Maxwell’s Flame by M. J. Trow Page B

Maxwell said. ‘Perhaps you should talk to the police.’
    ‘I can’t.’ Gracewell sat down heavily in Maxwell’s chair. Maxwell sat down more gently on his bed. Ever the master of body language, he didn’t want to be higher than Gracewell. Not now. The last thing he wanted to appear was an authority figure. And he leaned forward, giving an air of concern without invading the young man’s space.
    ‘I can’t talk to Warren. He frightens me.’
    Maxwell nodded. ‘That may be part of his job,’ he said. He felt the warm, dark gold nectar hit his tonsils. ‘Distilled on the banks of the good ol’ Mississippi,’ he said. ‘Are you sure you won’t …?’
    Gracewell was already shaking his head. Not once did he look Peter Maxwell in the face. ‘I’d like to talk to you, Mr Maxwell,’ he said. ‘I feel I can trust you. I can’t trust anyone else here. But you, you’re different …’
    ‘Mr Gracewell,’ Maxwell warned softly, ‘perhaps you need a priest …’
    Gracewell turned away, suddenly, savagely. ‘No,’ he said, his voice like gravel, ‘that’s the last thing I want. Will you …’ He turned back, looking into the steady, grey eyes of Mad Max Maxwell for the first time. ‘Will you hear my confession?’
    Maxwell spread his arms in supplication. ‘I’m not exactly qualified,’ he said.
    ‘Please?’ Gracewell was on the chair again, this time perched on its arm, staring at Maxwell with pleading eyes.
    ‘All right,’ Maxwell said.
    Gracewell took a deep breath and launched himself. ‘For two years now, I’ve been … in love with Liz Striker.’
    ‘In love?’
    ‘Yes. She was a married woman and I am a man of the cloth.’
    There was a silence.
    ‘Is that it?’ Maxwell thought he’d better ask.
    ‘Isn’t that enough?’ Gracewell bellowed, tears welling in his eyes. For Maxwell, it wasn’t. He’d half suspected something about sniffing the saddles of little girls’ bicycles or at least a little ragged breathing over the phone to the local convent. It was all rather tame, really.
    ‘Did you have an affair with Mrs Striker?’ Maxwell asked. ‘Anything physical, I mean?’
    ‘No, no,’ Gracewell shuddered. ‘Although I often thought about it. Often imagined … Sometimes, when we were alone together, working late on marking or preparation, the temptation was strong.’ He closed his eyes. ‘Appallingly strong. I … I will have to resign.’
    ‘As my lately departed colleague said, if my memory serves, bollocks, padre.’
    ‘What?’
    ‘It’s a euphemism for testicles,’ Maxwell explained.
    ‘I have committed adultery in my heart,’ Gracewell sobbed, the tears starting to trickle down his cheek and splash on to his black cuffs.
    ‘Yes, well,’ Maxwell fished out a relatively respectable hanky, ‘better there than somebody’s bedroom. Now, come on, old chap, buck up. I can’t stand to see a grown chaplain cry.’
    ‘I’m sorry,’ Gracewell sniffed, accepting the handkerchief gratefully. ‘I actually feel a lot better now. Now it’s off my chest.’
    ‘Oh, good,’ Maxwell smiled, ‘good.’
    ‘Thank you, Mr Maxwell.’
    He suddenly felt his hand being shaken warmly, by both of Gracewell’s. ‘Not at all,’ Maxwell beamed. ‘The pleasure’s been mine. Now, who did you say killed Liz Striker?’
    ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ Gracewell said, ‘but I’m making an educated guess, with all the information at my disposal.’
    ‘Yes?’
    ‘Rachel,’ Gracewell said, as if he’d just ordered chips. ‘Rachel King.’

6
    It was Peter Maxwell’s turn to rap on Sally Greenhow’s door.
    ‘Why, Max,’ she did her Southern Belle to perfection, ‘Ah declare, you’ve come to escort me tuh the lecture.’
    ‘Sod the lecture!’ Maxwell brushed past her and slammed the door.
    ‘Oh well,’ sighed Sally. ‘Looks like I’m not going to the ball after all.’
    ‘Cheer up.’ Maxwell had flung his heavy carcass into the girl’s chair. ‘Some day your prince