Martha Grimes - The Grave Maurice

“Yes, of course.” He looked around at the others. “Here?”

Jury nodded and they sat down on the sofa. Vernon turned from the window, his expression bleak. Jury looked at him. No one felt things more; he was as much of this family as any of them.

“When I was in hospital,” began Jury, “tended by the excellent Nurse Bell-”

Roger laughed a little. “Not your favorite person, I believe.”

“No, definitely not, but we might owe her a debt, or, rather, her mordant turn of mind. She was fond of bringing up unsuccessful cases. Wedged into her promenade of patients who hadn’t made it-one of whom she seemed to think I was likely to become-”

Roger smiled.

“-was a girl, a young girl who’d died in the OR when you were operating. Dory I think was her name.”

“Oh, Christ.” Roger put his head against his fist. “That was more than two years ago.” He leaned forward, forearms on knees, head bent as if in an act of contrition. “I blamed myself. The child had a heart condition-arrythmia, not dangerous in itself, it can be controlled with medication, but no one knew about it, including me, and I certainly should have; before operating, I should-”

Vernon Rice frowned. “What child?”

Arthur said, “That was not your fault, son.”

Jury turned to Arthur. “You knew her, then?”

“Of course, we all did. She-”

“Bloody hell!”

This outburst came from the office and was repeated twice before the speaker, a small man with a big temper, stormed into the room. “What the bloody hell’s goin’ on, Arthur?” He was holding up the shredded silk. “I got four bleedin’ races at Cheltenham tomorrow! I’ll look good in this lot, I will.”

“Billy, I don’t know-” said Arthur.

The jockey jiggled the hanger; the pieces of silk fluttered in the air of Billy’s shaking. Finally, they stilled into their green and silver diamond pattern.

Melrose stared. “You’re one of Roy Diamond’s jockeys?”

Billy nodded, muttering imprecations.

“He told me his daughter was dead,” said Jury. “She was the little girl.” It was only half a question.

Arthur said, “Dorothy, her name was. Dorothy Diamond.”

“She was in-” Jury stopped before he said, your care. He looked at the shredded silk and asked, “Where’s Nell?”

Vernon stared at him and bolted from the room.

Neil Epp, the groom, was still holding the tasty dish of carrots and fruits under Criminal Type’s nose and wondered what the bloody hell was going on, for here came Vernon Rice heading (it looked like) for them, for Neil and Criminal Type, still bridled and chewing his evening treat. Vernon yelled at him to saddle the horse.

Neil was completely discombobulated by this second assault on his stables-the first being young Nell grabbing Aqueduct as if her life depended on him, and now here came Rice yelling to saddle up the horse. Owing to Neil’s years of Dan Ryder’s “Do-it-don’t-ask” training he threw the saddle he’d been carrying over his arm onto Criminal Type’s back and he’d barely done this before Vernon had thrown himself up on the horse in one of the most efficient mountings Neil had ever witnessed.

Rice turned the horse and was now heading for the meadow and the walls.

Neil Epp ran, yelling, “Hey, Vernon! Criminal Type don’t go over the sticks!”

(Says who?)

Add to this the car that had just pulled onto the gravel lot and out of which got that Scotland Yard detective sergeant who’d been here before, and Neil thought it was the busiest day they’d seen since breeding rights to Samarkand had been initiated.

“Not fifteen minutes ago, Nell left,” he said to the party of worried-looking men who’d just come out of the house. “She came running out, saddled up Aqueduct and took off like Criminal Type on a fast track. Now he’s gone too, Criminal Type. With that Rice fellow up on him. Nell’d make a good ’chaser the way she takes those walls, or even a jockey. She’s flat-out brilliant-”

Jury cut across Neil’s career choices. “Where’s the Diamond farm?”

As Neil directed him, Roger turned disbelieving eyes on Jury. “You don’t think-?”

“Wiggins, you drive them”-he indicated Roger and Arthur-“and you drive me”-he turned to Melrose.

They ran toward the two cars.

Unfortunately, the quickest way to Roy Diamond’s place was not by the road, but by Hadrian’s walls, as the crow flies-or the horse.

Roy Diamond was riding his favorite mount, Havoc, around his mile-and-a-quarter training course, trying to beat yesterday’s record time. Roy didn’t know it but he had four very bad moments coming his way.

He didn’t see the horse and rider streaking across his paddock where a few of his horses grazed, and he didn’t see it had taken the last wall as if the wall were made of Devon cream. He didn’t see this because he was galloping round the track and his peripheral vision lied: he took movement over that way to be the movements of his own horses.

Coming around the turn he realized this wasn’t at all the case and when Aqueduct jumped the fence that enclosed the course, Roy felt fear, a thing he rarely felt because he always considered himself to be in command of any situation. Fear was a negligible, chaffy emotion wasted on Roy. Since the death of his daughter, most emotions were.

She was holding a whip up, clearly with the intention of bringing it down. Nell Ryder, as with her legendary uncle, Dan, never took a whip to a horse. He knew if she slowed she’d be on him with that whip, but what was much worse, with that horse. Nell talked to horses. Roy could see happening to him the same thing that had happened to Dan Ryder.

His jacket was lying over the fence and as he galloped round the track with her in pursuit he knew he had to get hold of the jacket. He saw that part of the fence coming up, reined in Havoc and reeled off the horse, snatched his coat and grabbed the gun from the pocket.

Roy was that popular: he always carried a gun.

Now the next bad moment happened: a cherry-red Aston-Martin was coming at full throttle toward the training track. Between the road and the track were two white fences. The Aston-Martin couldn’t jump the fences, so it did the next best thing: went straight through them.

At the same moment Roy caught a glimpse of yet another horse racing across the field a hundred feet away, just as Aqueduct appeared about to fall on Roy like a wall of bricks.

Roy fired. In that split second between intent and execution, Nell vaulted from the horse, and like a kid playing leapfrog, slid over Aqueduct’s head and down in front of him. The first shot caught her on the way down, the second as she hit the ground.

Then Roy got off two shots at the driver-was he seeing right?-of the Aston-Martin. Danny Ryder was out of the car and running toward them; Criminal Type jumped the wooden fence around the course and without even slowing, Vernon sprang from the saddle and fell on Roy Diamond, yelling.

Fear is no match for fury in a fight. Vernon wrenched the gun away and pushed it against Roy’s temple. Whether he would have fired or not was a moot question as he didn’t get the chance. Danny Ryder slid across the track, grabbed the gun-holding hand and knocked the gun from Vernon’s grip. Then he tossed it-at the ground, the sky, the past-while Vernon was up and running to where Nell lay as if Aqueduct had thrown her. The horse stood with neck bent, its muzzle wandering over her.

Carefully, Vernon wedged his arm behind her and lifted her as if she were a bunch of broken lily stalks-that pale hair, that translucent face. His hand on her ribs felt the soaking wetness of blood. “Nellie!”