Several days passed before Max heard from Cotton again. The forensic tests, even though logged in with a note citing Cotton’s pleas for haste, had run up against the usual bureaucratic backlog and the competing demands of other crimes in the area. Still, given the prestige of the family, and the spectacular way in which the head of the clan had lost his head, this was a matter of some urgency. (“We have got to stay in front of the media on this,” as Cotton put it.)
And so Cotton managed to get what he wanted out of the coroner’s inquest (more time to investigate) and out of all the forensics specialists (faster test results) through a combination of finesse and a calling in of favors owed. And while he never bullied, he did, as he liked to put it, persist until he got results.
Which in this case did not amount to much. The wire used as a murder weapon had eventually been found after a brief search, not far from the body; it had been taken down and thrown into the undergrowth around a large oak tree. The speculation was that this had been done to prevent any further catastrophe for anyone unlucky enough to decide to ride a horse on that same path, following after Lord Baaden-Boomethistle.
“We are dealing with a considerate murderer, in other words,” Cotton explained to Max over the phone. “And someone who knew he rode on that path at that time every day, which was not a well-kept secret, apparently. But there are no prints—impossible on such a narrow surface. No DNA, either—the chances are the killer wore gloves, anyway. The wire seems to have been cut from a supply that had been sitting around a storage area in the stable for an undetermined amount of time, although long enough for rust to have started to form on it.”
“The tack room, no doubt,” said Max. “We’re looking for someone with access to the stable, then, obviously.”
“Yes, and that could be anyone in the area. The buildings are shielded by trees from the house, and sited far away, so nipping in, taking what you wanted, and nipping out again would be easy. While there are stable hands and people like that running about with ropes and saddles and other horse accessories, there aren’t enough of them that someone’s comings and goings would necessarily be noticed. And if the perpetrator concealed the wire about his person, under a coat or sweater, say, wrapped around his waist, there would be nothing in particular for anyone to notice.”
Cotton’s reference to “horse accessories” rather than “tack” reminded Max that Cotton was even less in his customary environment of mean city streets than usual, and that he knew even less than he, Max, about the world of horses. They might need to take expert opinion on this case before it was through. Unfortunately, the nearest experts to hand were all suspects in the case.
“Does the butler ride?” Max wondered aloud. “Hargreaves?”
“I don’t know. Why don’t you go ask him?”
* * *
The butler occupied a nice little living quarters within the house. As tradition held, it was near the kitchen and it no doubt was a major perk of the job to have an on-site living arrangement included. Max knew, as he had in his MI5 days impersonated a butler on more than one occasion, that the position also often came with a decent salary, paid vacation time, a mobile phone, and, in remote spots like Nether Monkslip, a car. The downside was that the job generally required a sixty-hour workweek, since the modern butler was often a jack-of-all-trades, including bodyguard.
Hargreaves looked, however, as if his bodyguarding days might soon be over. He was in his mid to late sixties and probably looking forward to retirement. His lodgings, while pleasant, were more like a private suburban bedsit than a suite of expensively wallpapered, tufted-satin rooms, as might be found in the rest of the house. It was warm and cozy, with plaid fabric on the chairs and sofa contrasting in a pleasing, old-fashioned way with floral prints and narrow-striped pillows. The overall effect ought to have been ghastly, but it was more as if the fabrics had accumulated over time, each butler from the past having left behind a cherished possession or two to mark his occupancy. Hunting scenes and inspirational quotes hung on the walls, a quote from Henry V being the most stirring (“I see you stand like greyhounds in the slips,/Straining upon the start. The game’s afoot:/Follow your spirit; and, upon this charge/Cry ‘God for Harry, England and Saint George!’” A fire burned in the hearth to take the chill off the air, and the butler offered Max some tea and homemade oatmeal biscuits “made by the cook early just this morning, special for your visit.” Max, who had come to accept that murder investigations were fattening, especially in the environs of Nether Monkslip, took a biscuit from the proffered plate. Had he been in London, he realized, he’d have been lucky to be given water, and then only if he appeared to be suffering from heat prostration.
The butler handed him a cup with the requested one lump, no milk, and then sat down opposite him in the riot of color that was his sofa. Max shuffled the selection of pillows at his own back and settled in, taking a sip of the excellent tea and a bite of biscuit, delicious enough to rival anything Elka Garth might produce.
