January and February, Melrose had decided, were the two most luckless and lackluster months on the calendar. It was difficult to get inspired (if one’s bent was inspiration) by the ragged hem of a blown climbing rose around the Jack and Hammer’s windows, or the faded turquoise coat of the Jack up on the beam, simulating bangs with his mallet to count the hours.
The inside, however, still retained a bit of New Year’s cheer, largely because Dick Scroggs hadn’t as yet taken down the lines of colored lights around the door or from the big mirror behind the bar. Melrose got Scroggs’s attention-difficult, if Dick was buried in the paper-made a sign that he wanted a drink and walked through to where his comrades were seated round their table in the window. It was Trueblood’s turn to get the seat with cushions, and there he comfortably sat, to the left of Joanna Lewes.
Diane Demorney blew out a thin stream of smoke and said, “We saw you coming out of Theo’s. You know we said we were banning the place because of that library business.”
Melrose sat down. “Did we? I thought we were already banning it just on general principles.”
“We were going to make up placards and stand in front of the shop, I thought.”
“Speaking of banning,” said Melrose, “did you know there was a hunt in Sidbury?”
“For what?” asked Diane.
“A fox,” said Trueblood, firing up a match to light a small cigar. “They organized it a year or two ago. Probably to protest the protest. You know, all of these country folk are scared to death their privilege will be taken away.”
“According to Theo, there are a lot of animal-rights activists in Sidbury.”
“Oh,” said Diane, “those people who spray-paint fur coats. They sprayed my sable once, in front of Selfridge’s.”
“You’re kidding! What did you do?” asked Joanna.
“Bought another one.”
“I doubt,” said Melrose, “that’s how these people would want to be identified.”
Joanna looked thoughtful. “Or maybe they would.” Joanna was the author of some two dozen romance novels, which she had advised them all to steer clear of. (“Such drivel.”) She went on: “Maybe their need for publicity is what motivates them, not animal rights.”
Diane stepped in here. “If my cat had any more rights I’d be the one watching the bung hole nights and she’d be inside with brandy and a book.” She turned to Joanna. “Your latest is quite good, Joanna.” Upon Joanna’s telling them all they’d be wasting their time with her books, Diane had started reading them.
“Thank you. I just don’t think those are the rights they’re defending, or say they are.”
“How cynical,” said Trueblood.
Joanna turned to Diane. “You should do a bit of investigative reporting there, Diane. You work for the Sidbury paper.”
Diane “working” was an oxymoron. She was languor’s home, ennui’s back garden, apathy’s arbor. However, she did indeed pen the astrology column for that paper-the daily horoscope. Diane was impeded by only two things: she couldn’t write and she knew nothing about the stars. People loved the horoscope, though, for they believed it to be a tongue-in-cheek parody. Diane didn’t know any more about parody than she did about writing or the stars. “You mean go to one of those things and say what they’re doing?”
Diane had always been, generally speaking, a master of vagueness. Melrose said, “It’s the activists I think Joanna is talking about.”
Instead of an answer, Diane held out a cigarette for someone to light- God, if no one else was available. Trueblood lit it. She blew a narrow veil of smoke toward them and reflected on this reporting. It was rather restful watching Diane’s mind at work. One never had to venture far and there were a lot of lay-bys along the way. “I suppose I could do.” But her nose wrinkled at the thought as though a displeasing odor had wafted through the room.
“Do what?” asked Trueblood.
Diane heaved a sigh. “Go to a hunt. Haven’t you been listening at all? Where is it?” she asked Melrose. “When is it?”
Melrose looked at his book jacket bearing the image of an American Thorougbred named Spectacular Bid. What a name! “According to Theo, there’s one tomorrow. Why don’t we all go?”
“Excellent!” said Trueblood. “It’s one of my half days, so I’ll just close the shop.”
“One of? How many half days do you allow yourself? There’s only supposed to be one a week,” said Melrose.
“Depends. This week it’ll be three. Well, I’ve got a life to live, haven’t I?”
They all looked at him.
“Very funny, very funny. So why don’t we all go?”
Joanna said, “I’d love to, but I’ve got fifteen pages to write because I didn’t do today’s ten. I only did half.”
“Your self-discipline is awesome,” said Melrose.
“My self-discipline is no more nor less than my Barclays account. That’s awesome.”
This statement was made without a hint of conceit; indeed her implication was that her royalties were so far from being deserved it was pathetic.
“Okay, when shall we meet? Where?” said Melrose.
Trueblood said, “As to the when, I’d say eightish-” “Eight is not an hour, it’s pirate’s treasure,” said Diane.
“They start fairly early in the morning,” said Trueblood.
Diane’s smile was humorless. “They do; I don’t.”
“Nine, then.”
Given Diane’s expression, nine was only marginally better, but she agreed.
“And where? We can’t do it here because it’s closed till eleven. We’ll meet next door. How’s that?”
“Fine. Only what about this half-day business. If you leave at nine, that’s more like a full day,” said Melrose.
“Then I’ll make up for it by staying all day the next day, as the next day is only a half day, too.”
“That makes sense.”
ELEVEN
“We should have signs,” said Melrose, casting his eye over the courtyard of the country hotel appropriately named the Horse and Hounds. There was quite a crowd, an eclectic-looking bunch, from hunters in their pink coats and black hats to a rather seedy-looking elderly man with a piece of white posterboard hanging from a string around his neck that announced BEWARE THE HOUR DRAWS NIGH! Melrose wondered what it had to do with the hunt, or, indeed, the antihunt. Probably nothing, or no more
