Maxwell's Revenge

by M. J. Trow

  The buzz of male voices on the landing had stopped, Jacquie’s screaming had stopped. Had a pin chosen that moment to drop, they would all have heard it. Instead, Maxwell and Nolan came through the door, bouncing horse-riding style from the head of the stairs.

  ‘Hello?’ Maxwell said, innocence personified. ‘What have we here, Nole? Mummy and Ninja. Well, ladies,’ he raked them with a warning glance, ‘Nolan has just remarked that he is feeling a bit peckish but he doesn’t want any sweeties, or any of Ninja’s toast.’ He looked at his mother-in-law-to-be and smiled. ‘Nole and I agree about wholemeal toast, Ninja, if that’s OK. We did win the war, after all. He wants …’ he jiggled the boy up and down, ‘he wants … Well, Nole, what’s it to be?’

  ‘Dippy and egg,’ he crowed, with his arms in the air, then, more seriously, ‘not Ninja toast vo. Dadda toast!’

  ‘White bread rules,’ Maxwell said. ‘Play nicely, girls, while we cook,’ and off they rode, the Lone Ranger and Silver to the life, into the kitchen, where crashing noises almost immediately began.

  Neither of the women spoke for a moment. It was inevitable that the elder would break the silence first. ‘I told him not to speak to anyone. I told him not to take anything from anyone.’ It sounded pathetic even as it left her mouth.

  ‘How old do you think he is, Mum? He’s a little, tiny boy for God’s sake.’

  ‘Yes, but … he just seems so grown up.’ She grabbed for Jacquie’s hand. ‘I just got talking. They were nice people. Walkers, you know, serious ones with maps and everything. I don’t know round here and I just thought,’ she sobbed and had to pause, ‘I just thought they could tell us a nice walk, that’s all.’ She looked up through tear-filled eyes. ‘I didn’t think any of them would hurt him. They …’ her voice fell to a whisper, ‘they were just some nice people, Jacquie.’ She put her head in her hands and cried.

  Her daughter reached over and patted her knee. Hugs were not on the menu just yet. ‘No one said that the murderer would be wearing a badge, Mum. That’s why Max said no food out, no sweeties from anyone. We’re not health food loonies as you must have spotted already. We just can’t trust anyone. Any of us.’

  Ninja gave a sniff and blew her nose for good measure. ‘Have you wondered why Nolan got the lolly?’ As a way of shifting both blame and attention from her, she had hit on a cracker of a theory.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ Jacquie was aghast. ‘What do you mean?’ A cold hand clutched her heart.

  ‘Well, the place was crowded out this afternoon. The weather is lovely, and some of the posher schools are still on holiday, plus the Saga louts like me who take holidays a bit later. There was practically a queue for the kissing gate at the car park end. There were children everywhere with mums, dads, grannies, you name it. But Nolan was the one who got the lolly. Statistically, as I’m sure a colleague of Max’s could prove quite easily, it is ridiculous.’

  Jacquie had gone white. ‘It was deliberate,’ she whispered. ‘The poisoner singled out Nolan. He tried to kill my baby. Not anyone’s, but mine.’

  ‘Or Max’s,’ her mother added. To her, that was the more obvious version. Her daughter was a policewoman, true, but, put it how you liked, Maxwell was rather high profile and more than a bit annoying. Especially if you happened to be a criminal. Or a student. Ex-student. Colleague. Ex-colleague. The list could go on and on.

  Jacquie didn’t know where to run. To her husband and son. To Henry Hall. To a dark cupboard under the stairs. In the end, she compromised. She called Maxwell into the sitting room. She phoned Henry Hall. The call was transferred to the front desk.

  ‘Leighford Police. How can I help you?’

  She knew the voice. ‘Bill. It’s Jacquie. Is DCI Hall in the building? I mean, he’s just left mine. But is he back yet?’

  ‘He’s just gone home.’ The desk sergeant couldn’t sound more disinterested if he tried.

  ‘Thanks, I’ll ring him there.’

  Meanwhile, Maxwell and Nolan had come in and were standing hand in hand in front of her. ‘Yes, ma’am?’ Maxwell asked. ‘You rang? Only, Nole’s egg will get hard.’

  ‘Mum,’ Jacquie said. ‘Could you take over the egg? Go with Ninja, poppet and have your egg. Mummy will be in in a minute.’

