The Grave Maurice

“Told me what? Did you know that Forego girthed seventy-seven inches?”

“That question makes me feel like I’m having breakfast with Wiggins, who asks things like, ‘Do you know that kava-kava, if made up into a poultice, is good for boils?’ ” Jury ate his sausage.

“And your answer was-?”

“Very funny. Is that a word? ‘Girthed’?”

“It’s a horse word. You’ve got to know something about them, of course.”

“I do. Pass the salt.”

“Are we a trifle testy this morning?”

“I am. I don’t know about you.”

Melrose took a look in the teapot and rang for Ruthven. “There’s just too damned much to learn about horse racing. So I’m taking a page from Diane’s book.”

“There’s only one page in Diane’s book.” Jury nibbled another sausage. He hated to see the sausage go so soon. “Take it, and there won’t be any book.”

“Anyway, I’m doing what she does and concentrating on just a few horses and a couple of races. I love their names. Spectacular Bid-isn’t that wonderful?” He paused and thought about the name and was surprised when Ruthven suddenly appeared at his side.

“Sir?” he said, inquiringly, and to Jury, “Superintendent, and how are you this morning?”

“Fine, Ruthven. Tell Martha this is a great breakfast.”

“We could use some more tea,” said Melrose. “Hot water’s gone, too.” Ruthven returned to the kitchen. “They like you more than they like me.”

“Everyone wants to stay on the good side of the Bill.”

“So, using Diane’s method, I think I can manage to learn enough. She makes you think she knows a lot more than she does.”

“No, Diane makes me think she knows a lot less than she does.”

“I don’t mean us. I mean other people, strangers, who don’t know her methods. There’s no question she helped me out on that gardening business.”

Jury had risen and returned to the buffet, looking under domes. “Where’re the mushrooms? They were right here-”

“That’s right. They were right there until you scraped the saute pan clean with your little spoon.”

“Could you just ask Martha-?”

“For you Martha would slaughter a hog.”

And here she came with the teapot and a steaming silver dish, replacement for the one Jury was hanging around right now. “Mushrooms! I knew you’d be wanting more o’ my mushrooms!”

“You’re a lifesaver, Martha. That’s just what I was asking for.”

Pleased as punch, Martha walked out leaving Jury to spoon up the mushrooms.

“You’ve said nothing about the Ryders yet.”

“I know.” Jury brought his plate back to the table. “It’s not for lack of thinking about them.” He fell silent, turning his fork over and back and over again.

“Yes? Well? Think about them out loud then.”

Jury sat back. “Vernon Rice was there, too.”

“Ah! So you got them all at once.”

“I got them all at once, yes.” He picked up his teacup and held it out for a refill. “Also a chap who owns Highlander Stud named Roy Diamond.”

“I didn’t meet him.” Melrose felt irrationally cheated. “And? What did you think of them? There seems to be an undercurrent here that I can’t plumb.” Melrose poured the tea and, when Jury didn’t answer, said, “What?”

“Vernon Rice-” Jury heard an acerbity in his tone that he had wanted to keep out of it.

“It already sounds as if you don’t much like him. I do.”

“I know you do. But you spent a long time with him and by himself. I mean, out from under the Ryder Stud influence.”

“ ‘Influence’?” Melrose gave a short bark of laughter. “Rice doesn’t strike me as the type to be influenced by anyone.” Melrose thought for a moment. “Unless you mean Nell Ryder?”

“Of course.”

“But that isn’t exactly ‘under the influence of.’ That’s more that he simply cares about her.”

“Try ‘loves.’ ”

“Yes, I suppose-”

“As ‘in’ with.”

“Are you saying-? But look here, she was only fifteen.”

“Poe’s cousin was only fourteen.”

Melrose gave that laugh again. “Ye gods, that’s Poe.”

“His behavior was aberrant, you mean?”

Melrose scratched his neck, confused with feeling. “No, I expect not. I mean, back in Poe’s time it wasn’t all that unusual to marry a young girl. Virginia, her name was.” It came back to Melrose in a little flood of what he supposed was Proustian involuntary memory. Baltimore-Poe’s house, the little rooms, and the passion of the curator in defending Poe against his detractors, the plagiarized manuscript, the vulgarity of its perpetrator.

“You look unhappy.”

“The curator of the Poe house recited the end of a poem, something about a cloud that took the form ‘of a demon in my view.’ Melrose gave a self-conscious shrug. “I was just remembering…”

“No wonder,” said Jury.

“You were in Ryder’s office, weren’t you? You saw the photos. Weren’t you struck?”

“I was definitely struck.” Jury drank his tea.

Melrose nodded. Then he said, “Aren’t you finished? I want you to see my horse.”

“That sounds a treat,” said Jury, shoveling in some more mushrooms.

“There’s nothing to it,” Melrose said suavely.

“Of course, there’s something to it,” said Jury, “and I haven’t got it.”

“But he likes you. I can tell.”

“Now just how do you make that out?”

“Look, he’s trying to nudge you.”

“To get another apple, that’s why.”

“Maybe we shouldn’t give him any more. He might get sick.”

Just then Momaday lurched up behind them. He was wearing the long cowboy coat Melrose had given him for Christmas, thereby feeding Momaday’s image of himself as hunter, rancher,