by M. J. Trow
‘Max.’ She was looking into his eyes. ‘This is all my fault.’
‘It is?’
‘Of course.’ Harry was pouring them both a drink. ‘The house and the moveables thereof are my concern. Oh, all right, they’re technically Tom’s, I suppose, but let’s say the Hale-ffinches. That bloody statue! I should be having these things checked. Regularly.’
‘You think it fell by accident?’ he asked her.
‘Don’t you?’ She passed him his Scotch. All right, it wasn’t Southern Comfort, but it had been a bitch of a day and he was grateful for small mercies. ‘What are the odds,’ he asked her, ‘of me being underneath said statue at the precise moment it decided to try to use those stone wings for the first time?’
‘Tell me,’ she said, not attempting to answer his question, ‘what you were doing out there, at that hour?’
Maxwell thought fast. He had still been in his bathrobe when the police had arrived and Harry knew that; she’d been there, all scatty-haired and sleepy-eyed to welcome them. ‘Couldn’t sleep,’ he said. ‘Decided to take a stroll.’ A little bit of truth was always the best way to lie, in his experience.
‘Was that wise?’ she asked. ‘Uncle Roddy? Elliot Schwarzenegger? They were both found in the early morning.’
‘I thought you said that the gryphon was an accident?’ Maxwell was confused in a way he hadn’t been since O Level Physics. And everyone knew how that had gone.
‘Well, yes, I think it was. Oh, there’s a madman on the prowl, certainly, but this wretched business ... no, that’s just coincidence. And I take full responsibility.’
‘Don’t beat yourself up, Harry,’ he smiled. ‘Henry Hall’s on the case. And,’ he looked at his watch, ‘in about sixteen and a half minutes, my good lady wife.’
She smiled back at him. ‘Look, Max, you’re shaken up, I fully understand that. So, no conversation this afternoon, all right? But, the Farewell to Haledown Ball. You will be there, won’t you? Say you will. Despite everything, the week has gone really well. I’d so love it if you were there; so would the guests. They love you.’
In the case of Jada Harper, very nearly literally, Maxwell mused. ‘Of course,’ he said. ‘I’d love to. Oh,’ he downed his Scotch, ‘All right if I bring the Mem?’
The Mem was professionalism itself. She arrived, sans fils, in her inspector’s outfit, business-like and ready. Inside, of course, she was shaking like a leaf. She’d seen Maxwell go out on limbs before, chancing his arm, facing down murderers; he couldn’t help himself. But this time, he had nearly died and it frightened her. Had it all gone differently, what would she have told little Nole? That Dads wasn’t coming home? Would never come home? That would have been the hardest thing of all, but there were others. Metternich would have roamed around the house, the garden, looking for his Master in the most unlikely places. The clothes, of course, would have hung in the wardrobe and lain in the drawers, but two things would have stood out as constant reminders, impossible pain. One was the attic that Maxwell called the War Office. No one would finish the Light Brigade diorama and Lord Cardigan’s men would wait for eternity to ride into legend. Then there was White Surrey, the old bone-shaker Maxwell had owned since his Granta days at Jesus College. Its gears would rust and its rubber would perish, because Jacquie would never have the heart to get rid of it.
All that and more was rushing through her head as she took the first opportunity to grab him by the lapels out of sight of the world and hold him to her. He felt her shudder with sobbing. Then he felt her pull away and was even more aware of a thump on his chest, followed by another.
‘Ow!’ it was the measured response of a Cambridge graduate.
And suddenly, she was hugging him again and he kissed her hair, her wet cheeks, her lips.
‘Where is it?’ he asked her softly.
‘Where’s what?’ She wasn’t looking into his face, but was blinking back the tears.
‘That stiff upper lip?’
Despite herself, Jacquie snorted with laughter, adding one more thing to the list of stuff she couldn’t bear; who would make her laugh in the midst of tears, if this exasperating old git wasn’t there? She gave the usual answer, promptly. ‘It’s above this blubbery, quivering lower one,’ she said.
He kissed her again. ‘That’s my girl,’ he whispered. Then he waited until she was ready, because he knew he’d have to go through the whole ritual of what had happened, all over again.
‘You’ll have to bear with me,’ Jacquie said that evening as they curled up on the sofa.
‘Steady!’ Maxwell sipped his Southern Comfort. ‘This is a family show; none of your smutty talk round here, please.’
