The Grave Maurice

Bramwell?”

Theo was brought up short. “I did have such a person here, but no longer. He left. He hinted he was returning to Mr. Plant’s place.” Theo tittered.

Or at least it sounded like a titter to Melrose, who had posted himself by the tiers of magazines where he could listen and pretend not to hear.

Mustering just the right amount of gravitas, Jury said, “That’s a rum go.”

Rum go? Melrose looked round. Had he mistakenly walked into an H. E. Bates novel?

Now Theo didn’t know whether to cheer or weep. Then realizing he could do better than “left,” he said, “Well, I had to fire him, didn’t I?”

“Damn! This would have been the perfect place.”

“Pardon?” Theo danced his eyebrows around, puzzled.

“Oh, sorry.” Jury sighed. “We’ve been trying to get the goods on Fast Eddie for years now.”

Get the goods on? Had Jury been filling up on TV cop shows? And “Fast Eddie”-Melrose knew he’d heard that name. “Fast Eddie.” It was from some American film, wasn’t it? They called people those kinds of names over there.

“Fast Eddie? I’m not following you, Superintendent.”

“We call him that. It’s the initials, isn’t it? Frederick Edward? His speciality is rare books, and I mean very rare. Like the Pleiades edition of Ulysses. Don’t see many of those lying around, do you?”

Theo was overcome with ignorance. “The Pleiades edition? I don’t think I’m familiar… I find all this hard to believe, Superintendent.”

You’re not the only one. Melrose turned a page of the Beano comic he was reading.

Theo went on. “You see, Mr. Bramwell didn’t appear to know a thing about books.”

Jury guffawed. “That’s his game, Mr. Browne. He presents himself as being quite unlettered, to say the least.”

The very, very, very least.

“But why on earth,” Theo said, looking pained, “would such a person want with working in my bookshop?”

Jury leaned across the well-polished counter which separated Theo from the rest of humanity and said in a low voice, “Because he always makes his contacts through bookshops.”

Theo drew in a breath, sharply.

“If Mr. Plant can persuade the man to come back here, you would be doing me a huge favor. And, of course, the Yard. This man’s got right up my nose over the last couple of years.”

Melrose sighed, wishing Jury would stop talking like a cop in a bad thriller.

Theo leaned closer to Jury so that now their noses were nearly touching. “Is he, well, dangerous at all?”

“Oh, I shouldn’t think so, Mr. Browne. But of course”-Jury stepped back and put his palms up-“I certainly wouldn’t ask you to do something you’d be uncomfortable with. After all, we can’t all be heroes.” Jury flashed him a heroic smile.

Well, that did it for Theo. Any appeal to his heroism completely unnerved him-not that there had ever been such an appeal up to now. Yes, he would have Mr. Bramwell back if it meant helping the police.

“So all we have to do is talk Bramwell into returning to the Wrenn’s Nest.”

Joanna Lewes, who was sitting next to Jury in the Jack and Hammer said, “Isn’t that illegal or criminal or something to impersonate a police detective?”

“I am a police detective,” said Jury.

“I know; but you were pretending this was a real case.”

Jury laughed. “You’re obviously unaware of all the ‘pretending’ the police do.”

“Anyway,” said Melrose, “how do I get him to agree to go back?”

Trueblood said, “Tell him Theo’s a bookie.”

“Oh, that’s brilliant.”

Trueblood lit a pink cigarette. “You have no imagination, you know that?”

Vivian said to Jury, “You’re supposed to be resting and yet you go gallivanting all over the country searching for”-she shrugged-“whatever. You’ll land yourself right back in the hospital with that dreadful nurse.”

“Hannibal.” Jury smiled. “You could say Hannibal was really into death. Nothing gave her more pleasure it appeared than an unsuccessful attempt to resuscitate some poor sod flailing like a fish in the OR.”

“Consider my Doris and be grateful they didn’t remove all of your organs.”

Jury laughed. “She was always-” He stopped, hearing Nurse Bell’s whiny voice. Dory. “Poor tike, poor little Dory… arrhythmia, and no one knew it…”

“Something wrong, old bean?” asked Trueblood.

“What? No. I just have to-” Jury rose suddenly and went to the bar where Dick Scroggs was reading the paper. “I need your phone, Dick.”

Dick fished it out from the shelf beneath the bar. “Here you are, sir.”

Jury passed behind some member of the Withersby clan, sullenly nursing a beer. He got out his address book and thumbed to what he wanted. Then he punched in the number of the hospital, called and asked for the surgical ward. A crisp voice answered, and he asked for Dr. Ryder. He was, of course, put on hold. A long silence, bleak as the Withersby face down the bar. (Why did they all look so alike? That cropped look of the face, the squarish jaw, stopped too soon?)

He waited. It would be forever, if the nurse came back at all. He hung up, redialed the hospital and asked again for the surgical ward. Only this time he asked for Nurse King. Christine. Was she on duty? On duty and right there, said the voice.

Chrissie King came on the line. Jury could almost hear the devotion throbbing at the other end. He asked her if she could locate Dr. Ryder, or at least find out where he was and get a message to him.

“But I know where he is, I mean, I know where he said he was going-to Cambridgeshire. It was late yesterday he left. He said something about a funeral.”

Dear God, Jury thought, taking the receiver from his ear and resting it against his forehead as if to cut short the bad news. Maurice. How could he have forgotten?

The receiver back against his ear, he said, “Chrissie, you’re a godsend, you are. Thanks.”

“Oh, yes. Glad to…”

She said it as if he’d just asked her to go steady.

Jury hung up, found the Ryder number in Cambridgeshire and called. No