Maxwell's Summer

by M. J. Trow

  ‘It is,’ Maxwell nodded, ‘it’s just that security people know the place, don’t they, as well as the family; perhaps better. Who runs the security cameras? Where are the dead spots – no pun intended – vis a vis views from the house? Who picks up quickly on timings and schedules? Elliot, for instance, had only been there for what ... three days? But somebody knew he took a constitutional in the morning.’

  ‘So the poison would have had to have been administered the night before at best – and if it is strychnine, only minutes before. I say if, because we don’t know, yet, because the lab do the full panel, even when they have a rough idea what it might be.’

  ‘Don’t miss the wood for the trees, kind of thing,’ Maxwell observed.

  ‘Quite. But if it is strychnine, at least you and the driver ... umm ...’ Henry’s mind had gone blank.

  ‘James. Before you ask, yes, I do say things like “Home, James” and he doesn’t seem to mind. Nice chap. Interesting.’

  ‘A Highena?’

  ‘By marriage. Which is much the same thing.’

  ‘He is a bit unusual – medic, I understand.’

  ‘He gave it all up for love,’ Maxwell said.

  Hall’s eyebrows went up. ‘Really?’

  Maxwell grinned. ‘Yes, really. And they still seem very happy. Anyway, as you rightly say, if it was strychnine, we have cast iron alibis. Nice to see you feel I need one, by the way.’

  ‘You’re welcome.’

  ‘And so we come to the domestics,’ Maxwell said. ‘Somebody who had access to Elliot’s brandy or his Doritos or whatever else the poison was contained in.’

  ‘Can you help there?’

  Maxwell shook his head. ‘I’ve seen them flitting around the kitchens and the dining room, of course. They make up your bed almost as soon as you’ve got out of it. If you take a single sip from a bottle of water – and there are four different kinds ... no, I lie, five ...’

  ‘Five different kinds of water?’ Henry was incredulous.

  ‘There’s still, there’s sparkling, there’s sport, whatever that is, there’s a touch of lime. Or lemon, if you leave a note.’

  ‘That’s four.’

  ‘And of course, there’s water passed by the management. But whatever you prefer, one sip and they take the old bottle away and put a new one in its place. I don’t know whether that gives more opportunity for poisoning someone, or less.’

  Hall nodded glumly – there was nothing he loved better than another shoal of red herrings swimming by.

  ‘There’s a faux butler who serves drinks at the cocktail hour. I think Harry hires him from Rent-a-Skivvie on account of how he owns a dickie. Carson, he ain’t.’

  Maxwell could have bitten his tongue; he had just admitted to his wife’s boss that he knew the name of a character from Downton Abbey. Hall was a generous guest, though, and pretended he hadn’t noticed.

  ‘Gamage interviewed him,’ the Chief Inspector said. ‘Er ... Enright, isn’t it?’

  Maxwell nodded. He’d heard Harry shrieking that across the courtyard on several occasions already. ‘It’s odd,’ he said, ‘domestics in the twenty-first century. They’re not fetlock-tugging old family retainers any more, if they ever were. All members of Unite, with chips on their shoulders. Mark my words, Henry, they’ll want the vote next, banging on Tom’s door demanding bread and circuses, or am I mixing my civilizations there?’

  ‘Anybody else?’

  ‘I’d like it to be Maureen,’ Maxwell said, topping up his own glass.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Ah,’ the Head of Sixth Form smiled, ‘you see how clever she is? Under the radar already. She’s the malevolent old besom who runs the ticket office, a sort of Cerberus-cum-St Peter.’

  ‘You don’t like her?’ Hall was all wide-eyed innocence.

  ‘Let’s just say that if I was in the framing business, she’d be top of my list. Sally, now ... there’s a thought.’

  ‘Sally Baker.’ Hall recognized the name.

  ‘Harry’s Number Two,’ Maxwell nodded. ‘Guest Services, to give her her official title. Corporate woman to a tee. She treats me, rather as dear old William Gladstone did Queen Victoria, as if I were a public meeting.’

  ‘Motive?’ Hall asked.

  Maxwell looked at him. ‘I wouldn’t be so presumptuous, Henry, as to ask what your salary is in relation to that of a lowly teacher, but do I have to do everything for you?’

