In Prior's Wood

by G. M. Malliet

  “I do think it’s a nice and useful thing that in this country we honor achievement in so many fields, don’t you? But I gather from my team that Sir Duxter has a bit of an ego about all this. They’ve taken turns interviewing him because they’ve been quickly worn down by all the bombast.”

  “Yes. If he didn’t have an ego before, that came along with the title. By the way, OBEs are not ‘Sirs.’”

  “Good heavens. How very confusing.”

  “It’s meant to be, I think. Keeps us proles in our place, busy figuring it all out.”

  “There’s one more thing.” Again, Cotton flipped through the contents of his briefcase and extracted a piece of paper in size about eight by thirteen centimeters. It was protected in another evidence bag. “And this is really something. Suicide notes, a poem, and then this. A sort of calling card, we’re thinking. But whose?”

  Within the clear evidence bag was a small rectangle of thick, brightly colored, decorated paper, about the size of a playing card. Max could see on closer inspection that it was a tarot card with a macabre depiction of a man hanging from a tree by a rope tied around one foot, his other foot crossed over behind the suspended leg to form a triangle or a number four. His hands were not showing and were either tied or held behind his back. The card was numbered twelve—XII in roman numerals—at the top, and it was labeled “The Hanged Man” at the lower edge.

  “How bizarre,” said Max.

  “Isn’t it just?”

  “It was found in the car with the rest? The note, the poem?”

  “Yes, but on the floor. Half tucked under a floor mat.”

  “I suppose someone may be trying to tell the police something,” said Max. “In a childish way. That Colin was a trickster, a magician, always playing with cards and performing magic tricks. When he was around for Harvest Fayre, he would do card tricks, tell fortunes—all in good fun, nothing serious. The children loved it. They loved him, come to think of it. There was something childlike about Colin.”

  “Did he use tarot cards, though?”

  “Not that I recall,” said Max. “But he may have done. There is probably all manner of significance to this particular card: The Hanged Man. So macabre. Awena will know something about it. She sells tarot cards in her shop. Who could own a New Age shop like Goddessspell and not know something of the tarot?”

  “Does she carry this exact brand? I know, or I am learning, that there are dozens of designs, different manufacturers.”

  Max shook his head. “I wouldn’t know. But she keeps good records. If the deck did come from her shop she may be able to tell us who bought it. But also as importantly, what it means, this particular card. I’ll ask her this morning and give you a ring, tell you what she said.”

  But he was in for a surprise when he asked Awena about it. He had returned to their cottage after Cotton left, finding her in the kitchen. She turned from stirring soup on the Aga and took the tarot card from his hand. Whatever she was making, probably soup or a sauce made from scratch, it smelled ambrosial, and Max realized suddenly how hungry he was, although he’d not long ago had breakfast. Awena hadn’t invented the farm-to-fork movement but she marched at the front of the parade.

  “Certainly, I remember this design,” she said. “Poppy bought a deck for use as a party game when she turned sixteen. Her father was still here, not in Saudi yet, and he read the guests’ fortunes.”

  She tapped the card thoughtfully against her thumbnail as she studied it closely.

  “There are many interpretations for this particular card,” she said finally, handing it back to Max. “Notice the man’s expression—he doesn’t look pained or hurt in any way. He looks peaceful. It’s very odd, given his awful circumstances, but you could say he looks happy. This leads to the interpretation that he’s hanging there by his own choice, seeking enlightenment. Which he has apparently found.”

  “I suppose that since Colin is dead one might say he’s enlightened now.”

  “But there’s a simpler explanation,” said Awena. “And that’s that someone saw Colin as a traitor. There was a time when traitors were hung upside down by one foot, particularly in Italy. If someone left this card behind intentionally, he or she may be trying to tell us why. Why they felt Colin had to die.”

  “A traitor,” Max repeated softly, thinking. So someone may have been leaving a message for the authorities, after all. And it had to be considered, far-fetched as it seemed, that that person was not necessarily a murderer. It couldn’t be said that only a murderer would leave behind such a clue. But why was it done? Was the message simply, “Whoever killed him—even if he killed himself—he deserved to die?”

