The author and publisher have provided this e-book to you for your personal use only. You may not make this e-book publicly available in any way. Copyright infringement is against the law. If you believe the copy of this e-book you are reading infringes on the author’s copyright, please notify the publisher at: us.macmillanusa.com/piracy.
In memory of my friend Earl J., rare gentleman
CONTENTS
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Cast of Characters
Epigraphs
Prologue
Chapter 1: New Moon—Thursday, March 22
Chapter 2: Writers’ Square
Chapter 3: Captive Audience—Friday, March 23, 6:00 P.M.
Chapter 4: Dinner Party
Chapter 5: Hardwired
Chapter 6: Predawn Visitor—Sunday, March 25, 5:00 A.M.
Chapter 7: You Again?
Chapter 8: Routine
Chapter 9: All Things Bright and Beautiful—Monday, March 26
Chapter 10: Three for Tea
Chapter 11: Hot Water
Chapter 12: Word on the Street—Tuesday, March 27
Chapter 13: At the Horseshoe
Chapter 14: Picture This
Chapter 15: Grimaldi the Elder
Chapter 16: Poetry and Prose
Chapter 17: Bishop’s Palace—Wednesday, March 28
Chapter 18: Absent in the Spring
Chapter 19: Matters of the Heart I
Chapter 20: All That Glitters
Chapter 21: Matters of the Heart II
Chapter 22: Coombebridge
Chapter 23: French Connection
Chapter 24: With Sleep Come Nightmares
Chapter 25: Whys and Wherefores
Author’s Note
Also by G. M. Malliet
About the Author
Copyright
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
My thanks to the Reverend O’Brien and the Reverend Warder for graciously sharing their knowledge of their churches’ doctrines and traditions. All mistakes are my own.
CAST OF CHARACTERS
MAXEN “MAX” TUDOR: A former MI5 agent turned Anglican priest, Max thought he’d found a measure of peace in the idyllic village of Nether Monkslip—until murder began to invade his Garden of Eden.
AWENA OWEN: The owner of Goddessspell, the village’s New Age shop, Awena also has come to own Max Tudor’s heart.
SUZANNA WINSHIP: Sister of the local doctor, the vampy, ambitious Suzanna often feels restless in the small village. The arrival of Umberto Grimaldi does much to alleviate her boredom.
ELKA GARTH: Owner of the Cavalier Tea Room and Garden.
ANNETTE HEDGEPETH: Proprietress of the Cut and Dried Hair Salon in Nether Monkslip.
GABRIELLE “GABBY” CREW: Hairdresser at the Cut and Dried.
MME. LUCIE CUTHBERT: Proprietress of La Maison Bleue. Lucie hosts a dinner party with her husband to celebrate the move into their new home.
TARA RAINE: A lithe, attractive yoga instructor, she rents studio space at Goddessspell.
FRANK CUTHBERT: Local historian, author (Wherefore Nether Monkslip), and husband of Mme. Lucie.
THADDEUS BOTTLE: A playwright and actor most recently appearing in London’s West End. In retirement, he returns in triumph to the village of Nether Monkslip.
MELINDA BOTTLE: Thaddeus Bottle’s long-suffering wife. Has she finally suffered too much?
BERNADINA STEED: An estate agent operating in the county of Monkslip, she sold the Cuthberts and the Bottles their new homes.
DR. BRUCE WINSHIP: An expert in general ailments, Dr. Winship revels in theories of how the criminal mind operates.
MRS. HOOSER: Max’s housekeeper at the vicarage, and the mother of Tildy Ann and Tom.
ADAM BIRCH: Owner of The Online Begetter bookshop, the site of monthly meetings of the Nether Monkslip Writers’ Square.
MAJOR BATTON-SMYTHE: An amateur historian.
UMBERTO AND FABIO GRIMALDI: Brothers who own the new restaurant, the White Bean, which is the talk of the village.
DETECTIVE CHIEF INSPECTOR COTTON: The kinetic DCI is again dispatched from Monkslip-super-Mare to investigate a most suspicious death in the placid village of Nether Monkslip.
