In Prior's Wood

by G. M. Malliet

  “There was some educational connection, too, wasn’t there?” Miss Pitchford, given her schoolmistress background, likewise adored all things with an educational component.

  “Oh, yes. His offerings of summer courses on history and antiques and so on have proven to be surprisingly popular, particularly with Americans, and particularly with American retirees. Somehow he talked Tormeadle University into granting accreditation to the classes and then things really took off for him.”

  “So Lord Duxter took sound advice from someone running a much bigger establishment,” said Suzanna. “You see?”

  Elka wasn’t sure what she was supposed to see, but she said, “Yes. And he hired Jane, a trained librarian, to run the old library—to file and organize and get things sorted to see what was actually in there. It’s a jolly good thing she turned out to be honest, too: I understand there were a few surprises to be found in the stacks, like some rare old books that Lord Duxter immediately cashed in on. The sale at auction at Sotheby’s of one old play script went for a phenomenal amount. It was thought to be written by an inferior writer, but Christopher Marlowe may actually have held the pages in his hands. That one sale helped fund many of Lord Duxter’s enterprises.”

  “That and his wife’s fortune.”

  This was greeted with a few knowing looks, and several women paused at this juncture for reviving sips of coffee.

  “The poor woman,” said Suzanna. “But I also heard he used his influence with the airlines to bump someone else off the flight to help Colin out. He has that kind of reach.”

  “Yes, I’m sure that’s all very nice,” said Elka hesitantly. “After all, if he got Colin sent way over there, it’s right and proper he help bring him back for his grandmother. But what about the poor soul who got bumped?”

  “I don’t know,” Suzanna shrugged. “Maybe he got some kind of upgrade. Perhaps a free food voucher for his trouble.”

  Now Elka’s look was tinged with scorn. “Have you tasted airline food recently? I wouldn’t consider that a fair trade, not at all.” Elka’s son, in a miracle of miracles, had scraped together the necessary to send his mother on a package tour to Majorca for four nights and three days. It was all she could talk about for weeks. She’d had to close the shop rather than leave it in his care—some miracles could only stretch so far. Still she was pleased to discover the world had not come to an end because she took some well-deserved time off.

  “How are things going over there at the retreat?” Elka asked. “I usually have half a dozen writers in here before it’s over, mewling about and tapping on their laptops. They get bored, and, one supposes, hungry, and start looking for things to do to avoid writing. The poets especially are fond of chocolate, I’ve noticed. But I’ve had no one come in lately but that Carville person.”

  “Yes, and he’s all up himself,” said Suzanna over her newspaper. Carville had not responded to Suzanna’s blandishments, which was unusual. Most men did, for Suzanna was a stunner.

  “I would agree with you,” said Elka. “I know he’s a famous author but clever is as clever does. Or something.”

  “I liked his last book,” put in Elsbeth Lincaster, a horsey woman from the next village over. She pushed aside the little vase of flowers on her table as if it was obstructing her view. “It was shorter than his usual, and with not so many characters to keep track of.”

  “Lady Duxter must be feeling better,” said Miss Pitchford, putting out feelers for information. “She has been looking ever so much better.”

  At that, Suzanna Winship raised her head from the printed page. Her eye caught that of Elka and the two exchanged knowing glances. Suzanna murmured something that sounded like, “She who pays the piper.” Elsbeth made a little sound into her coffee that might have been a whinny.

  Miss Pitchford soldiered on, never one to be derelict in her duty to inform the public. “I hear they’ve been getting along wonderfully,” she said. “An OBE has a position to maintain, after all. A place in society. I’m sure we all look up to him. And a happy home life is part of what is expected of a man of his stature.”

  Elka looked unsure of this theory, as well she might. In her own position, she heard many rumors; she could hardly help but do so. The Cavalier was a major center for the exchange of village gossip, although Elka tried her best not to participate. But seeing the little cat smile on Suzanna’s face, especially, she wondered again.

  As so often, while Miss Pitchford was able to spread rumor at the speed of light (bypassing fact-checking for the sake of being first to break the news), often what she spread was pure fertilizer. And on this occasion in particular, she could not have been more wrong.

