The Haunted Season (26 page)

“The rumors I have heard,” said Max, mildly miffed at the idea his parishioners might feel the need to protect him from the harsh realities of life—what sort of babe in the woods did they take him for?—“they indicate that Lady Baaden-Boomethistle is not everything that might be wished for in the blue-blood category—at least insofar as her mother-in-law is concerned.”

“You heard right,” said Cotton. “She seems to have come rather out of nowhere, and although she has the tally-ho, riding-to-hounds thing down pat, it's only because she is the daughter of a groom. She knew the horsey set and moved in those circles, but as the daughter of a hired hand; she did not know them as someone to the manor born. She's picked up the speech and mannerisms, but at heart I think she loves only the horses, not the nobs who ride them. Still, it brought her into close proximity with Lord Baaden-Boomethistle, who, when his first wife died, was at a bit of a loose end. They got along famously, so I'm told, and I don't think her lack of status bothered him in the least. Besides—well, it has to be said. She's drop-dead gorgeous. I don't think she won his heart by making him a casserole.”

“But it bothered his mother, her lack of ‘breeding.'”

“Correct. It's odd, however. Since the mother is herself engaged in the low-class occupation of writing, you'd think she'd have been more welcoming to her new daughter-in-law.”

“Do you really think so?” asked Max. “My impression, and it is only based on slight acquaintance and hearsay, is that the dowager feels her occupation, as much as she enjoys it and is successful at it,
is
rather a low-class enterprise; she is embarrassed by it. And she writes about the aristocracy, remember. So her son's taking up with someone not of noble blood—well, that might have made her more sensitive to her own lowly status, not less. She needed him to have married
up
the ladder, not down—not just to assuage her own ego but because it would be better for sales if he took up with someone of indisputable lineage—someone like his first wife. It must have felt to her that he was degrading the whole family tree.”

“You got all that from barely having met her?”

“Sad to say, one snob is rather like another. And the dowager is a raving snob.”

“If daughter-in-law Bree had come a cropper, I guess we'd know who to ask about it, then,” said Cotton. “So, who do you favor for this?”

Max replied, “The only person I think likely to have done it has too obvious a motive to have done it.”

“Well, come on, then.”

“It's merely an idea backed up with nothing. So I'd rather not say.”

“Fine.”

Minutes passed; then Max mused aloud into the cushiony silence. “I wonder…”

Cotton sighed quietly, stoically. “You wonder what, Max? I wonder.”

“You have yourself spoken with his mother, the dowager?”

“The lady also known as Caroline?” Cotton asked. He crossed one perfectly creased trouser leg over the other, first hitching up the fabric to safeguard the continued perfection of the crease. “Yes, of course—just briefly. What a complete throwback—all bosoms and ostrich feathers. She looks like an elderly Vegas showgirl—not at all how one would expect a member of the upper crust to look.”

“I think some of that is her writerly persona. You know, if you write romance, you probably should dress the part.”

“She's more likely to be done up for soliciting if she goes about looking like that. Anyway, Sergeant Essex took extensive notes during her conversation with the dowager and is still doing research on her. The good sergeant has asked if I feel it necessary that she read any of Lady Baaden-Boomethistle's books. I gather she feels plowing through even a chapter of
The Duke's Delight
is going well beyond the call of duty. She flat out refuses even to flip through the pages of
The Prince and the Persuader.
What do you think?”

“That it's asking a lot of Sergeant Essex? I'd agree. And what are the chances the books are in any way autobiographical?”

“Funny you should ask. The chances might be quite good. I gather the dowager was no wallflower in her younger days and was known to, as one old swain put it, ‘cut a mean rug.' Whatever that means.”

“I think it means she was a good dancer.”

“But according to Sergeant Essex, he was hinting at
so
much more, without being able to come right out and say it. She gained the impression he was talking about the lady's postdance behavior more than he was talking about her way with the fox-trot. I suppose those memories of her dancing days might have ended up in her books in some distilled and sifted form or other.”

