“The dog’s just enjoying himself. Hello, Mr. Blodgett.”

“‘Lo, Mr. Jury. Nice t’see ya ag’in. Well, I best be goin’, fer I got things to do. Just thought mabbe you’d want to know ‘bout the dog.” Blodgett, who wasn’t going off at all, went on, “’E looks a bit like one o’ them sheepdogs.”

Ruthven came in then, and Melrose motioned him over to the window. “There’s a dog out there, Ruthven. Know anything about him?”

Ruthven seemed to sail when he moved, gliding smoothly over the Turkish carpet. “I expect he belongs to the man in the kitchen, Jarvis.”

“Oh, I see. First I’ve got a dog in the garden, and now I’ve got a man in the kitchen. Good Lord, the place could be taken over by an army of elves and I’d be the last to know-there he goes!”

The three of them-or four, if one included Mr. Blodgett on the outside-moved to another window on the other side of the fireplace that gave them a better view of the stables. Joey was still attempting to round up the goat, Aghast. Aggrieved watched.

“Look at him! He’s barking at Aghast. Who in hell does he think he is?”

“A dog,” said Jury. “Looks like he’s herding.” Melrose looked at him. “Herding?”

“Well, as Blodgett said, he looks like a sheepdog. Aggrieved and Aghast don’t seem to mind him.”

“If he’s a border collie,” said Ruthven, “he’ll probably carry on-” Then, mindful that it was not his place to be standing here giving his opinion, Ruthven swanned off.

“Wait. Who’s in the kitchen?”

Ruthven turned. “It’s Jarvis, sir. You remember.”

“Oh, him. So it’s his dog?”

“I’d say so. Martha’s fixed him a meal.”

“Well, bring us a bottle of that Médoc and tell Jarvis to collect his dog before he leaves.”

Joey and Aghast were lying down now. Aggrieved stood, still munching quietly. The grass he nibbled at was such an evenly bright green, it looked enameled; the maples and willows shone in the brilliant light of early afternoon.

Melrose still leaned against the wall, peering out the window. “I can’t tell if he’s wearing a collar.”

Ruthven was back almost immediately with wine and glasses on a tray. “Mr. Jarvis says he knows nothing about the dog. But if you like, he could take the dog with him, get him off your hands.”

“Oh, I don’t think you’d want to do that,” said Jury rather quickly. “Probably he belongs to some tourist who was passing through and the dog got away from them.”

Ruthven had uncorked the bottle and was pouring the wine. “I agree with Mr. Jury, m’lord.”

“When’s the last time you ever saw a tourist pass through? Long Piddleton is not exactly a destination village. But you’re probably right.” They both accepted a glass of wine from the tray Ruthven passed.

Melrose thanked Ruthven and told him to see the dog got his dinner along with the goat and the horse.

“And use the good silver,” said Jury.

Ruthven allowed himself a brief snicker and sailed off.

Melrose plopped himself down in his wing chair. From the corners of the ceiling molding, unconcerned cupids observed. “I should put an ad in the paper, shouldn’t I?”

“That’s what I’d do,” said Jury. “He’s got tags, at least a rabies tag.” Dr. Kavitz had seen to that. But how would Jury know it? “I saw him up close when I was waiting. And he’s got a name tag, too. His name’s Joey.” Jury smiled.

A little later, done with wine and talk about the dog and Jarvis-a homeless soul who stopped by from time to time (which struck Jury as even more unlikely than a tourist)-they walked down the drive and crossed the Northampton road after a party of cyclists, all in black leather, gunned on by.

Jury thought he was caught up in a dream. Motorcyclists were even more unlikely than homeless men.

Melrose watched them out of sight, looking thoughtful, then said, “You know, I read a poem by some American poet. He’s describing the coming on of night, comparing it with an onslaught of cyclists on a blacktop road. I used to hate motorcycles, but after reading that, I’ve never looked at them the same way. Now they have a kind of exotic beauty. Now they look as if they’re ushering in something we should know about.”

“The next big thing. That’s what poetry should do: usher in the next big thing.”

They were passing Lavinia Vine’s cottage and stopped to admire the garden, a late May idyll.

“Look at those apricot roses,” said Melrose. “And those tulips.” With a riot of colors from pale blue to a red so strong they looked dipped in blood, a large square of tulips shouted down the flowers around them. Jury wished he’d stop thinking about death. The next big thing.

A couple of drunken butterflies were sorting through the yellow blossoms of some shrubby plant. Against the low wall on the left was a border of peonies and clouds of white hydrangeas.

“The fragrance is sleep-inducing,” Jury said. “That must be what put the cat down.” He was referring to a big cat sleeping atop one of the stone pillars set by the walk.

“Desperado’s a nasty piece of work. I’ve seen him take down dogs.”

They walked on.

“Speaking of dogs, the new one should have a name,” Melrose said, ignoring Jury’s earlier comment. “We’ll have to have a naming competition.”

“I told you, his name’s Joey,” said Jury. He was getting irritable. They were near Long Piddleton’s center, if it could be said to have one. It did have a pleasant green, where a shallow little lake served as home to an extended family of ducks, a few of which were, like the butterflies, drunkenly floating around. Why, Jury wondered, lifting his face toward the sky, couldn’t humans get drunk on air?

“You know, you haven’t mentioned your friend Detective Inspector Aguilar. I assume she’s still in hospital?”

“Yes. Not good. She’s in a coma.”

Melrose stopped. “Good Lord. That’s terrible. I’m so sorry.”

Jury nodded.

They resumed their walk. Through the window of the local library, Miss Tooley, the librarian, waved at them. Melrose raised his hand in a dispirited way to return the wave. “What’s the chance she’ll come out of it?”

“Just that-a chance. But if she doesn’t, she’s signed a paper saying she doesn’t want what they call ‘heroic measures’ instituted. The doctor says a person usually comes back from a coma in a couple of weeks, or not at all.”

Melrose shook his head. “I’m really sorry.”

Across the village green sat Vivian Rivington’s house. “That place is beautiful,” said Jury. “I wouldn’t mind a house like that.”

“Then marry her. I bet she’d be delighted.”

How dense can you be? thought Jury. “I bet she wouldn’t. I proposed once and got turned down.”

Melrose stopped again. “You didn’t!”

“She was engaged, if you remember, to Simon Matchett. Didn’t love him, though, that was clear.”

“I’ve never understood her.”

“I know. That’s because you’re as thick as two planks.”

29

Melrose tapped on the leaded window of the Jack and Hammer, and the group sitting at the table in the bay window peered out and waved. Except for Marshall Trueblood, apparently not finished with his morning calisthenics, who stood and threw his arms about in meaningless gestures.

Inside, Melrose asked, “What in God’s name was all of that semaphore about?”

“To warn you off,” said Trueblood. “Theo Wrenn hyphen Brown saw the two of you and is now leaving his shop and coming here. Hell.”

Jury said hello to the four-no, five, for here was Dick Scroggs the publican, bringing fresh drinks; no, six, for here was Mrs. Withersby, Dick’s char, who was slapping her slippered feet toward them. She had a cigarette behind her ear and was hoping for another, along with her free favorite pint.

“Wrenn hyphen Brown? What’s that about?”

“He thinks a double-barreled last name has more cachet.”

Said Melrose, “I have the care of a new dog. A homeless man came to the door and I’m sure he had the dog with him, but he denied it, so we don’t know where the dog came from. He’s lost or something. Maybe got free of his owner.”