The Best British Mysteries 3 - [Anthology]

by Edited by Maxim Jakubowski

  Despite his unnerving encounter with the newly animated monkey, Mr Edgerton put in a most productive day and quickly found himself with the bulk of five chapters written, none of them requiring more than a cursory rewrite. It was only when the light had begun to fade and Mr Edgerton’s arm had started to ache that the monkey awoke and padded softly across a virgin page to where Mr Edgerton’s pen lay in his hand. The monkey grasped his index finger with its tiny hands, then placed its mouth against the cut and began to suck. It took Mr Edgerton a moment to realize what was occurring, at which point he rose with a shout and shook the monkey from his finger. It bounced against the inkpot, striking its head soundly upon its base, and lay unmoving upon a sheet of paper.

  At once, Mr Edgerton reached for it and raised it in the palm of his left hand. The monkey was obviously stunned, for its eyes were now half-closed and it moved its head slowly from side to side as it tried to focus. Instantly, Mr Edgerton was seized with regret at his hasty action. He had endangered the monkey, which he now acknowledged to be the source of his new-found inspiration. Without it, he would be lost. Torn between fear and disgust, Mr Edgerton reluctantly made his decision: he squeezed together his thumb and forefinger, causing a droplet of blood to emerge from the cut and then, his gorge rising, allowed it to drip into the monkey’s mouth.

  The effect was instantaneous. The little mammal’s eyes opened fully, it rose on to its haunches, and then reached for, and grasped, the wounded finger. There it suckled happily, undisturbed by the revolted Mr Edgerton, until it had taken its fill, whereupon it burped contentedly and resumed its slumbers. Mr Edgerton gently laid it beside the inkpot and then, taking up his pen, wrote another two chapters before retiring early to his bed.

  Thus it continued. Each day Mr Edgerton rose, fed the monkey a little blood, wrote, fed the monkey once again in the evening, wrote some more, then went to bed and slept like a dead man. The monkey appeared to require little in the way of affection or attention beyond its regular feeds, although it would often touch fascinatedly the miniature of itself that dangled from Mr Edgerton’s wrist. Mr Edgerton, in turn, decided to ignore the fact that the monkey was growing at quite an alarming rate, so that it was now obliged to sit beside him on a small chair while he worked and had taken to dozing on the sofa after its meals. In fact, Mr Edgerton wondered if it might not be possible to train the monkey to do some light household duties, thereby allowing him more time to write, although when he suggested this to the monkey through the use of primitive sign language it grew quite irate and locked itself in the bathroom for an entire afternoon.

  In fact, it was not until Mr Edgerton returned home one afternoon from a visit to his publisher to find the inkpot monkey trying on one of his suits that he began to experience serious doubts about their relationship. He had noticed some new and especially disturbing changes in the monkey. It had started to moult, leaving clumps of unsightly grey hair on the carpets and exposing sections of pink-white skin. It had also lost some weight from its face; that, or its bone structure had begun to alter, for it now presented a more angular aspect than it had previously done. In addition, the monkey was now over four feet tall and Mr Edgerton had been forced to open veins in his wrists and legs in order to keep it sated. The more Mr Edgerton considered the matter, the more convinced he became that the creature was undergoing some significant transformation. Yet there were still chapters of the book to be completed, and the writer was reluctant to alienate his mascot. So he suffered in silence, sleeping now for much of the day and emerging only to write for increasingly short periods of time before returning to his bed and collapsing into a dreamless slumber.

  On the 29th day of August, he delivered his completed manuscript to his publisher. On the 4th of September, which was Mr Edgerton’s birthday, he was gratified to receive a most delightful communication from his editor, praising him as a genius and promising that this novel, long anticipated and at last delivered, would place Mr Edgerton in the pantheon of literary greats and assure him of a most comfortable and well-regarded old age.

  That night, as Mr Edgerton prepared to drift off into contented sleep, he felt a tug at his wrist and looked down to see the inkpot monkey fastened upon it, its cheeks pulsing as it sucked away at the cut. Tomorrow, thought Mr Edgerton, tomorrow I will deal with it. Tomorrow I will have it taken to the zoo and our bargain will be concluded for ever. But as he grew weaker and his eyes closed, the inkpot monkey raised its head and Mr Edgerton realized at last that no zoo would ever take the inkpot monkey, for the inkpot monkey had become something very different indeed . . .

  Mr Edgerton’s book was published the following year, to universal acclaim. A reception was held in his honour by his grateful publishers, to which the brightest lights of London’s literary community flocked to pay tribute. It would be Mr Edgerton’s final public appearance. From that day forth, he was never again seen in London and retired to the small country estate that he purchased with the royalties from his great, valedictory work. Even his previous sentimentality appeared to be in the past, for his beloved charm bracelet could now be found in the window of a small antique shop in Covent Garden where, due to some imaginative pricing, it seemed destined to remain.