  Her mother took him by the hand and they went out to the kitchen, Nolan generally laying down the law on how to cut soldiers. He was taking no risks on her toast skills. He was with his father on the bottom of budgie cage properties of wholemeal, even if he didn’t yet know what the old man was talking about.

  Maxwell sat on the sofa and turned to face his wife-to-be. ‘What is it? You’re as white as a sheet, woman.’

  ‘Mum has just said something which has really shaken me.’

  ‘She’s moving in?’ He made the sign of the cross.

  ‘No, worse than that.’

  Maxwell bridled in mock horror. ‘There’s nothing worse than that, dear heart, so don’t play me false.’ He toyed for a moment with reaching, with a palsied hand, for the Southern Comfort. ‘What did she say that could be so bad?’

  ‘She said,’ she dipped her head and summoned up all her policepersonly skills of control, ‘she said why did Nolan get the lolly? Why, with all the kids and other people there, did it get given to him?’ She watched his face with care. It became impassive while he weighed up the possibilities.

  ‘There are two, or perhaps more ways of looking at this,’ he said at last. ‘The first, of course, is why shouldn’t he get the lolly? He’s a cute kid. If I was going to give a random lolly to someone, I would most probably choose him rather than some snaggle-toothed, snotty-nosed tyke. He’s just more attractive. Although, since it seemed to have been doctored with something nasty, you’d have to be a bit warped to give it to the cute one. However, I digress. Another is that there was more than one lolly. We don’t know what happened to other kids. Why should we? Not every granny would scream like a steam whistle and take her grandchild to casualty. Some of them wouldn’t even bother to hold its hair while it threw up. Then there is the possibility, which can’t be discounted until we hear back from the lab, that the lolly is totally harmless and Nole is allergic to cyanomothprooferphilicophilos or whatever the thing is coloured with. And then, finally …’ He paused and she filled in the gap.

  ‘And then, finally, is the possibility that some warped sod gave it to him because they knew who he was.’

  Maxwell compressed his lips and nodded. ‘I agree, Watson, that there is always that possibility.’ They sat in silence for a moment, holding hands. Then, Maxwell said, ‘Have you phoned Henry?’

  ‘He’s on his way home.’

  ‘Look, let’s have something to eat and then, when Nole is in bed and your mother is thumbing through What Bride Already? or whatever her current reading matter is, we’ll ring him and see what he thinks.’ He lifted her chin with a finger and made her look into his eyes. ‘Is that a good idea or is that a good idea?’

  She smiled wanly.

  ‘Well, madam. An answer if you please, or I’ll take me horsewhip to you, you strumpet.’ It was, all in all, an excellent Nigel Davenport playing George III circa 1979 and it was unfortunate that Ninja came in at that moment, but Maxwell’s timing was so rarely out that he allowed himself that one little mistake. He turned at her intake of breath. ‘Has he finished his dippies?’ Butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth.

  She pulled herself together. Her poor baby; why had she never said anything? ‘Yes. He’s having a nice yoghurt.’

  ‘Nice yoghurt?’ Maxwell was perplexed. ‘Surely, they haven’t invented those, have they? About time. Well, I’ll take over now, Ninj. Have a sit down and chat to Jacquie. Aren’t there wedding plans to discuss?’ He beetled out of the room, knowing he would pay later, but it was worth it just to hear Jacquie’s little whimper as her mother pulled out the tablecloth swatches from her bag.

  ‘Hello, Nole,’ she heard him say, ‘yoghurt face mask, that’s the ticket. What say we go and have a bath?’
<
br />   Betty Carpenter didn’t see much of her grandchild and her head turned at the sound of that. ‘Oh, Jacquie. That sounds so sweet. Can I bath him tonight?’

  ‘Be my guest,’ said Jacquie. ‘But take a big sponge. When Max says “we” he does mean it quite literally.’

  Her mother blushed and Jacquie could have kicked herself. Maxwell could take it and it would perhaps have taken buttonholes off the conversational menu, if only for a while.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Nolan was tucked up in bed, sweetly smelling and chatting over the day’s events with his teddy and Metternich. Although her mother had protested loudly over the cat’s presence in Nolan’s bedroom, Jacquie had been firm. Metternich was not allowed in there as a matter of course, only when he and Nolan had stuff to discuss and, if ever there was a cat who wouldn’t sleep on a child’s face, then that cat was the Count. Far too uncomfortable. The nose, for one thing, would be bound to stick in somewhere and the dribble would mat his coat. So, the cat stayed.

