Several trees in the churchyard were budding in a crayon-y shade of green, impossibly neon bright against a blue sky—but it was a sky graying at the temples. For a storm was churning, carried in on the waves of the Channel a few miles away, and the preview of coming attractions was this gray-sheen backdrop in the distance. Fallen raindrops from the last cloudburst sparkled like fairy lights in the trees and bushes. It was still what he thought of as “hot-water bottle” weather: The bottles may have been put away in preparation for spring, but many were now being brought out again, just in case.
Max spotted a car parked on Church Street that he hadn’t seen in the village before. On closer inspection, he decided the car might belong to a journalist, for it was a scruffy-looking conveyance, missing a hubcap or two, its seats brimming with a hodgepodge of clippings and papers stuffed every which way, and spilling out of boxes. His heart sank, and just then a BBC News broadcast van with a satellite dish on top drove by. This could only be in honor of the murder. Wouldn’t Thaddeus have loved the attention?
Nether Monkslip, Max realized, would have to endure another season of being the media’s latest darling—not so much because of Thaddeus’s fame, which was already a dying star in the ever-expanding Kardashian-style celebrity firmament, but because the idyllic village already had a recent murder to its name. Fortunately, most of the more elderly members of the press chose not to report, but to hang out at the Hidden Fox or the Horseshoe, waiting over a pint for the news to reach them. It was the aggressive, ambitious young whippersnappers, as Miss Pitchford called them, who provoked the most outrage. One had followed Sandy Sechrest down Beggar’s Alley at the time of the “Unpleasantness at the Harvest Fayre,” as it had come to be known, shouting questions, practically stepping over the threshold into her cottage, until the normally agreeable woman turned and threatened to call his editor if he didn’t leave her alone. “Like he’d care,” the reporter had replied.
Fortunately, Max knew he could rely on the proprietor of the Horseshoe to allow Cotton and himself to have a private conversation in the snug, away from prying eyes and recording devices.
Several of the villagers were out and about. There was Elka Garth, struggling with an awkward tray of baked bread for delivery. Her son was, as usual, nowhere in sight, so Max stopped to help her as she opened the boot of her car. A man Max recognized as one of the owners of a nearby farm went by with a large wooden tray of lettuces. Max saw Gabby Crew approaching, dressed warmly for the day, heading in the direction of the ancient alleyway that housed the Cut and Dried salon. She delayed him with a smile.
“This weather!” she said, dabbing at her forehead with a handkerchief. “You don’t know what to wear, do you? I start out dressed for winter and then by the afternoon I’m roasting.”
Max smiled, nodded, and started to move on, but quite evidently Gabby had something more on her mind than the weather. Finally, she asked, rather shyly, if she could stop by the vicarage for a chat sometime in the coming days.
“I’m not an Anglican,” she said. “But I’d like your advice. Does it matter that I’m not a member of St. Edwold’s?”
“Of course it doesn’t matter,” said Max. “Anytime—I’m glad to help if I can. And I think you’ll find the entire village is part of St. Edwold’s, regardless. It’s just part of the fabric of the place.”
He was struck by the memory of Gabby’s odd behavior in changing the seating arrangements at Lucie’s dinner party. But, running late, he didn’t ask what was bothering her, afraid she might launch into the whole story there and then. It was a dodge he would later come to rue. She didn’t look particularly worried, just hesitant, squinting as she looked up at him, as if deciding how far she could trust him with her secrets. It was always like this in Nether Monkslip—Max couldn’t walk down the High without being asked several times for his opinion or advice, although there were those kind souls who assumed he must be deeply contemplating his next sermon, and thus was not to be bothered. In the case of those who did approach him, it was nearly always on a matter so minor, he couldn’t believe people couldn’t figure it out for themselves. In fact, they could; he had come to realize they often just wanted him to confirm what they’d already decided.
And so Max explained to Gabrielle “Gabby” Crew that he was late for his luncheon appointment and began to pull away, with every outward sign of reluctance.
