Maxwell's Summer

by M. J. Trow

  ‘Yes,’ she sighed. ‘Nothing to do with you being there, so don’t build up your part. It’s this bloody County Lines thing. God, I hate drugs.’

  ‘So do I,’ he assured her. ‘Now, chicken korma tonight, or do we have a dragon to chase?’

  The naan were steamed to perfection, the poppadums were at their crispy best, the korma was just reaching optimum korm when the doorbell rang. Not once, not twice, but persistently, as if someone with the strength of ten was leaning on it with all his weight. Maxwell had watched Supernatural. He knew what could be waiting for him out there and regretted that they had changed to low sodium salt – it probably wouldn’t work half so well against the undead. He glanced at Jacquie, who glanced back.

  ‘I’ll get it,’ he said. ‘Probably Jehovah’s Witnesses. They have started coming later, catch you off guard.’

  The pealing stopped abruptly and was replaced by a slow pounding.

  ‘We’ll both get it,’ Jacquie said, pushing back her chair.

  ‘And leave Nole up here on his own? I don’t think so.’

  The pounding stopped, to be replaced by a faint keening sound. Both Maxwells’ heads snapped up and they dashed for the stairs. Jacquie was first to the bottom and she threw open the door.

  ‘Mrs Troubridge! Whatever is it?’

  Over the years, their neighbour had hardly changed, just getting a little smaller, a little madder as time went on. But the sight that met them now shocked them both to the core. It was, of course, being nearly nine, way past her bedtime. Although not given the precise title, Mrs B was the old woman’s de facto carer, going in at night to make sure she made it to bed, suitably full of warm milk with just a spot of something medicinal, after a warm bath. In the day, Mrs Troubridge could cope, but at dusk, she became a rather different creature, as Maxwell had been pointing out for years; not a vampire, but a rather frail and needy old lady.

  Mrs B had done her proud, with her thin hair plaited at the back and coiled into a net, the bits at the front restrained by crossed hairgrips. In deference to the weather, her dressing gown was light cotton, her slippers thin soled. But all Mrs B’s calming techniques had gone west. Mrs Troubridge’s mouth was wide in a silent scream and she beat twice on Jacquie’s chest before collapsing, sobbing, into her arms.

  Maxwell edged round the pair and did something he had always wanted to do since he saw it done in films – he swept the old lady up in his arms and carried her upstairs, depositing her on the sofa where she lay, limp and sobbing.

  Maxwell leaned against the door jamb, smiling and breathing a tad hard through his nose.

  Jacquie looked at him and murmured, ‘Are you all right?’

  He gritted his teeth and nodded. ‘Mmm.’ Somehow, it had always looked easier when Randolph Scott did it.

  Jacquie poured a tiny brandy into a glass and offered it to Mrs Troubridge, who was starting to look a better colour.

  ‘What is it?’ she asked the old lady, patting her hand.

  ‘Oh, my dear!’ she said, wailing, then clapping her hand over her mouth. Even in extremis, Nolan had to come first. ‘Oh, I haven’t woken him, have I?’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Jacquie said. ‘He’d sleep through a war, that one. Tell us what’s the matter.’

  Mrs Troubridge took a deep breath and then let it out again without speaking. On the second attempt, she did better. ‘It’s Geraldine. Geraldine Getty, you know.’

  The Maxwells flinched with one twitch. How could they ever forget?

  ‘She just rang me up. I had told her, you know,’ she looked with big eyes at Maxwell, still relying just a little on the doorframe for support, ‘after what ... happened ... that I didn’t want her to contact me again. But ...’ her eyes filled with tears, ‘... but, she’s been arrested!’

  ‘Arrested?’ Jacquie didn’t want to know, but she asked anyway. ‘Whatever for?’

  ‘They found her, snooping around outside Haledown House just now. Heaven only knows how she got out there ...’

  Maxwell’s money was on an armed carjacking, but he kept silent.

  ‘... but she was found by one of the security staff, trying to scale the wall.’

  Maxwell was impressed. Despite it all, you had to hand it to the old besom for tenacity, if nothing else.

  ‘When they asked what she was doing, she said she had some unfinished business with a guinea pig. They called the police.’

  Maxwell inclined his head. Nothing to argue with thus far.

  ‘And the police called a doctor and she’s been ... sequestered? Is that the word?’ She looked from one to the other, both rocks in the turbulent flow of her little world. He was an acquired taste, but she was beginning to think she may have finally acquired it. She was an angel, pure and simple.

