"Maybe he just drowned. Just got caught on something."
I spoke up. “Teg was a good swimmer.” Dad looked at me curiously and then I sighed, nodded. I knew I had just told on myself, so I figured I might as well tell everything else I knew. “Teg wouldn't have swum with his clothes on. He never did, Dad."
"I don't know what the boy's tryin’ to say, Doc, but this here is an accidental drowning and nothing more."
"Might be, Lehigh, but it might not be, either."
"I said it was an accident, and that's the way it's gonna be.” Lehigh said.
* * * *
In the end, Lehigh was right; Teg's death was ruled an accidental drowning. Now I figure if it would've happened in today's world, with forensics being what they are, things might've turned out differently. Old man Deeter was the coroner when he wasn't overseeing the only funeral parlor in Harlow, and when he wasn't doing that, he was playing poker in Store Longwood's basement, so he probably wasn't much motivated to order an autopsy. Right before the funeral, I overheard Dad tell Mother something about some bruises on Teg's back around the kidneys that didn't make sense. Dad knew it wouldn't do him any good to raise a stink, but I think he thought the same thing I did: Teg Saidlow might not have drowned all on his own.
Two things happened that day that changed everything. The first being Loreen at the funeral. She looked as if she'd woken up from a coma, like a big weight had been lifted off her. She had healed from her latest sickness, and glued on a shiny black dress to attend her only child's funeral. She almost looked high society, hat and all. Now I fully expected Loreen to play it up, throw herself on the casket like my cousin June did when her husband, Buddy, got run over by a train, but it didn't happen. I didn't see her shed a tear.
The other thing was Pearl. She comforted me, held my hand at the funeral, even gave me a hug at the cemetery and said she was sorry.
As we got in the car to go home, Pearl said, “There's something about this that's just not right, Dad. And Lehigh Bowman could care less."
I nodded.
"That'll be enough of that kind of talk, Pearl, you hear me?"
"Yes, Daddy, but..."
"No buts. Let the boy rest in peace."
* * * *
Now Pearl and I, we put our heads together, and figured there was a murder to solve, with at least three suspects: Big Mike, Lehigh, or a madman loose at the quarry. Pearl put her nose to the grindstone and found out pretty quick that Big Mike had been hanging out at the gas station with a couple of his friends, smoking cigarettes and tinkering with an old Ford, so that pretty much ruled him out. That left the bogeyman at the quarry and Lehigh.
The bogeyman theory didn't hold a lot of mustard from the start; we'd have heard about it from somewhere else if an escaped prisoner was living in the woods, or a Gypsy had taken up residence in one of the old shacks out there. We hadn't heard anything of the like. I was suspicious of Loreen, but Pearl wore me down on that one; she just couldn't believe a mother of any kind would kill her only son.
That left Lehigh. Tracking him down was like tracking a snake in water, if he wasn't napping in his usual places.
We had just about given up until, as fate would have it, Mother came home one day all up in the air. Loreen Bowman had been getting her hair done at the same time Mother was. And Loreen had been talking about Teg, about how hard to control he'd been, how Lehigh had to threaten him just to mind. Mother told Dad that Loreen said, “If I wasn't so weak I'd a given him a good spanking and shaped him up, but I left that to Lehigh. Some days it's a blessing he's with the Lord now."
I had told Mother that Teg was exiled to the basement, and I think she was putting two and two together. Somebody had hit Teg too hard and then dumped his body in the quarry. Add in what Teg had said to Pearl—"Lehigh never hits anyone, at least not where it can be seen by the light of day"—and you pretty much came to the same conclusion. Somehow, Lehigh had killed Teg.
Proving it was another matter. And once again, Dad wouldn't hear of making a fuss. He told me years later that he regretted not doing so, but back then, he wasn't up to facing down the Bowmans. The whole family had a way of making it tough on someone if they put their minds to it. Big Mike had learned his bully lessons well. I never could tell Dad what Pearl and I knew, and that galls me to this day.
But we did prove Teg was murdered. At least to ourselves. Knowing the truth came with a huge price, though.
