The Horse You Came in On Read online

  They were not happy with the way Cecil and Leonard were running things, so what had Cecil’s role been?

  He stopped reading, looked blindly across at his table companion, who was still lip-reading his book. He frowned. Then he rose and went over to the desk behind which the librarian stood stamping books. He asked for Burke’s Peerage. Briskly, she walked him back to the same shelves and took it down for him.

  Melrose took it back to his table and looked up the name.

  He shut the book and shut his eyes. It was something Owen Lamb could have told him in an instant. He opened his eyes, looked round the room. Here was a bit of history that probably anyone sitting in here could have told him; he was embarrassed by his ignorance. Suddenly, the voice of Hughie came back to him. “So this jerk, he tries to poison his one uncle when it’s really the other uncle that’s the successor, not the one the guy tries to ice.”

  Melrose opened Burke’s again and looked up “Delaware.” The nephew of Sir Owen West attempted to poison his other uncle, Thomas West, whom the nephew mistakenly thought was heir to the title of Lord Delaware. Melrose felt almost sorry for him, poor devil. It just went to show how confusing the rules of primogeniture were.

  Hughie might not know his monuments, but he definitely knew his Delawares. My God, thought Melrose.

  Or, in this case, my lord.

  III

  It was nearly eight by the time Melrose emerged from the cab, and the shop on Aliceanna Street was closed. His breath clouded the window he was peering through, searching for some signs of life, Jip or her aunt. No lights in there except for the floor lamp with its green glass shade painting watery shadows on dark wood. That and the blue neon half-moon hanging in the window were the only lights.

  Melrose knocked; no one came. He rattled the knob and got no response. But when he turned it the door opened. At the same time as he was relieved to have access to the shop, he wanted to give Jip a good talking to for forgetting to lock the door. He went in.

  The bird cage was covered with the red shawl, but this did not appear to interfere with the parrot’s nocturnal activities. Issuing from the cage was a lot of sandpapery scratching and ch-ch-ch-ch-ch-ing, as if the bird were busy building something in there.

  Melrose found the wire basket shoved in amongst the masses of clothing, well hidden by the gowns and skirts. Perhaps Jip hadn’t wanted to keep it back in the living quarters; her aunt might become curious. Melrose pulled it out, peeling away hems and sleeves and trouser legs.

  Everything appeared to be here. John-Joy’s books had sunk to the bottom as a result of Melrose’s having pulled out all of the clothes earlier for inspection. One of the books was an old King James Bible, one a Michener novel with a tattered cover, one what Melrose had thought looked like a hotel ledger. The fourth one was a flattish book, also of the sort used as ledgers, but smaller.

  Melrose took these last two books over to the green lamp and sat down on the footstool. The larger of the two was the sort put to use by churches to record marriages before there were registry offices. The dates here were all the late 1700s, running into the 1800s. He ran his finger down the list on each page, searching for a Calvert, and finally found one: the marriage of a Charles Calvert to an Ann Joiner, date, 6 August 1783. Melrose shut the book and calculated from there to the date on the birth certificate.

  The binding of the other book had come loose; some of the pages were torn, and some stained. Its general appearance would certainly attest to its having been around for a couple of hundred years. It was a book of accounts, the columns on the right marked at the top “l—s—d” for “pounds,” “shillings,” and “pence.”

  How long he sat there in the eerie shadows cast up by the green shade, he didn’t know. He was brought out of his speculation by the bonging of a long-case clock telling him it was eight forty-five.

  He got up, a little stiffly, from the low seat and considered the strange implications of what he’d found. It was very strange if it was true, but Melrose couldn’t think of anything else that would explain the murders of John-Joy and Philip Calvert. And Beverly Brown.

  It gave him the creeps. What an odd motive for murder. He thought again of Kind Hearts and Coronets. What had happened to John-Joy and Philip, well, it wouldn’t be the first time. . . .

  He put the books under his arm, preparatory to meeting Jury and the others at the Horse, and made for the door. As he passed the cage, he lifted the covering. The bird fluttered around and croaked “Eh-more! Eh-more!”

