“Again?” Michael said. “I don’t think so.”
“Why not?” I said. “The symptoms were similar.”
Michael gave me the sort of look you get from a dentist when you insist you brush after every meal.
Then Luke said, “I must admit, my confidence is shaken. I’ve never come across a viral condition quite like this. In fact, I’m thinking I should report it to the Department of Health in case it’s a new strain.”
“Before you do,” Michael said, “Let’s consider the other option – that he was poisoned.”
I raised my hand to dissuade him. “Michael, you and I went over this before. Speculation such as that will damage our community.”
“It’s damaged already,” he said. “Aren’t two violent deaths in six months serious damage? I was silent before, at your suggestion, but this has altered everything. We know for a fact that a poisonous substance is stored here.”
“What’s that?” Barry said.
“Orpiment. The pigment Vincent uses is two-thirds pure arsenic.”
“Vincent?”
All eyes turned to our scribe.
Michael added, “It doesn’t mean Vincent administered the stuff. Any one of us could have collected some from his studio or my shelves. I don’t keep the store locked.”
“And used it to murder Ambrose and Arnold? That’s unthinkable,” Barry said.
“Well, maybe you can think of some other way it got added to the curry you serve,” Michael said, well aware how the words would wound Barry. He wasn’t blessed with much tact.
While Barry struggled with that, Luke asked, “What possible reason could anyone have for murdering Father Arnold?”
“Come on,” Michael said. “Just like Ambrose, he was about to uproot us. None of us wants to see out his days on a lump of rock in the Atlantic Ocean.”
“So there was motive, means and opportunity, the three preconditions for murder.” A look of profound relief dawned on Luke’s features. As our physician, he was no longer personally responsible for failing to contain a deadly virus. “You must be right. I’m beginning to think we can deal with this among ourselves.”
“What – a double murder?” Michael piped up in disbelief.
“We don’t want a police investigation and the press all over us.”
I added in support, “They’ll want to dig up Father Ambrose for sure. Let him rest in peace.”
Barry agreed. “No one wants that.”
Michael, in a minority of one, was horrified. “We’d be shielding a killer. We’re men of God.”
“And He is our Judge,” Luke said. “If we are making a mistake, He will tell us. Shall we say a prayer?”
This was the moment when we all became aware that Luke, as the senior monk, was the obvious choice to be elected our new Father Superior. Even Michael bit his lip and bowed his head.
I dug another grave and we buried poor Father Arnold with the others at the edge of the meadow next morning. None of us asked what Luke had written on the death certificate. He was now our spiritual leader and it wasn’t appropriate to enquire. I constructed the cross and positioned it at the head of the grave.
The lighthouse wasn’t mentioned again. Father Luke had more sense. He wasn’t quite as paternalistic as some of his predecessors. He believed in consulting us as well as the Lord and we left him in no doubt that we wanted to remain where we were, in our beloved monastery in the heart of London. Life returned to normal. I managed my meadow and kept the graves tidy. Vincent worked on his psalter. Barry kept us fed. Michael ran the store with efficiency and ordered our supplies online.
It came as a surprise to me one afternoon in January when I was in my shed wrapped in a quilt, indulging in my post-prandial contemplation, to be disturbed by a rapping at the door. Michael was there, hood up, arms folded, looking anything but fraternal.
“Is something up?” I asked, rubbing my eyes.
“You could put it that way,” he said. “The Father Superior wants to see you in his office.”
“Now?”
“He’s waiting.”
The office was in the attic at the top of our building. Michael escorted me and said not another word as we went up the three flights of stairs.
Father Luke’s door stood open. He really was waiting, seated behind his desk, hands clasped, but more in an attitude of power than prayer. “Come in, both of you,” he said.
There wasn’t room for chairs, so we stood like schoolboys up before the head.
“This won’t be easy,” Father Luke said. “It’s about the deaths of Father Ambrose and Father Alfred. Michael has informed me, Jeffrey, that he spoke to you after Ambrose died, about the possibility that he was poisoned with arsenic.”
