The same problem with druid, which conjured up images of crazed, inbred villagers setting fire to a wicker man. “You see—”
“Anyway,” the Bishop of Monkslip went on, with a complacent smile, “people are brought back into the fold when we set an example. It takes time. As Queen Elizabeth the First said, “I have no desire to make windows into men’s souls.”
“Very wise she was,” Max murmured, adding, “Wouldn’t it be a messy world if we could see into men’s souls?”
“Rather! Much better not to know and hope for the best,” said the bishop. “As I say, people come into the fold when in their hearts they decide they want to.”
“I wouldn’t actually count on that,” began Max. “She’s very much her own—”
Just then, the phone rang, a shrill sound in the quiet room. The bishop turned and held one hand hovering over the receiver. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to take this call. All the best, Max. You will invite me to the wedding, won’t you? Good-bye!”
And Max, having been given the bum’s rush, stood and waved his farewell. The bishop was already deep into his phone conversation.
CHAPTER 18
Absent in the Spring
The subject of Max’s conversation with the bishop was at that moment in the summing-up phase of her class on “Cooking and Healing with Herbs.” In honor of the season, Awena Owen was kitted out in a bright daffodil yellow dress trimmed at the hem and sleeves in brocade of deep pink and coral. A bronze belt of woven fabric girded her waist. Over this Renaissance glitter she wore, however, a plain muslin apron, as she had just finished demonstrating how to bake onion bread spiced with tarragon.
Awena’s life, when she wasn’t occupied by running the thriving Goddessspell shop, consisted of things like soaking beans, waiting for bread to rise, and collecting and drying herbs. She also kept a beehive in her small back garden, and knew how to calm the bees by talking to them. Nothing she touched failed to attract devotees to the natural, back-to-land movement that had recently seized the public’s imagination, the principles of which Awena had always espoused. She had made a start on writing a cookbook, but so far she was happier doing and demonstrating than writing and testing recipes. Besides, the book she had in mind, which combined how and when to grow according to the seasons, along with how to harvest and prepare, was so ambitious in scope, she doubted she would find the time to write it.
And then there was Max. Although she easily maintained a balance in her life, time spent with Max increasingly filled her calendar.
She turned to face her audience from behind a cooking range set into the center of a wooden counter. Behind her were two built-in ovens and a wall of cabinets and drawers containing every conceivable need for the modern kitchen.
Awena had packed as much as she could into a short course and was delighted by the enthusiastic response from the class. This reaction pleased her on a number of levels: She was teaching something she wholeheartedly believed in—a return to natural foods and a respect for the curative forces of nature, including leaving well enough alone. And that it was a Women’s Institute course was important to her. The WI had done much for people around the world, feeding, clothing, and caring for those in desperate circumstances. That the university repeatedly had invited her back to teach an advanced course was a source of much personal pride; being able to share what she knew she regarded as the highest privilege.
“During the time of harvest,” she was saying, “we can begin to see the vast array of the earth’s bounty. And now we’ve reached the time of Persephone, the goddess of spring, who is the personification of everything that grows. It’s time to think about planting dill, parsley, and chervil. Grow these herbs from seed—transplanting distresses them psychologically. Just as it does us humans.”
There was the mildest titter from the group at this, but they understood what she meant, and they hung on her every word. Most of them were taking extensive notes as she spoke. Awena, inheritor of the druidic tradition of honoring every growing thing as literally a gift from the gods, was in her element.
“Remember that herbs love to be in the sun, as we all do. Too much sun, though, is good for no one. And we all need to breathe. For example”—and here she held up a bunch of something that looked like weeds—“I found these in the local market in Denman.” She shook her head mournfully. “Imported. How much of the potency is left in a once-living creature that’s been stuffed into a hot and humid and airless freighter to reach your table? And herbs are so easy to grow.…”
She went on in this vein, well past the time when the class was scheduled to end. She was still answering questions when one of the school’s administrators popped her head in and pointed, eyebrows raised, at her wristwatch.
