Free The Horse You Came in On by Martha Grimes

voice wafted out to him:
    â€œÂ â€˜ O God! My sufferings are . . .’  ”
    The voice faded. The casement window was open the barest crack, and Jury reached out and opened it another half-inch. Trueblood’s voice again:
    â€œÂ  ‘My sufferings are not complete! If she but knew it, my own death is nothing —’ no, say ‘is as nothing.’ ”
    â€œÂ â€˜Is as’?” (said Melrose). “Sounds rather stilted, doesn’t it? Anyway, we don’t want crossings out.”
    â€œOh, all right. ‘Myowndeathisnothing,’ then.” Trueblood was impatient.
    Outside, and in spite of himself, Jury was fascinated by this mawkish prose. What were they doing? Collaborating on a novel? A play? He doubted it. That would have been too much of a strain for Marshall Trueblood’s five-minute-max attention span. Jury kept his back against the outside wall of the pub, his face tickled by dry ivy that had claimed most of the Jack and Hammer’s facade. Its tendrils dug in, clung, obscured the rims of the windows, which was one reason he couldn’t be seen.
    â€œÂ â€˜ . . . that dank vault, that icy trickle of water, that mould—’ ”
    â€œSounds like your basement.”
    â€œÂ â€˜â€” that high peal of bells —’ ”
    â€œWait, wait a minute. How’d he get her from his—” Melrose’s voice diminished, then grew fuller—“to the crypt and then still have time to—” dimmed—“the sleeping draught in her wine—” rose, fell—“and the bells—”
    â€œIt doesn’t have to be coherent, for lord’s sake. He’s crazy!”
    â€œWell, but—”
    Jury’s attention was drawn by a little white dog that barked at him from the far curb. This was Miss Ada Crisp’s Jack Russell, and out came Miss Ada to remonstrate with the dog and wave at Jury.
    He felt ridiculous, hanging there around the ivy.
    Nor did the dog give a tinker’s damn about the remonstrance. It danced about like a trained circus dog and then hurled itself across the street towards Jury. It went down on its front legs and raised its rump in the air and snarled and growled. Jury toed its belly to try and get it away, but the little dog merely thought he was playing dog games, and grabbed his trouser leg and shook and shook.
    Hearing a raised voice inside, and seeing the casement window suddenly open, Jury shrank back against the wall. The bit of golden hair he could see (Melrose Plant’s head) was thrust out, quickly withdrawn, and he heard Melrose say, “Just Ada’s Jack Russell.”
    Bored, the dog finally relented, released the cuff of Jury’s trousers and trotted on up the street to find more willing playmates. The window, however, was wider open now, and Jury could hear more clearly.
    There was still some disagreement about the prose not making sense. “ He might be crazy, but that doesn’t mean—” Melrose’s voice trailed off, and strain as he would toward the sound, Jury could not make out the name—“is, does it? She’s got too much sense.”
    â€œNo, she hasn’t. Come on, come on. Let’s get on with it. Now: ‘ From the cellar came those screams that tear my heart and lacerate my soul .’ ”
    â€œHang about, you’re going too fast. I got ‘tear my heart and—’?”
    â€œÂ â€˜ And lac-er-ate my soul.’ ”
    Silence. “Got it. Go on.”
    From the shadowed ivy, Jury glanced over to the other side of the street again and saw someone else. This was Jurvis, the butcher, standing there staring at him, his hands warming under his big white apron. He removed one of them when Jury looked over and waved.
    Jury waved back.
    Jurvis still stood, rocking on his heels. He liked Jury; the policeman had done his best to help the butcher in his