Wicked Autumn (15 page)

Or was it a dangerous one, for a doctor?

CHAPTER 15

The Baker

It was Monday night, following his visit with Bruce and Suzanna Winship and the inquest of earlier in the day. Max, trying to relax, had been watching a BBC show on the Great Wall of China, back-to-back with a reprise of the Medici reign, a comparison which served to highlight both man’s inhumanity to man as well as his endless inventiveness when it came to headgear.

When the Medici show was over, the news came on. He had for years been unable to watch the world news without wondering what untold story lay behind it. The further he got from MI5, the more he was falling out of that loop. The adjourned inquest into Wanda’s demise was given a brief summary which highlighted the role of the WI and tried inanely to draw a cause-and-effect along the lines of “jam and scandal.” Finally, the broadcasters wound up with a scolding little cautionary tale featuring Prince Harry, doing his best to fill the royal party-animal role vacated by Edward VII, Princess Margaret, and the Duchess of York.

Another knock at the door. This time, somewhat to his surprise, it was Elka Garth who stood there. She was looking over her shoulder in a way that suggested she was worried about being observed. Nearly as soon as he opened the door, she barreled in.

Max, following her into the study, did not have to guess at the cause for her visit.

She declined anything stronger, so they talked for the next half hour over a strong coffee that he prepared in the French press. Max took the occasion of fussing over cups and spoons to look at her: gray-threaded hair that cried out for a rinse or whatever it was women did to liven the color. Makeup haphazardly applied, but not thickly enough to mask the dark circles under her puffy eyes, just enough to settle into the surrounding creases. Her thick glasses magnified the sad effort at concealment, turning the creases into hills and gullies. The aging skin of her neck was starting to sag in origami folds.

Strange how worry and guilt produced the same corrosive effect on people’s faces. He of course knew the trouble she had with her son—that he was a constant worry, and of little help or comfort. He also knew she was one of the hardest working women in the village, juggling, in effect, two shops where one would have been a full-time job, as well as operating her online store, which he supposed counted as a third shop. (The village was becoming so hi-tech even St. Edwold’s had a Web site, but so far Max had firmly resisted all attempts to give the church a Twitter feed or a fan page on Facebook. Max had recruited a computer genius, aged twelve, to build the site and put the parish magazine online, and thereafter had induced him to remove the somewhat risqué avatars he had created for the churchwardens.)

Elka observed Max now out of those weary eyes—eyes that, though tired, held a spark of shrewdness. Seeing him sit back, still looking at her appraisingly, she launched right into the topic uppermost on her mind: “I couldn’t be at the inquest today; I’ve business to attend to, as you know, and I wasn’t summoned. But folk are saying it must be murder or the police wouldn’t be so interested. I want you to know and I need you to understand: whatever happened to Wanda, it had nothing to do with me.”

“All right,” he said, thinking he’d take that as a given, for now, since if Elka had wanted Wanda gone, it would be a huge risk to use a method that so clearly could be brought back to herself. “Has someone accused you?” he asked gently.

“No. But Guy was in the Cavalier telling people how she looked when she was found. You know him? Owns the French Revolution in Monkslip-super-Mare. Always reminds me of someone—some movie star or other. Anyway, it was allergic reaction, plain as day. My aunt had allergies like that and we knew the symptoms. Swollen face and lips, choking. Everyone knew Wanda was that allergic to peanuts. I did, too, which is why I was ever so careful to label things properly.”

Max raised his eyebrows and held his peace. Wanda had come into possession of a biscuit or other food that to her was purest poison. How had it happened? Finally he asked, “This was your usual role for Harvest Fayre, wasn’t it? The baked goods.”

She nodded. “Me and a few others, mind. Baked goods, homemade-like, being popular on the day. Especially with the kiddies, but with everyone, really. An excuse to go off the slimming regime for a bit.”

“So you brought along your goods on the day and displayed them for sale on a predesignated table, is that right?”

“That’s right.”

“There were extras held in reserve?”

“That’s right.”

“And those were in…?”

