Wicked Autumn

by G. M. Malliet

  Elka observed Max now out of those weary eyes—eyes that, though tired, held a spark of shrewdness. Seeing him sit back, still looking at her appraisingly, she launched right into the topic uppermost on her mind: “I couldn’t be at the inquest today; I’ve business to attend to, as you know, and I wasn’t summoned. But folk are saying it must be murder or the police wouldn’t be so interested. I want you to know and I need you to understand: whatever happened to Wanda, it had nothing to do with me.”

  “All right,” he said, thinking he’d take that as a given, for now, since if Elka had wanted Wanda gone, it would be a huge risk to use a method that so clearly could be brought back to herself. “Has someone accused you?” he asked gently.

  “No. But Guy was in the Cavalier telling people how she looked when she was found. You know him? Owns the French Revolution in Monkslip-super-Mare. Always reminds me of someone—some movie star or other. Anyway, it was allergic reaction, plain as day. My aunt had allergies like that and we knew the symptoms. Swollen face and lips, choking. Everyone knew Wanda was that allergic to peanuts. I did, too, which is why I was ever so careful to label things properly.”

  Max raised his eyebrows and held his peace. Wanda had come into possession of a biscuit or other food that to her was purest poison. How had it happened? Finally he asked, “This was your usual role for Harvest Fayre, wasn’t it? The baked goods.”

  She nodded. “Me and a few others, mind. Baked goods, homemade-like, being popular on the day. Especially with the kiddies, but with everyone, really. An excuse to go off the slimming regime for a bit.”

  “So you brought along your goods on the day and displayed them for sale on a predesignated table, is that right?”

  “That’s right.”

  “There were extras held in reserve?”

  “That’s right.”

  “And those were in…?”

  She sighed. “They were in the Village Hall. In the kitchen. Along,” she hastened to add, “with a lot of other cakes and scones and biscuits and things. There wasn’t room to display it all, and we didn’t want it all sitting in the sun for hours, anyway. So…”

  “Was there anything that identified your contributions from anyone else’s?”

  “The biscuits came in boxes that I use in my shop, for bulk orders. But some I had put on paper plates covered in cling film.”

  “No way to differentiate them, then?”

  “Not really, no. I would say that my goods were better than the average contribution, but I would say that, wouldn’t I?” For the first time since she’d entered the room, a trace of a smile appeared on the usually friendly face.

  Max regarded her, trying to frame the next question. Finally, he said, “Were you surprised by her death?”

  She caught him off guard by saying, “No. Not really. You were expecting me to say I’ve never been so shocked, weren’t you? But somehow with Wanda, the wonder always was that she’d managed to live as long as she had.”

  “Does that mean you have ideas about who did this?”

  “No, and that’s the other side of the same coin. Who would actually do this? Want to do it, yes. Think about or plan to do it even, sure. But actually kill her? Impossible to imagine.”

  “You had your own issues with her…” Max let the unspoken part of the sentence hang in the air.

  “You can’t be serious.” Elka twisted her features into an expression of distaste. “Everyone had issues with Wanda. But no one would kill her.” It was clearly a subject on which her mind was made up and no mere facts were going to shift her.

  “What exactly was the issue you had?” Max asked. He indicated the coffee pot for a refill. She shook her head.

  “I’ll be up half the night as it is,” she said. “Not that that’s anything unusual.”

  Max took a stab at what he guessed was the issue.

  “Something to do with your son, was it? With Clayton.” It was not really a question. Clayton was the dearest thing to her heart, and the cause for much of its heartache. She pursed her lips, reliving the grievance.

  “It was just … Father, it was simply the attitude of superiority. Her son, such a high flyer. Clayton—well, he’s a success in his own lights. He’s reliable—well, mostly. I’m training him up to maybe take over the business one day…” Her voice drifted a bit on this last. The chances of Clayton maturing in time to take on such huge responsibilities must have struck even Elka as remote in the extreme. If not, her self-delusion was complete.

