by M. J. Trow
He was turning a corner by the stables, now a shop selling overpriced watering cans and string when he cannoned into a woman making a good rate of knots in the other direction. She was wearing a sweatshirt with ‘Haledown House’ emblazoned across the front and a pair of jeans so tight that falling over wasn’t really an option. But fall over she did, taking a pile of crates amusingly emblazoned with variations of ‘Keep Calm & ...’ with her. Maxwell, who avoided falling on top of her only hanging on for grim death to a display of hoes and rakes had only a few seconds to be proud of his balance and sprightliness before he was engulfed in what seemed like a regiment of quarrelling women who had suddenly emerged from every doorway.
Only one of them – a parent who he recognized as being very active in the PTA – seemed to be on his side. She stood him upright – his centre of gravity seemed dependent on the hoe display for a moment or two – and checked that he was all right.
‘She’s like that,’ she murmured in his ear. ‘Gallops around like something demented. It’s just lucky it was you, if you don’t mind my saying, and not some old dear with a dicky hip.’
Maxwell agreed. If she had hit Mrs Troubridge with that amount of force, the poor old dear would have been thrown yards. ‘Who is it?’ he asked, out of the corner of his mouth.
But before the woman could respond, he got his answer. Two of the women from the string shop had helped the woman up and were dusting her down. ‘Mrs Hale-ffinch,’ one of them grovelled. ‘Shall we send for the police?’
‘Good lord, Mel,’ she snorted. ‘Of course not ... Unless, of course, this gentleman ...’
Had Maxwell been wearing his usual day to day attire, he would have raised his hat. Instead, he settled for a small bow. ‘Of course not, dear lady,’ he said. ‘An accident that could happen to anyone.’ Anyone doing a hundred miles an hour with their eyes shut, anyway. ‘I am unhurt. But are you ...?’ He left the sentence hanging. He had heard enough stories about people being sued after the event because they had said it was their fault, just to be civil.
‘I’m fine.’ She waggled a well-turned leg. ‘No bones broken.’ She turned to the twittering women in true lady-of-the-manor style. ‘Really,’ she shooed them away, ‘I am perfectly all right. I shouldn’t race about. I’m always being told.’ She then switched off from the women and bent her considerable charm upon Maxwell. ‘I do hope you aren’t hurt,’ she said. She sounded one hundred per cent believable, but Maxwell had honed his skills on the whetstone that was Eight Ex Zed and could smell bullshit before he could even see it. She had ‘I am avoiding a lawsuit’ written right across her face.
‘Unhurt, I assure you,’ he said, raising his metaphorical hat once more. ‘But ... perhaps you can help me.’ He rummaged in his pocket and pulled out the twenty. ‘I was mistaken for a tour guide just now by one of your visitors and I want to hand this in.’ He brandished the note. ‘I feel it is money obtained by false pretences. I was just telling my small party something of the history of the house. Not that I know much, to be honest, but the pictures were a kind of aide memoire.’
Through this small speech, Mrs Hale-ffinch’s smile was growing broader. ‘You’re him!’ she exclaimed. ‘You’re Mr Maxwell.’
Maxwell was a trifle taken aback. ‘I am,’ he conceded. ‘But ...’
‘Well, I was coming to look for you. Umm ... look, do you mind coming with me to my office? I have a small proposition to put to you and I hate talking business on the fly. I understand you have a child and ... is it two old ladies?’ She sounded a little dubious.
‘That’s right. Son. Neighbour. Birthday mad person.’
‘I see.’ She clearly didn’t, but it was the right thing to say. ‘If you would like to go and tell your ... old ladies ... you’ll be a moment, I will go and tell Jo that your little boy can have as long as he wants in the paddock. Um ...’ she looked doubtful for a moment. She was a little at sea dealing with the children of the hoi polloi. ‘That is, if he wants to stay.’ Did children not brought up on large estates actually like horses? She had no idea.
Maxwell laughed. ‘Don’t use the term “as long as he wants”,’ he advised. ‘Otherwise he will never come home. But that would be kind, thank you. I’ll just go and tell the ladies. Do you ... could you tell me how long I might be?’ He thought that was politer than asking why she wanted him in her office. He hadn’t felt this nervous since he had been called to see the headmaster when he was twelve.