  Jacquie looked puzzled for a moment, then the light dawned. ‘Sectioned. Sectioned, did she say?’

  ‘That’s it.’ Mrs Troubridge took a swig of brandy and Jacquie had to pat her back while she coughed. ‘Is that a kind of arrest? I knew you’d know.’

  ‘Not quite,’ Jacquie said. ‘But she’ll be in the right place.’

  ‘After that ...’ she lowered her voice, ‘... day and the ear and everything, well ...’ she clutched Jacquie’s hand. ‘I just can’t take any more!’

  Maxwell could trust his legs again and went over to sit on the arm of the chair, facing his neighbour. ‘You don’t have to worry, you honestly don’t,’ he said. ‘She’ll be in hospital, and safe. And so are you.’

  ‘Hospital? Did she hurt herself, do you think, climbing over the wall?’

  ‘No.’ Maxwell could have bitten his tongue. ‘It’s just ...’

  Jacquie kicked him and took over. ‘Geraldine isn’t well, Jessica.’ It wasn’t often she used her neighbour’s Christian name, but sometimes the full Troubridge just wasn’t appropriate. ‘She had to have a mental health assessment after ... after the ear thing ... and so, with this coming so soon after, well ...’

  ‘But she won’t come here, will she?’ The little woman was distraught.

  ‘No, she won’t come here. Look, I’ll tell you what. Shall I come and sleep at your house tonight? Or would you like to stay here?’

  ‘Oh, no!’ Mrs Troubridge might be all of a pother, but she wasn’t going to spend a night under the roof of a man, just in case. ‘But if you don’t mind coming to stay with me ... if that’s all right with Mr Maxwell.’

  Maxwell could finally see how rattled the old bat was – to be worried about what he thought, she had to be in a bad way. ‘I don’t mind at all,’ he said. ‘But just so you know; she snores like a steam engine.’ He turned to Jacquie. ‘Do you want me to pack a bag?’

  ‘No need,’ she said, getting up off her knees and walking to the door. ‘I’ll pop my jamas on and we’ll go round as is and get settled back in.’

  Mrs Troubridge sniffed the air. ‘But ... your supper?’ she said.

  Jacquie chuckled. ‘I’ve eaten already today,’ she said. ‘I think. And anyway, I know what Max will say ...’ They heard her feet trip lightly up the stairs.

  ‘All the more for me,’ he said, on cue. ‘I hope you don’t mind, Mrs Troubridge,’ he said, getting up and flexing his back, ‘if I don’t carry you back down the stairs.’

  She was still twittering and blushing when Jacquie came back, fresh as a daisy in cotton pyjamas and they set off for the oddest sleepover ever.

  Chapter Nine

  ‘D

  ads?’ Nolan was shovelling in the Coco Pops as if in a race.

  ‘Yes, mate? How can I assist you?’ Maxwell was multi-tasking with an unexpected degree of success. Metternich was chomping on his ruinously expensive cat food over in the corner, a nice little palate cleanser after a night of vole canapes. The bacon was grilling nicely, the sausages were keeping warm; all that was needed for a perfect breakfast setting was Jacquie.

  ‘Where’s Mums? She said she would be taking me to Plocker’s today, before work. Unless ...’ He raised a radiant face. ‘Unl
ess I can go to the stable today?’

  ‘No, mate, sorry – not today. Mums ... well, Mrs Troubridge wasn’t feeling too good last night, so Mums went round to hers.’

  Nolan’s eyes were round. ‘Is she all right?’

  The front door banged and footsteps bounced up the stairs. Jacquie appeared in the doorway, still pyjama’d but looking rested.

  ‘She’s fine,’ she said, kissing her son on the top of his head. ‘She sends her love. She was just a bit ...’

  ‘Discombobulated.’ Nolan sat back, as amazed as everyone else, including the Count, that he had got it right, all the way through.

  ‘Good word choice,’ Maxwell said. He took off his apron and pointed. ‘Coffee. Bacon. Sausages. Bread poised to become toast. Got to go. Americans await.’ And with kisses all round, he was gone.

  Just as he stepped onto the pavement, the Haledown House car purred into Columbine and drew to a halt. Maxwell slid into the passenger seat and smiled at the driver. He opened his mouth and shut it several times.

  ‘Go on, Max,’ the driver said. ‘It’s better out than in.’

