A Fatal Winter (37 page)

“If you are hiding anything, any information at all, this might be a good time to mention whatever it is. Because Lamorna knew something, and you can see where it got her.”

Was it his imagination, or was there a slight shuffling or disturbance at the outer fringes of the crowd? He thought it might be coming from one of the twins, who stood behind their mother, who sat on the sofa, but when he looked directly at them, they stared back, both the picture of blue-eyed innocence.

“Lester?” he said.

“Hmm?” If Lester feared that Max might reveal his cowardly participation in that night’s events, he didn’t know his vicar.

“Can you be quite sure,” said Max, “that you saw no one? That you couldn’t see who it was Lamorna was following?”

Lester shook his head decisively, importantly—once more the go-to guy at the nerve center of the investigation.

“Too dark,” he said. “I only saw her and that wasn’t easy.”

The return of Lester’s usual cockily confident manner continued, his poise seeping back into the cracks opened by his terror. Assuming the stance of a professional now hardened to crime, he said, “She was killed instantly, I would say. Wouldn’t you, Father Max?”

Max paused only a moment to wonder at the transformation before him.

“No, I wouldn’t,” he said. Jocasta gasped. “But I don’t think she suffered unduly, except from the initial fright at finding herself being propelled down the stairs.”

“‘Being propelled?’ What, she didn’t fall?” asked Simon.

Max shrugged. He was sure she hadn’t fallen but he didn’t know what purpose might be served by airing his suspicions now. The set of his mouth and the fiery red of anger blazing across his cheekbones would have told Simon all he needed to know of Max’s suspicions, but Max turned his face. Time enough for suspicions and accusations when Cotton got here.

*   *   *

The rapid shift in an already depressed mood after the death of Lamorna continued. As Randolph said, “If someone could find it in themselves to kill that colorless little drudge, none of us is safe.”

They sipped coffee, thoughtfully augmented by Milo with a bottle of brandy, and waited.

And thought.

Lester was wondering if he could parlay the situation into some new business introductions. His wife was having much the same sort of idea. After all, as cocktail party conversation, it was hard to beat being in the center of a murder investigation—twice!

Somehow Lamorna’s death seemed much more at second remove than Oscar’s, Gwynyth was thinking. She was such a nonentity.

Jocasta was wondering whether she shouldn’t have bought those shoes she saw in London—they’d be gone when she next went to the store; it was always the way. Also whether she’d remembered to run the garbage disposal before leaving the house. There was that awful smell last time …

It was a peaceable silence, although one filled with uncomfortable anticipation of more grilling by the police.

It was Simon who finally said, “I can’t just sit here. I’m going to go watch for them.”

In the end, they decided to join him. While no one said so, they shared a desire to remain within the safety of the herd.

There was a room in the tall tower at the front of the castle, over the main portcullis, and they climbed to the top to wait and watch the police arrive. Lester grabbed the bottle of brandy and took it with him.

The air in the unheated room was chill. They joined Max, who held his arms tightly around his rib cage, wishing for gloves.

At last they heard the sounds of Cotton and his people arriving, careening up to the castle as if speed might yet save Lamorna’s life. First came the uniformed constables and lower ranks, and finally Cotton himself, his car fishtailing on the snow and ice in the untended parking area.

Max signaled from the window, using the torch to gain his attention. Cotton, looking up, nodded in acknowledgement. Max went down to meet him at the main door, and to show him to the crime scene.

“‘Fasten your seat belts,’” said Jocasta, watching him go. “‘It’s going to be a bumpy night.’”

CHAPTER 27

By the Sea

“Let me get this straight,” said Cotton. “Lester, out of idle curiosity, was following Lamorna in the middle of the night.”

“That’s what he says.”

“Are we to assume some macho adventure was at the heart of his wanderings? Was he having an affair with one of the women here?”

Max could scarcely contain his astonishment. “Who, Lester? For what it’s worth, I think he is completely faithful to Fes—I mean, Felberta. He was suspicious of Lamorna, who was suspicious of someone else, and following them. It was like one giant conga line weaving its way about the castle tonight.”

