A Demon Summer (30 page)

“Which sister is it?”

“The one they call Dame Fruitcake. The kitcheness. Ingrid Castle.”

“Ah,” said Max. “That might explain the bad leg.”

“Probably. She ran over someone who was drunk and staggering down the middle of the road. Ended up in the hospital herself when she overcorrected and the car flipped over.”

“She spoke to me of an employer who drank. She didn't mention this part of her own history—but then, she was under no obligation to tell me. I suppose Abbess Justina knows about this?”

“Yes,” said Cotton. “Dame Ingrid laid out the whole story on her application to the place. There was no hint that she herself was driving drunk, by the way. She'd had wine with dinner, but she wasn't legally over the limit. The puzzle is why she pled guilty, but I suppose that is how she felt.”

“It suggests a rather complicated psychological history,” observed Max.

“Is there any other kind?”

“No question that she left the scene—nothing like that?”

“No,” said Cotton. “But having caused the death of another human being—it may have pushed her into following through on a decision she had already made, to come here.”

“Hmm,” said Max. “That more or less dovetails with what she did tell me. But leaving out some important bits.”

“It is the Goreys who intrigue me,” said Cotton. “That Horatio Alger, can-do attitude. I've always admired their spunk, the Americans.” Cotton drew forth another sheaf of pages, clipped together and tagged with sticky notes. “He's more a middle-class, Midas touch sort of bloke, is Clement Gorey,” said Cotton, reading from his notes. “He didn't come from nothing, that is to say, but his financial rise from where he began was meteoric. In 1993 he founded something called Excelsior Market Advisors. It's a hedge fund. Based in Omaha. That is somewhere in the midwestern United States.”

“Yes, I know. I have been there. Omaha is in Nebraska.”

“Oh.” Cotton paused to scribble a note on his paper.

“You know,” said Max, “I hear ‘hedge fund' and my mind goes blank. I have never entirely understood what it is these people do for a living. I think it's the terms they use that baffle as much as anything. What is short selling when it's at home, for example?”

“You're asking me?” said Cotton. “I can barely keep track of what's left of my pension. Once in a while I take out an abacus and try to figure it out. That's how some of them get away with murder, if you will pardon the expression—they count on the ignorance of the man in the street. Even with wealthy tech gurus or organic farmers or fashion designers you know where you are, more or less. But with captains of finance? Nah. Anyway, the joke that goes around is that Clement gets his insider tips from God—he's that rich. Some think he's got a more mortal pipeline—it rather depends on whom you listen to. But the corporate culture of his company is religious to the extent the law will allow: Employees are practically required to be churchgoers, although it's not part of the official mission statement. The employee picnic must be a real knees-up. Anyway, he's estimated to be worth eight hundred million in U.S. dollars. That's about … let me see…”

“About five hundred fifty in Great British Pounds,” said Max. “Wow.”

“Too right, wow. Give or take a tax haven or two, that's a lot of private golf courses. Anyway, that kind of wealth is enough to throw the rumor mills into overdrive. But he claims to have made his fortune by hewing to a line of ‘Morality First, Profits Second.' On paper it sounds terrific.”

“In actuality?”

“Let's say the SEC—the American version of what we used to call the Financial Services Authority—would love to nail him. They just can't believe anyone could have that sort of good luck legally.”

“That seems rather mean-spirited of them, when you think about it.”

“I gather the SEC is not famous for its generosity and humor.”

“Probably just as well. Every pool needs a lifeguard. What about Clement's wife?”

“Oona Gorey, born Oona Staunton of Omaha, Nebraska, is his first and only wife. They met at a church social. He likes to say he married her for her potato salad recipe, but in fact she came from money herself. Nothing like the amount she enjoys today, but her father helped bankroll his son-in-law. He was something in cattle, the father-in-law.”

“Your team has been busy.”