She flipped her bath-robe belt at him. ‘I mean, I’ve come to all this late. I’m playing catch-up. Who’s your money on?’
He looked seriously at her. ‘Now, you know I cannot divulge.’
‘Bollocks,’ she said, and reached across to refresh her gin and tonic.
‘What does Henry think?’ Maxwell asked.
‘I asked you first,’ she said, striking a blow for policewomankind.
‘All right.’ He pursed his lips and stared up at the ceiling. Time passed. The clock ticked. Metternich stretched and yawned in his great chair. Then, ‘I just don’t know.’
‘Well, thank you for that, Max.’ Jacquie rolled her eyes. ‘I don’t know what I pay you for.’
‘What does Henry think?’ He tried again.
‘Do you know,’ she put her glass down on the coffee table, ‘I’m getting a strange sense of déjà vu. It’s like Groundhog Day all over again.’
‘Are you going to tell me?’ he asked.
‘God, Max, I would if I knew,’ Jacquie said. ‘I gave up trying to read Henry Hall years ago. He’s a poker player par excellence, you know that.’
‘Not so much as a hint?’ Maxwell wouldn’t let it go. He had worked alongside Hall before and he rated the man’s intellect, his quiet, methodical way of working. It didn’t have the panache of a Mad Max, but it got results, nonetheless.
Jacquie screwed her face up. Long ago, before they were married, she had tried to keep Peter Maxwell out of her professional life; tried not to let procedural snippets slip out. And it had never worked. Now, she cut out the middleman entirely and kept him fully in the loop. This was not just the fondness of a loving couple; he had a mind like a razor and she couldn’t do without him. Seeing things through his eyes made everything clearer.
‘It has to be someone from Haledown,’ she said. ‘In order of events: Roddy Hale-ffinch in the house’s grounds in the early hours; Elliot Schwarzenegger, ditto; attempt on you ...’ and her blood ran cold again and she had to wait a moment while her throat re-opened and her mouth was no longer dust-dry, ‘... wee small hours. Joe Public can’t get into the place after dark, despite the somewhat gaping hole in security, witness Mrs Getty’s attempt.’
‘Security,’ Maxwell raised a finger. ‘What about that?’
‘What are you thinking?’ she asked.
‘Jack Whatshisarse, Security Chief (and I use the term advisedly) – he’s about a hundred years old and has a PhD in incompetence.’
‘And?’
‘And what if that’s a front? What if he’s rigged the Cee Cee Tee Vee so that it shows endless static? He may be ancient but he’s younger than Roddy and could probably have slashed his throat without too much difficulty.’
‘Motive?’ She raised an eyebrow, the one that destroyed most of the arguments of all the men in her life, with the exception of Metternich, who was immune.
Maxwell clicked his fingers. ‘Oh, you!’ he sulked, in a Looby-Loo sort of way. ‘You’ve spoiled it now.’
‘From the statements I’ve read, Jack’s a loyal family retainer. As is his Number Two, Bob Good. We did briefly wonder whether one or both had known Roddy in his military days and had held a grudge, but they would have to be playing the longest long game ever if that were so; we decided that was unlikely. We could understand �
� just – them going for Elliot: xenophobia towards Americans; disapproval of his taste in Hawaiian shirts, that sort of thing. But Roddy is old-school Hale-ffinch. According to the reports, they’d walk through fire for the family.’
‘Maureen, then,’ Maxwell suggested. ‘Now, there’s a psychopath if ever I’ve seen one.’
‘Maureen does have a little form, it’s true.’
‘Does she?’ Maxwell sat upright. ‘Say on, Fount of All Knowledge.’
Jacquie reached over and flicked the keyboard on her laptop.
‘Without notes!’ he said, using his Teacher Voice, wagging his finger at her.
‘Up you,’ she laughed. ‘Ah, here we are. Maureen Dollery ... oh, GBH.’
‘No!’ Maxwell knew the old girl at the ticket office was a curmudgeonly old broad, but he hadn’t guessed she was that bad.
‘Mind you, it was some time ago. Glastonbury. She punched a policeman.’
‘Good for her!’ Maxwell laughed.
She blew a raspberry at him. ‘There was some suspicion of drug-taking ...’
‘At Glastonbury?’ Maxwell gasped. ‘I am appalled! Shocked, even ...’