She sighed. “They were in the Village Hall. In the kitchen. Along,” she hastened to add, “with a lot of other cakes and scones and biscuits and things. There wasn’t room to display it all, and we didn’t want it all sitting in the sun for hours, anyway. So…”

“Was there anything that identified your contributions from anyone else’s?”

“The biscuits came in boxes that I use in my shop, for bulk orders. But some I had put on paper plates covered in cling film.”

“No way to differentiate them, then?”

“Not really, no. I would say that my goods were better than the average contribution, but I would say that, wouldn’t I?” For the first time since she’d entered the room, a trace of a smile appeared on the usually friendly face.

Max regarded her, trying to frame the next question. Finally, he said, “Were you surprised by her death?”

She caught him off guard by saying, “No. Not really. You were expecting me to say I’ve never been so shocked, weren’t you? But somehow with Wanda, the wonder always was that she’d managed to live as long as she had.”

“Does that mean you have ideas about who did this?”

“No, and that’s the other side of the same coin. Who would actually do this? Want to do it, yes. Think about or plan to do it even, sure. But actually kill her? Impossible to imagine.”

“You had your own issues with her…” Max let the unspoken part of the sentence hang in the air.

“You can’t be serious.” Elka twisted her features into an expression of distaste. “Everyone had issues with Wanda. But no one would kill her.” It was clearly a subject on which her mind was made up and no mere facts were going to shift her.

“What exactly was the issue you had?” Max asked. He indicated the coffee pot for a refill. She shook her head.

“I’ll be up half the night as it is,” she said. “Not that that’s anything unusual.”

Max took a stab at what he guessed was the issue.

“Something to do with your son, was it? With Clayton.” It was not really a question. Clayton was the dearest thing to her heart, and the cause for much of its heartache. She pursed her lips, reliving the grievance.

“It was just … Father, it was simply the attitude of superiority. Her son, such a high flyer. Clayton—well, he’s a success in his own lights. He’s reliable—well, mostly. I’m training him up to maybe take over the business one day…” Her voice drifted a bit on this last. The chances of Clayton maturing in time to take on such huge responsibilities must have struck even Elka as remote in the extreme. If not, her self-delusion was complete.

“Why did this have to happen?” she asked, the note of hysteria in her scratchy voice becoming more pronounced.

For the first time, Max wondered: Could Clayton have finally gotten his act together long enough to commit murder? Perhaps in some misguided attempt to become the protector his mother so clearly needed, at last?

The look in Elka’s eyes suddenly made him realize: this thought had occurred to her as well.

CHAPTER 16

The Major

The following day, at nearly the end of September, was Michaelmas—the feast of St. Michael the Archangel. It was three days since the death of Wanda Batton-Smythe. Max felt it was time to pay his formal respects to her spouse, the Major. Max had telephoned soon after the tragedy to offer his assistance, but as was usual in these cases, the Major didn’t even know yet what kind of help he would be needing. Max knew a follow-up call, in person, was in order.

His visit had an official investigatory tinge to it as well. He’d run into DCI Cotton on the High Street quite early that morning—almost literally run into, he on his morning run with Thea, and Cotton clearly engaged on his own keep-fit scheme. Knowing their conversation would be closely observed by anyone awake at that hour, they’d only taken time for a hushed consultation regarding Wanda’s death, looking airily about them the while, as if commenting on the weather.

“I’ve kept one ear to the ground as promised but there’s nothing I can tell you as yet,” Max said. That was literally true: he decided, for reasons of his own, to say nothing of Elka’s visit last night. Why point the police in the direction of Clayton, when there was nothing but his mother’s worry as an indicator of his guilt?

“No new developments this end,” Cotton had told him in his turn. “There’s an undisputed lack of grief, except in the case of the husband. And his grief seems to be genuine. I’d say he’s lost without her.”

“That’s a typical reaction,” Max had replied. “Men don’t realize how much their wives fill a void in their lives until they’re left on their own. Many come near starving to death, for one thing. I’ll be stopping in to check on him.”

“I was hoping you’d say that. Try to see if he’s remembered anything that could help our investigation—something he might more easily recall for you than when talking with me. I seem to make some people nervous.” He smiled a devilish smile that made Max understand how people might clam up around him.