  This was one screenplay about Avalon that Barry Levinson definitely hadn’t written.

  Now, Melrose wondered: What other Calvert was waiting in the wings with his Letters Patent?

  33

  Less than an hour later, Melrose found out.

  When he walked into the Horse, there wasn’t much custom and even less activity. With no football game to fill up the big screen, the regulars were stuck with another quiz show. They were watching it without much enthusiasm.

  “I have something to tell you,” said Melrose, settling the books on the table and himself in a chair.

  “And I have something to tell you,” said Jury. “About Patrick Muldare. That’s not originally the family name. Listen to this: years ago, Muldare’s great-great-great-grandfather got into some sort of argument with the family and made his point by actually changing his name. The family name is Calvert. Interesting? It might be coincidence, of course, Calvert being a fairly common name, but I doubt it. That it’s coincidence. Beverly Brown apparently doubted it too. What’s wrong?”

  Plant’s hand stopped in the act of pouring out his beer, and he sat there in silence for some moments, staring. “Patrick Muldare is a Calvert?”

  “Muldare said he wasn’t even thinking of it when I mentioned the murder of Philip Calvert. The only thing Patrick seems to care about is the NFL expansion team.” Jury smiled. Melrose didn’t smile back. “He’s holding his breath, waiting to find out, one, if Baltimore gets it; two, if he and his backers get it. He doesn’t think he’s got much of a chance, though. He thinks the owners might not be too impressed by him.”

  Melrose took a drink and set down his glass. He said: “They might be impressed as hell if Patrick Muldare were Lord Baltimore.”

  Wiggins’s head snapped up from Debrett’s. “If he were who?”

  “Lord Baltimore. Baron. It’s an Irish title, actually, so there wouldn’t be any claiming of monies or land.” Melrose pulled Debrett’s away from Wiggins, quickly found the page he wanted, turned the book to face them, tapping his finger at one of the entries there. “George Calvert, first Baron Baltimore. Calvert is the family name.” Melrose took the certificate from his pocket and laid it on the books.

  “You’ve got to be joking.” Jury laughed.

  “No, it’s right here.” Melrose shoved the ledger book and the birth certificate towards Jury.

  “What are these?”

  “The doin’s,” said Melrose.

  It was Jury’s turn to stare. Something unpleasant was shaping in his mind.

  Wiggins, however, newly anointed member of the British peerage, was quick to pull over Debrett’s, have a look, and make his comments. “George Calvert, first Lord Baltimore—”

  Said Melrose, “Proprietary of the territory called Avalon. Later Maryland. Terra Mariae, in honor of an aunt of Louis XIV. This first Lord Baltimore—Baron—had two sons, Cecil and Leonard. Leonard was the first governor of Maryland, and he’s important because when, finally, the sixth Baron died DSP—”

  Wiggins looked up and said, for Jury’s uninformed benefit, “That’s without children. Actually, sir, I believe in this case it must be DSMP. Without a male descendant.”

  “Yes. You learn quickly, Tweedears.”

  Wiggins looked smug.

  “Now, the problem arises in the male descendants of Leonard. He being the second son, his male heirs would of course take over the title. But about the time of his third or fourth descendant, William, there’s n
o proof, that the next male descendant is indeed just that. Consequently, all of that line become barons de jure instead of what we might call de facto.” Here Melrose nodded in Wiggins’s direction, the sergeant being all too familiar, by now, with this thorny little problem. “Patrick Muldare is one of the descendants—”

  “Are you saying that so are Philip Calvert and John-Joy?” Jury shook his head. “Impossible.”

  “Not at all. If these records mean anything, Philip Calvert and Pat Muldare are some degree of cousins. And John-Joy, actually John Joiner Calvert, is some sort of uncle. The precise relationship I don’t know. Beverly Brown might have.” He turned the two books toward Jury, open. “This shows that Anne Joiner married one Charles Calvert. Issue, at least one son, Garrett John Joiner.”

  “This is much too far back for the son to be John-Joy.”

