A Fatal Winter

by G. M. Malliet

  There were several “outsiders” to whom he’d been authentically attracted—attracted for the long haul. Beyond that short list there were temporary attractions, and of course he had succumbed to some of them. All of his comrades had. But it was completely unfair on the women themselves. The situation was absurd, as well as occasionally dangerous: He could never confess what it was he really did for a living. And he never met anyone he could trust enough to confide in—putting aside the fact that such a confidence would have been a complete breach of the domestic spy agency’s code.

  He was content now with his life—and yet … Max only a few weeks before had found one of the acolytes reading a men’s magazine in an off-duty moment. He recalled assuring the embarrassed Alfred that women were a miracle of engineering, and that the boy’s pleasure in looking at them was part of nature’s plan. “Just don’t make the mistake of thinking the women in this magazine are real, in any sense. The publisher is selling fantasy—not hers, but yours. If you want a girl in your life, go find one to talk to. Then be sure you listen to what she has to say.”

  Later Max had reflected he might not be overqualified to speak on this subject. He wanted a woman in his own life, but living in Nether Monkslip, where everyone heard you sneeze before you even knew you had a cold, this was out of the question. Seeking out a life’s partner somewhere outside the village—he had time for that exactly never. Content, busy, happy, and possibly wanting to avoid the whole issue, Max supposed God would take care of that in his own good time, as He did everything else.

  Now, looking at Awena, he realized he was back in somewhat the same MI5-type situation he’d so recently escaped. He respected her completely—a casual affair was unthinkable, even leaving aside what it would do to her reputation. About his own reputation he didn’t much give a damn, but he wasn’t going to be reckless on both their behalfs.

  He would have to venture outside the village for romance, he realized, if he didn’t want to live alone forever.

  And yet he was strangely reluctant to join that search party.

  “More wine?” he asked Awena, lifting the bottle.

  He walked her home that night. She invited him in for coffee and brandy but as tempting as it was, it had been a long day’s journey, and they had lingered for well over two hours over dinner.

  Walking back to the vicarage, he looked up and saw a white moon anointing the sky, waxing toward fullness. As he watched, it became shot through with clouds, nearly vanishing.

  CHAPTER 5

  Many Are Called

  As Max had walked Thea earlier that day, winding down the afternoon, DCI Cotton of the Monkslip-super-Mare police had only just begun to gear up for one of the major cases of his career. He’d been at Chedrow Castle since midmorning when the call had come through about the finding of Lord Footrustle’s body. He was barely on his way, Detective Sergeant Essex sitting at his side, when his mobile phone rang with a new announcement—the body of Lady Baynard had just been found, as well.

  A twofer. Except in cases of a murder-suicide, which couldn’t be ruled out yet, that sort of thing didn’t happen often in a policeman’s life.

  He’d spent the day either interviewing the residents of the castle or colluding with his colleagues on the forensics team, seeing what was to be seen—a lot of blood in the case of the old man, and a peaceful if surprised-looking corpse in the case of the old woman, his sister. When the inhabitants of Chedrow had gone to look for her, she had at last been found surrounded by her pots of flowers and her bags of potting soil, in a garden hothouse not far from the main building of the castle. The butler in both cases had found the corpses.

  The butler did it? Far too predictable, that solution, but always a possibility. Only in fiction did the butler not do it. They were the last of the put-upon employees, a dying breed, born forelock-tuggers with a grudge. One final demand for a scone buttered just so might have sent the poor man right over the edge.

  Now, as Max and Awena were finishing their meal in Nether Monkslip, Cotton was in his office in nearby Monkslip-super-Mare, awaiting the first forensic results, and plotting his strategy. For with nobs dying all over the castle, they’d want Scotland Yard brought in. Someone from the castle was probably shouting down the wire already—most likely that Randolph, the lady’s son—demanding special treatment from on high. Randolph—excuse me, Viscount Nathersby—didn’t look the sort not to throw his weight around at the first opportunity.