  If Hall had been an everyday sort of guy, he would have laughed. ‘Point taken,’ he said. ‘Obviously, we’ll have to talk to all of them again. Now, the guests.’

  ‘Interpol,’ Maxwell said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘The international dimension,’ Maxwell explained. ‘I did see the list, fleetingly, and if memory serves, they come from all over. There are a handful of Brits, but the majority are from Over There. I don’t need to tell you that each American state has its own mindset, law enforcement and peculiarities. Perhaps one of them’s great-great-great-grandpappy got his at the battle of New Orleans and it’s payback time.’

  ‘It does raise some ticklish protocol problems,’ Hall conceded.

  ‘Give me a day or two,’ Maxwell said, then stopped, thinking. ‘Make that three – tomorrow’s my day off and I will be here or hereabouts, entertaining Nole and probably Plocker, so his mother can have some breathing space. But the day after, I’ll do some discreet probing – rubber truncheons, water-boarding, the usual.’

  ‘Max ...’

  ‘I know,’ Maxwell held up his hand. ‘I’m a civilian and I can’t get involved in what is exclusively a police investigation. You, Jacquie and I go way back, Henry; I know the drill.’

  Hall let a second or two pass, for full effect, then said, ‘I was going to say I can lend you a rubber truncheon.’

  The door swung open and Jacquie walked in, seconds too late to hear her boss assay what was almost a joke.

  ‘Anyway,’ Maxwell said, crossing to the drinks cabinet and reaching for the gin. ‘Don’t say any more; she’s just come in. Drinkie, darling?’

  Chapter Eleven

  T

  ime, Maxwell thought, and not for the first time, was a funny thing, when you came to think of it. It seemed, for instance, to be months if not years, since he had last lain back on his sun lounger, listening to the bees buzzing, the grass growing and a little boy’s voice plotting mayhem behind a bush. It wasn’t even a week, though, he knew that. Indeed, his inner monologue told him, if an historian couldn’t keep track of time, who could?

  He had almost forgotten how calmly a day could begin. Jacquie had not had to get to work until ten – though that meant she would be home after Nolan’s bedtime, something she hated – and Plocker didn’t arrive until gone nine, so breakfast had been leisurely. Mrs Troubridge had managed to keep her heebie-jeebies to herself the night before, so everyone had slept in the right bed, for the right length of time and it was all rather lovely.

  Maxwell had never been one for snoozes during the day. Sometimes, when he came home from a particularly brutal day – the previous school year, Wednesday had been a shocker, with the Group From Hell from each year and he had been known to rest his eyes for half an hour. But, the morning ... definitely not.

  If he went to sleep, he would just have dreams. Dreams of two little boys behind a bush, making plans to break through the Polish corridor. Dreams of little old ladies, snuggling down in her curlers and hairpins between him and Jacquie in bed. Dreams of the phone ringing. And ringing. And ...

  ‘Dads?’

  A little hand was shaking him by the shoulder. That was good. He couldn’t be invading anywhere if he was here in the garden.

  ‘Dads? The phone is ringing.’

  How true. And loudly, in fact. It could almost be right against his ear.

  There was a sigh. ‘Hello,’ he vaguely heard his son’s voice say, ‘The Maxwell residence.’

  There was a distant quacking sound. There seemed to be ducks in this dream.


  ‘Oh, hello, Uncle Henry. Yes, it’s me, Nolan.’

  Quack.

  ‘Thank you. Dads is asleep. I’ll wake him up for you.’

  That was odd. He wasn’t asleep. He was dreaming, which isn’t the same at all ...

  ‘Dads!’

  This time there was no mistaking it – this was really happening.

  ‘Wha?’

  ‘Dads,’ Nolan proffered the phone. ‘It’s Uncle Henry on the phone for you. He said I was very good at answering the phone and you should pay me to be your secretary.’

  Maxwell got his eyes under control so they were both facing the same way, licked his lips and took the phone from his child, who was clearly already calculating his hourly rate. ‘Henry? Sorry. I may have been having a little doze for a minute, there.’

  ‘Just as well your secretary is on the ball. Look, Max, if it’s difficult, say no, but I’m at Haledown House and I could do with your help, if it’s at all possible.’

  Maxwell was instantly awake. ‘Haledown? Not another one, surely?’