  “Yes, of course. But the birth certificate—” He took it from the place where he’d wedged it in the accounts book—“indicates that John-Joy was in the line of male descendants. This is the implication, certainly.”

  Jury frowned. “But, my God, that would mean John-Joy would have been—” Jury gazed at Melrose; he would have laughed, had the implications of what Plant was saying not been so awful—“would have been Lord Baltimore?”

  “That’s the idea, yes.”

  Wiggins said, “But John-Joy died DSMP.”

  Melrose nodded. “Consequently, if there’s a relationship between him and Philip Calvert’s father, the title would pass to him, to Calvert’s father, and consequently to Philip Calvert; and again, if a relationship can be shown between Calvert and Muldare, thence to Patrick Muldare. I think Beverly Brown discovered these old records, and possibly more to show that there was another son—that Charles had other issue. And eventually, Calvert, Philip, and Calvert-Muldare, Patrick, were the result. And my guess is that Philip was next in line, after John-Joy.”

  Jury frowned. “And why is that your guess?”

  “Well, that’s pretty simple, Superintendent.” He paused, and added, “Because they’re both dead.”

  Jury got up. “Excuse me for a minute.” He held up the empty pitcher. “I need a drink.”

  • • •

  No, thought Jury.

  He leaned against the bar, looking blindly up at the TV screen while the guitarist whined nasally about friends and betrayal.

  There were many times in his work when he’d been surprised, even one or two times when he’d hated being faced with a particular person’s being the guilty one. But this was the first time he found himself adamantly refusing to believe it.

  He pictured the two of them, sitting there in Oriole Park, beneath that glazed blue sky. And Jury supposed that darkness fell even there.

  I never grew up.

  • • •

  Jury set the fresh pitcher on the table, and said, “Pat Muldare couldn’t have killed them. Not the type.”

  Wiggins’s mouth dropped open. “The type, sir?”

  Jury ignored this. “Beverly Brown was murdered because she came across this information? Is that what you think?”

  “Not necessarily.”

  Jury looked a question.

  “Anyone who could execute such an elaborate forgery as an entire—or near-entire—story could surely do something as simple as a birth certificate and fiddle an old ledger.”

  “But why?” asked Wiggins.

  Jury said, “Given what I’ve heard about Beverly Brown—for revenge. Or even, God help us, as a joke. What if she convinced poor old John-Joy he was one of the barons Baltimore and gave him this certificate to prove it?”

  “Revenge?”

  Jury shook his head. “Patrick Muldare. I think she got dumped, frankly. I don’t think a man would dump Beverly without taking a big chance. And knowing he would give his eye teeth for something, as he put it, ‘glittery, stagy, Hollywood’ . . .”

  There was a long silence while they thought this over. Minutes passed. Finally Melrose asked, “Where’s Ellen?”

  “At Hopkins, sir,” said Wiggins. “She said you took up so much of her writing time today that she had to go in tonight to make up for it.”

  “Oh, certainly, certainly. I’m to blame for all of her writing problems.”

  “Pretty much,” said Wiggins, smiling broadly. Then he returned to his study of the ledger.

  “You found these books in John-Joy’s cart, right? And the cart was still there when the cops found the body.”

  “Apparently, yes.”

  “Then why didn’t the killer take them? In the first place, such stuff would be incriminating, if anyone is clever enough to work it out, like you are. But more than that, he’d need what’s in them to help to make his claim. I mean, what the hell do you present to the House of Lords if you’re trying to prove your ancestors were the barons of Baltimore?”

  Wiggins turned to Melrose Plant. “My question precisely.”

  “I’m not sure. More than is here, I’d imagine. But the point wasn’t to convince the House of Lords, was it? It was to convince Patrick Muldare.”

  For another minute or two they sat there, each looking in turn at the documents. “Hell,” said Jury. “These have got to be forged. It stands to reason . . . But I don’t see any internal evidence of it.”

  “There’s one thing, sir,” said Wiggins.

  “What?”

  “This person who totted up these columns couldn’t add.”