I said, “I think we all agree that he was.”
Michael said, “But at the time you told me to keep my suspicions to myself.”
Now I understood what this was about: a blame session. I’d never felt comfortable with Michael, but I hadn’t taken him for a sneak. “That’s true,” I said. “It was the first time anyone had suggested such a thing and it was certain to cause friction and alarm in our community.”
“Go on,” Father Luke said to Michael. “Tell Jeffrey what you told me.”
Michael seemed to be driving this and enjoying it, too. “When I took over as procurer, I gained access to the computer and this enabled me to confirm my theory about the orpiment. It is, indeed, a pigment made of sulphide of arsenic that was used by monks in medieval and Renaissance times to illuminate manuscripts.”
I couldn’t resist saying, “Clever old you!”
Father Luke raised his hand. “Listen to this, Jeffrey.”
Michael went on, “However, when I searched the internet for information about the effects of acute arsenic poisoning, some of the symptoms Father Luke reported didn’t seem to fit. Typically, there’s burning in the mouth and severe gastroenteritis, vomiting and diarrhoea – all of which were present – but the second phase of symptoms, the prickling of the skin and visual impairment, the signs of paralysis in the face and body, aren’t associated with arsenic.”
Father Luke said, “Symptoms very evident in Ambrose and Arnold.” Michael said, “It made me ask myself if some other poison had been used, something that induces paralysis. I made another search and was
directed away from mineral poisons to poisonous plants.” I was silent. Already I could see where this was going.
“And eventually,” Michael continued in his self-congratulatory way, “I settled on a tall, elegant, purple plant known, rather unkindly, as monkshood, the source of the poison aconite. Every part from leaf to root is deadly. After the first violent effects of gastroenteritis, a numbing effect spreads through the body, producing a feeling of extreme cold, and paralysis sets in. The breathing quickens and then slows dramatically and all the time the victim is in severe pain, but conscious to the end.”
“Precisely what I observed,” Luke said, “and twice over.”
“This proved nothing without the presence of aconite in the monastery,” Michael said. “There are photos and diagrams of the monkshood plant on the internet, so I knew what to look for and where best to search. It prefers shady, moist places. I spent several afternoons while you were taking your nap and checked along the edges of the meadow where the water drains, close to the wall. Of course you hacked the tall stems down, so the plants weren’t easy to locate, but eventually I found your little crop. The spiky, hand-shaped leaves are very distinctive. Some of the ripe follicles still contained seeds. Are you going to admit to using it, adding it to the curry?”
Father Luke said, “The Lord is listening, Jeffrey.”
I didn’t hesitate long. I’m not a good liar. I hope I’m not a liar at all. If you read this account of what happened, you’ll see that I always spoke the truth, even if I didn’t always volunteer it. “Yes,” I said. “I used some root, chopped small. I made sure I was sitting beside our Father Superior when he spoke the grace. Then I sp
rinkled the bits over the curry. I couldn’t face life without my beautiful meadow.”
“So you took the lives of two good men,” Michael said to shame me.
Our Father Superior shook his head sadly. “Now I’ll have to notify the police.”
I said, “I’ll save you the trouble.” I walked to the window, unfastened it and started to climb out.
“No, Jeffrey!” Father Luke shouted to me. “That’s a mortal sin.” But he was too slow to stop me.
I was indifferent to his plea. I’d already committed one of the mortal sins twice over. Here on the roof I was at least fifty feet above ground. Below me was a paved area. When I jumped, I was unlikely to survive. If I had the courage to dive, I would surely succeed in killing myself.
With my feet on the steep-pitched tiles, I edged around the dormer to a place where no one could lean out and grab me. Then I climbed higher, intending to launch myself off the gable end.
Father Luke was at the open window, shouting that this wasn’t the way, but I begged to differ.