“Why don’t you ring the vicarage when you’re ready?” he said. “It will save you a trip if I’m not there.”
She smiled and nodded, and stood beaming after him, adjusting her gloves. The vicar was such a kind young man.
Max, now walking faster to keep to his appointment, thought that Gabby, despite her friendly nickname, and underneath her surface amiability, was rather a thoughtful and observant woman. There was something fixed in that upright posture of hers that might reflect her thinking. He had worked with many such people in MI5. They were invaluable because they were unwavering in their commitment: Unflappable human beings were rare. Max thought he might like a word with her privately about Melinda and the situation in the Bottle household, for he doubted Gabby would have missed anything … well, anything amiss there.
He passed the Cavalier Tea Room at the foot of Martyr’s Bridge, where the water ran fast beneath, a ripple of silver in the sunshine. Elka Garth must be baking hot cross buns for Easter, he thought. The aroma was so powerful, he found his steps slowing momentarily. It was an aroma that evoked for him powerful memories of childhood, like Proust’s madeleine.
Easter always fell on the first Sunday after the first full moon after the Spring Equinox—as Awena loved reminding him, it was yet another Church celebration inextricably tied to the ancient, often astrologically based rituals of long-vanished religions and civilizations. Even the colored Easter eggs in the annual children’s hunt were pagan symbols of fertility. Very few, least of all the children, thought it strange or macabre these “pagan” eggs were always hidden in the ancient St. Edwold’s cemetery, with its moss-covered headstones and tilting Celtic crosses. It was simply a place full of good hiding spots. He remembered Thaddeus had agreed with him on that.
Across from the Horseshoe, a few cars were parked with haphazard abandon near the railway station, as if their owners had been abducted by aliens rather than been in a hurry to catch the next train. Given the oftentimes-erratic departures and arrivals at the whim of the conductor, this haste was probably not unseemly. There was Easter shopping to be done in Staincross Minster, which put extra demand on the renovated old train, a train that had featured largely in what DCI Cotton had taken to calling “Max’s last case.”
Max now came upon Suzanna talking with Elka, who had stopped and rolled down the window of her car for a chat. Suzanna had binoculars slung around her neck and seemed to be aiming them down the High Street.
“Why are you wearing a trench coat?” Elka was asking as he approached. “It’s not raining.”
“I’m on the case,” said Suzanna. As Elka looked puzzled, she added, “It helps me think like a detective. You know, get in the mood. Play the part.”
“And what has your role-playing brought you?”
“Well, nothing so far. I saw Miss Pitchford go into the post office, so she must be on the mend, even though she was hobbling a bit. Mrs. Barrow had trouble using the Cashpoint machine again—you know how she is; she won’t let anyone help, thinking they’re trying to rob her, so a vast and seething queue always collects behind her. Other than that, it’s been really quiet around here. People are sticking close to home.”
“I should think so,” said Elka. “People are frightened. There’s a maniac on the loose.”
“Suzanna,” said Max, “with all due respect, you need to leave this to DCI Cotton and his team. It’s a dangerous situation, and if you are putting yourself in danger, you’ll only add to his burden.”
“Nonsense,” said Suzanna briskly. “Whoever killed Thaddeus—and very good riddance, by the way—has nothing against
me.”
“That’s not how it works, Suzanna,” said Max. “If you do see something the killer thinks you shouldn’t have seen, you could become the next target. You do follow that, don’t you?”
“I read detective stories, Father Max. I know how these things work.”
Max was tempted to demand she hand over the binoculars, but he realized not only had he no right to do so but that it would be a pointless exercise. Suzanna, relentless, would always find a way.
CHAPTER 13
At the Horseshoe
The Horseshoe, like many such old English pubs, was divided between a saloon and a public bar. Max found Cotton in the saloon, a handsome room with windows darkened by the smoke of centuries, blackened beams crossing the ceiling, and gleaming brass against the whitewashed walls.