  Max supposed Colin’s work in a country known for repressive regimes might brand him as a traitor in some eyes. That by his work he was reinforcing or enabling a despotic regime.

  But what did any of it say about Lady Duxter? That she was simply collateral damage?

  Just as likely, the betrayal hinted at by the card was personal. Colin had been found with another man’s wife, after all—a fact that pointed the finger of guilt directly at Lord Duxter as the card leaver. Of course, it pointed the finger just as much at Jane. Or at Poppy. Or her boyfriend, Stanley. Or anyone in the village thinking that leaving ghastly clues at a murder scene was a spot of fun.

  Max shared some of these thoughts aloud, adding: “I don’t think we have to reach that far, do you? All the way to Saudi Arabia, I mean? He was cheating on his wife. That’s a betrayal very close to home. Or if the card was intended to represent Marina, it’s the same story—an unfaithful spouse. And all by the same token, it could have been aimed at both of them.”

  Surely Cotton was at work checking out alibis for anyone with a remote attachment to the case. The trouble was, more often than not, if people didn’t know they’d need an alibi, they were doing something completely unverifiable. Something innocuous; some solitary chore or diversion like watching the telly or scrubbing the sink. The fact that they could have been the guilty party under these circumstances was not enough in and of itself. Still, motive and opportunity.

  Looking at the card, Max realized there was still a further possible explanation. The card may have been in the car for days or weeks, unnoticed. It may have been dropped there by a passenger, someone who had been given a lift. Someone having nothing to do with the case.

  He felt that a visit to Wooton Priory was in order. Surely it was at the epicenter of whatever had transpired between Marina and Colin.

  Chapter 12

  THE TOWER

  Her hair was tied in a knot, held in place at the top of her head by a plain rubber band looped haphazardly around the shiny strands and by what looked like a dozen bobby pins. A sharpened pencil protruded from the resulting samurai knob of hair. He gathered from all the reinforcement that Jane Frost was what his grandmother would have called a real belt-and-suspenders type, but despite the precautions, her hair was escaping in tendrils around her face. He could see she’d been crying.

  She stared at him out of eyes enlarged by the thick lenses of her glasses encased in heavy black frames. Max thought a good optometrist might have steered her in a better direction but she seemed to be a woman of the practical sort (those frames would last forever)—a person more interested in what was going on inside of her head than in what the world made of her. She wore a suit of heavy fabric, too warm for the season and of an unattractive shade of shark gray. No earrings, no necklaces or bracelets, no adornment of any kind. She was saved from irredeemable blandness by a smooth, fair complexion that appeared to be free of makeup, and by a lovely swan-like neck that held her narrow head erect.

  He knew her slightly from St. Edwold’s. She would sometimes go to the Sunday service at ten where she would be pleasant to all, just managing to avoid the internecine warfare of the church flower guild or becoming ensnared by the many other volunteer opportunities. He gathered that taking care of Netta had been for her a fulltime job in and of itself. Netta, on learning that
Jane had worked briefly in a nursing home to pay for her schooling, had requisitioned Jane for her own use. When he and Awena had invited her over for dinner, she’d declined the invitation with what sounded like genuine regret.

  She had looked up, startled, as he had entered. “Hello, Father Max. I meant to drop by the vicarage soon to see about the arrangements.” Her voice was so calm, so matter-of-fact, she might have been discussing having a coat altered at the tailor’s. Max reminded himself this was Jane’s normal mode, calm and not much given to frenzy or outward display, and perhaps she had no other style. Perhaps for some, tragedy was much the same as happiness and the aim was to stay somewhere in the middle at all times, on an even keel. And the drugs given to sedate her were undoubtedly still in her system.

