Pagan Spring: A Mystery (A Max Tudor Novel)

by Malliet, G. M.

  Gabby had been invited to join the group, but not without opposition from Frank. Suzanna had broken the news to him just before the meeting started.

  “But she’s—” Frank began.

  “She’s what?”

  “Well, she’s a hairdresser, and…”

  “And you’re what—a brain surgeon? What difference does it make? We need to mix things up in this group, and she said she’d be willing to give it a try. Shush now. Here she comes.”

  Suzanna and Elka had already explained the rules of the group to Gabby. She would have to read her work aloud—there were no exceptions to this rule. Suzanna thought she would balk at this, and she did. Only by bringing Elka onto the case was Gabby finally persuaded she would be in good company, with a patient and receptive audience. Elka wasn’t sure how true that was, but she sensed an aloneness that clung to Gabby and wanted very much to include her in village life. It was an aloneness with which Elka was too familiar.

  So at Tuesday’s extraordinary meeting, they made the usual rounds of the group, each member reading aloud from a work in progress, or discussing what they were planning to try their hand at next. Frank began reading the same passage they had heard at the previous meeting. There was some objection to this, and he said, dropping all pretense, “Does it really matter? We’re here to discuss the murder, aren’t we?”

  When it was her turn, Gabby cleared her throat and in a quiet voice that had them all leaning in to hear, she began to read.

  I look for you in every flower.

  She said mums were your favorite

  But I knew that wasn’t so.

  Nothing showy would do.

  Something sturdy, plain, and white would be

  Your plant du jour.…

  As Gabby had read on, they had a sense they were hearing a unique voice, untrained, plain, and raw but transparent in its desire to communicate heartfelt emotion. Whether poets could be trained was a large question, but the members of the Writers’ Square registered that their low expectations of Gabby’s abilities as a poet had been colored by her sex, age, and occupation. Not all were as embarrassed as they might have been by this realization, but all felt somewhat chastened.

  … A tall stem,

  Against the blue sky

  A blossom

  White as a nun’s cowl,

  Devon cream and white cliffs.

  White as a shroud.

  When we talked

  Each morning

  There would be

  A vase of tulips between us.

  It was, they knew without being told, a poem of loss. Frank’s face masked an expression of surprise as Gabby continued to read. He’d been expecting something more along the lines of a limerick.

  Adam, possibly the most cerebral of the group, felt the impact of the poem as a quickening of his breathing, and a pounding of blood he imagined he could feel as it left and entered his heart. Having never had such an experience, and having no words to describe it, he shifted uncomfortably in his chair as he waited for the reading to end. Gabby at last looked up, blushing at her own boldness and fearing the others’ judgment.

  Finally, she became aware of Elka staring at her.

  “That was beautiful,” whispered Elka at last.

  “That’s nice,” said Suzanna, less easily impressed. “What’s it called?”

  Gabby hesitated, realizing: “I hadn’t put a title to it.”

  “Who’s it for?”

  Again the hesitation. Clearly, Gabby was not used to the spotlight and was wriggling under the novelty of being the center of attention. She tugged nervously at the cuff of her sleeve. “I suppose I was writing it to my husband, to Harold. So, ‘For My Husband,’ I suppose. That would do as a title. He would have liked that.”

  “That’s nice,” Elka said again. She seemed to be fixed on this simple thought. Gabby was known to have been widowed. “It’s nice you remember him that way.” Elka’s own husband was gone and best forgotten, having left her to raise their son, a monumentally tough job, about which she held remarkably little rancor. Her son was the center around which planet Elka wobbled.

  “It’s every bit as good as anything Thaddeus Bottle ever wrote,” said Adam. Frank nodded.

  The mention of the great playwright formerly in their midst sparked an immediate detour in the conversation. They quickly moved from theories of who might have wanted to kill Thaddeus (everyone) to a critique of the man’s work.

  “Of course it’s not the same thing,” said Frank. “It’s two different sets of skills entirely, acting and writing.”