  PART III

  As It Lays

  Chapter 10

  DEATH

  In late September, Max read in the Monkslip-super-Mare Globe and Bugle the news that a couple had been found in Prior’s Wood in an apparent suicide pact. Miss Pitchford was down with a cold that threatened to turn into pneumonia, which was why, Max surmised, the jungle drums also were down for repairs. Normally he would have received a call from one of his parishioners about this event the night before.

  Max was surprised to read that the victims were Lady Duxter and Colin Frost, although he didn’t know why that came as a shock. People got up to all manner of things, in his experience, more than ever made it to the front page of the local news. But for local news, this was sensational, and the reporter (Clive Hoptingle) felt at liberty to show off his education by making comparisons with Lady Chatterley, which Max thought an absurdly odd and sensationalistic touch. Colin was hardly a working-class gamekeeper, just for one thing. He was a good-looking man, in this case somewhat younger than Lady Duxter, and there the comparisons and contrasts should have stopped or should never have got started. But lazy scribes love a cliché as much as they love a catchphrase, and the Monkslip scribes were some of the laziest in the land.

  He had to read nearly to the end of the story to be told that Lady Duxter had survived and had been rushed to hospital in Monkslip-super-Mare the evening before. There was no word on her condition. Colin Frost had soon been pronounced dead.

  Max’s first thought was for Colin’s survivors—his wife, Jane, and daughter, Poppy. Even though they were not regulars at St. Edwold’s, he of course knew them both, as he knew everyone living in or near Nether Monkslip. He would pray for the two of them, for Lord Duxter, and for all the people who would be affected by this news. Most of all, because of her youth, for poor Poppy. To lose a father, and in such a way, mere weeks after losing her great-grandmother … That poor child.

  Of course, Lord Duxter might be experiencing pain of a different sort. Max had heard rumors about Lady Duxter over the years but had paid them no mind. That was the sort of corrosive gossip that needed to be starved of attention.

  The phone on the kitchen wall jangled. It was DCI Cotton, ringing from the police station in Monkslip-super-Mare.

  “Max, hello,” he said. “Do you have any free time soon when we can meet?”

  “Certainly,” said Max. “I’ll be over at the vicarage in about an hour, after I lead Morning Prayer. Will that do?” Max assumed the visit had to do with that morning’s news. Since attempted suicide had not been classified as a crime in England for many decades, Max supposed Cotton might have some associated issue to discuss. Max had over the years become Cotton’s de facto adviser on any number of crimes, large and petty.

  Precisely one hour later he and Cotton were sitting in low chairs before the vicarage fireplace, watching the first fire of the morning catch hold. Thea rested contentedly at their feet. The wood was not quite seasoned and was full of resin. It made delightful cracking and popping sounds as the flames consumed it.

  “You’ve heard about Lady Duxter and Colin Frost,” began Cotton.

  “Only what’s in today’s paper,” said Max. “There’s no question it is suicide—and attempted suicide?”

  Cotton looked taken aback. Leave it to Max to get to th
e nub of the matter. Of course, he’d realize it was unusual for Cotton to consult him over a clear-cut case of suicide. “None whatsoever, as far as the coroner can determine at the moment. The physical evidence tallies, and what you might call the emotional history does as well. It seems this is not the first time Lady Duxter has tried to take her own life.”

  “And Colin?”

  “And Colin what?”

  “Is this the second time for him, too?”

  “Not that we’re aware, no. It was the first and obviously the last time. But he left a note, and there’s a sad old poem. It is pretty clear what happened. At least, on the surface it is clear. It has long been rumored that she had a lover.”

  “It might have been more convenient to take a lover closer to home, don’t you think?”

  “That’s just it, Max. That’s the very thing. It fits the circumstances as we know them. Colin Frost was sent over to Saudi Arabia at the urging of Lord Duxter. I mean to say, he had arranged through a friend of his to get Colin a job over there. I think that speaks volumes, don’t you? Lord Duxter wanted the man out of the way, perhaps in a vain attempt to save his own faltering marriage. The enforced separation may have provoked a sort of madness on both sides.”