  Maxwell, meanwhile, no less sweetly smelling, was ensconced in his favourite chair and half watching the news. He liked this time of day and even the addition of Jacquie’s mother couldn’t spoil it. The architect had played a blinder on 38 Columbine. The evening sun slanted in through the windows of the first-floor sitting room and gilded the walls and ceiling with mellow light and warmth. At this point of the year, where summer slid slowly into autumn, and the sun was lower in the sky, it fell on Maxwell’s chair and he knew how birds must feel, taking a sunbath. He let his inner lizard out to bask on his favourite rock. The hum of conversation from the kitchen, the faint witterings of Nolan through the monitor, all wove together and he was on the verge of sleep.

  Then, suddenly and with no preamble, he was upright and kneeling in front of the television. ‘Quick, Jacquie, quick. Come here,’ he called. ‘Quickleeeeee.’

  ‘Good heavens, Max,’ she began, crashing through the door. ‘Whatever is … oh, my God. It’s Henry.’

  And Henry it was, the DCI talking to camera outside a building that looked horribly like Leighford General. Maxwell had been woken by the sound of his voice.

  ‘No, I’m sorry,’ he was saying in his bland way. ‘I’m afraid I cannot comment at the moment, except to say that everyone should keep calm. There is no need to panic. There have been a few isolated instances of gastric symptoms which we are currently treating as suspicious, but we have no positive proof that there is a poisoner at loose in Leighford.’

  ‘Ooh, Henry Hall,’ breathed Maxwell. ‘I hope your fingers are well and truly crossed.’

  ‘What has happened?’ Jacquie said. ‘How come the media are on to it? Why is he outside the hospital?’

  ‘To be on the safe side, however,’ Hall was saying, as if this was the most sensible remark in the world and by no means likely to cause panic and mayhem, ‘if anyone is concerned, it is advisable that for the moment, only food bought more than four days ago, or tinned items, should be used.’

  This statement met with a barrage of questions from the cluster of pressmen and women around the DCI.

  ‘One at a time, please,’ Hall said. ‘In fact, I would prefer to just answer one more question before I go back inside. Yes.’ He pointed. ‘You. One question.’

  ‘DCI Hall,’ the cubbest of reporters said. ‘What alerted you to the fact that there might be a pattern of poisoning in Leighford?’

  Hall looked at him for what seemed, in television terms, an eternity. Dead air. Finally, he swallowed and said, ‘Well, there had been previous incidents of which we were suspicious, including an incident with a child this afternoon which we were in the early stages of investigating. But,’ and here Henry Hall did a scary thing and took off his glasses, polishing them on a spotless handkerchief, ‘when I got home this evening, I found my wife in a state of collapse. Beside her was the remains of cake which she had bought the day before. So,’ he said, in that same, bland voice, ‘if you could, as I said earlier, let me go back inside to be with my wife, I would be very grateful. Thank you.’ The blank lenses, polished to perfection, shone once in the lights of the cameras and he turned and disappeared through the doors of the hospital.

  Maxwell sat back on his heels, exhaling for what felt like the first time in hours. Jacquie looked as if she was a small roadside-dwelling mammal caught in the headlights of an oncoming pantechnicon.

  ‘Max,’ she said finally, ‘what can we do?’

  ‘Nothing,’ he said. ‘It has to be Henry’s call, precious. If he needs us, he’ll let us know. I expect his boys are still home, aren’t they, or at least not back at college yet? Come here,’ he held out an arm and she subsided into it. ‘He’ll call, don’t you worry.’

  ‘But poor Margaret,’ she said. ‘I wonder how bad she is?’

  ‘I can’t make it out,’ Maxwell said. ‘Why did she collapse, not throw up or …?’

  ‘Die? I don’t know. Chummy must be using different things.’ She hated herself for using Max’s Fifties terminology, but somehow it went with the territory. ‘Max,’ she said, pulling away and looking up into his face. ‘How many different poisons could you name?’

  ‘Sweetheart,’ he said, with a smile. ‘Look more carefully. To whom are you speaking? Is it a member of the public? No. Is it even a police person, completely immersed in traffic law and ethnic amelioration but little else? Nope, wrong again. ’Tis I, Peter Maxwell, doyen of crime and particularly murder, horrible for preference. I know poisons from the Middle Ages. I know thallium, I know strychnine, I know how to give your arse a nick. Ask someone else.’