‘The plod just doing their duty and Ms Dollery took offence. Oh, dear God! I shouldn’t do this, of course, but, do you want a laugh?’
Maxwell leaned across as she spun the laptop screen in his direction. Maureen Dollery’s mugshot, courtesy of the Somerset Constabulary, was a joy to behold. The savage pince-nez were nowhere to be seen; the barbed wire bun was a riot of fake dreads. The lips now twisted into a permanent snarl of scorn were full and purple. The eyelids drooped heavy with false lashes and there were beads around her neck.
‘When was this taken?’ Maxwell asked.
Jacquie touched the keyboard. ‘Nineteen eighty four,’ she told him.
‘Eric Blair would turn in his grave,’ he said. ‘The eighties I remember were full of Joan Collins with big shoulders. This looks more like an extra from Hair.’ He caught her look. ‘Something my mother told me about.’
‘To get back to Ms I’m-Striking-a-Blow-for-Feminism-Dollery, her fashion sense aside, obviously a month inside did her the world of good. The Hale-ffinches either didn’t know about it or they forgave and forgot.’
‘Hmm,’ Maxwell mused. ‘She pre-dates Harry and so I would imagine never had to produce a CRB, otherwise she would never have set foot inside her booth. Maureen’s got a temper, though,’ he added, ‘when roused. What if Uncle Roddy looked at her funny? Nay, I’d go further. What if he tried it on? What if they’d been an item way back, when she was a Child of God and he was a young subaltern in the Seventy-Seventh Foot or whatever he was claiming? What if ...?’
‘Elliot?’ Jacquie stopped him in mid-reverie.
‘You’ve done it again,’ he said. ‘Just when I was creating a perfectly plausible scenario there, you’ve burst my bubble with a little irrelevance like motive.’
‘Two killers?’ She was thinking aloud.
‘Go on.’
‘Is it possible?’ she murmured. ‘One feeding off the other?’
‘Folie a deux, you mean?’
‘Not necessarily as involved as that,’ she said. ‘Somebody kills Roddy. Somebody else has it in for Elliot, for whatever reason, and takes a leaf out of the first murderer’s book.’
‘Except that he is more clever,’ Maxwell joined the dots, ‘and uses strychnine rather than the old hack and slash.’
‘Women’s MO, poison,’ Jacquie nodded. ‘Or so detective fiction would have us believe.’
‘Detective fiction would have us believe a number of things.’ Maxwell freshened his drink. ‘For instance, all cops are mavericks battling their own demons and they’re only kept on by their myopic, pompous and bullying bosses because they get results.’
Jacquie warmed to the theme. ‘And they’ve always got a gorgeous girlfriend in tow who is young enough to be their granddaughter but no one screams “child molester”.’
Maxwell winked at her. ‘So far,’ he said, ‘it sounds like me.’
She laughed and nudged him. ‘Seriously, though. The Mos are so different. Why butcher Roddy, which implies sudden, explosive anger, then coolly and calmly administer poison to Elliot? And where do you come in?’
‘Ah, where indeed?’ Maxwell smiled. ‘Somewhere between the two, I suspect. All three of us share ... what? Some sort of commonality. Two Brits, one Yank. We were unknown to each other until the other day. Two of us are married; one is single. One is a retired army man. Another is a teacher who longs to retire ...’
‘Liar.’ She threw a cushion at him.
‘One is a business exec,’ he ploughed on regardless, annexing the cushion by tucking it behind his head and snuggling down a little, ‘and Roddy was economical with the truth; we know that. Embellished his past like a pro. Elliot had that about him too – the way he crumbled when he found Roddy’s body but was Dirty Harry an hour or so later. What does that say about me, do you suppose?’
She closed her laptop and snuggled against him. ‘You,’ she said, ‘are the most honest man I know. If you mention your greatness in a modest, self-effacing way, it’s always for some other reason. You’re not at all like them, Max. there has to be another explanation.’
‘Well,’ he placed his arm around her shoulder, nodding his head against hers, ‘at least, after tomorrow night, we’ll have some answers.’
‘Will we?’ she frowned. ‘Why?’
He tapped her on the nose. ‘You shall go to the ball, Cinders,’ he said.
She sat upright. ‘At Haledown?’ she asked. ‘I thought you were joking about that.’
‘Have you ever known me crack a joke?’ he asked, straight-faced.
