The Grave Maurice

just that he was the one who could be of the most help. And why he failed to conclude that the person who can help is the preferred person, Jury damned well couldn’t work out.

Arthur still held her hand, as if reluctant to lose physical contact, as if she might disappear if he didn’t hold on. “I’ve got to call Roger. Or have you?” he asked Vernon. “Have you seen Roger?”

Vernon shook his head. “This is the first place we came. Where’s Maurice? We need to tell him, too.”

“Don’t know,” said Arthur, absently. “Outside, probably the stable.”

“I’ll look for him,” said Jury. He wanted to talk to Maurice alone.

Outside, Jury found one of the stable lads, who pointed him off in the direction of the training track. He found it on the other side of a stand of oaks and elms, the path running through the trees. When he got to the track he saw that the crime-scene tape was down, but whether removed by Cambridge police or Maurice himself, Jury didn’t know.

Out there, blowing into the straight on the other side were Maurice and a horse Jury recognized as Samarkand. If that horse was running at this breakneck speed at his age Jury would love to have seen him as a three-year-old. He must not have touched the ground; he must have been wind.

And Maurice himself, bent in half over the horse’s neck, would have made one hell of a jockey. Continuing to grow as he had must have been bitterly disappointing to him. Jury wondered if Maurice hated his body. He filed that question away for future consideration.

Maurice saw Jury as he came out of the second turn and pounded on past. He then stood up in his saddle and slowed Samarkand, rode the horse from the track and dismounted.

“Maurice.” Jury held out his hand.

Maurice shook hands with him, tossing his head to get the dark hair off his forehead and out of his eyes. Jury thought it a gesture something like Samarkand’s shaking out his mane. “You must have been frustrated watching yourself get taller and taller. It took you out of the race.”

“I guess I was. Why are you here? Has something happened?” Anxiety raised his voice a notch.

Another five minutes of not knowing wouldn’t hurt him. “You told me you weren’t much of a rider. You were being modest.” Jury smiled. “You know, I’m still wondering about Aqueduct-” Jury paused and looked at him.

“Wondering what?”

“That night. Just how sick the horse was. You recall telling your grandfather he-Aqueduct-had a bad cough-what you called, I think, stable cough?”

“That’s right. It’s like an allergy; it could be a reaction to hay or straw.”

“And you told Nell this, too.”

Maurice nodded.

“Knowing Nell would stay with the horse, as she often did.”

Maurice said nothing. His normally pale complexion paled even more.

Jury waited, but Maurice wasn’t going to say any more. “Nell said she didn’t see any signs of it.”

Maurice started to answer this charge, but then did a double take. His eyes widened. “She said? What’re you talking about?”

“Nell’s come back. She’s up at the house.” Jury started to say something else, but Maurice jumped up on Samarkand (to the horse’s apparent dismay) and was off. Walking to the house from this spot would have taken three minutes, maybe four. But Maurice must have found even three or four minutes too long. That was going to be some reunion! Jury wanted to see it, yet he stayed here by the track.

Scene of the crime.

FORTY-FIVE

“Owning that horse”-said Agatha as she marmaladed a scone-“will permit you to join the hunt.”

Melrose set aside his book, took a sip of tea and said, “Agatha, if there is one thing not on my short list, believe me, it’s joining the hunt.”

Having made quick work of the scone, she dusted her fingers. “You should; you should do more as befits your social standing here.” She scanned the cake plate as she lifted her teacup.

“And why should I engage in something befitting my social standing when around here, there is no society?”

“Oh, stop being whimsical, Plant, it doesn’t-”

Melrose saw her glance toward a window, openmouthed, and heard the scream: “Aaaa-rrrr-aaaaah.”

“Good lord, Agatha! What’s the matter?”

She was pointing at the long window on the south side of the living room. Melrose looked just in time to see the unkempt hair of Mr. Bramwell disappearing from view. Well, about time he earned his pike, or whatever hermits scratched around to get. Melrose could hardly contain himself, seeing Agatha’s reaction, which was even more than he could have hoped for had there been rehearsals. Her face was chalk white; her eyes stared. Nor had she dropped her finger, for she was unable to move.

“Oh, come on, Agatha. It’s only the hermit.” He reclaimed his book as if nothing had happened.

“The what? What on earth are you talking about? Have you gone mad? Have you gone zany?”

That was a nice word, thought Melrose. “Don’t you remember the book I was reading the other day? We were talking about ornamental hermits”-this was better than he’d expected for now she was gathering up her things (and his, if that little jade horse was any proof)-“ornamental hermits were a lot like ornamental shrubs-”

“That’s it, Plant! I’m done! Finished! Finished with you and your crazy ways.” Hefting her voluminous carryall, she rose. “Completely round the twist, that’s where you’ve gone.” She repointed her finger at the window. “That creature has apparently been permitted the freedom of your grounds. You surely don’t think this place is safe with him running about. Probably a sexual deviant to boot.”

“I don’t know, but I’ll ask.”

“Oh! And to think all of the time I’ve given over to seeing that Ardry End runs smoothly. It’s either your hermit or me!”

Melrose slipped down in his chair and stared at the ceiling, considering a dozen rejoinders and discarding each in turn as not quite worthy of the occasion. Life offers few such delicious moments, moments that taste like his father’s hundred-year-old port, stashed in the cellar, must taste like. He decided no, nothing made of words was up to it. An answer to “either your hermit or me” should be fashioned out of jewellike words, words spilled across the table like a velvet sackful of rubies.

He settled for “We’ve a contract. And hermits have a union, you know, just like bus conductors. So-?” Melrose shrugged slightly, his eyes brilliant, at least he felt they must be brilliant for he certainly felt brilliant. He saw that in all of her consternation, she was still holding on