Murder Most Conventional

by Verena Rose (ed)

  “Grayson is a member, I take it?”

  “Yes, sir.” The dining room doors opened and the Prince of Wales came out, an equerry at his shoulder. The waiter bowed, and Rutledge formally inclined his head. He had met the Prince once before during a royal visit to the battlefields.

  “What’s this about?” the Prince asked, looking from the waiter to Rutledge.

  “There’s been an accident in the cloakroom, Your Royal Highness,” Rutledge said. “A rather unpleasant one. We thought it best for you to leave the dining room as inconspicuously as possible and wait in more comfortable surroundings.”

  “An accident. You’re from the Yard, aren’t you? Captain . . . Rutledge, is it? Yes, I thought so. Then it is a suspicious death.”

  “I’m afraid so, sir. The evening’s speaker.”

  “Grayson?” the Prince asked in surprise. “Good God. Would you prefer that I leave? It will make your evening less—er—complicated.”

  “If I may ask, sir, if you’ve visited the cloakroom this evening?”

  The Prince smothered a smile. “No, I have not. Nor has Mandville, here. You have my word.”

  “Then it might be more comfortable for everyone if you considered making this an early night, sir.”

  “Thank you, Inspector. Yes. I rather think I shall.” With a nod to his equerry, who went to fetch their hats, the Prince said, “If you will convey my excuses to Lord Willingham?”

  “I’ll be happy to, sir.”

  The equerry returned, and the two men went toward the door, the waiter scurrying ahead to unlock it, then close and lock it behind them.

  “I didn’t know the Prince was such a short person,” he said, coming back to stand by Rutledge. Just then the dining room doors opened again and a thin, sallow man stepped through them.

  “Dr. Haldane. Willingham says there’s a problem.”

  “In the cloakroom,” Rutledge told him, and followed him, leaving the waiter to stand guard.

  “My God,” Haldane said, stepping back and nearly colliding with Rutledge as he saw the body for the first time. And then, after a moment, he said, “Dead, of course. But not for very long, I daresay.” He went forward to stare down at the body. “My God,” he said again, this time almost to himself. Kneeling, he examined Grayson. “I should think that one, with the horn handle, might have done the trick. He would be incapable of defending himself as the others struck. But alive.” He gestured toward the handles. “I recognize these. They come from a display in the Members Room. Or there are others very like them on the walls there.”

  “Show me.”

  “You aren’t a member, are you?”

  “Nevertheless.”

  “Quite. Very well, this way.” He rose and led the way back to the antechamber, taking another door, walking down a short passage, and then opening one more.

  There was a lamp burning in the room, and Rutledge could see that it was cavernous, with a high vaulted ceiling, dark paneling, and an array of chairs that could be used to read or be set aside for more to brought in for other events. He stepped farther into the room. There were bookshelves containing an array of volumes, several globes and an astrolabe, chart tables with many drawers, and maps everywhere, in books, in portfolios, under glass. There was also a king’s ransom of treasures in cases and mounted on the walls. He looked into several of the table cases and saw a shrunken head from Borneo, a shaman’s pouch from the American Southwest, a variety of witch doctors’ bags containing God knew what, and an assortment of arrows from the Amazon, with vials of the poison designed for the tips lying beside each. All neatly labeled.

  He found himself thinking the Yard’s Black Museum of crime weapons could hardly compare to this room. But it was the space above the doors to the room that interested Rutledge. An array of weapons of every imaginable variety and probably every era and continent were displayed in patterns.

  Haldane turned up several lamps. Rutledge could see, above the door he’d just entered, an intricately patterned “rose” formed of daggers.

  And eight empty spaces where there were none.

  So much for the weapons. Now the question was, who had wielded them? And why had Grayson’s face turned black? He went back to the glass cases for another look and noted that all of them were carefully locked.

