Authors: G. M. Malliet
Who would be a policeman?
But Cotton did have an ace up his sleeve. And that ace, a compassionate man with the heart of a vicar and the soul of a detective, was named Father Max Tudor.
* * *
Max wasn’t back at the vicarage for a moment before the phone began to ring. The late hour didn’t surprise him. Emergencies always seemed to happen at night, keeping company with dark nights of the soul.
“Hello, Max.” The two friends, policeman and vicar, had long since done away with using formal titles in private conversation. “We’ve got a situation over at Chedrow Castle.”
Wondering only briefly at the “we,” Max said, “What an odd coincidence. I was just talking about the family with a friend, over dinner. With Awena—you know her. I shared a train compartment with Lady Baynard just this morning.”
“Holy—. I’ll certainly need to hear more about that.”
“Whatever I can recall I’ll tell you, of course. Lady Baynard gave me a brief rundown on the state of affairs at the castle—and she did indicate she was uneasy about the situation. She called it a situation brewing.” Max thought. “She said she’d been shopping and had bought some chocolates for her son.”
“Which one?”
“Randolph, I think it was. She has more than one son?”
“Two, in fact.”
“That’s interesting in itself. She seemed to have forgotten one. At least, she didn’t mention him. She told me Randolph’s great-grandmother was a Goofe-Wattle or something. She also said her brother had been ill—recently, I gather. I wasn’t listening closely, sorry. It may come to me.”
Cotton sighed. It was the tag end of a long, long day. He needed a shower, and as much sleep as he could manage before the morning. He fought back the weariness and took a sip of some coffee that had been cold for half an hour.
“You said there was a situation,” Max prompted him.
“Yes. It’s rather an odd situation. She’s dead, Max, I’m afraid.”
“Dead? You don’t mean…” Max knew they wouldn’t be having this conversation if some criminal activity weren’t at the heart of it.
“No. We think it was natural causes.”
“I am sorry to hear that. But—why call me? And why, more to the point, are you involved? She wasn’t murdered, you say.”
“No. No, not murdered. To all appearances, she died a natural if unexpected death. It’s her brother who makes this a ‘situation.’ That would be Lord Footrustle.”
“He was killed,” Max said flatly.
“He was. Stabbed by someone determined to see him out of this world. Yes, her brother was murdered, apparently a short time before she herself succumbed.”
“Oh, my God. The shock, I suppose.”
“How was she when you saw her?” Cotton asked. “Her mood, her demeanor? Did she appear to be in good health?”
“Apart from a cold. And one doesn’t normally die of a cold.”
“Actually, among the elderly, it’s not uncommon to die of a cold.”
“Yes, of course you’re right about that. As to her mood? Acerbic. Her demeanor? Commanding. Nothing, I gathered, out of the ordinary. She was used to command. We chatted a while, then she sat there knitting like Madame Defarge until the train pulled in to Nether Monkslip. I bundled her into a taxi headed toward Monkslip-super-Mare and her castle, and that was the last I saw of her.”
“I see.”
“When did all this happen?” Max asked him. “As I say, I just was talking with her this very morning.”
Cotton said, “The rituals of the forensics team are as mystifying as those of the Masons. But they say, going greatly out on a limb, that he, Lord Footrustle, was killed around eight
A.M.
, give or take two hours. They can never be
sure
and it depends on several
fac
tors such as heat and damp and, no doubt, whether or not the moon was in the seventh house. But that is the long and short of what we have to work with. No useful prints that don’t belong there. The killer did not helpfully leave behind his or her footprints in blood, nor did the victim scrawl the killer’s name in blood on his headboard. Although, something dramatic like bloody footprints was just possible. The poor old man bled quite a bit. Blood was everywhere but mainly soaked into the mattress of his bed.”
Max said, “But you say she wasn’t killed, too? Lady Barnard?”
“No! And there’s the odd thing. Natural causes. The doc swears it. More tests to run, of course, and in the fullness of time all will be revealed. But he’s certain it was just her time to go.”
“Could Lord Footrustle’s death have precipitated an event that caused her death? Heart attack, or something?”
“Yes. They’re certainly looking into that possibility, and going on that assumption.”
“Oh, man,” said Max. “I really should have paid her more attention.”