  Well, stuff the Yard! Cotton was not an overly ambitious man, certainly not in the self-important, destructive way of some of his colleagues. But this was an important case, one that would be talked about and written about for decades (Who Killed Lord Footrustle?), and it had fallen straight into his lap. He’d go begging to the Yard for help as a last resort only, if and when it seemed there were no other way to solve the crime.

  It certainly beat the usual drug deal resulting in murder on a council estate. Cotton had just come from such a case. He couldn’t say so aloud, but these manor murders were much more to his taste. Here we had this Viscount Nathersby and his assistant Cilla. And Lester and Felberta—Lester being Randolph’s younger brother and a real piece of work. Lady Jocasta Jones—daughter of Lord Footrustle—and Simon, her husband. The stunning Gwynyth—ex-wife to Lord Footrustle. Two teenagers—children of the deceased lord, by said stunning Gwynyth. The Vladimirovs—cook and butler. And that oh-so-strange Lamorna person.

  Of course, the Rat Pack, also known as the gentlepersons of the press, would be all over this in a way they never were for a common, garden-variety drug deal gone bad. One couldn’t blame them, really, but they added nothing to the equation except in those rare instances when Cotton found a way to manipulate them to his, and the department’s, own ends.

  Okay, so, where to start? He would need to handpick a team. Surely they’d give him full latitude here, if only to stop the phone from ringing off the hook in the guv’s office. He’d want Detective Sergeant Essex beside him, for certain. A woman terrier in appearance, and terrier in mentality. She would worry a suspect until he gave up whatever he held most dear, including his freedom, just to be shut of her.

  He picked up his phone and punched in some numbers.

  “Get everyone in here who isn’t absolutely, positively needed elsewhere. Meeting on the ground floor in the morning—the usual place. At eight A.M. That’s eight sharp, tell Moynahan.”

  Absurdly pleased by this one-sided exchange, Cotton rang off sharply, without a good-bye, just as they did in the action films. Why waste valuable time? The phone rang back almost immediately. It was Sergeant Essex, wanting to know what sort of AV equipment he might need. It rather spoiled the effect of immediacy and derring-do that Cotton had been striving for, but he asked her for a bulletin board and some markers, wishing it could be something more, well, dynamic, like bullets or blasting caps. Again, really pushing his luck this time, he rang off without saying good-bye. The phone obediently remained silent.

  Then he began furiously to think, pacing the office in a graceful swooping motion, back and forth, hands clasped beneath his coattails. He might have been an ice-skater.

  By the time nine o’clock rolled around that night, he at least had a positive ID on the body. Oscar, Lord Footrustle, was definitely the deceased. Cause of death, multiple stab wounds, although the initial fierce thrust of the knife was believed to have been fatal. It seemed a trivial and unnecessary step, this preliminary run-up, this identification—the man had been found in his own home—his own castle—by people who knew him well. But without that certain starting point, the case could blow up before it even got started. And he supposed stab wounds might be mistaken for something else, or used to disguise some other sort of injury, but this time, what looked like a stab wound was just that. They’d run tox scans, to be sure, but there you had it.

  The woman, now, this Oscar’s sister. Lady—he ruffled through his papers once again—Leticia, Lady Baynard. Née Footrustle. An autopsy and tox scan for her,
too, of course, given the circumstances, although the doctor was saying natural causes. As far as they knew now, the only possible connection to the murdered man’s death was some sort of fatal shock coming over her at hearing of the finding of her brother’s body. Otherwise, the timing was the purest coincidence. Well, they were twins after all, thought Cotton, and shock might be exaggerated in such a close relationship. Their twinship was a bit of information contained in one of the reports—the statement of the butler—but Cotton had known that without needing to be reminded.

  For of course Cotton knew the family, or knew of them. They were the landed gentry of the area, well known to Cotton since he was busy learning his alphabet at school.

