The Grave Maurice (7 page)

Said Melrose, “I always travel with mine, too.”

Nurse Bell paid him no mind. “—and died on the operating table. Heart, can you believe it? Poor little Dory. Had a heart arrhythmia and nobody knew it. Doctor”—here she looked at Jury just to let him know not
all
of Dr. Ryder's patients walked out under their own steam—“blamed himself. Then there was old Willie, that was getting on perfectly well until he choked to death on coffee from the dispensing machine.”

God! But the woman was a ghoul. “How could a patient choke to death surrounded by nurses?”

She didn't answer, only looked at the thermometer ruefully. “Oh, I don't like this, Mr. Jury. Temperature's up. I'll have to tell doctor, won't I?”

Melrose hated it when “doctor” was used almost like a first name. Like God, for instance.

Nurse Bell turned to go and then turned back. “And you”—here came a frenzy of finger waggling—“five more minutes and then out. Five minutes!” She left, her heavy rump swaying and her uniform bristling with starch.

“What in hell was it? Your temperature, I mean.”

“Who knows—517, probably. Let's get back to the horse-trading plan.”

“Let's not.” Melrose threw himself into a fit of mock weeping.

“Oh, don't be so childish. Look—”

Melrose raised his untearstained face to see Jury holding
The Daughter of Time.
“I've got several more days in this place, being ministered to by—” He nodded meaningfully toward the door. “I need something to think about, something to chew on, and I find this girl's disappearance very interesting.”

“You've got her father right here. Chew on him.”

“Come on, he's hardly objective.”

Melrose sighed. He knew he'd do it and Jury knew he knew it. “So I tell this Ryder chap I'm interested in buying some horseflesh.”

“For God's sake, don't call it ‘horseflesh.' ”

“Gary Cooper always did.” The actor was one of Melrose's all-time favorites. That badge he threw down in the dust at the end of
High Noon
!

“No, he didn't. What are you doing?”

“Nothing.”

“It looked as if you threw something. Anyway, pay attention. What would be even more convincing”—here Jury sat forward, pushing the tray table out of his way—“would be to go after a particular horse, or find out what horses he had there and read up on them. Do what Diane Demorney does: learn a lot about one horse instead of a little about all of them.” Jury thought for a moment. “Red Rum, that's a good horse. He won the Grand National, and more than once, I think.”

“I'd have to know general things; I can't see me going back and back, knowing only Red Rum.”

“The one Wiggins was talking about—”

“Seabiscuit?”

“Of
course
not Seabiscuit. Seabiscuit's an American horse. He's also dead. You've really got your work cut out for you, don't you? No—Samarkand, his name is. He's a famous horse.”

“Then he wouldn't be for sale.”

“No, but now it occurs to me that you'd have to know something about him; I mean if you're knowledgeable about horses and racing. You could easily get information about the stud farm from, you know, sources . . .” Jury shrugged.

Melrose got up and leaned over the bed to shake Jury's hand. “Thanks! Sources! That's really helpful.” He stood there. “I expect I should get started right away.” Melrose checked his watch. “Good God! I've been here more than the five minutes!”

Jury leaned back, looking rather smug. “You going back to Northants? You really should start this investigation as soon as possible.”

Melrose just stared at him. “Talk about nerve! Not only isn't this an investigation—one of your cases—I'm not an investigator.”

“Sure you are. Stop complaining and I'll tell you something about Nurse Bell.”

“What? She works nights outside a club in Soho? She's pregnant by the hospital's CEO? What?”

“Her first name is—ready?—Hannah.”

It took a moment for the penny to drop.

Then they both smiled meanly.

“T
hat book,” said Agatha, craning her neck to see what Melrose was reading, “has horses on the cover.” She righted herself on the drawing-room sofa and inspected the cake plate.

“That's because it's about horses.” Melrose took another sip of his tea and wondered if the buffeting about of the morning light—rhomboids along the Oriental carpet, spandrel along an archway—was making up for Agatha's unilluminating presence, the light in sympathy with him. A pathetic fallacy, but Melrose would take his pathos where he found it.