Cotton seized on this small opening. It was never hard to open a little crack of guilt in the Max facade. “You could help us, Max. We need feet on the ground, ears at the doors. You know the sort of thing.”
“And you know that’s not my department anymore. My days with MI5 were a hundred years ago. Besides, Chedrow Castle falls under the purview of Father Arthnot of Monkslip-super-Mare. There’s a protocol, not unlike your own rules for rank-and-file.”
“Actually, as it turns out, it
is
your department. The deceased—both of them—have asked in their wills to be buried out of St. Edwold’s, according to my recent conversation with the family solicitor. And a dodgy old reprobate he is, but more on that later—you’ll no doubt get to meet him.
“Anyway, Nether Monkslip has been requested by both Lord Footrustle and Lady Baynard in their wills as their final resting place, far in advance of need—back in the days of your predecessor, in fact. I gather they had a special attachment to St. Edwold’s. Now I imagine it will be a double service, when we can release the bodies. So I’ll tell the people at Chedrow Castle you are there as a special advisor regarding the religious services to be held in Nether Monkslip—helping them choose the hymns and favorite bits of scripture and so on. I gather Lady Baynard’s granddaughter Lamorna is keen to talk with you. She is a bit … religious. You’ll see. Anyway, that will get you in for one night, just so you can get the lie of the land. Or is it lay?—I can never remember. After that, we’ll think of something, if need be. The family is terribly upset, naturally. Your presence would have a calming effect,” Cotton concluded.
“You want me to snoop around,” Max said flatly.
“Only in a calming way,” said Cotton.
Max laughed, despite himself. Cotton on a case was relentless; there was no string he wouldn’t pull, no angle he wouldn’t try, no chit he wouldn’t call in.
Cotton said, “Just do what you do best, Max. Listen, sympathize, ingratiate. Above all, notice things.”
“I do not
ingratiate
. That sounds so … so calculating. Like some corrupt salesman.”
“One thing you are not, Max, is calculating. You ingratiate because you are an ingratiating sort of person. I mean, you’re—oh, never mind. Will you go?”
Cotton, who felt he knew his man by now, also felt sure he knew what the answer would be. So he sat through the hemmings and hawings, the “Well, I’d have to get someone in to take over the service”s, examining his nails and scrabbling through his desk to find a nail file, the phone receiver tucked under his chin all the while. Max had reached the end of his recital of what-ifs and conditionals by the time Cotton had finished filing down the little snag on his left index fingernail.
“Good, that’s sorted then,” he said. “I’ll tell them to expect you. And here’s the phone number for the castle. There’s rather an elaborate ‘Open, Sesame’ routine you have to go through at the gate. The butler chap will talk you through it.”
“I’m really not—” began Max.
“Anyway, nothing could be more natural than that you attend personally to advise on the arrangements,” Cotton ran on. “Lamorna, as I say, has in fact asked specifically for guidance. I gather she’s a poor relation of some kind.”
“Yes, I know. Again, funnily enough, I learned quite a bit about her over dinner tonight. Poor thing doesn’t seem to have had much of a life.”
“So you will do it?” Cotton knew from Max’s tone that he, Cotton, was winning now. Once Max met Lamorna he might not be so filled with sympathy, but Cotton wasn’t going to tell him that.
“I’ll be glad to talk to her and to all the family, certainly. I’ll have to clear up a few things here—beginning with a call to Father Arthnot. But I don’t want to be in the middle of your investigation. I’ll simply muddy the waters for your people.”
“They’ve all left, my people. The video team, the photographer, the police doctor.” The image came into his mind of the two bodies, each encircled by its own technicians wearing their all-enveloping blue coveralls with elastic at wrists and ankles, accessorized none too fashionably with the booties and hoods designed to protect the crime scene from contamination. They stooped and swayed, poked and prodded, shuffled about and chanted to one another in the ritual of violent death they had all come to know too well.
“They’ve gone off to learn what they can from the scene photos and the bodies themselves,” he told Max. “The areas where the bodies were found have been sealed off for the time being, of course. She was found in the hothouse, which is tucked into a corner of the garden, where I’m told she spent much of her time. He, as I’ve indicated, was found in his bedroom. The technical people have gone off to chortle over the blood spatter patterns in which they take such delight. But we’re left with the suspects, who still are the main source of clues.”