‘Oh, not long, I hope. If we can come to a satisfactory arrangement, less than half an hour. We can thrash out the details later.’
Maxwell wandered off in the direction of the petting zoo, and wondered as he wandered what the woman could possibly be on about. She had probably mistaken him for someone else – Maxwell, after all, was not the most uncommon name in the world. For example, there was a coffee bearing that exact name on the shelves of every supermarket in the country. But she had seemed so sure. He put the thought behind him. He could sort all that out shortly. For now, he had to tell Mrs Troubridge and more worryingly, Mrs Getty, that the day had come off the rails.
At the petting zoo, Mrs Getty had behaved quite well at first. The day wasn’t busy as yet and the young helpers were happy enough to let the old ladies stroke the guinea pigs and feed the goats. The big one was a little intimidating, but with very few children queuing, there seemed no harm. It was when the scary old lady had upended a four-year-old who had tried to stroke a rabbit that the trouble had started. The youngsters looking after the attraction had had to cope with all sorts since the season had begun, children throwing up, children throwing a gerbil, but this was something outside the norm and so one of them, backing away and not taking her eyes off the mad old trout, had gone into the office and called for help.
Haledown staff, as a general rule, were under twenty; it was cheaper that way. Sadly, their one exception was in the matter of security staff, who were all approaching seventy. The natural hip average per person was less than one. But they were well-meaning and generally effective – and to be fair, who would be effective against Mrs Getty, once she was in her stride? First one and then two old geezers had managed to persuade her to put the child down. Now they, the staff and about a dozen wide-eyed pre-schoolers were herded behind a couple of well-placed bales of hay, watching her warily. Mrs Troubridge, loyal to the last, was patting ineffectually at one arm. No one could hear what she was saying, but the general consensus was that they had to get the poor old soul away from there, in case she was trampled.
Maxwell swung round the corner into the barn and took in the situation immediately. The security men tensed; could this be the catalyst that caused the huge old woman to hurl the tiny one across the barn, causing mayhem and disaster and getting Haledown House Petting Zoo on the local evening news, but not in a good way? Or was it the Seventh Cavalry, in mufti?
‘Mrs Getty,’ Maxwell said, in honeyed tones, but nevertheless with a tinge of teacher. ‘Do you need any help?’
The woman was a little taken aback. Everyone else had just shouted at her to put the horrible kid down but here was someone who might be willing to listen to her woes. And after all, he had brought her out on her birthday. She turned her head slowly and smiled. There was a gust of relieved exhalation from behind the hay bales, but otherwise, apart from the general clucking and nibbling from the pets, all was silent.
‘Hello, Mr Maxwell,’ she said at last. She looked around. ‘These bloody kids are annoying me.’
Maxwell knew well how that worked; kids could indeed be very annoying. He sidled over and sat beside her on the other side to Mrs Troubridge, who looked ready to drop with the stress.
‘Hello, Mr Maxwell,’ she twittered, in counterpoint to her friend. ‘Where were you?’
‘I got held up, Mrs Troubridge,’ he said. He couldn’t explain further because he still didn’t really know quite what had happened out there. ‘I am so sorry.’
‘No need to apologise,’ Mrs Getty chimed in. ‘You didn’t
make these bloody kids so annoying, did you? Your kid is annoying, but not like these.’
Maxwell flinched. This could only end badly. Mrs Getty had done that thing which no one in the world was allowed to do. She had criticised Nolan Maxwell in front of Mrs Troubridge. He all but turned his head to see if the Four Horsemen were at that very moment clattering across the stable yard, their iron hoofs striking flame from the cobbles. But no, it was worse. Mrs Troubridge was rising to her feet, tiny, implacable, immeasurably angry. Mrs Getty looked at her mildly. It looked like the biplanes menacing King Kong – and Maxwell knew how that panned out. He edged away slightly and caught the eye of one of the security men. He made a phone gesture and opened and closed his hand in imitation of a flashing light. As mimes went, it fell rather short of Marcel Marceau but the man got the gist. He slipped away while Mrs Getty was still looking at the enraged Mrs Troubridge and ran for the office, where he rang for police and, for good measure, ambulance. He hesitated for a moment over fire, but in the end decided it might not be necessary. Yet.
