“I know.”
Max was overwhelmed by it all. He had first roped off the area to keep the curious at a distance; then he had had to institute opening and closing hours for the church itself. For the first time in its history, St. Edwold’s Church was closed and locked at night. The fear was that someone would damage the face, try to steal it by cutting it out of the wall, plaster and all. Why they should do this, Max couldn’t say, but there was an element of crazed frenzy growing. The halt and the lame came to pray, and most particularly, those losing their sight came to pray before the face.
For that was its legend, that it could cure blindness.
And many had reported a cure. They would return from a doctor’s visit with documentation that their eyesight was clearing, all without medical intervention.
Max was glad for them, even as he assumed a placebo effect was at work.
He was also frightened. How to maintain the pristine serenity of his church once it became a focus of international attention?
The face may have struck him initially as more of a Catholic relic—a hangover from the days of miracles and wonder. But he had also thought, pragmatically, it might bring people back to faith—to believing in something outside themselves, to asking the age-old questions of why we humans are here in the first place.
All of Nether Monkslip, he realized now, gathering all the threads in one hand, was awash in this theme of healing. Awena herself was a healer—of that, he was sure. A healer of souls, a healer of bodies; Awena with her salves and herbs and potions.
There was also the healing spring by the menhirs on Hawk Crest, where holy relics had been buried.
And now the healing attributed to St. Edwold’s, with its miraculous face.
Was all of Nether Monkslip a holy place, a sort of spiritual nexus in one of the world’s thin places?
He remembered a conversation back in his student days. The conversation over several beers had drifted to Joan of Arc and her Cross of Lorraine, and to her miraculous pipeline to heaven, and the question had been, first of all, whether God had involved Himself in a matter that amounted to local politics.
As for Joan herself, was she delusional? Schizophrenic? Or was she simply a superior sort of teenager, endowed with perceptiveness and courage beyond her years? Certainly she deserved better than she got, to be left to her ghastly fate by the man she had been sent by her God to save.
He turned at the sound of a heel scraping against the stone floor, and somehow he was not surprised to find Eugenia standing there. He kept the irritation he felt from his expression. How had he not realized she had followed him? But he had seen her go into the Cavalier with his own eyes. His MI5 training was wearing thin if Eugenia Smith-Ganderfort could outsmart him.
“Oh, good evening, Father Max,” she said brightly and a little too loudly in an unconvincing show of surprise, as though Max were the last person she expected to see in a church, his own church. Her hand flew up to tame the untamable hair.
Max realized with full force that he was facing a situation that did not lend itself to logic. A glance at her face, scored with harsh lines of distress and permanent displeasure, was all he needed to convince him of that.
“You said you were going to see Miss Pitchford,” she said accusingly.
He remembered now that look she had given Awena, and his heart seized for a moment. At all costs, this situation had to be contained. Resisting the rash impulse to ask her what business it was of hers, he said very softly, in his hostage-negotiator voice, “I remembered I had some other business to attend to first. Oh, and look.” He looked with elaborate, exaggerated care at his watch. “I’m late for my appointment with her now.”
* * *
Half an hour later, Max left Miss Pitchford’s, setting his steps toward home and Awena and Owen. Tonight, Awena had told him, they were having lentil soup, garden salad, home-baked bread, and pumpkin panna cotta for pudding. He had looked forward to the meal all afternoon. It was a sign of his contentment he had forgotten how thoroughly he once had disliked lentils. Had not, truth be told, been certain what a lentil was.
The fuss over the face would ebb, he told himself now, and the villagers would go about their normal routines. It would all be forgotten as common sense prevailed. It was probably dying out already, and—oh no—
His eye fell on a sign outside the Onlie Begetter bookshop.
Tonight Only! Frank Cuthbert, world-famous, best-selling author of Wherefore Nether Monkslip.
The wildly popular book critics rave about—in which the miraculous secret of Monkbury Abbey was revealed, for the first time, to an astonished world!
Only at the Onlie Begetter. Tonight at 7:00 P.M. sharp. Tickets 30 pounds—includes the price of a copy of the book, SIGNED BY THE AUTHOR!!! LIMIT: 1 COPY!
