The Grave Maurice (9 page)

“We do?” Melrose observed two of the protesters wearing fox kit and masks that covered the upper half of their faces, thus leaving their mouths free to hector the riders. LET'S RIP THE HUNT TO PIECES THE WAY YOU DO US read one of the placards. He felt that could have been better put.

Taken all in all, hounds and horses were definitely the best-looking gathered there. Diane, who was rooting about in a big black leather bag, said, “That's a spiffy-looking Master of Foxhounds, I'd say.”

Trueblood said, “MFHs are always spiffy. I'd be spiffy, too, in one of those pink coats and up on that bay he's riding. It's all sex, anyway, isn't it? Sex, class, politics.”

“Marshall, it's almost as if you'd given the matter some thought,” said Diane in a God-forbid tone.

Hounds, horses, hunters set off down the road for some faraway field and everyone else more or less followed. When Melrose and Trueblood started off, Diane said, “Good Lord, you two. We're not going to follow on foot. We'll take the car.”

Melrose was puzzled. “But, Diane, we won't be able to follow in a car unless there's a road that runs beside their route all the way. We'll lose them.”

“No, we won't. You drive, Marshall.” She handed him the keys to her car. “You drive so I'll be free to do this.” She patted the leather bag slung over her shoulder.

“Do what? What is that?”

“Camcorder.” She eased herself into the passenger's seat of the BMW. “You said I should do some investigative reporting, didn't you? Well, I'll need pictures.”

They shrugged and got in the car, Melrose in the backseat.

“Just go straight down to the bottom of this road and then turn left.”

Trueblood turned the key in the ignition and the motor purred into that sort of latent life reserved for BMWs, Jaguars, Porsches and Bentleys. Trueblood accelerated and its purr was a trifle louder, but still a purr. “Nice car, Diane.”

“You should get one.” They drove down the road, turned left and Diane directed, “A little way on and bear to the right—here.”

Melrose leaned on the back of the passenger seat, and said, “Diane, you seem to know where we're going.”

“Of course. Do you think I'd be out here driving aimlessly if I could be inside the saloon bar at the Horse and Hounds? Here—” She handed Melrose a smallish roll of paper.

He unrolled it to find a nicely detailed map of the route the hunt was taking, showing the local roads that ran near it, the places that one could get out of the car and see it. “This is terrific, Diane. But wouldn't the hunt be all over the map? Can you predict where the fox will go? Where'd you get it?”

“From Eugenie St. Cyr-Jones. She seems to think the route is fairly predictable.”

“St. Cyr-Jones? Do we know her?”

“No. She's the local organizer against FOX. That's Friends of Xavier.”

“Who's that? A saint? A cult figure?”

“It's the fox.”

“Xavier? No,” said Melrose, “the fox is called Reynard.”

“Well, you can't have FOR as your slogan. People wouldn't know what it referred to. We'll see Eugenie St. Cyr-Jones at”—Diane took back the map, ran a red fingernail over the route and stopped—“here, at the low stone wall.”

It put Melrose more in mind of Cluedo than an actual place.
Go to the low stone wall.
“But why are we meeting this St. Cyr-Jones woman?”

“For the interview. I thought it would best be done in the field. That way you see the hunt run by behind her. Or something like that.”

“You've a finely developed aesthetic sense, Diane.”

“Thanks. But actually, I just wanted to get one of these maps out of her, so I had to tell her I'd interview her. Who knows? It might be amusing.”

Diane's highest priority. “Diane, you surprise me. You're shifty. Devious.”

“I've always been devious.”

“
There they are!
View hal-looooo! Isn't that what they yell?” Trueblood pulled the car over and they got out.

Hounds, and behind them horses were pouring over a stone wall, almost as one. Melrose could understand how country people could come all over John Peel-ish at the sight. He had forgotten what a visceral thrill the sight of pink coats and sleek horses could give one.

Diane didn't get the camcorder going until they were a field away, whereupon they all got back in the car and followed the hunt for another quarter mile. Melrose yelled, “We just passed a group of people by a low stone wall.”

“Back up, Marshall.”

Trueblood reversed and stopped.

“That's Eugenie,” said Diane, climbing out of the car. Then she turned back and dropped the leather bag from her shoulder and handed it to Trueblood.

