Pagan Spring: A Mystery (A Max Tudor Novel)

by Malliet, G. M.

Vestiges of the dream stayed with him as he finally surrendered to dawn and consciousness. In the half-light world between dreaming and waking, he struggled to remember the vivid but disappearing details.

  With a sudden spurt of anger, Max thought he’d give anything to see the man caught and punished.

  Anything.

  * * *

  So it was in a distracted and tired state of mind that he made the early-morning drive to see the bishop in his palace. His thoughts clung more to the night before than focusing ahead on what he suspected would be an important interview.

  The weather had shifted yet again, unseasonably warm for March. Nearly everyone he saw had pushed their sleeves up or had found a favorite colorful short-sleeved dress or shirt in the closet; nearly every window was open in every cottage. The change was striking, for the recent winter temperatures in England had been far below the norm. Nether Monkslip, generally spared the worst, had felt the nip, as well.

  Less than two hours later, Max turned off the motorway and followed the signs into the center of the old cathedral town; before long, the palace came into his view, perfectly framed in the windshield of the Land Rover. He had forgotten until he saw it again how imposing the place was, how austere yet magisterial; it overwhelmed the viewer, as it was meant to do. If not for the traffic, Max would have pulled over to stop and gaze in awe along with the tourists. Most unusually, the palace, adjacent to the equally magnificent cathedral, was walled and moated and drawbridged like a fortress, these belligerent touches being remnants of a feud centuries before, when hot oil and molten lead were still standards in the arsenal of weapons. Now swans floated serenely on the still waters of the moat, and rang a bell when they wanted food. Entry to the grounds was through a gatehouse; once one was inside, the gardens of the palace grounds bloomed in beautiful contrast to the area’s violent past.

  Max found a parking spot for the Rover and set out at a jog to keep his appointment. Passersby smiled at the sight of the running priest.

  * * *

  The bishop, a ginger-haired, comfortable-looking man in his sixties, was dictating a memo for his secretary into a small microphone. He was grappling, as always, with some of the more vexing issues of the day as the Church of England emerged, blinking in its molelike way, into the twenty-first century.

  “We must wholeheartedly embrace the gay community, clasping it—wait. Make that: We welcome the gay community with … Wait. Wait. Make that: We welcome the gay community. Full stop.”

  The bishop cleared his throat.

  “Erase all that and let’s start again,” he said into the machine. Even as he did so, he could picture his long-suffering secretary in the outer office heaving a monumental sigh. “Opening paragraph,” said the bishop firmly. “The ordination of women, while not embraced unconditionally in the beginning, has become for many a beacon of common sense, an ethical torch lighting the way to an inclusive vision for mankind and womankind. Correction. Make that: womankind and mankind—good. After so many centuries, we simply could no longer skirt the issue. Wait. Make that: We could no longer avoid the issue. As we enter the twenty-first century, we embrace … uhm. We love … uhm … In Christ, we love everybody.”

  Max, meanwhile, having found his way to the bishop’s private rooms, had been bidden by the man’s secretary to wait in an outer chamber. After refusing the offer of coffee, Max merged into the darkness in the corner of the room, dark-haired and dressed head to toe in black, aside from his white collar, which caught the light like a fallen halo. The area had been set up for visitors with a low, worn velveteen sofa and chairs and a large, square coffee table. On offer were an array of religious magazines and newsletters, each one of a stultifying dullness worse than the last. Or perhaps, Max thought, he was simply too keyed up about the upcoming meeting to focus on the meaning of the text. He picked up one magazine and saw the headline: THE TOMBOLA AS CHURCH FUND-RAISER: AN OVERVIEW. No, he decided. Overall, it was the content, not his fragmented attention span. He chose to sit, hands folded, actively cultivating a sense of inner calm, even as his mind tried and failed to predict the upcoming interview. Perhaps he should take one of Awena’s meditation courses on offer at Goddessspell.

  It was fifteen minutes before he was summoned into the presence. Still not time enough to have sorted out what and how to tell the bishop. He didn’t expect a grilling, but the summoning to the inner sanctum was unusual enough that something must be up.

