The Grave Maurice

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.

“What are you doing, Mr. Plant?” Browne broke into Melrose’s fantasy life.

“What? Oh, just practicing the cello. I was thinking it’s easy to understand why everyone loves horse racing.”

Browne, finding an opportunity to rain on Melrose’s parade, said, “Well, now, not everyone, Mr. Plant, not by a long chalk.”

“Oh?”

“Indeed not. Not your animal activists, no. And they’re getting more and more prevalent. There’s a group over in Sidbury who’ve done most unpleasant things. If you’re planning on drawing any of your horsey friends from there, best be advised. There’s a hunt tomorrow; you can go and see for yourself.”

Melrose had no friends in Sidbury, horsey or otherwise. “There’s an even bigger group in Northampton. They’re really organized, they are. You’ll be harassed-don’t think you won’t. They’ll hound you right into the ground.” Theo covered his mouth with his hand, snorting with laughter. “Oh, that’s rich, now isn’t it?” When Melrose didn’t respond, he said it again: “Hound you,” and he laughed. “If you organize a hunt, they’ll be certain to picket; they’ll stand by the sidelines and jeer.”

“Jeering isn’t a particularly efficient way to put paid to anything. At least it wouldn’t be for me; with me they’d have to get physical-pull me off my horse.”

“I certainly wouldn’t put it past them, me.”

The rhythm of Theo’s speech often wound up back in North London if he didn’t keep an eye on it.

“Then what I need is a Glock, not a book.”

On their way from the shelves to the front of the store, they passed a window embrasure where three little children were sitting, unsmiling and silent. Two of them Melrose recognized as the Finch children, Bub and Sally, and although they must be a year or two older than when Melrose had last seen them in the bookshop, they still looked three and six. The third child he couldn’t recall seeing around the village, but he probably weighed in at some age between Bub and his sister. This child had a face so crowded with freckles it looked as though some of them had fallen on his faded T-shirt and made spots. The three smiled at Melrose, rather pathetically. It was clear they were all hugely unhappy tots and were perhaps thinking that Melrose (their hero), having delivered them once from the dreaded bookseller, might be counted on to do it again. Melrose returned their smiles and noticed that the three were holding hands, as if for a comfort none could sustain if the hands were separated.

“Hello, there. It’s Sally and Bub, isn’t it? And could this be Patrick the Painted Pig?” He said this to the third child, another fallen into the clutches of Mr. Browne.

Theo immediately took the floor. “These kiddies, Mr. Plant, were back there defacing my books. They’ve been directed to sit right there until the book police come!” Roundly, Theo gave him an exaggerated wink, as if his clever fabrication would charm Melrose, who might form part of this conspiracy against the children.

Was the man crazy? Melrose had bailed both Sally and later Bub out of trouble. “Well, now, Sally and Bub and Patrick-” Here the second little boy blushed, but still looked pleased.

Sally chimed in, “He ain’t Patrick. His name’s Regis.”

“Regis? Now there’s a kingly name. Now, tell me what this is all about.”

All three spoke up at once. No, all four did. Theo was the first one in with a version of “events.” “They were tearing, tearing that book apart! Just malicious is what they are. I’ve a call in to Mrs. Finch but she hasn’t returned it.”

“Ah, then is Mrs. Finch with the book police?” Giggles all round.

Melrose asked, “What happened?”

Sally burst out: “Me and Regis found this book and we both wanted it, so he was pulling on it and so was I.” This was delivered in one spurt of breath.

Regis frowned mightily. “No, that ain’t right. Me, I wasn’t doing nuffin’. I was only holding on to the book.”

Sally stuck out her tongue at Regis and whined, “Bub, here, though, he wasn’t even near the old book!”

Melrose liked this standing up for her brother. He thought it quite noble in the circumstances. “All right, it’s clear enough. You should be banished from Mr. Browne’s shop.” He turned to Theo. “Banishment is the only answer.”

Banishment obviously appealed to the kiddies; they stood and dropped hands, ready to be banished. The hero had spoken.

“What they will have to do after this, if they want a book, is to go to the library.”

The kids looked as if they’d be willing to march into hell, if it meant escaping from Theo Wrenn Browne.

But Theo was not at all happy with this solution, which was a perfectly logical one. Melrose knew he wouldn’t be, of course, since he derived too much pleasure from abusing children. “Well, that’s all well and good, but what about my book? Cost sixteen quid, that did, and someone’s-” He stopped when he saw Melrose smile.

“Of course someone has to pay for it.” He removed his money clip from his pocket and peeled off a twenty. “You can make the four-pound deduction from my books here.” He patted them. “Now, you three must remember to tell Miss Twinny you’ll be perfectly quiet in the library and will bring books back on time.” He peeled a five-pound note from the wad and handed it to Sally, who gaped at it. “Give this to the lady in the cafe and tell her you’re being treated to a lemonade or hot chocolate or whatever they have. You might tell her to keep the change for the next time.”

Now all three were gaping. Not only were they not being punished for their behavior, they were actually being rewarded!

“Now, run along, and no more fighting over books.”

They were off and out the door before Melrose had come to the end of his edict.

The Jack and Hammer was directly opposite the Wrenn’s Nest. Melrose crossed the street after bidding good morning to Ada Crisp, who sometimes sat outside her secondhand furniture shop, sometimes with her Jack Russell terrier, but more often not, as the terrier’s travel agenda took him all over the village. Miss Crisp sat among her china bowls and chamber pots, in a revenant light left over from autumn, rocking and waving at Melrose.