Free The Horse You Came in On by Martha Grimes Page A

altercation with Lady Ardry. The plaster pig was still doing its dogsbody work, holding up the little sign advertising that week’s specials. The pig and Jurvis were of the same height and girth, just about. They made a pretty pair there on the sidewalk.
    â€œÂ  ‘. . . made me sick with fright. O my soul!’  ”
    Jury had taken out his cigarettes and was lighting one, hoping to give the appearance that he’d sheltered there among the ivy in order to keepthe match flame from the wind. He pursed his lips, checked his watch—waved again at Jurvis—held it against his ear and looked this way and that along the street.
    In another moment or two, Jurvis turned back to his shop, arms round the pig as if they’d jig off down the road together, and then they went in. Early closing, Jury imagined. He checked his watch. After two.
    The coast was clear again.
    â€œ. . . battering—no, ‘creaking’—‘ The creaking of the coffin lid assaulted my senses and I quickly rose from bed, only to . . . only to . . .’ Oh, hell—‘only to’ what? You’re not contributing much.”
    â€œMe? I’m writing. I can’t write and think at the same time.”
    â€œI’ve got it— ‘only to feel the icy fingers upon my cheek. ’ ”
    â€œWell, ain’t this”—Jury jumped at the voice and the clutch of the wiry fingers upon his arm—“somethin’. Ain’t it Mr. Scotland Yard hisself, then, come to Long Pidd t’ eavesdrop.” The cackling of Dick Scrogg’s char brought on a rheumy cough.
    â€œHullo, Mrs. Withersby,” said Jury, his face burning. “I was just about to go in and have a pint.”
    She was chomping down on the remains of a cigarette butt and hauling along her pail, which she had brought out of the pub’s side door. She now dumped the dirty water in the gutter. “Drain’s broke back there. ’Bout t’ave a pint?” She wiped her hand across her mouth. “Ah, well, there’s some a us got to wark fer a livin’.”
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    When Jury at last entered the Jack and Hammer, he was heartily welcomed by Dick Scroggs but had to wait a few moments for the hearty welcomes of Melrose Plant and Marshall Trueblood, as they were busily engaged in secreting some object from his view.
    When he got to their table, the envelope he had seen was being whisked away, but not before he noticed the stamps on it were foreign. Not British, certainly. He had a trained eye. As for the black book, it was nowhere in sight. Probably, he thought, Trueblood was sitting on it, since Trueblood had not risen to extend his hand. He had simply held it out from a sitting position.
    Mrs. Withersby was clanging about the table with bucket and broom, and making a desultory swipe at one of the grimier of the casement windowpanes, and rattling on nineteen-to-the-dozen about “them as hadn’t to wark fer a livin’,” a monologue in which Jury had heard her indulge before when Melrose Plant was around and when she wanted a drink. Now, she was pulling Mansion polish from the pail of cleaning things and spraying the table, not being too nice about avoiding Trueblood’s fingers.
    â€œWithers, for God’s sake, the place is nearly empty,” said Marshall Trueblood. “Spray elsewhere.”
    Jury wondered if the book could be under the cushion.
    â€œI got me schedule, ain’t I? Just like junk dealers!” She lifted his pint and swiped the damp circle beneath. “Ah, but this here’s thirsty wark. Thirsty and thankless both.”
    â€œThey don’t appreciate us, do they, Mrs. Withersby?” Jury offered her his packet of cigarettes at the same time as he scanned the floor beneath the table. Trueblood must be sitting on it; it was too big to be slipped in a jacket pocket without