One of the women, who turned out to be affiliated with the BBC, stayed behind to ask if Awena would consider creating a show for television.
It was another hour before Awena could set off for Nether Monkslip. She had one errand to run, one appointment to keep, and then, at last, she could see Max again. She rehearsed in her mind how to tell him her news.
* * *
Back in Nether Monkslip, Awena walked toward the beauty salon, where a crowd had gathered.
For there was much to discuss. The villagers at times of crisis or excitement would congregate like crows, instinct drawing them, depending on the time of day, to the post office, the Cavalier, or the Cut and Dried. Of an evening, they might assemble at one of the pubs.
They spoke at first in hushed voices, for in the days following the murder the villagers had been particularly gentle with one another. Subdued, all of them. Well, nearly all, Suzanna missing the genetic marker for discretion and quiet, sober reflection.
For now, the grapevine with its many branches had taken root at the Cut and Dried, where the subject momentarily had worked its way back around to the relationship between Awena and Max, now in full bloom.
“I wonder what the sex is like,” mused Suzanna, her voice carrying to the farthest corners of the room. Several heads turned.
“Suzanna. Really.” This was Elka, shocked to her fingertips every time she thought she had gotten used to Suzanna’s remarks.
“What? You don’t look at people sometimes and wonder?” Idly, Suzanna plucked a little bottle of bright red nail varnish from the display at her side and assessingly held it up to the light.
“No.”
“Never?”
“Never. Well, almost never.”
“Hmm.” Suzanna, replacing the bottle, seemed to be struggling to take in this unprecedented worldview. “To me, it’s just one of those vexing questions in life, like whether the Queen has a passport.”
“Maybe that’s what she has in that handbag she always carries.”
“With a photo of herself draped in ermine and wearing one of her crowns.” Suzanna laughed. “Yes, that’s just possible.”
“Seriously, Suzanna. Just because something comes into your head doesn’t mean you have to say it aloud,” Elka observed.
“I don’t much see the point in having an opinion otherwise.”
“You might just try using the stop key on occasion.”
Suzanna looked as if she might consider the possibility, but Elka didn’t hold out much hope. Asking Suzanna to censor herself was about as effective as a team of Arab League monitors asking to be shown around the uranium-enrichment facilities. Suzanna, who had just been getting ready to tell Elka about her recent nighttime walk near the Bottles’ house, decided to keep mum until her theories had solidified.
“I may have to come back another time,” said Elka, glancing at her watch. “I’ve left Flora minding the shop.”
Flora was a young woman who helped Elka outside of school. Honest but not hardworking, she could just about be trusted to ring up the cash register and bus the tables.
“Why not ask Clayton?” Suzanna inquired.
“Oh, I dunno. He gets bored pretty quickly.”
There were various school
s of thought regarding Elka’s son, Clayton. One was that Clayton’s behavior was a cynical, even creepy, mooching off of his overworked mother. The other was that Clayton had no control over his actions: He was just a bit slow-witted, as some are. The Major had tried to intervene by giving him odd jobs to do around his garden, a well-intended gesture, which, like all such gestures, had ended in tears. The Major, used to giving orders (even though the soundness of these orders was often questioned, and deservedly so), did have a tendency to try to boss people about.
And some held it was Elka’s own fault for coddling Clayton. He was her only child and she’d raised him alone.
Suzanna thought all three of the above elements might be in play. “Have you ever asked your son to help you? Really asked?”
Such a novel idea, thought Elka. The answer is no, because he might refuse. Aloud and loudly and deliberately, he might refuse, not just passively refuse. And then where would I be if he left, but alone?
Suzanna returned to reading one of the gossip magazines that littered the shop. She was waiting for an updo, having been persuaded by Elka to give Gabby a try. Suddenly, Suzanna dropped the magazine in her lap in mock surprise and said, “I was just wondering what Angelina Jolie’s theories of child raising might be and then as if by magic, OMG! magazine explores this very topic.”
