“This seems like no more than a wild coincidence,” insisted Awena. “Except—except for…”
“Precisely.” Max nodded. “There’s no getting around that birthmark. The kidnapped baby was very tiny, practically a newborn when it was taken. They claimed Peregrine was large for his age, to forestall questions—his size had to make sense for his supposed date of birth. But who would question it, really? They were of a class of people who could buy what they wanted, and they were operating in a country where poverty allowed them what they—what Lady Baaden-Boomethistle—most wanted: a child.”
“And the kidnapped baby? No one ever knew?”
“The authorities assumed he had been killed. That is the case in most kidnappings, sadly. His own brother had arranged cold-bloodedly for the kidnapping—out of pure jealousy, I still believe, among other motives. He—the fifteenth earl of Lislelivet—didn’t ask or care to know what became of the child. He just needed the child to be legally declared dead. Which it was.”
Max paused, then added, “If Peregrine had taken part in killing his father, it would have been for nothing. Because Lord Baaden-Boomethistle was not really his father. And Peregrine was not the heir to the estate. His sister was.”
“I see. Goodness, what a story. Well, I must say—” Awena began. Seeing her husband’s face, she stopped. “What is it, Max?”
Something had clicked in his mind. Max could almost have sworn he heard the satisfying little sound a jigsaw puzzle piece makes when it is snapped into place.
“All the talk of babies and mothers,” he said slowly. “I have been such a fool.”
“Hmm?”
Max turned to Cotton. “We’ve overlooked something. Who do you have in Wiltshire who can look through the birth records there? I mean quickly.”
“It’s all computerized, Max. Anybody can do it quickly.”
Max told him what to look for.
“And—this will please Musteile no end—get on the line to Interpol. We’ll need one of their Russian speakers.”
“You think? Really?”
“I do,” said Max. “We talked of love or lust, assuming that is what drove Chanel to do this. But what if only the stronger of the two emotions was in play here?
“What if love is what drove her?”
Chapter 26
AWENA
A week later, peace had been restored to the village of Nether Monkslip.
Or so it seemed.
The vicarage had a garden front and back; a gated path led from its front door to Vicarage Road. Max, working at his desk, waved to Awena as she passed the casement window, headed for the High, having left Owen in Max’s care. She planned to stop at the ironmonger’s for some paint: The dark vicarage kitchen needed cheering with some yellow cupboards.
“We may as well do it ourselves,” she had said. “It’s not worth asking the diocese to pay for it. And it will make ever so much difference to your day when the afternoon sun creeps past the window. Feng shui is based on what the mind perceives without our knowing it. It is such powerful stuff.”
Max loved it that Awena worried about this sort of thing. Someone had to. Furthermore, she was always right. He returned to the e-mail he had been composing. The Parish Council was meeting to discuss whether to host a spiritual retreat or a weekend outing to London, to include a visit to the theater. As usual, the issue had divided into two bitter camps.
Of all the things to fight about. Max was always surprised that they seemed to find something ever more trivial to take sides over.
The door flew open at that moment, flung back on its hinges by Mrs. Hooser. She announced, “That detective is here to see you.”
Mrs. Hooser had interrupted Max as he was, greatly daring, making a case for the spiritual retreat, so he welcomed the interruption.
DCI Cotton strode in and took his customary place by the fire.
“I’ll be right with you,” Max said. He ran his eyes over the e-mail one final time, said a brief prayer, and hit SEND.
“I just wanted to say good-bye before I head back to the office,” Cotton told him. “We’ve cleared out of Totleigh Hall, all done but the mopping up.”
Max stood up from his desk. “I was thinking again this morning of the motives behind this case,” he said. “Of the fact that when it comes to love … desire … all the things that drive the human heart—those things should never include money. And yet they so often do.”
