The Horse You Came in On (35 page)

He wondered about Milos. He could return yet again to Nouveau Pauvre, but the thought of striking up a conversation with Milos was simply too daunting. Anyway, it was nearly seven; Milos might have left his post to patrol the city.

He ran his hands down over his face; he scrubbed at his head with his clenched fists. He was trying to dislodge that little bit of conversation in the cab that Hughie had given him, or tried to give him; Melrose hadn't really been paying attention. Now he was sorry. There was something floating around in his mental ether that he couldn't net, couldn't hook, couldn't pull up. . . . He wondered if Hughie was still out in the street, trawling around in his cab—

Good lord, if he didn't stop this nautical line of thinking, he'd turn into a fish himself.

Then he thought: go to Cider Alley. John-Joy's companions might be able to tell him something else about the man. Probably not; he had a feeling that his contributions to their welfare had bought him every morsel of information they had, and then some.

Melrose sighed, thought for a bit, and remembered Hughie pointing out the Enoch Pratt Library. He got out his
Strangers' Guide,
looked in the index, found it on one of the sectional maps. One call that Hughie had made correctly.

He made sure the certificate was secured in his locked bag, tossed the cape about his shoulders and went down the stairs.

No Hughie, so he hailed a cab from which its present fare was exiting and gave the driver his destination. As they drove up Calvert Street, Melrose asked the driver what he knew about the Calverts.

The driver told him they made whisky.

Melrose was not sure exactly what he was looking for, but he asked the librarian for books relating to Maryland history, old records, family history, and so forth. The librarian walked him over to one of the reference shelves and asked him what specifically he wanted. He just wanted to browse, he told her, and she said she might have one or two other books—a history of Baltimore, did you say? Baltimore, or Maryland more generally, he told her, especially seventeenth- and eighteenth-century Maryland.

He took three books over to one of the long tables and sat down with them. There were plenty of seats; the library was not crowded. A few readers were spotted here and there at the long, dark tables, quietly
turning the pages of books or writing on index cards or in notebooks, or otherwise engaged in fruitful literary pursuits.

Melrose loved libraries, had always thought them oases, sanctuaries in an otherwise tumultuous world. He liked to hear the soft rattle of leaves of paper, the soft tread of shoes, the whispered exchanges. Directly across from him sat an old gray-bearded man in an outsized overcoat surrounded by books and bags, reading by the laborious means of following a running finger from one line to another and mouthing the words. There was a satchel on each side of him, by means of which (Melrose thought) he would transport reading material out the door, and an oily-looking brown bag, into which he dipped and brought out part of a rough-cut sandwich. He munched it happily and in the process looked across the table at Melrose and smiled broadly.

Melrose returned the smile and sat wondering if perhaps he oughtn't to put in for the post coming vacant at the Long Piddleton Library.

Mindful of the task at hand, he started reading through
Maryland Records of the Colonial Revolutionary Church
. Here were census records, records of marriages and deaths. It was full of the sort of arcane facts that Diane Demorney loved. The pleasant-faced, pink-cheeked librarian stole up to his table, placed two books on it, and crept away. She'd have made an excellent cat burglar. One book included facsimiles of Council proceedings for the years 1636 to 1647. He opened it, leafed through it, and came to one of the many documents listed as taken from the House of Lords Journal.

Melrose read:

Lord & Comons for fforraigne Plantacons, Novem: 1645,

. . . as alsoe of the Letters Patents, whereby his Ma(ty) in the eighth yeare of his Raigne, granted the said Prouince to Cecill Caluerte, and of a Certificate from the Judge of the Adm(lty) that Leonard Caluerte late Gouerno(r) there had a Comission from Oxford. . . .

Caluerte. Calvert, surely.

Leonard Calvert had been the first governor of Maryland.

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
.

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?

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 no 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—”