A Fatal Winter

by G. M. Malliet

  “Wait a minute. What app?”

  “A sound amplifier app I downloaded for my mobile.” The “of course” was unspoken but his opinion of the inherent dimness of adults was evident. “‘App’ is short for ‘application,’” Alec added helpfully, in case Max was simply too senile to comprehend this difficult point.

  Max looked at him. The poem about fog coming in on little cat feet came into Max’s mind, making him smile. Alec had a great career as a cat burglar ahead of him. Or a spy for Her Majesty’s Government.

  “I do know what an app is, thank you. So, what was it you heard?”

  Alec had kept a lot to himself, having learned early that knowledge sometimes needed to be hoarded for safety’s sake. Somehow it was a relief to tell Max, if it might help. Alec had had no great use for Lamorna but she didn’t deserve to die like that.

  “It wasn’t much,” he said apologetically. “Two voices, a man and woman talking—and I wondered, who was the woman? Because they were quarreling, arguing, and the couples around here don’t quarrel—not with each other. Not since my parents divorced has there been a ruckus like that … and of course, my father, he’s gone now.” His expression closed down for a moment, then he visibly shook off the melancholy and said, “Lester and Fester are thick as thieves, always. It couldn’t have been them unless they’re great actors otherwise. I could hear phrases like, ‘It was all your brilliant idea’ and ‘So what are we to do about Father Brown being in our midst?’ Then, ‘Quit showing off in front of him. You’re overplaying your hand!’—that part was really loud. Then a door slammed and I couldn’t really hear much more. I think someone turned on the telly then somewhere—or more likely was watching something on a laptop. My father discouraged the telly whenever he could.”

  Max was struck anew by the disparity in ages here. Oscar, Lord Footrustle, surely had been old enough to be the boy’s grandfather, not his father. It was a large generation gap. Perhaps insurmountably large.

  “You’re sure that isn’t what you were hearing all along, a movie or a television show? You’re quite sure?”

  “Yes,” said Alec, quite assured and calm. “When whoever it was started watching the telly or whatever, there was that tinny sound, and a laugh track. With what went on before, no one was laughing, that’s certain.”

  “Thank you for telling me, Alec. One more thing. Since you’re obviously good with phones, did you program Lady Baynard’s mobile for her? To play a song you knew she probably wouldn’t like?”

  “Who, me? Why would I bother her with a silly prank like that?”

  “Did your sister?”

  “Same answer. She’s a girl but she puts her time to somewhat better use than that. But, ask her.”

  Max returned to the drawing room and did just that. Amanda was adamant she had done no such thing. And her reasoning was much the same, except she added, “My aunt knew perfectly well how to use her phone. She’d had it since the Jurassic period.”

  * * *

  Max on his way to see Cotton ran into several members of the household. The first was Felberta.

  At the look of concern on Felberta’s face he said, “Would you like to tell me all about it? If it’s what I think it is, the police won’t really care, certainly not in the middle of a murder investigation.”

  “It’s simply not worth it, Father,” she said, “if it puts Lester’s life in danger.” And adjusting the appalling costume jewelry around her neck, she told him.

  * * *

  “I think you need to tell me why you were roaming around the night Lamorna was killed,” Max said to Lester a few minutes later. “The other reason.”

  There was the expected bristling, the posing. “Does it matter?” Lester spluttered. “I saw what I saw.”

  “To be honest, I don’t think it does matter, but for my own satisfaction I’d like my hunch verified.” He had just promised Felberta to leave her name out of it.

  Lester tried to face it out, but rapidly caved.

  “Well, I was, if you must know … looking out for my best interests.”

  “And that would mean jewelry? Paintings? Other valuables?”

  “Well, I…” His voice faded. He almost looked as if he might refuse to answer, but then he burst out: “I had every right. My mother had some valuable jewelry she would have wanted Felberta to have.”

  Max marveled at that assertion. He wondered very much whether Leticia would think first of Felberta in this connection, but he studiously guarded his expression.