  “When I heard you were here, I thought I’d save you the trouble of stopping by,” he said. “I’m not always easy to find, as I have duties at two other churches to call me away. Of course I’m at your service but only when you feel up to talking. I’m a bit surprised you’re back at work already.” When she made no reply, he said, “But many people find comfort from grief in their work. I see it all the time. I’m the same way myself, come to that.” In fact, faced at one point in his life with overwhelming grief, Max had fled to Egypt hoping a change of scene would change everything. It had. It was in Egypt that he had turned his back on undercover work—or so he had thought at the time—and begun his journey to the Anglican priesthood. He wasn’t going to mention any of that to Jane in case it gave her ideas, however. Fleeing was all well and good but not when there was the well-being of a teenaged girl in mourning herself to consider. And not when the police might have questions to ask about her husband’s death.

  Jane nodded, looking gratefully up at him. Among the many sterling qualities for which he was renowned, compassion was at the top of the list. “I’m sure tongues will wag but honestly, this is, as you say, my comfort. My work helps me cope. What would I do at home? Actually, I lasted about ten minutes at home this morning. Every corner holds a memory of Colin, or of Netta.” Changing what was clearly a too-raw subject, she said abruptly, “I suppose Poppy will want me out of the house. She’ll want to sell up and cash in. I don’t know what I’ll do if that happens. Where I’ll go.”

  Max was genuinely shocked. “Surely not,” he said. “Besides, the house must belong to you?”

  “Colin was always a bit of an optimist when it came to … to my relationship with Poppy. He only saw the rainbows, always. A complete dreamer he was. Anyway, the solicitor has been on to me already. Colin left his property, which now includes Hawthorne Cottage, to both of us equally. To me and to Poppy. It might have been better if he’d just left it to a distant cousin or an animal sanctuary. Poppy can be—difficult. I don’t see us sharing a home in peace, at least, not for long.”

  Max was at a loss. He wasn’t even sure of the legality of such an arrangement. Surely the usual thing to do would be for him to leave everything to his wife, since his daughter was still a minor, with the understanding that Poppy would be taken care of in the natural course of things. Had Colin had some concern that the natural course wouldn’t be followed? That Jane might try to cheat Poppy out of her fair share? “I am sorry,” he said. “It is one added burden on top of what you’re already bearing, you and Poppy both. I’ll have a word with her if you like. It’s important right now that you have each other, and that she recognizes your importance to her world.”

  She laughed, a derisive, dismissive sound. “Very good luck getting anywhere with her, but of course you are welcome to try. Expect to get an earful of the most dreadful rubbish about me, though. She took against me almost from the first although I’ve tried everything to get her to see I’m not the enemy.” Jane shook her head; her face held an expression of sadness and remorse. “I was stubborn as a girl, too. Thought I knew everything. It feels like payback to me now. Anyway, was there anything more in particular bringing you here today?”

  Inventing wildly, Max said, “Ever since my son was born I’ve become more interested in my family’s genealogy. Awena tells me Lord Duxter has an extensive collection of books about the Middle Ages and manuscripts and ledgers from the period. Of course, with a last name like Tudor, it’s a hopeless task. I’ve no real idea where to start. I thought you might know.”

  “Nothing simpler. Perhaps you are descended from royalty, is that the hope?”

  She was mocking him but it was nicely done; a small, tired smile lifted the corners of her mouth. Max leaned back against a sagging wooden bookshelf stuffed with leather-bound volumes, crossing his arms and watching as she consulted her computer. He noticed a copy of Wuthering Heights lying on her desk. The book may have come from Hawthorne Cottage, where he’d seen dozens of such classics on the shelves. He had assumed they belonged to Netta and they may have done. It was good to see someone appreciating the classic reads. Max regretted he so seldom had time anymore for the Brontës, who had been particular favorites of his in school. Perhaps, he thought, when Owen was a little older his parents might take him to Yorkshire to visit the Haworth parsonage where the famous authors had lived out their too-brief lives.

  Jane clicked expertly through an online catalog before standing from her swivel chair to lead him with graceful steps through the stacks, her practical, low heels clicking against the wooden floorboards in a resounding echo.

