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The Best British
Mysteries 3
Edited By Maxim Jakubowski
Scanned & Proofed By MadMaxAU
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Contents
Introduction
Anne Perry A TALE OF ONE CITY
Val McDermid FOUR CALLING BIRDS
Marilyn Todd THOROUGHLY MODERN MILLINERY
Christopher Fowler THE LADY DOWNSTAIRS
Keith Miles OLD BAG DAD
John Mortimer RUMPOLE AND THE CHRISTMAS BREAK
Judith Cutler LIVING WITH THE GILT
Peter Lovesey WINDOW OF OPPORTUNITY
Barbara Cleverly LOVE-LIES-BLEEDING
John Connolly THE INKPOT MONKEY
Peter Tremayne THE BANSHEE
Ken Bruen FADE TO...BROOKLYN
H.R.F. Keating BRAVE NEW MURDER
John Harvey DRUMMER UNKNOWN
Kim Newman A SHAMBLES IN BELGRAVIA
Adrian Magson PROCEDURE
Amy Myers MURDER, THE MISSING HEIR AND THE BOILED EGG
Peter Turnbull MAX WINNER’S SHADOW
Alanna Knight FARO AND THE BOGUS INSPECTOR
Robert Barnard THE HANGMAN’S BEAUTIFUL DAUGHTER
Ian Morson THE MOVING-PICTURE MYSTERY
Michael Z. Lewin CIGARETTES
Jon Courtenay Grimwood THE SPY’S RETIREMENT
Margaret Murphy FALSE LIGHT
Gillian Linscott THE DAY OF TWO CARS
Mark Billingham STROKE OF LUCK
Jake Arnott TEN LORDS A-LEAPING
Martin Edwards THE HOUSE OF THE RED CANDLE
Peter Robinson THE MAGIC OF YOUR TOUCH
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Introduction
Welcome to the third instalment in our annual collection regrouping the best mystery short stories penned by British authors during the course of the preceding calendar year. Yet again, it has proven a sterling twelve months with an embarrassment of riches to be found in magazines, books, radio and other sometimes unlikely places. Evidence renewed that in Britain crime still does pay, in subtle if metaphorical and fictional ways!
It has also been a year when historical crime fiction has proven increasingly popular with a score of excellent anthologies published in Britain and the USA set in the past, together with a bunch of most ingenious new Sherlock Holmes tales commissioned by BBC Radio and later made available on their website (bbc.co.uk), of which three have made the cut and are offered for the first time in book form here; all three have amusingly been authored by writers whose roots lie more in the horror or science fiction field but who have all mastered the mystery genre and its often attendant ironies with particular bravura.
We have tales of dastardly deeds, ingenious puzzles and bloodthirsty murder and intrigue by authors famous for their bounty of past awards as well as newer talents now making a name for themselves in our field. I’m particularly pleased to be featuring the first ever short story by Jake Arnott, author of the powerful novel The Long Firm, which became one of last year’s most prominent and well-reviewed television series. Other newcomers to the series include Irish author Ken Bruen, who is making quite some waves in the USA, John Connolly, creator of the dark and atmospheric Charlie Parker series and a favourite on both shores of the Atlantic, first-time novelist Adrian Magson, Margaret Murphy, a rare short story by Barbara Cleverly, Peter Tremayne, Ian Morson, and many others. And, should any of you question the inclusion of the witty Michael Z. Lewin in our collection, I would respectfully point out that though born in the USA, he has now lived in the UK for decades and actually has dual nationality, so there...
Staple favorites like Mark Billingham, John Mortimer, H.R.F. Keating, John Harvey, Peter Robinson, Val McDermid, Anne Perry, Amy Myers, Diamond Dagger winner Robert Barnard, Keith Miles (also known as Edward Marston), Judith Cutler, Peter Turnbull and Martin Edwards also make welcome returns to the series.
So, all in all, I think a potent cocktail and a sometimes deadly brew, with tales to enchant, puzzle, and scare, and hours of rewarding reading for anyone who enjoys a good tale of crime and mystery featuring unpredictable twists, memorable characters and, as ever, excellent writing and atmosphere to spare.
Welcome aboard; your annual mystery cruise begins here, and from the safety of your armchair enjoy these journeys in murky, troubled waters.
Maxim Jakubowski
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Anne Perry
A Tale of One City
Sydney Carton sat alone at a table near the door of the Café Procope, staring at the dregs of the red wine in his glass. He did his best to ignore the voices shouting, laughing, swearing around him in the suffocating heat. It was the seventh of July, 1793, and Paris was a city oppressed by hunger and fear. In January the Convention had sent the strangely dignified figure of Louis XVI to the guillotine. Predictably, by February France was not only at war with Austria and Belgium, but with England as well.
In the Place de la Révolution the scarlet-stained blade rose and fell every day, and tumbrels full of all manner of people, men and women, old and young, rich and poor, rattled over the cobbles on their last journey. The streets smelled of refuse piled high and rotting in the heat. Fear was in the air, sharp like sweat, and people along the Rue St Honoré complained because the streets stank of blood. You could not drive cattle down them any more because the stench terrified them and they stamped out of control, mowing down passersby and crashing into house and shop windows.