Agatha continued: “Why on earth would you be reading about horses? You don't have one; you don't even ride.” Having pinched another muffin—they were smallish—from the plate, she eyed it with suspicion. “What is this?”

“A muffin?”

“You know what I mean! It's green. What did Martha do to it?”

“It's a creme de menthe muffin.” This had been Melrose's idea. He had told his cook Martha to add a bit of food coloring to the muffins, which he now had christened with the names of various liqueurs. He had also directed Martha to keep back the scones and tea bread. Ruthven (Melrose's butler and Martha's husband) had tittered.

“Oh, but won't she make a fuss, sir?” said Martha, smiling broadly.

“That's the idea,” Melrose had answered, matching the smile.

Unfortunately, not liking did not mean not eating and not staying. If nothing else was available for her tea, she would start in on the fruits of the Della Robbia jug he had brought back from Florence to give to someone, anyone, perhaps even Agatha. He was not fond of it.

Returning the green muffin to the riotous muffin plate, she took the most muffinish-looking muffin there. This was the color of the latte‘ served in Latte‘ at the Library.

“Creme de cacao, that one is.”

Gingerly unwrapping its furled little skirt, Agatha said, “I honestly think Martha's getting senile, serving up this sort of rubbish.”

“I'll tell her from now on to serve the rubbish you're used to.” Melrose turned back to his book. He was reading about Red Rum, the horse Jury had mentioned, a three-time Derby winner of old who had the distinction, when he died, of being buried in the winner's circle at Aintree. This was a fellow he'd have to remember. On the marquetry table beside his chair lay a small black leather notebook in which he set down this information.

Half of her light-brown muffin gone, Agatha said, “You've been writing in that thingamajig”—here she discounted the little notebook's usefulness with a gesture, waving it to its thingamajiggish grave—“ever since I came. It's quite rude of you, also, Melrose, but then you never were one to observe the social niceties.”

“I didn't know that's what we were doing.” He smiled down at Red Rum, making another note. He was really drawing Red Rum's tail, since his doing anything in the notebook irritated her so much. The recording of things to which she was not privy bothered her. Melrose had an actual insight there. He blinked. Perhaps Agatha deserved some sympathy if she was one of those people who were afraid that life would come crashing down if they didn't know everything that was going on around them. It was as if all sorts of rascally things might be taking place. (Just look at those muffins!)

“You're not, I hope, thinking of buying one?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact. Indeed, I think I'll have that old stable brushed up and put in a riding ring and perhaps a racing course—”

“Good God!” The muffin half fell from her hand. “Surely you can't be seriously thinking of ruining these beautiful grounds!”

“They're not all that beautiful, as it happens. Momaday does nothing.” Mr. Momaday had been taken on as a gardener, and he called himself a “groundskeeper.” He did precious little of either, spending most of his time tramping around Ardry End's hundred acres, looking for something to shoot. Acres and acres of grass, weeds, wildflowers, deciduous trees, a few crumbling marble statues and a gone-to-ruin hermit's hut. Melrose could not imagine his father countenancing that. What he said was, “I'm also thinking of hiring a hermit for that hermitage out there—yonder.” He loved this word.

“Are you talking about that old broken-down stone thing? Hire a hermit, indeed!”

“That's what people did in the nineteenth century. It was fashionable to have a hermit on one's grounds. I believe the Romantics went in for it.”

“You're making it up, as usual.” She poked a piece of muffin into her mouth.

“I swear it's true!” It was, too. He clamped a hand over his heart. “Hermits got to be collectors' items.”

“I can tell you this: if a hermit comes, I go.”

Melrose studied the ceiling.

She went on. “As to this horse business, I can just see you trotting around the village as if you were Master of Foxhounds.”

Melrose tuned her out. Having squeezed whatever mileage he could out of horse and hermit, he went back to his book. It was one of several he had taken from the library. Ah! This was interesting. A Thoroughbred named Shergar had been kidnapped by the IRA and held for ransom. The ransom wasn't paid; the horse was never seen again, at least not in the UK. This was a strange little story, showing how much England valued its horses, or how little, depending on the way you looked at it.

