The Grave Maurice (8 page)

“What are you doing, Mr. Plant?” Browne broke into Melrose's fantasy life.

“What? Oh, just practicing the cello. I was thinking it's easy to understand why everyone loves horse racing.”

Browne, finding an opportunity to rain on Melrose's parade, said, “Well, now, not everyone, Mr. Plant, not by a long chalk.”

“Oh?”

“Indeed not. Not your animal activists, no. And they're getting more and more prevalent. There's a group over in Sidbury who've done most unpleasant things. If you're planning on drawing any of your horsey friends from there, best be advised. There's a hunt tomorrow; you can go and see for yourself.”

Melrose had no friends in Sidbury, horsey or otherwise. “There's an even bigger group in Northampton. They're really organized, they are. You'll be harassed—don't think you won't. They'll hound you right into the ground.” Theo covered his mouth with his hand, snorting with laughter. “Oh, that's rich, now isn't it?” When Melrose didn't respond, he said it again: “Hound you,” and he laughed. “If you organize a hunt, they'll be certain to picket; they'll stand by the sidelines and jeer.”

“Jeering isn't a particularly efficient way to put paid to anything. At least it wouldn't be for me; with me they'd have to get physical—pull me off my horse.”

“I certainly wouldn't put it past them, me.”

The rhythm of Theo's speech often wound up back in North London if he didn't keep an eye on it.

“Then what I need is a Glock, not a book.”

On their way from the shelves to the front of the store, they passed a window embrasure where three little children were sitting, unsmiling and silent. Two of them Melrose recognized as the Finch children, Bub and Sally, and although they must be a year or two older than when Melrose had last seen them in the bookshop, they still looked three and six. The third child he couldn't recall seeing around the village, but he probably weighed in at some age between Bub and his sister. This child had a face so crowded with freckles it looked as though some of them had fallen on his faded T-shirt and made spots. The three smiled at Melrose, rather pathetically. It was clear they were all hugely unhappy tots and were perhaps thinking that Melrose (their hero), having delivered them once from the dreaded bookseller, might be counted on to do it again. Melrose returned their smiles and noticed that the three were holding hands, as if for a comfort none could sustain if the hands were separated.

“Hello, there. It's Sally and Bub, isn't it? And could this be Patrick the Painted Pig?” He said this to the third child, another fallen into the clutches of Mr. Browne.

Theo immediately took the floor. “These kiddies, Mr. Plant, were back there defacing my books. They've been directed to sit right there until the book police come!” Roundly, Theo gave him an exaggerated wink, as if his clever fabrication would charm Melrose, who might form part of this conspiracy against the children.

Was the man crazy? Melrose had bailed both Sally and later Bub out of trouble. “Well, now, Sally and Bub and Patrick—” Here the second little boy blushed, but still looked pleased.

Sally chimed in, “He ain't Patrick. His name's Regis.”

“Regis? Now there's a kingly name. Now, tell me what this is all about.”

All three spoke up at once. No, all four did. Theo was the first one in with a version of “events.” “They were tearing,
tearing
that book apart! Just malicious is what they are. I've a call in to Mrs. Finch but she hasn't returned it.”

“Ah, then is Mrs. Finch with the book police?” Giggles all round.

Melrose asked, “What happened?”

Sally burst out: “Me and Regis found this book and we both wanted it, so he was pulling on it and so was I.” This was delivered in one spurt of breath.

Regis frowned mightily. “No, that ain't right. Me, I wasn't doing nuffin'. I was only holding on to the book.”

Sally stuck out her tongue at Regis and whined, “Bub, here, though, he wasn't even near the old book!”

Melrose liked this standing up for her brother. He thought it quite noble in the circumstances. “All right, it's clear enough. You should be banished from Mr. Browne's shop.” He turned to Theo. “Banishment is the only answer.”

Banishment obviously appealed to the kiddies; they stood and dropped hands, ready to be banished. The hero had spoken.

