by M. J. Trow
Recovering quickly, he formed his right hand into a gun and shot at her, the murder mystery fan’s immediate reaction to those words. ‘I’ve popped in to see Mrs Troubridge.’ He ran through the events of the day so far and took out and filed the visit to Leighford. He could tell her later, depending on how the rest of the evening went. ‘I was at a loose end.’
Jacquie was suspicious. Maxwell was never at an end so loose that he would cycle halfway across town to visit someone he could visit with her later on. But she decided to let it go. ‘I bunked off early,’ she admitted. ‘This case, these cases, whatever they are, aren’t going too smoothly.’ She caught his alert look, the pricking up of the ears, the slight flaring of the nostrils. ‘Don’t get your hopes up, sunshine,’ she said. ‘I’ve recovered from my attack of loose-lipitis. And don’t sulk,’ she added, as he slumped extravagantly. ‘How’s Mrs Troubridge?’
‘Not too good again,’ he said. ‘She was fine; I took her a postcard from Araminta which came today.’
‘That was nice; of you and of Araminta,’ Jacquie said.
‘You’d think so, wouldn’t you? But she got a bit steamed up, because apparently Araminta has hijacked Mr Troubridge’s favourite romantic destination. Then I showed her a picture of us on our hols and she suddenly went.’
‘Don’t tell me the Isle of Wight was Mr Tr—?’
‘No, Araminta is in Rhodes.’
‘Lucky,’ Jacquie said, with only a trace of bitterness.
‘Oh, ha. Anyway, I don’t suggest you go in. She really is in a bit of a state right now. Although …’ he paused.
‘What?’ She felt the sinking feeling she always felt when he started to nibble at the edge of a case. She knew that Henry Hall thought there might be a connection and she felt a pricking of her thumbs.
‘I just think you might benefit from perhaps seeing her tomorrow, during the day when she’s fresh, see if you can get to the bottom of what’s worrying her. Because something is, definitely, worrying her. Pore ol’ soul,’ he finished, with a perfect Mrs B.
‘I’ll speak to Henry,’ was all Jacquie would say, then she linked her arm in her husband’s and turned to go back to the car park. ‘You’re on Surrey, I take it?’ she said.
‘Stabled round in the bike racks. Race you home?’
‘You’ll beat me. I’m picking up Nole from Plocker’s.’
‘See you there, then. I’ll start supper, shall I? What had you planned?’
‘Anything that doesn’t have a side order of fries and a pinch of mixed salad will go down a treat,’ she said.
‘I’ll do my best,’ he promised and they returned to their vehicles and soon were on their way home.
Maxwell unearthed a cottage pie from the bowels of the freezer in the garage and it was soon bubbling away quietly to itself in the oven. As he put it in, he chuckled and rechristened himself Heston Blumenwhatsit. He knew he had a while before Jacquie was back, so he whistled his cat who, though within earshot and clear sight, took absolutely no notice, and went up into the loft, where the soft evening light filled the room. Just being at his desk seemed to organise his thoughts and before he could lose them altogether he pulled a piece of paper from the top drawer, switched on his modelling light and began to write. A soft chirrup and a thump signalled the arrival of Metternich, so he began to talk as he made his notes.
‘Evening, Count,’ he said. ‘Thanks for dropping by.’ He didn’t mind talking to himself but that always seemed a bit too close to the ‘mad’ bit of Mad Max for comfort; it could only be a matter of time. Talking to the cat was something else entirely – it could class as being friendly. ‘Park your bum,’ he said, pleasantly, ‘and listen up. I shall need your input later, when the going gets a bit tougher. I’ve numbered these points for my convenience; I know you’re not a number person, but bear with me.’
The cat extended a leg and chewed between his toes.
‘Thank you. Right. Number One – while we were away, Mrs Troubridge was pushed down the stairs by person or persons unknown. Only Henry Hall and I think this to be the case, and presumably Mrs Troubridge does as well.’ He looked across at his favourite feline. ‘I know what you’re thinking, Count, and I have no idea about the wardrobe and the numbers. I think that might be because the poor old trout is in fact losing it a bit. Any comments so far?’
Metternich was now licking behind his knee and Maxwell took that as a no.