FARLEY WALKER: An architect with designs on more than buildings.
KAYLA PRINCE: A waitress who waits for her big break. What makes her react so strangely to one table of customers?
THE RIGHT REVEREND BISHOP NIGEL ST. STEPHEN: He wants to know why Max Tudor is once again involved in murder.
HENRY CORK: A theatrical director, he knows where many bodies are buried.
LUCAS COOMBEBRIDGE: A seascape artist in Monkslip Curry, he may hold the clue to a baffling murder.
I am living, I remember you.
—Marie Howe, What the Living Do
You have bewitched me, body and soul, and I love, I love, I love you. I never wish to be parted from you from this day on.
—Mr. Darcy in Pride and Prejudice
PROLOGUE
The dark was always the time of special danger. Few people ventured from their homes after sundown, as even legitimate business might be questioned.
But to be out on one’s daily rounds with a shopping basket, in broad daylight, this was normal, even in these times. Even when food to fill the basket was scarce.
Even when the basket sometimes contained things hidden beneath the false bottom, things dangerous to have in one’s possession, with the meager supplies of bread and vegetables piled on top.
All this had to look normal—and today’s mission was for her the most important of all. Despite the risks of exposure by daylight, in the end she had decided it was safest to hide in plain sight. To brazen it out. To be just another young wife or daughter on a mission to feed her family.
Still, the risk had had to be mitigated. Nothing could happen to draw attention. There could be no unexpected sound or noise. God would forgive this one necessary thing.
Her burden was as light as a basket of kittens and she had only a short distance to walk. Having tightened her resolve, she opened the door, deliberately not looking around her—that would seem suspicious to anyone watching. She had to look as though she were dropping off supplies, an innocent errand. Once inside the ancient building, she took off her shoes, tiptoeing in her stocking feet. The hard soles of her shoes striking the stone floor might also attract attention before she was ready for it.
She set the basket down behind the door, and loosened the blanket covering its contents, averting her eyes as she did so. This would be easier without the final images. She had learned that much in recent months, to prevent any memory that could be dangerous. She had prepared a note explaining everything, and asking for prayers, and tucked it well inside the basket.
She retrieved her shoes and then rang the bell, one swift pull on the rope, and breathed a silent farewell.
Again hardening her heart, she closed the door behind her and walked down the cold stone steps.
This time, she had been unlucky, for unfriendly eyes had followed her. She didn’t know it, but she had just exchanged her last ration of luck.
CHAPTER 1
New Moon
Thursday, March 22
The vernal equinox had come and gone, and Easter would soon be upon them. The Reverend Maxen “Max” Tudor was in his vicarage working at his computer, a machine so antiquated, it almost needed foot pedals to operate. He was rather feverishly trying to write a sermon on one of Saint Paul’s letters to the Corinthians, a sermon that was beginning to irk even Max. Paul could sound so smug at times. So sure of himself
. So holier-than—
Inspired, Max began to write: “Saint Paul at times appears to our modern world as the smug apostle—a man holier-than-thou, a preachy know-it-all full of scoldings and reprimands, chiding others for the way they lived their lives. But the Corinthians…”
But the Corinthians, what? There was no but. Saint Paul at his worst had always been hard to take—the garrulous, advice-giving uncle no one wanted to sit next to at dinner, the Polonius of his day. The fun-loving Corinthians had probably stampeded in their rush to avoid the old Gloomy Gus missionary.
Max, searching his mind for a more inspiring topic, a more accessible theme, a more man-of-the-people apostle, began playing with the various fonts in his word-processing software. Gothic typeface in deep purple for the stories of the apostles, orange Arial for the words of the angel Gabriel to Mary, and blue Garamond in italics for her replies. Max deliberated some more, then in twenty-point Gothic he typed “Let there be light,” and highlighted the words with the yellow text highlight function.
Well, this was getting him nowhere. He selected all the text on the page and with a sigh changed everything to boring old twelve-point black Times New Roman. He thought a moment, then keyed in “And darkness was upon the face of the deep.”