  “Why did this have to happen?” she asked, the note of hysteria in her scratchy voice becoming more pronounced.

  For the first time, Max wondered: Could Clayton have finally gotten his act together long enough to commit murder? Perhaps in some misguided attempt to become the protector his mother so clearly needed, at last?

  The look in Elka’s eyes suddenly made him realize: this thought had occurred to her as well.

  CHAPTER 16

  The Major

  The following day, at nearly the end of September, was Michaelmas—the feast of St. Michael the Archangel. It was three days since the death of Wanda Batton-Smythe. Max felt it was time to pay his formal respects to her spouse, the Major. Max had telephoned soon after the tragedy to offer his assistance, but as was usual in these cases, the Major didn’t even know yet what kind of help he would be needing. Max knew a follow-up call, in person, was in order.

  His visit had an official investigatory tinge to it as well. He’d run into DCI Cotton on the High Street quite early that morning—almost literally run into, he on his morning run with Thea, and Cotton clearly engaged on his own keep-fit scheme. Knowing their conversation would be closely observed by anyone awake at that hour, they’d only taken time for a hushed consultation regarding Wanda’s death, looking airily about them the while, as if commenting on the weather.

  “I’ve kept one ear to the ground as promised but there’s nothing I can tell you as yet,” Max said. That was literally true: he decided, for reasons of his own, to say nothing of Elka’s visit last night. Why point the police in the direction of Clayton, when there was nothing but his mother’s worry as an indicator of his guilt?

  “No new developments this end,” Cotton had told him in his turn. “There’s an undisputed lack of grief, except in the case of the husband. And his grief seems to be genuine. I’d say he’s lost without her.”

  “That’s a typical reaction,” Max had replied. “Men don’t realize how much their wives fill a void in their lives until they’re left on their own. Many come near starving to death, for one thing. I’ll be stopping in to check on him.”

  “I was hoping you’d say that. Try to see if he’s remembered anything that could help our investigation—something he might more easily recall for you than when talking with me. I seem to make some people nervous.” He smiled a devilish smile that made Max understand how people might clam up around him.

  So a few hours later, having taken service and otherwise fulfilled his morning parish duties, Max stood at the door of Morning Glory Cottage and gave a tug on the old-fashioned bell pull. After quite a long wait, during which he had time to fully appreciate the tribute to Gothic architecture in the plate tracery windows overhead—windows perhaps more suited to a cathedral—the heavy door of the opulent bungalow was opened, and Max was admitted into a varnished hall worthy of a small stately home.

  The Major (as he was always called—few could remember his real name, which was Montague) gave the clear impression of a man pottering around in the absence of his wife, quite lost, like a child handed a grocery shopping list and sent off alone to Sainsbury’s. He hadn’t a clue where to start and was looking for oranges, metaphorically speaking, in the bread aisle.

  The man looked desperately tired. He had shaved, missing patches of white stubble and leaving a nick on his left cheekbone. The trickle of dried blood threatened to bleed anew as he attempted a welcoming smile. Now he pointed in the direction of a sofa in the sitting room and said tentatively,
“Seat?” He looked troubled, however, as though wondering how such an object had found its way into his home.

  From the sitting room, Max could see into the dining room and from there, the door being ajar, into the kitchen. The remains of a serving of what he imagined was tuna casserole, probably the well-intended gift of a neighbor, sat pungently congealing on a plate on the dining room table. The solitary table setting of placemat, fork, and glass struck Max as inexpressibly sad. The Major had many such lonely meals ahead of him.

  “Would you like … something?” asked the Major hesitantly, waving a hand in the direction of the kitchen. “To drink, perhaps?” He paused, as if trying to remember the universe of beverages deemed fit for human consumption. “Tea?” he finally hazarded, a game show contestant desperate to beat the odds of a wrong answer.

  “No, thank you,” Max started to say, then suddenly realized what the Major needed might be exactly that British panacea. “Only if you’ll let me make it. Actually, I’d love a cup. I’ll just put the kettle on, shall I?”