“Really,” said Max. “That's an interesting possibility.”

“Yes, but does it have anything to do with her son's death?”

“At first glance, I don't see how, do you? Still, it may indicate a wild and impulsive heart beating beneath a now rather stuffy, if highly decorated, exterior.”

“Stuffy but fluffy, yes,” said Cotton. “And there is no sinner more righteous, more holier-than-thou, than a reformed one. It might explain why she is so down on her daughter-in-law—a sort of ‘takes one to know one' mentality.”

“The pot is being hypocritical toward the kettle, you think. Hmm.”

“Blatantly so. She also mentioned there was a bit of tension circling about the boy, Peregrine. Young man, I guess we must say.”

“Tension between him and his father?”

“And his stepmother. The dowager was anxious we should know there were problems that concerned her. She wants rather desperately for Bree to be the killer, you see. She kept saying things to indicate Bree wants the family money all to herself. Money, among other things, like that vase over there. By the way, what do we think of Bill Travis?”

“I would trust him absolutely with my horse. If I had a horse.”

“With your sister?”

“Not so much.”

Max fell silent for a long while, staring off into the distance. Or perhaps, thought Cotton, he has simply been struck by a good idea for his next sermon. With Max, one could never be sure. It all tended to be rather the same thing.

“What?” said Cotton finally.

“Oh, nothing in particular,” replied Max. “I was just thinking that the genius of Agatha Christie was not that she saw the universal traits of mankind, like Shakespeare, but that she saw we are all quite different people, with differing motivations.”

“Agatha Christie,” Cotton repeated. “Really? You're thinking about Agatha Christie? As in, what would Agatha do?”

Max smiled. “You jest. But she'd have solved this by now. Or rather, Miss Marple would have solved it. By looking at the motivations and asking, What does this person want, and what does that person want? Want more than anything?”

“Yes,” said Cotton with a sigh. “And who in the village it all reminded her of. How villagers are just like city folk, only more deadly. Or something.”

“We'll get to the bottom of this,” said Max, “with or without Miss Marple to guide us.” He looked at Cotton, who had grown up more or less in the country but had been drawn to city ways, city clothing.

And a light came into Max's eyes. He felt the glimmer of a connection forming.

“But it has given me an idea,” Max said. “Something my curate said, about people thinking in clichés.”

“Now, that I could use. An idea. A clue would also be good.”

“Tell me more about how Lady Baaden-Boomethistle is taking this,” Max asked. “Bree.”

Cotton flipped again to the relevant screen and read aloud. “‘I'm totally shaken and beyond myself,' she told me. Then she asked when she could go and saddle her horse. It seems she had some sort of meet or hunt yesterday.”

“And you told her that wouldn't be possible. Besides, the hunt doesn't run on Sundays, not around here. Wherever she was headed, it wasn't to hunt.”

“Of course I told her she couldn't go,” said Cotton. “You wouldn't think I'd have to point that out, would you? To offer guidelines on the expected behavior of bereaved wives? I should have little cards printed up. ‘Before the Funeral: Five Tips on Comportment for Merry Widows.' By the way, she shed not a tear until I told her I needed her to stick around in case questions came up. Only then did she look like she might have a meltdown.”

Max pushed himself away from the fireplace mantel, signaling his departure.

“Right, I'll go have a word, then. With the widow and with the dowager.”

“‘The Lady, or the Tiger'? Honestly, I'm not sure which is which.”

 

Chapter 19

MAX AND THE LADY

Max found her in the stables, the place she would most likely be on any given day. The occasion of her husband's being murdered would not deter her. It might, Max recognized, bring her some solace, this ordinary routine of being around the animals she clearly loved.

Indeed as he walked in, stopping a moment to pet the retriever puppy that ran stumbling to greet him, she was rubbing Foto Finish's long aristocratic nose. Max did not know a lot about horses, although he had taught himself to ride years ago as part of an undercover operation. He could say, with Dorothy Gilman, that he and horses “had never enjoyed a warm or comfortable relationship.” He had enormous respect for their majesty but no particular desire to let them become a ruling passion.

