Wicked Autumn

by G. M. Malliet

  Max nodded. He’d only known a few writers in his life—one a former MI5 agent who had made a vast fortune writing spy thrillers. The man was rumored to have sunk into a deep well of paranoia, making regular appearances on the various government-conspiracy, lunatic-fringe blogs and LISTSERVs. “Touchy” didn’t even begin to describe it.

  “She didn’t like this response of Frank’s, I take it.”

  Awena laughed—a dry, mirthless sound. “Wanda could give as good as she got. In fact, she was expanding on the theme of Frank’s general lack of talent and virility as I scarpered out of harm’s way. Wanda always liked putting the boot in.”

  Just then a candle on the table sputtered and went out. Picking up some matches to relight it, Awena said, “One could so swiftly be banished to the outer darkness of Wanda’s orbit. The aggravating thing was that one was supposed to care.”

  “Did you?”

  “You must be joking. But I think, you know, that some people did.” Her eyes now looked worried as they met his over the candle flame. “What madness,” she said.

  “Madness? Is that how you think of it? Or rather a cool calculation. This murder…” began Max, who for all his experience of the subject felt genuinely uneasy. He faltered, choosing his words with care. “The planning, the cunning. ‘To smile, and smile, and be a villain’—isn’t that how Shakespeare put it?”

  She nodded. “Someone with the beatific smile of a madman, like bin Laden. I suppose we’re looking for someone like that. Only there is no one like that here.”

  “How, well … Shakespearian it all is.”

  Awena nodded. “‘At least I am sure it may be so’—in Nether Monkslip.”

  “What complete wickedness.”

  “Yes.”

  CHAPTER 22

  Quandary

  He left Awena’s around ten in a good humor induced by good wine and food, unaware that this reaction to her company was typical of him. He felt exhilarated, and at peace, and able to go on. Perhaps, he thought, it was all that hawthorn. Hadn’t she said it was good for the heart?

  His mind overflowed with their wide-ranging conversation that had put the world to rights, and with a few new items of interest. These had left him, alas, no nearer the solution to Wanda’s death. And solution there was, he reminded himself, if somewhat blearily. It was a matter of excavation, merely. The truth always was there, as in archeology—belowground, just waiting to be exposed by the fall of the pickax.

  A lunar halo, now fading, had formed earlier around the moon, by a trick of the atmosphere appearing in the form of a silvery cross of light. It was easy to see why most cultures had worshiped a moon goddess, he thought—elusive, but in reality ever present and watchful, and designed to make us feel insignificant as we hurtle through space in the darkness.

  He tarried by the wrought-iron gate that led into his front garden, quietly looking up at the anointing sky. Passersby, had there been any that time of night, might have wished for a camera, seeing a tall man in clericals, bathed in light, standing outside a house of a barely contained eccentricity, for the vicarage was a twee, lopsided building of many windows and assorted chimneys; it looked like something drawn by a child, and it always looked to be near collapse. But Max had been assured it would stand many hundreds of years more. Come summer, the front garden would be shady, giving the visitor a respite from the heat even before reaching the vicarage’s front door. In autumn, the shade cast a chill on the grass.

  A puff of smoke from the chimney of Dr. Winship’s nearby cottage briefly obscured the stars. Winter was not far away.

  The snap of a twig set his heart racing, and he spun in the direction of the sound, reflexively poised to defend himself. DCI Cotton appeared out of the mist, walking along Vicarage Road, and carrying a briefcase, looking like a well-dressed commuter on the way to catch a train. It was apparent he’d been waiting for Max’s return.

  They exchanged greetings and Max ushered him inside, where Thea gave Cotton the once-over and then disappeared. The two men had not spoken except in passing for several days. Max offered the policeman a glass of wine, which had been a gift from a parishioner, and of such a rare vintage he had put off finishing the bottle himself—it was the kind of special treat that needed to be shared, not drunk in solitude. Now he doled out a glass for both of them with a flourish and a final, sommelier-like twist at the end of each pour. He turned his attention to the fire, for the night had turned chilly, then said, “You have news?”

