The Grave Maurice

Diane suggested that Miss St. Cyr-Jones say a few words about her purpose in being here.

Eugenie St. Cyr-Jones had many more than a few words to say. “Should our government make the criminal error of trying to ban foxhunting they should be aware they’ll have a real battle on their hands. To pass such a bill would be to threaten the very livelihood of the country. People fail to see beyond the spectacle itself to the repercussions of such government interference. The antihunting contingent-” Here she waved her arm around a group that was steadily forming, hoping no doubt (as were hounds) that blood would be let before the morning was over.

The antihunting contingent stepped in, in the person of a boisterous middle-aged woman. “Spectacle! That’s all ’tis, just a bunch of country clowns huntin’ a poor animal to its bloody end.” Her hair looked fried in a pan, flat on top, frizzled on the sides.

Trueblood positioned his camera close up and then back to take in the entire group before his attention was caught by the promise of a melee out in the field. He moved in that direction.

The woman with the fried hair addressed Diane. “You ast’er this, ast’er ’ow she’d feel gettin’ tore up by a pack o’ them ’ounds! Ast’er!”

Diane smiled. “As you already have-” and looked at Eugenie St. Cyr- Jones.

Eugenie was clearly revolted by this person. “That’s so clearly a loaded argument. Listen to me: in Sidbury there’s a saddlery that employs a number of the local townspeople. It’s the way they earn their living. Now, how long would that business last-and that’s but one example-if the hunt was banned?”

Several of the onlookers exchanged words that Trueblood was hoping would turn into blows, but for the moment quieted down. He heard another commotion in the field, or the same one exacerbated. He turned to see that hounds were swarming. Had they homed in on the benighted Xavier? No, no, a horse must have caught its leg flying over the stone wall and gone down. Several black coats dismounted. Trueblood hoped the horse was all right; he didn’t care much about the rider. The horse rose and shook itself and wandered away, unattended by the rider for the rider and another hunt member seemed to be shouting. Trueblood pointed the camera in that direction. Now the pink-coated MFH unhorsed himself and moved quickly to this little nucleus of persons, ostensibly to quell the fight.

Horses, the most sensible of the lot, left to their own devices moved about in search of some tasty grazing place.

Trueblood loved it! There were the hounds roving off, snuffling the ground, mixing in and out between legs of horses and hunters, all of them having a rave-up, hounds and hunters alike. The horses quite sensibly ignored them.

How often had this sort of thing happened during a hunt? Never, he bet. It was a scoop! Behind him-and now he turned the camcorder back to the protesters-a well-dressed, sensible- looking man interrupted the woman with the fried hair.

“Naturally, one doesn’t enjoy the spectacle of a fox thrown to hounds, but what sticks in my throat is the sheer hypocrisy of some of your hunting-ban travelers. Some of them aren’t even charities, though they want you to believe they are.”

A theoretical argument. Who cares? Trueblood turned the camera off toward the right. Wonderful! Fists were flying! The master appeared now to be acting as referee. Oh, good! Someone in the group actually pushed him! Shouting! The rest of the hunt had dismounted now-their steeds making for the spot where their fellow horses were nibbling the frosty grass.

Hearing raised voices at his back, Trueblood turned around to get a look at the civilians, who appeared to be sheering off and scattering. Diane and Melrose were waving him toward the car.

“I got it all! Did you see it? The melee?”

“What melee in particular?” asked Melrose as he got in the car. “There seemed to be so many melees. But that bit was interesting, wasn’t it, about some of these groups’ advertising themselves as charities when they were really moneymaking concerns?”

“A documentary!” said Trueblood, starting the car. “I’m entering it for the BAFTA awards.”

Diane stabbed a cigarette into her black holder. “They’re so tiresome, aren’t they, these do-gooders, these protesters?” She sighed and turned so that Melrose could light the cigarette. Then she said, “It’s all a bit of a shambles, isn’t it?”

“Causes,” said Melrose. “There’s something really off-putting about causes.”

Trueblood nodded. “There’s something absolutely absurd about this marching and meeting and arguing and brawling.”

“If things start going wrong,” said Diane, “I agree with that writer- what’s his name? Raymond… Hammett? No, Dash something-”

“Dashiell Chandler?” offered Melrose. “Or it could be Raymond Chandler and Dashiell Hammett? Anyway, you agree with what one of the three said. What was that?”

“Bring in a man with a gun.”

TWELVE

Mauricle had thought about her disappearance until Maurice had thought about her disappearance until thought seemed to liquefy and then evaporate, as if his brain could take only so much. He was sitting at Arthur Ryder’s big desk in the library, moving the leather swivel chair a half circle one way, a half circle the other. In his hand was the silver-framed photo of Nell, posed beside Samarkand. It was taken just before she disappeared. Fifteen years old. Was she as carefree as she looked in this picture? Was he?

He did not know his grandfather had entered the room until he spoke: “Maurice.”

“Oh, hi, Granddad.” Maurice set the silver frame back on his grandfather’s desk.

“You never stop, do you, son?” Arthur’s voice was as quiet as moths beating against a blind and his expression just as futile.

To Maurice, his grandfather sounded very tired. He said so. “You should slow down.”

Arthur Ryder slumped into the big leather chair beside his desk and gave a short laugh. “Maurice, if I slowed down any more I’d be in a coma.”

“Oh, sure. Right.”

“It’s all this whittling.” Arthur smiled and put his pocket-knife on the desk along with the small piece of wood he’d been working on.

Maurice picked it up, turned it. “What is it?” “Nothing. Absolutely nothing. That’s what I aim for.”

Maurice ran his thumb over the side. “But it’s such a good nothing. The design is good.”

Arthur laughed more heartily than he had before. “Maurice, I swear you’re the only sixteen-year-old diplomat I know.” Then Arthur thought, truly bloody kind, Maurice is. But kindness has a price; it makes a person thin skinned, empathy does.

“It’s just nerves,” said Arthur, inclining his head toward the bit of wood. “Just a nervous habit.” Not quite true. It gave him something to look at other than the eyes of the person he was