“Her death could just have been an accident…” began Cotton.

The two men stood on the ledge of the cliff looking out to sea. Dawn would soon break. The waves, folding and refolding themselves, scraped steadily away at the rock face. One day the persistence of these waves would pay off, but not for many centuries more. The sea was rough and the words of the two men were at moments lost on the wind. But they had chosen to come out here to ensure they couldn’t be overheard.

“But it wasn’t,” Max finished for him. “You’ve seen the body. It was overkill. If someone was trying to make it look like an accident they badly misjudged.”

“Right. I totally agree. What happened to you when you fell was understandable, given the ice and the eccentricities of those varying treads. But she knew those stairs, knew the house, and was indoors besides. The whole thing begs the question of why she was wandering about at that time of night, anyway. I’m having forensics look over the scene with a view to signs of a struggle, and we’ll have the police doctor look for self-defense wounds. He’s already reported preliminarily that there are signs of those.”

Cotton continued, musingly, “I always liked Lamorna for this crime, but obviously, under the circumstances, I’ll have to revise that opinion.”

Max nodded glumly.

“I have people checking the grounds and windows,” said Cotton, “just on the off chance we’re dealing with an intruder. But on the whole, we’re not hopeful of finding anything.”

Max shook his head. “They won’t find anything.”

He looked at the waves, then up to the window of what had been Oscar’s room. The castle seemed to rise as a piece from the rock. Strangely confident of its impregnability by sea, its builders had focused most of the castle resources on an overland attack, with token openings for pouring oil on or shooting arrows at anyone foolish or desperate enough to attempt the rock climb.

They were on a very narrow walkway and Max, who suffered from a fear of heights, a fear he never seemed able completely to overcome, carried himself carefully as they approached the edge, and cast only glancing looks at the water far below. There was no guardrail—the public weren’t allowed out here and apparently those who lived at the castle grew used to it.

“It’s an inside job,” said Max. “Has to be.”

Cotton nodded. “And keep in mind, there is nothing to prevent complete freedom of movement within the ‘compound,’ for lack of a better word,” he said. “The individual doors to private rooms had locks, but access to any of the main buildings from inside the castle grounds was wide open.”

“We’re not overlooking the obvious, are we? I don’t suppose there was any way in from the outside via the main door?”

“Not without a Russian army at one’s back, no. Locked, bolted from the inside—quite secure in the entirely medieval way of craftsmen who once knew a thing or two about sturdy locks and bolts. And the alarm had been set.”

“And no way in from the sea.” It was not a question.

“If there were, someone would have figured out a way to breach the walls centuries ago. One would have to have been an Olympic gymnast or a rock climber to even consider climbing the steep face of the cliff outside,
and
one would have to do it from a rowboat or similar, being tossed about all the while on the waves. There would be no other way, but the whole idea is ridiculous—fraught with difficulties. We’ll look for telltale signs of a boat being tied up down there just to shoot down the worst flights of fancy a prosecutor might try to get past a jury. But, no, I’m afraid we’re again stuck with the inmates for suspects.

“And really, when you think about it, would anyone have repeatedly broken in here to keep on murdering the inhabitants, especially after the first murder, when they knew security precautions were especially likely?”

Max, who had already followed the same train of thought, shook his head:
Of course not.

“She was clutching that note,” Max told him. “And I think she meant it as a clue for us—what else could have compelled her to keep hold of it while she was being pummeled like that? ‘Meet me at the OK at midnight,’ it said. ‘OK’ could be Old Kitchen. Has to be, doesn’t it? The note was signed ‘D,’ but it was scrawled, a childish hand in a hurry. It could have been a P or S or even a J.”

“D for Doris?” asked Cotton.

Max shrugged. “You’re the detective.”

“So now
I’m
the detective,” said Cotton.

Max threw up his hands. “Detect away. I’m not doing too well at it.”

“I was joking, Max.”

“Sorry.” Frustrated, Max added, “I wish I
could
do a better job of detection. I don’t see that I’m doing any good here. The bodies are simply piling up. I should probably leave. Perhaps I’m some sort of lightning rod.”

