“That is Marbella,” Rosamund informed him. “She’s just had her kittens—we’ve no idea exactly where or how many. Three or four, from the sound of it. She won’t let us near, of course. She comes out to find her own food and they carry on until she returns. Cook has been leaving out leftovers for her. I don’t suppose you’d like a kitten when the time comes?”
Max shook his head. “I love cats, but my dog has had a lot to deal with lately, already. We’ve just introduced a baby into the household.” Max never missed a chance to insert this news into the conversation whenever he came across someone who might not know the glad tidings. “But Thea’s really been lovely about it. Concerned and protective.”
Rosamund made satisfactory cooing sounds to express her pleasure at this update. Bill Travis looked as if he might want to guy-punch Max on the shoulder but thought better of it.
“Anyway, I didn’t mean to interrupt,” said Max. “You were talking horses, not a subject on which I am any sort of expert.”
“Yes, I was saying we have a foal, close to being a filly now, who seems to be going off. I’ve had the vet by to look at her. I don’t dare leave her for long.…” He turned his head, as if he might rush off right then to look in on the animal.
No, thought Max, that was not what you were saying. That was not the topic at all. But aloud he said, “That’s too bad.”
Bill Travis nodded. “She’s an expensive piece of horseflesh.”
“I meant,” said Max evenly, “that it’s especially difficult for us humans when animals suffer. They can’t tell us where it hurts.”
As if realizing how callous his statement may have sounded, Travis said, “She is a nice creature and I don’t like to see her suffer, of course. But she’s losing rather than gaining. We will soon have to take a decision on what to do.
“We can’t,” he added, “afford to let sentiment get in the way of progress.”
Chapter 6
MURDER IN THE WOODS
Max was to remember these conversations a week later as late one evening he retraced his steps to the manor house. He had come in answer to a summons from Lord Baaden-Boomethistle; as it happened, he had been planning a walk with Thea to clear his head at the end of a long day, and the woods around the manor house provided an attractive venue. Awena had settled the baby in for the night, and when last seen, she was shelling English peas for their dinner. They would start the meal with pumpkin soup, she’d promised: while the rest of England had seen much of its crop rotted by the damp, the southwest of England had enjoyed a bumper crop.
Whatever the lord wanted, it did not seem to be an emergency, and probably it could have waited. But the man sounded unlike himself on the phone—unsettled and subdued, and he could not be induced to say what the matter was.
“I’ll tell you when I see you,” Lord Baaden-Boomethistle had said. “I’ll have Hargreaves set out the good whiskey, shall I? I’m taking Foto Finish out for exercise—I ride every evening—but I’ll be back in good time to share a drink with you. There’s something I’d like to take your mind on.”
The blatant bribery made the summons all the more intriguing, so Max agreed he would see him in a few hours. He was told to come around the back of the house (which he understood to be an honor meant for family, rather than a demotion in status) and to find his own way to the study, as it was Hargreave’s evening off.
In the end, it was a fruitless visit. Max arrived at the house a few minutes early and, leaving Thea by the steps with a command to stay, made his way down the hallway, taking the turns as he remembered them. But there was no answer to his knock at the study door.
“Hmm,” he said aloud, thinking, This doesn’t seem right. The lord was abrupt in manner and used to having his way, but standing up an appointment would not, in the world in which he lived, be the done thing.
Max tried the door handle, a polished brass affair probably copied from something at Buckingham Palace. It turned. He gave the wooden door a push.
There was the promised whiskey on a tray, with two clean glasses waiting.
And the massive polished desk, a desk on which to plot wars and takeovers and strategies.
But there was no Lord Baaden-Boomethistle, a fact Max found curiouser and curiouser. Rudeness just to be rude was not in the man’s makeup.
Max spent fifteen minutes cooling his heels, taking advantage of the unlooked-for chance to admire the artwork, the paintings and statues and cabinets filled with exquisite curios of porcelain and jade. But he was impatient, wondering what had gone wrong, why he had been summoned in the first place, just to be stood up.