  Max’s innate honesty was struggling with the more mundane problem of how to construct a coherent narrative out of all that had befallen him since taking up his duties in Nether Monkslip. Murders, police investigations, and his deepening relationship with Awena, just to touch on the highlights. Difficult to predict which of those topics would upset the bishop more.

  At last, his name was called. The secretary led the way into the room, announced Max, and closed the doors behind him with a muffled thunk. Max pasted on a confident smile and strode across the large room toward the bishop’s desk, then stood and bowed his head in a respectful nod. The bishop, turning off his microphone, greeted him cordially and waved him into a plush-covered seat.

  Max liked the bishop. The Right Reverend Bishop Nigel St. Stephen, often called by the media “The People’s Bishop,” was a bit of a politician, a bit of a hearty hail-fellow-well-met sort of person, but any man in his position had to be. He had to remain smooth, unruffled, and steadfast, however buffeted he might be by trends and fashions, and Max felt that overall the bishop’s concern was not for himself and the impression he might be making, or the legacy he might be leaving behind, but for the welfare and survival of a Church he evidently cherished.

  In person, he was no different from any other busy executive, apart from the way he was dressed—in an antique costume that included a pectoral cross suspended by a gold chain. His clothing was in contrast with most of his office furnishings, as if he were an actor in a historical drama who had mistakenly wandered onto the deck of the Starship Enterprise. His desk, with its impressive-looking computer, was free of the usual nest of wires and coils, and it had a huge flat-screen monitor. In addition to the computer were a laptop and a zippy little mobile phone. As Max had entered, a ream of paper had shot soundlessly and with lightning speed from the printer connected wirelessly across the room.

  What kind of computer was it? Only Lizbeth Salander would know. Suddenly, Max was in the grip of computer envy. His bulky little PC back at the vicarage, with its viper’s nest of cords and its hiccuppy printer, was the best St. Edwold’s could afford, and his software, with its humble offering of colored fonts, looked very limited indeed compared with this space-age show-off. Max reminded himself that he really used it only as a word processor, unlike the bishop, who effectively commanded a small empire from this office.

  A large photo of the bishop’s handsome wife and cherubic daughters had pride of place on the credenza, beside other mission-control equipment. Each daughter’s face had the same look of jovial mischief as her father’s, as if they were all in on some enormous prank.

  On the drive over, Max had already decided to wait before telling the bishop about the face that kept reappearing on the wall of St. Edwold’s. It would be most unwelcome news, and very hard to explain. The image, Max still reasoned, might simply disappear with the roof repairs.

  Max thought the bishop might one day be calling him on the carpet because of Awena, but he was almost positive that day wouldn’t be today. In his mind, Max had decided if it came to that, if absolutely forced to make a choice, he’d leave the Church. Briefly, he closed his eyes in a spasm of distress, willing the thought away. Surely it wouldn’t come to that?

  At each service, Max made the same announcement: that all were welcome to participate in the life of St. Edwold’s. That included Awena Owen. That included anyone, in Max’s book. If he were to be told the Church could not encompass a good soul like Awena’s …

  Awena’s spiritual beliefs were perhaps outside the mainstream, but the fa
ct she had beliefs at all in the day and age made her, like Max himself, a bit of a freak. Awena was one of the most religion- and creed-blind people he’d ever met. Labels simply didn’t matter to her, nor did they apply to her.

  His attraction to Awena had led him willingly to the point where he might again have to make life-altering choices. Theirs was a perfect attraction of mind and body that he knew could be gifted only once in a lifetime, and then only to the very blessed few. His past celibacy had not been intentional, God knew, but the unintended consequence of his status in the village, combined with the fact he’d met no one to whom he was attracted who was “suitable.” Suzanna might fill the first bill as being ridiculously attractive, but never the second.

  The same could be said of Awena’s suitability, of course, but for very different reasons. He tended to summarize Awena this way: She sang in the St. Edwold’s choir because she had a beautiful voice and loved to sing, not necessarily because she believed every word she sang. Her singing touched all who heard her because when Awena sang, she was clearly elsewhere, and not tethered to earth as they were.

