Pagan Spring: A Mystery (A Max Tudor Novel)

by Malliet, G. M.

  The place had been equipped with spaceshippy fixtures of gleaming stainless steel. Mobiles in artistically stylized shapes—gulls or fish—hung from the ceiling. Each table held a vase of dried herbs and flowers, their stems anchored by the white beans of the restaurant’s name, the seeds functioning as a sort of gravel. The large open space was designed so the chef and his assistants were on constant display to the patrons while preparing the food, like people putting on a puppet show. From the doorway, Max could see that an enameled cast-iron pot stood bubbling on the cooker. He stood, he realized, at the vantage point from which the magazine photographer had taken his shot of the restaurant.

  Max stepped inside, still taking in the place before calling out a tentative “Hallo.” He recalled that the Parish Council meetings to gain permission to convert the derelict old cottage into the restaurant had been epic. In the end, the restaurant had won the fight, since experts all agreed that demolition was the only alternative.

  Max had met the owner before, at what passed in Nether Monkslip for a glitzy, star-studded event: the restaurant’s grand opening. He knew that the Grimaldi brothers came from Siena—the ancient Tuscan hill town of the she-wolf that suckled the infants Romulus and Remus. The brothers’ names were Umberto and Fabio. Umberto, the elder, was the businessman, and Fabio was the chef. He was reputed to be a genius in the kitchen.

  Umberto looked up from papers he was going over in the kitchen. He saw Max and acknowledged his presence with a nod and a smile, holding up one index finger to indicate that Max should wait.

  Max took a menu to look at and sat down in one of the restaurant’s booths. It was the same booth he and Cotton had just been peering at in the photo.

  As the menu explained, in rather extravagant and slightly broken English, the restaurant prided itself on providing locally sourced food whenever possible. When food had to be shipped in, it came from not very far away, and it was of the finest quality Great Britain could offer. Relationships of trust and honor were established with local farmers, the menu explained. When corn was ground, for example, it was grown and ground just for the restaurant, and used in a polenta cake topped with white beans, roasted squash, garlic, and sage. Serving corn in a land that regarded it as feed for cattle was innovative in itself, Max realized. Overall, the Grimalidi’s defining ideology seemed to be “Down with supermarkets and to hell with pub food.”

  On the menu also was escarole, sautéed in olive oil with garlic and hot peppers. He’d have to ask Awena about that, since he wasn’t absolutely sure what escarole might be, although the description of how it was cooked was making his mouth water. There also were some recipes using pine nuts and olives, dishes Max thought might be borrowed from Liguria.

  Spring veggies predominated at this time of year, of course, and chef Fabio had incorporated asparagus, scallions, artichoke, and first peas into the various pastas and risottos. For dessert, along with the expected gelato, the restaurant offered a cheese plate with West Country cheeses and cheese from Cheddar, as well as French cheeses that no doubt owed their origin to Mme. Luci Cuthbert’s shop: It was cheating a bit, Max thought, but forgivable to add them to the menu.

  The special that night was pasta with sage and butter, a Tuscan-style dish cooked with the garlic “in its shirt”—with the cloves unpeeled. It sounded wonderful, and Max immediately vowed to bring Awena here for dinner at the first opportunity. Hang the calories.

  Somehow, Max had added weight with each murder investigation. He had just lost the half a stone he had gained during what he thought of as the Michaelmas murder. Then Christmas had followed soon after, and no one “did” holidays like the villagers, who on any day seemed to love nothing better than the chance to lavish attention on their vicar. They fed him cucumber sandwiches, scones, and chocolate cake by the trolleyful. And tea. Gallons of tea: Earl Grey, hawthorn, chai, Indian, Chinese. Sweetened with white sugar, brown sugar, artificial sugar—it made no difference. Without his daily run, he thought, he’d be as big as a house.

  When Max read the food column in the Telegraph, as he more and more frequently did in a fantasy escape from Mrs. Hooser’s more unspeakable cooking efforts, he marveled at the ability to describe the taste and texture of things in a way that stirrred hunger in the reader. It seemed to him among the most esoteric of arts, like building ships in bottles. The Grimaldi brothers, with their tentative yet colorful grasp of the language, had mastered the skill.