Delighted to have found this entrée into horses and lost girls, Melrose snapped the book shut, gulped down his cold tea and stood. “I'm off, Agatha. Stay as long as you like.”

“Off to where?”

“A number of places, including the library.”

“Just an excuse to go to the Jack and Hammer.”

Melrose raised his eyebrows in mock astonishment. “Since when did I need an excuse to go to the Jack and Hammer?”

 

His first stop really was the library, where he dropped off his books and went back to the shelves to look for fresh material. The horse books seemed geared largely to prepubescent girls, involving matters such as jumping and dressage. Nothing here on Thoroughbreds or racecourses.

On his way out, he stopped and said hello to Miss Twinny and asked her if she'd like to have a coffee with him, but she declined. “Oh, so nice of you, Mr. Plant, but I've got to get some books sorted before noon. Were these of any help?” She indicated the ones he'd left on the returns area of the front desk.

“Absolutely. I thought I might stop by the Wrenn's Nest and see if Mr. Browne has anything I could use.” Melrose could have kicked himself when he saw the expression on Miss Twinny's face. Theo Wrenn Browne had tried to shut down the library, which would have cost Miss Twinny her job. It was Marshall Trueblood who had saved both library and librarian by talking her into setting up an espresso bar.

Melrose changed the subject by nodding toward that little café now. “Still going great guns, isn't it?”

She smiled. “It's quite wonderful, Mr. Plant. Do you know there are people coming over from Sidbury? Why, there are never enough tables to go around. I just might have to expand!” Delighted, she laughed.

 

“Horses? You want something on horses?” Theo Wrenn Browne looked as if he'd been broadsided.

Melrose was standing in the Wrenn's Nest Bookshop, stupefying its owner. Why did everyone find Melrose's interest in this animal so problematic?

“Yes” was all he answered.

“May I ask why?”

“You just have.”

Silence while Theo Wrenn Browne tried to work this out.

Melrose started off. “Don't discommode yourself, Mr. Browne. I'll just wander through the stacks.”

Theo quickly came out from his station by the money drawer and followed on Melrose's heels. “Mr. Plant, I'd be only too happy to help you.”

The trouble with Theo Wrenn Browne was his capacity for being a sycophant on the one hand and, on the other, for sneering superiority. He was disliked by all of Melrose's circle—except Agatha, who found in Theo Wrenn Browne a compatriot, a fellow-traveler in malice. They had collaborated on the Chamber Pot Caper a few years before, in an attempt to close poor Miss Ada Crisp's secondhand furniture shop next door to the Wrenn's Nest. Following this had been the attempt to drive the library out of business. Marshall Trueblood's solution of opening the latte‘ and espresso bar had turned the library absolutely trendy. It had become a hot spot. That was Theo Wrenn Browne, a snake at worst, a weasel at best, as today he was weaseling after Melrose.

To demonstrate his interest in the hunt, Melrose pulled down a volume, largely of photographs of self-congratulation, to judge from the rubicund faces of the hunt members. The dogs were quite handsome, as were the horses; it took only a few humans to ruin the overall effect. The one with hounds churning at his feet was the master of hounds. He and the whipper-in were all wearing pink coats; all the others were in black coats or tweeds. Melrose smiled because (again except for horses and hounds) they all looked remarkably silly. He handed this book to Browne and pulled out another titled
Thoroughbred Racing: From Churchill Downs to Saratoga Springs.
These places were in the United States, but wouldn't a horse be a horse most any old where? And it would be good, too, letting the Ryder person know that he wasn't a dunce when it came to American racing, either. The book fell open at a two-page spread of the wondrous Secretariat. Even Melrose had heard of Secretariat. No wonder people loved to watch it, but imagine what it must be like to
do
it! Looking at the photographs of Secretariat racing round the course, Melrose thought it must be, for the jockey, a
Eureka!
Like Manet putting the last touch of light to a field of flowers, or Keats upon seeing that Grecian urn or Lou Reed attacking his guitar.