Finally he gave up, leaving by the back entrance, through which he had entered, collecting Thea, and making his way back home.
* * *
Nether Monkslip nestled at the base of Hawk Crest, which overlooked the same river that ran past the base of Totleigh Hall. From the top floor of his vicarage, Max could see the river sparkling in the sunlight on good days, carrying its cargo of diamonds to the sea. The tang of seawater from the south often floated on the air, mixing with the scents of cultivated soil and pastureland and the flowers of carefully tended gardens. Max thought it was as close to heaven as one could hope to find here on earth.
It was past the hinge of the day and the sky had lost much of the light; only dying rays of the sun had shimmered through a curtain of falling leaves as he and Thea ambled away from Totleigh Hall. It was getting cold, and he wore his heavy woolen coat for the first time that season. Its collar smelled of a scent Awena often wore, a smoky herbal fragrance.
The forest’s evening rush hour had been stilled. There was only the occasional scuffling in the undergrowth to signify his presence had been noted. Thea, hearing something that only dog radar could detect, tore off down one of the forest paths winding its way back toward Totleigh Hall and the lake. It had been some time since she had been on an extended walk, so Max decided to let her enjoy herself awhile longer.
Eventually she came back, bringing with her a small branch of just the right size and shape for games. Obligingly, he began to throw it for her, watching with pleasure as she bolted away, her silky ears flying. He had always thought Gordon setters were one of the loveliest of the breeds, with their shiny black-and-tan coats, their intelligence, and their loyalty. He thought Thea to be outstanding on all these counts. Of course, he acknowledged, he would think that; a rescue dog, she had been his companion for so long, he could not imagine life without her. He had wondered if the baby would make her feel displaced from the center of the universe, but she had welcomed Owen as a sort of added bonus to her life, an additional, if shockingly small, human being to love and defend. She had fallen immediately into her new role of protectress, glancing from Max to Owen and back to Max again, as if to say, Yours, right? Okay, stand back. I got this. And she never willingly left the baby’s side from that day forward, sleeping at the foot of his crib at night and beside his bassinet in Awena’s shop during the day. She would come to fetch either Awena or himself a moment before the baby started to fuss for food or comfort.
The moon made a fleeting appearance from behind the skeletal trees, and Max idly watched its sliver of light come and go through the partings in the overhead canopy. Earlier in the year, they’d had an enormous supermoon, but now it was only a small silver crescent in the sky, like a coin that had been clipped too often. Gray threads of cloud were woven through inky blue as the day deepened past twilight, but even though the smell of rain was in the air, Max thought it might be some hours before a storm reached Nether Monkslip. Rainstorms had been frequent in recent weeks, and the scent of wet earth and composting leaves surrounded him.
The trees’ branches rustled softly in a quickening wind, throwing off their leaves, but still they managed to shield the manor from what the Dowager Baaden-Boomethistle no doubt thought of as the vulgar gaze. Thea returned to Max, who again threw the stick for her, this time deeper into the forest; he continued on the rough footpath as she went off the
track to find it. A thin fog lay low to the ground; even though they were some miles from Monkslip-super-Mare, traces of sea fret often crept inland. Max knew that from a distance he would appear to be walking on air, an image that pleased him. He heard the river tumbling in the distance and imagined a gleam of moonlight frosting its surface.
Thea’s game had brought them nearer the lake, where a chill coming off the water hinted at the winter to come. Max thought he could hear the sound of crickets; surely they would have but days to live now. Through an opening in the trees he glimpsed the formal gardens surrounding the house, with evergreens shaped into symmetrical forms. In the shade and darkness, they looked like giant human figures. This imposed civilization seemed barely to hold back the untamed forest surrounding the estate. Where Max walked might in ancient times have been part of a green path, a wide track used for herding animals. He had a sense that the cloak between the prehistoric and modern worlds had worn thin here, as Awena would have it; that he was walking in some forgotten holy place, perhaps a burial ground, or a place of sacrifice. Nether Monkslip, as he had learned, was dotted with places like that.
