AHMM, November 2008

by Dell Magazine Authors

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  Laura Lippman is by far the most established of the three with ten Tess Monaghan novels to her credit, including Anthony and Shamus award winner In Big Trouble (1999), as well as stand-alone novels such as Every Secret Thing (2004) and short stories in several anthologies. The list of awards she has won includes all the other big names as well: Edgar, Agatha, Barry, and Nero Wolfe.

  Like Lippman herself, Tess started out as a newspaper reporter in Baltimore Blues(1997), stumbling into her first case and more or less stumbling through it as well. As Lippman wryly notes on her own web site, it was Tess's first case and her investigative skills did improve.

  Tess lands in her latest case, in Another Thing to Fall (Morrow, $24.95), by falling out of her scull while rowing the Patapsco River. The wake that dumps her in the water also strands her among the television crew shooting a scene for a promising new series, called Mann of Steel, set in Baltimore.

  The series, about a present day steelworker knocked back to 19th century Baltimore, features Johnny Tampa, a former teen star now gone somewhat to pot. His co-star is young actress Selene Waites, playing the part of famous Baltimore belle Betsy Patterson. But Waites unexpectedly became a hot property when she received a Golden Globe nomination for a film, and she has now become a problem child—willful, spoiled, and uncontrollable.

  The production has many problems but Tess's unlooked for arrival seems to offer a solution to one of the biggest facing executive producer Flip Tumulty. He hires Tess to babysit Selene when she is not on the set—a job that proves embarrassingly difficult. When problems escalate from glitches to murder, Tess has a larger role to play to catch a killer.

  Lippman is married to TV producer David Simon, creator of The Wire, and she displays an insider's detailed knowledge of the process of scripting and shooting a television series that adds considerably to the enjoyment of her latest mystery.

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  In addition to writing whodunits, Baltimore native Frederick Ramsay has taught at the University of Maryland School of Medicine and has been an Episcopal priest.

  Ramsay introduced Sheriff Ike Schwartz in 2004's Artscape, where the former federal agent took up residence in quiet Picketsville, VA, expecting to encounter nothing more serious than the occasional drunken spree or domestic dispute. Instead he had to deal with a major art theft at local Callend College. He also had to deal with college president Ruth Harris, an encounter that begins on rocky grounds and grows from grudging respect to budding romance.

  Ramsay has given himself plenty of engaging conflicts to explore and develop in his four-book series. Ike is a bit of an anomaly as a highly trained lawman in a provincial setting. And he's Jewish in a community where that is a rarity. At Callend College the gulf between town and the gown is considerable, though both the community and the college have more than their share of memorable characters—drawn by Ramsay with a delightful combination of affection and insight.

  In Stranger Room (Poisoned Pen Press, $24.95) Schwartz and Ramsay have hit their stride. Jonathan Lydell IV, scion of one of Picketsville's oldest and proudest families, has restored the family home—including the “stranger room,” a room separate from the rest of the house (for privacy) and designed to be rented out to passing travelers.

  When Lydell's lodger, out-of-towner Anton Grotz, is found murdered in the stranger room with the door locked from the inside, Sheriff Schwartz is faced with a real puzzler. More puzzling still is the similarity to another murder that took place in the same stranger room in 1864 and has become part of the area's legend.

  This good locked room puzzle is augmented by a slew of thorny relationships: aristocratic Lydell's relations with the plebes; the romance of Schwartz and Harris—frowned on by her staff and his constituents; and a potential shotgun marriage between Ruth's Callend College (an all-female school) and nearby Carter Union College, an all-male institution. Ramsay's sympathetic and credible handling of a diverse set of characters makes this series most enjoyable.

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  Ellen Crosby's Wine Country mysteries, The Merlot Murders (2006), The Chardonnay Charade (2007), and the latest, The Bordeaux Betrayal (Scribner, $25), are set at the Montgomery Estate Vineyards in the foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains of Virginia.

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  Filled with an insider's knowledge of wines and the wine industry, the novel also makes good use of American history. Crosby skillfully weaves the fate of a French wine bought by Thomas Jefferson on behalf of George Washington with the travels and travails that bring a surviving bottle of Bordeaux from the Margaux vineyard to a charity auction being held by Lucie Montgomery at her estate.

  The Washington wine, donated by Jack Greenfield, owner of Jeroboam's Fine Wines in nearby Middleburg, promises not only to be the highlight of the auction, but also to bring it national attention. The bottle attracts Valerie Beauvais, author of a book on Jefferson's European travels; Ryan Worth, wine critic for the Washington Tribune; and beautiful Nicole Martin, representing unknown but wealthy buyers.