Mrs Getty had finally focused her mayfly attention on her friend and had backed away slightly, having a bit of trouble these days with the old focal length. ‘What is it, Jessica?’ she asked, surprised. She had never seen the dear old thing so worked up.
‘How dare you?’ Mrs Troubridge said, stamping a tiny foot. ‘How dare you say such a thing about Nolan, the dearest little boy you or I or anyone could wish to meet.’ She stood, trembling, catching her breath in gulps. Maxwell looked on anxiously, checking covertly for blue lips or other signs of imminent collapse.
‘I only said he was annoying, Jessica,’ Mrs Getty said, mildly. ‘That’s a compliment, almost, coming from me. You know me and kids. Hate ’em.’
Mrs Troubridge stepped back and it was as though the scales had fallen literally from her eyes. Maxwell, in his ringside seat, actually saw her expression change. ‘Geraldine Getty,’ she said, slowly, calmly, ‘you are quite the most irritating and unpleasant woman I have ever met and I have met a few.’
Maxwell cast his mind back to the people he and his neighbour had met over the years and had to concede she was right.
‘I put up with you because no one else will.’
‘I can't help it, Jessie,’ Mrs Getty said, with a faint air of complacency. She had been glad of her multiple diagnoses over the years – she didn’t even have to try to behave in public or private when she had so many syndromes attached to her medical records. ‘It’s glandular.’
‘You can help it!’ Mrs Troubridge screamed, her voice so high that some of the animals flinched, being the only ones to hear it. ‘I want to go home now and never, ever see you again. Today has just been too much.’ She turned to Maxwell. ‘Take me home, Mr Maxwell. I need a lie down.’
Maxwell stood up and took her arm but in a way he felt more sorry for Geraldine Getty, who sat there poleaxed.
‘I never realised you felt this way, Jessica,’ she said, eventually. ‘I was only doing it for the best. I didn’t want anyone to hurt you.’
‘Hurt me?’ Mrs Troubridge turned to her erstwhile friend, but she was too exhausted now to argue. ‘The man in the bus station was just walking along. That little boy was four, Geraldine. Four. How could they have hurt me?’
‘Well ...’ but Mrs Getty was never to get the chance to explain. Distant sirens got nearer and nearer and all the children rushed from behind the safety of the bales to watch the excitement. A police car drew up outside and from it got the best thing in the world; Jacquie Maxwell, suited and booted in proper DI style. Possibly a little high powered for a small incident in a Petting Zoo, the security guys felt, but that was the nobs for you; they got nothing but the best.
She came into the barn with eyes everywhere. She took in a trembling Mrs Troubridge, a truculent Mrs Getty and an apparently unharmed husband. What she didn’t see was a son and she went pale. Maxwell, reading her mind as always, tapped her arm. ‘On a pony. In the paddock,’ he said and she relaxed. Smiling at Mrs Troubridge and putting a friendly arm around her, she passed her to Maxwell, Then she spoke to the security guard who had stepped forward. He was senior by six months, if that still counts at seventy.
‘What seems to be the trouble, er ... Jack.’ She read his name badge which was hanging from one lapel.
‘The big one started kicking off.’ Seventy he may be but that didn’t stop him being down with the street. ‘That little one tried to calm her down, but it didn’t really do much good. Then he ...’ he pointed at Maxwell, ‘...came in and he seemed to know them. Husband, is he?’ He looked doubtful and Jacquie pursed her lips to stop herself from replying. ‘Anyway, whatever, he sort of calmed things down and then ... well, then you came.’ He furrowed his brow. Said like that it didn’t sound half as exciting as it had undoubtedly been.
‘I do know these ladies and indeed the husband.’
The guard nodded. He thought he had that spotted.
‘In that he is my husband.’ She let that thought hang in the air and had the pleasure of watching the security guard almost wet himself with embarrassment. ‘The thing is ... Jack ... do you want to press charges?’
‘That would be down to Mrs Hale-ffinch, I guess,’ he said, dubiously, still careful not to meet her eye.