  “Randolph as the eldest looked set to take the lot,” Lester went on. “There’s so much, I didn’t think he’d miss it. And he doesn’t have a wife so he doesn’t need it.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “But then I saw Lamorna—definitely looking suspicious. I started following her in case…”

  “In case she was on the same sort of mission. Really, does that sound like Lamorna to you—lusting after jewelry?”

  “I guess not, really. But she was following someone, too.”

  “Any further thoughts on whom she was following? Did you get any indication of height, sex, size?”

  “I never saw. She went over to the Old Kitchen. I waited. She came back out and I followed her back to the castle. I was returning to bed and—well, the rest you know.”

  Max tended to want to believe him, if only because Lester struck him as not being smart enough to lie convincingly for long. So presumably whomever Lamorna followed stayed inside the Old Kitchen, at least until Lester had given up the chase and the coast was clear. Then “whomever” came to find Lamorna.

  CHAPTER 31

  Be My Baby

  Max actually ran into Cotton before he could get to the library. They stood to one side, conversing in hushed voices, Max being all too aware that the lack of privacy in the castle was nearly complete. He told Cotton about Alec’s little hobby. Cotton blanched, then went on to say in a very low voice, “We have alibis galore, all worthless if anyone is covering for anyone else. For example, the cook and butler alibi each other, but that means nothing. They would.”

  Cotton’s mobile buzzed. He looked at a text message.

  “This just in from our U.S. colleagues.” And he summarized the data in the report.

  “Do you want to talk with her?” asked Cotton. “I’ve a feeling this may be more in your line. She might be more willing to let her hair down with you than with the ‘authorities.’”

  Max said, “Yes, I’ll go and talk with her. Then I’ll join you in the library.”

  * * *

  He found her having coffee in the Great Hall.

  “If I might have a word in private?”

  They moved up into the drawing room, now vacated. Jocasta fussily sat down like an exotic bird settling on a nest, scarves fluttering.

  Max said plainly, “Did Lamorna ever find out about her relationship to you? That you were her mother?”

  The idea of denial played out across her face, but like Lester she had few defenses. The strain of questioning was probably wearing all of them down.

  “I gave Lamorna up for adoption. Lea adopted her to keep it in the family. She really loved Lamorna.” This last was said with a look of utter bafflement.

  “You didn’t object? You never tried to see her, or to be involved in her upbringing?”

  More bafflement. Max suspected also that Lea wanted to keep Jocasta away from the child, and make the child her own. That was wise, in retrospect—how confusing it would all have been for Lamorna.

  He remembered that Oscar’s will mentioned Jocasta and any offspring of Jocasta—legal or otherwise. It was standard legalese. But it meant Lamorna had shared with Jocasta in becoming quite a wealthy person on Oscar’s death.

  And it had long sounded as if Jocasta, and her husband, needed money to bail out her finances.

  “Oscar didn’t know who Lamorna really was?” Jocasta shook her head decisively. “Did Leticia?” Again, no.

  “You have to remember what it was like back
in the day.” Jocasta was speaking softly, especially for Jocasta. “I gave up the baby to save my career from scandal. Even in those days, although ideas were changing, an illegitimate baby could be a career ender in Hollywood. So I moved to Florida for the last few months of the pregnancy, gave birth, and gave the baby up for adoption. Lea told people she was adopted from St. Petersburg and they naturally assumed Russia—there were so many adoptions coming out of there.”

  Max nodded. “St. Petersburg, Florida. Russia being an easy conclusion for people to jump to—‘St. Petersburg’ and the word ‘overseas’ being used, without specifying which direction overseas: west or east. People would take for granted she was born in Russia, and came from an orphanage there. There have been so many adoptions from Russia by wealthy, childless couples. And that bit of misdirection would leave you right out of it. She also had the dark appearance of some Russians.”

  Jocasta nodded.

