In Prior's Wood

by G. M. Malliet

  Talk about being a romantic. Starlight, indeed.

  “I’m damned if I know what to do,” said Lord Duxter.

  * * *

  In the end, Jane saved Max the trouble of a trip to Hawthorne Cottage to hear her version of events. Soon there came a knock on the vicarage door, and Mrs. Hooser ushered the young widow into Max’s study.

  Today it was a bright yellow dress she wore. She must have been on a bit of a shopping spree. He offered her coffee, which she accepted, as before. But she stirred the brew unnecessarily, never tasting it, finally dropping the spoon to the floor with a clatter. She put the cup on a side table, where it stayed until the coffee grew cold.

  Max retrieved the spoon from the floor, saying, “Actually, I’ve been hoping to have a word with you for some time. But … is there something you’d like to tell me first?”

  A blush rose from her chest, covering her face. It was like watching a wildfire take hold.

  “About Lord Duxter. Yes, of course.”

  “Well, yes. But I had much more ordinary questions on my mind for the longest time. I am wondering now if I haven’t been a bit of a fool about all this. I had wanted to talk with you about practicalities, such as your husband’s final resting place. About the date for the service. About flowers and readings. I was assuming you would want Colin to be buried out of St. Edwold’s.”

  “Aren’t there special rules? About suicides?”

  “There are if you want them. I don’t draw such distinctions. A loss of a human life is an incalculable loss, however you look at it. But you would prefer to discuss Lord Duxter now, would you?”

  She actually laughed, a high, nervous trill. “I don’t know. I mean, does it matter now? Does anything matter? To Colin, or to anyone?”

  Oh, no, thought Max. It’s only your husband. And presumably, he once meant the world to you. Max didn’t think he could bear to hear again that funerals are for the living.

  “But I thought—well, of course you’ve guessed,” she ran on. “And I felt it best to make a clean breast of things. Of everything. I’m not much good at hypocrisy, you see.”

  “I hadn’t guessed,” he said. “Lord Duxter told me. And you’re saying you want to get in front of the story, as they say in the media.” Had Lord Duxter given her a heads-up?

  “If you wish to put it that way,” she said coldly. Her enthusiasm for making a clean breast of things was clearly fading. “I’m in love with Lord Duxter.” The tone was defiant, anticipating outrage. “And he with me.”

  Max, with every reason to question that last statement, merely nodded. “I know about your affair.” If he’d had any doubts, even after Lord Duxter’s confession, at every mention of his name Jane blushed anew like a teenager, the way someone Poppy’s age might have done.

  The best way to get the full story out of someone was to let them assume you knew every detail anyway, as Max had learned conducting interrogations in his MI5 days. By keeping silent you often got a fuller story than might have been offered otherwise. People, especially people under pressure, loved to fill the silence with the sound of their own voices.

  Now Max merely added, baiting the hook, “But I don’t know when or how it started.” Which was true enough. A shade of truth he would reconcile with his conscience later. He hadn’t heard things from her side yet. In all fairness, he told himself, he must do so.

  “We met on a plane, of all places. Not in the village. It was the merest coincidence. I was flying back from seeing my sisters in France. He was flying back from Switzerland via France.”

  “Yes. He would have been returning from visiting his wife.” Max may have placed an unneeded emphasis on the word “wife,” but it wouldn’t hurt to remind Jane that this was a marriage already on the rocks, and her interference was precisely that—interference.

  But Jane nodded, eager to share her story, her love affair for the ages. The missing Poppy seemed quite to have fled her mind for the moment. “He was returning from that asylum or whatever they were keeping her in.”

  “It was a mental hospital.” Honestly, thought Max. She was making it sound as if Lady Duxter had been tied up in chains in a place for the criminally insane, when in fact she was recovering from a coma. That the coma was self-induced, the result of a suicide attempt—well, it still didn’t make her a raving lunatic. Max quelled these thoughts and again pasted a neutral, interested expression on his face, as Jane continued.