“I've never worked one of these things.”

“It's simple.” She removed it from the bag and pointed to a couple of buttons. “You just press this, then this. It just keeps rolling until you stop it, here.”

Trueblood shrugged, then put the camcorder on his shoulder and walked a little away. He began to feel quite the investigative photographer.

Eugenie St. Cyr-Jones was a large, stout woman in her early seventies. She was wearing a gray worsted suit of good cut, partially hidden by the white placard hanging around her neck, shouting its ambiguous message: HUNT IN, GOVERNMENT OUT! The woman beside her was introduced as Clarice St. John-Sims, and she was Eugenie St. Cyr-Jones's diminutive opposite. She seemed to be there to take up the slack. Of what, Melrose couldn't say. It must have been the names that provided the attraction between them, for he could see nothing else to explain it. Diane might have been the only person around who could have introduced the two of them (“Eugenie St. Cyr-Jones and Clarice St. John-Sims”) without even blinking. Diane was good at things like that, bits of useless—but accurately reported—information.

Eugenie St. Cyr-Jones looked as if she spent most of her days in a state of high dudgeon, which probably made her a good candidate for protesting the protest. Diane had a tape recorder going and up to Eugenie's stormy face, a face that told the tale of many past protests.

While Trueblood moved the camcorder around to take in the scene, Diane suggested that Miss St. Cyr-Jones say a few words about her purpose in being here.

Eugenie St. Cyr-Jones had many more than a few words to say. “
Should
our government make the
criminal
error of trying to ban foxhunting they should be aware they'll have a real battle on their hands. To pass such a bill would be to threaten the very
livelihood
of the country. People fail to see beyond the spectacle itself to the repercussions of such government interference. The antihunting contingent—” Here she waved her arm around a group that was steadily forming, hoping no doubt (as were hounds) that blood would be let before the morning was over.

The antihunting contingent stepped in, in the person of a boisterous middle-aged woman. “Spectacle! That's all 'tis, just a bunch of country clowns huntin' a poor animal to its bloody end.” Her hair looked fried in a pan, flat on top, frizzled on the sides.

Trueblood positioned his camera close up and then back to take in the entire group before his attention was caught by the promise of a melee out in the field. He moved in that direction.

The woman with the fried hair addressed Diane. “You ast'er this, ast'er 'ow she'd feel gettin' tore up by a pack o' them 'ounds! Ast'er!”

Diane smiled. “As you already have—” and looked at Eugenie St. Cyr-Jones.

Eugenie was clearly revolted by this person. “That's so
clearly
a loaded argument. Listen to me: in Sidbury there's a saddlery that employs a number of the local townspeople. It's the way they earn their living. Now, how long would that business last—and that's but one example—if the hunt was banned?”

Several of the onlookers exchanged words that Trueblood was hoping would turn into blows, but for the moment quieted down. He heard another commotion in the field, or the same one exacerbated. He turned to see that hounds were swarming. Had they homed in on the benighted Xavier? No, no, a horse must have caught its leg flying over the stone wall and gone down. Several black coats dismounted. Trueblood hoped the horse was all right; he didn't care much about the rider. The horse rose and shook itself and wandered away, unattended by the rider for the rider and another hunt member seemed to be shouting. Trueblood pointed the camera in that direction. Now the pink-coated MFH unhorsed himself and moved quickly to this little nucleus of persons, ostensibly to quell the fight.

Horses, the most sensible of the lot, left to their own devices moved about in search of some tasty grazing place.

Trueblood loved it! There were the hounds roving off, snuffling the ground, mixing in and out between legs of horses and hunters, all of them having a rave-up, hounds and hunters alike. The horses quite sensibly ignored them.

How often had this sort of thing happened during a hunt? Never, he bet. It was a scoop! Behind him—and now he turned the camcorder back to the protesters—a well-dressed, sensible-looking man interrupted the woman with the fried hair.

“Naturally, one doesn't enjoy the spectacle of a fox thrown to hounds, but what sticks in my throat is the sheer hypocrisy of some of your hunting-ban travelers. Some of them aren't even charities, though they want you to believe they are.”