Oh good merciful God in heaven, thought Max. In a just world, no one would attend. Just as people of good sense had scrupulously avoided Frank and his blasted book for years, now they would shun this renewed publicity push with its strong whiff of snake oil.
He supposed he should be happy for Adam Birch, owner of the Onlie Begetter bookshop, and he was: This kind of megaevent with Frank, the Sun King, would keep the beloved little shop running in the black for a long time. Adam had stuck by Frank from the beginning, hosting signings back in the day when even Frank’s bichon frise had to be dragged to the poorly attended events. But the throngs—and Max had no doubt there would be throngs—would only increase the crush to visit the center of all the to-do: St. Edwold’s itself, already becoming something of a shrine.
Max supposed he wouldn’t mind as much if people stayed for the service, and some of them did. But most just came to gawp, and to drip candle wax all over the floor, and to leave little petitions tacked to the walls of the church. Rarely if ever did they think to leave a donation to the church, and Max resolutely refused to charge admission.
He wasn’t, as he would tell Awena that night, running a sideshow.
His thoughts clouded in the day-to-day, he almost failed to notice Eugenia standing beneath the eaves of the church, watching his progress toward home.
It shook him. Again, it was not something he would have missed in his MI5 days.
Chapter 15
THE DUCK RACE
The day of the duck race dawned clear, cool, and sunny, the sky scrubbed blue by the recent rain, with only a light breeze to ruffle the water of the river Puddmill. Max led the Morning Prayer service with a heart alight with gratitude for the day, sped through his routine parish chores, and headed out quickly so as not to miss the beginning of the race. He himself had two ducks in the race, Suzanna having pestered him relentlessly to “set a good example.” Awena had painted his ducks black and put a small clerical collar around their necks, while hers wore a crown of miniature autumn leaves.
Once these entries had been duly numbered and recorded, Max walked through the growing crowd of villagers, greeting and being greeted in turn. It took him half an hour to walk a few yards, as he had to stay and chat with so many friends and parishioners. Awena had told him she was running late but would join him later. She’d arrive with Owen, which would mean they’d soon be enveloped by a group of cooing villagers.
He was surprised to see Major Batton-Smythe and Lily Iverson in attendance—rather, he was surprised to see that she had apparently allowed the Major to escort her to the festivities. The pair had been engaged in a would-they or would-they-not dance for ages now, but the good money said Lily, now rumored to be a self-made millionairess, either preferred her single state or was holding out for someone a little less stodgy than the Major.
Max saw Chanel, the self-help expert, flirting rather tipsily with Bill Travis, the estate manager, horse trainer, and more—“so very much more,” as Suzanna would put it—from Totleigh Hall. The “more” was only if one were inclined to believe the rumors of his amorous exploits, and Max was rather inclined to, even granted his very slight acquaintance with the man. Bill Travis, he realized now
, reminded him of someone from his university days—someone to whom Max had taken an intense dislike, someone who had proved to be, in fact, untrustworthy. An embezzler, as it turned out. Travis stood talking with Chanel, rather looming over her, flexing his biceps and clearly enjoying himself. Max remembered he’d looked much the same when talking with Rosamund, also an attractive woman, but of a completely different type. He’d marked Rosamund down as bookish, rather the sort to try to gather her experience via books and films; Chanel struck him as more a woman of the world. Perhaps the chase was all, so far as Bill Travis was concerned. He probably flirted just to keep in practice.
Chanel was looking particularly autumnal, dressed in earth tones: She wore a brown polo-neck jumper under a flowing rust-colored tunic, and dark slacks tucked into expensive-looking boots. She held a glass of white wine, from which she drank freely, even though it was not yet twelve, but she was not alone in this. Most people saw the duck race as a chance for a bit of a knees-up, and since this year the race was so near the harvest celebration … Well, why not, thought Max. Everyone looked happy in the Edenic garden that was Nether Monkslip, despite recent tragedies, and he was grateful for anything that helped them forget, if only for a few moments. Max himself bought a half pint from the stall set up for the purpose, and a Cornish pasty from Elka Garth. She was swamped with customers, so Max didn’t pause to talk, but she handed him her duck and asked him to enter it in the race for her. It wore a doll-size version of a cavalier’s hat. Max began to think this time of year was much better for a duck race, as it allowed a sort of dress rehearsal of Hallowe’en costumes.
