Wicked Autumn

by G. M. Malliet

  * * *

  The next morning, Max, who had been up since before dawn reworking the funeral sermon, looked out blearily over his congregation. The vestiges of his dream hung over him, lending a dreary pessimism to the already distasteful task of laying Wanda to rest.

  An open verdict had been returned at the reconvened inquest, and the body freed by the coroner’s order for burial; the Major, far from barring its release, had begun agitating for it. The Major was the type of man to chafe at any uncertainty—to need official opinions and renderings and judgments—and this uncertainty regarding his wife’s fate was surely the greatest test of any man’s patience. The open verdict—the verdict of last resort—meant the jury found the circumstances of Wanda’s death suspicious, but they could definitively say no more than that. On a fact-finding mission only, they could legally make no accusations. They had been nothing if not earnest and thorough, but the law as they were allowed to apply it was narrow in scope, a verdict of unlawful killing too far a reach with the evidence at hand. Max had felt the palpable suspicion, as well as frustration, hanging thick in the air that day, and not all of it emanating from DCI Cotton alone. The truism of any investigation was that as the trail grew colder, the chances of the culprit’s going free increased, even if the culprit were caught eventually.

  At the rendering of the verdict, the Major had retrieved a large handkerchief and let into it a loud snort of either grief or disbelief. Perhaps both.

  * * *

  In the interim, St. Edwold’s had continued to enjoy a boost in attendance, which would reach its apex with Wanda’s funeral, where Max knew he would play to a packed house. Murder had either put the fear of God into the villagers, or (far more likely) they didn’t want to miss out on any developments. It was interesting over the days to watch when the time came to exchange the peace—it was like a live illustration of shifting alliances in the antechamber of a medieval court. Suspicion fell on first one villager, then the other; the Major was first out of favor (wasn’t the husband always guilty?), then back in (surely, he wouldn’t have had the nerve).

  He wished he could take credit for this measurable spurt in the village’s spiritual rebirth. More than that, he wished Wanda had not been murdered. Her passing had torn the fabric of the place. And the fact that he was not much closer to discovering who had killed her rankled as a personal and professional failure, no matter how he tried to look at it as something beyond his scope and control.

  There was one measurable change: as Max had gone from house to house, trying to suss out information about Wanda’s death, he had been relentlessly plied with little sandwiches and cakes. Word of his movement through the village, like that of a king on stately progress, had preceded him everywhere, to the point where he had added some noticeable bulk to his carefully monitored weight. By the end of each day he felt he could not stand to see another starchy, sugary confection, however well made or beautifully presented. And certainly no more liquids.

  “Tea, Vicar?” some well-meaning soul would ask, and it was all he could do not to recoil in horror.

  * * *

  A lot of nonsense is spoken at funerals, especially when the deceased had not been well liked in life. Many euphemisms are called into play: “vital,” “energetic,” and (repetitively) “full of life.” And frequently, these funerals of the unpopular are sparsely attended, many people suddenly recalling another engagement of critical importance elsewhere.

  This was not the case with the funeral of Wanda Batton-Smythe. As expected, attendance at St. Edwold’s hadn’t reached such dizzy heights since 1980, when a baseless rumor had gone round that the vicar’s wife was having it off with the verger. Now the fact that a villager had been murdered added a frisson of danger to the attraction. The sudden and suspicious death of Wanda had outstripped even the draw of the handsome “new” vicar.

  Besides, people wondered whether not appearing might not be taken as a sign of guilt. So in they all packed, cheek by jowl, necks craning, and friendly little waves being exchanged when they momentarily forgot the solemn reason they were there.

  As the organ wheezed its way to the concluding chords of “Amazing Grace,” Max’s gaze took in the elaborate coffin and the congregation arrayed before him. The squire’s pew in front was left empty—by old tradition and unspoken agreement, although there was no reason, earthly or otherwise, for this undemocratic holdover from the past to persist into the twenty-first century. These worthies—the squire and his family—were in any event not yet returned from holiday (and would be most distressed when they learned they had missed the most exciting event to befall Nether Monkslip in many decades, if not centuries, although the affair did have about it the air of serfs misbehaving, which is never quite as interesting, it was felt, as murder among the upper classes).

  Suzanna Winship was looking her usual ravishing self in vintage Chanel—beige wool trimmed in black, with a black chiffon scarf draped gracefully over her hair. Her skin was dappled green by light from the stained-glass window near which she sat, her brother at her side. Max had been hearing that the passing of Wanda had left a vacuum in the bossy busybody department; it seemed nature did indeed abhor a vacuum, if the bright light of excited ambition in Suzanna’s catlike brown eyes were any indication. The Women’s Institute would not long suffer from lack of leadership.

