The Grave Maurice

Thus she had to come nearer, and she did.

“Do you know her?”

Sara let out a breath, relief, probably, for here was safe ground.

“No, I don’t. Why?”

“You’re sure?”

Her glance flicked from the picture to Jury. “Yes, I’m sure.” Again she asked why.

“Only because”-he pulled out the enlarged snapshot of Dan Ryder-“both of you seem to know him.”

She took a step back. “How-where-did you get that?”

“Dishonestly, but that’s hardly the point-”

“It’s my point.” Quickly, she moved to the writing table and turned the tasseled key in the little drawer under the top. After her eyes and fingers did a brief search, she turned to him.

He could almost smell the fury mixed with fear. She seemed unable to frame whatever invective she was looking for and settled for the rather Victorian “How dare you?” She paused. “You have to have a search warrant, don’t you, to do that?” She slapped the drawer shut.

“I’m not here in any official capacity. Just a nosy customer, a common sneak thief.” Jury knew that wouldn’t get him off the hook if she actually wanted to take it further, but she was going to have enough things on her mind to give her attention to a possible “investigative irregularity.” “The thing is, you clearly knew Dan Ryder a bit better than you allowed. Much better, it appears. Why so secretive, Sara? So far, love isn’t known to be a criminal offense. Why did you lie?” Now he watched her as she gave herself time to think of something plausible.

“Because I fancied you and didn’t want you to think-”

“That you fancied someone else. Sara”-he couldn’t help himself; he laughed-“I’ve got to credit you with originality. That’s the first time, the very first I’ve ever heard that as a reason for lying-”

“I didn’t lie-”

“-but I’m not really convinced I’m not a total mug and the love of your life. So why is there such a secret? Dan Ryder was hardly a Trappist monk. We know his reputation with women.” Jury held up the snapshot of Valerie Hobbs. “For instance-”

“I told you I’ve never seen her.” Suspicion incensed her. “What’s your interest in her?”

“She doesn’t know him, either. So she says. And then there’s always this one-” He held up a morgue shot of Simone Ryder.

She looked at him so coldly Jury felt a chill in the air. “I’ve never seen her in my life.”

Jury turned the picture and looked at it again himself. “You’re sure of that?”

“Damn it. I don’t have to listen to this.”

“Yes, you do, so sit down.”

“This is why you wound up in my bed.”

Jury shook his head. “No. That’s completely separate. Completely.” Now he wondered if it was, and felt slightly ashamed. “Don’t try to play the lover deceived; don’t play the victim. I wasn’t trying to get anything out of you. Sit down.”

She had been pacing, fidgeting with objects she passed-the tasseled shade of a lamp, a glass paperweight-but at the tone of his voice, she reseated herself.

He arranged the three pictures on the coffee table like cards in a poker hand. “Interesting story. Just sit there and I’ll tell it to you-”

“I expect I’d tell it better, mate.”

The voice came from behind Jury. He turned.

“Hello, Danny.” Almost ingratiatingly, Jury smiled.

“Christ, but you’ve been one busy little copper.”

Jury liked the “little” copper. He bet Danny was always throwing that word and others like it around to describe other men.

He was a small man-height, girth, bones, hands, feet-yet still big for a jockey, which must have been a source of continuing pleasure for him. Jury didn’t know what he planned to do with the gun, beyond pointing it at Jury, but he was perfectly set to let this film unreel.

“Danny!” said Sara. “What are you-?”

“Come on, girl. Sit.”

Not a wise thing to do, perhaps, but Jury stuck his feet up on the coffee table and leaned back, miming comfort. He only hoped his soigne attitude didn’t make him foolhardy, which was how he felt.

Danny Ryder laughed. “Christ, man, but you do take life and death neat, no chasers.”

Jury waved his arm, inviting Danny to join them.

Absurdly, Danny did. He sat on the sofa next to Sara.

“First,” said Jury, “I have no doubt you’d use that gun. It’s a.22. Which is interesting.” Danny was regarding it as if he’d never seen it before. “But it’s a strange thing about almost dying, as I recently almost did-you use up a lot of your scare quotient. It takes a hell of a lot to scare me now.”

Danny laughed.

“You ought to be able to relate to that. You’re always putting your life on the line, Dan. I imagine it’s part of the thrill, the rush you get when you’re up on one of those great horses of your father’s.”

“Get us a beer, love,” said Danny to Sara. “Us” meaning “me.”

Sara, who looked taut as piano wire, rose and went toward the kitchen.

Danny leaned over the coffee table. “Now, here’s an interesting photo collection.”

“Yeah. Sara’s dying to know who the brown-haired one is.”

“And where’d you get her picture?”

“Valerie Hobbs’s? From her photo collection.”

“Yeah? So what else did she share?”

“Not a damned thing. I’ve got to hand it to you, Danny; you’ve got these women going in circles. Nothing could make them give you up. Nell Ryder got away, but I expect you know that.”

Danny said nothing for a moment; he just regarded Jury. Then he said, “Hate to tell you this, but you’ve got this wrong if you think I’d anything to do with Nell’s getting nobbled. I’m a right bastard in a lot of ways, but not a total villain.”

“You weren’t in this with Valerie Hobbs? That’s what you’re saying?”

Sara was back with the beer, no glass. Danny took it from her without comment. She sat-perched, rather-beside him.

“That’s what I’m bloody saying, yes. As for Valerie Hobbs, I used to run into her at that flapping track outside of Newmarket. You know, Blaydon. Good sport, was old Val. Had a few drinks, a few laughs, but that’s about it.”

“Tell me about your wife, your so-called widow, Danny, now dead. You heard about that, I expect.” Jury was sure he had not heard about his son, Maurice, nor did he want to be the bearer of that bad news. When Danny didn’t respond right away, Jury said, “Sara did tell