“What they will have to do after this, if they want a book, is to go to the library.”

The kids looked as if they'd be willing to march into hell, if it meant escaping from Theo Wrenn Browne.

But Theo was not at all happy with this solution, which was a perfectly logical one. Melrose knew he wouldn't be, of course, since he derived too much pleasure from abusing children. “Well, that's all well and good, but what about my book? Cost sixteen quid, that did, and someone's—” He stopped when he saw Melrose smile.

“Of course someone has to pay for it.” He removed his money clip from his pocket and peeled off a twenty. “You can make the four-pound deduction from my books here.” He patted them. “Now, you three must remember to tell Miss Twinny you'll be perfectly quiet in the library and will bring books back on time.” He peeled a five-pound note from the wad and handed it to Sally, who gaped at it. “Give this to the lady in the café and tell her you're being treated to a lemonade or hot chocolate or whatever they have. You might tell her to keep the change for the next time.”

Now all three were gaping. Not only were they not being punished for their behavior, they were actually being rewarded!

“Now, run along, and no more fighting over books.”

They were off and out the door before Melrose had come to the end of his edict.

 

The Jack and Hammer was directly opposite the Wrenn's Nest. Melrose crossed the street after bidding good morning to Ada Crisp, who sometimes sat outside her secondhand furniture shop, sometimes with her Jack Russell terrier, but more often not, as the terrier's travel agenda took him all over the village. Miss Crisp sat among her china bowls and chamber pots, in a revenant light left over from autumn, rocking and waving at Melrose.

January and February, Melrose had decided, were the two most luckless and lackluster months on the calendar. It was difficult to get inspired (if one's bent was inspiration) by the ragged hem of a blown climbing rose around the Jack and Hammer's windows, or the faded turquoise coat of the Jack up on the beam, simulating bangs with his mallet to count the hours.

The inside, however, still retained a bit of New Year's cheer, largely because Dick Scroggs hadn't as yet taken down the lines of colored lights around the door or from the big mirror behind the bar. Melrose got Scroggs's attention—difficult, if Dick was buried in the paper—made a sign that he wanted a drink and walked through to where his comrades were seated round their table in the window. It was Trueblood's turn to get the seat with cushions, and there he comfortably sat, to the left of Joanna Lewes.

Diane Demorney blew out a thin stream of smoke and said, “We saw you coming out of Theo's. You know we said we were banning the place because of that library business.”

Melrose sat down. “Did we? I thought we were already banning it just on general principles.”

“We were going to make up placards and stand in front of the shop, I thought.”

“Speaking of banning,” said Melrose, “did you know there was a hunt in Sidbury?”

“For what?” asked Diane.

“A fox,” said Trueblood, firing up a match to light a small cigar. “They organized it a year or two ago. Probably to protest the protest. You know, all of these country folk are scared to death their privilege will be taken away.”

“According to Theo, there are a lot of animal-rights activists in Sidbury.”

“Oh,” said Diane, “those people who spray-paint fur coats. They sprayed my sable once, in front of Selfridge's.”

“You're kidding! What did you do?” asked Joanna.

“Bought another one.”

“I doubt,” said Melrose, “that's how these people would want to be identified.”

Joanna looked thoughtful. “Or maybe they would.” Joanna was the author of some two dozen romance novels, which she had advised them all to steer clear of. (“Such drivel.”) She went on: “Maybe their need for publicity is what motivates them, not animal rights.”

Diane stepped in here. “If my cat had any more rights I'd be the one watching the bung hole nights and she'd be inside with brandy and a book.” She turned to Joanna. “Your latest is quite good, Joanna.” Upon Joanna's telling them all they'd be wasting their time with her books, Diane had started reading them.

“Thank you. I just don't think those are the rights they're defending, or say they are.”

“How cynical,” said Trueblood.

Joanna turned to Diane. “You should do a bit of investigative reporting there, Diane. You work for the Sidbury paper.”