“You’re joking, right?” said Gabby, stirring a bowl of hair color as if it were cake batter. She looked at the photo of the famous actress, oddly posed in a dark velvet dress slit up to there.
“Of course I’m joking. Angelina has a squad of nannies helping her and Brad with all those kids.”
Suzanna, with her languid allure, felt she could run rings around Angelina in the vixen department, given half a chance and an unlimited clothing budget.
“Besides, Angelina is probably much too busy visiting holy yurts and Buddhist temples and things. Or is that Madonna?”
“What’s a yurt?” Mrs. O’Day, from the neighboring village of Middle Monkslip, asked. The fame of the Cut and Dried salon was evidently spreading.
“It’s rather like a circus tent,” said Suzanna convincingly, although she wasn’t entirely sure. “All the Hollywood types go there to open their pores and replenish themselves spiritually.”
“I thought that was rehab,” said Sandy Sechrest.
Elka, now glancing over Suzanna’s shoulder, pointed to one of the photos in a red-carpet montage and said, “I love Rob Lowe.”
“That makes two of you,” replied Suzanna. “Give me Hugh Grant any day.” Lowering her voice, she added, “Now that Max Tudor is otherwise engaged.”
“Or Jude Law, for that matter,” said Elka, the movie buff. “He reminds me of someone here in the village. I can’t quite put my finger on it.”
“DCI Cotton,” said Suzanna and Gabby, Gabby calling over her shoulder from her station.
Elka snapped her fingers. “That’s it! How could I have missed it!”
“Laurence Fox is no slouch, either,” Suzanna added. “He can leave his shoes under my bed anytime he wants.”
“Colin Firth!” someone shouted from across the room.
“That actor who plays Aurelio Zen!”
This prompted a heated discussion of the merits or lack of same of the various film, TV, and stage actors, a discussion that came close to veering into a shouting match because of the interference of the radio playing in the background, and because of the passion with which the women embraced their preferences in the romantic idol department. The BBC was covering a visit by the prime minister to the U.S., a story in which no one seemed much interested, and Annette Hedgepeth, the shop owner, crossed the room to turn down the sound.
It was then Awena walked in, keeping her twice-yearly haircut appointment. Given the recent topic of her relationship with Max, the conversation hit an awkward lull. Elka shot a meaningful look at Suzanna.
Awena looked around. The place was jammed with customers, with several women and one man—Frank Cuthbert—waiting for their appointments and several more having their hair worked on. Gabby’s blue-white locks gleamed in the overhead light, and the floor was so littered with snips of auburn and gray and brown hair that Annette was kept busy sweeping up. Melinda was there also, Awena saw, wearing stacks of thin gold bracelets on each arm. In keeping with her personality, she jangled like the bells on a dray horse as she turned the pages of a fashion magazine. One woman sat shrouded in a black nylon cape and foils, looking as if she were waiting for someone to come and plug her in.
DCI Cotton, Awena learned, had just left.
“Grilled Gabby, he did,” Annette said.
“He did not,” said Gabby. “If I’d been in for a grilling, it wouldn’t have been here, now would it? That man must have a police station somewhere to go to, as much as he hangs around here. He talked to you, too.”
“And I had nothing to say.” Annette managed to imply she could have said so much, but the truth was, she was as baffled by the murder as anyone.
Suddenly, they both remembered Melinda was in the room, but since she sat right beneath the radio, which still broadcast unheeded from a shelf over her head, she appeared not to have heard the exchange.
Suzanna looked up at Awena—the sensual, voluptuous Awena, with her hair, long and black and glossy as a slice of anthracite, apart from that striking white streak at the temple. She isn’t even trying, thought Suzanna, and yet she emits this—well, this aura. But Suzanna smiled, a genuine smile of renewed friendship, for she had determined to hold no long-term grudges in having lost the Max sweepstakes. For Suzanna, there would always be other prizes to be won. Prizes like Umberto.
