Melrose had found him lying on that dock, as if able to relax his own efforts to hold on to life, now that someone else could do it for him. Melrose and Benny had found him. Melrose and Benny
Jury’s nurse, Nurse Bell, had said (more than once), “Lucky, you are, my lad,” as she’d strong-armed Jury away from the pillows behind him so that she could plump them.
Which was, as far as Melrose was concerned, all she was good for. Melrose couldn’t abide that “lucky” response to disaster. Had his limbs been blown to smithereens and only one arm left-no, no, make that one
As soon as she’d whisked herself off in a crackle of starched uniform, Melrose went over to the bed and messed the pillows about.
Crossly, Jury said, “What in hell are you doing? Isn’t it enough to have that simpering nurse about?”
“I’m just unplumping them. There.”
A sanguine Sergeant Wiggins said from his chair, “She’ll just be back and plump them again.”
“Rats,” said Melrose, returning to his folding chair. Wiggins had the only chair with armrests, and he was making the most of this find as he raked through a basket of fruit sent by some well-wishers in Victoria Street.
“What,” asked Jury, “are you in such bad humor about?
Melrose was looking out of the window. “Your nurse puts me in mind of one of my nannies.”
“So you’re reverting to nanny behavior. Well, that’s grown-up, that is.”
Wiggins’s rather condescending air was prompted by his having been in hospital himself not long ago (although certainly not from stopping a fusillade of bullets). Right now he was handing over a paperback book to Jury. “It was Mr. Plant himself who brought me this when I was in the Royal Chelsea.” He made it sound like an heirloom. “I think you might like it; it more or less deals with our predicament.”
“Now, now-” Nurse Bell was back already. “We mustn’t get excited and upset.” She handed Jury a plastic cup with a straw. “This will make you feel ever-so-much-better.”
“I already feel ever-so-much-better.” He made a face at the cup.
“I had a cup just like that,” said Melrose, “when I was three. Only I could drink without a straw.”
“And here your friends have come to see you-”
Swiftly, Jury looked around the room. “Where, where?”
Nurse Bell had another go at the pillows. “You do mess your pillows about, don’t you?” She left.
For Wiggins, his head lost-but unbeheaded-in the Tower of London, the last five minutes might not have happened at all. He was back there with Josephine Tey and
“Why would I want to do that? It never was busy before.”
Ignoring this, Wiggins went on. “What it is, is the detective inspector in this book is laid up in hospital and a friend brings him some books, one of them about Richard the Third and the princes in the Tower. You remember all of them?”
“As a matter of fact, I do. It’s quite a popular tale.”
“
“If I had a girlfriend, maybe I would, too.” He riffled the last pages. “How does it end?” Jury did not like detective stories, especially those starring royalty, so he cut to the chase.
Wiggins, however, wouldn’t follow. “You’ll just have to read it, won’t you?” Wiggins laughed as one might at an intractable, bedridden child. “What I thought was, I could bring you information about one of our cases and you could chew on that.”
“Ah,” said Melrose, tilting his chair back against the wall and crossing his arms over his chest. “Why don’t you chew on
THREE
Maurice was always up early, up at first light, when the world was waking. Cold as it was, rime on the panes, old snow still crusted at the roots of trees, stiff grass more like ice shards than pasture-still he loved it. Although he had to admit one of the reasons for this early hour was that he wouldn’t have to see or talk to, or be seen or talked to by, anyone. It was even too early for his uncle, Roger, who occasionally stayed over. When he did, he liked to come down to the track and watch Maurice exercise the horses.
A couple of nights ago, at dinner, Roger had said,
You can’t give up, Maurice thought now. You can’t give up trying. “Right, Sam?” He tossed the blanket over the horse, then the bridal and saddle. Samarkand nudged his shoulder as if to say
No school because it was still the Christmas holiday, but that would end soon. He didn’t really mind school; he had always had a capacity for discipline. He thought it came from caring for the horses, from watching George Davison, the trainer, from watching exercise lads and jockeys, from watching his father, his father up on Samarkand years ago. That horse and Dan Ryder-this was what the sportswriters called the “racing dream team.”
He thought about his father. In no other way was Danny Ryder a “dream.”