  “And you didn’t know Lea had adopted her?”

  “I told Lea of my predicament, but Lea, having decided to adopt the child, kept it secret from me at first. She adopted via an intermediary. I didn’t know until later, when Lea thought it was safe to tell me. She didn’t realize, it was always safe. It’s not like I was going to beg to get her returned to me.” A pause. “Simon is the only one who knows. How did you find out?”

  “The adoption records, of course. Nothing in a murder inquiry stays hidden for long. Lamorna’s name was a bit of a clue—she’s was conceived in Cornwall, wasn’t she, but born in Florida?” Jocasta nodded, clearly growing bored with the topic of her murdered child.

  “Cornwall also had romantic associations for her adoptive parents, am I right?”

  Jocasta shrugged. “I think Lea said something about it. It was years ago, and she and Leo died soon afterward.”

  Max asked: “Did Lady Baynard never even guess who Lamorna really was?”

  “I truly don’t think so; it was all kept hush-hush. Would it have mattered that Lamorna was actually a blood relative? I doubt it. If anything the murkiness of her origins and the scandal surrounding them would have doubled Leticia’s revulsion for her.”

  “So she came into Leticia’s care, but let’s always put quotation marks around that word ‘care,’ shall we? Lady Baynard seemed to regard her as little more than unpaid help, given room and board in exchange for services. The adoption was a stigma, making her an outcast. Illegitimacy was of course what really bothered Leticia. Poor Lamorna. Not much of a life, and what there was, cut short.”

  He was silent a moment, then asked her pointedly: “Did she know? Lamorna.”

  Silence.

  “Did you get the chance to tell her before she died?”

  She shot him a look of pure venom. If he’d ever suspected her of being capable of murder, that look alone would have sealed the impression.

  “What good would it have done? Have ever done? I had a career to think about. She was … just strange. There were complications … the birth … I was glad to have her off my hands. I had my career to think about.”

  * * *

  “It lands both Jocasta and Simon right in there,” Cotton said. “Don’t you agree?”

  They were in the castle library. Max said, in a noncommittal voice, “Perhaps. Yes, perhaps.” But his thoughts were clearly leading him in other directions, as well. His eyes were alight with detective fervor.

  He shifted his weight. “However, I do see your point,” he added, cautiously, and then fell into what Cotton could only describe to himself as an active silence, eyes blazing with patient thought. A snake waiting on a foolish move by its prey would wait thus, Cotton thought.

  Max’s eye alighted on a glass bowl of fruit on the table beside his chair. It had been there during the recent interviews but he’d not particularly noticed. Now it leapt into his view, panning slowly into a close-up.

  Hesitantly, he reached for an orange, completely perfect and unbruised. All the food in the castle was of that quality. Organic, probably locally sourced. Awena would be so pleased to know.

  He turned the orange round in his hand. Its bar code sticker was still attached.

  He looked up at Cotton. “Can you spare one of your people to go over to the vicarage in Nether Monkslip right away? I need you to fetch something for me. Let me call Mrs. Hooser first. Keep your fingers crossed she hasn’t tossed it out.”

  Cotton didn’t ask. He knew better than to question any request of Max’s. All would be revealed in time.

  Max, meanwhile, was thinking of Paul’s telling the early Christians, “We see through a glass darkly.” Certainly, that was exactly what he had been doing with regard to this case. There was the smallest light shining through now, however. He felt a prickling of his skin, as if he had walked into a spider’s web.

  And Max withdrew further into himself, as was his habit when troubled by a mass of information—apparently contradictory information that, given time, he knew would organize itself into a coherent pattern. A theory was taking shape in his mind, but the actors in this particular play stood in the shadows of the stage.

  And one, he thought, might still be waiting in the wings.

  Something about finding Lamorna made him think, too, of the way Lady Baynard had been found. Or was it where she had been found? These nagging thoughts that broke the surface of his mind quickly became submerged before he could grasp on to them.