  ‘Drive on, James.’ Maxwell let out a gust of air. ‘You’re right, that’s better.’ He turned to clip in his seat belt. ‘Have you come from Haledown? How were things last night?’

  ‘I wasn’t there much after you, actually. Harry lets me take the car home, for convenience. My kids love it, of course, especially if any of their friends are round. Who knew that you could keep kids happy with a bucket of water and a chamois leather?’

  ‘I thought it was looking a bit spiffy. So, you don’t know if ...’

  ‘Max, you’ll excuse me for saying this, but isn’t your missus a policewoman? She knows more that I do.’

  ‘Point taken,’ Maxwell said. ‘I do happen to know that there was an arrest last night.’

  ‘No!’ James took his eyes off the road for as long as he dared to look at Maxwell in amazement. ‘Who?’ He changed down for the roundabout. ‘Tell me it’s that creepy security guy Jack.’

  ‘Sorry, no. Though I agree about his creepiness. No, it was Mrs Getty, do you remember ... the Incident of the Petting Zoo?’

  ‘Her? How did she get in, even? She’s banned, isn’t she?’

  ‘I believe so. According to her rap sheet, as I suppose I should call it in solidarity with our guests, Haledown House was the one remaining visitor attraction in the county from which she hadn’t been banned. Just between us, of course.’

  James tapped the side of his nose. ‘Naturally. So, how did she get in?’

  ‘Scaled the wall.’

  James raised his eyebrows and sucked in his breath. ‘Kudos.’

  ‘All of that. Anyway, she’s been sectioned, poor old bat. I do feel a little bit sorry for her, in a way.’

  ‘And Mr Getty. Don’t forget him. Is he still around?’

  ‘I believe she ate him,’ Maxwell remarked, as the big car swung through the gates. ‘Well, here we are. Another day, another dollar. You can drop me here if it helps.’

  ‘No bother. I need to put my mileage in to the office. I’ll park out front for now.’

  James swept the car in the wide carriage circle in front of the house and the two men got out, to be confronted by a rather more than usually distracted Flo, standing at the top of the steps, looking wildly left and right.

  ‘Hello,’ James said. ‘What’s all this, then?’

  James was too young to remember the umpteen police characters from the Music Hall onwards who had delivered that line, but he did it beautifully. Maxwell stepped forward and tipped his hat.

  ‘Good morning,’ he said, politely. ‘Are you all right, Flo?’

  ‘Oh ... hi.’ She focussed on him briefly before going back to her left and right frantic stare. ‘You haven’t seen Elliot, have you?’

  Jacquie and Maxwell had never drawn up a ‘to do’ list when it came to parenting Nolan. As she drew away from the kerb outside Plocker’s house, she admitted to herself that they had probably got a few things wrong – the Coco Pops thing being probably among them – but in general, he seemed to be okay. Having had a summer of riding and cheeseburgers whipped out from under his nose, he had taken it on the chin and days with Plocker were never second best, simply other. Mrs Plocker had opened the door and her house had absorbed Nolan seamlessly and the two boys had run like mad things through into the back garden, where there were swings, footballs, rabbits and everything that a boy could need.

  ‘I’ll pick him up around ...’ Jacquie had begun.

  ‘Don’t worry. If I hear, I’ll bring him home. If I don’t, he can stay here.’ The woman smiled indulgently over her shoulder to where the noise was already building. ‘They’ll be fine. They always are, when they’re together. Have a good day, if that’s even possible.’ Mrs Plocker worked from home, writing content for websites. Sometimes, she didn’t even have time to get out of her pyjamas, but she was great with the boys, provided Ribena on demand and Jacquie couldn’t do without her, so she smiled, blew a kiss at the noise and pulled away, heading for the different kind of chaos that was Leighford nick.

  ‘Is he lost?’ James asked, kicking himself mentally as he realised what a stupid question that was.

  ‘Well, I don’t know where he is,’ Flo said, distracted. ‘You don’t know where he does his run, do you?’

  ‘Yesterday, it was past the kennels,’ Maxwell told her. ‘But that still has crime scene tape up and anyway ... I think he might prefer to avoid that. How long has he been gone?’

  Flo wasn’t listening. She was in an Elliot-less world and although to many that would be a good thing, for Flo it was as if half of her wasn’t working properly. ‘He had a bad night. Couldn’t sleep. He had a mite too much to drink yesterday, what with one thing and another. Up half the night, rambling over this and that. When I woke up this morning, his side of the bed was cold. And he hasn’t come in to breakfast. I asked around everybody, you know, Bo, Jada. That creepy security guy.’