  That night, speeches were made, and an indifferent poem recited by one of Mr Edgerton’s new admirers, but the great man himself remained silent throughout. When called upon to give his speech, he replied simply with a small but polite bow to his guests, accepting their applause with a gracious smile, then returned to toying with the small gold monkey that hung from a chain around his neck.

  And while all those around him drank the finest champagne and feasted on stuffed quail and smoked salmon, Mr Edgerton could be found sitting quietly in a corner, stroking some unruly hairs on his chest and munching contentedly on a single ripe banana.

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  * * * *

  Peter Tremayne

  The Banshee

  For three days the Banshee had been heard wailing outside his door at night. It was no surprise when his body was discovered. His time had come.

  Sister Fidelma gazed at Brother Abán with surprise.

  The elderly monk was sitting slightly forward on his chair, shivering a little although the day was not cold. His thin mouth trembled slightly; a fleck of spittle from one corner caught on the greying stubble of his unshaven chin. His pale eyes stood out in a bony, almost skeletal head over which the skin was stretched taut and parchment-like.

  ‘He was fated to die,’ repeated the old man, almost petulantly. ‘You cannot deny the summons of the death wail.’

  Fidelma realised that the old man was troubled and he spoke with deadly seriousness. ‘Who heard this wailing?’ she asked, trying to hide her natural scepticism.

  The old man shivered. ‘Glass, the miller, whose house is not far away. And Bláth has confirmed that she was disturbed by the sounds.’

  Fidelma pursed her lips and expelled a little air through them in an almost soundless whistle. ‘I will speak with them later. Tell me what you know about this matter, Brother Abán. Just those facts that are known to you.’

  The early religieux sighed as if suppressing irritation. ‘I thought that you knew them. Surely my message was clear?’

  ‘I was told that a man had been found dead in suspicious circumstances. The messenger requested that the Chief Brehon of Cashel send a dálaigh, an officer of the court, to come and ascertain those circumstances. That is all I know so far, except that this man was named Ernán, that he was a farmer, and that he was found dead on the doorstep of his house with a jagged wound in his throat.’

  Fidelma spoke without irritation but precisely.

  Brother Abán was suddenly defensive. ‘This is a peaceful spot. We are just a small farming community here by the banks of the Siúr River. Even nature bestows her blessings on us and that is why we call this place “The Field of Honey”. Nothing like this has ever happened before.’

  ‘It would help if I knew exactly what has happe
ned,’ murmured Fidelma. ‘So, tell me what you know.’

  ‘I am the only religious in this community,’ went on Brother Abán, as if ignoring her request. ‘I have been here forty years, tending to the spiritual needs of this little community. Never before...’

  He fell silent a moment and Fidelma was forced to control her impatience and wait until the old man was ready to begin. ‘The facts?’ he suddenly asked, his bright eyes upon her. ‘These are the facts. Yesterday morning I was at my morning prayers when Bláth came to my threshold, crying in a loud voice that Ernán had been found just outside the door of his house with his throat torn out. I went to his house and found this to be true. I then sent to Cashel for a dálaigh.’

  ‘What was so suspicious about the circumstances that you needed to do so?’

  Brother Abán nervously rubbed the stubble on his chin. ‘Bláth told me...’

  Fidelma held up a hand. ‘First, tell me exactly who Ernán was.’

  ‘Ernán was a young farmer who worked the lower fields along the riverbank. A handsome young man, married and without an enemy in the world. I knew his parents before they died. Good Christians leading blameless lives.’

  ‘And Bláth? Was she his wife?’

  Brother Abán shook his head. ‘Ernán’s wife was Blinne. Bláth is her sister. She lived with them. She helps about the farm. A good girl. She comes to sing the psalms in the chapel each week.’

  ‘And where was Blinne at this time?’

  ‘Distraught. Beside herself with grief. She loved her husband very much.’

  ‘I see. And Bláth told you...what?’

  ‘Bláth said that she had been awoken each of the last three nights hearing a terrible wailing outside the farmhouse.’

  ‘Did she investigate the cause of this sound?’

  The old monk laughed sarcastically. ‘This is a rural community. We live close to nature here. You do not go to investigate the wailing of a Banshee.’

  ‘Surely the new Faith has taught us not to be fearful of Otherworld creatures? As a Christian, do you really accept that there is a woman of the hills, a wraith, who comes to the threshold of a person about to die and then wails and laments in the middle of the night?’ demanded Fidelma.

  ‘As a Christian, I must. Do not the Holy Scriptures talk of spirits and ghosts who serve both God and Satan? Who knows which the woman of the hills serves? In the old days, it was said that the Banshee was a goddess who cared for a specific noble family and when their time came to be reborn in the Otherworld, the spirit would cry to announce their impending death in this world.’

  ‘I know the folklore,’ Fidelma said quietly.

  ‘It is not to be dismissed,’ Brother Abán assured her earnestly. ‘When I was a small boy I heard a story from a neighbour. It seems that the time had come for his father, an old man, to pass on. A plaintive wailing was heard within the vicinity of their dwelling. The son went out the next morning and found a strange comb, which he picked up and took into the house. The following night the wailing returned but this time the doors and windows rattled as if someone was trying to get in.