There sat Cotton by the door, resplendent in his bespoke suit, a starched shirt like gray armor against his chest, and a nicely contrasting tie. His blond hair had been smoothed in place, a reproof to Max’s own efforts in that regard, and his gray-blue eyes shone with the passion tempered by intelligence that was fast earning him a superstar reputation on the force.
He greeted Max like the old friend he now was, asking first how Awena was doing.
“Good good good,” said Max quickly, too quickly, making it clear this was a subject he wasn’t willing to pursue.
“Well, good,” said Cotton. So, he thought, I’m not supposed to know the obvious about Max and Awena. Alrighty then. Far be it from me to parachute blindly into those waters, however warm and tranquil they may be.
“Well, kemo sabe,” began Cotton. “Let’s find a corner away from prying ears, shall we?”
They had a word with the landlord and were given a coveted spot in the snug.
Once they were completely settled in with jackets stowed, Max tossed the sheet of A4 paper, encased in plastic, on the table. “Delivered the same way,” he said.
“Another one?” said Cotton. He read aloud “‘We are orphanes and fatherlesse, our mothers are as widowes.’”
Max said, “The first quote is from Lamentations. The second quote is from Psalms. I didn’t stop to look up the exact verse for you. The first quote is talking about the suffering following the destruction of Jerusalem by the Babylonians. I don’t recall the exact date, but it was about 600 B.C.”
Carefully, Cotton put the paper in its plastic casing into his briefcase. He exhaled mightily in frustration. “Well, that’s clear as mud. Are we to look for a Babylonian suspect, then?”
“I would look for someone who feels they have been oppressed, someone who feels he has lost everything. Someone without hope for justice who has thus taken justice into his own hands. That last was just a guess, but we do have Thaddeus’s corpse to explain, and it’s too great a coincidence I would suddenly start getting these thundering quotations from an anonymous correspondent.”
“They surely have to be from the killer. Agreed.”
“And there is that hint of recklessness in using the same method of delivery. Although the vicarage is just that bit sheltered from prying eyes that the person wasn’t taking a huge risk. Besides, I have visitors all the time, as well as people dropping off a note rather than disturb me by knocking. No one who saw the delivery being made would question what they saw for a minute.”
They were interrupted by the landlord’s daughter, come to take their order for lunch.
“It’s like this,” Cotton resumed when once again they were alone. “The police surgeon—Wouters—agrees the coroner should have this case brought to his attention. That’s about the most I can get out of him ‘pending further testing.’ In case we’re wrong, you know, he doesn’t want to be accused of sounding the alarm for no reason. But that wound on the victim’s neck—well, it’s damnably hard to see why Thaddeus Bottle would have stabbed himself in that way. It doesn’t look like something you could do to yourself accidentally. Furthermore, Wouters says there is a foreign substance in the wound. He’s running further tests, but it’s not a usual substance.”
“He’s thinking poison, of course.”
Cotton mentioned a name.
Max was taken aback. “That’s rather exotic, isn’t it?
“Not in this shrinking world. As it happens, Wouters has come across this once before. We shall see if he can confirm his hunch.”
“Was there a weapon found?”
Cotton nodded appreciatively, giving Max the benefit of his laserlike gray-blue gaze. “No. No, there wasn’t. And that’s part of what cinched it for Wouters. And for me. There should have been a weapon found by the body. We’ll have to have proceedings at the coroner’s court, a mere formality to identify Thaddeus Bottle as the deceased, to have the pathologist’s report read out, and to request an adjournment pending further police inquiries.”
“That will really get the press’s attention, an adjournment,” said Max. “We’ve already got the BBC and at least one enterprising local fellow here.”
“That guy from the Globe and Bugle. Right. I thought I saw his car earlier. What a slob. It’s a wonder he can find the steering wheel.”
“Maybe you could give him a parking ticket.”