  Max wanted to tell the bishop about Awena, even though he knew it wouldn’t be easy. He had come to realize he was more and more on the horns of a dilemma. He couldn’t just cohabit with her. His religion and, in particular, his position within his religion forbade that. More to the point, he didn’t want—could not even countenance—a casual and informal relationship with Awena. He wanted with all his being to marry her. What kind of repercussions that would have with his Church and its leadership he couldn’t begin to imagine.

  There was also the fact that he had not actually asked Awena to marry him. It was just understood that was where they were headed.

  For his part, the People’s Bishop was actually quite fond of Max—not least because, since his advent, St. Edwold’s, a small and obscure church that had been in danger of having to close, as so many old churches in Britain had had to close, was now positively thronging with regular attendees. Indeed, there seemed to have been a surge in the demand for not only weddings and baptisms and confirmations and all the usual but also for Morning Prayer and other services where drawing a crowd was next to impossible these days.

  The credit for all of this could be laid right at Max’s door—the bishop knew, because the bishop had made inquiries. The bishop, in fact, operated not unlike a medieval potentate, sending out spies to get the lay of the land and report back to him. In this way, the bishop had learned that the people of Nether Monkslip trusted and liked Max; the women could be said to adore him.

  Then there had been the recent and quite unexpected windfall, a benefaction of money left in a will and earmarked for the repair and maintenance of the roof of St. Edwold’s. That in and of itself had been a miracle, as the sum had been quite substantial.

  Yes, taken in all, the bishop had every reason to be quite fond of Max. If Max seemed to have a tiny independent streak, a way of doing things his own way on occasion—that seemed a small matter that could easily be brought under control if needs must.

  In fact, the bishop was a man remarkably free of the petty jealousies that could beset men and women when presented with a hierarchical career path. Beyond simply liking Max, he believed furthermore that big things were in store for the handsome vicar, and the bishop had privately thought more than once that Nether Monkslip might offer too small a stage for a man of Max’s leadership abilities and star qualities. Since he seemed nicely to have galvanized the local populace into unprecedented feats of church attendance, and in record time, just imagine what he could do on a larger scale, in front of a microphone or a television camera, perhaps? Max, in fact, had the potential to be a superstar. He was even a candidate to wear the purple cassock of a bishop one day.

  Yes, thought the bishop, as he beamed at Max now, he had always been somewhat lenient because of Max’s ability to pack the pews. But at what point did a charismatic leader tip over into dangerous territory and become a renegade priest? A wolf leading the flock astray?

  Meanwhile, the independent-minded if potentially wolfish Max gazed wide-eyed at his bishop, trying to decide if and where to begin. The bishop’s hair showed his Scottish origins, with the traces of bright ginger now mixed with gray. His face was red above the purple cassock. Max stared at this Technicolor vision, still running the various possible topics of discussion through his mind, and wondering if he should bring up any of the various subjects himself.

  He need not have worried. The bishop, as always, wrote the script. Max, now having been invited to sit, was there as his audience.

  “I was fascinated to read the media coverage of the events at Chedrow Castle,” said the bishop. “That was such a nice photo of you on the front page of the Globe and Bugle. I rather wish you had filled me in at the time?” The bishop ended on a hopeful note, a wistful note of longing for a perfect world, rather than a note of anger.

  “Yes,” said Max, much relieved by the tone. “Fortunately, much of that interest has died down. It was quite a scandal for a while because of the prominence of the family, but now…”

  Max was feeling thankful the bishop didn’t yet seem to know about Thaddeus Bottle, and that he might yet be able to drop that into the conversation with less of a splash than hitherto. Of course, this meeting had been scheduled long before the occasion of the actor’s death, so—

  “So,” said the bishop. “I hear there has been another unusual death in your village.”

  Were there spies in Nether Monkslip—apart from Miss Pitchford’s nest of agents, of course? Max doubted very much the bishop kept the elderly spinster on speed dial, but one never knew.… Max’s mind began to race at warp speed. Don’t ask. Don’taskdon’task’don’task.