‘Just to underline the point about next door, I think someone had tampered with our key. I had a look round and as far as I can see nothing has gone from in here, so it is a bit odd. Anyway, I digress. Number Two – and I suppose this should be Number One, really, but I don’t want to confuse you, so we’ll leave it – just before we went on holiday Izzy Medlicott’s ex-husband was pushed off a ladder.’ He paused for effect, but the cat didn’t react. ‘I notice you don’t argue with the “pushed” bit, and I can’t agree with you more. It would be too ridiculous if he just fell, don’t you think?’ He took the chomping noise as the cat’s grooming teeth reached his back to signify assent. He took a moment to admire the cat’s dexterity; it was all Maxwell could do to scratch his own back, let alone chew it. ‘I’m assuming, Count, that you have started to see the pattern.’
He paused to write down the next point before reading it out. ‘Izzy Medlicott goes missing – twice – while we are on holiday. She is seen by a moderately dim but unimaginative, and therefore trustworthy, child up late with the runs. She is later found dead … would you like to fill in here? It’s an easy guess.’ The cat looked up at him, mouth open in mid-cleanse. ‘Correct. Got it in one. At the bottom of a cliff.’
‘Number Three … is it Three, by now, or more? Let’s not bother with numbers, eh? Next – Izzy’s husband, Tom Medlicott – there should be some word, shouldn’t there, for the various husbands of one woman? Husband-in-law would be a good one – Tom is found dead at the bottom of the stairs. Not butchered and hacked as rumour would have it, but just as dead as if he had been. Now, you’ve seen me fall down the stairs in my time, Count, I know. That one time when I caught my foot in the Hoover lead, you were lucky I didn’t fall on you, if you remember. And yet, here I am, to tell the tale. So I will have to mark this one as also very dodgy.’
Maxwell sat pensively, tapping his pen on the paper. ‘Then, things get less tidy, so you’ll excuse me, I’m sure, if I witter quietly to myself and don’t make sense.’
Metternich looked up at him. Make sense? When was he going to start? But he was a comforting old bugger to have around and it was very soporific to be up here, in a twilight pool beside the desk, hearing his voice droning on and lulling him asleep.
Maxwell jotted some disjointed words on his sheet of paper, then reached into his pocket and lined up the two photographs and the postcard in front of him. If staring at something gave the answer, then it should be written in ten-foot-high neon letters in the air, but that wasn’t how it worked. He jotted some more, crossing things out and muttering. ‘How can there be two?’ he asked the cat under his breath. ‘It certainly scared Mrs Troubridge. Izzy’s father is dead, and her mother is horrible. Does Araminta drink?’ He picked up the postcard again and read the message once more. It seemed rather oddly constructed. It must mean something more than the words, but he—
‘Hello, the house!’ his son’s voice floated up the stairs.
‘Up here, darlings,’ he called back, making the cat flinch. There wasn’t usually shouting up here in the Sanctum. ‘Sorry, mate,’ he said to the animal, risking a swift pat. ‘They’re back. I must go and feed them or they will turn, and you know what that means.’
And he went down the stairs, to be enveloped in the bosom of his returning family. ‘Cottage pie all right?’ he asked.
‘Is it with chips?’ Nolan wanted to know.
‘No,’ Maxwell and Jacquie chorused.
‘Ohhh. I want chips,’ the boy whinged. Holiday habits are hard to break.
‘If you want chips,’ Maxwell
said, ‘it will have to come with salad. And liver.’ As a deal clincher it was inspired, and soon the evening was swinging along its usual track, with no murders, no sudden death, just good food, a quick and inequitable game of Scrabble followed by bath and bedtime story.
Jacquie came down from the final tuck-in to find a drink waiting along with an almost preternaturally relaxed husband.
‘How was your day?’ he asked, formally.
‘Much as yours, I would imagine,’ she said, taking a long swig from her glass. She waited, but nothing came. ‘Is that it?’
‘I understood that you weren’t to talk about it,’ he said.
‘Of course,’ she said, puzzled. ‘But since when have you let that make any difference?’
‘We have your career to think about,’ he said, picking up a magazine and leafing through it.
‘Max?’ she said. ‘You’re scaring me. What are you planning?’