Cotton smiled. “All this rot you read in the news about journalists and police on the take—I don’t get it. I can hardly stand to brief the media for even ten minutes on a case, let alone take money from them for providing tips on celebrities. Of course, it helps that I don’t know any celebrities. The one I did know, sort of, has now been killed.”
But Max wasn’t really listening. Cotton sat back and watched, amused, as Max ticked over the case in his brain. You could almost see the gears, watch the connections being made and the little synapses fizzing. It was like watching one of those enhanced computer graphic things on the telly.
Max was thinking: A stranger to the village, killed not very long after his arrival. Why? He was an old man. Maybe not a particularly nice old man, and hardly a crowd pleaser in his private life, but at least he posed no physical threat to anyone. Except, perhaps, to Melinda?
After a while, Max voiced some of his thoughts aloud, then added, “Unless … unless he knew something about someone already living here—about one of the villagers. Something that put the person in danger, so he felt he had to strike out to defend himself. As we’ve often said, there are few people living here anymore who are from here.”
“Which means,” said Cotton, “someone now living here recognized him from somewhere else—or he recognized that person. Could Thaddeus have been trying a spot of blackmail?”
Max hesitated. “I suppose it could be something like that. Definitely he seemed the type to enjoy the sense of power that can come from holding things over people’s heads. Whatever happened, he must have been a threat to someone, and that led to his death.”
“No one we’ve talked with claims to have known him well, although there seems to have been no love lost between him and the members of the Writers’ Square. Frank Cuthbert called him a ‘philistine,’ and he could barely bring himself to be even that polite. I gather Thaddeus was rather hard on one of the other members, and they all stick up for one another. No, unless you count the occasional insomniac who caught Thaddeus in one of his old movies on the telly, no one claims to have really known him.”
“Avoided him, rather,” said Max. “Yes, I can see how that would be true. He was arrogant. But crafty with it. Arrogance usually goes hand in glove with stupidity. Have you noticed? And I don’t think he was stupid.”
“We’ve done some looking into his background, of course, and I was on the phone earlier to his agent. I’m not sure the agent was all that fond of him. Call me crazy, but that’s the impression I got. One thing he said that really struck me. He said of Thaddeus, “He wanted to be a famous actor, and anyone who got in his way, even unwittingly, became the enemy.”
“He was also a playwright,” said Max.
“Yes,” said Cotton. “According to the agent, he was not a bad playwright, either. But nobody r
ecognizes playwrights anymore except perhaps for Tom Stoppard. I say ‘anymore,’ but no one has ever recognized the playwright. It was the recognition Thaddeus craved, and for that you need to be on the stage or in film, not behind the scenes.”
“I promised Melinda I’d have a word with someone who can speak at the service for Thaddeus,” said Max.
“Did you now?”
“Yes. ‘At the behest of the widow’ sort of thing. It seems the desire is for the splashiest funeral possible, but Melinda is worried no one will trouble to be there unless someone, preferably a professional, starts drumming up publicity for the ‘event.’”
“Good luck with that. Altogether I gathered from the agent that Thaddeus went through life leaving in his wake a surge in the demand for apologies—apologies that never arrived, it need hardly be added. But if you’re asking my permission, by all means speak with the agent—I’ll put in a word for you if you’d like. You’ll find him forthright in stating his belief that Thaddeus was a thorn in everyone’s paw, but he has offered to help in any way he can.”
Max nodded. “One thing I noticed at the dinner party,” he said. “Thaddeus is probably not from England originally. Am I right?”
Cotton nodded. “He was born in France, where he was christened Thaddee Landry. The ‘Thaddeus Bottle’ came later, with his adoption. A lot of people from around here have roots going back to France. How did you know?”
“His French was too good, for one thing, although Melinda did mention his first wife was French, which would help explain it.”
“And for another?”
“He made a reference to the New College at Oxford. Most people born and raised here and claiming to know firsthand all the theatrical movers and shakers and professors of theater would know to leave off the word the. It is called simply New College.”
Pagan Spring: A Mystery (A Max Tudor Novel) Page 13