Up there under an azure sky, on the highest point of the roof, I was treated to a bird’s-eye view of my meadow, and if it was the last thing I ever saw I would be content. Glittering from the overnight frost, the patterns of my August cut were clearly visible like fish scales, revealing a beauty I hadn’t ever observed from ground level. This, I thought, is worth dying for.
I reached the gable end and sat astride the ridge without much dignity, collecting my breath and getting up courage. A controlled dive would definitely be best. I needed to stand with my arms above my head and pitch forward.
I grasped the lightning conductor at the end and raised myself to a standing position.
And then I heard a voice saying, “Jeffrey, don’t do it.”
For a moment, teetering there on the rooftop, I thought the Lord had spoken to me. Then I realised the voice had not come from above. It was from way below, on the ground. Brother Barry was standing in the vegetable patch with his hands cupped to his mouth.
I called back to him. “I’m a wicked sinner, a double murderer.”
“That’s not good,” he called back, “but killing yourself will only
make things worse.”
I told Barry, “I don’t want to live. The police are coming and I can’t bear to be parted from my meadow.”
He shouted, “You’ll get a life sentence. It’s not as bad as you think, believe me. You’ll share a cell with someone, but what’s different about that? The food is better, even if I say it myself. And with good behaviour you’ll be sent to a Category C prison where they’ll be really glad of your gardening experience.”
I was wavering. “Do you think so?”
“I know it.”
What a brother he was to me. I’d never considered the prison option, but Barry had personal experience of it. And he was right. I could pay my debt to society and make myself useful as well. Persuaded, I bent my knees, felt for the lightning conductor and began to climb down.
In the prison where I have been writing this account of my experiences, I am proud of my “trusty” status. Barry was right. I can still lead the spiritual life and I always remember him in my prayers. The governor has put me in charge of the vegetable garden and I have persuaded him to allow me a wildflower section. No monkshood or other poisonous plants, of course. But by May we’ll have an explosion … of colour. And I built my own toolshed. Every afternoon I go in for an hour or so. Even the governor knows better than to disturb me when I’m contemplating.
THE CHATELAINE BAG
by Bill Pronzini and Marcia Muller
We’re fortunate to have known Doug and Sandi for more than twenty-five years. In addition to enjoying their company at various conventions, we’ve exchanged scores of emails with Doug on a variety of topics, and added numerous volumes to each of our respective libraries of vintage crime fiction. We couldn’t ask for more engaging and supportive friends in the writing and publishing community.
As he has done for so many others, Doug honored and showcased several of our contributions to the mystery/detective short-story pantheon. We’re proud to have had ten volumes published by Crippen & Landru from 1996 to 2010: two collections of Sharon McCone stories by Marcia, three collections of Bill’s stories (one in partnership with Barry Malzberg), and five “Lost Classics” edited by Bill.
“The Chatelaine Bag” was our first Carpenter & Quincannon collaboration; all of the previous C&Q stories were written by Bill alone, most of them collected in Carpenter and Quincannon, Professional Detective Services (C&L, 1998). “Chatelaine” was an experiment to determine how well we could work together on the series – plotted jointly, with Marcia writing the scenes from Sabina’s viewpoint, Bill those from Quincannon’s. Satisfied with how the story turned out, we continued the C&Q collaborations in novel form, five having been published by Tor/Forge. Doug’s enthusiasm for the series was also a contributing factor in our decision.
Handbags . Reticules. Bah!
Perhaps he was “a man of low tastes,” as Sabina had accused him of being, but the appeal of such fancy antique gewgaws escaped him. He could understand why well-to-do women from Rincon Hill and Nob Hill might find Reticules Through the Ages of some interest. A certain type of thief, too, given the declared value of the exhibition’s centerpiece, a bejeweled chatelaine bag that had once belonged to Marie Antionette; the remote possibility of theft was the reason he and Sabina had been hired to protect the confounded collection. But men in general? Why would a respectable gent worth the name give two hoots about carryalls that had belonged to ladies a hundred and two hundred years ago? And yet, fully one-third of the visitors to the Rayburn Art Gallery over the past two days had been men. Some dragged there by their wives, no doubt, but the rest were a puzzle he had no interest in solving.