All that Carton cared about was Dr Manette’s daughter Lucie, whose husband was locked up in the prison of La Force, with no hope of escape. Carton would have done anything he could to ease her distress, but he was utterly helpless.
The café door was wide open to let in a little air, and he did not notice anyone coming or going until a small man with tousled hair and a cheeky, lopsided face sank into the chair opposite him, having ordered wine from Citizen Procope as he passed.
‘At least there’s still wine, even if there’s no bread,’ he said with a grunt. ‘Do you know what they’re charging for a loaf now?’ he demanded Carton’s attention. ‘Three sous! Twelve sous for four pounds! That’s more than a carpenter earns in a day, and twice a week’s rent. And the laundresses down at the river are creating hell because there’s no soap! Never mind a Committee of Public Safety! What’s the point of being safe if the sides of your belly are sticking together?’
‘I’d keep a still tongue in your head, if I were you, Jean-Jacques,’ Carton replied dryly. ‘If you criticise the good citizens of the Committee, your belly’ll think your throat has been cut, and likely it’ll be right!’
Jean-Jacques’s wine came; he thanked Citizen Procope and handed him five sous. He sniffed the bottle and pulled a face. ‘Not bad,’ he observed. ‘Want some?’
Carton never refused wine. ‘Thank you.’ He held out his glass.
Jean-Jacques filled it generously. ‘You know my sister?’
‘Amélie?’
‘No, no! Amélie’s a good woman, she never does anything except what she’s told. Marie-Claire.’ He drank half of his glass. ‘I wish I had some decent cheese to go with this.’
Carton liked Jean-Jacques. There was a good humour about him, an optimism, misplaced as it was, that lifted the spirits. He was pleasant company.
‘What about Marie-Claire?’ he asked, to be civil. He did not care in the slightest. To tell the truth there was very little he did care about. He had no belief in himself, nor any in justice or the goodness of life. Experience in London as a lawyer had proved his skill, but it had not always led to victory, acquittal of the innocent, or punishment of th
e guilty.
Jean-Jacques leaned forward over the table, his round eyes bright, his face alive with suppressed excitement. ‘She has a plan,’ he said softly. ‘To get a whole crateful of cheeses, and not just any cheeses, but perfectly exquisite, ripe Camembert! And a side of bacon!’
In spite of himself Carton’s imagination was caught. Even the bare words conjured up the fragrance of rich, delicate flavour, food that satisfied, that filled the nose and lay on the tongue, instead of the rough bread and stew with barely any meat in it that had become the common fare. Even though these days one was glad enough to have more than a spoonful or two of that. ‘What sort of a plan?’ he said dubiously. Marie-Claire was an erratic creature. Younger than Jean-Jacques, probably not more than twenty-two or three, small like him, with wide brown eyes and wild hair that curled just as hectically as his, only on her it was pretty. She had been one of the women who had marched on the palace at Versailles demanding food and justice in the early days of the Revolution when the king was still alive - fruitlessly, of course. The king had listened to everybody, and then done whatever he was told by the last person to speak to him, which was always some minister who did not listen at all.
Jean-Jacques was still smiling. His teeth were crooked, but they were very white. ‘There is a particularly large and greedy fellow called Philippe Duclos on the local committee,’ he replied. ‘The man with the cheese, whose name I don’t know, has hidden them so well no one knows where they are, except that they are somewhere in his house, of course. Marie-Claire is going to use Philippe to put his men there, so that the good citizen can no longer get to his cheese in secret.’ He smiled even more widely. ‘Only he is, of course, going to warn Citizen “Cheese” beforehand, so he will have the chance to move them. Then...’ He clapped his hands together sharply and made a fist of the right one. ‘We have them!’ he said with triumph. ‘Half for Philippe, half for Marie-Claire. She will eat some, and sell some, which I will buy.’ He opened his hands wide in a generous, expansive gesture, and his irregular face was alight with pleasure. ‘In two days’ time we shall dine on fresh bread. I have some decent wine, not this rubbish, and ripe Camembert! How is that, my friend?’
‘Unlikely,’ Carton replied ruefully, but he did smile back.
‘You are a misery!’ Jean-Jacques chided, shaking his head. ‘Are all Englishmen like you? It must be your climate: it rains every day and you come to expect it.’
‘It doesn’t rain in London any more than it rains in Paris,’ Carton answered him. ‘It’s me.’ It was a confession of truth. His general cynicism stretched beyond his own lack of worth to include everyone else.
‘Cheese,’ Jean-Jacques said simply. ‘And more wine. That must make you feel better!’ He reached for the bottle and poured more for both of them. Carton accepted with a moment of real gratitude, not so much for the wine as for the friendship. He thought the plan was doomed to failure, but it would be pointless to say so.
* * * *
Carton deliberately put the cheese out of his mind. Even in Paris torn apart by the violence of revolution and sweating with fear, it was necessary to earn a living. He could seldom practise his usual profession of law, but he had a superb gift of words, even in French, which was not his own language, and Paris was awash with newspapers, pamphlets, and other publications. There was the highly popular, scurrilous Père Duchesne edited by the foul-mouthed ex-priest Hébert, which slandered just about everyone, but most particularly the Citizeness Capet, as Queen Marie Antoinette was now known. The latest suggestion was that she had an unnatural relationship with her own son, who in the normal course of events would now have become Louis XVII.
