A Fatal Winter

by G. M. Malliet

  Randolph threw the girl from him. She spun across the room from the force, arms windmilling to catch her balance. Sergeant Essex, catching her, put an arm around her shoulders, noticing that her hysterical, grating breathing had abruptly ceased. Had the girl been faking? Amanda looked up at her with gratitude. Apparently so.

  Randolph, meanwhile, had bolted for the door, Max and Cotton in pursuit. Randolph disappeared up the stairs, headed toward the courtyard. Both men saw him as he disappeared under the archway into the garden.

  “He must be headed for the cliff path,” Max shouted. “There’s no other exit from the garden.” He turned back to Cotton. “Go the other way. Head him off.” And he indicated with one arm a U-turn around the castle, where a steep set of stairs led down to the cliff. It was gated but an agile man could just climb over it.

  Max saw the gate from the garden standing open, confirming his hunch. He shot through and caught up with Randolph on the cliff’s ledge. He was peering over the edge, gathering his nerve to jump. Randolph looked up at Max’s approach; Max tried to outstare him but Randolph looked away, his intent plain. Grabbing him by the collar and pulling him round, Max pulled back a fist and delivered an uppercut to the chin. He thought he’d knocked him out but Randolph struggled to his feet groggily, looked straight at Max, and took a swing. Instinctively Max ducked into a crouch. Randolph lost his balance, and like a tumbler took a dive over Max’s back. As Max stood, Randolph lost his footing at the edge and slipped on the loosened dirt and rock, screaming as he barely grasped the ledge with one hand, the other hand flailing uselessly in the air. Suddenly, faced with the certainty of death, Randolph wanted to live.

  Max grabbed him by the arm. He felt and heard a sickening crunch as Randolph’s arm pulled out of its socket. The screams were deafening.

  Max experienced another stomach-turning moment when the combination of his own weight with Randolph’s nearly propelled both men over the edge. He looked over the precipice with flayed nerves. Still he held on. His free arm waving as if he were caught in some macabre rodeo act, and his stomach lurching from the view of hell below, Max tried and failed to grab Randolph’s other hand. Finally, Max heaved himself backward with all his might, hauling Randolph’s dead weight with him. Regaining his center of gravity at last, still Max fell against his weakened ankle at an angle; the shock of the pain further jolted him backward, just saving him from joining Randolph in a headlong plunge onto the rocks below. Max sat hard against the ground with a thump—anything to take the pressure off those shrieking tendons. Still he held on to Randolph’s arm.

  Randolph let out another piercing scream and then was silent. He’d passed out from the pain.

  Better than dead, Max thought. One day you’ll thank me. Maybe.

  Cotton came running from the opposite direction at a gallop, followed by Essex and a swarm of constables.

  The fabled career of Randolph, Viscount Nathersby, was history.

  CHAPTER 35

  Good King Wenceslas

  Randolph and Cilla were dispatched quickly. Cotton and his team gave every appearance of scooping them up and removing them like unwanted parcels, which in fact, Max supposed, is what they were.

  As to the rest, they were all sorting themselves out. Some going, some staying. Jocasta and Simon had announced almost immediately that they would leave. Actually, Jocasta had announced it. Simon’s stony silence indicated to Max they might not be in harmony on this decision.

  Amanda and Alec had convinced their mother they’d been away from civilization too long. They came to the library to wish Max well, Amanda clearly in the bloom of health.

  “I see the asthma attack has passed,” said Max.

  She smiled broadly.

  “We thought you were going to be an old stodge and try to convert us,” said Alec.

  “I gave up forcible baptisms some time ago,” said Max with a grin. “It caused too much backlash in the end.”

  “You’re all right,” said Amanda.

  “I think,” Max said, “you’ll do well. Just don’t think of joining MI5, will you? You’d be brilliant. But there’s a cost.”

  Amanda shook her head determinedly.

  “Not me. But I may open my own PI service.”

  DCI Cotton came back into the room just then. The twins politely shook both men’s hands and left to start their packing.

  “We were led astray, weren’t we?” said Cotton.

  “Question authority. Question the evidence of your own eyes. Question everything,” said Max. “When will I learn?”

  “Actually, I’d say you were quite good at questioning everything. You got us there.”

  Max shook his head. “But not in time to save Lamorna. We were led deliberately astray by Randolph and Cilla, of course, coupled with the ‘evidence’ of my own eyes. What we thought we knew to be true was confirmed by the medical evidence—which in a Catch-22, was using my own eyewitness testimony as a baseline. And yet there was nothing medical to contradict what I said. Also we had Awena’s descriptions of Leticia—her manner and way of dressing. It all added up, but then as the facts accumulated, I could see it added up to the wrong number.