One day, about a week after the hairdresser incident, Pearl told Mother she'd heard that Loreen had taken sick again.
"Let her rot,” were Mother's first words. And then she shrugged, her shoulders sagged with defeat, and finally said we'd have to make her a basket come Sunday. Mother wasn't the kind to carry a grudge, you know, but I really think she could've hated Loreen Bowman if she'd let herself.
Pearl drew the short stick this time. We figured she would. Mother had forbidden me from ever stepping foot on Bowman property or going near the quarry. But I rode out with Pearl because she helped me with my route so we'd have time to find out what we could about Lehigh.
Once we got to the road that led to the big house, I broke off, hid my bike in the woods, and made my way toward Teg's transom window. Pearl and I had the whole thing worked out. We figured if we got caught, we'd be in trouble until the time we left home, but it was worth the risk, finding out who killed Teg and bringing them to justice if the grownups weren't going to do anything about it.
What happened between Pearl and Loreen before I came into the picture was told to me by Pearl, so I'll tell you the best I can.
Pearl had to damn near push her way inside the house. Loreen was drunk. The house was a wreck, and Lehigh was nowhere to be seen. Pearl knew he was behind the post office, fast asleep.
So Pearl said, “I'm sure sorry about Teg, Mrs. Bowman."
Loreen barely answered, took the basket, and told Pearl to leave.
"Oh, I will, Mrs. Bowman. But I heard Daddy talking to another doctor the other night and they were talking about Teg. I thought you'd want to know."
Loreen dropped the basket. “What'd they say."
"Well, I didn't hear it all, but it had something to do with the bruises they found."
"They ought to just leave well enough alone."
"I think they said something about digging him up."
Loreen was teetering with rage. Pearl said the stench of alcohol was so thick she almost felt drunk herself.
"Get out of my house...” Loreen screamed.
By this time I was halfway through the transom window, and the important part of our plan was about to come into play. I slammed the transom window closed, just the way Teg used to do when he was angry.
Pearl said Loreen froze like a coon in a flashlight.
"Somebody's in here."
"I didn't hear anything,” Pearl said.
"Goddamn it, somebody's in the basement.” Loreen went to the door that led down into Teg's bedroom. “Who's there?"
I had crawled into Teg's bed, pulled the covers over my head. “Me, Momma. Why'd you let Lehigh kill me?” I whispered loud enough for her to hear.
"Lehigh didn't kill you! I didn't mean to hit you so hard...” Loreen screamed. And then she realized that Pearl was standing behind her, that she was, to all intents and purposes, talking to a ghost.
Loreen collapsed.
I swear on Pearl's grave that she reached out for Loreen, tried to catch her, tried to break the fall down the stairs, but she wasn't quick enough. Loreen flipped head-over-heels until she landed on the hard cement floor with a bone-cracking thud.
The fall didn't kill Loreen Bowman. But she was paralyzed from the neck down. Pearl lied to Dad, and to everybody, about how it happened. She never told a soul that I was in that house and we caused Loreen to fall. We never told anybody about what she said, either, that she admitted to killing Teg. Maybe it was an accident. Maybe it wasn't. Nobody'll ever know, because Loreen wasn't able to talk, either. She lived four more years, all of it in that house,
in the bedroom above the basement where Teg Saidlow dreamed of slaying dragons instead of windmills.
I've lived with the guilt all my life, knowing we hurt Loreen Bowman like we did. But I hope there's some redemption in our finding out the truth, and finally telling it.
Teg Saidlow was my best friend.
I hope I get to see him when I fall asleep for the last time.
(c)2008 by Larry D. Sweazy
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Poetry: DEATH OF THE PARTY by Cornelia Snider Yarrington
Another faculty party. The usual supects were there:
disgruntled profs from assistant to full and the clown hired as their Chair.
He'd arrived from a distant department lit by his references’ glow,
science talents touted in phrases so grand, you'd wonder why he was let go.
Unmentioned, his talent for staying lit from his very own lab beaker glass,
or the figure he cut as he staggered the halls and stumbled into his class.