The shortest way to the village from here would be to cut through an opening in the hedgerows, some of which dated to Anglo-Saxon times. While the lord of the manor might have the right to restrict access to his land, in practice the bad feeling this engendered made active enforcement not worthwhile for the old family. Sheep and cows were driven across any available opening, as had been done for centuries, and schoolchildren found their way home in much the same way.
It was getting dark, and he wished briefly he’d thought to bring a torch with him. All he had was a small promotional torch attached to his key ring, something he’d picked up at a religious conference. “Shine a light,” it read, beneath part of a verse from John 8:12.
He called for Thea, no longer wishing to meander, but now in haste to get home to his wife and child. At the thought of them, a breeze stirred, carrying that heady mix of sea and forest smells, and joy coursed through him in one of the many exquisite moments of grace he’d been granted since Owen’s arrival.
Which was why he jumped and turned, heart pounding, when Thea sent up an unearthly howl, a sound he had never heard from her before. It was a sound that startled birds from the trees and scattered whatever small wildlife had been in hiding, waiting for her to leave.
What in the name of—
Max fumbled the small torch out of his pocket as he broke into a run, leaping into the forest in the direction of the sound, jumping over rocks and tree branches fallen in the winter storms long past. He plunged into an area where the trees grew closer together, impeding his progress, as no moonlight could penetrate here. All he had to go by was Thea’s unearthly howling, reduced to a fretting whine as she heard him approach and realized help was on the way to sort out this event, unprecedented in her experience. He skidded to a halt on a mat of wet fallen leaves that nearly tipped him on his backside.
Thea had found Lord Baaden-Boomethistle, or a significant part of what remained of him, which was his decapitated head. Its eyes, thank God, were closed.
Of all the things Max might have expected to see on this serene evening, it would never have been this.
He called Thea sharply to his side to keep the area undisturbed, for surely where a head was, a body would be nearby. He pulled her lead from his pocket and attached it to her collar, for in her agitated state he didn’t entirely trust her not to run from him, to start helpfully looking for the remains of this poor human.
The canopy of tree branches parted at this spot where the head lay, giving Max a moment’s clear view of the area. Looking around and craning his neck, aiming the small torch upward, he saw a worn spot on the tree trunk nearest him, a rubbing away that exposed raw wood, looking exactly as if someone had used a garrote on it. Training the light directly across the narrow path, he saw a corresponding cut.
Someone had tied a sort of trip wire across the trail, and then later removed it, for there was no sign of the wire now that he could see. Whether they had done it in recent days or hours could not be said, but what were the chances? This exact spot where Lord Baaden-Boomethistle had died showed signs of a recent booby trapping. Since he had to have been traveling at some speed, it was natural to assume he had been on horseback, taking the exercise he had mentioned to Max. The question was why the killer, whoever it was, hadn’t just left the wire in place, but perhaps the thinking was that it might contain evidence, DNA or whatnot, and that it was safer to remove it than leave it to be tested.
As Max turned away, his torch chanced upon the gleam of a gold object at the base of the same tree. He hunched over for a closer look. It appeared to be an engraved hair ornament of some sort. He left it undisturbed for the police.
It was a ghastly crime, suggesting a villain with an iron, if reckless, will, someone waiting, and plotting, and, having seen the success of his or her reprehensible deed, coolly removing all traces. Certainly this death was no accident.
Max had the inconvenient and unwelcome thought that his bishop might see this as the last straw, for wherever Max Tudor went, the bishop could not help but notice, murder was sure to follow. This just seemed a bizarre escalation of the crimes the priest had witnessed to date. The bishop appeared in his mind’s eye as Max had last seen him, racing across the courtyard of his magnificent palace, flushed by the exertion, red hair flying about his face and purple robes billowing around his legs. The man had been marvelously patient and understanding, but surely …
There was nothing for it now but to call the authorities and worry about the bishop’s reaction later. If Max were some sort of murder magnet, after all, sending him away from Nether Monkslip would surely be to send the problem of murder along with him.