  “I wouldn’t agree,” said Adam. “Look at Shakespeare. Actor and dramatist.”

  “Well, Shakespeare was Shakespeare, wasn’t he? Everyone else is just everyone else.”

  “Ah, gentle Shakespeare,” breathed Adam. “How I’d love to interview him over a pint of ale.”

  “What would you ask him?”

  “I’d ask him for his autograph, for a start,” said Adam with a laugh. “He left only five or six signatures. None of his plays or poetry survives in manuscript. Noah says the dream of his life is to find such a manuscript inside one of his antiques over there at Noah’s Ark—the pages perhaps used as lining for a drawer or trunk.”

  The faraway look on all their faces at the thought of such a find was dispelled by Frank.

  “Perhaps we should set our sights a bit lower. Suzanna, what else do you have to read for us tonight? A little light romance?”

  If Suzanna was perturbed by the “less than Shakespearean” implication behind Frank’s word, she shrugged it off. Suzanna was aiming unapologetically for the Jackie Collins crowd.

  “I’ll just get some more coffee before I begin, shall I?” she said. “Be right back. Elka, you brought biscuits again, did you?”

  Elka nodded. “Lemon.”

  “Ah, good! I skipped dinner to be here on time.”

  “I can’t think of anyone more qualified to write a memoir than Suzanna,” said Elka when Suzanna was out of earshot.

  “Me, either. But,” Adam added hesitantly, “I thought she was writing a romance?”

  “I’m not sure in Suzanna’s case there’s a great deal of difference.” This from Frank. “As I understand it, apart from her vicar book, she’s been working on a tell-all about her more rackety days in London working for that now-defunct newspaper, a tale thinly disguised as fiction. At least I think it’s disguised.”

  “Oh my. Could we be sued by someone?” wondered Elka.

  “Just for being in her writing group? I doubt it.”

  Adam had another thought. “She’s not writing about any of us, is she?

  “I don’t think so,” said Elka. “She says, ‘Nothing interesting ever happens here in Brigadoon.’”

  “That’s not true,” said Frank. “We have murders, don’t we? And there’s a definite chance Royalty may visit the village soon.”

  A rumor had been spread by the Globe and Bugle that an HRH or two were staying with friends nearby. This rumor seemed to be the incentive for numerous shopping excursions by the villagers into nearby Monkslip-super-Mare, the colorful seaside town nearest the estate of the stately friends. Sadly, there had been no reports of a live sighting. It would appear the Duchess of Cambridge no longer had time to shop for her groceries at Waitrose.

  The Royalty buzz had somehow become entangled with an earlier rumor involving an equally unlikely visit from the Archbishop of Canterbury. Given Nether Monkslip’s reputation as a place of healing and spirituality—this due partly to the menhirs on Hawk Crest and partly to the abbey ruins—the rumors combusted like heat and flammable gas, taking on new life with the theory that the mystically inclined Prince Charles would be drawn as if by magnet to the area, with HRH Camilla, however reluctantly, in tow.

  The villagers were content in the case of the archbishop to let the man come to them, rather than that they should find cause to seek out His Grace. As Elka Garth had been heard to comment, the archbishop, unlike HRH Cam
illa and—God knew—Catherine, always wore the same old outfit.

  Suzanna returned. Tonight she wore a tailored men’s-style shirt and a skirt fitted like cling film to her wide hips. Her blond hair gleamed and her brown eyes sparkled in the firelight. She was holding aloft a circular plastic item decorated with beads.

  “What is this?” she asked. “An IUD?”

  Elka looked up. “It’s a stitch marker, dear. One of the knitters must have left it behind. It looks like one of Miss Pitchford’s.”

  A local knitting circle led by Lily Iverson, the resident expert in all things woolen, also used Adam’s shop as meeting space. Sometimes one member would take turns reading aloud while the others clicked softly away with their needles; generally, they just chatted, taking occasional sips of their wine. Miss Agnes Pitchford had been working for months on something white that might have been a ship’s sail.