  ‘No, no. Well, not as yet, anyway. Look, Max, I need to interview the widow and she’s saying she won’t talk to me without you there.’

  ‘Me? Why me?’

  ‘At home, apparently,’ Hall dropped his voice. ‘Can you still hear me?’

  ‘Yes. You’ve gone a bit quiet, though.’

  ‘I have to whisper, I don’t want her to hear. She says, at home, she would have her attorney with her. But obviously, that isn’t possible and she can’t even ring him because of the time difference and anyway, he spends August in his cabin in the Adirondacks, wherever the hell that is, and he goes off grid. So, she says, the next best thing is you.’

  ‘I happen to know there are at least eight lawyers among her fellow guests.’

  ‘She knows that. Apparently,’ and there was another pause as Hall checked he wasn’t overheard, ‘they are all assholes.’

  Maxwell chuckled. ‘She probably has that right. She does know that having me there won’t have any legal standing, does she?’

  ‘Yes.’ Hall was now speaking in his normal voice, as the topic became less controversial. ‘But she says she wants you all the same.’

  ‘Look, Henry, I have two little boys here who, despite one’s secretarial acumen, are not old enough to leave.’

  ‘No age for that, Max, as you know, but I do understand what you’re saying. If you could just do your best, that would be wonderful. Mrs Schwarzenegger is getting a little ... restive ... so if I can just say you’re on the way.’ Hall played his trump card. ‘I can send a car.’

  ‘Patrol?’

  ‘Is there any other kind?’ Hall had boys, too.

  ‘Okay.’ Maxwell struggled to his feet and gestured to the boys, standing wide-eyed in front of him. ‘I just need to call Plocker’s mother to see if it’s okay for him to go to the stables for a bit. I expect the wild-eyed killer will hold off for today, with all you police there.’

  Nolan and Plocker embarked on a series of nudges and tussles which could only result in one or both falling over and once that had happened and no bones were broken, Maxwell made a quick call to Mrs Plocker, who was happy for Plocker to ride, as long as he wore the correct gear and did he need elbow protectors, knee pads, back pads ...

  ‘They have everything they need at the stable,’ Maxwell said, using his best Talking To Parents voice. ‘He’ll be perfectly safe. If he likes it, we can make it a date for the rest of the holidays perhaps.’

  At this, Nolan and Plocker became almost hysterical, but silently, so no one changed their mind.

  ‘I’ll drop him off ... no, no trouble. No. Really. You do so much ... oh, well, he is a lovely little chap. And so, of course is ... Plocker.’ Maxwell had taken a while to get over the fact that Plocker was Plocker wherever he went, even at home. He wondered how that would work when he was a High Court Judge, a Celebrity or a serial killer. Or even, imagine it, all three. ‘See you later, then. Sorry, what?’ Maxwell’s eyes went wide. Did this woman not know him at all? ‘I will certainly get some images sent over. Yes. Yes. Bye, then.’

  He clicked the phone off and faced the little boys, now standing side by side but with one beam across both faces. He raised an eyebrow and they bounced with anticipation. Eventually, after what for them seemed like a lifetime, he released them.

  ‘Okay, boys. We’re going to Haledown House. Riding for you, heaven knows what for me. Nole, go and get togged up. If your spare jodphurs are dry, lend them to Plocker. And a tee shirt, I suppose, for when you get filthy. Bring the sunscreen down with you as well. Don’t pull that face, just do it.’

  ‘You weren’t even looking at me!’ Nolan was outraged.

  ‘I don’t need to. You’ve got five minutes, or the patrol car won’t wait.’

  Plocker grabbed Nolan’s arm and shook it, beyond words. He loved Nolan anyway, but this was the icing on the cake. A patrol car!

  ‘And no, Plocker, you can’t work the siren.’

  Plocker ran after Nolan. Sometimes, his friend’s dad was quite scary. For one thing, he could clearly read minds.

  Time again reared its head as the car stopped to let the boys out at the stables. Instead of two days or so, the stable girls had obviously not seen Nolan for nigh on a year. He introduced them all to Plocker and Jo, redoubtable member of the mounted arm of Maxwell’s Own, led him away to be kitted out with a hard hat. Maxwell gave the dreaded sunscreen to another of the girls and the last he saw of his son as he got back into the car was him screwing up his face as she slathered it on all over. Maxwell was relieved – he had always worried he might be doing it wrong, but apparently, that expression happened for anyone.