‘Nothing,’ he said. ‘You’re so suspicious,’ and he turned back to his magazine.
Jacquie had not been expecting this and she found herself desperate to talk over the case so far. As reverse psychology went, this was working well, she thought. Two could play at that game. After a while, Maxwell put down the magazine and said, ‘I just have to pop up into the loft for a moment. I’ve left some glue drying. Won’t be a minute.’ He got up and went out of the room, walking at, if anything, a slightly slower than normal pace.
Giving him a few minutes start, Jacquie followed him, not knowing really what to expect, but as she poked her head into the loft space, all there was to see was the cat asleep on the ex-linen basket and Maxwell, screwing on the lid to a tube of glue. The page of notes, with several vital additions and Maxwell’s passport, was hidden under a sketch of Private Olley’s horse furniture.
‘Hello, sweetums,’ he said, without turning his head. ‘Be with you in a minute.’
‘Um, yes,’ she said. ‘I just came to ask if you wanted anything. Hot chocolate, snack, you know … anything.’
‘Hot chocolate would be lovely,’ he smiled. ‘What a marvel you are. I quite fancy an early night and a nice milky drink will be just the job.’ When he judged she was safely in the kitchen, he turned to the cat. ‘Until she remembers that dodgy board outside Nole’s bedroom door, she’ll never catch us at anything, will she, Count?’ he said with a wink.
Jacquie Carpenter-Maxwell lay in the warm cocoon of her bed and cursed her neighbours. They weren’t generally a noisy lot, but a car door had just slammed and the vehicle had driven off up the road with little regard for the fact that it was half past two in the morning. She listened for a while longer and her police person’s mind snagged on the fact that she hadn’t heard a door closing, which was to be expected if someone had been seeing guests off the premises. Then it also occurred to her that it was the early hours of Tuesday morning, not the standard dinner party night, especially not in sleepy Columbine. She was too comfy to get out, but she was sure that the noise would have woken her husband, and as he was naturally nosy he would think getting out of bed to have a look would be a reasonable price to pay. She reached out with her leg to give him a gentle nudge, known as a kick, to speed him on his way. Her leg just hit cold bed. Oh no, don’t say she had been snoring again and driven him into the spare room. She snuggled down for a minute but the feel of that cold bed niggled at her and she knew she had to get up to look. She padded along the landing, automatically looking in on Nolan, who was, as usual, asleep under a pile of various stuffed toys essential to his well-being. She eased open the door of the spare room; it was bad enough that her snoring had driven him out into a cold bed, without waking him again by barging in.
Then, her heart stopped. The cold moonlight coming in through the window showed an empty bed, with the covers neatly pulled up as they always were. Maxwell was not in this bed and had not been near it this night or any other since she had changed it after her mother’s last visit. She fought down panic. She didn’t know why she was so frightened; he was probably in the attic. He often went up there when he couldn’t sleep and his unnatural reticence on the case had probably made him restless. She looked up the stairs but there was no light. Perhaps he had just gone up for a think, without putting the modelling light on, but more likely he was in the study. The few steps to the study door felt like miles and her legs were like lead. She pushed open the door. No one. Nothing was different from when she herself had been in there last, to print out the picture for Henry Hall, years ago, or so it seemed.
Running now, she checked the rest of the house, but everywhere was silent, just the small noises of a house settling down as it cooled in the night disturbing the deafening silence. With her blood roaring in her ears, she forced herself to check the attic. She told herself she was looking for a living man; Maxwell wasn’t the sort to go somewhere and just stupidly keel over. He wouldn’t go with a whimper. She snapped the loft main overhead light on and suppressed a sob.
Chapter Twenty-Three
‘Henry! Henry, it’s me, Jacquie.’
‘Jacquie?’ Henry Hall sounded more than half-asleep. She heard him speak to someone and she imagined Margaret, up on one elbow, asking who it was. ‘What’s the matter?’ She almost heard him spring into wakefulness in a second.
‘Henry, it’s Max.’
‘What’s wrong?’ Hall was always ready for Maxwell to do something unfortunate when a case was ongoing; he had been expecting something for days. It was like waiting for the other shoe to fall and now he was strangely relieved. The waiting was finally over. ‘What’s he done?’