  He planned what to say when he would meet his team the next day. On a schematic of the castle and its grounds which he’d obtained from the brochure they handed out to tourists, he carefully drew Xs to approximate where the bodies had been found. Again he worried that they were going to conduct this investigation with a fraction of the help Cotton knew he would need, which meant a lot of long days and sleepless nights ahead. A handful of CID officers, a few more uniforms to do the heavy lifting.

  Who would be a policeman?

  But Cotton did have an ace up his sleeve. And that ace, a compassionate man with the heart of a vicar and the soul of a detective, was named Father Max Tudor.

  * * *

  Max wasn’t back at the vicarage for a moment before the phone began to ring. The late hour didn’t surprise him. Emergencies always seemed to happen at night, keeping company with dark nights of the soul.

  “Hello, Max.” The two friends, policeman and vicar, had long since done away with using formal titles in private conversation. “We’ve got a situation over at Chedrow Castle.”

  Wondering only briefly at the “we,” Max said, “What an odd coincidence. I was just talking about the family with a friend, over dinner. With Awena—you know her. I shared a train compartment with Lady Baynard just this morning.”

  “Holy—. I’ll certainly need to hear more about that.”

  “Whatever I can recall I’ll tell you, of course. Lady Baynard gave me a brief rundown on the state of affairs at the castle—and she did indicate she was uneasy about the situation. She called it a situation brewing.” Max thought. “She said she’d been shopping and had bought some chocolates for her son.”

  “Which one?”

  “Randolph, I think it was. She has more than one son?”

  “Two, in fact.”

  “That’s interesting in itself. She seemed to have forgotten one. At least, she didn’t mention him. She told me Randolph’s great-grandmother was a Goofe-Wattle or something. She also said her brother had been ill—recently, I gather. I wasn’t listening closely, sorry. It may come to me.”

  Cotton sighed. It was the tag end of a long, long day. He needed a shower, and as much sleep as he could manage before the morning. He fought back the weariness and took a sip of some coffee that had been cold for half an hour.

  “You said there was a situation,” Max prompted him.

  “Yes. It’s rather an odd situation. She’s dead, Max, I’m afraid.”

  “Dead? You don’t mean…” Max knew they wouldn’t be having this conversation if some criminal activity weren’t at the heart of it.

  “No. We think it was natural causes.”

  “I am sorry to hear that. But—why call me? And why, more to the point, are you involved? She wasn’t murdered, you say.”

  “No. No, not murdered. To all appearances, she died a natural if unexpected death. It’s her brother who makes this a ‘situation.’ That would be Lord Footrustle.”

  “He was killed,” Max said flatly.

  “He was. Stabbed by someone determined to see him out of this world. Yes, her brother was murdered, apparently a short time before she herself succumbed.”

  “Oh, my God. The shock, I suppose.”

  “How was she when you saw her?” Cotton asked. “Her mood, her demeanor? Did she appear to be in good health?”

  “Apart from a cold. And one doesn’t normally die of a cold.”

  “Actually, among the elderly, it’s not uncommon to die of a cold.”

  “Yes, of course you’re right about that. As to her mood? Acerbic. Her demeanor? Commanding. Nothing, I gathered, out of the ordinary. She was used to command. We chatted a while, then she sat there knitting like Madame Defarge until the train pulled in to Nether Monkslip. I bundled her into a taxi headed toward Monkslip-super-Mare and her castle, and that was the last I saw of her.”

  “I see.”

  “When did all this happen?” Max asked him. “As I say, I just was talking with her this very morning.”

  Cotton said, “The rituals of the forensics team are as mystifying as those of the Masons. But they say, going greatly out on a limb, that he, Lord Footrustle, was killed around eight A.M., give or take two hours. They can never be sure and it depends on several factors such as heat and damp and, no doubt, whether or not the moon was in the seventh house. But that is the long and short of what we have to work with. No useful prints that don’t belong there. The killer did not helpfully leave behind his or her footprints in blood, nor did the victim scrawl the killer’s name in blood on his headboard. Although, something dramatic like bloody footprints was just possible. The poor old man bled quite a bit. Blood was everywhere but mainly soaked into the mattress of his bed.”