Left out was his knack for mixing up files, or settling salaries on whim,
or assigning space on a hangover scale measurable ony by him.
Omitted from any reference were the female assistants he lost
through a fetish for buttocks in lab coats—or the lawsuits’ ultimate cost.
Sometime in the faculty party, radioactive Polonium 210
spiked the ubiquitous beaker of booze with an ultimate Mickey Finn.
Slip or slight malice of forethought? The DA scratched his head,
wondering why the party went on with the guest of honor dead.
—
Copyright (c) 2008 Cornelia Snider Yarrington
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Poetry: PAPERCUTS by Lisa Atkinson
It's dangerous here between the sheets
where the writers prey.
We sharpen quills to pay the bills
and lie without dismay.
—
We stab at words. Dice and splice,
prying up your every vice—
Exposing wounds in sacrifice
to entertain you well.
—
With pens like knives
we gouge the page,
Each of us an Ink-bleed Sage
...on the hunt for you.
—
Copyright (c) 2008 Lisa Atkinson
[Back to Table of Contents]
Murder of a Distressed Gentleman
by Amy Myers
* * * *
Art by Allen Davis
* * * *
Amy Myers's best-known sleuth, Auguste Didier, is back this issue on a case that pairs him with the lugubrious Inspec-tor Rose. Ms. Myers's two most recent novels—Murder and the Golden Goblet (Severn House, July 2007) and Tom Wasp and the Murdered Stunner (Five Star, October 2007) are both entries in other series (the for-mer Marsh and Daughter, the latter Tom Wasp). We hope to see another Didier novel soon.
* * * *
"My dear sir, I am to be murdered myself. I am sure of it."
The distressed gentleman raised piteous eyes to his increasingly reluctant host. Auguste Didier, torn between this unlikely pronouncement and fear that the glories of the sole au Chablis he had just set before the gentleman might be ignored, decided to humour him.
"Could it not be,” he replied gently, “that the exigencies of your profession have led you to be unduly nervous?"
The role of distressed gentleman was hardly a profession, in Auguste's view, merely a form of begging, but he had an affection for this old rogue. The distressed gentleman, clad in shabby top hat and frock coat, periodically took up his pitch in London's Strand outside Romanos, the restaurant known for its popularity with famous diners from the stage and high society. This evening, however, he had inexplicably moved across the road to stand outside the Galaxy Theatre, where Auguste was chef to its restaurant.
This winter of 1894, however, was a cold one, and pity for some-one down on his luck had prompted Auguste to ask him inside to eat after the last of the late-night revellers had left. He felt he knew the distressed gentleman in a way. After all, Auguste had seen him at varying times and locations as a distressed soldier, veteran of Rorke's Drift; as a distressed clergyman, veteran of various vicissitudes; and as the distressed heir to a dukedom, veteran of vile villainies. In each case a small sum rapidly restored his fortunes.
As distressed gentleman in the Strand, however, he offered his public something in return: a continuous patter of anecdotes about this ancient London thoroughfare, chiefly centering on the innumerable murders that appeared to have taken place here over the centuries. Stranglings, swordfights, shootings—it seemed one would be fortunate to escape the countless would-be assassins who lurked unsuspected under its bright lights.
Auguste decided to say no more about the distressed gentleman's no doubt overdramatic forecast of his own fate. Probably the wine—which Auguste could not help noticing was disappearing at a faster rate than the sole—had confused him.
The distressed gentleman, however, momentarily set down his glass and raised his mournful eyes to Auguste, as he replied with dignity, “My days on the Albion stage as an actor—” the last syllable boomed out over the empty restaurant “—have brought me into contact with many vile murders."
That, Auguste could believe. The Albion theatre was not far from the Galaxy, and had been well known for its strong dramatic taste for many years.
"But none so vile,” the distressed gentleman continued briskly, “as the murders that have taken place here upon this, our noble highway. The Strand is stained with their blood. You have heard me speak of them, no doubt, Mr. Didier, in my professional capacity?"
"I have,” Auguste said hastily, but there was no stopping his guest.