Backspace, backspace, backspace. He stole a glance at the copy of Glossamer Living magazine on his desk, left behind by one of his parishioners—a sort of negative inspiration, since he and his parishioners were living in the season of Lent, a time for setting aside personal indulgences, most of which were featured between the covers of this publication. High fashion and fast cars; pricey houses, restaurants, and vacations. On the cover was a photograph of a castle garden in Normandy, with a bed of Technicolor tulips in the foreground.
How had it gotten to be springtime already? Max, leafing through his desk calendar, blinked with something like wonder, then looked at the watch on his wrist, as if that might confirm what he was seeing. The variable weather of the past few months had been disorienting, for humans as well as for plants and animals. It seemed to him the newborn lambs had arrived earlier this year. Easter, the most important day in the church calendar, would be here before he knew it—or, at this rate, had a sermon ready for it. He noticed the full moon fell on Good Friday this year, which seemed fitting somehow. Awena called it the “Egg Moon”; he had no idea why. Some pagan tradition rolled into the Easter traditions, he thought, enjoying the unintentional pun.
The God Squad would be meeting soon to discuss the “Eat, Pray, Plan” retreat, and while preparing for these vestry meetings seemed a futile gesture, preparation was necessary to maintain some semblance of order. He also needed to schedule tryouts for instrumentalists for the Sunday services while the organist was away for the summer. Max so far had vetoed the zither and banjo, but that had left him with few options. Awena had offered to play her set of crystal singing bowls, but that was as yet a step too far for St. Edwold’s.
And—oops! There was the appointment with the bishop coming up in a few days’ time. How could he nearly have forgotten? The man’s secretary had been most insistent it was important, but she hadn’t known what it was about. Max, who could guess, took a red pencil out of the top drawer of his desk and drew a big star on his calendar by the appointment date. Then, still unwilling to return to his sermon, he scrabbled around in the drawer for a pencil sharpener and began honing all his pencils to a fine point.
As he procrastinated in this way, Max glanced out the casement window of the vicarage study. The slice of Nether Monkslip in his view was of a classic village whose roots predated recorded history, a place that had survived centuries of wars and feuds and conspiracies largely because it had managed to go unnoticed. It was a village of stone cottages and thatched roofs, and of timber and brick; of Tudor wattle and daub and Georgian houses and the occasional postwar development—a mix of styles pleasing to the eye and just managing to avoid the chaotic. Max, from his favorite spot up on Hawk Crest, where he would rest with his dog, Thea, from the strenuous climb, found time evaporating as he gazed, trancelike, at the peaceful scene below. The villagers more often than not would be going about their shopping, or be huddled in little groups, often accompanied by a swirl of dogs. He was reminded of a toy village setting for an elaborate train set. Outlying fields were divided by drystone walls kept in perfect repair; on a clear night, he might see in the distance a ferry leaving Monkslip-super-Mare, lights ablaze. Once the weather warmed, there would be a duck race on the River Puddmill, an event to which Max looked forward with as much innocent pleasure as a child.
The eldest villagers of Nether Monkslip, most of whom descended from serfs, were rapidly dying off or selling up, to be replaced by Yuppies from afar. These transplants—many his parishioners—were today carrying bright umbrellas against a mild March drizzle. They often passed down the road fronting the vicarage, headed to or from the High Street, which is why Max had positioned his desk at the window for maximum viewing. Hedges in front of the window provided a bit of a screen for him to hide behind.
He saw Suzanna Winship slink by, in her dolce far niente way, throwing a provocative glance in the direction of the vicarage and metaphorically revving her engines, probably just to keep in practice. He watched Elka Garth of the Cavalier Tea Room and Garden bustle past, carrying supplies, her son loitering empty-handed in her wake. That he was with her at all meant she’d managed to tear him momentarily from the video games he played so obsessively.
