulled Jury toward the house, filling him in on the plan for getting rid of Bramwell.

Jury just shook his head. “You couldn't do something simple, could you? Like firing him or telling him to get lost and handing over a pay packet for the weeks he'd miss? Hell, no. You and your cohorts invent a plan that could go wrong in a dozen different ways. Why don't I just go back and arrest him?” Jury turned.

Melrose grabbed his arm and dragged him back. “No! No, you can't get rid of a hermit in the conventional ways. A hermit has to be
schemed
away. Otherwise—”

“Yes?”

“—it's bad luck. But why are you acting so high and mighty about it? I seem to recall something about a
notebook
you absconded with. The memoirs of Franco Giappino? His adventures in Transylvania? His many brides?”

Jury waved this away as they walked up the front steps. “Oh, that.”

Ruthven was waiting inside. Ruthven waited as impeccably as he did everything.