"Are you aware, Mr. Didier, of the evil room in the house now part of Myton's hotel? A room left locked and untouched for forty years. A disappointed bridegroom, abandoned by his prospective bride just moments before the wedding, locked up the bridal banquet room and forbade it to be opened ever again.” The distressed gentleman spoke in hushed tones. “No doubt Mr. Dickens based Miss Havisham's chamber in Great Expectations upon the incident."
"I know it very well,” Auguste lied firmly, in consideration of the hour, now creeping towards two a.m.
"Never to be opened again, Mr. Didier. When the hotel bought the house ten years ago, and finally penetrated the ghastly secrets of that room, what did they find?"
Auguste shuddered at the waste of such a banquet. “Rats."
"A corpse.” There were tears in the distressed gentleman's eyes. “A woman's decayed body. I knew the man well in his later years at the house, little guessing what terrible secret he held in his heart."
"You're worried that he might wish to kill you?” Auguste was relieved. This was merely melodramatic patter. It was hardly likely that the perpetrator of a crime fifty years ago would fear the ramblings of a distressed gentleman, especially one who could barely have been born at the time the crime was committed.
"Who knows, Mr. Didier, the ways of a wicked heart? I have seen evils in this beloved street of ours that would shock, nay, horrify you.” He looked at the sole au Chablis, took a bite, and then pushed the plate away. “No. What is food, beside such human tragedy?"
Quite a help, in Auguste's practical experience, but as he opened his mouth to speak, he lost his opportunity.
"Tragedies such as that in ‘seventy-two on the corner of the Strand and Southampton Street,” the gentleman swept grandly on. “Ah—would there be any cheese?” he asked hopefully.
Auguste sighed. “A little Brie?"
His guest looked doubtful. “I would prefer Stilton. A gentleman's cheese, you understand. And a glass of port, if you please."
"Certainly,” Auguste said through clenched teeth, as he turned to fetch the board.
"No doubt I have related to you the murder of Miss Gabrielle Flower?"
"You have,” Auguste repli
ed snappily.
"Mistress to the Earl of Dover. ‘Return to me,’ quoth her former sweetheart, a clergyman, I recall.” The distressed gentleman rose to his feet to do justice to the occasion, and clasped his hand to his bosom. “'Come live with me and be my love.’ ‘No, no,'” he squealed in a falsetto. “'It cannot be. My plight is trothed—'” The distressed gentleman stumbled, both physically and verbally. “I do beg your pardon, Mr. Didier. I am unaccustomed to wine. ‘I have plighted my troth,'” he resumed squeakily, “'to the Earl of Dover. I can never be yours.’ ‘Then I shall die,'” he informed himself, placing an imaginary pistol to his head. “'But first you shall answer to God, oh most treacherous of women.’ And then he shot her.” The distressed gentleman half tumbled, half sank into his seat and took the glass of port at a gulp to revive himself.
"And he shot himself, too?” enquired Auguste.
"No. The villain ran away into the crowd that had gathered. But a few years ago I recognised him as he returned to the scene of the crime. He was a country clergyman and admitted all to me. Unfortunately that was—” he paused delicately—"while I was under a different guise, and therefore bound by the secrets of the confessional. The burden is heavy, and this week I sensed him near at hand."
"Who is he?” Auguste was torn between genuine curiosity and amusement at the seriousness with which his unobliging guest appeared to take the responsibilities of his job.
"Alas, my lips must still be sealed, Mr. Didier. I am, you must remember, a gentleman,” he answered gravely. “Another, if you please.” He held out his glass expectantly, but Auguste pretended not to see it, busying himself with clearing the table. He was growing very tired, especially of distressed gentlemen—and of distressed clergymen.
"A cigar?” the distressed gentleman enquired hopefully.
"The restaurant is locked at two a.m.,” Auguste said meaningfully. “There are but ten minutes—” His protest was quelled by a mournful sigh.
"Did I tell you of the sad murder of Adolphus Bracket?” floated the distressed gentleman's voice behind him as Auguste wearily set off to fetch the best Havanas.
EQMM, May 2008 Page 17
