Wicked Autumn: A Max Tudor Novel by Malliet, G. M.(August 7, 2012) Paperback by G. M. Malliet

Author:G. M. Malliet [Malliet, G. M.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Amazon: B014S4K9E0
Publisher: Minotaur Books
Published: 1700-03-15T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 19

What’s Cooking

The wind had kicked up and Max, on leaving Abbot’s Lodge, found himself in a changed world of scudding clouds and overcast skies. Leaving the safety of Noah’s house, a home surely graced by long centuries of prayer, he seemed to have stepped into an enchanted but sinister parallel world that Awena might have recognized.

He pondered what next to do. Noah’s revelations certainly cast new light on Wanda’s character, but didn’t they similarly cast a light on Noah’s motivations? Still—would a guilty man have admitted what transpired over those antique chairs? While the Major might have mentioned it to Max or to any of the other villagers, in actuality the chances of Max’s ever hearing of the dodgy transaction were slim. Maybe it was in the nature of a double-blind—a “full” confession on Noah’s part to mask his deeper involvement in Wanda’s death.

Max hadn’t told Noah he was talking to him partly at the instigation of DCI Cotton—of course he hadn’t. How Max chafed now at the subterfuge, even knowing it was in the cause of truth, of finding Wanda’s killer. But something in him jibbed, even at that sound and logical excuse. Wasn’t that the reason always given him for the lies and deceits of his MI5 days? But then, he’d had to go on whatever was told him about the justice of a given cause. This, he knew for himself: the worm that had insinuated itself into the goodness that was Nether Monkslip had to be destroyed.

As he walked in the waning hours of daylight, head down into the wind, his steps took him toward the High Street, and he found himself standing in front of the Cavalier Tea Room. He had half intended to go in, but at the sight of the avid faces peering at him from the window, he had a sudden change of heart. After pretending fascination for a few moments with what the nearby newsagent’s window had to offer, he set off in the direction of his old Land Rover. He would go into Monkslip-super-Mare for an evening meal near the harbor, first stopping for a word with the priest at St. Alban’s on some minor but long-neglected church business.

And he knew exactly who else he wanted to see while he was in town. Perhaps just an appetizer course wouldn’t break the budget.

* * *

At French Revolution, Guy Nicholls popped his head out the swinging kitchen door long enough to say, “Just a sec and I’ll be with you” before popping back in again. Max had only time to note that his hair stood out in its usual artless tufts—the kind of coiffure that sold for seventy pounds sterling in London, but might today simply be the result of harried preparations for the evening trade. The door, as it swung closed behind Guy, pushed out the heavenly scent of just-baked bread mixed with the slow sizzle of garlic in olive oil.

Max picked up a menu he’d taken from the reception stand and perused it idly as he waited.

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