So a few hours later, having taken service and otherwise fulfilled his morning parish duties, Max stood at the door of Morning Glory Cottage and gave a tug on the old-fashioned bell pull. After quite a long wait, during which he had time to fully appreciate the tribute to Gothic architecture in the plate tracery windows overhead—windows perhaps more suited to a cathedral—the heavy door of the opulent bungalow was opened, and Max was admitted into a varnished hall worthy of a small stately home.

The Major (as he was always called—few could remember his real name, which was Montague) gave the clear impression of a man pottering around in the absence of his wife, quite lost, like a child handed a grocery shopping list and sent off alone to Sainsbury’s. He hadn’t a clue where to start and was looking for oranges, metaphorically speaking, in the bread aisle.

The man looked desperately tired. He had shaved, missing patches of white stubble and leaving a nick on his left cheekbone. The trickle of dried blood threatened to bleed anew as he attempted a welcoming smile. Now he pointed in the direction of a sofa in the sitting room and said tentatively, “Seat?” He looked troubled, however, as though wondering how such an object had found its way into his home.

From the sitting room, Max could see into the dining room and from there, the door being ajar, into the kitchen. The remains of a serving of what he imagined was tuna casserole, probably the well-intended gift of a neighbor, sat pungently congealing on a plate on the dining room table. The solitary table setting of placemat, fork, and glass struck Max as inexpressibly sad. The Major had many such lonely meals ahead of him.

“Would you like … something?” asked the Major hesitantly, waving a hand in the direction of the kitchen. “To drink, perhaps?” He paused, as if trying to remember the universe of beverages deemed fit for human consumption. “Tea?” he finally hazarded, a game show contestant desperate to beat the odds of a wrong answer.

“No, thank you,” Max started to say, then suddenly realized what the Major needed might be exactly that British panacea. “Only if you’ll let me make it. Actually, I’d love a cup. I’ll just put the kettle on, shall I?”

The Major buying into this fabrication (Max had already had three cups that day during home visits), the next few minutes were spent in trying to sort out the location of the tea caddy, the kettle, the water, and the various other essential ingredients and implements, all of which seemed to mystify the Major. It was as if he’d never been in his own kitchen before. Indeed, Max thought it likely Wanda was one of those women who forbad men entrée into their exclusive domain, on the grounds of man’s innate, clodhopping destructiveness in the presence of glassware and china.

Kettle on the boil, Max began the washing up, first depositing the casserole remains in the bin. The Major didn’t extend even a token offer of help, not out of sloth, so far as Max could tell, but because he seemed hardly aware Max was still in the room. Wanda’s imprint could be felt everywhere: every dishtowel looked to have been lightly starched and ironed, and every jar hand-labeled in black ink in a neat, precise hand.

The Major began absentmindedly eating a scone he’d lathered in peanut butter. Noticing Max’s regard, he said somewhat guiltily, “Wanda wouldn’t have it in the house, of course.”

As he rinsed a few glasses, Max could see from the window to his left a small garden with flagged paths and nary a fallen leaf in sight. The Major must be one of those who found gardening therapeutic. He would feel the same way, Max imagined, if he had the time for it. The garden at the vicarage would soon wear a carpet of wet and dangerously slippy leaves if someone didn’t see to it soon. Max had let it slide, and Maurice, who usually saw to such things for him, had not been much in evidence during the past week.

The teakettle screeched to announce that the water was boiling. Max found some cake in a tin and, putting one slice on a plate for the Major, arranged all the tea paraphernalia on a tray to take into the sitting room. He had the feeling the Major would infinitely have preferred they have their drink in the kitchen, but Wanda would not have stood for the informality with such an important guest as the Vicar in the house. Similarly, there are those who only allow visitors (but never tradesmen) in through the front door. So into the sitting room he and the Major must go. It was as if Wanda had never left the scene.

Handing out the tea things, Max took in the sitting room, consciously seeking out the photos that were often the most revelatory thing in any home. Everywhere were further signs of Wanda’s absence: several days’ worth of newspapers allowed to fall where they may, and several cups and saucers that needed to be cleared.