“Even with forensics and all the modern gewgaws, it comes down to the people in the end, doesn’t it?” agreed Max.
Cotton nodded, as if Max were there to see him. “The police surgeon thought we should ask for a postmortem on both bodies. Obviously, there’s foul play in the case of Lord Footrustle. We need to be quite sure there wasn’t something suspicious about Lady Baynard’s death, as well.”
“Poor woman. I’d never met him, but to have just parted from her … That is harsh.”
“So you will help.”
Now Max, unseen by Cotton, was nodding. But somehow Cotton knew this.
“Then I’ll see you there,” said Cotton. “Hopefully tomorrow—time is of the essence in these cases, as you are well aware. Just let me know when you’re setting out.” And he quickly rang off, again in a nod to all the film noir he’d ever seen in his life, and again not wishing to push his luck. Max could always change his mind, but somehow Cotton didn’t think he would. A hound already set on the chase, was Max.
Thoughtfully putting down the colossal Bakelite phone at his own end, unknowingly dislodging Luther from another of his death-defying acrobatic attempts, Max wondered what his bishop would think of the way his pastoral duties were starting to overlap with high crimes and misdemeanors. Overall he felt it best to say the least possible unless asked directly what in the world he thought he was doing. He could argue he was doing God’s work in trying to bring criminals to justice, but would the Bishop of Monkslip agree? On the whole, Max thought perhaps not. Softly, softly then. So long as none of his pastoral duties suffered, there was no reason for the bishop to even learn of Max’s involvement in the affair.
CHAPTER 6
A Man’s Home
Max had a rusting old Land Rover he used mainly for home visits to farms. In the village, he could walk everywhere, often with Thea at his side. In such a small and compact area as Nether Monkslip, he seldom even used his bicycle.
He powered up the ancient but reliable engine the next day for his visit to the castle. Despite Cotton’s mild protests, the business of St. Edwold’s had to come first, and it took some time for him to arrange cover during his absence: Someone had to be available to administer the sacraments. His bishop was not consulted—nor need he have been, Max quickly added to the thought. If he had been, he might not have stamped his approval on the scheme insofar as the police investigation was concerned. But as it happened, the vicar at St. David’s Church in Monkslip-super-Mare had declared himself glad to be relieved of the immediate need to make a condolence visit to Chedrow Castle. So much so that Max asked him, suspiciously, why that was so.
“You mean apart from the fact a knife-wielding murderer is rampaging about the castle? Do I need another reason?” Father John Arthnot was a canny, no-nonsense cleric, nearing retirement, a prospect he viewed with quiet happiness. He and his wife had three grandchildren who had arrived in rapid succession, all of them living in Bradford, and all of them in need of babysitting services.
“And the Church,” John had told him, “is not what it was. It’s time for the old guard like me to leave the way clear for the youthful go-getter like yourself. You’ve worked miracles in Nether Monkslip, I hear. Attendance is off the charts.”
Max didn’t want to go into the fact that the recent murder in the village, and his subsequent involvement in the investigation, had much to do with the religious revival that had gripped the village. For now, it was sufficient to know that his attendance on the castle would not be treading on the man’s pastoral toes.
“Besides,” John added, “the family is barking. I’m happy to hand them off to you. Never was a condolence call less needed.”
“Surely not,” said Max, somewhat shocked. Two people dead, and no one in need of consolation?
“You’ll see,” said John placidly. “It’s sad, but they’re probably all too busy counting the silverware and keeping an eye on one another to mourn the passing of either lord or lady.”
Max set out then, but not before making half a dozen additional phone calls, some to call in his chits with other priests in the vicinity. He wasn’t certain how long he would be gone, but this was a busy time of year for the church, and his duties couldn’t just be abandoned at any time. He also let Mrs. Hooser know he’d be gone, to make sure the animals were fed in his absence.
He admitted to himself that part of his motivation in heeding the call from Cotton was that Lady Baynard had told him of her misgivings or forebodings. He felt that he owed it to her to find out what had happened to her brother, whose violent death so spectacularly fulfilled her premonitions of trouble to come.