  “Oscar left a fortune to Leticia to dispose of as she wished. Her will left nearly everything to her children but no one looking into the murder of Oscar was concerned about her will; they thought it didn’t matter.”

  “It was a daring impersonation,” said Cotton. “But at almost any point, if Cilla had been caught out, she could have passed it off as a joke, an elaborate charade, something done on a dare, perhaps. But no one really takes time to question or really to see things, do they? Particularly in a train station, when they’re rushing about anyway.”

  “Just as Churchill bore a certain resemblance to Queen Victoria in her later years,” said Max. “Part his hair in the middle and put a scarf on his head—you’d never know the difference. Again, people see what they expect to see.”

  “As to Lamorna—can we be quite certain she wasn’t killed for her inheritance?”

  “That could have been a factor, but I doubt it. I don’t think anyone but Jocasta knew, and she wasn’t going to tell anyone. I did briefly consider once I knew what their relationship was that she could have killed Lamorna to increase her own share, but no, thank God, that didn’t happen. But Oscar’s will talks about natural issue—meaning Jocasta’s legitimate or illegitimate child, just covering the bases in legalese. Lamorna inherited along with Jocasta, or would have done.”

  Max reflected on the irony that the despised Lamorna was a Footrustle, even if born on the wrong side of the blanket.

  “So Gwynyth was the only one to lose out on the inheritance,” said Cotton. “That must sting.”

  “Don’t worry about her,” said Max. “She’ll live to be one hundred and she’s got all she needs, if she’d but realize it. Still, she’s a survivor, that one. And I think her children will look out for her. It’s almost as if the roles are reversed there. They are already more adult than their mother, and they know it. And I think more forgiving, luckily for her.”

  “Oscar fooled them all in the end, didn’t he? The poor benefited, and the guilty will now be punished. Very Dickensian.”

  Max nodded. “A bit like Scrooge, Oscar developed a sudden fondness for the poor over a wish to pass along all of his wealth to family, most of whom he held in no high regard. Or maybe like Good King Wenceslas he was a saint at heart, to begin with.”

  “He actually left five hundred thousand pounds to a local man named Jake Sloop—I gather he’s a local character who collects wood to sell as firewood,” said Cotton. “It was a drop in the bucket for Oscar but it will certainly change Sloop’s life.”

  “Nice.” Max quoted: “‘Ye who now will bless the poor, Shall yourselves find blessing.’ In any event the money will be well received by the charities. Too bad he didn’t remember St. Edwold’s while he was at it.”

  Cotton stopped in the process of packing up his briefcase to stare at Ma
x.

  “You didn’t know? Didn’t Wintermute say? St. Edwold’s is to receive the interest from two hundred thousand pounds, in perpetuity. For the roof fund.”

  Max stared at him, speechless.

  “I don’t suppose we ever told Wintermute you were the vicar of St. Edwold’s. I just told him your name. It would appear you were a suspect all along, Max. But a minor one.”

  * * *

  Somehow Max felt that the pair, brother and sister, were watching from above with grim satisfaction. The orthodoxy of his theology may have been on shaky ground, and it wouldn’t be for the first time, but it was a feeling he couldn’t shake off—a feeling of being watched by very old eyes. The castle seemed to do that to him.

  He needed to start packing and was most anxious to get back to the village. Passing through the Great Hall, he ran into Simon, and recalled that there might be unfinished business there.

  “You and Jocasta will be returning to the States now, I take it?” said Max.

  “Jocasta will. As for me, I am not certain how long I can sit through another seven-hour waxen performance on another low-budget stage set.”

  Max, who suspected as much, still felt there was a bond in the relationship that was worth saving. “You never had dreams of your own?” he asked.

  “Dreams?” Simon repeated, as if he’d forgotten the meaning of the word. “To tell you the truth, my dream was to marry a rich woman. I guess I peaked early.”

  “She’s richer still, now that we’ve got the wills sorted.”

  “I know. And I thought that would solve everything. But now I’m wondering: Is it enough to make a life?”

  “It’s what you make of it. Besides, being with someone who needs you is a powerful tie. I don’t see Jocasta lasting very long without you. You know she drinks too much as it is.”

  “I know. Don’t think I don’t know I’m needed.”