  “She was there because she tried to kill herself with carbon monoxide gas in the garage of Wooton Priory—the garage at the back of the main house, you know. It had been converted from the horse stables. It was a miracle she was found in time. He found her. David. Can you imagine the horror of that?”

  “I know the story,” said Max. As did the entire village. It had happened not long after the WI had staged a reprisal of The Deep Blue Sea in the Village Hall, with Suzanna Winship miscast as the troubled and sensitive Hester Collyer and an emotionless local estate agent, Randolph Peckover, likewise miscast as her daredevil lover. A theory was bandied about at the time that Lady Duxter might have been influenced by seeing the play. Max thought it doubtful that such an unconvincing and unintentionally hilarious portrayal of psychological distress as Suzanna’s could have driven anyone to thoughts of suicide. “It truly was awful.”

  “Anyway, because I was so late for the plane they were just in the process of shutting the doors, so a flight attendant practically threw me into a seat in first class and told me to buckle up. The plane was mostly empty so it didn’t really matter. That part was fairy tale enough, getting all the first-class service on an Air France flight. Do you know they give you little warm towels to wash your hands with? It was ever so nice. And the plane was just sloshing with wine and soon we all were. And while the flight was too short for food service they gave us these lovely little appetizer things. I can still taste how rich they were, how full of butter. They’re French, after all.”

  “Yes, yes,” said Max, trying to keep the impatience he felt out of his voice.

  “Anyway, they sat me next to David—across the aisle from him. I didn’t notice him particularly at first, nor he me. I just sort of registered ‘Well-dressed older man wearing trendy glasses’ and thought no more of it. What he was thinking—well, that only became clear as time passed. He acted like he didn’t register me at all, and that was very likely true—then. I talked about my training as a librarian. I told him a little—a very little—about Colin.

  “Then the stewardess or whatever you’re supposed to call them now—the flight attendant—came by with a tray of little cups of water. We were sitting toward the back of first class and by the time she got to our row only one cup was left. He took it—I thought he wanted it for himself, you see. But he turned and handed it to me across the aisle. That’s the sort of manners he has. It meant nothing to him; it was a normal thing to do.

  “But I nearly cried. I was in a state from seeing my sisters, which is always a mixed bag of emotions. We had this awful upbringing, you see. And now they’re successful and with rich husbands and I’m … I only had Colin, scraping by. I—well, anyway, I remember thinking, clear as can be, ‘It has been so long since anyone has been nice to me.’ I must have sort of teared up, or there was an expression on my face … I don’t know. But he saw it and asked if I was all right. How to explain? A stranger offers me a cup of water and I go all to pieces. Anyway, we started to talk, really talk, and when he told me his name, I knew of course who it was then. I’d never seen him nor even seen photos of him, and he didn’t take part in village life much, did he? But on that short flight something took hold in me. I saw that I could change my life. I didn’t have to settle anymore. He told me he was coming back from a holiday in France. That turned out not to be true, not entirely. He doesn’t always … he isn’t always truthful, David. But it’s to spare people pain. He didn’t want the world gossiping about his wife, you see.

  “I told him my husband worked in security for Earnest and
Oldfield. That job was another that didn’t last. Somehow, Colin has—had—trouble sticking to things. When he got the job in Saudi Arabia, doing something similar for one of the oil companies there—it was such a godsend. It was actually David who got him the job.”

  Max said, “Yes, I recall hearing that.”

  “I don’t know why I should feel guilty. I haven’t killed anyone. I haven’t stolen anything. David—well, he pursued me and I suppose I should have resisted. But I’m human, like anyone else.”

  Especially since she knew—the village knew—Lord Duxter and his wife were often at odds. She may have known the lord’s marriage was in trouble because of his wife’s depression—a depression that probably worsened as the marriage soured. Had Jane perhaps initially refused him, saying no because of Colin, using Colin as an excuse, which would of course only increase David’s determination to have her? Had she played him from the first, determined she would have him?