  “Actually, said Max, “that is correct. There has been another incident. It might be an accidental death, though. There is a slight possibility—”

  “Good, good! Accidental—I mean, terrible tragedy and all that, but we simply can’t have you linked to another crime in the media’s—well, the media’s mind, for lack of a better word.”

  The bishop seemed to notice for the first time the stricken look on Max’s face.

  “It’s not another murder, is it?” he asked.

  “Uhm.” (Sigh.) “It looks as though it may be.”

  “This makes three occasions of murder.” The bishop held up the three fingers of his right hand, almost in a sign of benediction, and also as though Max had not yet learned how to count. “That woman in Nether Monkslip, and the Chedrow Castle tragedy, and now this. This actor and writer person.”

  Max said again, “That is correct.”

  “Poor soul. Well, nothing to do with us.” And the bishop clearly prepared to breeze on. He tapped together the edges of some papers on his desk. Max felt he’d dodged yet another bullet. That the whole interview was an exercise in dodging bullets. Then the bishop stood and turned toward the window, which had been at his back. From there, he could see the looming tower of the cathedral, its spires puncturing the fat white clouds.

  With the exquisite timing for which the man was famous, the bishop turned, just as Max was beginning to relax, and said, “We can’t have any more of this, Max. Whatever is going on, you have to get to the bottom of it. Root it out, as it were. With your special skills, you should be of invaluable assistance to the police. I wonder,” he added softly, after an appraising glance at Max. “I wonder … Has it ever occurred to you God may have brought you to Nether Monkslip for a purpose? For this purpose?”

  Max could think of no reply. It seemed to him a highly doubtful hypothesis. On later reflection, he would find he didn’t much care for the idea, for didn’t it mean more people might be murdered in Nether Monkslip?

  “I need hardly add, however,” the bishop continued, “that if any of this interferes with your pastoral duties, I want you on the horn to me immediately. Do I make myself clear?”

  Max, who was struggling to keep a hold on his emotions and not break into a sunbeamy
, happy smile, said with straight-faced solemnity, “Of course, Bishop. Absolutely no problem.” He didn’t add “thank you,” because he feared that would have sounded suspicious somehow. The bishop, far from giving Max a dressing-down, had just given his permission for Max to continue assisting Cotton in his investigations. Max could hardly believe his luck.

  “Just try to stay out of the news from now on, would you, please?” The bishop moved away from the window and resumed his seat behind the desk. He folded his hands before him on the shiny surface and said, “Was there anything else you wanted?” There was the merest suggestion of a pursing of the lips.

  Well, you were the one who called the meeting, thought Max. But having been giving this latitude, a grateful Max felt he had to come clean on at least one other topic. He owed the man that much. And it might forestall problems down the road.

  “Bishop,” he said, “I think I should tell you. I’ve met a woman, someone very special.”

  “Good, good!” said the bishop. “‘It is better to marry than to burn,’ and all that. Still, that is wonderful news. Congratulations. I don’t know what I would have done all these years without my Sheila at my side.”

  “I mean, she’s an unusual woman. She—”

  “Well, of course she is! You’re an unusual man, aren’t you?” said the bishop, cheerfully dismissive.

  “Thank you, but…”

  Something in Max’s tone made the bishop look at him alertly, head tilted. “She is an Anglican, isn’t she?” But this was said jokingly.

  Max gave a little sigh of relief. Here he could tell the truth and nothing but the truth. “She was baptized an Anglican, yes. But she’s since adopted a more … spiritual and inclusive approach to religion. She … she is a member—well, sort of a member—of a different religion.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with that,” said the bishop. “That’s a story I hear every day!”

  “Actually,” began Max, “her religion is a bit unusual.” How to phrase this? His mind utterly resisted using the term neopagan, as if the gentle and people-loving Awena were steps away from reverting to cannibalism. To the Romans, pagan had meant country dweller, and it was not necessarily meant as a tribute.