Somehow the topic of love had also made him think of Eugenia, who had vanished from his thoughts until the night before when Awena had said, just before drifting off to sleep, “I think Eugenia has developed a crush on you, Max. You’ll need to step carefully there.” His first reaction had been to laugh—the situation was too ludicrous to take seriously. Wasn’t it? But he realized he’d been hoping it would resolve itself. Perhaps he’d have to brave a more direct route.
Awena had added, “I’m afraid she sees me as a bit of a rival. Don’t worry, I’m sure it will pass, and I’m also sure she’s not dangerous. But we need to be aware—gentle with her feelings, both of us. I don’t think many people in her life have been tender with her.”
Max, remembering the poisonous look he’d seen Eugenia aim at Awena—at all of them, really, at their tightly knit little family group, at their happiness—felt a slight frisson of alarm. He thought he should have spotted the signs of her infatuation earlier—and wondered that he had not. But surely it required an inflated, even monstrous, ego to imagine a woman losing her grip over him.
Eugenia happened to pass by his window just then, almost as if he’d conjured her up. She carried a flat gathering basket overflowing with flowers and was obviously on her way to the church to tend to the altar. As he watched, she surreptitiously eyed his study window, trying to see if he was there. Max quickly stepped back out of view.
He hesitated but then decided Cotton should be made aware. If there were any chance Awena was in danger … “I’d like a word,” he said. “It’s about Eugenia Smith-Ganderfort. I seem to have attracted a bit of attention from that direction. It’s ridiculous, but I think she has developed some sort of … well, some sort of a crush.”
Cotton followed his sight line to Eugenia’s broad retreating back. She moved with an odd, unhurried grace, much like Awena. Almost as if she had been studying Awena … copying her.…
Owen started to make his waking noises, and Max went to lift him from his cradle.
“A crush on you, you mean,” said Cotton. Max nodded, not meeting his eyes, the picture of abashed and confused misery. Cotton laughed. “It’s a fairly common occurrence,” he said. “A lonely widow, a handsome and respected man such as yourself…”
“Who said she was a widow?”
“She came forward as a witness and we ran a background on her, as we do with any overeager witness. It turned out she’d seen nothing but was hoping to get information out of us. That frequently happens with murder. People want to be a part of it—they find it exciting. Sometimes they find it exciting because they’re the murderer. That’s why we ran the background. Whichever of my people she spoke with found her a bit odd.”
“I hadn’t realized she was a widow,” said Max. “Most people assume she was divorced. I did.”
“It was years ago. Some sort of accident. Automotive, I believe. Shall I look it up for you?” He made as if to reach for his ever-present briefcase holding his ever-present computer.
“Funny, is all. She never spoke of him. Perhaps she just wanted to forget.”
“Anyway, if you think it worth pursuing, I could ask Sergeant Essex to have a word … about the crush, I mean. But these cases usually resolve themselves. You are probably just a hobby to Eugenia for now, like a new knitting pattern. She’ll move on to other interests soon enough.”
“I’m quite sure you’re right. It’s just that I completely ignored the undercurrents, which were quite obvious in retrospect, and that wasn’t smart. She was always banging on about the altar flowers, trying to en
gage me, I suppose. You know the sort of thing. It all seemed so ridiculous. And then there’s Awena to consider. You don’t think she—”
Mrs. Hooser, even knowing he had a guest, burst into the room again. She had her young son, Tommy, in hand.
“Right,” she announced. “I’m leaving now for the shops. Will you be needing anything for the next hour or so, Vicar? Awena popped back in just now to ask if I could pick up some twine,” she added inconsequently. “Something about tying back the sweet peas. It’s a lucky thing I were still here.”
“Right. Thank you, Mrs. Hooser.”
“While we were talking, a man come to the back door. He asked if she were Mrs. Max, the healer. I thought that were strange. That he come to the back door and all.”
Awena’s reputation had spread, making this not such an unusual occurrence. He had not been aware anyone called her Mrs. Max, and wondered what Awena thought of that.