  With Sergeant Gibson’s help, he spent the next two hours interviewing the dinner guests. They were—they claimed—appalled to a man to hear of Grayson’s death. They appeared to be cooperative and helpful. Grayson had no enemies. They were sure of it. He was a fine man, a fine geographer, an ornament to the Society. He had had a glorious career mapping Africa, and everyone had looked forward to his speech with great anticipation. The subject, Rutledge learned, dealt with the relationship of African tribes to the land they occupy and the difficulty of drawing modern boundaries that didn’t divide them into minorities in one nation and the majority in another. The title was “The Potential for Genocide Resulting from Improperly Drawn Frontiers.”

  Rutledge made a show of examining each man’s hands, but he had no real interest in them. The killer, after all, could have washed them in the cloakroom. But the cuffs he found intriguing. Not a speck of blood on any of them. What had been used to protect the wearer as each hand thrust a dagger into the body? As Rutledge took statements and searched for answers, he saw small clusters of guests questioning Willingham and Haldane, but both men invariably shook their heads in answer.

  It was well after midnight before Rutledge had questioned every man present, member or staff. Haldane had gone to oversee the removal of the body, and the guests were pressing to be allowed to leave. Willingham had been trying without success to set up a future dinner.

  Gibson, coming to stand beside him, said under his breath, “You’d think, sir, that the killer was invisible. In and out without a soul seeing him. Now, I’d not be surprised if this had been a magician’s convocation. But geographers?”

  It was then that Hamish spoke for the first time: “Search the room.”

  Rutledge frowned. He thought Gibson and his men had done just that while he was questioning the guests. He walked toward the head table, which had been cordoned off just as the announcement of Grayson’s death had been made. Two sturdy constables blocked access to it still.

  He searched the chairs closest to the speakers, looking under them, then concentrated on the remnants of pudding congealing on the plates. It was there that he found a small folded square of paper, just under Grayson’s dish. It read, simply, Did you taste the difference in your soup? You are a dead man.

  He was considering it and the handwriting when Haldane came up to him.

  “Strangest thing I ever saw, Rutledge. Dead man’s face is perfectly normal now.”

  “Are you sure?” He looked up from the message in his hand.

  “Damn it, man, I’m a doctor.”

  They went together to have a look. Grayson was lying on a stretcher in Reception, wrapped in a sheet, save for the head, and Rutledge could see that the doctor was absolutely right. Grayson’s face, pale in death, was no longer black.

  Africa. The soup. Rutledge turned to Haldane.

  “Are you quite certain those daggers killed him? Or was he poisoned, and the daggers merely a trick to confound the Yard?”

  “You can’t be serious!”

  “But I am. He must have realized he’d been poisoned and tried to rid himself of it. Poisoned with something for which there was no possible antidote. He must have seen it in his travels. He must have known what to expect. And on the menu, the soup was described as African.” Rutledge held out the note, so that only Haldane could see it.

  “But everyone drank the same soup.”

  “A good point. But he had only to believe he’d been poisoned for it to work.”

  Shocked, Dr. Haldane stared. Finally he said, “Of course, there’s the castor bean.
If one swallows it whole, the body’s system destroys any harmful effect, but if bitten into, it causes a very painful death. We were served a bean soup, after all.” He listed two or three other poisons, adding, “And that’s merely what I’ve learned. There must be a dozen—two—more that I don’t know. But dagger or poison, this man died by someone’s hand.”

  “So he did. Do you have a magnifying glass in your case? Good, give it to Sergeant Gibson. But before you do, see the stretcher out, and return to the dining room. Gibson, collect the guests there. The staff as well. Then guard the doors.”

  In five minutes’ time, Rutledge had his audience, still impatient, still demanding release, or standing ill at ease amongst the men they’d served.

  He regarded all of them for a moment, then reached into his pocket. He took out his handkerchief and made a show of carefully opening it up.

  “Mr. Grayson died at the hands of a killer. He is in this room now. But Mr. Grayson didn’t die quickly. He had time to leave us a clue to his murderer.”