  Cotton tweaked the perfect crease of his trousers before sitting in one of the fireside chairs. He said, “Developments, big and small. My people have found the discarded auto-injector in the pond in Raven’s Wood.”

  “You’re not serious. Constable Musteile…?”

  “No. But I’m letting him take credit for now. He would anyway, and feeling that he’s solved the case already may keep him out of harm’s way for a bit. But that’s all by the way. The real news is that even though it’s waterlogged, it looks as if the auto-injector had been tampered with, and the antidote substituted with something innocuous. Tap water, at a guess. It was very subtly done—Wanda wouldn’t have noticed the difference. Well, not unless she’d had to use it and found it … useless.

  “But even better,” he went on, “in going through her things at Morning Glory Cottage, we found this note.” He showed Max a single page of foolscap, with writing in block letters. Max saw the words: I CAN WAIT NO LONGER. MEET ME. THE USUAL WAY. DESTROY THIS.

  “No prints,” Cotton informed him. “Nothing about the page to provide a lead—even with a handwriting sample for comparison, it will be hard to trace who wrote this. So what’s it about? Blackmail? An anxious lover?”

  “We are talking about Wanda, are we not? A lover is hard to imagine. Still harder, blackmail. Although, as a pillar of society in her own mind, I suppose she would be vulnerable to that threat.”

  “There’s more,” said Cotton. “Wanda kept a diary. Not a ‘Dear Diary’ type of thing, alas, but more a calendar of appointments. A bound book, wrapped around with an elastic band, with receipts and fabric swatches and so on stuffed into a pocket at the back. The pages are bound and numbered, so we know the volume is intact—no missing pages ripped out. In it she notes the usual kind of thing: dates for the dentist, the hairdresser, menu items to purchase. Some appointments had a star by them but there was no pattern to that. The doctor might get a star one time, and not the next.”

  “That is interesting. Not much help, but interesting.”

  “It is helpful, actually, but in a negative sort of way. We’ve spoken with the various receptionists involved at the various establishments, and the dates don’t match up. Sometimes they do, but not always.”

  “So … what’s the thinking? She was keeping a fake calendar because…?”

  “That, we don’t know. We’ve looked at the hard drive of her computer, hoping she had a password-protected calendar, but no.” Cotton jumped up. As usual, his default mode was one of combat readiness. The line of his jaw and the cords of his neck looked as taut as wire.

  “I also have news of a negative, no-help sort,” Max told him. “It seems there was no shortage of food contributions that day. Guy Nicholls was roped into donating. And Miss Pitchford. And Awena Owen.”

  “We know. Elka Garth, the woman who owns the bakery and runs the tearoom in the village, made similar donations—was perhaps the key contributor. People are being very up-front about that, but why wouldn’t they be? They know how easily we can check up on who donated what, given time.”

  “There may not be time to spare.”

  “Believe me, I know. We’ve talked with Elka at length, of course,” Cotton continued. “The baked goods that did for Wanda could have come from her shop—her being a baker by trade rather puts Elka in the spotlight. She is adamant that Wanda could not have taken one of her peanut biscuits by accident.”

  “Yes, she told me that, too.”

  “But Wanda had peanut—what shall we c
all it, peanut residue?—in her mouth and it came from somewhere.”

  “Peanuts are used in a lot of ways, as filler, sometimes finely ground, aren’t they?” asked Max. “I think we also have to consider the supposition that Wanda got hold of the peanuts unawares, perhaps not through one of Elka’s confections.”

  “Or at least not a confection so clearly containing peanuts,” replied Cotton.

  “You don’t think…” Max began.

  “I don’t think what?”

  “Elka might have been careless. Gotten some peanut residue mixed up in something else she provided to the Fayre. A moment’s chaos in the kitchen … it would be easy enough to do.”

  “She swears not,” said Cotton. “Says she was extra careful about that sort of thing because of Wanda—Wanda had made her aware of the danger.”

  “Yes. So she says.”