  A murder, questions about the wine's provenance, vandalism on Lucie's estate, a gaggle of opponents of the annual “Goose Creek Hunt” (a traditional charity fox hunt that is more of a chase than a hunt), and Lucie's volatile relationships with her winemaker Quinn Santori and her neighbor, Mick Dunne, help fuel this mystery.

  Crosby has concocted a rare vintage that offers many subtle flavors of romance, scandal, passion, and violence. Add Lucie Montgomery to the growing list of women whose unusual occupations open the doors to murderous adventures.

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Fiction: THE WARCOOMBE WITCH by James Lincoln Warren

  I was last Wednesday Night at a Tavern in the City, among a Set of Men who call themselves the Lawyer's Club. You must know, Sir, this Club consists only of Attorneys.... They are so conscious that their Discourses ought to be kept secret, that they are very cautious of admitting any Person who is not of their Profession.... —The Spectator, No. 372, May 6, 1712

  Wednesday, April ye 15, 1750

  Theobald's Row, London.

  Attended the Club, much merry carousing with some very fine Oporto Wine. Sack, Brandy, & Ale also flowing. Thos.Larkins proposed a new Member, his Guest, one Jos: Ambury of Gray's Inn, aged perhaps fourty Years, stout and florid, cloathed a la Mode, scarlet sattin Coat & Breeches and estimable Perriwig, much admir'd. Must make Enquiration as to the Name of his Peruquier.

  Right Hon. Saml. Thrawley set up as Judge, pulling a Rug off the Floor and setting same about his Shoulders in the lieu of Robes, Sir Edm. Clevere standing for the Crown, and Mr. Temperance Easton full in his Cups thund'ring for the Defence, at which Larkins took the pet and a Quarrel almost not averted, but Easton yielded at last & said he should be Bailiff instead. Clear'd a space for the Dock, using a topsy versy Wash-Tub, and stood Ambury there, his face shiv'ring with Alarums & Terrors, not misdoubting us all fit for Bedlam.

  "Hear ye, hear ye, hear ye! All rise!” shouts Easton, not very steady on his Feet, stumbling and nearly landing on his Buttocks. “This Court of Oyer and Terminer of the Lawyer's Club be now in Session, D—n me for a poxy Whoreson if it an't. The Right Most Dishonourable"—much Cachinnation amongst the Fellow-ship at this fine Wit—"aye, Dishounorable, D—n his black Eyes, Judge Sam Bl—dy Thrawley, presiding."

  Easton bow'd and then sat down directly, not arising from his Bow first, putting his Head ‘twixt his Knees, methinks aswoon with a Surfeit of Drink. Not another Whimper from him for the nonce.

  "An it please My Lord,” says Sir Edm., “the Prisoner is accus'd of Treason Against Humanity, to wit that he doth conspire with divers unsavoury Fellows by committing the insalubrious & insidious Practice of Law, yea verily, as G-d is my Witness and Jesu my Saviour, that he himself is one of that vicious Band, an Initiate of that unholy Rite, videlicet, a Lawyer at the Bar."

  Much thumping on the Tables by those assembl'd and Cries of Shame! Sham
e!

  Larkins arose, ope'd his Mouth, more thumping and Cries of Sit down, D—n ye, Sit down! At which Larkins makes his Leg like a French dancing Master, afterward settling on his Chair.

  "What say you, Mr. Ambury?” bellows Thrawley. Somewhere procur'd him a black Kerchief, and it already a-perch his Head. “Be you Guilty, or Not Guilty?"

  Ambury stuttering. “I—I—"

  "I pronounce you Guilty!” shouts Thrawley, striking his Tankard agin the Table, Ale leaping forth and everywhere frothing as the Tide at Dover. Havock ensuing.

  "M'Lord,” cries Larkins leaping up from his Seat. Such Din as Caesar must have heard at Philippi. “M'Lord, prithee, what about the Jury?"

  "D—n'd inconvenient,” says he. “But very Well. Gentlemen of the Jury, have you reached a Verdict?"

  Vesuvius erupts. Pompeii and Herculaneum Lost. Expost- ulations: Guilty! Guilty! sounding like Artillery.

  Thrawley bangs his Tankard, it now quite empty, calling Order. When the Noise sufficiently abated, announces, “Mr. Joseph Ambury, you have been found Guilty of the Heinous and Unnatural Condition of being an Attorney-at-Law. Have ye anything to say before I pronounce Sentence?"