This particular horse continued to distinguish himself as much by his unusual dappled coat as by his look of utter complacence. He was probably used to being offered only the finest oats and carrots and receiving the highest praise and gentlest caresses from his mistress. He looked, particularly under Bree's fawning attention, as if it had all gone straight to his head.

The woman turned to face Max, and in that moment he caught the full force of her beauty like a wave. She was stunning, with an old-fashioned loveliness he associated with one of the Victorian showgirls who might have captured the heart of a Prince of Wales. Her dark eyes were enormous, sparkling and long-lashed, and despite her hair's being pulled back into a ponytail, he could see that when loosed it would fall in heavy dark curls. Somehow it seemed impossible for any red-blooded male to view her without wishing to see what that hair would look like as it cascaded down her back. She had the same wide hips, large bust, and narrow waist of a Victorian fantasy, as well, her waist so small that it appeared corseted but of course was not: She wore modern blue jeans and a tucked-in plaid blouse, an outfit that really did not suit an hourglass figure such as hers.

Lips as pink as rose petals now parted in a tentative pearly smile. There were dark smudges under her eyes, perhaps from lack of sleep. Angels must look like this, thought Max. She did not unleash the vixenish firepower she surely could have deployed if she'd wanted, blasting every man in her path and reducing him to ashes, but instead her manner on seeing him was demure, almost shy. It only added to her impact. Even Max, the happiest of married men in all the world, could sense the potency of her sexual power. He felt he almost needed to grab the nearest post to steady himself.

She undid the tie around her hair and shook her head, letting the ribbons of curls unfurl past her shoulders before unself-consciously gathering it all again into the ponytail. When she spoke, it was in a breathless, little-girl voice. Max could see how the lord had been captivated by her effortless (or so it seemed) charm. Hang the casserole.

He introduced himself, saying how sorry he was she had to endure such a tragedy.

“It's terrible,” she said. “It makes me quite ill to think about it. Do you mind awfully if we don't…” The eyelashes fluttered.

Don't what? wondered Max, somewhat dazed. Run off together? Mentally, he collected himself, gathering the reins.

“Don't talk about it? Of course, I do understand. But the police have a job to do, and DCI Cotton has asked me to talk with you. Just a few questions. Nothing disturbing, I promise.”

Such a ridiculous promise, and he knew it. There was no such thing as a murder investigation with easy, soft questions. Not unless one were lining a trap for the interviewee to fall into. But he began by getting her to talk about the horse—obviously the way to her heart—how old he was and if she'd raised him from a colt (yes). And before long, he had moved the conversation to include her life at the manor, and from there to how she had met Lord Baaden-Boomethistle. Of course he knew the answer to that from talking with Cotton, but he wanted to see if she would contradict any of it. She did not.

“We met at a horse show. It was love at first sight—the usual story.”

Her lovely soft mouth was pouty like a child's; she had a habit of gently nibbling her lower lip as she considered what was being asked of her.

“‘Who ever loved, that loved not at first sight?'” quoted Max.

“Chris Marlowe had it right,” she said. He was not surprised she recognized the famous quotation—besides, the intelligence shone from her, alongside her beauty, enhancing it. And certainly he was not surprised that Lord Baaden-Boomethistle's fall for her was swift and final. The question was, Was it also fatal? Max was less sure he believed she fell for him, a much older man, in quite the same way, even though his interest catapulted her near the top of the social hierarchy. He was a powerful, rich man, and those very qualities held their own attractions.

“My husband was devastated by the loss of his first wife,” said Bree. “It took him a long time to recover from that.” She stood with her small feet apart now, hands on hips, filling the space. It should have been a threatening stance, but it was, in keeping with her general aura, beguiling, commanding. “But the attraction was mutual—even though I know people doubted that.” She looked at him knowingly, for the first time engaging him, complicit in acknowledging his own doubts. “We forged a real bond.”