Diane “working” was an oxymoron. She was languor's home, ennui's back garden, apathy's arbor. However, she did indeed pen the astrology column for that paper—the daily horoscope. Diane was impeded by only two things: she couldn't write and she knew nothing about the stars. People loved the horoscope, though, for they believed it to be a tongue-in-cheek parody. Diane didn't know any more about parody than she did about writing or the stars. “You mean go to one of those things and say what they're doing?”

Diane had always been, generally speaking, a master of vagueness. Melrose said, “It's the activists I think Joanna is talking about.”

Instead of an answer, Diane held out a cigarette for someone to light—God, if no one else was available. Trueblood lit it. She blew a narrow veil of smoke toward them and reflected on this reporting. It was rather restful watching Diane's mind at work. One never had to venture far and there were a lot of lay-bys along the way. “I suppose I could do.” But her nose wrinkled at the thought as though a displeasing odor had wafted through the room.

“Do what?” asked Trueblood.

Diane heaved a sigh. “Go to a hunt. Haven't you been listening at all? Where is it?” she asked Melrose. “When is it?”

Melrose looked at his book jacket bearing the image of an American Thorougbred named Spectacular Bid. What a name! “According to Theo, there's one tomorrow. Why don't we all go?”

“Excellent!” said Trueblood. “It's one of my half days, so I'll just close the shop.”

“One of? How many half days do you allow yourself? There's only supposed to be one a week,” said Melrose.

“Depends. This week it'll be three. Well, I've got a life to live, haven't I?”

They all looked at him.

“Very funny, very funny. So why don't we all go?”

Joanna said, “I'd love to, but I've got fifteen pages to write because I didn't do today's ten. I only did half.”

“Your self-discipline is awesome,” said Melrose.

“My self-discipline is no more nor less than my Barclays account. That's awesome.”

This statement was made without a hint of conceit; indeed her implication was that her royalties were so far from being deserved it was pathetic.

“Okay, when shall we meet? Where?” said Melrose.

Trueblood said, “As to the when, I'd say eightish—” “Eight is not an hour, it's pirate's treasure,” said Diane.

“They start fairly early in the morning,” said Trueblood.

Diane's smile was humorless. “They do; I don't.”

“Nine, then.”

Given Diane's expression, nine was only marginally better, but she agreed.

“And where? We can't do it here because it's closed till eleven. We'll meet next door. How's that?”

“Fine. Only what about this half-day business. If you leave at nine, that's more like a full day,” said Melrose.

“Then I'll make up for it by staying all day the next day, as the next day is only a half day, too.”

“That makes sense.”

“W
e should have signs,” said Melrose, casting his eye over the courtyard of the country hotel appropriately named the Horse and Hounds. There was quite a crowd, an eclectic-looking bunch, from hunters in their pink coats and black hats to a rather seedy-looking elderly man with a piece of white posterboard hanging from a string around his neck that announced BEWARE THE HOUR DRAWS NIGH! Melrose wondered what it had to do with the hunt, or, indeed, the antihunt. Probably nothing, or no more than it had to do with the price of a pint in the Horse and Hounds. The hunt participants were up on horses, the restless hounds milling about, snuffling the brick and pebble-dashed courtyard as if they were looking for heroin, and the master was sniffily regarding the cup being handed him by one of the hotel staff.

Watching the cup being handed around, Melrose said, “It's rather like communion, isn't it? Passing the goblet down the line of the faithful at the altar. In any event, it's certainly ritual, no doubt of it.”

“Of course,” said Trueblood. “That's mostly what it's all about. Ritual, tradition, class. Always class these things turn out to be. A class war. You don't honestly think these people with their signs and slogans are interested in the fox's welfare?”

“I imagine they think they are. You can't generalize that way.” Melrose thought the women looked haggard with their rough clothes and flyaway hair; the men looked better, more convivial, owing, perhaps, to one more round in the Horse and Hounds.

“We stick out like a sore thumb,” said Marshall Trueblood.