  The Major buying into this fabrication (Max had already had three cups that day during home visits), the next few minutes were spent in trying to sort out the location of the tea caddy, the kettle, the water, and the various other essential ingredients and implements, all of which seemed to mystify the Major. It was as if he’d never been in his own kitchen before. Indeed, Max thought it likely Wanda was one of those women who forbad men entrée into their exclusive domain, on the grounds of man’s innate, clodhopping destructiveness in the presence of glassware and china.

  Kettle on the boil, Max began the washing up, first depositing the casserole remains in the bin. The Major didn’t extend even a token offer of help, not out of sloth, so far as Max could tell, but because he seemed hardly aware Max was still in the room. Wanda’s imprint could be felt everywhere: every dishtowel looked to have been lightly starched and ironed, and every jar hand-labeled in black ink in a neat, precise hand.

  The Major began absentmindedly eating a scone he’d lathered in peanut butter. Noticing Max’s regard, he said somewhat guiltily, “Wanda wouldn’t have it in the house, of course.”

  As he rinsed a few glasses, Max could see from the window to his left a small garden with flagged paths and nary a fallen leaf in sight. The Major must be one of those who found gardening therapeutic. He would feel the same way, Max imagined, if he had the time for it. The garden at the vicarage would soon wear a carpet of wet and dangerously slippy leaves if someone didn’t see to it soon. Max had let it slide, and Maurice, who usually saw to such things for him, had not been much in evidence during the past week.

  The teakettle screeched to announce that the water was boiling. Max found some cake in a tin and, putting one slice on a plate for the Major, arranged all the tea paraphernalia on a tray to take into the sitting room. He had the feeling the Major would infinitely have preferred they have their drink in the kitchen, but Wanda would not have stood for the informality with such an important guest as the Vicar in the house. Similarly, there are those who only allow visitors (but never tradesmen) in through the front door. So into the sitting room he and the Major must go. It was as if Wanda had never left the scene.

  Handing out the tea things, Max took in the sitting room, consciously seeking out the photos that were often the most revelatory thing in any home. Everywhere were further signs of Wanda’s absence: several days’ worth of newspapers allowed to fall where they may, and several cups and saucers that needed to be cleared.

  He spotted the photos on a sideboard tucked toward the back of the room. Max interrupted his task to walk over for a closer look. There was one recognizably of Wanda standing with the Major, she holding a small baby as her husband looked on, an expression of proud astonishment on his face. Max was himself astonished to see how lovely Wanda had been, before lines of dissatisfaction had etched themselves into her face. There was a more recent photo of two more elderly people—grandparents on one side or the other, more than likely. A picture taken at the seaside, with the Major looking fit and youthful and holding a small boy by the hand. A photo of what must be the son in his teenage years revealed him to be the spit of his father, albeit two stone lighter, and with an extra inch of dark rather than white at the hairline. The same dark eyes with perhaps a whit more of resolve in them gazed out of the photo, and presumably the boy’s complexion was pale rather than gray (it was a black-and-white photo). Any resemblance to Wanda was not in evidence.

  “I’ve forgotten the sugar,” Max told the Major. This wasn’t true, he had forgotten it on purpose, but he wanted a chance to inspect the room unobserved. Dutifully, the Major trotted out on this specious errand.

  Max looked at some of the photos more closely, then looked about him, taking in the dull and utterly respectable décor. The only touches of reckless gaiety were a hammered-brass table and a matching pair of Japanese courtesan vases that had been converted into lamps. Both had no doubt been picked up during Wanda’s travels as an officer’s wife. The rest of the room was of a Laura-Ashleyish theme of prints and patterns of coordinating colors and contrasting patterns, a style so irredeemably British as to be impossible to eradicate from the Jungian collective design unconscious. Stretched across the width of the room was a blowsy, chintzy sofa for which it looked a thousand rosebushes might have been sacrificed. A surprising touch were several original oil paintings, accomplished and abstract in execution, and drawn from a bold palette. The colors clashed badly, however, with the already overheated color scheme.

