A Demon Summer by G. M. Malliet Read Free Book Online Page A

Cotton,” Max supplied for him. DCI Cotton operated out of Monkslip-super-Mare and generally investigated homicides and other major crimes. It spoke volumes that he was involved already; things had to have crossed a certain threshold for Cotton and his team to be poised to run about, notebooks blazing. Lord Lislelivet must have complained loudly.
    â€œYes. Yes, that was it,” said the bishop. “DCI Cotton.”
    â€œYou can’t fill me in a bit more?”
    The bishop studied the ornately carved ceiling of his office as he searched his memory. “They were jumpy, some of them, when last I saw them. Decidedly jumpy. It was most un-nun-like behavior. Nuns should be serene. They should just glide along, cool, calm, and collected. But I could get nothing out of them. I did ask. However, I didn’t press when I was assured all was well. Again, one doesn’t want to micromanage, and the abbess is a completely competent sort of woman.”
    â€œDid you get a sense of an ongoing feud, personality conflicts, anything like that?”
    â€œThey had the usual petty squabbles—you can’t shut people up together in such isolated circumstances and expect otherwise. But this ? Attempted murder in order to discredit the place? No.
    â€œMax, I’ll speak plainly. I want you to go out there. I want you involved. If anyone can get to the bottom of this, you can. There have been other complaints, you see, one from an individual well placed to make trouble.”
    Max was in the midst of his usual dilemma when confronted by a crime. The investigator part of his nature was champing at the bit to get started. The priest in him was dismayed at all the projects in Nether Monkslip that would be left in abeyance for his return, the Christmas ensemble band being the least of his worries. And now to leave Awena’s side for even a day … Monkbury Abbey was only a few hours from Nether Monkslip, but even so …
    â€œOne can’t ignore the fact that money talks,” the bishop was saying.
    Max dragged his mind back to the conversation. “Anyone I would have heard of?”
    â€œClement Gorey and his wife, Oona. They’ve been major benefactors of Monkbury Abbey over the years.”
    Max whistled softly. Nearly everyone knew the eccentric American by name and reputation. “I suppose a financier of Clement’s caliber would be particularly incensed at being played for a fool financially.”
    Again a look of despair enveloped the face of the ginger-haired prelate. He must have been working in the garden recently, thought Max, for his complexion was a red several shades darker than normal.
    â€œAnd now Lord Lislelivet and his wife are hopping up and down about poisoned fruitcake. Just imagine the headlines—no! It doesn’t bear thinking about. Both the men and their wives are quite concerned—naturally. The situation must be contained.”
    A bell had sounded in the far reaches of Max’s brain, the part where cold cases were filed.
    â€œWasn’t there an earlier scandal involving the Lislelivet family? A kidnapping?”
    â€œLord Lislelivet’s brother disappeared. Yes. An appalling tragedy, that. So you see, this coming on top of everything is bound to attract attention—too much and of the wrong sort.”
    Max, despite himself, was intrigued. “I’ll of course see what I can do. But I can’t hold out a lot of hope. What is probably needed with regard to the missing funds is some sort of forensic accountant. I can barely get the books of St. Edwold’s to balance each month. I—”
    â€œNo, of course, your bailiwick is murder most foul, not fiscal shenanigans and pranks—just do your best. I must say, the whole fruitcake thing strikes me as a lark designed to harm the reputation of Monkbury Abbey. Not something, well, more serious.”
    â€œNot attempted murder.”
    â€œWe shall soon know more.