The Dirty Duck Read Free

dinner, Melrose would never have been rid of her.
    For not only would she be missing out on Jury, she would be missing out on a free meal.
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    Stratford’s Church of the Holy Trinity lay at the end of an avenue of limes. William Shakespeare was buried there, and Melrose wanted to see its chancel. The heavy door closed softly behind him, as if more conscious of genius than of the knot of pilgrims at the souvenir counter buying upanything stamped with the playwright’s image—bookmarks, keyrings, address books. No one was visible in the church proper, other than an elderly man at a collection box stationed at the foot of the nave. Melrose fished out the ten pence it would cost him to have a look at Shakespeare’s resting place. Rather like being admitted to a ride in an amusement park, he thought. It made him feel a bit ghoulish: apparently, the guardian of the grave was not of the same mind, for he smiled broadly at Melrose and lifted the red velvet rope.
    William Shakespeare must have been a man of taste. If there were ever anyone more deserving of a full-length effigy in marble, a little dog at his feet, sarcophagus set back in its own velvet-draped chapel—surely it was Shakespeare. Instead, there was only this small bronze plaque bearing his name, one name among others in his family, buried beside him. Melrose felt an uncustomary surge of near-religious respect for such genius, so lacking in ostentation.
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    Before he left the nave, Melrose examined the choir and the unusual carvings of small gargoyle-like faces on the arms of the seats. As he took a step backward he found his leg had struck something, which turned out to be the hindquarters of someone stooping down between the tiered benches.
    â€œOh, sorry,” said the youngish man, scrambling to his feet and adjusting a strap over his shoulder, which was attached to a rather large square case. At first Melrose thought it must be some elaborate camera equipment, except that the case was metal. A Geiger counter, perhaps? Was the chap looking for some radioactive material in the choir? “Did you lose something?” Melrose asked, politely.
    â€œOh, no. Just looking underneath the seats.” The wooden benches folded up against the backs when not in use. Not all of them had been returned to their upright position. “At the carvings. They’ve even got them underneath,” he explained.
    â€œThe misericords, you mean?”
    â€œThat what they’re called? Funny things. Whyever’d anyone carve them there?”
    â€œI don’t know.”
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    Melrose decided that he was somewhere in his late thirties, not quite so young as he’d supposed; it was that fresh-faced look, as if he’d been scrubbed by a hard-bristled brush, that was deceptive. He was fairly tall, brown-haired, and undistinguished-looking in his seersucker suit and perfectly hideous polka-dotted bow tie. He ran his finger around his collar inthe manner of a man who disliked ties. His accent was either American or Canadian; Melrose had never tuned his ear to the difference. Most likely American.
    â€œYou from around here?” the man asked, as he followed Melrose up the nave and past the guardian of the red velvet cord.
    â€œNo, just visiting.”
    â€œYeah, me too.” His tone suggested that he had finally found a comrade in this vast wasteland of Stratford, as if all of the visitors here were wandering in the desert. “Neat church, isn’t it?”
    â€œNeat, yes.”
    The American stopped among the chairs and prayer cushions and shot out a blunt, spatulate-fingered hand. “Harvey L. Schoenberg from D.C.”
    â€œI’m Melrose Plant.” He shook the other man’s hand.
    â€œWhere from?”
    â€œNorthants. That is, Northamptonshire. It’s about sixty or seventy miles from here.”
    â€œNever been