  “Oh,” said Suzanna. “Not an IUD, then. Anyway, I’ve just remembered what happened at the second-but-last Christmas office party before the ‘dark Satanic mills’ folded,” she said. “I can’t tell you the details—I’ve got to save something for the book—but it involved the photocopying machine and a reindeer antlers headband. Of course, this was just after my divorce, so allowances must be made.”

  She looked around at her audience. Gabby looked particularly taken aback. The rest of them were used to it.

  “What? We were on deadline.”

  Frank, who despite his better judgment had read the paper until it folded, was thinking Suzanna’s story explained so much—the typos, the missing paragraphs, the page numbers out of order.

  Suzanna said, “I’m just getting to the part where my boss finally left to ‘explore new opportunities,’ as it was announced in the trade press. That is trade-press speech for rat deserting a sinking ship, not to be confused with rat walking the plank. At least he didn’t say he wanted to devote more time to his family. I knew his wife. She would have been appalled to have him underfoot all the time.”

  “This was just before you came to Nether Monkslip, wasn’t it?” asked Elka. “Your job at the paper?”

  “More or less,” said Suzanna. “It seems like another world now. The memory of the days when I toiled among the other ink-stained wretches is fast receding.”

  “Do you ever hear from your ex?” Elka asked.

  “My ex-husband? God, no. The last I heard, he was starting some sort of adventure company. Perhaps he and the new girlfriend will be eaten alive by rhinos. Or maybe he’ll get his ass permanently wedged in a crevasse while he’s leading a potholing expedition down a cave. Either way, I’m not going to lose any sleep over it.”

  Yes, thought Elka. The arrival in the village of Umberto Grimaldi was doing Suzanna a world of good. She had seen them talking together in the village more than once.

  Elka glanced at her minutes of the meeting, which she had begun to notice were very short on meaningful content. “Should I mention the murder at the Bottles’?” she asked.

  “Of course!” said Frank. “Everything is material. Just make sure you get the apostrophe right.” Once they had agreed on the name Writers’ Square, there had been endless discussions over where the apostrophe should go, before or after the first s—or, more daringly, if an apostrophe was even needed. Then, at Frank’s insistence, it had become Writers’ , to make it all incandescently literary. After further debate, this was shortened, for publicity purposes (for when, said Frank, they had something to publicize), to W. In speech, for the cognoscenti, it was “the Square,” as in “See you at the Square at seven.” Frank, in particular, liked to toss this phrase about in public, hoping to be overheard.

  The apostrophe debate had at last tapered off, only to be resurrected when Waterstones, the famous bookshop, dropped the apostrophe in its trading name and logo, provoking indignant howls from the Apostrophe Protection Society, headquartered in Lincolnshire. “It’s just plain wrong,” the society’s chairman had been quoted as saying, little knowing he was reigniting the debate among the habitués of the Writers’ (née Writers) Square (née Circle).

  “See?” Frank had said. The existence of such a society had been to Frank a beacon of hope for civilization, like evidence of intelligent life on Mars.

  “But if we get a Web site, the apostrophe will have to go, along with the little square,” said Adam. “At least in the Web site address.”

  “You will have to pry the apostrophe from my cold, dead hands,” cried Frank.

  “That can be arranged,” said Adam, who was also toying with writing a murder mystery, and felt that Frank was looking more and more a likely victim. Adam might be an artsy and gentle spirit, but, like anyone, he had his limits.

  Still, he looked now at his fellow writers with something like proprietary pride. Gabby would make a nice addition, he thought—Elka had been right. The ranks of the group had shrunk from about ten members at its zenith to the current five, absent Awena. One former member, a terrible cook, had been writing a cookbook. Another had been writing a self-help book, although her personal life was a shambles. These two, luckily, had quit early on. The cookbook author, when asked by a doubtful Elka whether she had tested her recipes, had replied, “No! Of course not. The publisher has people who will do that for me.”

  Elka had looked around the group for confirmation. “People?” she’d asked at last.

  “Yes. Publishers have test kitchens and things.”

  “Somehow, I wouldn’t count on that, dear.”