  “They—the forensics guys—think that maybe, with a lot of sifting and sorting of ingredients and a chemical analysis, they can determine whose batch of what was responsible for the death, but is it worth it, knowing that? Anyone could have made sure Wanda ate a fatal item—not necessarily a peanut biscuit, and not necessarily a food item that the killer had donated to the Fayre.”

  “That is part of what is so clever about this, don’t you think? We could search forever and not find the ‘murder weapon,’ so to speak.”

  Cotton, now staring at the crown molding, surprised him by asking, “How does this crime strike you? Masculine, or feminine? Because no matter what anyone says, there are some crimes—poisonings, for example—that still tend to skew feminine.”

  Max said ruminatively, “Perhaps. Just as the reaction to crime can follow certain patterns, have you noticed? After 9/11, women tended to want to plant gardens of remembrance. Men wanted to build new towers, more towers, bigger, taller, better towers. ‘Try knocking this down’—that kind of thing. But to answer you, I get no sense of there being a masculine or feminine sensibility behind this crime. It could have been committed by anyone who wanted a method that was hard to trace back to any one individual. It’s rather a sneaky crime, rather than a forthright one, don’t you agree?” DCI Cotton nodded. “But this whole masculine/feminine question may speak to my ideas about Wanda’s character,” Max went on. “She doesn’t seem the type to have aroused sexual jealousy, for example—would you say?”

  “You knew the woman better than I, but no. I’m not getting that kind of picture at all. If I were looking for that kind of reaction, I’d look to someone like Suzanna Winship. Trouble of that nature must follow Ms. Winship wherever she goes.”

  Max sipped his drink. “Undoubtedly,” he said.

  “There’s somewhat of a sticky wicket for Noah, your antiques man, I’m afraid. He was seen hanging about the Village Hall that day, by Frank Cuthbert. He’s some kind of writer, I gather.”

  “Yes. Frank is … some kind of writer. He has a vivid imagination, to say the least. Does Frank say that Noah went into the building?”

  “No. But what makes Frank’s statement notable is this: Noah never told us about being in the area. When I called him on it earlier today, he simply said he had forgotten—he’d been for a walk (he said he got someone to manage his booth in his absence), and his steps had taken him in no particular direction.”

  Max looked at the flames, seeming not to hear what Cotton had said.

  “Did Wanda or the Major have financial problems?” Max asked at last.

  “Quite the opposite. She came into a tidy sum—property, jewelry, cash—when her mother died.”

  “So … the Major is…?”

  “Sitting pretty. He inherits the lot. There’s a sizable life insurance policy, also, for which he is the beneficiary.”

  “I see,” said Max slowly. “And his whereabouts at the crucial time?”

  “The Major’s whereabouts are not well accounted for. You told us you chatted with him at the Fayre, but after that, his ‘position,’ as I’m sure he would call it, was abandoned. He says he got tired of sitting and reading and went to stretch his legs and use the gents.”

  “Daring to leave the booth unattended? That is interesting. As if he knew Wanda wouldn’t be there to check up on him.”

  “I thought of that, too. He says she stopped by, and perhaps he felt that having been recently checked up on, it was safe for him to leave for a few minutes, at least. Frankly, since the husband is always the first to be suspected, I’m surprised he doesn’t offer a better accounting for his time. As you probably are aware, the husband is always top of the charts in these matters.”

  “A real alibi,” said Max, “is so often unverifiable. Don’t you find?”

  Cotton nodded distractedly, his fair hair standing on end—surely a sign this polished and sophisticated man was at the end of his tether—and his face a scowl of frustration. He returned to his seat but Max knew the illusion of repose would be only temporary.

  “I don’t suppose,” Max said slowly, “there’s anything suspicious about the mother’s passing? Wanda’s mother?”