‘Where can I find her?’ Jacquie said. ‘I will need to liaise in any case and also report on how the incident was handled. Unless, of course, we just decide to ...’
‘Let it go?’ The man was conscious that he had been thrown a lifeline. ‘Why don’t we?’ As far as it went, the kids had all had a whale of a time, dodging behind the bales and then the excitement of a police car and sirens. ‘As long as you don’t mind.’ He smiled at her, uncertain, ingratiating.
She gave it a moment. She had learned her timing from the maestro himself. Maxwell had written the book on intimidation by pause: five seconds was far too slow, the goosebumps hadn’t had a chance to form; ten seconds was too long, it gave the perp time to invent and excuse. But seven seconds now – that was just right. ‘I think I can make an exception to my usual rule, Jack,’ she said with a smile, snapping closed her metaphorical notebook and putting away invisible handcuffs. ‘But I think in future, perhaps you should make sure you have some basic rules in place regarding adults without children in the Petting Zoo. It could have been so much worse.’
Jack didn’t need a picture painting. He could feel the hot breath of the ghost of Jimmy Savile on his neck, all guys and especially gals. ‘Thank you, Constable ... Mrs ...’
This time, she gave him no time to explain. She went over to Mrs Troubridge, still sheltering in the lee of Peter Maxwell. The children had all spread out again and were terrorising and stroking small mammals indiscriminately. Occasionally there was a sharp cry as they discovered that even guinea pigs had a tether and its end could only result in a nip and tears. Mrs Getty glowered in a corner, watched over by Jacquie’s uniformed driver, a woman as taciturn and uncertain of temper as she was herself. In the filtered sunlight filled with dustmotes in the corner of the barn, they could have been Scylla and Charybdis, facing off across the Straits of Messina, represented today by some battered bales of hay.
‘Max?’ she said, with the kind of smile that could send Nolan scurrying to his room in seconds. ‘Could we have a word?’
‘Perhaps Mrs Troubridge could sit in the car,’ Maxwell suggested. ‘She’s had rather a trying day.’
‘Oh, Mr Maxwell, could I?’ The poor old dear did indeed look ready to drop.
‘I’ll just take her,’ Jacquie said, crooking her elbow for her neighbour to take.
‘Leave a window open,’ Maxwell advised, then, under his breath, ‘Mad old biddies die in hot cars.’
The driver, seeing her boss heading for the exit, led Mrs Getty away and soon the barn was back to its usual business. Maxwell strolled outside as well and the heat hit him like a wall. This was no weather for Mrs Troubridge or anyone to be sitting around in a car.
‘DCI Carpenter-Max
well,’ he cooed. She turned her head from installing Mrs Troubridge in the back of the car. ‘Why don’t you take the ladies home? I can see you later.’
She glanced in again to see Mrs Troubridge leaning her head back against the seat, an unladylike glow running down her temple and gathering on her upper lip. She looked up again and nodded. Mrs Getty was stowed in the front seat and as the car drove away, her protests could be heard to change to glee; she had always wanted to ride in a police car and now, here she was. And on her birthday, too.
Chapter Four
J
ack had completely disappeared. Maxwell had not been privy to the conversation between the guard and his wife but he could tell it was going downhill from an early stage. But Bob, at sixty-nine very much the junior partner, was still hanging about, so Maxwell sought him out.
‘Bob,’ Maxwell said, matily, having had a crafty squint at the dangling badge. ‘I have a meeting with Mrs Hale-ffinch and I don’t know where her office is; can you point it out for me?’
Bob, very much aware since his summary dismissal from B&Q not too long ago of the ‘last in, first out’ routine, leaped into action. Leaped was perhaps not exactly the word, given the two metal knees and the dodgy hip but he was keen and he hoped that would be enough. He didn’t know who this mad-haired old geezer was, but he had seemed well in with that copper. Bob had even seen her give him a peck on the cheek and that wasn’t something you got off the force every day of the week. So he straightened his cap and gestured expansively. ‘Walk this way,’ he commanded and set off with his own unique rolling gait.
Maxwell was a pretty good mimic, but he drew the line at walking like an old sailor his grandfather knew, so fell in behind with a normal step.