  Jury looked down at the accounts book, ran his finger down the columns, mouthing items: “. . . Rug for Charles . . . clothes for baby Garrett . . . uh-huh.” Jury did some simple addition. “This column comes to two shillings, eight pence. But that doesn’t square with the ten pennies here for so-called baby Garrett. Look.” He turned the book toward Melrose. “If you subtract those two items from these two columns, then the sum is correct.”

  Wiggins and Melrose looked down at the page.

  “Meaning that someone else probably entered the goods for Charles and baby Garrett, together with their names. This account book is supposed to prove such people existed. Charles and Garrett must be the links to the present generation of Calverts.

  “Except,” Jury added, “that there were no such people.”

  34

  How was she ever to get Sweetie out of this predicament? Sweetie sat, as she had left her, staring down into the empty white box. Ellen wrote.

  Sweetie clasped the box carefully, holding it as if it were terribly fragile and might shatter. She lifted her eyes to the letter slot.

  Ellen lifted her eyes and stared at the blank wall above her desk. She kept it blank—empty of pictures, of notice boards, fixtures, messages—all the mental stuffing which helped one to embrace the illusion that there was a chronological flow to things. “Ellen: lunch Thursday? Cafeteria?” The message wasn’t there, of course, up on the wall. The wall was in limbo (the human condition). Thursday was a concept no more reliable than chocolates in a chocolate box. No wonder Sweetie had to label things: sugar, pitcher, plate. In Sweetie’s house nothing was dependable. Time was fractured, lurching around like some Frankenstein monster, dragging, stumbling, broken up into body parts.

  Sweetie did not know how long she had been holding the box. She did not know whether it was Day or Night.

  Ellen turned to look out of the window. Night, all right. Black as pitch. Then she looked behind her at the clock on the wall. She certainly knew how long she’d been sitting here at this desk: one hour and thirty-seven minutes. Thirty-seven and one-half. The minute hand swept. Thirty-eight. Twenty-two more minutes to sit here. Surely she could last for twenty-two more minutes.

  Oh, God! Ellen clenched her fists and pounded on the desk. Then she put her head in her hands. Oh, she knew what Maxim was up to, but she didn’t know why. Air. She needed air.

  She got up and moved over to the window, the bike chain dragging at her ankle. She opened the window and leaned out. Freezing air knifed her skin and she was glad for it; it might wake up her mind. Sh
e looked down and, for lack of any worthier mental occupation, decided to calculate, should she jump, how far the chain would reach and leave her dangling. She looked back at the chain, measured it with her eye. Five feet of play, perhaps. Then she leaned out further and figured she was not all that far from the ground, or at least that bush down there that would break her fall. Probably the chain would stop her about eight or nine feet from the ground before it broke. . . .

  Oh, for God’s sake! She’d do absolutely anything to keep from writing! Ellen slammed the window down.

  Dragging back to the desk, she glanced (guiltily) at the clock and saw that she’d spent a full four minutes at the window. Well, damn it! (she argued with her guilt). Can’t a person even stop for a breath of shitty air?

  Oh, but you weren’t doing that, were you? You were hanging out the window and measuring off the chain. Weren’t you? You should really reset the alarm and add on another five minutes. Ten, to be honest. You spent another five minutes back there filing your na—

  Shut up shut up SHUT UP! Then she thought smugly, Well, I can’t reset it, can I? Because I can’t reach it, not with this chain around my ankle.

  Really? said her Dedicated Self. If you can’t reach the alarm—

  Ellen clapped her hands over her ears, as if a voice were actually speaking to her. She knew what was coming.

  —then you can’t reach your key, either. The tone was simply unbearably smug and self-satisfied.

  Somebody will come along. They would. Richard Jury said he would come along and take her home. Ha ha ha.

  Feeling extremely pleased she’d outwitted herself, she was about to sit down again when she heard the footsteps coming down the hall.

  I told you, didn’t I? she said to Dedicated Self. And then felt depressed, for she didn’t really like winning these arguments with herself.

  Well, he’d just have to sit around and wait.

  She looked up at the knock on the door frame (the door having been left open) and the simultaneous greeting.

  “Hullo.”