  The look Cotton gave him was admiring. He all but whistled. “You are a suspicious one, aren’t you? A regular Miss Marple in Holy Orders. We’ll look into it, but the fact is, she was quite old, and unless questions were raised at the time, well—I’m not sure what could be done about it now. Without strong evidence to the contrary, we’d have to assume a natural death.” He heaved rather a large sigh. “We certainly have a job of work to do in terms of checking alibis and general paperwork, in all directions. We looked at Wanda’s bank records as a matter of course and noticed the uptick in the finances at the House of Batton-Smythe. She also had a private account, and that’s where she stashed the serious money.”

  “Presumably she had a will?”

  “Yes. She had a will leaving everything to her husband—as I say, he inherits the lot. A few charities mentioned, but mostly he inherits.”

  “A recent will?”

  “Yes, in fact. Dated this past summer. What makes you ask?”

  Max answered indirectly. “Can you get hold of the previous will?”

  Cotton nodded. “Her solicitor is in Monkslip-super-Mare. She didn’t use the local man.”

  “That’s not uncommon. People assume, rightly or wrongly, that they’ll enjoy more anonymity if they use someone not in the village.”

  “I’ll get someone on it. Why do you think it’s of interest, though?”

  “Not to leave anything to her son is strange. Very strange indeed.”

  “Is it? Presumably she would feel her husband would simply leave everything to the son, when the time came. No need for a special, separate provision.”

  “Why change the existing will, though?” Max asked. “Let’s see if there isn’t a separate provision for the son in the old will—a provision that she had removed. I suspect there is.”

  “In a way,” said Cotton, “we have gathered a lot of evidence. How it all fits together, we just don’t yet know. But we will—I hope.”

  Max had earlier passed along what Miss Pitchford had told him of Lily Iverson’s disappearance from her stall. “She wanted to buy a tea cozy from her, Miss Pitchford said. But it’s not much in the way of evidence, is it? Lily’s temporary disappearance was, I’m sure, being replicated by others, throughout the day. A call of nature, that kind of thing.”

  “Interesting, though,” said Cotton. “When I asked Ms. Iverson about it, she said she’d just forgotten to tell us earlier, but she looked scared to death. For all we know, she’s another Madame Defarge, knitting coded names into her sweaters of all those who won’t make it out alive come the Revolution.”

  “Lily always looks scared to death,” said Max equably. “Perhaps she’s telling the simple truth, though.”

  “There is no simple truth in a murder investigation. As you know.” Musingly he added, “I still say poison is generally a woman’s weapon. And of course, effectively Wanda was poisoned.”

  Max shook his head, trying to take in the
idea of the timorous Lily as poisoner. Her timidity seemed endemic, but he supposed it was just possible. Anything was possible. But her motive? Hurt feelings over the Fayre Chairs? There had to have been more to it than that.

  “Lily is another ‘newcomer’ to the village, like me,” he said finally. “Like all of us who weren’t born here.”

  Cotton flipped through his notes. “Yes. Born in Yorkshire. Moved about a bit. Pitched up in London at some point.”

  “Yorkshire?”

  “Yes, why?”

  “No reason, really. Lots of people are born in Yorkshire.”

  “What is it you know? Out with it.”

  “I don’t know, really,” said Max. “I just was talking with someone who thought Wanda might have been from Yorkshire.”

  Cotton nodded. “That person might have been right. It was years ago, but she did live there. It came up in the routine we ran on her.”

  “Doesn’t even count as coincidence,” said Max. “What’s the population of Yorkshire? Chances would be well against the two of them ever meeting.”

  “Same as with all of the villagers—most are from somewhere else. Madame Cuthbert, of course, is French. She and her husband, Frank, lived in Paris for a time before settling here. Guy Nicholls was from Belgium, and—”

  “Belgium?”

  “Yes. What about it?”

  “He indicated he was from Paris most recently. He didn’t actually say that but I gained the impression…”

  Cotton shook his head. “Belgium.”

  “But…” began Max. “Why would he mislead me?”

  “He didn’t want you to know he’d been in Belgium, obviously. But he didn’t mind me—the police—knowing where he’d been, so it can’t be for any reason he’d want to keep hidden, like trouble of an official nature involving my French-speaking colleagues. Drugs, theft, or the like. Can it?”