  “There you are,” she said. “Please use the gloves on the shelf there, to page through the older books. I try to keep it all as pristine as possible. The periods of history you’re interested in, I would imagine, are of the reign of Henry’s father and brother, of Henry himself, and of course of Mary and Elizabeth. There’s an entire section devoted to those years, although the Tudors were around in Wales long before that. It wouldn’t surprise me too much if you were somehow related.”

  “Thank you,” he said. “I’m sorry to take you away from your regular job.”

  “But this is my regular job,” she said. “I am so grateful to Lord Duxter for it, especially now. I want just to forget.” She turned her face, now a hectic shade of pink. “What Colin did…”

  Was probably unforgiveable—he finished the thought for her. “I meant to say, the writers must require more of your time and attention than does the casual inquirer like me.”

  She nodded, agreeing that this was so, or perhaps not caring if it were so; it was hard to say. She was a difficult one to read and Max prided himself on being able to read people well.

  “I mean, I imagine they might be a demanding bunch,” he said. “Awena has some rather amusing stories…”

  He waited for a response and got nothing but a rather shy, sweet smile, a smile of resignation. She had small, very white teeth. She stood taller, straightening her back. Finally she said, almost as if he’d wrested a confession from her, “They’re not too bad. At least, not all of them. And of course Awena in particular is always a joy. She will come up with the most unusual requests, too. It’s almost like a game. ‘Stump the Librarian’ or something. But more often than not I can track down what it is she wants. She makes the whole thing a fun challenge. And of course she’s always so grateful for the help.”

  “That sounds like her,” said Max. “And what did she have you chasing after most recently?”

  “The pomegranate as mentioned by the Venerable Bede.”

  “I wouldn’t have thought pomegranates were around much in his day.”

  “That’s what I mean,” she said. “I always learn more from her than from any of the others. Plus, as I say, she’s always the most grateful for the help. She gave me a jar of pomegranate preserves as a thank-you gift.”

  “I’m getting the impression,” said Max, “that the others are … What is the word I want?”

  She laughed. “I think rude is the word you want. Also thoughtless.”

  He paused, taken a bit aback by the change in her tone.

  “Preoccupied, perhaps?”

  She thought about this before replying, a
s if weighing her words. It seemed a habitual tendency with her and he liked her for it. It was a pattern he wished more people would adopt rather than rush to explain, or excuse, or accuse.

  “No,” she said at last. “I mean rude. I’ve come across it before with writerly types—I meet them so often in my line of work. You can excuse it up to a point. Their heads are always inside their—uhm—inside their books, thinking about whatever it is they’re writing. Some of them are quite brilliant, of course, and so one has to make allowances. But some of them are mediocrities at best, and a little courtesy would go a long way toward making them bearable. Carville Rasmussen, for one, only thinks he’s a genius.”

  “Ah. Well. Great self-confidence is essential in his business, I suppose. As it is in any business.”

  That earned him another small, sardonic smile. “Is that what we’re calling it, then? Self-confidence? I don’t think you can have spent many hours in his company, Father Max. Then again, I suppose diplomacy is part of your job.”

  His returning smile was warm. “How did you come to be here, at the priory? Are you from an academic background?”

  “Not in the sense you mean. My father taught at Oxford.”

  From her expression, a mix of confusion with a tinge of regret, Max wondered if he had been one of the mediocrities she had had in mind.

  “Really? I was a student there. Years ago now of course. What was his subject?”

  “Philosophy.” She managed to imbue the word with the weight of centuries, of high stone walls and dusty tomes read by candlelight by hooded monks.

  “Ah,” said Max. “What was his name? He might have been one of my dons or lecturers. Philosophy was very much a part of my required curriculum when I was preparing for the priesthood.”

  “His name was Blackwood. So was mine, before I married.”

  Not a mediocrity, then. Dr. Angus Blackwood had been one of the world’s renowned scholars and writers on the subject of existentialism. Max had a couple of his books on his own shelves back at the vicarage. The books were barely touched but they were there if he needed them. Perhaps in case of some existential crisis. Most often they served as doorstops when the spring winds blew through the crooked old building, which listed and jutted at all angles like a child’s conception of a house.