And of course there was L’Ami du Peuple, edited by that extraordinary man, Jean-Paul Marat, who liked to be known as ‘The Rage of the People’. Someone had had the audacity, and the lunacy, to haul him up before the Revolutionary Tribunal in April. He had stormed in, filthy and in rags as usual, carrying the stench of his disease with him. The whole body of them had quailed before him, terrified, and he had been carried out shoulder-high in triumph. There was now no stopping him. The Paris Commune was his creature, to a man.
Carton always took good care to avoid him. Even though Marat lived here in the Cordeliers District, as did most of the revolutionary leaders, it was possible to stay out of his way. Instead Carton wrote for small, relatively innocuous publications, and earned sufficient to get by.
So it was that two days later on July 9 he sat in the Café Procope again, near the door in the clinging, airless heat. He was eating a bowl of stew with rough bread - more than some could afford - when Marie-Claire came in. Even before she turned toward him he could see the fury in her. Her thin little body was rigid under its cotton blouse and long, ragged blue skirt, and her arms were as stiff as sticks. She looked left and right, searching, then turned far enough to see Carton and immediately came over to him. Her face was white and her eyes blazing.
‘Have you seen Jean-Jacques?’ she demanded without any of the usual greeting.
‘Not today,’ he replied, clearing a little space on the table so she would have room for a plate. ‘But it’s early. Have some stew while there still is some. It’s not bad.’
Her lip curled. ‘What is it? Onions and water?’ She sat down hard, putting her elbows on the table and both hands over her face. ‘I’ve lost my cheeses! That son of a whore took them all! It was my idea, my plan!’ She looked up at him, her face burning with indignation. ‘He didn’t even know about them, Fleuriot, until I told him!’
Carton was disappointed. He realised he had been looking forward to the richness and the flavour of cheese. It seemed like a long time since he had eaten anything that was a pleasure, not merely a necessity, although he was aware how many had not even that. The crowds pouring out of the areas of factories, abattoirs, and tanneries, such as the Faubourg St Antoine, with their acid-burned, copper-coloured faces, hollow-eyed, dressed in rags and alight with hatred, were witness enough of that. They were the people who worshipped Marat and gave him his unstoppable power.
Citizen Procope came by, and Carton requested a bowl of soup and bread for Marie-Claire. She thanked him for it, and for a moment the rage melted out of her eyes.
‘Forget the cheese,’ he advised regretfully. ‘There’s nothing you can do anyway. It’s gone now.’
Her face hardened again. ‘The pig! Slit his throat, and he’d make a carcass of bacon to feed us for a year! He won’t have got rid of all that food, he’ll have it stored somewhere. The Committee could find it, because they’d take his house apart, if they had to.’
Carton’s stomach tightened. ‘Don’t do it!’ he said urgently. ‘Don’t say anything at all! It’ll only come back on you. You’ve lost them - accept it.’ He leaned forward across the table, stretching out his hand to grasp her thin wrist. ‘Don’t draw attention to yourself!’
She glared back at him. ‘You’d let that pig get away with it? Never!’ Her teeth were clenched, the muscles tight on her slender jaw. ‘I’ll make him sweat as if the blade were already coming down on his neck. You’ll see!’
Citizen Procope brought her soup and Carton paid for it.
She took her bowl in both hands, as if it might escape her. ‘You’ll see!’ she repeated, then picked up the spoon and began to eat.
* * * *
The next morning Carton was again sitting at his usual table at the café with a cup of coffee that tasted like burnt toast, and possibly bore a close relationship. At the next table three men were laughing uproariously at the latest joke inPère Duchesne, and adding more and more vulgar endings of the tale, when Jean-Jacques came storming in through the open door, his hair tangled, his shirt sticking to his body with sweat. His face was white and he swivelled immediately toward Carton’s table and staggered over, knocking into chairs.
Carton was alarmed. ‘What is it?’ he asked, half rising to his feet.
Jean-Jacques was gasping for breath, choking as he struggled to get the words ou
t. ‘They’ve arrested her! Marie-Claire! They’ve taken her to the prison! You’ve got to help me! They’ll...’ He could not bring himself to say it, but it hung in the air between them.
Carton found his own voice husky. ‘What have they charged her with?’ It was all unreal, like a fluid fear turned suddenly solid. He knew when Marie-Claire had spoken of it that it was a bad idea to seek revenge, but this was different, it was no longer thought but fact, shivering, sick and real.
‘Hoarding food!’ Jean-Jacques said, his voice rising toward hysteria, as if he might burst into mad laughter any moment. ‘She doesn’t even have the damn cheeses - or the bacon! Philippe has!’
‘I don’t suppose that makes any difference.’ Carton sank back into his chair and gestured for Jean-Jacques to sit down also. It was always better to be inconspicuous. They did not want anyone looking at them, or remembering.
The Best British Mysteries 3 - [Anthology] Page 1