  “But you need a life beyond being her caretaker,” said Max. “Don’t you?”

  “Yes. Just not as an actor. It’s unconscionably hard to think of another job where thinking about yourself all day is a key part of the required skill set.” He paused and said, “It’s incredible. I once considered Jocasta to be a great catch. What kind of person does that make me?”

  “To be honest, I think you’re wrong to feel that way. She needs you. You need her. So long as it harms no one, what is wrong with that arrangement?” said Max.

  “I think it’s harming me,” said Simon. “I don’t like the person I’m becoming. Tell me the truth: Was she a prime suspect for this? I have to admit, I considered it a real possibility.” Simon realized he’d gotten so used to covering for his wife he hadn’t noticed when his moral compass had shifted completely out of whack.

  “They were all suspects,” said Max neutrally. He didn’t add that the ferocity of the crime also had made him think that Jocasta, coming completely undone over some triviality, was more than capable.

  Simon was saying, “I have been thinking I might try to write a screenplay about all this. I know at least some of the right people in Hollywood. Who knows what might happen?”

  “I wish you success,” said Max. “I think you should know, Jocasta may be looking for a new business manager. You’ll need to set things right with her—stay or go. Financially, I mean. I don’t think it’s automatic she’ll want you to stay otherwise.”

  Max didn’t spell out his warning but it was clear Simon took his meaning exactly. So long as Simon took steps to correct his wrongdoing, Max didn’t see it as his job to report his misconduct to the U.S. authorities. He was sure Cotton would feel the same.

  “Thank you,” Simon said quietly.

  Jocasta came into the hall just then, trailing olive-green scarves. They all said their good-byes, and Max watched the departure of the newly wealthy Jocasta, escorted by her newly attentive younger husband. He wondered if money could buy you love. Not the real thing, certainly not, but how many people settled happily for a facsimile?

  * * *

  There was something Max wanted to do before he left. The money left to St. Edwold’s was literally an answer to a prayer, although he’d never have chosen the way it was delivered. God answered prayers in his own way, he’d noticed, without the need for direction from humans.

  Max took the path leading to the small stone chapel in the bailey.

  He pulled open the wooden door and stepped inside. The old chapel—hadn’t Randolph said it was eleventh century?—had been spared much of the mindlessly destructive Cromwellian fervor wreaked on churches the width and breadth of England. Presumably because of its isolation, it appeared untouched by the thugs of that particular chapter of history. Even so, iron bars had been installed on the windows to protect the elegant tracery and glass from vandals.

  Six small pews bore the arms of the Footrustles. Max sat in one of them, beneath the barrel roof, and let the hush descend, his handsome face dappled now by a mosaic of light from the stained-glass windows with their pointed arches.

  He stared at the altar table and closed his eyes, letting the old sanctity of the place wash over him. He was wearier than he could remember being for some time. It was the weariness of mental exhaustion, the worst kind.

  Randolph and Cilla had been faced with a choice, and had taken the decision to kill for gain. They had had many a chance to back out of their scheme, but there seemed to be some sort of “rush” at work—the challenge and thrill of taking a shortcut to riches. Of eliminating threat, in the form of Lamorna. It was risk-taking of a sort Max didn’t entirely understand.

  But he didn’t doubt he’d done the right thing, as he had doubted so often during his MI5 days. Here, at least, it had been clear-cut who the villains were, and that they couldn’t be allowed to thrive. He may have saved lives in the future, for would Randolph ever have been content with his share?

  Who could say.

  It was time to go home.

  Demo version limitation

  ALSO BY G. M. MALLIET

  Wicked Autumn

  Death at the Alma Mater

  Death and the Lit Chick

  Death of a Cozy Writer

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  G. M. Malliet is the winner of the Agatha Award for Death of a Cozy Writer, as well as the author of Wicked Autumn. She attended Oxford University, holds a graduate degree from the University of Cambridge, and lives in Virginia near Washington, D.C.

  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  A THOMAS DUNNE BOOK FOR MINOTAUR BOOKS.

  An imprint of St. Martin’s Publishing Group.

  A FATAL WINTER. Copyright © 2012 by G. M. Malliet. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.

  www.thomasdunnebooks.com

  www.minotaurbooks.com

  Cover design by David Baldeosingh Rotstein

  Cover illustration by Rob Wood/Wood Ronsaville Harlin, Inc.

  ISBN 978-0-312-64797-1 (hardcover)

  ISBN 9781250018250 (e-book)

  First Edition: October 2012