Martha Grimes - The Grave Maurice

Said Melrose, “I always travel with mine, too.”

Nurse Bell paid him no mind. “-and died on the operating table. Heart, can you believe it? Poor little Dory. Had a heart arrhythmia and nobody knew it. Doctor”-here she looked at Jury just to let him know not all of Dr. Ryder’s patients walked out under their own steam-“blamed himself. Then there was old Willie, that was getting on perfectly well until he choked to death on coffee from the dispensing machine.”

God! But the woman was a ghoul. “How could a patient choke to death surrounded by nurses?”

She didn’t answer, only looked at the thermometer ruefully. “Oh, I don’t like this, Mr. Jury. Temperature’s up. I’ll have to tell doctor, won’t I?”

Melrose hated it when “doctor” was used almost like a first name. Like God, for instance.

Nurse Bell turned to go and then turned back. “And you”-here came a frenzy of finger waggling-“five more minutes and then out. Five minutes!” She left, her heavy rump swaying and her uniform bristling with starch.

“What in hell was it? Your temperature, I mean.”

“Who knows-517, probably. Let’s get back to the horse-trading plan.”

“Let’s not.” Melrose threw himself into a fit of mock weeping.

“Oh, don’t be so childish. Look-”

Melrose raised his untearstained face to see Jury holding The Daughter of Time. “I’ve got several more days in this place, being ministered to by-” He nodded meaningfully toward the door. “I need something to think about, something to chew on, and I find this girl’s disappearance very interesting.”

“You’ve got her father right here. Chew on him.”

“Come on, he’s hardly objective.”

Melrose sighed. He knew he’d do it and Jury knew he knew it. “So I tell this Ryder chap I’m interested in buying some horseflesh.”

“For God’s sake, don’t call it ‘horseflesh.’ ”

“Gary Cooper always did.” The actor was one of Melrose’s all-time favorites. That badge he threw down in the dust at the end of High Noon !

“No, he didn’t. What are you doing?”

“Nothing.”

“It looked as if you threw something. Anyway, pay attention. What would be even more convincing”-here Jury sat forward, pushing the tray table out of his way-“would be to go after a particular horse, or find out what horses he had there and read up on them. Do what Diane Demorney does: learn a lot about one horse instead of a little about all of them.” Jury thought for a moment. “Red Rum, that’s a good horse. He won the Grand National, and more than once, I think.”

“I’d have to know general things; I can’t see me going back and back, knowing only Red Rum.”

“The one Wiggins was talking about-”

“Seabiscuit?”

“Of course not Seabiscuit. Seabiscuit’s an American horse. He’s also dead. You’ve really got your work cut out for you, don’t you? No-Samarkand, his name is. He’s a famous horse.”

“Then he wouldn’t be for sale.”

“No, but now it occurs to me that you’d have to know something about him; I mean if you’re knowledgeable about horses and racing. You could easily get information about the stud farm from, you know, sources…” Jury shrugged.

Melrose got up and leaned over the bed to shake Jury’s hand. “Thanks! Sources! That’s really helpful.” He stood there. “I expect I should get started right away.” Melrose checked his watch. “Good God! I’ve been here more than the five minutes!”

Jury leaned back, looking rather smug. “You going back to Northants? You really should start this investigation as soon as possible.”

Melrose just stared at him. “Talk about nerve! Not only isn’t this an investigation-one of your cases-I’m not an investigator.”

“Sure you are. Stop complaining and I’ll tell you something about Nurse Bell.”

“What? She works nights outside a club in Soho? She’s pregnant by the hospital’s CEO? What?”

“Her first name is-ready?-Hannah.”

It took a moment for the penny to drop.

Then they both smiled meanly.

“That book,” said Agatha, craning her neck to see what Melrose was reading, “has horses on the cover.” She righted herself on the drawing-room sofa and inspected the cake plate.

“That’s because it’s about horses.” Melrose took another sip of his tea and wondered if the buffeting about of the morning light-rhomboids along the Oriental carpet, spandrel along an archway-was making up for Agatha’s unilluminating presence, the light in sympathy with him. A pathetic fallacy, but Melrose would take his pathos where he found it.

Agatha continued: “Why on earth would you be reading about horses? You don’t have one; you don’t even ride.” Having pinched another muffin-they were smallish-from the plate, she eyed it with suspicion. “What is this?”

“A muffin?”

“You know what I mean! It’s green. What did Martha do to it?”

“It’s a creme de menthe muffin.” This had been Melrose’s idea. He had told his cook Martha to add a bit of food coloring to the muffins, which he now had christened with the names of various liqueurs. He had also directed Martha to keep back the scones and tea bread. Ruthven (Melrose’s butler and Martha’s husband) had tittered.

“Oh, but won’t she make a fuss, sir?” said Martha, smiling broadly.

“That’s the idea,” Melrose had answered, matching the smile.

Unfortunately, not liking did not mean not eating and not staying. If nothing else was available for her tea, she would start in on the fruits of the Della Robbia jug he had brought back from Florence to give to someone, anyone, perhaps even Agatha. He was not fond of it.

Returning the green muffin to the riotous muffin plate, she took the most muffinish-looking muffin there. This was the color of the latte‘ served in Latte‘ at the Library.

“Creme de cacao, that one is.”

Gingerly unwrapping its furled little skirt, Agatha said, “I honestly think Martha’s getting senile, serving up this sort of rubbish.”

“I’ll tell her from now on to serve the rubbish you’re used to.” Melrose turned back to his book. He was reading about Red Rum, the horse Jury had mentioned, a three-time Derby winner of old who had the distinction, when he died, of being buried in the winner’s circle at Aintree. This was a fellow he’d have to remember. On the marquetry table beside his chair lay a small black leather notebook in which he set down this information.

Half of her light-brown muffin gone, Agatha said, “You’ve been writing in that thingamajig”-here she discounted the little notebook’s usefulness with a gesture, waving it to its thingamajiggish grave-“ever since I came. It’s quite rude of you, also, Melrose, but then you never were one to observe the social niceties.”

“I didn’t know that’s what we were doing.” He smiled down at Red Rum, making another note. He was really drawing Red Rum’s tail, since his doing anything in the notebook irritated her so much. The recording of things to which she was not privy bothered her. Melrose had an actual insight there. He blinked. Perhaps Agatha deserved some sympathy if she was one of those people who were afraid that life would come crashing down if they didn’t know everything that was going on around them. It was as if all sorts of rascally things might be taking place. (Just look at those muffins!)

“You’re not, I hope, thinking of buying one?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact. Indeed, I think I’ll have that old stable brushed up and put in a riding ring and perhaps a racing course-”

“Good God!” The muffin half fell from her hand. “Surely you can’t be seriously thinking of ruining these beautiful grounds!”