  Ambury again stuttering. “I—I—"

  "My Lord,” Larkins pleading. “He hath not yet recounted an Adventure."

  Hearty thumping from All present. Hear him! Hear him!

  Thrawley nods. “Mr. Ambury, before ye can be accepted as One of our Number, you must recount an Adventure at the Bar worthy of our Company. Ye may be seated. G-d's Balls, Larkins, get this poor Man a Drink."

  Ambury at Table among us at last, jovial and thirsty. Many Calls for his Adventure.

  "An Adventure? Zooks but I have one. I once litigated the Trial of a Witch, at the Devonshire Assizes,” says he, jolly as you might please & grinning like a Halfwit.

  The Moment before Creation was never so quiet as the Club on hearing that.

  Yet Somnus now beckons with sweet Caress, it being nigh Three of the Clock. First the Necessary-stool, & thence to Bed.

  Sunday, April ye 19, 1750

  Theobald's Row, London.

  Attended Mattins, suff'ring Torture from the Head-ache & my Belly still much unsettled from th'immodest Bibulation of Wine erstwhiles at Black's, but nevertheless took the Eucharist with Christian Humility & good Faith & sang the Hymns. Penelope wroth as Satan & raucous as a Legion of Rooks on the Wing, descrying me filthy Drunkard, digusting Debauch, foul Sot, Vile Inebriate, Blockhead, Ninny, & unworthy Husband. The Servants Stygian silent & still.

  Retreated to the Library, thus making good Escape, to record Mr. Ambury, his Speech concerning the Witch Trial, this Wednesday past.

  To continue:

  "But Mr. Ambury,” Thrawley says, “there hasn't been a Trial for Witchcraft in England these two score Year, stap me. Not in this enlighten'd Age. And ye be far too young."

  "Fie, don't flatter me so, thank ‘e. ‘Twas not so long ago as that: the Summer of the year Seventeen hundred & thirty-six,” Ambury replies.

  "I have not heard of this Trial,” says Sir Edm..

  "Nor I,” confessed I.

  "Aye, and there is Reason for it,” says Ambury, “which I shall endeavour to explain, if you will be but patient."

  Mr. Ambury began by telling us that far from being concern'd with criminous Acts, his peculiar Practice in the Law generally concerned Property & Chattels, &c., and having attained some modest Renown in these Matters in the West, his Services there not infrequently in Demand.

  "There had arisen, over the course of many Years,” saith he, “a Dispute over the Borders between the Estates of two Gentlemen of Devonshire, in the bleak and forbidding Exmoor, which, coming to a Head, was scheduled to be litigated, and not for the first Time, at the Summer Assizes in Exeter. This Dispute was of a deeply personal Nature, where Victory would satisfy Pride without other Advantage, for the Land was scarcely capable of supporting fruitful Tillage. This was a Litigation fuelled only by the profound Loathing each Gentleman felt in the depth of his Soul for the Other's, an eternal Struggle, the Wrestlings of an Hercules versus an Antaeus—in short, a veritable Sinecure for a Lawyer, that Species of Case that Dreams are made on.

  "The Litigants we may call Squire George V. and Sir Hugo B., but out of Respect for their Families—"

  "And to avoid Prosecution for Slander, I don't misdoubt,” mutters someone, methinks Easton, recover'd from his Sopor.

  "—I shall withhold their Surnames. Now, I was to stand for Squire George, whilst my Learned Colleague, Mr. Sneare of Lincoln's Inn—” ("Aha!” exclaims Tom Larkins, “a Scoundrel!") “—was to represent Sir Hugo.

  "A Village straddled a rude Road dividing their Estates—with Half of the Village on Squire George's Land, as it were, whilst the other Half lay on Sir Hugo's. The Village is called Warcoombe, and was at the very Centre of the Combat.

  "On the Edge of this Hamlet, on the Squire's side, there lived an ancient Crone named Jane Thornwold, who had some local Infamy as a Cunning-woman. She dwelt alone, except for a Family of tame Crowes, a nastie grey tabbie Cat, and an abominable brindled Mastiff, in a decrepit Hovel, that had during the previous Century been a fine Cottage, but was now blackened with Soot and Age, and had long since fallen into Ruin.

  "Her History was that in the Days of Charles II she had been a magnificent Beauty, tall as a Yew, with billowing black Hair like an April Thundercloud, and shining Eyes that verily flashed with Lightning,” Ambury told us, with a fine Ear for Poesy. “It was said she had caught the Eye of no less a Voluptuary than the Earl of Rochester himself—or mayhaps bewitched him, for even then, she was said to possess uncanny Powers."