  Cotton stood watching him, as if he were a telly with the sound turned down.

  “What exactly,” Max asked, “were the terms of Oscar’s will? Short version?”

  “Oscar left the bulk of his money to his sister, a bit to his daughter Jocasta, a bit to the twins, the rest to various charities, including one for hedgehogs and one for donkeys. The legacies to his children were nicely calculated to prevent them from trying to challenge the will. Alec inherits the title.”

  “And Leticia?”

  “Leticia left all her money to her children. Even Lamorna got a token amount. Well, token by this family’s standards. There was a lot to go round.”

  “All the money in the world,” Max said, “and they still felt their share wasn’t enough.”

  He thought again of that furious little girl at the beach, of her suppressed rage. This would apply to Lamorna but it applied to Lester and Randolph and Gwynyth and even to Milo and Doris, as well, he realized—to all of them. They’d all been controlled, and kept under control, by Oscar’s money, and Leticia’s, and the promise of at least some of it coming to them one day.

  “Let me call Mrs. Hooser now,” said Max.

  He had a brief conversation with his housekeeper, who wanted to launch into a long story about Luther the cat and Thea the dog (she thought they needed counseling), but Max cut her off.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Hooser. Someone from the police will be by as soon as possible today. Have them call me from there, will you? And whatever you do, don’t touch it, all right?”

  Cotton looked at Max, the light in his pale eyes showing a dawning comprehension.

  “You mean…?”

  “Yes.”

  “You can’t be serious.”

  “I’m afraid I am. It’s the only explanation that accounts for everything.”

  “Holy … What nerve! To think anyone could think they could get away with that … almost did, in fact.”

  “Imagine how I feel.”

  “All because of an apple,” Cotton wondered, musingly.

  “Not the first time it’s been at the center of a major downfall.”

  “Hmm?” Cotton was still thinking through the ramifications and so was listening with only one ear.

  “Adam and Eve,” said Max.

  “Ah. But—there’s something more, isn’t there? What’s on your mind, Max? Tell.”

  “It’s just that I wonder—”

  Just then, Milo came walking by the window, snowblower at maximum volume.

  “What was that? You wonder what?” asked Cotton.

  “I said, ‘Wh
y Oscar, why now?’”

  “Go on.”

  Reframing his thinking, Max said: “I am rather wondering at the timing of the death. After all, they were all hanging about the castle for ages, living well. Free room and board, on rather a grand scale. Free to come and go as they pleased, and to treat the place as a hotel. None of them were needy by the standards of the average person. Why did Oscar have to die when he did?”

  Cotton looked mystified, as well he might.

  “Surely the question is, why did he have to die at all?”

  “No,” said Max. “That is not the question.” Rather annoyingly, he refused to say more. “I have a few questions I’d like to ask of the police doctor. With your permission.”

  For Max felt a growing unease. The carelessness of Lamorna’s death—someone had barely had time to escape detection there.

  “They are all clamoring to be let go,” Cotton was saying. “And even with Lamorna’s murder I’m running out of reasons not to let them go in a few more days. I think Wintermute put a flea in their ears about their rights in this situation.”

  “Lamorna’s murder is problematic in many ways,” said Max.

  Cotton said, “Motive didn’t appear to be a big question, until one excluded Leticia—the obvious person to gain by Oscar’s death. It was always possible she was indeed the killer, and struck down in some biblical way for her crime soon after it was committed. Barring that explanation, that it was Leticia who did the killing, it is hard to see money as a motive for killing Oscar. They only had to wait awhile, after all, and so much of his money went to charity.”

  “Ah, but who knew that?” Max asked.

  “No one who will admit to it now. And of course there is not a shred of evidence to connect Leticia with the killing. Which leaves us with revenge. Or blighted love (unlikely) and/or the good old crime reaching into the past, some misdeed from Oscar’s youth in finance or sexual frolics, which leaves us with quite an old mess to sort out—a mess that might never be sorted out.”