Maxwell's Mask by M.J. Trow Read Free Book Online

that…’
    â€˜I’ve seen you in the paper. In the Leighford Advertiser . You’re a sort of Sherlock Holmes, aren’t you? A consulting detective.’
    â€˜Miss Winchcombe,’ Maxwell chuckled. ‘You mustn’t believe all you read in the papers, especially…’
    â€˜Mr Maxwell,’ she said solemnly. ‘Gordon Goodacre didn’t die in an accident. Someone killed him. Deliberately, I mean.’
    â€˜Martita!’
    They both froze at the sound of her name.
    â€˜There you are.’ Dan Bartlett flashed into the half-light, peering around the pillar. ‘We’ve been looking for you. Come along, Matilda and Patrick need your Treasurer’s Report.’ He checked his watch. ‘Treasurer’s Reports are always delivered ateight-thirty, you know that,’ he said patronisingly. He took the old lady firmly by the elbow, then half turned. ‘Sorry about that, Mr Maxwell,’ he whispered. ‘Few accounts short of a ledger, I’m afraid. Good luck with that…effort you’re doing.’
    And Maxwell forced open the front door of the theatre, glad for the sting of the rain and the comforting ridge of White Surrey’s saddle under his buttocks. Miss Winchcombe might not know the difference between a raven and a writing desk, but he did…didn’t he?

CHAPTER FOUR
    â€˜Murder, she said.’
    â€˜Max, you’ve been wrestling with this all night; give it a rest.’
    He was actually wrestling with his bow tie at that hour of the morning, a half-eaten round of toast left languishing on a surface he couldn’t quite call to mind.
    â€˜What did Jane Blaisedell say again – about Gordon Goodacre, I mean?’
    It was morning in the Maxwell household, in a little town house on a quiet estate on the edge of a sleepy seaside town on the south coast. A teacher and his partner were talking about killing again. Nothing odd about that.
    Jacquie sighed and passed him his cycle clips, undress, officers for the use of. ‘It was just a freak accident, that was all. These things happen.’
    Maxwell looked at the pregnant woman who shared his house, his thoughts, his life. Her he trusted; her he loved. Jane Blaisedell? Well, JaneBlaisedell was another kettle of fish altogether. Maxwell would die rather than admit it, but Jacquie’s bestest new friend in all the world was just a little on the limited side. And she had an edge about her that he didn’t altogether like. ‘I suppose they do,’ he sighed in retaliation.
    He snapped on the cycle clips over the turn-ups of his countryman’s trousers, hauled the bright Jesus scarf around his neck and took a final slurp of coffee.
    â€˜Toast?’ she reminded him.
    â€˜Of course.’ He clicked his fingers and drew himself to attention, raising his cup aloft. ‘How remiss of me. To the prince over the water.’ It was an immaculate John Laurie for all the sun was still struggling over the yardarm and Maxwell hadn’t finished gargling yet. ‘Don’t wait up, heart.’
    â€˜Max, what time will you be home, for God’s sake? It’s Tuesday.’ Even a non-teacher knew that schools didn’t have meetings on Tuesdays. There were very strict professional association rules about that.
    â€˜So it is. Half past four of the clock, with a prevailing wind.’
    She waddled closer to him, planting a kiss on the end of his nose. ‘You have a nice day, you mad old buffer.’
    â€˜I’ll give it my best shot,’ he smiled, cradling her cheeks in both hands. ‘Oh, darling. Could you drop my green trousers in to the dry cleaners? Oh, and put that ad in the Advertiser , there’s a good girl.Oh, no chance of paella tonight, I suppose? And for God’s sake take it easy – you’re expecting, remember.’
    â€˜Yes.’ She rolled her eyes at him. ‘It’s called working for two. On yer bike, Peter