  Max gained the strong impression that wardrobe for the occasion had been given a great deal of thought by many of the women apart from Suzanna. Awena Owen was resplendent in a dove gray robe accented with amber at her ears, wrists, and throat; on her feet were embroidered slippers with small, transparent heels. Tara Raine sat beside her, looking transcendental in a dress of dark saffron and a short netted veil springing from a black bow atop her head. Elka Garth had put aside her usual workaday, flour-dusted clothes and found an old dress for the occasion; it might have been a dress better suited for a tea party on the lawn, but Elka, judging by her expression, felt her presence at the service was sacrifice of time enough. Miss Pitchford wore a deep lavender suit, the matching plumed hat tilted at a rakish angle over one eye. Lily Iverson was dressed somewhat festively in a knitted navy blue suit embroidered at the neckline with bluebells and cherries. Mrs. Hooser, having left the children with a sitter, wore a confection of beige lace that Max knew had been purchased for the recent wedding of a cousin. He supposed it was as well she had not been the bridesmaid, or something even more clingy and inappropriate might have made an appearance.

  Max also spotted Guy Nicholls, and Frank and Lucie Cuthbert, but it was hard to see everyone in such a crowd, and some were half hidden behind the church pillars.

  However, the young man and woman sitting by the dark-suited Major in a front pew were impossible to miss. The word that best summed up the young man was trendy: he wore glasses with rectangular lenses and thick frames, and sported a soul-patch beard. The eyes behind the glasses, however, were rimmed red as if he had been crying earlier. His dark hair, slicked back, accentuated the square angle of his jaw, although the child he once had been still shone clear on his face. This had to be Jasper, the son of Wanda and the Major. Many, unabashed, turned fully round in their seats for a better view when he walked in, late, to join his father.

  There was a sardonic cast to the young man’s features, despite the red eyes. Max repressed the instant doubt that rose within him, knowing that prejudging never created anything but obstacles. Perhaps the fact that this was his first sighting of the young man was an irritant in itself—surely he could have arrived days earlier? He feared Jasper might be a supercilious little snit, given normal circumstances. A Sebastian Flyte of Brideshead—spoiled, but lacking the charm that had saved that fictional character, at least for a while. Now he simply looked awkward and out of place—probably, at his age, unused to funerals, and looking very much as if he wished to be elsewhere, a not-uncommon and understandable reaction.

  Next to him and holding his hand sat a wisp of a girl with stringy blond hair that looked as if it
had been randomly glue-gunned to her scalp. This must be the girlfriend with the unusual name. Clementia. The one on whom the Major had pinned his hopes of being able to settle his footloose son down at last.

  Clementia looked to be as different from Wanda as could be imagined, and perhaps that was the attraction. But the pair seemed somehow ill-suited, and Max wondered if it would last.

  * * *

  As he intoned the age-old words from the Book of Common Prayer, he had the illusion of his congregation caught in a freeze-frame. There was Mrs. Hooser, pulling surreptitiously at a bra strap. And Clementia, trying to look grief-stricken or at least interested in the proceedings, but succeeding only in looking bewildered; Clementia was, he decided, possibly not the sharpest knife in the drawer. Frank Cuthbert, scribbling a note onto his hand, and probably hoping there would be a few stiff rounds in the Hidden Fox afterwards. In the midst of life …

  Suzanna was thinking: The flowers are all wrong. Too jammed together in the vase. I’ve never liked mums, anyway. They remind me of funerals—that mothbally smell. Of course, this is a funeral, but still …

  Awena thought: White chrysanthemums. They stand for truth and honesty. I wonder whose idea that was? Well, Wanda was nothing if not truthful, even if it was like being hit over the head with a claw hammer.

  Elka thought: I shouldn’t have come. I feel like a fraud. A hypocrite.

  Lily thought: Is it warm in here? I’m going to faint. I know I’m going to faint … I hated her so, but now …

  Max thought: How quickly and easily I fell back into my old role of investigator—just when I thought my life had changed, that I had changed. Now, instead of trying to empathize and comfort, I’m looking at all of them for flaws, second-guessing them, viewing everyone as a suspect.

  Suzanna leaned over to her brother and whispered, loud enough for Max to hear, “Did you see his face?” Dr. Winship nodded. “I’m thinking: Banquo’s ghost.”

  They rose to sing “Let All Mortal Flesh Keep Silence.” Again, without Wanda’s strong voice to carry the congregation, the song meandered. For the first time some were moved to realize the gap her passing had left.

  Then Awena got up to say a few words. She had offered to speak because no one else was willing or able to find a few empathetic words for the deceased, and Wanda’s husband and son had declined to do so. She spoke with moving generosity and forgiveness of Wanda, transforming her faults, in death, into virtues. It was a virtuoso performance.

  Max was in the middle of his sermon—on the words “life beyond death”—when he heard, following a faint gasp, the most amazing thunk! as of something fallen onto the floor from overhead. He turned and saw Lydia, the young acolyte, fallen into a heap of cotton robe just behind him and to his left. She had dropped sideways—fainted dead away. He gestured to Mr. Stackpole to go to her aid, and, distracted, tried to continue. The parishioners all twisted their heads toward the disturbance like a flock of turkeys.

  The acoustics of the church were excellent, and Max could hear someone whisper, “Happens every summer.”

  But it wasn’t summer.

  Several people ran to scoop up the fallen Lydia, and Max returned to what he could remember of his prepared remarks.