  ‘All right,’ she said, hutching herself back into her favourite sofa corner. ‘Then answer me this. How do you go about getting poison?’

  ‘Well,’ he tossed an insouciant head, ‘clearly, the great white way, the internet.’

  ‘Aha,’ she said. ‘Gotcha. Because you, Peter Maxwell, couldn’t do that if you tried all day.’

  ‘Well, ha and I raise you that gotcha. I can, so there.’

  ‘I think that the internet as a source of dodgy things is very overrated. I agree that you could get Viagra and its ilk until the cows come home. There are sites with recipes for bombs and all sorts of things. But, as an amateur, and I think we agree that is what our man is, you can’t just put “arsenic” in a web search and come up with a shopping site where all you have to do is choose your poison, as the saying apparently goes, add it to your cart and check out securely using Paypal.’

  ‘Well,’ he had to agree and was also mightily glad she hadn’t called his bluff, ‘you may be right. But if you have even a small knowledge of chemistry, I’m sure you can conjure up all sorts of dodgy stuff. I have never knowingly accepted so much as a Jammie Dodger from our very own Head of Science, for example. Take cyanide … no, I’m sure I can phrase that much better … in the case of cyanide, it is very simply made. It is also used routinely in pathology labs in various tests. Technicians have died of it, in the past. And aconite, the first one used. Do you remember …?’

  ‘The wolfsbane, yes I do. But surely, even with the plant growing in the garden, it doesn’t just become poison by picking it?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ said another voice. Ninja was standing in the doorway, drying her hands on a tea towel. She perched on the edge of a chair. ‘Some plants that we routinely have in the garden are deadly poisonous. Oh, my goodness, have you got rid of that wolfsbane at the back of the border?’ She looked poised for flight as if she would go and hack it down at once.

  ‘Yes, Mum, we got rid of it before Nole could even walk. The roots went down to Australia.’

  ‘Well, yes,’ she said, settling in to her subject. ‘It is related to horseradish and the roots are very long, I know.’ She chuckled. ‘Daddy and I had to do exactly the same in our garden when you were small. There was nearly a disaster, though. He had been digging and digging and then hacked at the root with a sort of billhook thing. He got the sap all over his hands and then stopped for lunch and ate a sandwich. We weren�
�t so safety conscious in those days.’

  ‘Those days?’ Jacquie said, affronted. ‘How old am I, Mum?’

  Maxwell pointed at her. ‘Welcome to the age of “In Those Days”,’ he said. ‘It’s all downhill from here, believe me.’

  ‘No,’ Ninja said, flapping her tea towel at him. ‘We weren’t, though, Max, were we?’

  Jacquie threw him a glance and a kiss. It was a generation thing.

  ‘Anyway, Daddy ate his sandwich and licked the mayonnaise off his fingers.’

  ‘Gosh,’ Jacquie said, ‘had mayonnaise been invented then?’

  ‘Shush,’ her mother said. ‘This is important, isn’t it? I just heard on the radio in the kitchen about poor Mrs Hall. She’s quite poorly, I think. Anyway, where was I?’

  Maxwell, honed on the granite face of Mrs B, was ready with the answer. ‘Many … no, sorry, some plants that we routinely have in the garden are deadly poisonous.’

  Ninja looked at Jacquie. ‘How does he do that?’

  ‘I have no idea,’ she replied. ‘Useful, though, isn’t it?’

  ‘Well,’ the woman said, drawing herself up a little, ‘I hope his brain doesn’t fill up or anything. Then where would we be?’

  ‘Oh, don’t worry,’ said Maxwell. ‘I give it a good scrub out every night. Don’t I, thing? Don’t I, thing?’

  Ignoring him, she began again. ‘Some plants that we routinely have in the garden are deadly poisonous. Wolfsbane, as we said, is very very poisonous, with no need to do anything to it at all. The roots of Kaffir lily are very poisonous too, but you’d have to do something with those, to concentrate the nasty stuff, I can’t remember what it’s called.’ She mused for a moment. ‘Anyway, it’s very nasty and causes collapse, sickness, you get very drooly, if you know what I mean and,’ she pursed her lips, ‘you know.’ She nudged a distant elbow at Jacquie and nodded.

  ‘You get the shits,’ Jacquie explained.

  ‘There’s no need for that kind of language, Jacqueline, but yes, Max, she’s right.’