“It’s the murder you want to talk about, of course, Vicar. If it were the funeral arrangements, I imagine you would be talking with Lady Baaden-Boomethistle.”
Max acknowledged this was true. Lord Baaden-Boomethistle would be buried out of St. Edwold’s, as had all the Baaden-Boomethistles who had come before him, and he would be interred in the family vault. It was normally not a matter in which to involve the household staff, although as a matter of courtesy Max might keep them informed of the family’s decisions, particularly if it seemed communication had broken down somewhere along the way. There would always be extra arrangements involving relatives come to stay, a gathering after the service, and so forth, on such an occasion.
“You have been with the family how long?” Max asked him. He was trying to avoid licking the crumbs from his fingers, as he had not been provided with a serviette. Hargreaves noticed instantly and flung himself off the sofa to go and rectify the omission.
“Eighteen years” was the reply on his return from the pantry. The butler went on to explain that his former employment had been at a famous grand old house in the north of Scotland. “I could not endure the winters any longer,” he told Max, resuming his seat. “I am not a young man, and when you start thinking in terms of your bones actually freezing and snapping apart like sticks … well. Either that or being blown clean off a cliff, which could easily happen. Anyways, when this opportunity opened up—well, I gave a good long notice. Lord Rosefield was nice enough about it—it seems it had happened before. I heard my replacement was a hale and hardy Scotsman who lived nearby. Too bad. Too bad I had to leave, I mean. They had two wee bairn who were the nicest children.”
“Ah,” said Max, wondering if this were in any way a comparison with Lord Baaden-Boomethistle’s children. Was the butler trying to say they were not the nicest children? Was he using a sliding scale—not quite as nice but pretty decent kids overall? As Max contemplated exactly how to phrase this, the butler returned his cup to its saucer and saved him the trouble.
“They were not spoiled, those two up in Scotland. They knew the value of a pound, for one thing—I know, I know: It’s a stereotype, the thrifty Scot, but I mean that they were instilled with character, not with an inflated sense of entitlement. I blame the parents when that does happen, and I try not to fault the child. Of course, these two here lost their mother at a very young age, so perhaps there is no comparison. Lady Rosefield was a paragon. Lady Baaden-Boomethistle—the first lady—was likewise an absolutely lovely woman, long-suffering though she was. So for the children to lose her at a tender age—well … You do see.”
Max nodded sagely, as if this rather rambling discourse were all he could have hoped to hear. He was well aware the man would not be talking about his employer like this to any outsider—stating opinions as to how the children were turning out, and who might be to blame if they were not turning out well. The fact that Max was a priest—his confessor, in fact—made Max’s place in the grand investigative scheme of things rather ambiguous.
The lyrics of the song “Our Lips Are Sealed” came into his mind just then. Rather a theme song for priests, it had been a running joke during his training at St. Barney’s in Oxford. The sacrament of Reconciliation, commonly known as Confession, meant that he could not relay what was told to him in confidence by a penitent.
“You are friends with that DCI, I know,” said the butler. Perhaps it was that servant’s ability to anticipate problems—missing serviettes, a wine cellar that needed restocking, a conflict of interests—that made him sensitive to Max’s position.
Max acknowledged that this was true.
The man sighed. “I wish I could tell you something that might help, but the fact is, I can’t. I mean I know nothing about the murder and I have no inkling of who could have done it. None.” Did he protest too much on that last word? Max thought it a possibility. “I have indicated the children are not all they could be—the usual bun fights at meals, you know the sort of thing—but they are not murderers. I would bet anything I own. They are spoiled and headstrong—the boy especially—but this is another arena. I wouldn’t think them capable of it.”
“I wouldn’t think anyone capable of it,” Max pointed out, “but someone did it. And it required a certain amount of knowledge of the lord’s habits.” Indeed, Max had reached the conclusion some time ago that whoever had done this had had ample time to observe, to plot, and to plan. The trap was so nicely calibrated and measured.
“I know. And Peregrine did quarrel with his father—but that was the usual sort of father and son thing. Nothing out of the ordinary.”
“Any idea what the quarrel was about?” Max asked him, all ears but feigning nonchalance.
“No, Vicar, I’ve really no idea. I heard only the end of the quarrel, anyway.”
“What was said?”