  “And Colin’s wife, what did she want?”

  “Jane? I’ve no idea. We’ll be talking with her once she’s calmed down. Apparently she needed a doctor’s attention when the discovery was first made. She’s been sedated pretty much since it happened.”

  “And the daughter? Poppy?”

  “She flat-out refuses any medical attention. She says there’s something ‘wrong about all this’ and she wants her wits about her when talking with the authorities. Dr. Winship prescribed some sleeping tablets for her but so far she won’t take them.”

  “Does Poppy have evidence? Or does she just have a bad feeling?”

  “A bad feeling. Same as me. Max, there is pressure from on high to put paid to this one, and as quickly as humanly possible. Because of the scandal, the caliber of people involved. If Lady Duxter comes out of it, they don’t want her waking to a mess, her life in tatters, to say nothing of her marriage.”

  “They?”

  “I gather Lord Duxter had a word on the quiet with my super. These titled sorts always think they have a lot of clout with the police, God knows why. We don’t actually care what they do so long as they don’t harm anyone doing it.”

  “Or frighten the horses.”

  “Precisely. My super rang me the minute he’d got rid of Lord Duxter, telling me to take a closer look and make sure nothing was missed. I’d have done that on my own but it’s nice to have backing from the brass.”

  “What is it that bothers you about this, then?” Max asked. “So far, I’ve only heard your evidence in favor of a suicide theory.”

  “There’s something about the timing that doesn’t ring true,” said Cotton. “But I can’t quite put my finger on it. Colin Frost came home to Hawthorne Cottage for his grandmother’s funeral. He’s spent the past weeks handling her estate, sorting and putting things up for sale—all the usual. And in practically the next minute, he’s one half of a suicide pact. The dead half.”

  “Is Hawthorne Cottage going on the market?” Max asked. “I mean, before Colin died, was he planning to sell up? I’m assuming he is his grandmother’s heir.”

  “He is, or was. I don’t think the plan was to sell right away. At least while the daughter is going to school here in the area, the thinking seems to have been to keep the roof over her head, and over her stepmother’s, of course. Since Jane Frost works at Wooton Priory, Hawthorne Cottage is convenient for her.”

  “Yes. I know Jane, if not well. Awena especially has made attempts to draw her into the circle, but she’s a self-sufficient type. Let’s back up a bit. The newspaper said the bodies were found by a local man walking in the woods at dusk.”

  Cotton nodded. “They were found before sunset by a local hunter, one Andrew Todd, who called it in at five thirty-nine.”

  “And what did he find, exactly?”

  “A man and a woman, both in the backseat of the car.” Cotton paused. “Interestingly, Todd was with old Leo Henslowe when he had his hunting accident. Todd was acting as a beater, driving game out of the bushes. He was the first to reach Leo but the old man was already dead and past any hope of saving. I’d say Todd has bad luck in that department. Anyway, Todd recognized Lady Duxter right away—she’s a known figure in the area and he’s lived here most of his life. Colin we ID’d from his driving license.”

  “I see. Describe the setting for me. Where were they found?”

  “The car was parked about a mile from Wooton Priory. There’s a thick woods that surrounds the priory, you know, called Prior’s Wood. Almost dead center of those woods is a pond. There’s an unpaved road you can take to get to the pond, and the car was found pulled off to one side, not quite hidden in the trees. The place is mostly deserted this time of year. In the summer, it’s a bit of a lovers’ lane. Teenagers, you know.”

  “When the car was found, was the engine running?” Max asked.

  “No. It had run out of petrol at some point. It was Colin’s bad luck it didn’t run out more quickly, but death by carbon monoxide asphyxiation takes a matter of mere minutes. They were both poisoned by carbon monoxide coming in through a vacuum hose attached to the exhaust with plumber’s tape and then threaded into the car. It’s rigged up quite amateurishly but it got the job done. It’s an old car, practically an antique, belonging to the Henslowes, or the plan may not have worked. Modern cars have better exhaust controls.”

  “Fingerprints?”