  There was instant uproar. Rutledge waited until it had subsided.

  “In my hand I have this clue. Will the staff please move to the right side of the room. Yes, thank you. And the guests to the opposite side of the room.” There was grumbling, but it was done. “Thank you. Sergeant Gibson, will you please begin with the trouser legs of the staff, and examine them carefully, making note of what you may find there.”

  Gibson stared at him, then with two of his constables, he slowly walked down the line of nervous, frightened waiters, cooks, and other staff, writing in his book after each inspection. Finishing, he came forward to where Rutledge was standing. Leaning over he whispered, “What the hell was I looking for, sir? Sixteen have dogs, five own cats, and one keeps pigeons. Nine are gardeners, and one is very tidy.”

  Rutledge had been watching the room as a whole. “It doesn’t matter, Sergeant. Just take note of anything you see there.” And then for everyone to hear, “Now on the other side of the room, if you please.”

  Gibson went about his search with a poor grace, and was halfway down the line of watchful faces when the American, Thomas Meadowes, stepped forward.

  “The police clearly have no evidence of any sort. This is a charade intended to impress us with their abilities. Hands first, and now trousers. I for one am going to my hotel. I’m tired. Lord Willingham, your servant, sir.”

  And with a nod, he walked toward the door and demanded that the constable there let him through.

  A few others followed him, but the constable on duty never moved.

  Rutledge said in the voice he’d used to command soldiers, “You are going nowhere. Now move back to your place or you will be taken into custody for refusal to obey a police order.”

  Meadowes glared at him. “I will not.”

  “Sergeant Gibson, will you take out your glass and examine this man’s trouser legs, and tell me if you find the hair of a dog there.” He held out his handkerchief. “And if you do, will you please bring it to me for comparison.”

  Meadowes said, “Examine as you please. Dogs cause me to itch. I stay away from them.”

  Gibson knelt to do a very thorough examination. Rising, he said, “There is no dog hair on this man’s trousers.”

  Meadowes smiled coldly. “I have told you so. Now may I be allowed to leave? You will find your murderer elsewhere, I’m sure. He has nothing to do with me.”

  “Let him go, Constable,” Rutledge ordered, and Meadowes put his hand on the door.

  Before he could turn the knob, the waiter who had opened the Society’s door to Rutledge leapt away from the wall and cried, “I will not hang for you! He was already dead. I had only to plunge the daggers into his body, as you asked. I did worse in the war, and was paid for it. But never as well as this.”

  Meadowes turned on him. “I know nothing about you. I have never been in this building before, nor have I ever seen you before tonight.”

  “Yes, that’s the truth. So far as it goes.” The waiter reached into his pocket, clearly intending to take out the money he’d been paid, the only way to prove his claim.

  All other eyes were on him, while Rutledge was watching the room as a whole. And so he saw Meadowes bring out the small revolver, raise it, and fire.

  He shouted a warning, but the waiter must have seen the movement, too, for he dropped like a stone before the bullet could hit him. The constables and several of the guests were already wrestling Meadowes to the ground, where he fought and swore.

  The little revolver fired a second time, and one of the chandeliers made a tinkling sound. The struggling group of men, grunting and swearing, seesawed back and forth across the room. And then, without warning, it was over.

  As soon as the American was subdued, Willingham leaned over him and asked, “In the name of God, Meadowes, why did you kill him? I don’t understand.”

  “The book I’m writing. My observations in the field on the same subject. His paper would have put an end to it. My publisher was already asking questions about my work’s value in light of that damned speech. A cable this morning warned me.”

  “And do you have a dog?” Willingham turned to ask the waiter as Gibson cuffed the American and hauled him to his feet.

  “My sister has a little spaniel. I live with her. I have nowhere else to go.”

  A constable was preparing to put handcuffs on him.

  Rutledge shook his head. “He’s an ex-soldier. Treat him accordingly.” He folded his empty handkerchief and put it in his pocket.