From his vantage point between the front entrance and the wine and liquor buffet, Quincannon again scanned the dwindling crowd before the long exhibit table at the inner wall. It was nearly seven o’clock of a dark February night—closing time for this second day of the three-day exhibition. Electric light from old gasoliers fitted with incandescent bulbs made the large room bright as day and his observations that much easier.
The only familiar faces other than Sabina’s belonged to Marcel LeBeaux, assistant curator of the Louvre Museum in Paris, the man in charge of the collection and their client; Andrew Rayburn, the gallery owner; and his two clerks, Holloway and Eldridge. Quincannon had recognized only a few visitors since yesterday’s opening, none of those suspicious. Every professional thief, yegg, and miscreant in San Francisco and environs was known to him and none had dared show his or her face. Not that this was a surprise. Any Barbary Coast or East Bay scruff caught snaffling reticules, even one bristling with small diamonds and rubies, would be the butt of jokes by his fellows for the rest of his days.
Besides which, what chance did even the cleverest of them have of managing such a swipe? The exhibition was well watched by Sabina and himself, as well as by Rayburn and the two clerks, during the hours it was open; and after closing, LeBeaux and Rayburn carefully locked the collection away in the gallery vault, which was not only as close to being burglarproof as any manufactured safe but was under guard by an armed night watchman.
Day watchmen were what he and Sabina were. Necessary, he supposed, but nonetheless mere window dressing. The job paid moderately well and Carpenter and Quincannon, Professional Detective Services, was otherwise between clients, but by Godfrey it offered no challenge whatsoever to a sleuth of John Quincannon’s considerable talents. Dull, stand-about work of the sort any average or even subaverage fly cop could handle.
Sabina felt differently, of course. The two dozen or so ancient items on display fascinated her, by her own admission, and she seemed to find guard duty in a Post Street gallery stimulating because it allowed her to mingle with some of the city’s elite. Women. Marvelous creatures, but he would never understand them. Sabina was a constant mystery to him. So was h
er infuriating and inexplicable refusal to have anything to do with him of a romantic nature, despite his persistance and what he considered to be honorable intentions.
Quincannon looked across at where she was standing next to the food buffet. If you could call cheese, crackers, nuts, skewered pieces of fruit, and strange-looking canapés food. She wore a Nile green embroidered silk frock that accented her handsome figure; the rather large, plain handbag she carried had a .22-caliber pistol tucked inside. He sighed and fluffed his freebooter’s beard. He wouldn’t have admitted it, but he was feeling a touch sorry for himself and not a little jealous of the smiles she kept bestowing on the well-dressed gents who stopped to speak to her.The person her smile was favoring at the moment was a corpulent middle-aged man whose expression—at least to Quincannon’s jaundiced eye—was one of ill-concealed lust.
Reticules Through the Ages. Bah and double bah!
Sabina
Sabina smiled at a man whose large corporation strained the buttons of his lacy white shirt. That one’s never missed a meal, she thought— words her late mother had been prone to utter in embarrassingly loud tones. And every one of those meals seemed to have expanded his stomach while leaving the rest of him of more or less normal size. Then she chided herself for being unkind. After all, the man had yet to partake of the buffet since his arrival a few minutes earlier. Perhaps he was on a diet.
Nonetheless, smiling in return, he chose to compliment the table. “A sumptuous buffet, is it not?”
“Very nice.”
The corpulent man persisted. “Allow me to introduce myself: Thaddeus Bakker, of the Sacramento Bakkers. Perhaps you’ve heard of me?”
“Of course,” she said, although she had not. “Sabina Carpenter.”
“A most excellent exhibit, too,” he added.
“Yes. Are you a connoisseur, Mr. Bakker?”
“Of handbags and reticules? No, no, merely an art lover and a student of history in all its forms. And you, Miss Carpenter? A connoisseur?”
Silver Bullets Page 17