  Just now Grimaldi the Elder, as the villagers called him, was making his way over to Max’s booth. Umberto was probably forty-five years of age, and just graying at the temples. Muscular in build, he was shorter than Max, and with a bit of a paunch. He had a purposeful walk, like a man leaning into the wind, and what seemed to be a permanent five o’clock shadow—the few times Max had seen him, he’d had such a heavy beard that the lower half of his face seemed tattooed with a permanent dark cast. His nose had clearly been broken at some time in the past, and in profile he strongly reminded Max of Federico, one of the dukes of Urbino in the famous early Renaissance painting in the Uffizi Gallery.

  Umberto sat across from Max and said, “So. What do you think of our little place, Father?”

  “It’s really very striking,” said Max diplomatically. He was not always a fan of the modern, but this, he could see, was unique, interesting, and well done. “Unusual.”

  Umberto smiled; he had a somewhat wolfish smile. “We hired an architect to do the renovation. He was ‘mirroring the aesthetic,’ this architect person said. He would actually say things like that to me. ‘Mirroring the aesthetic.’ What in hell was that supposed to mean? I ask you. And then he would go on and on about panels, and tiles, and deliverables. And niches—he was very big on niches, this trendy lunatic. He said the goal was to be representational—of what was never said. An aquarium? He would show up with his rulers and his diagrams and his spreadsheets, and I swear to you, I wanted to kill him before it was over, just stab him through the eye. The bill for all of this, I need hardly tell you, was astronomic and well over the estimate, which was already laughable. They could build the Taj Mahal for half the amount.”

  “I see,” said Max mildly. “This was Farley, was it?”

  But Umberto was not yet done. “He said something that sounded like doing a ‘full nose sketch,’ and to this day I don’t know what in fuck he was talking about. Yes, it was Farley. Farley Walker. And he talked about blond wood—he was big on blond wood, you can see.” He waved an arm around him. “He advised us to have a roof deck over the river, and that is very nice indeed—yes, I agree. But then it became talk of textures and glass and planned elevations and viewpoints and space and transoms and skylights and frames to analyze the elements and creating tall panels to intersect with the borders and shadow lines, and I tell you, there was no end to this bullshit. I am going to start walking around with blueprints under my arm so when people see me immediately they will know how creative I am. And I will wear groovy sunglasses in case they miss the point. Now what was it you wanted, Father Tudor?”

  “Call me Max, please. Or Father Max, if you must.”

  “I’m from a Catholic country. The Anglican ways are not so automatic for me. I’ll try, but it will be hard to remember just plain Max.”

  Max smiled and said, “I love your country. Everything about it, beginning and ending with the food.”

  “I love it, too,” said Umberto. “The food, the trees, the colors, the hills. The silver-greenish color of the olive trees is what I miss the most—isn’t that strange? Here the bright green—it’s not the same. I never knew how many shades of green there were before I came to England.”

  Just then, one of the blue-jeaned kitchen staff, a young man with cockatiel hair, walked by carrying a large tray of fresh vegetables. Umberto stopped him, grabbing him by the arm. Umberto picked up a head of lettuce and stared at it, eyeball-to-eyeball as it were.

  “You call this lettuce? Where did this come from?” he demanded.

  The yo
ung man squeaked a reply. “The Browns’ farm.”

  The Browns—Lexington, Concord, and Bunker—were three siblings from the U.S. who had recently inherited a farm on the outskirts of Nether Monkslip. Max had not yet met them but, in the way of the village, felt that he already knew everything pertinent there was to know.

  “I thought so,” said Umberto. “Those three—unless they’re growing marijuana out there, they’re going to have their asses handed to them. The land is unforgiving if you don’t know what you’re doing.”

  And having delivered himself of this homespun prairie philosophy, he returned his attention to Max. The head of lettuce sat on the table between them, a silent witness to their conversation. It looked like a perfectly fine head of lettuce to Max, but, unlike Umberto, he did not feel qualified to pronounce on all things leafy.