  ‘Realising it was the Banshee, the man placed the comb in a pair of tongs and held it out the window. Unseen hands seized the comb, and the tongs were twisted and bent out of recognition. Had he handed the comb out through the window, his arm would have been wrenched off. This is the power of the Banshee.’

  Fidelma dropped her gaze and tried to contain her smile. Obviously, Brother Abán was steeped in the old ways and superstitions. ‘Let us return to the case of Ernán,’ she suggested gently. ‘Are you saying that his sister-in-law, Bláth, heard this wailing and did so on three consecutive nights?’

  ‘The third night was when Ernán was found dead.’

  ‘And Blinne had heard this wailing as well?’

  ‘I only spoke to Glass the miller who confirmed that he had heard it also.’

  ‘So you have not spoken to Blinne, Ernán’s wife.’

  ‘She has not been well enough to speak with me, as you can imagine.’

  ‘Very well. Who discovered the body?’

  ‘Bláth was up in the morning to milk the goats and found Ernán outside the house. He had been dead some hours. Bláth believes that —’

  Fidelma held up her hand. ‘I will see what she believes when I speak with her. At this point, she came to you?’

  ‘That is right. I went to see the body while she went inside to comfort Blinne.’

  ‘Where is the body now?’

  ‘In the chapel. We shall bury it tonight.’

  ‘I would like to examine this wound of which you speak.’

  Brother Abán stirred uncomfortably. ‘Is that necessary? After all, you are —’

  ‘I am a dálaigh and used to such sights as the corpses of people who have died in violent ways.’

  The old monk shrugged. ‘It is not often that you would see the corpse of one who has been taken by the Banshee,’ he muttered.

  ‘Has there been much wolf activity in these parts recently?’

  The question was innocent enough, but Brother Abán realised what she was implying and pulled a sour face. ‘You will not be able to pass off this death as a wolf attack, Sister,’ he said. ‘I know the marks made by a wolf when it is driven to attack a human. A wolf rarely attacks a full-grown man, a strong and muscular man. And the wailing was certainly not that of a wolf. You will have to think again if you want to dismiss this death as having a rational cause.’

  ‘I want to find the truth, that is all,’ Fidelma replied evenly. ‘Now let us inspect the corpse.’

  The old monk had been right and Ernán had been young and handsome in life. He was obviously well muscled and strong. The only disfigurement on his body was the jagged wound beneath his chin, which severed his windpipe and arteries. Fidelma bent forward and saw immediately that no teeth marks could have made the wound. It had been made by something sharp, although it had been drawn across the throat, tearing the flesh rather than cutting cleanly.

  She straightened up after her inspection.

  ‘Well?’ demanded the old man.

  ‘Ernán was certainly attacked, but not by some Otherworld entity,’ she said softly.

  She led the way out of the small chapel and stood in the sunshine looking down through the collection of buildings to where the broad expanse of river was pushing sedately along, glistening and flickering in the bright light. There were several dwellings clustered around, including a blacksmith’s forge and grain stores. The main part of the community dwelt in outlying farmsteads and would probably be in the fields at this time. However, there were a few people about. The blacksmith stood deep in conversation with someone who had in tow a thick-legged workhorse, and Fidelma could see a couple of people at the far end of the square just emerging around the corner of a storehouse. One was an attractive woman with auburn hair, young and pretty and slim. Her companion was a young man, long-faced, intense.

  Fidelma’s keen eyes deduced that neither was happy. The young man was stretching out a hand to the woman’s arm in an almost imploring gesture. The woman seemed irritable and knocked the hand away, turning swiftly and striding towards the chapel. The young man gazed after her for a moment, then seemed to notice Fidelma and walked rapidly away, disappearing behind the far building.

  ‘Interesting,’ muttered Fidelma. ‘Who are they? The woman seems to be coming here.’

  Brother Abán, standing at her shoulder, whispered: ‘This is Blinne the widow of Ernán.’

  ‘And who was the young man with whom she seemed annoyed?’

  ‘That was Tadhg. He is a...he is a bard.’

  Fidelma’s lower lip thrust out a moment in amusement at the disapproval in the old man’s voice. ‘That is appropriate.’

  The name Tadhg meant ‘poet’.

  Brother Abán was already moving to greet the woman called Blinne.

  ‘How are you, my child?’

  ‘Only as can be expected,’ Blinne replied shortly. Fi
delma noticed that her face seemed an expressionless mask. Her lips were thinned in the set of her jaw. She had a tight control of her emotions. Her hazel eyes caught those of Sister Fidelma and her chin came up defiantly. ‘I have come to see the body of Ernán one last time. And Bláth says that she will sing the caoine, the keening at the interment.’

  ‘Of course, my child, of course,’ muttered the old monk. Then he remembered his manners. ‘This is Sister Fidelma from Cashel. She is —’

  ‘I know who she is,’ replied the young woman coldly. ‘She is sister to our king as well as being a dálaigh.’