  * * *

  At the end of the service, he thought, Go with God, Wanda. Then he surprised himself by adding, in a sudden rush of anger, I’ll find whoever did this to you.

  For he had a sense just then of a shadowy figure out there, in the congregation, gloating, remorseless. And the thought made him livid. No one should be allowed to get away with such a sneaky crime. The jury could return all the open verdicts it wished. This was murder.

  He wasn’t sure he subscribed to Dr. Winship’s view that a killer, having once killed, would find it easier to kill again, like someone on a slimming regime being increasingly unable to resist the fried potatoes. What was it he had said? That a murder prompted by hatred was likely to be repeated? Surely, in most cases, murder would only become harder to commit—the killer burdened with a sense of pressing his or her own luck in getting away with it even once. But here he realized he was thinking of the more “intelligent” breed of killer, not the professional thug who had too often been his quarry during his days in MI5.

  So Max was at the moment less interested in preventing another crime than possessed by the creeping, disagreeable sensation of a killer out there exulting in his or her cleverness—that he couldn’t abide.

  But what if, after all, Winship were right?

  He came to himself with a start. His parishioners all gazed up at him from their pews like obedient children, expectant, trusting, mildly concerned that their normally dynamic pastor stood before them blank and unmoving. Favoring them with a weak, apologetic smile, he pulled himself together and said the words of dismissal. The organist struck up “I Vow to Thee My Country” (a special request of the Major’s), and the church began to empty.

  CHAPTER 25

  After the Funeral

  “Man that is born of a woman hath but a short time to live, and is full of misery.”

  Max stood at graveside in the St. Edwold’s churchyard, intoning the words intended to bring Wanda to peace at last, and to bring some comfort to the Major, who truly looked to be close to a nervous breakdown. All trace of the hearty, inane bluster that was his signature trait was gone, subsumed by a stark, whey-faced despair. Jasper Batton-Smythe did not look as if he would be much of a prop to his father in the coming days; distracted, he was all but checking his watch as the lengthy service wound on. It might be just as well, thought Max, if Jasper returned to his peripatetic life as soon as decently possible—if not before …

  “… earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust.”

  He spoke the familiar words, tossing earth upon the casket, his mind in two places …

  “… this thy servant, whom thou hast delivered from the miseries of this wretched world…”

  Why did the acolyte faint?

  “… in the place where there is no weeping, sorrow, nor heaviness…”

  Why did Lydia faint? Max’s mind kept returning to the question. Although it was close inside the church, it wasn’t summer, when the trapped and stifling heat could make the young and old drop like flies. Nor, although the weather had taken a sudden plunge in temperature, was the church overheated against the chill—given the age of the heating apparatus, there was fat chance of that ever happening.

  He concluded the burial service and left the body in the care of the gravedigger. The crowd of mourners began to disperse—Elka Garth had organized an informal wake at the Cavalier. Max went over and spoke a few words to the Major, who nodded, clearly not hearing. Max turned to Jasper and said, “Your father needs tea, hot sweetened tea, and lots of it. Probably something to eat as well, if you can talk him into it.” But Max had little hope that Jasper had taken in the seriousness of his father’s condition, or cared overmuch. He still seemed mentally to be checking his watch—more so now that the service had concluded and freedom beckoned. It was an impression confirmed by his next words: “Actually, I’ll be leaving soon,” he said, adjusting his glasses. The jewelry that adorned his hands and wrists gave off an expensive, platinum glitter. “Obligations elsewhere, you know. Plane to catch. So…” Just then, a young man approached him, and Jasper, barely bothering to hide the rudeness of the act, turned away, brushing past to speak with another mourner. The choice of this mourner seemed to Max entirely arbitrary, the person randomly glommed onto. Incidentally, this sudden move left Jasper’s friend, Clementia, rather at a loose end as well.

  Max was wondering what to do. He hadn’t planned on going to the Cavalier, but someone needed to stay with the Major. Clementia didn’t look responsible enough for anyone to leave a cat in her care. Fortunately, Lily Iverson had overheard the exchange.

  “I’ll take care of it, Max,” Lily said, at his elbow. She took the Major by the arm and murmured something inaudible but soothing as she led him away.

  Ma
x, meeting her eye, nodded his thanks and set off to change in the vestry, planning to go and make sure Lydia was all right. He had taken only a few steps when a tap on his shoulder waylaid him. He turned and saw a sturdy, well-built man, perhaps in his thirties, tanned and good-looking, if beginning to run to a slight paunch. He had an open, honest countenance that could be the sign of an easy conscience, or of a born con artist. It was the young man who had just now tried to capture Jasper’s attention and been brushed aside.

  “Father,” he said, holding out a hand, “my name is Lawrence Hawker—Larry. I wonder if I could have a word?”

  “Really, I’m in…” Max started to make an excuse, but he was caught up by the name. Where had he recently heard it before? He allowed himself to be sidetracked: Lydia was undoubtedly safe at home now with her mother; a few minutes more wouldn’t matter.

  “Miss Pitchford,” Max said, with the air of a man having solved a difficult puzzle. “You were one of her pupils. She mentioned you the other day.”