  Umberto, Max realized, reminded him of someone, and he realized it was Suzanna Winship, who likewise had a tendency to say whatever was on her mind.

  “It must all be quite a sea change for you,” said Max.

  “It is, but we like it very much. It is hard to leave Italy, but until the finances are straightened out, we are doing so much better here. It is a shame. Not since the war, I don’t think, has there been so much financial turmoil.”

  As with Lucie Cuthbert, Max noted, there was no other war—there was only the Second World War. Umberto said, “Do you know, my grandfather never would talk about the war. Basically, I think he managed to bullshit his way through the whole tragedy, saying yes to the Germans and, as soon as they were not watching, doing nothing, even stealing from them where he could. Many survived in this way. The risk was crazy, but all his life he would get this look on his face when the subject of the Nazis came up, like he’d swallowed sour milk. You knew it was better not to ask, but we have often wondered, my brother and me.

  “Anyway, we Italians survive all of that, and now the euro. Bankers without guns are doing the damage now. We don’t know how it is going to—how you say? Shake out? How it is going to shake out. For now, I think we’ve made the right move. Fabio—he’s still deciding. He tells me I’m a dreamer. Well, I dream big.”

  “Why bother dreaming any other way?”

  Umberto nodded. “And it helps that Fabio, he is a genius. He will bring us to fame, you wait and see. We may open a local produce shop in the cottage next door. Bernadina Steed is helping us with the purchase. Now, Father Tudor, you are here—why?”

  “I was hoping, actually, to talk to one of your staff. Don’t worry,” he added hastily. “She’s not in any trouble.”

  “This is about the murder, isn’t it?”

  “Well, yes, but how did you know?”

  Umberto answered obliquely. Max had a feeling Umberto was rather good at that.

  “She’s a good woman. There is nothing to be said against her, but perhaps she is lacking in judgment.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean Thaddeus Bottle, but don’t read that the wrong way. Kayla couldn’t pluck a chicken, much less kill anyone.”

  Max mind traveled back to the expression on Kayla’s face in that photo. The brief instant, captured forever.

  “Of course you can talk with her,” Umberto was saying. “I can’t stop you. But I think if you are looking for the likely suspect, it would be more worth your time to talk with this Farley person. Mr. Trendy Pants.”

  “Really? Why do you say that?”

  “Well, nudge, nudge, as they say. That’s amore.”

  Did the whole village know, then, about Melinda and Farley? And did that mean Thaddeus had known?

  “I try to speak no ill of the dead, but Thaddeus was … a demanding person.” This hesitation seemed an unusual deviation from Umberto’s unusual forthright manner. “Rude. Full of himself.” Having gathered steam, Umberto spat out a word in Italian, then translated it into something milder. “He was a jerk.”

  Just then, the woman Max had recognized from the photo as a parishioner of St. Edwold’s, Kayla Prince, came up to the table. She set two cups of coffee before them, clearly following prior instructions from Umberto. Tan, trim, attractive, she bore more than a passing resemblance to a much older Pippa Middleton.

  After she left, Grimaldi said, “She won’t last long. She’s too pretty to be stuck out here in what is essentially nowhere. And what is more, she knows it. She makes no secret that she’s saving her money to live in London. But she may be aiming a bit high.”

  “She comes to St. Edwold’s with her mother.”

  “Her mother is the only reason she’s having trouble leaving—the mother has a dicey heart.”

  “Dicky,” corrected Max automatically. “A dicky heart. Yes, I know.” He took a sip of his coffee. “Could I talk with Kayla alone for a minute? I know she’s probably busy. It won’t take long.”

  * * *

  Kayla sat across from him five minutes later, taking Umberto’s place. She was her usual friendly self, if a little wary. The magazine Max had been looking at with Cotton was spread before them on the table. Max pointed at the people in the photo, who had been sitting where he and Kayla sat now.

  “This is the man who was just murdered. And his wife.”

  Kayla peered closely at the picture.

  “Yes.”

  “Do you know the couple they’re with?”