“Actually, I think this was pretty easy information to dig up. Clement is an object of fascination to those who toil in media outlets. He's often been encouraged to write a book about his success. Think of him as a religious Donald Trump—people want to know how he did it, so they can go and do likewise. Oprah would probably see him as a big ‘get.'”

“I did gather he has some of Trump's steeliness,” said Max. “But would it be fair to say Oona is the proverbial woman behind the successful man?”

“Do you know, I can't get a handle on her, really. She's so behind him as to have no clear identity of her own. She agrees with whatever he wants to do and goes wherever he wants to go. Or maybe it's that
he
agrees with whatever she wants. Some couples are like that. You can't tell them apart, at the end of the day. Certainly she's no simpleton—just looking at her, one gets a sense of a strong personality.”

Max thought of Awena. They weren't exactly inseparable, and on the surface they might appear to be poles apart in the ideas that divided many people, but he could not imagine life without her. In many ways they were becoming one another. He had no idea what a psychologist would make of it all. Max just knew that in his personal life, he was a most happy and lucky man. Perhaps Clement Gorey felt the same.

“Here is what I also don't get about this setup here,” Cotton was saying. “And perhaps you can enlighten me. For a place that runs on a time schedule like a railroad, with certain hours for prayer, and certain hours for this and that, the puzzle is: How do they know what time it is? How do they know when it's time for Matins, say?”

“I asked about that. Time is hard to pinpoint since none of them wears a watch. Clocks, where they exist, are deliberately well hidden—obviously, they can tell the time using that computer of theirs, but somehow I don't think they do. That would be cheating, you see. In the old days, they used a water clock or astronomical observation. It was never precise to the second, of course, but close enough. Or they used candles that were marked to burn according to the hours of the day. I noticed one was always burning in the church.”

Cotton looked at him. “You're joking, right?”

Max shook his head. “Welcome to the Middle Ages.”

“How on earth could that sort of system be accurate? A stiff breeze blowing through an open door, a faulty candlewick…”

“I think after a while they just knew what time it was. There is always the body's own clock.”

“Oh. Oh, really,” Cotton fumed. “That's just great. Just try explaining to a judge and jury that the bells were rung more or less on time, when the nuns just
knew
in their hearts it was probably four a.m., give or take an hour.
If
we ever have a suspect and
if
this thing ever comes to trial, that is.”

Max eyed him with that reticent smile, the smile that told Cotton he was overreacting.

“We'll figure it out,” Max said. “We'll get there. We always do. Anyway, the system in the old days was that two nuns would stay awake in pairs, to make sure neither nodded off, then they would go wake up the abbess.”

“And in the new days?”

“Same story.”

“Let me be sure I've got this straight: rather than using an alarm clock, two nuns keep watch together all night and into the early morning hours, to make sure no one oversleeps. So who were the night owls the night Lord Lislelivet died?”

“The night of the murder, it fell to Sister Rose Tocketts, the novice, and Mary Benton, the postulant. Sister Rose also had early duty keeping watch at Dame Meredith's bedside. I gather it often did fall to these two—being low on the totem pole means you get the job no one else wants. They live in a constant state of exhaustion, these women.”

“It's like a hazing ritual,” said Cotton.

“I'm sure the nuns don't see it that way. They see it as discipline. And, yes, a bit of testing to make sure the newbie can withstand the rigors of the life.” Max paused, thinking. “They say St. Francis was awakened by a falcon every night to say the Office.”

“Yes. Well. St. Francis was a regular Dr. Dolittle,” said Cotton. He fussed some more, muttering as he scribbled something into his notebook, bearing down hard with the pen. Finally subsiding, he said, “You've been here a little while. Any undercurrents you've noticed?”

Max replied, “Among the nuns, there is a bit of clinging to the past versus charging into the future. The lines are pretty clearly drawn among those with an opinion. Dame Sibil, the cellaress, seems to be all in favor of progress. So was Abbess Genevieve from the motherhouse in France, when I spoke with her. She sees great opportunity for partnership and expansion and, in her practical way, knows that the abbey is not going to survive without letting in a few rays of publicity and advertising. One or two of the other sisters, I got the impression, were not so happy with the way things were trending. They are content with doing things the way things have always been done.”