They had come through some tough times together as a village, he thought, what with the odd cluster of murders and all—not just the death by beheading of their liege lord. Surely all that was past now. If he could solve this crime at the very heart of village life, wouldn’t that be enough to placate the ancient gods that seemed to have been stirred up since his arrival? Max shook off the fancy as both silly and self-centered. Not to mention somewhat un-Christian. It was purest awful coincidence that so many had been done to death by murder most foul since his arrival.
It seemed as if the entire village was there. Destiny Chatsworth was not at the race, though; she had told Max she’d be visiting an ailing parishioner in Chipping Monkslip, a woman with whom she’d formed a fast friendship, but that she’d try to get back to the village in time for the festivities. She was to have dinner with Max and Awena that night. Destiny had quickly become one of Awena’s favorites, not least because she, too, was an accomplished vegetarian cook. The two women could engage for hours over whether to use tarragon or coriander for roasted carrots and parsnips.
Adam Birch would join them after he’d closed the bookshop, making a fourth for dinner. Although Max knew that he and Elka were rapidly becoming an item, Elka had to work at her tea shop this particular night.
Max entered Elka’s duck in the race and continued to stroll around, savoring the crumbs from the delicious pasty and wondering whether to buy another. So many people gathered! If Eugenia were one of them, she had made herself invisible for once. Oh, wait—he had spoken too soon. She was there, standing apart, her lips a slash of deep red lipstick, and her wild hair tied back in a black scarf like a nun’s. The lipstick looked experimental, haphazardly applied. He averted his eyes, as if that would make him invisible to her. He actually stepped back, and in doing so, he bumped into Rosamund. From her flustered reaction, Max was the last person she wanted to see, perhaps apart from Cotton.
The accidental meeting seemed almost to force something out of Rosamund, much as the jolt had momentarily forced the air from her lungs. She looked at him, galvanized. It was nearly the same look he was getting used to seeing from Eugenia. Rosamund gasped and her eyes actually welled up with tears.
“Father, there’s something I need to tell you. It’s been bothering me. A lot. I need to tell—I need someone to tell that DCI what—what I’ve, well … what I’ve—”
“What you’ve done?” Max prompted. He took her arm and gently led her outside the crowd to a stand of oaks farther from the riverbank, where he continued. “This wouldn’t have anything to do with your stepmother, would it?”
She hung her head, not able to look at him. The gesture made her glasses—today they were purple frames with yellow bows—slide down. Roughly, she pushed them back up to the bridge of her nose, wiping away a tear that had escaped the rim of one eye while she was at it.
“It was in the stables and I picked it up,” she said. “I only meant to return it, really. Honestly. Even though it had been my mother’s. Bree had no right—”
“The hair ornament, you mean. Gold with the initials B-B on it.”
She sniffed. “Yes.” Her voice was barely audible; she was still talking to the ground, unable to face him.
“And not just initials, either, but strands of hair caught in the clasp. Rosamund, look at me.”
It took her several seconds to do so, but finally she lifted her bright red face to him and said, “I feel so foolish. It was stupid of me. Bill is crazy about her, you see, and I—I guess all I could think was that I wanted her out of the way. I found my father lying there like that and I think—I really think I lost my mind for a few minutes. I knew she’d done it, you see. I just knew it. There was no question in my mind. And I wanted her punished. She had to pay. I couldn’t let her get away with it. I felt that thing in my pocket and … Don’t you see, for her to have anything of my mother’s, anything at all—the thought was just unbearable. You do see, don’t you? Can you tell Cotton for me, maybe not mentioning me in the telling?”
Max shook his head. “You know I can’t do that. It is just lucky for you she has an alibi for the time in question.”
“She does?” Rosamund’s shoulders slumped with relief.
Max nodded.
“I’m sorry I told you, then.”
Max nearly laughed. “If confession is good for the soul, it is much better if it brings no repercussions. I get that. But if the DNA from the hair points to Bree, as it likely will do, I will have to set the record straight. I’m obligated to do that anyway.”