  "Errant Nonsense, sirrah. Plain Ignorance and country Super- stition,” scoffs Sir Edm. “A handsome Wench needs not Magick to entrance her a lusty Buck, what? And Rochester as notorious a Rake-hell as ever was."

  "And yet she was known from her Youth to visit the Moor of a moonless Night, gathering Herbs wherewith to concoct subtle Philtres and love Charms, to be sold to those local Womenfolk uncertain in the Affections of their Husbands or Beaux, and also for other less salubrious Enchantments. It was said she was seen comporting with a dark Stranger in the Mist, handsome as Apollo, sometimes manifested in the guise of a black long-toothed Tyke, taken for none other than Old Nick himself, and that she verily danced with him to the eldritch Musick of croaking Toads, until encroaching Dawn banished her Infernal Lover from the Earth,” says Ambury. “This, at least, was her weird Reputation ‘mongst her Neighbours."

  "Why, didn't you already say the accused Witch had such a Dog?” asks Thrawley. “A living Dog, a real Dog?"

  "Indeed she had, and little Sympathy did it provide her, for it was such a ferocious Beast that it suffer'd no Person so much as to touch it, but its Mistress. Such Brutes are not welcome in that Valley, Mr. Thrawley. You see, there is a local Legend recounting that Sir Hugo's Family suffer'd under a Curse, the Consequence of a Rape committed by Sir Hugo's great grandfather, who was himself named Hugo, during the Great Rebellion. The Form of this Curse was a spectral Hound, the Appearance of which is said to presage the Death of a Member of Sir Hugo's Family."

  Sir Edm.: “And now infernal Curs, ancestral Curses, and dancing D—ls! ‘Twill be Changelings, Piskies, and Fairies anon."

  "I will get to the Evidence of Magick presently, sir. But to return to Jane Thornwold and her Circumstances: as I mentioned, Squire George was her Landlord, but he rarely so much as acknowledged her Existence, could he avoid same, her Tenancy having been guaranteed by his own Father, in return for a Nosegay rent, paid every Spring, which Obligation she assiduously discharged."

  "And I'll wager that's not all the old Spark got from her,” mutters Easton. “She being a Beauty, hey? Flowers for Rent, forsooth.” A Snort.

  "As to that, neither do I care,” says Ambury, him somewhat haughty, “it having no Relevance to subsequent Events: the Point I was making is that in no wise had Squire George any Interest in Jane Thornwold's Live
lihood, of which, as Testimony reveal'd, the greatest Part consisted of Remuneration for such Items as aforementioned, viz., Philtres and love Charms and suchlike. Therefore, in no Manner whatsoever could he be held liable for her Deeds.

  "I am happy to Report that in the suit of Law between the Squire and the Baronet, I prevail'd, I might perhaps say triumph'd utterly, in the Squire's Interest, and Sir Hugo's Claims were thoroughly dash'd and utterly confounded, for that Year at the least. But whilst this Result was very pleasant to me and my Client, in the Sequel it had a less salutary Effect upon the Temper of Sir Hugo, who, in a fit of enormous Pique, publicly imputed that Squire George purposely and habitually persecuted Sir Hugo's Warcoombe Tenants—through the Necromantical Agency of Squire George's Tenant, this same cunning Woman Jane Thorn- wold. Which Asseveration was most ridiculous, but, as you might expect, nevertheless goaded Squire George into bringing Accusations of Slander agin Sir Hugo.

  "Never one to mutely suffer such a Salvo, Sir Hugo therewith directly charg'd Jane Thornwold with practising Witchcraft, in Accordance with the Witchcraft Act of 1604. It was his Con- tention that should Jane be proved a Witch, Sir Hugo should not himself be guilty of Slander, for to tolerate a Witch to live violates Scripture, and as Squire George had tolerated her, this was tantamount to encouraging Witchcraft."

  "Vile Sophistry of the most convoluted,” says Sir Edm., frowning.

  "The worthy Judge must have been nigh apoplectic at such Pettifoggery,” quoth Larkins.

  "Indeed he was, and such an Obloquy as he deliver'd from the Bench I have never heard, but Sir Hugo, being of a most superstitious Constitution, insisted on his Rights,” said Ambury. “For there was a Rumour, whether true or no I cannot say, to the Effect that the Curse of the Spectral Hound heretofore mention'd, had been laid upon his family by one of Jane Thornwold's Progenitors in the female line, either her Mother or else her Granddam—the mystical Art having been passed down from Mother to Daughter over the Generations, you understand. No, no—Sir Hugo would ne'er be gainsaid.