‘Never,’ she admitted, equally solemnly. ‘But how are we going to learn anything?’
‘Somebody at Haledown wants me dead,’ he told her. ‘I’m going to give them one last chance.’
And it was just as well that little Nolan was fast asleep upstairs or he would have been heartily shocked by his darling mama’s response to that. As it was, Metternich, with an indrawing of breath, leapt down from his chair and legged it for the catflap. He had known voles let fly with a word or two as his teeth met on their necks, but they had nothing on Jacquie Carpenter-Maxwell.
The Maxwells’ carriage arrived at six thirty sharp. All right, it was not so much a landau as a hybrid, but the principle was the same. Enright, the hired-in faux butler, all penguin black-and-white and tails, greeted them at the door.
‘Mr and Mrs Maxwell,’ he boomed into the vestibule and they sauntered into the surreal world that Harry Hale-ffinch had created. The chandeliers shone brighter than ever, a myriad pinpricks of light dancing on the ceilings and floors, sparkling off the silks and brocades and feathers of the guests.
‘Max.’ Harry was the first to greet them. ‘And Jacquie ... it is Jacquie, isn’t it?’
‘Last night,’ Maxwell said, to himself, ‘I dreamed I went to Manderley again.’ Harry looked for all the world like the long-dead Rebecca from the film of the same name, her broad hat heavy with ribbons and fake fruit, her breasts jutting provocatively, threatening to pop out at any moment, depending on what kind of party this turned into.
‘It is.’ Jacquie took the outstretched hand.
‘May I say,’ Harry was in full hostess mode, ‘How gorgeous you look?’
Well, thank you,’ Jacquie smiled. ‘And right back atchya, as many of your guests would doubtless say.’
‘Are you anybody in particular?’ Harry was anxious not to give offence.
Jacquie mumbled something.
‘Sorry?’ Harry flapped her hand to indicate the rising noise of the mingling going on behind her. She leaned forward, cupping an ear.
‘Lucrezia Borgia,’ Jacquie repeated, louder this time. She extended a hand. ‘Look, I’ve got the ring and everything.’ She knew – because Maxwell had told her in no uncertain terms – that there was no such thing as the famous hollow ring filled with poison, but
it seemed to go with the character, so she had fished one out of Nolan’s treasure box, a special prize from a cracker the Christmas before last.
‘I’ve got to stick my oar in here,’ Maxwell said, ‘and admit that Messrs Caterham, Costumiers to the Odd and Eccentric, didn’t actually have a Lucrezia Borgia outfit. Jacquie is actually a slightly adjusted Queen Henrietta Maria, but what’s a century and a bit between friends ...’ he paused and bowed, ‘Lady Ariana?’
Harry gushed. She looked very like the portrait above the main staircase; at least, her costume did. ‘Thank you, Max,’ she said, ‘but I must admit that I’m a little disappointed that you haven’t costumed up.’
‘Madam,’ he stood up straight, ‘I am equally disappointed that you didn’t recognize me at once.’ He held up his right index finger, wrapped in glittering ribbon. ‘I am Auric Goldfinger.’ His Gert Frobe was, of course, immaculate.
‘Do you expect me to talk?’ Jacquie had a stab at Sean Connery, but it needed work.
‘No, Mr Bond,’ Maxwell riposted. ‘I expect you to have a good time.’ And they all laughed.
The champagne flowed, the canapes were excellent. There were things on sticks, things in pastry and some rather gorgeous things on sticks in pastry. No one, except Jacquie and Maxwell and possibly one other was thinking of strychnine. There was no dinner as such, merely a running buffet and a little geriatric combo in the corner threatened dancing later.
‘Well, land sakes, Max.’ Bo swanned into view with a long red wig and an iron brassiere. She appeared to have a horned helmet on her head. ‘I figured you’d be ... oh, I don’t know, Winston Churchill or somebody.’
Maxwell held up his finger but that provoked no response at all.
‘I’ve come as Queen Boadicea,’ she told him, ‘seeing as how I’m Bo already.’
Maxwell hadn’t the heart to point out that that should Boudicca, but it was hardly worth changing her name to Boo. ‘I thought you’d come as General Beauregard, but that’s me for you.’
Bo became suddenly confidential, sidling up to Maxwell. ‘I did notice that my helmet’s all wrong,’ she said. ‘This is a Viking hat, isn’t it? Horns and all?’