  “I know what you’re thinking. Typical male thinking. You’re thinking the lord is someone suave and successful, someone who would never fall for someone like me.”

  Actually, I was thinking he was married—as were you—and you should have left him alone to begin with, thought Max.

  So, thought Max, to recap: Lord Duxter shares a plane ride with Jane but doesn’t notice her particularly. Not long afterward, however, he hires her to work in the archives at the priory. He’s been wanting to hire such a person and Jane seems tailor-made for the job. Perhaps she also talks to him about getting Colin a job, telling him something of their financial woes. But late one night he sees her stop at the pond on her way back to the village, and he sees her there for several nights after that. She doesn’t realize it but he can see her from the top of the manor house. Or—does she realize it? She knows the layout of that house well. She knows the lord’s habits. Those binoculars. Did she set out deliberately to seduce him? All that dancing in the moonlight? Or is it all as innocent as it seems, on her part?

  Is she victim or victimizer?

  Had she tired of Colin, who was never around, anyway? And seen her way clear to getting what she most wanted?

  But she had an alibi, from the most unimpeachable source. Awena. And there were, in his reckoning, at least two other people who could have done this horrible deed. Who had plenty of time and no alibi.

  But Max’s mind reeled away from the thought.

  “What would you know about it?” Jane stood over him now, fuming. He looked up at her and suddenly was overcome by a wave of sorrow at this sordid affair that most certainly had not been worth the risk and the cost. Was this carry-on in the woods between her and Lord Duxter what little Tom had seen? Most likely it was. “But you are missing the point. To him I am like the heroine of a novel. He said so. He said I had such grave dignity. He said that.”

  It sounded like a great line to use on a romantic, a woman not securely attached to earth.

  But maybe—just maybe Jane had something Lord Duxter wanted that she was not aware of. Who was playing whom, here? He plays to her ego, talks to her with great affection, praises her beauty. The part of her story Max believed was that David’s small act of kindness melted her heart, made her want him.

  But was there something else he really wanted from her?

  Like help ridding him of an unwanted spouse?

  Chapter 18

  THE HERMIT

  The phone rang and he was going to let it go unanswered, as he wasn’t nearly finished talking with Jane. But Mrs. Hooser came pushing through the study door a moment later. She had picked up on the upstairs extension.

  “Call for you,” she said. “Says it’s important.” It was always important. Someone had probably let his geese run free into a neighbor’s garden and Max was being called in to act as arbiter. His days were filled with refereeing such important issues as this. When they weren’t filled to overflowing by conducting a murder enquiry.

  “Who is it, Mrs. Hooser?”

  “I don’t know, do I? Wouldn’t give a name.”

  “Very well. Thank you.”

  “He was rude, I’ll tell you that much. Some people have no manners. Why, in my day—”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Hooser,” he said again.

  She was still grumbling as she left the room, slamming the door behind her.

  Max picked up the heavy receiver of the Bakelite phone. It was, of all people, the artist Coombebridge. What he said caught Max’s full attention. He put his hand over the receiver and said to Jane, “I’m awfully sorry but I must take this. Might I come and seek you out later at Hawthorne Cottage?”

  Jane, who looked as if she were already regretting being so forthcoming, merely nodded, standing to leave and smoothing the skirt of her yellow dress.

  Once Jane had left—and Max had waited until he saw her pass in front of the study window on her way to the High—he gave Coombebridge the all clear to continue.

  Without preamble, the artist said, “Like I was saying, I’ve got information about Netta you’ll want to hear. But you’ll need to drive out to my cottage. I don’t have all day to natter on the telephone. Tell your housekeeper for me she’s bloody rude.”

  “Netta? But why—?”

  Click.

  * * *

  At any other time, when he was less busy, Max would have welcomed the scenic drive on the narrow road that spooled out to where the surly artist lived in his rustic cottage by the sea. The sound of the waves and the sight of gulls soaring overhead always restored Max to his soul. For him it was a form of meditation. So he decided to treat this summons from Coombebridge as a chance to test the saying that the busy man should meditate twice as long as the man with lots of free time.