  She nodded her head yes. “The man who was murdered and his wife—they sometimes brought people from London. Friends of theirs. But that looks like Frank and Lucie with them. Anyway, I didn’t wait that table.”

  “How do you know Thaddeus and Melinda came from London?”

  It wasn’t meant to be a trick question. Thaddeus had been well enough known in the village that most people would know where he was from. But she blushed, and stammered, “I don’t know, do I? Look, Father, I really don’t see—”

  “What it has to do with anything? You’re right—it is probably of no moment. But you are in the photo, and your face…” He stopped, looking straight at her. “The expression on your face is … unusual. You’re looking at Thaddeus, aren’t you? And it’s difficult to understand what he could have done to deserve such a look, just having a meal in a restaurant with his wife and friends.”

  That Lady of Shalott look: She wasn’t just stunned. She was—perhaps revolted was the closest word. And angry. Perhaps above all, angry with herself.

  “I think…” said Max tentatively, “I think you had some sort of relationship with him.” It was too easy to see how it could have happened. Kayla was looking for a way out of the village. Thaddeus had been a potential conduit to a world of glamour, even of stardom. She wouldn’t be the first person to look for a shortcut to fame. He realized for the first time that Melinda might have fallen into the same trap.

  Kayla stood up from the table, and Max thought she was just going to leave and say no more. She would certainly have been within her rights. But she came back with a pot of coffee, and a cup for herself. Then the story came out.

  “I met him the night of the restaurant opening. I was here, helping the caterer. One thing led to another. We didn’t have—there was nothing between us, but I knew what he wanted. And I let him believe he stood a chance. That was wrong of me, Father, and I know that now. I should have told him to go to hell or I’d tell his wife. I’ve wished a hundred times I’d done exactly that.

  “He promised to help me get a job in London, to get my name before the important agents and directors. Right. What he had in mind would get my name before them all right. He organized an introduction to some guy in London—he said. I actually went to London, and the address he gave me was a phony. The guy’s name was phony. There was no such place in the West End. I guess he was hoping I’d be really grateful—beforehand—and wouldn’t think to check up on what he said—beforehand. He was half right anyway.

  “I confronted him, and he had the nerve to laugh. He thought it was funny. ‘You’re only average,’ he said, ‘if that.’ He told me I had no potential in the theater
‘or anywhere else.’”

  Ouch, thought Max.

  “He added that I was too old, that I’d be a laughingstock. I was just reeling. I don’t know why I just stood there and took it, but I did. Part of me believed him, you see. You always believe the bad things about yourself, don’t you? Anyway, what I couldn’t believe was that he would have the nerve to show up here, after pulling that on me, but somehow I think he’d gotten wind there would be a reporter from Glossamer Living at the restaurant that night and he was hoping someone would take his photo. Didn’t I nearly split a gut laughing when I saw they had taken his photo all right—from the back?”

  That was it? Max wondered. A tawdry little ploy from Thaddeus—a ridiculous and cheap attempt at seduction that had failed. And when it failed, he was happy to send her off, wasting her time on a wild-goose chase. It seemed like a petty revenge, and, on reflection, probably just the sort of thing Thaddeus would do. If the woman had come across with what Thaddeus wanted, then, maybe, he’d have arranged the introduction he’d used as bait, but even that was doubtful.

  They talked awhile longer, but Kayla had shut down now, and he got no more from her.

  What is she not telling me? Max wondered. Was she lying about how far had she allowed intimacy with Thaddeus, decades older than she, to progress? For who would be able to find out the truth, now that the man who had tricked her was dead?

  Somehow, Max didn’t particularly want to know the details. But her revulsion for Thaddeus now was real enough. Real enough to kill over? From the look on Kayla’s hardened face, the answer was yes.

  CHAPTER 16

  Poetry and Prose

  The members of the Writers’ Square had convened an extraordinary meeting. It was merely an excuse to discuss developments, thinly cloaked by Frank’s claim that he’d been having problems with a plot point—plot point being a professional term he’d picked up from a rejection letter he’d received, in which it was claimed his work needed one.