  Max said, “But you say she wasn’t killed, too? Lady Barnard?”

  “No! And there’s the odd thing. Natural causes. The doc swears it. More tests to run, of course, and in the fullness of time all will be revealed. But he’s certain it was just her time to go.”

  “Could Lord Footrustle’s death have precipitated an event that caused her death? Heart attack, or something?”

  “Yes. They’re certainly looking into that possibility, and going on that assumption.”

  “Oh, man,” said Max. “I really should have paid her more attention.”

  Cotton seized on this small opening. It was never hard to open a little crack of guilt in the Max facade. “You could help us, Max. We need feet on the ground, ears at the doors. You know the sort of thing.”

  “And you know that’s not my department anymore. My days with MI5 were a hundred years ago. Besides, Chedrow Castle falls under the purview of Father Arthnot of Monkslip-super-Mare. There’s a protocol, not unlike your own rules for rank-and-file.”

  “Actually, as it turns out, it is your department. The deceased—both of them—have asked in their wills to be buried out of St. Edwold’s, according to my recent conversation with the family solicitor. And a dodgy old reprobate he is, but more on that later—you’ll no doubt get to meet him.

  “Anyway, Nether Monkslip has been requested by both Lord Footrustle and Lady Baynard in their wills as their final resting place, far in advance of need—back in the days of your predecessor, in fact. I gather they had a special attachment to St. Edwold’s. Now I imagine it will be a double service, when we can release the bodies. So I’ll tell the people at Chedrow Castle you are there as a special advisor regarding the religious services to be held in Nether Monkslip—helping them choose the hymns and favorite bits of scripture and so on. I gather Lady Baynard’s granddaughter Lamorna is keen to talk with you. She is a bit … religious. You’ll see. Anyway, that will get you in for one night, just so you can get the lie of the land. Or is it lay?—I can never remember. After that, we’ll think of something, if need be. The family is terribly upset, naturally. Your presence would have a calming effect,” Cotton concluded.

  “You want me to snoop around,” Max said flatly.

  “Only in a calming way,” said Cotton.

  Max laughed, despite himself. Cotton on a case was relentless; there was no string he wouldn’t pull, no angle he wouldn’t try, no chit he wouldn’t call in.

  Cotton said, “Just do what you do best, Max. Listen, sympathize, ingratiate. Above all, notice things.”

  “I do n
ot ingratiate. That sounds so … so calculating. Like some corrupt salesman.”

  “One thing you are not, Max, is calculating. You ingratiate because you are an ingratiating sort of person. I mean, you’re—oh, never mind. Will you go?”

  Cotton, who felt he knew his man by now, also felt sure he knew what the answer would be. So he sat through the hemmings and hawings, the “Well, I’d have to get someone in to take over the service”s, examining his nails and scrabbling through his desk to find a nail file, the phone receiver tucked under his chin all the while. Max had reached the end of his recital of what-ifs and conditionals by the time Cotton had finished filing down the little snag on his left index fingernail.

  “Good, that’s sorted then,” he said. “I’ll tell them to expect you. And here’s the phone number for the castle. There’s rather an elaborate ‘Open, Sesame’ routine you have to go through at the gate. The butler chap will talk you through it.”

  “I’m really not—” began Max.

  “Anyway, nothing could be more natural than that you attend personally to advise on the arrangements,” Cotton ran on. “Lamorna, as I say, has in fact asked specifically for guidance. I gather she’s a poor relation of some kind.”

  “Yes, I know. Again, funnily enough, I learned quite a bit about her over dinner tonight. Poor thing doesn’t seem to have had much of a life.”