  Little upholstered stools and varnished tables were scattered about, cruel traps for the unwary, and Max had threaded his way carefully through them with the tray to reach the florid haven of the sofa. Becalmed before this sofa was a reddish brown, kidney-shaped table of fifties vintage and stupendous awfulness. Everything was scrupulously clean and neat, however, or had clearly been so in the time of Wanda’s reign. But it was a cleanliness that was dispiriting rather than comforting or peaceful. It smacked of rules and rigidity, and, for all the Major’s military background, it must have been rather a trial to live with. Or perhaps, Max reflected, he was merely extrapolating from what he knew of Wanda’s character.

  Near the sideboard were vintage stereo equipment and a collection of records. Max noticed the musical choices, which consisted, in part, of romantic hits of the halcyon days of the Batton-Smythes: “Turn the radio up for that sweet sound. Hold me close, never let me go…”

  Not what he would have expected. What he would have expected he could not have said. John Philip Sousa marching music, or opera hits of the uber-bombastic type, perhaps.

  The curtains were a focal point, and were of a fulsome wine red velveteen looped and draped and tied back with gilt-edged rope, a fitting frame for a production of Figaro more than for the normally mundane comings and going of the Nether Monkslip villagers. Max noted, however, how well situated was the window for anyone with more than a glancing interest in her neighbors’ doings, and somewhat revised his opinion as to the appropriateness of the curtains. All the world was indeed a stage and Wanda had had a front-row seat.

  The Major returned. He’d put some sugar in a coffee mug with a large tablespoon to ladle it out. Finding the sugar bowl was apparently beyond his capacity. Holding the mug, he gestured vaguely toward the window. “I haven’t ventured out much. No one out there seems to understand.”

  Max nodded, sure that was true. The room was uncomfortably warm—heat from a gas fire mingled with the sun streaming in from the window. African violets would have thrived here. The Major didn’t seem to notice. Perhaps he was at the age where too much heat was welcome for aching joints. What was he?—over sixty, surely. Maybe sixty-five. Forever “the Major,” a higher rank having escaped him due to a stunning ineptitude not quite amounting to treason, although it had been a very close thing. At least, so Max had been given to understand. The people in charge had put him in administrative positions of increasingly lessening responsibility where, it was hoped, he c
ould do only quiet harm. To Max, the Major seemed an innocuous man, to be found contentedly puttering in his garden, deferential to his wife (but then, like so many villagers, it seemed, having no choice in the matter).

  He had served on the parish council, which is how Max had met him, but without distinction other than having the punctuality of Big Ben and near-perfect attendance. His fellows on the council treated his contributions with a mild contempt at which he seemed to take no offense. Max wondered if this was because he received worse at home, and so was used to worse. An unimaginative man, requiring orders to get through the day. And hadn’t he married the perfect woman for that?

  Because of a temporary defection of the Batton-Smythes to the church in Monkslip-super-Mare (Wanda preferred her church high), Max didn’t feel he knew the Major all that well, however. There had been a certain awkwardness—on their side—following their defection and return. Not shamefacedness (Wanda was too brazen for that) but a sense that they’d been caught out in foolishness. Max, for his part, didn’t care, except that it now left him feeling ill-equipped to cope with the Major in his grief.

  He looked at the Major closely, guiltily, having spent much of his pastoral time until this point trying to avoid him.

  Apart from the red nose that could light London, which was perhaps his most prominent feature, everything about the Major otherwise suggested a man bleached of character into a bland uniformity, whether because of his military duty or marriage to Wanda, Max could not have said. His other distinctive characteristic was a walrus mustache designed for twirling, each hair neatly marshaled into line. It was an embellishment of such luxuriant, glossy precision one could not help but be reminded of the famed little Belgian detective. His bushy white eyebrows normally were shellacked to within an inch of their lives into a roguish updo. As a result he perpetually looked happy and smiling, as if someone had just handed him a prize. Today, however, the mustache drooped and the eyebrows, freed of their usual constraint, veered wildly off in all directions.