  The patrol car driver wasn’t anyone Maxwell knew, but it was obvious that the same did not apply vice versa.

  ‘I told your missus I was picking you up, Mr Maxwell,’ he said, apologetically. ‘Hope that was all right.’

  ‘No problem,’ Maxwell assured him. ‘She rang me, anyway.’

  His ear was still ringing, so he was unlikely to forget that. But once she had established that Mrs Plocker was on board, all had been well.

  ‘Fancy you working here,’ the driver said, in a voice that was half small talk, half curiosity.

  ‘Perhaps not for much longer,’ Maxwell said, lightly. ‘We might run out of guests at this rate.’ The car drew up in front of the steps and he opened the door. ‘Well, this is me. If you do see my wife when you get back, tell her the boys are delivered and happy, will you?’

  ‘No problem.’ The driver, though nosy, was one of the more pleasant denizens of Leighford Nick, one of the small minority which didn’t hate Maxwell’s guts as a matter of principle.

  Henry Hall was waiting at the top of the steps and came forward to meet Maxwell as he climbed them.

  ‘Hold on, Max. Let’s walk for a minute.’

  It wasn’t like Henry to be so conspiratorial, but Maxwell fell into step even so. ‘Problem?’

  ‘Not a problem as such, no. But for a place this size, it’s next to impossible to have a minute to yourself. If it isn’t Mrs Hale-ffinch offering you coffee and sandwiches, it’s Sally Baker offering the same, or water, or ... oh, I don’t know ... a neck rub, I wouldn’t be surprised.’

  ‘They’re a nosy bunch, that’s for sure. And hard to shake off. Have you ever read The Hideous Strength?’

  Hall only ever read reports, so shook his head.

  ‘In it, the director of a rather dodgy enterprise can be seen in two places at once, both disappearing around a corner and appearing round the next. It was also done to rather more comic effect in The Last Remake of Beau Geste.’

  Hall looked blank. He didn’t watch films, either. He never missed Bakeoff but other than that, he made his own amusement, whatever that might be.

  ‘Well, never mind. The point is, those two are like that. They have perfected the art of being in two places at once. They aren’t – or at least,’ Maxwell grimaced, ‘I hope they aren’t. But it
can certainly seem like it sometimes. How’s Flo?’

  ‘That’s why I needed a minute. She seems very ... calm. For a recently bereaved widow in a strange country.’

  Maxwell wasn’t surprised. He had expected one of two reactions from Flo. One was the one that appeared to be the case, calm and not unduly concerned with her sudden move to widowhood. The other was total hysterical meltdown, which the Sisterhood had tried to foist on her the day before. It was nice to know for sure.

  ‘Elliot was a bit overbearing, if I am to stick to the rule of not speaking ill of the dead. He never acknowledged her, unless forced to do so by a third party. He never took her views into consideration. And yet I wouldn’t be surprised to find out that of the two, she was by far the more intelligent and ran the house and their lives with precision and efficiency. He was all talk.’

  ‘That’s the kind of thing I needed to know. Yesterday, I got the impression she was going to dissolve in tears and we’d never get anything out of her.’ Hall was clearly relieved. An apparently grieving widow was so much easier to handle than a really grieving one.

  ‘Where have you stashed her?’

  ‘We’re in the library.’

  ‘That’s easy, then. There’s a shortcut, this way. We might miss Sally and Harry that way.’

  Hall might not watch films much, but he knew that one.

  Maxwell smiled, forestalling him. ‘I think someone’s already done that one, Henry. But well done for spotting the opportunity.’

  Neil Gamage didn’t know quite what to make of James Brereton. Chauffeurs were a little like the blokes who used to walk in front of vehicles with a red flag in their hands; they belonged to the past. But then, that was true of everybody at Haledown House; the whole place was rooted in the past and dedicated to keeping that past alive.

  ‘Strychnine.’ Gamage was checking his notes.

  ‘I’d say so,’ the chauffeur was multi-tasking with the best of them, polishing the Hale-ffinches’ car and helping the police with their enquiries at the same time. Gamage had perched himself on a work bench, checking carefully for any oil smears before he sat down.