"It's one theory," Pamela said.
"Bizarre," Charlie Riggs concluded.
"Farfetched," I agreed, mulling it over. "As ridiculous as a state attorney killing a woman to protect his reputation as a war hero, then killing another to cover up the first."
CHAPTER 23
An ancient clock above the marble fireplace bonged four times and a uniformed kitchen girl rolled a silver cart of scones, muffins, and crumpets into the drawing room. The walls were hung with gold silk damask and matched the festooned curtains. The floor was dark wood covered with a carpet of burgundy and gold. On the walls were grim portraits of Victorian folk, stout men with long tangled hair and pale women with swan necks.
We sat on chairs with carved knees and ball-and-claw feet. Overhead was a cut-glass chandelier. Mrs. Penelope Maxson personally poured steaming tea from a china pot decorated with roses. She never took her eyes from mine as she handed me the cup and saucer with a steady hand. She was a trifle too large for the long, fitted silk chiffon dress the color of a sapphire. White beads formed leaf-like shapes over the shoulder and down each sleeve. Red beads swirled like a cloud of dust over an ample hip. The dress was cut daringly low, and Mrs. Maxson threatened to spill over with the tea.
She had a fine head of gray hair piled high, a long patrician nose, and green eyes she had graciously passed on to her daughter. "Lemon?" she asked, barely suppressing a smile. "They tell me you Yanks use lemon, though I haven't the foggiest idea why."
Pamela smiled. "Some of them even drink their tea over ice."
"No!" protested Mrs. Maxson, a twinkle in her eye. "Whatever for, to quell a fever?"
"Philistines," I agreed, realizing they were putting me on. I declined the lemon and accepted a dash of milk.
We made tea talk. Mrs. Maxson was too polite to ask why someone used my face for a soccer ball. Instead, she discussed the relative qualities of West Bengal Darjeeling compared with Russian. Charlie Riggs allowed as how he favored the smoky aroma of Lapsang souchong from the Fujian province because Darjeeling always reminded him of muscatel.
I know more about Dutch beer than Chinese tea, so I kept quiet and watched Pamela, who sat regally on a stiff chair, her legs crossed demurely at the ankles, cup and saucer balanced daintily on her lap. She had changed into a summer sweater of white cotton and a long denim skirt. A tad casual for the formal room, perhaps, but it didn't bother me. I just admired the lady's ankles, as Victorian men must have done in similar rooms a century before. Mrs. Maxson seemed entranced by Charlie, who was waxing enthusiastic about the furniture, which, to me, looked like Early Flea Market.
When he finally stopped talking, Charlie Riggs slathered clotted cream and strawberry jam onto a warm scone and inhaled the aroma of the sweet cakes and steaming tea. I hadn't seen him this happy since he had snookered a young public defender in a pretrial deposition in a homicide case.
"And what was the cause of death?" the PD had asked.
"Acute lead poisoning," Doc Riggs said with a straight face.
The young lawyer could barely contain his joy. "Really?"
"Yes, indeed. Of course it was caused by two. 38 slugs in the heart from your client's gun."
I forgave him later.
Charlie bit into the scone and decorated his beard with a glob of the cream. Then he looked around the room, furrowed his bushy eyebrows, and said, "If I'm not mistaken, Mrs. Maxson, that sofa is Early Hepplewhite."
"Quite right," she said, smiling. "About 1765, best we can tell."
"And those too," Charlie said, gesturing toward gilt-wood armchairs, "perhaps a bit later."
Mrs. Maxson nodded. "We've established them at 1790."
This went on for a while. The cabinets on either side of the fireplace dated from 1795, the mahogany table with satinwood inlay about 1775, and the pianoforte-just like Beethoven's-was made in 1798 by Rolfe of Cheapside. I decided neither to comment on Rolfe's marketing strategy nor to bang out my risque rendition of "Louie, Louie."
"Would you care for a brandy snap?" Mrs. Maxson asked me.
I scooped up a confection of ginger and whipping cream and washed it down with-who knows? — some Indian, Russian, or Chinese tea.
"Pamela tells me you're a barrister," Mrs. Maxson said.
I nodded, tipping my cup.
"I've always adored the law," she said. "When Pamela was at Cheltenham Ladies' College, I so hoped she would pursue that noble profession."
My smile was sincere. Where I come from, lawyers are called shysters, mouthpieces, or ambulance chasers.
"Mother never approved of my life, nor I of hers," Pam said tartly.
"Pamela!" Mrs. Maxson's smile dropped at the edges, giving her an odd, frozen look.
"Mother can scarcely say 'psychiatry' without breaking out in hives."
"It's not psychiatry I object to," Mrs. Maxson protested. "But in your practice, the people… "
Pamela shrugged.
"When I think back," her mother said a bit gloomily. "Mr. Maxson had just passed on, and Pamela was quite distraught, naturally. Then those poor girls were killed, right here in the Cotswolds, and Pamela was at such an impressionable age. Perhaps that explains how she chose such a…gruesome profession."
"When I was studying psycholinguistics at Cambridge, Mother practically disowned me."
"Kidnappers! Her specialty was kidnappers."
"Ransom notes contain marvelous clues," Pam said. "I developed a computer program that analyzed every word of the note. The computer then compared how the words in the note are used compared to the same words in ordinary speech. Properly done, this yields signature words that reveal the kidnappers background."
Mrs. Maxson shook her head. "I thought it was just a phase, that when she decided on medicine, it would be for a traditional career. Pediatrics perhaps. But she was a house woman, what you call, what is it, Pamela…?"
"An intern."
"Yes, at St. Thomas Hospital in London. Do you know it, Dr. Riggs?"
"I believe Florence Nightingale worked there."
"Yes." Mrs. Maxson nodded. "Then to Maudsley Hospital for psychiatry and Broadmoor for the criminally insane. One place worse than the next. Dealing with policemen and the deranged. Oh my, don't get me started. Perhaps if I'd raised her differently…"
"I don't think she turned out half bad," I said, in a semi-chivalrous way.
"Well, Mr. Lassiter, I ask you, should a young lady like this be spending her time in those horrible prisons?"
" Hospitals, Mother!"
"Hospitals, with cages over the windows and those awful squeaky floors…"
"Linoleum," Pam said. "Mum hates linoleum."
"Working the worst imaginable hours, how can a young woman even find a suitable husband? I mean when a man comes home from the office, he wants a good roast beef, not a repulsive story, isn't that right, Mr. Lassiter?"
"Actually, I'm cutting back on red meat."
"If a woman has no time to form relationships with men-"
"But then," Pam interrupted, "you've made up for both of us, haven't you, Mother?"
I heard the tinkle of china in Mrs. Maxson's hands. The afternoon sun slanted through the heavy windows, but the room had turned frosty. So this is what the English do at their genteel teas. Haul out the dirty linen.
Mrs. Maxson straightened in her chair. Her face betrayed nothing, the perfect example of the stiff upper lip. "Pamela, no argie-bargie, not today."
"As you wish, Mother."
Mrs. Maxson managed a formal smile that reminded me of Nancy Reagan. "I won't say another word about it, but I'll never understand why a proper lady would want to soil her hands with that sort of work. Don't you agree, Mr. Lassiter?"
"Well…I don't know," I sputtered. "Pam's work is very important. The day may come when she can re-create the personality, the emotional and mental makeup, the domestic situation, even the appearance of the psychopath."