Pagan Spring: A Mystery (A Max Tudor Novel) (21 page)

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 ([email protected])

To: Claude Chaux ([email protected])

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

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?

Vestiges of the dream stayed with him as he finally surrendered to dawn and consciousness. In the half-light world between dreaming and waking, he struggled to remember the vivid but disappearing details.

With a sudden spurt of anger, Max thought he’d give anything to see the man caught and punished.

Any
thing.

*

So it was in a distracted and tired state of mind that he made the early-morning drive to see the bishop in his palace. His thoughts clung more to the night before than focusing ahead on what he suspected would be an important interview.

The weather had shifted yet again, unseasonably warm for March. Nearly everyone he saw had pushed their sleeves up or had found a favorite colorful short-sleeved dress or shirt in the closet; nearly every window was open in every cottage. The change was striking, for the recent winter temperatures in England had been far below the norm. Nether Monkslip, generally spared the worst, had felt the nip, as well.

Less than two hours later, Max turned off the motorway and followed the signs into the center of the old cathedral town; before long, the palace came into his view, perfectly framed in the windshield of the Land Rover. He had forgotten until he saw it again how imposing the place was, how austere yet magisterial; it overwhelmed the viewer, as it was meant to do. If not for the traffic, Max would have pulled over to stop and gaze in awe along with the tourists. Most unusually, the palace, adjacent to the equally magnificent cathedral, was walled and moated and drawbridged like a fortress, these belligerent touches being remnants of a feud centuries before, when hot oil and molten lead were still standards in the arsenal of weapons. Now swans floated serenely on the still waters of the moat, and rang a bell when they wanted food. Entry to the grounds was through a gatehouse; once one was inside, the gardens of the palace grounds bloomed in beautiful contrast to the area’s violent past.

Max found a parking spot for the Rover and set out at a jog to keep his appointment. Passersby smiled at the sight of the running priest.

*

The bishop, a ginger-haired, comfortable-looking man in his sixties, was dictating a memo for his secretary into a small microphone. He was grappling, as always, with some of the more vexing issues of the day as the Church of England emerged, blinking in its molelike way, into the twenty-first century.

“We must wholeheartedly embrace the gay community, clasping it—wait. Make that: We welcome the gay community with … Wait. Wait. Make that: We welcome the gay community. Full stop.”

The bishop cleared his throat.

“Erase all that and let’s start again,” he said into the machine. Even as he did so, he could picture his long-suffering secretary in the outer office heaving a monumental sigh. “Opening paragraph,” said the bishop firmly. “The ordination of women, while not embraced unconditionally in the beginning, has become for many a beacon of common sense, an ethical torch lighting the way to an inclusive vision for mankind and womankind. Correction. Make that: womankind and mankind—good. After so many centuries, we simply could no longer skirt the issue. Wait. Make that: We could no longer avoid the issue. As we enter the twenty-first century, we embrace … uhm. We love … uhm … In Christ, we love
every
body.”

Max, meanwhile, having found his way to the bishop’s private rooms, had been bidden by the man’s secretary to wait in an outer chamber. After refusing the offer of coffee, Max merged into the darkness in the corner of the room, dark-haired and dressed head to toe in black, aside from his white collar, which caught the light like a fallen halo. The area had been set up for visitors with a low, worn velveteen sofa and chairs and a large, square coffee table. On offer were an array of religious magazines and newsletters, each one of a stultifying dullness worse than the last. Or perhaps, Max thought, he was simply too keyed up about the upcoming meeting to focus on the meaning of the text. He picked up one magazine and saw the headline:
THE TOMBOLA AS CHURCH FUND-RAISER: AN OVERVIEW
. No, he decided. Overall, it was the content, not his fragmented attention span. He chose to sit, hands folded, actively cultivating a sense of inner calm, even as his mind tried and failed to predict the upcoming interview. Perhaps he should take one of Awena’s meditation courses on offer at Goddessspell.

It was fifteen minutes before he was summoned into the presence. Still not time enough to have sorted out what and how to tell the bishop. He didn’t expect a grilling, but the summoning to the inner sanctum was unusual enough that
some
thing must be up.

Max’s innate honesty was struggling with the more mundane problem of how to construct a coherent narrative out of all that had befallen him since taking up his duties in Nether Monkslip. Murders, police investigations, and his deepening relationship with Awena, just to touch on the highlights. Difficult to predict which of those topics would upset the bishop more.