  “Yes, they are far too busy making sure the apostrophes are in the right place,” Suzanna had said, not daring to meet Frank’s eye. But Frank had been beaming at the support from an unexpected quarter.

  “Undoubtedly they are,” he had said.

  Subject: Melinda

  From: Gabrielle Crew (gabby@TresRapidePoste.fr)

  To: Claude Chaux (Claude43@TresRapidePoste.fr)

  Date: Tuesday, March 27, 2012 9:48 P.M.

  Claude—The death of Thaddeus Bottle is on everyone’s mind. Father Max showed up after yoga class yesterday, asking questions. Clearly murder is suspected.

  There have been several murders in the Monkslip area recently, and the good Father has been “on the case” each time. You can see he’s distressed, as though this were somehow all his fault. He’s that kind of person, Father Max.

  Annette at the salon is decidedly unnerved, but she’s not alone—people, after all, come here to get away from crime.

  My first meeting with the Writers’ Square was earlier tonight, and I think it went well. It was an “extraordinary” meeting because they usually meet on Thursdays. (They used to meet on Saturdays, but too many social occasions intervened. As Suzanna says, “I might have a date again one day. Who knows?”)

  But this change created a problem for Melinda Bottle, and that is what I wanted to tell you about. You see, she confided in me that Saturday was the only day of the week her “friend” Farley could easily get away to meet her. So Melinda simply kept telling Thaddeus she was going to a Saturday Writers’ Square meeting, hoping for the best. She was bound to be caught out eventually, but she was getting reckless and she didn’t seem to care. She can be rather a silly woman. I don’t know if what she feels for Farley is love; I think in Melinda’s case, infatuation will always take the place of affection.

  I went to see her this afternoon. The police and other officials had left her alone for the moment. She was not taking it all in, and finally she said the doctor had given her something to calm her down, and she’d doubled the dose, which explained the trancelike state she appeared to be in.

  Poor Melinda. She is just now tasting her freedom and she doesn’t quite know what to do with it. Her shock is physical and mental, even given that they were married only a few years. Even an unattractive personality can be comforting to have around every day—it depends on what you grow used to. And, of course, she’ll have the money to keep her warm. She told me they had mutual life insurance policies, something he’d talked her
into years ago. I just hope she gets a grip soon.

  Thaddeus Bottle. He could so easily have died from an accident, or a mistake, or from age, and the death of a nicer man might have attracted little notice, but the fact that it was Thaddeus—a famously unpopular character—meant the authorities would be paying closer attention.

  And Father Max, who misses nothing, desperately wants to get to the bottom of this, to make his little village whole again.

  My e-mails to you are becoming my diary, as I don’t dare tell anyone what I know. People confide in me because they know I don’t gab—despite my nickname.

  Thank you for being there, as always in my heart.

  Ever yours, Gabby

  CHAPTER 17

  Bishop’s Palace

  Wednesday, March 28

  Max’s dreams were disturbed and varied that night, his mind ransacked for every fearsome moment he’d ever lived through. One final dream began as he sat on a beach, relaxed, warm, and content, his eyes shut against the sun. The scent of the sea and of suntan lotion surrounded him. Slowly, he became aware of a person taking the spot next to his; he heard the snap of an umbrella being unfurled, and the rustle of sand disturbed, and a can of soda popped open. Much later, his dreaming self opened its eyes and saw beside him the man in the strange blue sunglasses who had haunted his days since his friend Paul was murdered.

  In the dream he thinks of Melinda, lying in bed next to a corpse.

  The man turns his head and smiles at Max and it is a smile of mockery, revealing teeth black and rotting. It is the face of the devil, of course Max knows this. But still Max wants to see the eyes behind those sunglasses.

  Then in the relentless logic of dreams, Max realized he was dreaming of a beach only because it provided a setting for a man wearing sunglasses. And that struck him as significant, fraught with an importance he didn’t understand. Was Paul’s killer sitting on a beach somewhere even now, happy and enjoying his freedom?