  “The evening is not over, gentlemen. My sergeant and his men will be taking statements from each of you about what you just saw and heard. If you cooperate, it will go faster.” The geographers complained, but they had little choice.

  Willingham faced Rutledge. “How did you know?”

  “The handwriting on the note. It was an American’s. I didn’t know which one.” He showed it to him. The lettering was bolder, more open, than an Englishman’s would be. “He didn’t have time to retrieve it.”

  As the room settled into some sort of order, Rutledge walked away, into the meeting room. There he took a deep breath and listened to the silence.

  And then he heard Hamish say, “Do ye believe it was fear that killed yon geographer?”

  “The mind’s a strange thing. It can believe anything, if persuaded by enough fear or need. Or even guilt.”

  “Who are you talking to, sir?” Gibson asked, opening the room’s door.

  “No one, Sergeant.”

  But even as he said the words, Rutledge knew them to be a lie.

  THE BEST-LAID PLANS, by Barb Goffman

  It’s a good thing my fans couldn’t see me. Between my narrowed eyes, pursed lips, and burning cheeks, I probably looked like the killers I wrote about.

  My hands shook as I raised the newest copy of Mystery Queen Magazine back toward my face. I’d opened the glossy issue so happily just a few minutes ago. Sitting on my chintz loveseat, a cup of Darjeeling tea in hand, I’d eagerly begun reading the cover article about the future of the traditional mystery. I’m considered one of the grande dames of my profession, and I’d been thrilled when a Mystery Queen writer sought out my opinion a couple of months ago. I’d expected this resulting article to be the beginning of a wonderful month, culminating with the annual meeting of Malice International, one of the world’s most prestigious mystery conventions. It celebrates the traditional mystery no matter where on earth it’s set. And this year, they’re honoring me for my lifetime achievement.

  So imagine my surprise when I read this:

  “The traditional mystery is at a crossroads, with Malice International clearly trying to straddle both routes. Stalwart Eloise Nickel”—Stalwart? They might as well have called me an elderly hag—“represents the old guard of lighthearted mysteries focused on the warm setting and eccentric characters, what many
these days would call the cozy subset of the genre. Kimberly Siger, who will be Malice’s guest of honor this year, represents what some call a more modern type of mystery, with a darker mood, deeper characters, and plots that are edgier and more complex.”

  Son of a . . . Sure, plotting hadn’t ever been my strongest suit, but my readers were in it for the comforting small town, the characters who are like old friends, the clever puzzle. Who needs a complicated—or in Kimberly’s books, convoluted—plot? Or violence on the page? And since when did Kimberly write deeper characters than me? Just because they’re filled with angst they’re deeper? The nerve of that magazine.

  “‘Eloise and I represent both ends of the mystery spectrum,’” the article quoted Kimberly as saying. “‘She writes quiet mysteries. They’re cute. Cozy. I grew up reading Eloise’s soothing books, and I understand why her readers love them. But a growing number of readers, especially—to be honest—younger ones, often want to toss out their cup of tea and drink some high-octane java. That’s where my books come in.’”

  That bitch! My fingers curled into claws, eager to squeeze Kimberly’s pasty neck. Until now, I’d been eagerly anticipating the convention, trying not to focus on the fact that Kimberly would be the guest of honor. She was a user—something I’d learned firsthand twenty-five years ago, when I was a rising star in the industry and she had her first book out. We met at the bar at Bouchercon Philadelphia. She was micropublished. Her contract was lousy, but her writing showed promise, so I gave her tips and introduced her to a lot of important people. Kimberly used every bit of my help, gaining an agent and a new publisher before leeching onto bigger authors and dropping me like a bloody knife.

  Considering our past, I’d been less than delighted to learn we’d be sharing the limelight at Malice. But I’d been willing to do it because of the great honor the convention was bestowing upon me. But for Kimberly to effectively call me and my readers old and say my writing was out of date in Mystery Queen just weeks before the convention? This was war.