Then there came the ironmonger, delivering a roll of chicken wire, followed by the woman who created beaded-jewelry purses she sold over the Internet—Jeanne something. And Annette Hedgepeth, who owned Cut and Dried, the local beauty salon. Annette was with two of her hairdressers, their three shiny well-coiffed heads—one blond, one brown, one white—together in furious discussion under a large blue umbrella. Hairstylists, he supposed they were called now. The eldest of them he knew by name, even though she was not a member of St. Edwold’s, but attended a Catholic church in Monkslip-super-Mare. She was Gabrielle “Gabby” Crew—a widowed aunt or some sort of relation to Mme. Lucie Cuthbert—who would be at the dinner party to which he was invited Friday night. He knew little more about this woman with the beautiful white hair than that she was the type of person often to be seen with a yoga mat under her arm: She was a frequent habitué of the yoga classes taught by Tara Raine at the back of Awena’s Goddessspell shop.
The party was to be held at the new home of Frank and Lucie Cuthbert, just outside the village proper. The ostensible purpose of the gathering was to formally welcome four relative newcomers to the village; its, in reality, purpose was to showcase both the house and Lucie’s expert French cooking. Two of the newcomers were a couple, Thaddeus and Melinda Bottle. Thaddeus Bottle needed no introduction, or so Max had been assured, since Thaddeus was legendary for his roles on London’s West End stages as well as for his authorship of several plays. Much like Shakespeare, Thaddeus in retirement had returned to the village of his youth and bought its second-largest house. But there, Max somehow felt certain, all similarities stopped. Apart from the fact of Shakespeare’s unrivaled genius, there was his differing taste in architecture: Shakespeare had his timber and brick New Place, and Thaddeus had a remodeled glass and synthetic-wood horror, which stood just past the train station on the road to Staincross Minster. The villagers called it “Bottle Palace.”
In addition to the hairstylist Gabby Crew—who was living over Lucie and Frank’s shop in the village until she could find other accommodation—there would be the estate agent, Bernadina Steed, who had sold thespian Thaddeus and Melinda their new home. Bernadina had, in fact, lived in the area nearly four years, but like Max she was a newcomer in Village Standard Time. Village doctor Bruce Winship had also been invited, to make an even eight at table.
Max gathered he himself had been included to balance out the male-female ratio, his usual role. He had a suspicion from hints dropped by Mme. Cuthbert that Dr. Winship was intended as a potential m
atch for the “new” estate agent. Somehow—and Max did not yet suspect the reason—the frantic matchmaking efforts aimed at his own eligible and attractively ruffled dark head had ceased. Max’s involvement with Goddessspell shop owner Awena Owen, she of the faraway gaze and shiny smile and New Age beliefs, had retired him from the field, after his having defended his “most eligible bachelor” title in several skirmishes with matchmaking members of the Women’s Institute—particularly those with daughters, nieces, sisters, and maiden aunts of marriageable age. Bitter as the disappointment had been for many (particularly Dr. Winship’s sister, Suzanna), no one seriously questioned Max’s choice. Awena was too well liked for that, and the match, if a bit unusual, seemed (in a word) preordained.
Awena might herself have been invited, but she had gone to teach a weeklong residential course on “Cooking and Curing with Herbs” at the Women’s Institute’s Denman College in Oxfordshire.
Max recalled a conversation he’d had with Awena when the Bottles had first moved into the area.
“Thaddeus doesn’t go out of his way to endear himself to the villagers,” Awena had said. “Nor did his wife at first, really, although the general trend is to feel sorry for her. It is felt she’s made a bad bargain in marrying him and doesn’t quite have the wit to know how to get out of it.”
“Nor the money.”
“Nor the money,” Awena had repeated. “It so often comes down to that, doesn’t it? There have been rumblings … something about a prenuptial agreement.”
“How in the world did the villagers learn that so quickly?” Max was genuinely stunned, although on reflection he realized this sort of thing was all in a day’s work for the village grapevine, under the command of former schoolmistress Miss Pitchford.
“Melinda drinks,” Awena had added. “Quite a bit. Which must cloud her judgment, not to mention drain her energy for leaving him—assuming that’s what she wants to do.”
Pagan Spring: A Mystery (A Max Tudor Novel) Page 1