“But they have mastered that whole obedience thing and are willing to go with the flow—once they figure out what the flow is,” said Cotton.

Max agreed that was likely. “The disagreement among the nuns, if it rises to being a disagreement, probably is more over how to keep a balance between contemplation and charitable works. Income from their produce supports the poor and good works, and some of the sisters may want to do more of that. Become more socially engaged. The ‘other' side may not want the world interfering too much with their original mission, which is to contemplate and worship the divine mysteries.”

“If I had to guess, it's an age-related divide. The younger nuns want more social involvement. They are probably also the push behind the ‘green' and ‘organic' initiatives here.”

Max thought about that, and then said slowly, “Not really. Dame Hephzibah seems quite proud of the gift shop and how well it does. But Dame Cellaress—that's Dame Sibil—while hardly a kid, is younger than many here. And with her business background, it is natural that she should think in terms of the bottom line. As far as the green and organic thing—that seems to be part of the fabric of the place. Young and old see the sense in conservation of resources, of leaving a small footprint and so on. They all probably see it as part of their mission to be good caretakers of the planet.”

Max sighed in frustration. For all his upbeat talk, when he looked at this case all he saw was disparate threads that did not lend themselves to a pattern. Yes, they would get there in the end, he believed that, but it was going to take a lot of interviewing of suspects over days or weeks, and Max knew he couldn't afford the time away—and couldn't stand the thought of being away from Awena that long.

“What do we know about the man who brought us all here?” Max asked. “Lord Lislelivet? This poisoning business has turned into … I don't know what yet. More than we expected. More than
he
expected, that is certain. Certainly he seems to have been drawn by the treasure hunt aspect. I gather they all were, to some extent or another. But the misappropriated funds were the real draw for most of them.” Max paused, thinking. “Had Lord Lislelivet donated money to the place?”

“A few thousand quid,” replied Cotton. “Nowhere near the amounts the others were in for. But enough that I'm sure the idea of being ripped off was galling for him.”

Max had met many such men as Lord Lislelivet in his time both as MI5 agent and priest. Men—and women—born to privilege and wealth. It gave some of them that aura of entitlement that made the working-class man or woman itch to reach for their knives. But in Max's experience many rich, well aware of the role luck had played in their birth, devoted much of their time and money to worthy causes helping others less fortunate.

He did not overwhelmingly feel Lord Lislelivet fit into that category.

“Wasn't there some old business of a kidnapping at that manor house of his?” Max asked Cotton.

“Yes. Many long years ago. It was quite the sensation at the time. It still is, since the crime remains unsolved. My team has pulled some photos from the file on the kidnapping.” Again Cotton snapped open his leather briefcase and produced a sheaf of photocopied pages. Together they studied a black-and-white newspaper photo of the kidnap investigator. The caption beneath the photo informed them, “DCI Bodeau began to harbor suspicions when the silence deepened after the last ransom note.” And there indeed was DCI Bodeau looking quite skeptical.

“I met him before he retired,” said Cotton. “Sound man.”

“Still around?”

“Alas no. He was killed during some sort of hostage situation.”

Max, who had been involved in many such scenarios in his MI5 days, shook his head. He knew how quickly such a situation could go south. People with hair-trigger tempers and hair-trigger weapons did not mix.

“Lord Lislelivet at the time,” Cotton was saying, “the father of the current lord, was rather an upstart who was always thought to have married for money. He had the title; the wife had the money. He was rather looked down on by his peers because of it. But I gather he was also disliked because he was a social-climbing, treacherous git.”

“It doesn't sound as if the apple fell too far from the tree, in the case of his son. Can you get me some more of the clippings from that case?”

“Certainly I can. Whatever you need. But do you think there's a connection to the current situation?”