“I think he were blind,” Mrs. Hooser went on. “Hard of seeing, like. He asked Awena if she could show him where the church were. So he could go and pray, like.”
“That’s nice.” Max settled Owen back in the cradle, tucking him in with the blanket Lily had made just for him, moons and stars on a background of deep blue.
“You know how Awena is. She can never say no to no one in need. He come here asking for help, so she offered to walk with him to St. Edwold’s. Even though I know she were so busy today. Isn’t that just like her?”
Max, wondering if Mrs. Hooser were ever going to leave, started to say “That’s nice” again, but then some instinct made him look up from Owen’s face.
“What did this man look like?”
Cotton, who had been browsing the bookshelves that lined the study, suddenly took notice at the tone in Max’s voice.
“Oh, tallish. Medium tall,” I guess.
“Yes? And?”
It was little Tommy who spoke up with the salient detail.
“He wore funny glasses. Sunglasses.”
Max felt the blood start to drain from his heart. Very slowly and carefully, so as not to frighten Tommy, he asked, “What made the glasses funny, Tommy?”
“They were blue and white,” he reported. “Blue inside and white outside.”
Blue sunglasses with white frames. No one wore naff sunglasses like that, thought Max. Absolutely no one, except …
“Are you sure, Tommy?”
They were interrupted by the sound of a gunshot, a single loud report that roiled through the air and made the old mullioned windows rattle in their frames.
“What the—” said Cotton.
“It’s coming from the church,” said Max. Oddly calm now, deadly calm—for who would bring harm into the sanctuary of St. Edwold’s? Who would dare?—he scooped Owen from his cradle, wrapped in his blue-sky blanket, and followed Cotton, who was already at the door. His expression reflected Max’s own—still, unruffled, as if gunfire in a small village church were an everyday occurrence. If either stopped to think at all, they hoped some mechanical failure was behind the sound—the temperamental boiler indulging in some new outburst, perhaps. Both men wore a mask of calm, trying not to alarm Tommy. His mother, who had let out a bloodcurdling shriek, was doing a good-enough job of that.
But the boiler? That made no sense, Max realized on the instant. Twenty thousand pounds sterling had just gone toward replacing the old boiler. And what was that man doing in his village?
What was Paul’s killer doing in his village?
Holding Owen tightly against his chest, Max hastened after Cotton.
* * *
The church vestry was locked from the inside and precious moments were lost as the two men raced around the side of the church to the front door. Owen, sensing something was very much up, played the uncanny trick he had of becoming preternaturally still, waiting to see what would happen next.
By now, a small knot of villagers, attracted by the ruckus, had gathered to gape in amazement as DCI Cotton and their vicar, babe in arms, ran through the churchyard, threading their way past gravestones and monuments.
Cotton reached the entrance first, bursting through the heavy wooden door and throwing it back on creaking medieval hinges, Max still right on his heels.
Once inside, the first thing Max saw as his eyes adjusted to the dark interior was Eugenia at the altar, looking for all the world as if she were celebrating the Eucharist. She held the wine flagon in one hand, staring at the vessel as if she weren’t quite certain how it had gotten there.
Is she mad? Is she quite, quite mad?
Suddenly, she reared back and let fly with the flagon. Her target was the man in sunglasses, who sat next to Awena.
To his horror, Max saw he held a gun to her head.
The heavy flagon hit its mark—the man didn’t see it coming. It didn’t knock him out, but the liquid it contained connected with the earphones he wore around his neck, startling him and making an audible hissing sound. Either the sound or the small shock rendered by liquid shorting electronics gave Max and Cotton the split second they needed. Max put Owen, now bawling at full throttle, into the collection basket as Cotton flung himself at the man. Max flew right after him.
But it was Eugenia who reached the man in the nick of time. Sailing off the chancel steps in superhero fashion, she aimed herself at the hand holding the gun, dislodging it safely; it clattered on the stone floor. Picking up the empty flagon, she reared back and gave the man an almighty blow to the side of his head, knocking him senseless.