A theoretical argument. Who cares? Trueblood turned the camera off toward the right. Wonderful! Fists were flying! The master appeared now to be acting as referee. Oh, good! Someone in the group actually pushed him! Shouting! The rest of the hunt had dismounted now—their steeds making for the spot where their fellow horses were nibbling the frosty grass.

Hearing raised voices at his back, Trueblood turned around to get a look at the civilians, who appeared to be sheering off and scattering. Diane and Melrose were waving him toward the car.

“I got it all! Did you see it? The melee?”

“What melee in particular?” asked Melrose as he got in the car. “There seemed to be so many melees. But that bit was interesting, wasn't it, about some of these groups' advertising themselves as charities when they were really moneymaking concerns?”

“A documentary!” said Trueblood, starting the car. “I'm entering it for the BAFTA awards.”

Diane stabbed a cigarette into her black holder. “They're so tiresome, aren't they, these do-gooders, these protesters?” She sighed and turned so that Melrose could light the cigarette. Then she said, “It's all a bit of a shambles, isn't it?”

“Causes,” said Melrose. “There's something really off-putting about causes.”

Trueblood nodded. “There's something absolutely
absurd
about this marching and meeting and arguing and brawling.”

“If things start going wrong,” said Diane, “I agree with that writer—what's his name? Raymond . . . Hammett? No, Dash something—”

“Dashiell Chandler?” offered Melrose. “Or it could be Raymond Chandler and Dashiell Hammett? Anyway, you agree with what one of the three said. What was that?”

“Bring in a man with a gun.”

M
auricle had thought about her disappearance until Maurice had thought about her disappearance until thought seemed to liquefy and then evaporate, as if his brain could take only so much. He was sitting at Arthur Ryder's big desk in the library, moving the leather swivel chair a half circle one way, a half circle the other. In his hand was the silver-framed photo of Nell, posed beside Samarkand. It was taken just before she disappeared. Fifteen years old. Was she as carefree as she looked in this picture? Was he?

He did not know his grandfather had entered the room until he spoke: “Maurice.”

“Oh, hi, Granddad.” Maurice set the silver frame back on his grandfather's desk.

“You never stop, do you, son?” Arthur's voice was as quiet as moths beating against a blind and his expression just as futile.

To Maurice, his grandfather sounded very tired. He said so. “You should slow down.”

Arthur Ryder slumped into the big leather chair beside his desk and gave a short laugh. “Maurice, if I slowed down any more I'd be in a coma.”

“Oh, sure. Right.”

“It's all this whittling.” Arthur smiled and put his pocket-knife on the desk along with the small piece of wood he'd been working on.

Maurice picked it up, turned it. “What is it?” “Nothing. Absolutely nothing. That's what I aim for.”

Maurice ran his thumb over the side. “But it's such a good nothing. The design is good.”

Arthur laughed more heartily than he had before. “Maurice, I swear you're the only sixteen-year-old diplomat I know.” Then Arthur thought, truly bloody kind, Maurice is. But kindness has a price; it makes a person thin skinned, empathy does.

“It's just nerves,” said Arthur, inclining his head toward the bit of wood. “Just a nervous habit.” Not quite true. It gave him something to look at other than the eyes of the person he was talking to. He found it difficult to look people in the eyes. Not Maurice, of course, and not Vernon. But others. It's like cats, isn't it? If they look you in the eyes and blink, doesn't it mean they trust you? Arthur did very little blinking; he just whittled away, blew the sawdust and tiny bits off the knife and the wood.

The phone rang and he picked it up, listened and said to Maurice, “Give me that stud book; it's on that first shelf. Thanks.” Arthur flipped to the last page on which were written names and dates, and said, “If it's just the one time, you can have On Your Mark, . . . that's a hundred thousand, one-twenty-five if you want a guaranteed foal. . . . No. Samarkand? Of course not, Colin. He needs a rest.” Arthur chuckled. “Maybe you and I don't, but then we didn't spend ten years of our lives in the winner's circle, did we? . . . No, I don't mean you'd get On Your Mark for just the one time; of course you can try two or three times. Like taking your coffee back for a refill. . . . Hell, Colin, of course it's a lot of money; you talk as if you'd never done this before. I know it's a lot of money, you also know On Your Mark won the 2000, the St. Leger, the Derby and a lot of other races here and in France.” This was said without a trace of rancor. After a few more exchanges, Arthur rang off.