  Lucas wasn’t alone when Max came to call. Max imagined he seldom was alone or without female company. The blonde who opened the door to his knock introduced herself with a wide smile as Chantalina. She was probably half Lucas’s age and wore too much shiny makeup, with distracting, whitish highlights layered on beneath her arched brows and high on her cheekbones. She’d painted the apples of her cheeks a hectic red to match her lips; with her fair curly hair, stiff with hairspray, she looked like a porcelain doll. Still, the smile was welcoming if coupled with an off-putting, “Changed his mind, he did. Says he really doesn’t want visitors today, after all. Except, he says, from his muse.”

  Max tamped down his annoyance. “I’m sure he’ll find this visit inspiring. May I sit here and wait my turn, then?”

  He chose a chair with a little coffee table before it and sat happily looking out the open cottage door onto the stunning seascape. Coombebridge had made the scene from the cottage his own, producing countless paintings of sea and sky at all times of day and in all seasons and climates. The prices for his paintings were astronomic, yet he lived like the poorest fisherman in the region. Max couldn’t even guess what he spent his money on, but allowed himself the faint hope—very, very faint—that the man might one day be induced to make a gift or bequest to St. Edwold’s. The church roof was taken care of but everything else was always in need of repair.

  Max could overhear a conversation in the other room that seemed to consist of Chantalina softly arguing Max’s case and Lucas gruffly arguing for his muse. Finally, “Well, bring him in, then. I guess I did invite him. How was I to know he’d take me up on it?”

  Chantalina led him into the inner sanctum with its floor-to-ceiling windows. She tactfully withdrew.

  “Good to see you, Max,” Coombebridge said, his eyes barely leaving the canvas on which he worked. “Chantalina tells me you’re involved in investigating these murders.”

  “There’s only been one murder,” Max told him. “And it’s not entirely clear it wasn’t suicide, as it appears to be.”

  “What are you talking about, man? I think this green is just oily looking, don’t you? I can’t seem to capture the play of light on those far waves.” He glared at Max. This is all your fault.

  “Colin Frost. I’m talking about Colin. Hi
s death.”

  “Oh, well that’s as may well be, but that’s not what I meant.” He turned, again briefly casting a look in Max’s direction. “I don’t generally do portraits, not of men or women and certainly not of children, but I’d make an exception in your case. There’s more than meets the eye with you, Max, isn’t there? Beneath that smooth-if-tousled exterior. I’d be willing to bet you were a bit of a lad in your day, weren’t you, Max?”

  “Colin Frost?” Max prompted—smoothly, he hoped. He and Coombebridge had had this conversation many times before about painting Max’s portrait. It was an offer Max had managed to resist.

  “I don’t know anything about Colin Frost,” Coombebridge said. “But he was probably murdered, too.”

  “Too?”

  “Of course, too. Are you playing dumb? You know as well as I do, Max—you’re a man of the world: he was no more in love with Lady Duxter than I’m the man in the moon.”

  “I would tend to agree.” Even without the CCTV footage to set them straight, the psychology of that union had been wrong from the first, thought Max. On the surface Colin looked good, but there was no there there. Lady Duxter might have fallen for his looks alone, it was known to happen, but—as a pairing, it never sat right with Max.

  “And clearly,” Coombebridge was saying, “they need to raise taxes to get a proper police force together if they have to keep dragging you into things. Don’t you have a baby to baptize somewhere or a wedding to perform? Instead, here you are, up to your knees again in a murder investigation. Anyway, I thought you’d like to know what happened to Netta. What I know is worth sharing, especially given what happened to her grandson. She was my patroness, you know, back when I didn’t have two coins to rub together. I’m sorry to lose her. She was a battle-axe but she was my battle-axe, if you follow.”

  “I’m all ears,” said Max.

  “You always are. Well, I had a phone conversation with Netta before she died. About the stained glass for the church, you know.”

  Max, while anxious for a word on that subject, held his peace.