  James couldn’t resist a quick glance at Maxwell and only just prevented himself from nodding.

  ‘Nobody’s seen him.’

  ‘He’s probably having a rest somewhere,’ Maxwell said. If he had carried on drinking at the rate he had been when Maxwell saw him last, a rest would be the minimum he would need.

  ‘We’ll look for him,’ James volunteered.

  ‘Yes, of course,’ Maxwell did his best to smile. Traipsing over an estate the size of Haledown looking for a lost American wasn’t exactly his idea of a good time, but the damage had been done now. ‘You wait here, Flo; finish your breakfast. I’m sure he’ll turn up.’

  The pair of them made for the stables. ‘Divide and conquer, James?’ Maxwell said.

  ‘Split the command?’ James was aghast. ‘Fran once said to me that you always told them never to do that, when you were out on school trips. Stay together, she always says to the kids, and you won’t go far wrong.’

  Maxwell was not sure whether an honorary Highena was better or worse than the actual thing, but this man did have a brain in his head, so he was prepared to do as he suggested.

  Seeing him undecided, James helped things along. ‘Besides,’ he said, looking vaguely left and right, ‘I don’t know what I’m looking for.’

  ‘Homo sapiens,’ Maxwell filled him in on the details. ‘Yay high, as Elliot himself would say, two arms, legs, a head – you know, the usual. Oh, and he’ll probably be in a track suit.’

  ‘Will he be lying down?’ James asked suddenly. Maxwell followed the pointing finger. Near a stand of willow by the lake, a pile of what looked like rags lay across the path.

  ‘Jesus!’ Maxwell hissed and both men ran towards it. James was first by a country mile and he turned the body over.

  ‘Elliot, I take it,’ he looked up at Maxwell.

  ‘The same,’ Maxwell said.

  James placed his fingers on the fallen man’s neck, his long-ago medical training kicking in effortlessly. He shook his head.

&n
bsp; ‘Got a phone?’ Maxwell asked.

  ‘Does the pope shit in the woods?’ James asked and whipped the device out, dabbing the screen with expert fingers.

  ‘The Vatican’s a bit noncommittal on that one,’ Maxwell said, but nobody, least of all him, was laughing.

  ‘Police,’ James said, in response to a silent question. ‘And ambulance. Haledown House, PO19 2AB. Sorry. Papa Oscar oner niner two Alpha Bravo.’

  Maxwell was impressed. He knew some of the Nato Phonetic alphabet but often had to resort to P for Poo, O for orang utan and similar.

  ‘Yes, that’s right. The big house. The gates are open. Come up to the house and someone will meet you. Yes.’ James pocketed the phone. ‘One of us needs to go and meet the cops and the ambulance. One of us needs to stay here. I suppose I should ... dead body ... used to be medical student, all that stuff.’

  Maxwell crouched by the body. ‘This isn’t the time to be comparing body counts,’ he said, ‘but I would guess I have seen one since you last did. However, I won’t fight you for it.’ He looked down at Elliot’s dead face. It looked as terror-stricken as the Colonel’s had, but there was no sign of a wound. His mouth was open and his back arched. ‘Rigor’s already setting in,’ he said.

  ‘That’s strychnine,’ James said. ‘I’ve only seen it once, but it’s unmistakeable. Mother of God, what a way to go.’ He looked at Maxwell. ‘Are you all right, Max, really? Even if you’ve seen bodies before, two in just over twenty-four hours is going some.’

  ‘Just call me Typhoid Mary,’ Maxwell muttered, straight-faced. ‘I’ll go and direct the police and medics, then I’ll break the news to Flo. Are you all right to stay here?’

  ‘Fine,’ James said. ‘I didn’t get involved with that many deaths before I hung up my stethoscope, but I did enough. The dead don’t bite.’

  ‘No,’ Maxwell said. ‘Indeed they don’t.’

  Donald had, as always, done what he considered the donkey work on the mortal remains of Roderick Hale-ffinch. He had made the initial measurements, taken the swabs and sent them off to the lab, now all it needed was for Jim Astley to get off the golf course and come and do what he called ‘the important bit’. In this particular case, the cause of death was not exactly hard to define – when someone has no throat to speak of, life is a little unlikely.