Max retrieved the gun, and ran to the back of the church to retrieve the baby.
It was then the walls of the church shook to their foundations with a resounding boom. Max turned to see the stained glass of the St. Edwold’s window shatter out of its frame—just as coils of smoke and flying debris obliterated his sight.
Chapter 27
AFTERMATH
“We got all the details later from Eugenia.” DCI Cotton and Sergeant Essex sat in the Monkslip-super-Mare police station as he recounted the events she’d missed in not-so-peaceful Nether Monkslip. “Eugenia who, by the way, is recovering nicely, thank you very much, and basking in her role of least likely heroine you are ever going to meet in this world. She’ll be selling her story to the Mirror any day now—you just watch.”
“She should set her sights higher.” Essex had been fuming for days at having missed the action, at assuming that it was safe to leave Max Tudor alone for five minutes.
Cotton nodded. “Anyway, Awena and the man wearing those strange glasses had come into the church, where Eugenia, she told us, was fiddling about with the altar flower arrangements and the altar cloth, and doing something or other with the flagon of unconsecrated wine. The man’s name, as we know now, was Konstantin Konstantinov. The man who killed Max’s MI5 colleague, Paul.
“Eugenia luckily had ducked behind the altar to retrieve her scissors just as this man and Awena came in, and once she heard the way the conversation was going, she stayed ducked down. This was common behavior for Eugenia, if you ask me—it was how she gathered information for her friend, Miss Pitchford, aka the Tokyo Rose of Nether Monkslip. Anyway, unnoticed, Eugenia overheard the entire conversation. Despite her adoration for Max, which skewed her common sense in many ways, I think we can take what she told us as gospel.
“What she overheard was Konstantin asking Awena to say healing prayers over him. So far so good. Awena, completely used to this type of request and finding nothing odd about it, asked him to remove his glasses. He was wearing earphones—I guess he’d been listening to music or a podcast on his mobile, and the glasses got entangled in the earphones, so there was a bit of a fuss to disentangle him. Then she sat with him in the pew, talking with him, praying for him, holding his hand. Completely unafraid of helping this strange man who had come to her. You’ve met her—you know how she is. Compassion personified.”
Essex nodded. “Go on.”
“So there she was, holding the hand of a killer as deadly as a neutro
n star, as unstable as antimatter. And Awena looked carefully into the eyes of this creature and told him she had an ointment that would ease the dryness but that some things were beyond her ability to cure. When she told him the truth—that she could not cure him; only the gods could do that if they chose—he flew into a screaming, incoherent rage.
“He told her he had been praying to the face on the wall, and it had not healed him, either. ‘For seven days I’ve come here, like some peasant fool, and nothing’s changed.’ He called her a fraud. ‘You are all frauds. You’re all phonies. Priests and shamans, witches and charlatans, all of you.’ He grew more and more agitated, frustrated that his prayers had not been instantly answered—he’d lost faith in her power, which he had counted on as his last resort, and he quickly flipped over to a place where he wanted to destroy all that was holy. He pulled out a gun and fired a shot into the ceiling. According to Eugenia, the situation just spiraled out of Awena’s control. One minute, he sat quietly listening to her, and the next, it seemed, he had her in a chokehold.
“Next he held the gun to her head: ‘Your husband will pay. While I still have light to see by, I’ll make him pay.’”
“Holy mother,” whispered Sergeant Essex. “Pay for what?”
“God knows. He was ranting, out of his mind. Eugenia, now practically collapsed with fear, realized he was a madman. And knew that she had to do something, find some weapon to hand, before he spotted her. Or killed Awena. Or both.
“Then there was a sound. A scuffling sound near the face, coming from beneath it somewhere. It was little Tommy. Deliberately, we think, drawing attention to himself and away from Awena.”
“Tommy? Mrs. Hooser’s son? What on earth was he doing there? Is that child never in school?”
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