Joey was running a circle round the horse and goat, barking. It sounded like a measured, tempered bark, as if it had a specific purpose.
The tall man inclined his head by way of acknowledging Jury. Jury returned the gesture, and at that point the door was opened by Ruthven, Melrose Plant’s manservant. Ruthven was taken aback by this duo at the kitchen door, seeming to have come here together.
“Superintendent Jury! Why-please come in.”
Ruthven did not appear surprised at the sight of the other visitor, who must have been here before. “And Mr. Jarvis, come in.”
On his way through the door, Jury said, “You might want to see to the dog out there harassing the other animals.” When Jarvis was out of earshot, Jury said, “Must be his, don’t you think?”
“I don’t know. Lord Ardry’s expecting you; he’s in the drawing room. If you’ll just follow-”
“Oh, don’t bother, Ruthven, I know where it is. Go and see to your visitor.”
Ruthven bowed and went off toward the kitchen.
In the handsome drawing room, Melrose was situated at one of the floor-to-ceiling windows and talking to someone on the outside of it-Mr. Blodgett, probably. Blodgett came up to the windows regularly, either to make wild faces at Melrose’s aunt Agatha or to make a request or to keep Melrose abreast of estate happenings. Today’s happening (as Jury well knew) was the presence of a dog.
“My word,” said Melrose, mostly to the sky and earth, as he was leaning out the window. “Damned if you’re not right, Blodgett. D’you think it’s rabid, or what?”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” said Jury, joining them at the window. “It’s just an old dog. Must belong to the man in the kitchen. Jarvis? That his name? I told Ruthven about it.”
“I didn’t hear the front door. How long have you been here that you know more than I do?”
“That’s not hard.” Jury was leaning out the window now, elbowing Melrose aside. He could see Joey running herd on Aghast while Aggrieved looked on with seeming indifference. Jury couldn’t see the horse’s expression, but indifference figured in the tilt of his large brown head. Aggrieved would watch for a moment, then go back to chomping grass.
“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?