“I don’t see wh—” she began.
“But I’m not obligated to ask Cotton to do anything official. You could be charged with perverting the course of justice, you do realize? But I can have a word. I do think finding your father as you did may have caused you to lose all sense of reason. It would do so in the strongest person.”
She nodded eagerly. “It was just an impulse. The thing was still in my pocket and I just threw it there. And I ran. As fast as I could. I was thinking of going back for it, but I couldn’t—I just couldn’t bring myself to do it. Then your dog—I heard her. My God, I don’t think I’ll ever forget that sound.”
Neither, thought Max, will I.
The shouting nearer the river had intensified; the start of the race was at hand.
“Come on,” said Max. “Let’s join the others. We can talk more about this later.”
By now the villagers had clotted together at the foot of the bridge, from where they would, on the signal from Bill Travis—“Steady. Go!”—wind up their ducks and set them loose on the water. Inevitably, there were tragedies: ducks that failed mechanically, or that were capsized by the first wave, or driven into the muddy bank. It was often not so much a matter of which made it to the finish line as which outlasted the competition.
It was against the rules to retrieve the ducks or aid them in any way once they had set off, although some villagers seemed to feel that yelling their heads off and waving their arms about would make their ducks paddle faster—the din as the finish line approached for the survivors was deafening.
This day, however, there emerged a clear winner. Rosamund’s duck, wearing tiny doll’s glasses tied on by a narrow purple ribbon, survived a collision with another duck, one that happened to be sponsored by her brother, Peregrine. The collision actually impelled her duck forward, and it easily putted
its way past the competition and over the finish line.
Peregrine did not look at all happy with the result.
Peregrine hated losing.
Chapter 16
MAX AND THE BISHOP
Days later, Max was summoned on short notice to the bishop’s presence. He adjusted his calendar, putting off obligations where he could, and made the short drive via the dual carriageway to Monkslip Cathedral, home and headquarters of the Right Reverend Nigel St. Stephen.
Cooling his heels in the outer office under the watchful, appraising eyes of the bishop’s secretary, Max browsed the magazines on the coffee table with every appearance of absorbed fascination (“No Taizé, Please: We’re British” and “Beyond the Fairy Cake Sale: Online Fund-raising”), wondering all the while if the bishop might pull the plug at last on his investigative activities. He had been supportive of Max’s extracurricular doings in the past, but that was not to say the man’s patience was limitless.
At last, Max was admitted into the bishop’s high-tech office in the low-tech medieval room with its paneled walls and stunning views over the cathedral close. The bishop was wired for the New Age, and every piece of furniture in the space was functional, with lots of stainless steel and glass and clean modern lines.
With a small inner sigh, Max saw the bishop had a copy of a newspaper open in front of him. This would not be alarming in normal circumstances, but the bishop’s office tended to run clear of anything that might resemble clutter; the bishop was an early adopter of the ideal of the paperless office. Also, the Monkslip-super-Mare Globe and Bugle, in the minds of most of its readers, was in and of itself nothing but an untidy hodgepodge of fiction dressed as fact, random at least in terms of having a philosophical or even a political through line.
Now the bishop tapped one index finger against the offending headline of the newspaper.
Appalled, Max saw a photo of himself he had not known existed. It pictured him emerging from the Horseshoe side by side with DCI Cotton. The pair had met there just two days before to discuss the case over a pub lunch—it was then that Max had given Cotton the fuller details of Rosamund’s deception over the hair clip, pleading her case for leniency. The photographer had caught Max waving his arms animatedly as DCI Cotton looked on, apparently fascinated, and the caption beneath the photo read “Father Max Tudor explains the finer points of detection to the police officer in charge of investigating the shocking Totleigh Hall murder.” Great. How Cotton would love that. It made him look like a credulous dolt and Max like Sherlock Holmes. This photo of Max the Great Detective and his disciple ran side by side with a smaller photo of Lord Baaden-Boomethistle, “whose headless corpse was discovered in the woods of Totleigh Hall by the sleuthing priest.” The paper had chosen to run a headshot of the lord, a choice Max could only hope had not been made in deliberate bad taste.
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