The Grave Maurice by Martha Grimes Page B

out for you, don’t you? No—Samarkand, his name is. He’s a famous horse.”
    â€œThen he wouldn’t be for sale.”
    â€œNo, 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.”
    â€œSure you are. Stop complaining and I’ll tell you something about Nurse Bell.”
    â€œWhat? She works nights outside a club in Soho? She’s pregnant by the hospital’s CEO? What?”
    â€œHer first name is—ready?—Hannah.”
    It took a moment for the penny to drop.
    Then they both smiled meanly.

TEN
    â€œT hat 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.
    â€œThat’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?”
    â€œA muffin?”
    â€œYou know what I mean! It’s green. What did Martha do to it?”
    â€œIt’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.
    â€œOh, but won’t she make a fuss, sir?” said Martha, smiling broadly.
    â€œThat’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.
    â€œCreme 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.”
    â€œI’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