  “Only Colin’s on the vacuum hose. There were no prints on the tape. But he was wearing gloves; they both were. It was ruddy cold in those woods, even in late September.”

  “I suppose even when we’re facing death we want to be warm and comfortable.”

  “I suppose that’s true,” said Cotton. “And listening to music, as well. All quite cozy, except … The lab’s running a toxicology report on both of them. There was half a bottle of whiskey found beside them in the car and an empty but labeled prescription container of an antidepressant drug—hers. Quite powerful stuff, especially when mixed with alcohol. And then with the carbon monoxide on top of everything … well, it looks like they wanted to be absolutely sure that something worked.”

  “But it didn’t work. They’re not both gone.”

  “No, only Colin,” said Cotton. “He was past reviving when he was found, although they tried to resuscitate him all the way to the hospital. Lady Duxter remains in a coma, and no one can say if she might recover. Dr. Winship was the nearest physician and he rushed to the scene. He tells me most people don’t fully recover from carbon monoxide poisoning. After coma can come acute psychosis and melancholy—people are never the same, in other words, and are invalids for life. But some do recover, and in quite a dramatic fashion. Yes, there have been cases.”

  “Miracles can happen.”

  “I suppose it’s your business to know, Max.”

  “Lady Duxter has tried to commit suicide before, in almost exactly this way. Her husband sent her to a sanatorium in Switzerland, a sort of combination dry-out clinic and health resort, after that failed suicide attempt. Apparently she did herself some serious damage with an overdose of pills mixed with alcohol. Then she ran the car in the garage with the door closed. He found her just in time. No one spoke of it—of course, now they will speak of nothing else. It’s odd, that.”

  “How do you mean, odd?”

  “Oh, I guess I’m thinking, she should have got better at suicide, having had prior experience.”

  Cotton nodded. “Practice making perfect, in a horrible sort of way—I do see what you mean. Instead, she seems to have got worse at it.”

  “I saw a man and a lady in the woods,” came a small, clear voice from a corner across the room.

  Only Max recognized the voice, but Max and Cotton jumped as one, startled eyes
scanning the room. It was as if one of the knickknacks on the shelves had spoken.

  “Tom?” said Max. His housekeeper’s son had an unnerving habit of playing quietly in a corner of the vicarage study, pretending to read one of the ancient theology tomes or taking a nap with Thea—so quietly Max often forgot he was there. He must have followed Max in. What a conversation for a child to have overheard. “When was this you saw them, Tom?” he asked gently. “The man and the lady?”

  Tom shrugged, losing interest in anything requiring precise measurement. In his universe, time ran on quite a different continuum from that of adults, anyway. The days were only long when he could not manage to shake his bossy sister’s supervision, and short on the days he found himself free to roam the village and beyond. “They lost their clothes,” he added.

  Tom was rather an authority on this subject, having routinely shed most of his clothing up until the age of two and a half during his various breaks for freedom. It had not been uncommon at the time to see him running thus unencumbered up the High, chased by Tildy Ann.

  Max and Cotton exchanged looks. The child may have witnessed an assignation between Colin and Lady Duxter. Cotton sighed and made an “Over to you, Max” gesture. In his experience small children made notoriously unreliable witnesses.

  “They lost their clothes?”

  Tom nodded, clearly pleased to have made an impression. Max didn’t doubt he was telling the truth, or some version of it that fit his limited experience.

  “Did they see you, Tom?”

  He shook his head at this foolish question. “I hided.”

  “Yes, you’re quite good at hiding, aren’t you, Tom? Were they talking, the man and the lady?”

  At this, Cotton shot him a sardonic look: What do you think?

  Tom shook his head, a definite no, reinforcing Cotton’s sentiment.

  Oh, my. Well, thought Max, in other circumstances he might tell the child to go and discuss all this with his mother, but a more disinterested mother than Mrs. Hooser was difficult to imagine. Distracted rather than disinterested, Max reminded himself. Tom’s sister was too young herself to be a confidant in this sort of situation. But Tom didn’t seem in the least distressed or disturbed by what he had seen. He was simply passing along information. And now, clearly, he was done. He began pulling one of the old, fraying volumes off a lower shelf.