The Grave Maurice

“Three times?” said Melrose.

Jury answered this indirectly. “Does it surprise you that Dan Ryder didn’t die in that racecourse accident?”

Melrose’s eyebrows shot up. “My Lord! You mean you saw him?”

“I did. I had an idea that Dan might still be alive.”

“What made you think that?”

“A couple of things: one was that anecdote Diane told us at the pub. The one about the jockey saying he’d like to come back not on but as that great American horse-what was his name?”

“Spectacular Bid.”

“It simply put a question into my mind, this ‘resurrection’ of a jockey, if it was possible that Ryder wasn’t dead. You see, I simply couldn’t imagine what would get Maurice to get Nell out to Aqueduct’s stall. Who on earth could talk him into it but the one person he cared more about than even Nell?”

“His father. I see what you mean.”

“But he wasn’t the person who abducted her.”

“If not Dan Ryder-? I don’t get it; Maurice wouldn’t have done it for anyone else, as you say.”

Jury shook his head. “It beats me. The only thing I can come up with is that somebody convinced Maurice he was acting for his father.”

Melrose leaned over and scratched Mindy’s head. “I must say I’m curious as to how Ryder managed to fake his own death in a race.”

“He didn’t manage it. The jockey riding that horse wasn’t Dan Ryder. He was supposed to be, but wasn’t.” Jury told him the rest. “It wouldn’t have worked, of course, if Simone Ryder hadn’t immediately identified the body as Dan’s.”

Melrose frowned. “That must have taken some extremely quick thinking.”

“Yes, it would. Now, where Maurice fits into all of this, I’m not sure. According to Danny, he didn’t ask Maurice for anything. He’s had no contact with him.”

“You didn’t tell him?”

“That Maurice is dead? No. I left it to her to do that.”

“You believe that he wasn’t in contact with Maurice?”

“Yes. As I said, another person must have used his father to get Maurice to help.”

“Hm.” Melrose leaned back. He was about to speak when Ruthven entered the room.

“I beg your pardon, sir. I thought you should know that Mr. Bramwell is back.”

“What?” Melrose was out of his chair like a shot. “Where?”

“Why, in the hermitage, sir. He’s asked for some beef tea.”

Was that, Jury wondered, a smirk playing around Ruthven’s lips?

“Beef tea?”

“Yes, m’lord. He claims to have contracted a bad cold at Mr. Browne’s establishment.”

“Good Lord. Come on, Richard!” Melrose flung out an arm as if he’d yank Jury from his chair. “We’ll beef tea him!”

The hermitage, as if welcoming the hunter home from the hills, had a nice little fire going in the cast-iron stove.

Mr. Bramwell was holding his hands out to it as if fire were his prime source of comfort. He did not wait for Melrose to open his mouth before he opened his own.

“That book place you sent me to weren’t properly heated. I tol’ him to build a fire, but yea know ’im, tight as a tic, that ’un. It’s gone and got me all chesty.” Here, Bramwell demonstrated by beating a fist against his chest and hacking away.

“Properly heated? My God, man, at least you were inside!”

“Felt like ruddy outside t’me. And would your Mr. Browne bring me so much as a cuppa? Ha!”

Melrose put his face as close to Bramwell’s as he dared without catching a few things and said, “Mr. Bramwell, think: Theo Wrenn Browne wasn’t in your employ; you were in his.”

“Worse luck for me, then.” He opened the little door of the stove with a sturdy stick, which he then used to poke at the coals, a comforting red. “If that’s the way you treat those in yer employ, why I don’t see how any of you keep staff round ’ere.” Thunk went the little door as he slammed it shut.

“We seem to have had no trouble thus far.” Melrose accidentally knocked his head against the lintel bearing the skull and MEMENTO MORI. A clump of moss fell in his hair.

Bramwell repeated his phlegmy cough. “I ought t’be in bed, me, ’stead o’ sittin’ ’ere.”

“Well, perhaps we can find a nice hospital bed for you. Bedlam has a big turnover.”

“None o’yer doctors, no thanks, not after what ’appened t’ my Doris. Did I tell yea about-?”

“Your Doris? Yes-” Melrose would have banged his head on the skull again but he didn’t want more moss in his hair.

Bramwell swiveled his gaze to Jury, for here was one who hadn’t heard the story. “My Doris goes into ’ospital to get one o’them ovaries seen to, and what do they do but take out the whole womb. The whole bloody boiling, don’t they? Well, I tells ’er, fer God’s sake, lass, sue the bleedin’ place. Absolutely disgustin’ I calls it, doctor don’t even know what bleedin’ operation ’e’s supposed t’be doing. My God!” Turning again to Melrose, he said, “I’d sooner be right back ’ere sleepin’ rough, me. That Theo Browne puts me in mind of a weasel.” He settled himself back against his pillowcase of belongings.

Jury pulled at Melrose’s sleeve. “A word?” He backed away from the hermitage entrance.

“What?” Melrose scowled.

“Are you missing the point here? The point not being to evaluate you and Theo as respective employers; the point being to fire this bloody fool before he seeps into every crack and crevice of Ardry End.”

“He’s certifiable.” Melrose mumbled imprecations… um… mumm… ass…

“Fire him, for God’s sake!” Jury pushed Melrose back to the entrance.

“Mr. Bramwell!”

Bramwell could look quite piteous and imploring when it suited him, as it did at the moment. (Oh, he knew what the two were up to!) He pulled his collar tight with a trembling hand.

Melrose opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again. He felt like a fish. Fortunately, he was saved from continuing by Ruthven, who, coated and scarved, approached over the acre or two between house and hermitage. This momentary reprieve turned Melrose hearty: “Well, here comes your beef