“Lord Baaden-Boomethistle was quite angry—what about, I don’t know. He said, ‘You’re no son of mine. You’re unnatural, that’s what you are. No son of mine could do what you did.’ And Peregrine said something like ‘I wish that were true! I wish anyone but you were my father! Then I might be happy.’ Then he sort of flounced away, slamming the door. Young Peregrine does tend to flounce and pout when he doesn’t get his way, I’m afraid. The entire family just missed a career in the theater.”
Max said, “We have to return to the fact, painful as it may be, that Peregrine knew his father’s habits well. He had to have done.”
“That’s true of almost anyone who has spent any time with the family,” said the butler loyally. “Any member of staff—myself included. Or a weekend guest, perhaps.”
Max nodded, saying, “All right. We also have to consider that this murder was committed by someone with a knowledge of the sort of horse Foto Finish is, I should think.”
“Smart, you mean. Responsive and easy to train, so I heard Lady Baaden-Boomethistle say once. Unspookable. Biddable. Unlike the young lord, of whom most of the staff have despaired at one point or another.”
“Funny you should say that,” said Max softly, remembering. “That Foto Finish is so biddable.” It had been Awena who had reminded him of the story that had been nibbling at the edges of his mind. The story of Brat Farrar, a story with a murderous horse wanting to rid itself of its passenger.
They had been at breakfast, reading the news coverage, when Awena said, “Somehow the horrible method of this murder has me thinking of that old book by Josephine Tey. Brat Farrar?”
Max looked at her over the top of his section of the newspaper. “Brat Farrar,” he confirmed. “I’ve read it, but it’s been years ago now. She’s one of my favorite mystery authors.”
“It’s one of her best stories, although it’s hard to beat Daughter of Time. It’s probably been on my mind just because of the theme of horses and wealthy families. In the story, someone tries to kill Brat, using a rogue horse named Timber.”
“It’s something to do with an inheritance, right?”
Awena nodded, stirring a teaspoon of chia seeds into her cereal. Owen nestled against her shoulder. “Yes. Brat is a foundling who gets talked into impersonating an heir, partly so he can inherit a stud farm. He loves horses, you see.”
“Just as Lady Baaden-Boomethistle is said to love horses.”
“Right. Horse-mad she is, or so I’ve heard. Anyway, in Tey’s story, there is a strong family resemblance and Brat takes advantage of it to pretend that he is the twin of a man who disappeared. The missing man is thought to have committed suicide. So Brat’s a criminal, you see, although horses and people seem to like him. But he uncovers a far worse crime during his impersonation.”
Max nodded. “It’s a good story. I remember I read it all in one go on a long train ride.”
“And it’s a real psychological puzzle. The reader is never quite sure which criminal to follow … if you follow. And you join with the family in suspecting Brat, then accepting him. Tey just pulls you along where she wants you to go.”
Max, sitting now with the butler, thought that the horse in this case, unlike Timber, was not known for its bad temper. Cotton had said this at some point and the butler had just confirmed it. It was a beautiful and high-spirited animal, and it had raced for home the moment it was free of its rider, as horses are wont to do. It was hard to see further parallels in Brat Farrar to the current real crime.
Max returned his full attention to Hargreaves, who was saying, “She’d be nearly forty now.”
“I’m sorry, who is this?”
“The nanny. The woman hired to take care of Peregrine when he was a baby. I told you most of the staff despaired of him at one point or other, but it was the nanny spotted trouble early on.”
“Do you happen to know where she is now?” He had so little real insight into Peregrine or any other member of the family. But servants saw what was hidden from the world. It might not pay off, but he wanted to get a better sense of the family and its history. And certainly a nanny would know the innate character of her charges better than most.
Hargreaves shook his head. “It was before my time she left, of course. I’ve only seen photos. Lovely girl she was. Scandinavian in her background, one side or the other, by the look of her. Pale hair, blue eyes. But I don’t think she was from there. Or from here.”
Quelling Max’s disappointment, the butler added, “I do know she stayed in the UK and didn’t return home, as so many do. I overheard Rosamund say she got married to an Englishman.”
It might mean her name had changed, but surely there would be enough to go on in the immigration records. And Cotton’s people could find out more from Rosamund, perhaps.
“I’ll just have a look-see in the household accounts for that time frame, shall I?” Hargreaves asked, again anticipating Max’s need, like the good servant he was. “Her name as it was—her maiden name—is sure to appear. Your DCI can take it from there to find out what her name might be now, and where she’s living.”