Annette saw Awena and put down her scissors.
“You brought the salve? Fantastic.”
Annette suffered from the beginnings of arthritis, and she swore that Awena’s salve, comprised of ground cayenne and Cat’s Claw, among other things, alleviated the pain of wielding scissors for much of the day. It wasn’t a cure, but there was no question in Annette’s mind that it helped.
“And here is some gotu kola, in case you cut your hand again,” said Awena. “It can help with healing, and prevent scarring.” The scissors were always extra sharp once the traveling knife sharpener had passed through town, and Annette’s left hand still bore the traces of a scar. “You should talk with Dr. Winship about all of this,” Awena added, “particularly if you’re using anything else he’s prescribed.”
“Of course,” said Annette. “Will do.” She broke off as unusual activity at the front of the shop caught her eye. “Frank, what are you doing?’
“I’m alphabetizing the nail varnish bottles: Pagan Rose, Primrosey, Silverlight, and so on. It will make it easier for you to find what you want.”
“I really would rather you d—”
Suddenly, there was a clatter. Gabby dropped the bowl she’d been using to apply color to her customer’s hair, and Annette dropped the small jar Awena had just handed her.
“What?” said all three women simultaneously. BBC Radio 4 droned on in the background, now with news of the escalating euro crisis.
Gabby and Annette set about clearing up the mess. When they’d finished, Gabby tugged nervously at her sleeves, as if they chafed.
“Well, how clumsy can we get in our old age?” she said.
“Speak for yourself,” said Annette. But there was humor in her voice. “You’ve been on your feet all day. Why not take a rest? I’ll take over what you’re doing when I’m done here.”
“Thank you,” said Gabby, clearly relieved. She consulted briefly with her client. “I was almost finished. But I do feel a little peculiar.”
She inhaled deeply to settle her breathing. Awena and the others were reminded that Gabby was getting along in years.
“Thank you,” she repeated. The rouge dotting her cheeks stood out against her suddenly colorless skin.
Subject: What to do?
From: Gabrielle Crew ([email protected])
To: Claude Chaux (Claude43
@TresRapidePoste.fr)
Date: Wednesday, March 28, 2012 1:46 P.M.
Dear Claude—I find my mind keeps returning to that misty winter morning in Raven’s Wood. That morning when I knew what Melinda was thinking.
I had another recipe from Awena that I was anxious to try, this one for pasties made with mushrooms and lentils, and I knew a few mushrooms remained in the woods despite the cold.
I was lost in my own thoughts and so I almost literally bumped into Melinda: I heard a rustling of leaves and I looked up to find her there, carrying a wicker basket just like mine. That in itself was simply not her style, and I wondered how she knew to use a wicker basket to collect mushrooms, so the spores can escape and propagate the area. Someone must have told her, probably Awena, although anyone schooled in country ways would know it.
“I’m collecting mushrooms for our supper,” she told me. I nearly laughed aloud at the thought of Melinda preparing anything not purchased, wrapped in cling film, from a supermarket in Staincross Minster. First of all, unless you know what you are doing, you can easily kill yourself: Many species around here that are safe to eat also resemble mushrooms that will send you to meet your Maker. You have to know the smell and color of the dangerous versus the safe ones, and that comes from the experience of being a countrywoman. I have always thought it wonderful that in France you can take your mushrooms to a pharmacist, where they are trained to identify which mushrooms are safe and which not. But that is the beauty of a nation that lives and dies by its food.
The poisonous Yellow Stainer, common to this area, may not kill you but it can make you very ill indeed, and if you are elderly—elderly like her husband, Thaddeus, for example—well.… Besides, what she had in that basket was not a Yellow Stainer. It was a death cap, and that is what Melinda was collecting. The death cap! A tiny sliver of which can be fatal.
Pagan Spring: A Mystery (A Max Tudor Novel) Page 18