‘I can’t find him,’ she said, trying to keep the wobble out of her voice.
‘Where have you looked?’ he said.
‘Everywhere in the house. Literally, from the garage to the attic. He isn’t here. He has just disappeared.’ Hall was totally silent, so much so that Jacquie thought she had lost the connection. ‘Guv? Are you still there?’
‘Yes. Sorry, I was thinking. I assume you’ve been talking about the case.’ It was a statement, not a question.
‘No, guv. We had a bit of a chat over everything on Saturday, but I haven’t told him anything he can act on here in Leighford. I just told him about Paul Masters, about Izzy’s horrible mother. I thought that was fair enough – he knew these people.’ Her voice rose as she became more defensive.
‘Will he have gone to ferret anything out? Gosport? Northampton?’ Hall was just trying out all the options.
‘In the middle of the night? Why would he?’ Then Jacquie remembered something. ‘Guv. There was a door slamming. And a car driving away. That’s what woke me up in the first place.’
‘A cab?’
‘It may have been. But where would he be going at this time of night?’ She was getting really frightened now. She could hear Hall talking quietly to Margaret, then he came back on the line.
‘Jacquie, look, I don’t want to overreact and I don’t want to scare you, but there have been too many apparently random occurrences over the past weeks and I don’t want Max to be another. I’m coming over and bringing Margaret. She’ll stay with Nolan and get him off to school in the morning if we need to be elsewhere.’
‘No, guv, she’s just got back …’ Jacquie wanted to be polite, but she also wanted help from any quarter; Henry and Margaret Hall were the first quarter she would choose.
‘Nonsense. She’s already up and getting dressed. We’ll be with you shortly. While you wait, have a look round, see if you can find anything that might give us a clue as to where he’s gone. And Jacquie …’
‘Yes, guv?’ She was close to tears, but knew she had to hold it together.
‘He’ll be all right. Max bounces, you know that.’ What Henry Hall did not add was that bouncing depended not only on the height of the drop, but also whether anyone had given you a karate chop to the neck before you started on the way down. ‘See you in a while. Chin up.’
When telling the story later, Jacquie would always miss out the next bit. T
hat Henry Hall’s ‘chin up’ had been the last straw and she wasted at least ten minutes good searching time while she put her head down on the kitchen table and cried.
Searching a house whilst trying not to wake a sleeping child is not easy, but Detective Sergeant Jacquie Carpenter-Maxwell and DCI Henry Hall were old hands. Margaret was soon ensconced in the spare room, and Henry agreed that he would leave her a note on the kitchen table if they had to leave as well. She just gave him a kiss and Jacquie a hug and quietly closed the door. She had been a policeman’s wife for too long to take this in anything other than her stride.
Hall stood on the landing for a moment, then turned to Jacquie. ‘We’re lucky, aren’t we?’ he said.
‘I hope so,’ she said. She took a deep breath. ‘Let’s go.’
‘All right,’ the DCI said. He recognised the signs; she had just officially become police, not public. ‘Shall we search together? I think that would be best. I’ll perhaps spot things and you can tell me whether they have been there for ever.’
‘Good plan,’ she said. ‘With Mrs B as a cleaner the dust layers are quite a good guide, but you can never be sure. We’ll start in the garage, shall we? He was going through some old newspapers on Saturday – he might have left something there.’
‘All right,’ Hall said. ‘Lead on.’
The garage didn’t look very promising from the beginning. The piles of newspaper were still there, one having been pushed over by Metternich in a more vigorous than usual mouse hunt. The keys to next door hung on their hook over the freezer, the dust motes spiralling quietly down in the harsh strip light. A cursory look was all it took; even Surrey’s basket was empty.
The sitting room also had nothing for them. The magazine Maxwell had been reading that evening was shaken out, riffled and tweaked, but there was nothing between the pages. The dining room, likewise, had nothing to tell. In the kitchen, the little pile of cuttings sat forlornly half-under a sugar jar. Hall flicked through them and quietly congratulated Maxwell; he had been attempting, in a civilian sort of way, what Hall had achieved working with police reports and two officers. Maxwell just hadn’t had the breaks. One cutting was separate from the others, but it involved an antiques fair. Typical Maxwell.