“Rather an egocentric point of view, wouldn’t you say? Which would be completely unlike you. I need you to stay on, continue your investigation—casually, of course, finding out what they’re thinking and feeling, as much as that is possible.”

“Stay imbedded.” Max sighed. “All right. I badly need to know who did this now.” Actually, Max was beginning to wonder if his bishop might not have a problem with all of this. He voiced the wonder aloud.

“Does he have to know?” Cotton asked.

Max smiled. It was a rueful smile. “Perhaps. Yes. But … Not yet. Maybe when this is over.”

The man had better things to worry about, thought Max, knowing he was rationalizing—a bit.

“So long as my regular duties are covered, and no one in my care is neglected, another day or two shouldn’t matter. I have to say in all honesty that for me to stay any longer than that, well…”

“I quite understand,” said Cotton. “We’ll make certain not to drop you in it. If you have to leave in a day or two, that’s fine. Do what you can for us in the meanwhile, won’t you?”

Max, who wanted desperately to remain with the investigation, nodded.

Cotton’s mobile sounded. He looked at the display. “I have to take this,” he said, and he turned away to listen.

Max, eavesdropping on Cotton’s side of the conversation, was also thinking hard about the victim, about Lamorna. The clue to any crime began there. Even completely innocent victims had their stories to tell of bad luck or bad timing. And he wasn’t at all sure Lamorna was completely innocent.

He was thinking that Lamorna in another life might have joined the military, given her thirst for rules and order, and of course, for retribution, for due process. All the authorized processes of revenge.

But was she not also, wondered Max, the type to think
she
should decide what that due process should be—to take the law into her own hands? Max thought, overall, that was exactly what she would do, and how she would think. So would that mean she would be foolhardy enough to confront the killer on her own? Would she? Was she quite mad? Max was sorely vexed in his mind, and suddenly found himself wishing Awena were here. What would Awena make of it? No reason he couldn’t just call and ask her what she thought, of course, but then that would be dragging her straight into a police investigation, and into danger. It was unthinkable. Something chivalrous was roused in Max. Awena must be kept clear out of things.

He nearly wrung his hands in consternation. Know-it-all Lamorna. Why hadn’t she come to him with her concerns? He was a man of the cloth, after all. She could have confided in him, and presumably she would have felt comfortable doing so. But then, Max had the idea she’d made up her mind about something, and she probably realized he’d try to dissuade her if he knew where her thinking was taking her.

He summarized some of his own thinking for Cotton, who had finished his call and was tucking the mobile back in his inside coat pocket.

“It makes sense to me,” Cotton replied. “Lamorna, with her highly developed sense of morality and rectitude, would have felt obliged to act on what she saw, what she knew. She would have seen it as her duty. It’s a shame, rather, that she never considered a career in the military. Chain of command, lots of rules to follow—she’d have been in her element.”

“How very odd you should say that. It was just what I was thinking. So just the fact she knew something, or maybe thought she did, would be enough to put her life in danger,” Max said thoughtfully. “Whether she planned to put that knowledge to use, the perception of her, by anyone who knew her even slightly, would be that she would feel obliged to do something with her knowledge.”

“To tell someone.”

“Perhaps,” said Max thoughtfully. “Or to threaten to tell, if that person didn’t do as she wanted.”

“Or persons,” said Cotton.

“Correct. Also, if we’re listing the possibilities, we have to consider Oscar’s murder was unconnected to Lamorna’s.”

“Just to tick all the boxes,” said Cotton, but doubtfully.

“I agree,” said Max, catching his tone. “That is reaching into the realm of utter impossibility. She wasn’t randomly murdered—she couldn’t have been. The most likely explanation is that she knew or saw something that got her killed. Lamorna struck me as a sly individual—nosy in the extreme. Others commented on this proclivity of hers to spy. Also, she was someone who would be an excellent observer, since no one paid the least attention to her. She could go almost where she pleased, and eavesdrop to her heart’s content. The castle is well-designed for that—for eavesdroppers—in the first place.”