Chapter 7
DCI COTTON TAKES THE CASE
“Another body, Max? It’s like you’re becoming the grim reaper of Nether Monkslip—and parts beyond.” DCI Cotton, impeccably suited, looked around him at the forested area, over to the forensics team going about its grisly business, and added, “Where’s the horse got to, then?”
“He’s probably headed back to the stables. Isn’t that what you would do in his shoes?”
Cotton glanced down at his own Italian leathers and said, “I’m not really a mind reader when it comes to horses. If I were, I might take up betting at the races.”
It was some time after Max had called the station in Monkslip-super-Mare, asking to be put straight through to DCI Cotton, wherever he happened to be. Cotton had been interrupted at his dinner in front of the telly in his spartan apartment, a place of polished chrome and gleaming bare surfaces. Max had done a preliminary search while waiting for the authorities to arrive, finding only a summerhouse nearby. At first glance, it had looked forgotten, frozen in time, like something from a children’s tale, a Victorian relict of days when ornate follies were all the rage.
The decedent’s body, its hands bagged and accompanied now by its head, had been removed by the mortuary attendants, and the chorus of the experts in the art of death also had vanished, taking with them the usual accoutrements for investigating an untimely passing—in this case, a messy and unseemly one. It had taken the videographer and photographer, for example, much longer than normal to document the scene, and the blood-spatter expert much longer than usual to document the carnage. Scenes of crimes officers, even with their search aided by artificial light, were hampered in finding evidence or samples by the dense undergrowth around the trees. They were further hampered by not knowing what, if any, evidence they were looking for. Even though the ground was cooperatively moist, given all the leaf fall there were no footprints, only the horse’s hoofprints to show them the path he had taken home.
Now a lone constable stood watch, waiting for what, it was not clear. He represented some sort of swipe at the concept of crowd control, Max supposed.
The police doctor also remained behind. He was packing up his paraphernalia at a safe distance fr
om the crime scene area, and he had begun carefully removing the outerwear that had shielded him as he went about his job. He was a man who looked ridiculously young to be responsible for such a momentous task, one with so many large responsibilities. He wore glasses and the supercilious smirk of the know-it-all, made more aggravating by the fact that he did, usually, know far more than his police audience.
Now returned to his usual civilian attire, jogging pants and a black T-shirt, he walked over to the two waiting men, one blond and one dark-haired. He was used to seeing Max Tudor at scenes such as this, and had early on begun treating him as part of the investigative team.
He nodded to each man in turn. “Hullo, padre. Howdy, Chief.” Max thought the doctor’s name was Sprottle, but before he could confirm this, the young man had moved on past the niceties. “Before you ask, no more than three hours dead. Closer to one hour. I’ll know more when I’ve got him on the table.”
Max told him about the planned meeting with Lord Baaden-Boomethistle, for which he had inexplicably—until now—been stood up.
“And you’re quite certain this was he? The corpse’s head, I mean.”
“Yes,” said Max curtly. It was not a sight he’d soon forget.
“Someone really wanted to send a message to this guy,” said the doctor, “but God alone knows what the message was. ‘Sic semper tyrannis,’ maybe, or whatever the peasants shouted as people were taken to the guillotine. I can tell you this, you’re not looking for an animal lover.”
“How do you mean?” Cotton asked him.
“Too risky: The animal could have been injured if it had lifted its head at the wrong moment, or been frightened by something and reared up entirely on its hind legs. It’s also a very dicey way to kill someone. Even though—and this is what is interesting here—even though I’m betting the wire was arranged to strike precisely at the neck of a rider of the exact height of the victim. His height as he sat, I mean. He had a rather long torso, so he was, you could say, riding high. And the wire was strung precisely at the spot where the path started to slope steeply downward, mitigating the risk somewhat. The risk to the horse, I mean.”
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