The Mammoth Book of Historical Crime Fiction

by Ashley, Mike;

  “Well?” Stockwell demanded when he and Brodie were back together in a quiet corner.

  “You were magnificent,” she said generously, and quite sincerely.

  He blushed with pleasure, but kept his face perfectly straight. “Thank you. But I was referring to the redundant piece. Is it metal?”

  “No,” she said without hesitation. “It is soft to the fingernail, a trifle waxy. I was able to take a flake of it off without difficulty. I believe it is dynamite.”

  “Oh … oh dear.” He was caught between the deeper hope that it would not after all be necessary to do anything and the anticipation of being right, and with it the taste for adventure. “I see. Then I am afraid it falls upon us to foil the plan, Miss Brodie. We shall have to act, and I fear it must be immediate. There is no time to lose.”

  She agreed wholeheartedly, but how to act was another thing altogether.

  “Let us take a dish of tea, and consider the matter,” Stockwell said firmly, touching her elbow to guide her towards the doorway, and at least temporary escape.

  As soon as tea was brought to them, and poured, they addressed the subject.

  “We have already discussed the possibility of informing the authorities,” Stockwell stated. He glanced at the tray of small savoury sandwiches on the table, but did not touch them. “The only course open to us is to disarm the machine. We shall have to do it so that no one observes either our work, or its result. Therefore we must replace the dynamite with something that looks exactly like it.”

  “I see,” Brodie nodded and sipped her tea, which was delicious, but still rather hot. “Have you any ideas as to how we should accomplish that?”

  “I have an excellent pocket knife!” he replied with a slight frown. “I think I should have relatively little trouble in removing the dynamite. I believe it will cut without too much difficulty. I could also use the blade as a screwdriver, should one be necessary. However, I have not yet hit upon any idea of what we should put in place of that which we remove.”

  Brodie thought hard for several moments. She took one of the sandwiches and bit into it. It was very fresh and really most pleasant. She took another sip of tea. Then the idea came to her.

  “Bread!” she said rather more loudly than she intended.

  “I beg your pardon?” Stockwell looked totally nonplussed.

  “Bread,” she replied more moderately. “Fresh bread, very fresh indeed, may be moulded into shapes and made hard, if you compress it. I have seen beads made of it. After all, it is in essence only flour and water paste. We still have to paint it black, of course, but that should not prove too difficult. Then we may put it in place of the dynamite, and we will have accomplished our task.”

  “Excellent, Miss Brodie!” Stockwell said enthusiastically. “That will do most excellently well. But of course it is only a part of our task …”

  “I realize making the exchange will not be easy,” Brodie agreed. “In fact it may require all our ingenuity to succeed. The curator is not impressed with me as it is. He will not allow me near the machine again, I fear.”

  “Don’t worry, I shall accomplish the exchange,” he assured her. “If you will distract the curator’s attention. But that is not what I meant. We cannot claim our task is completed until we know who placed the dynamite in the machine.” He shook his head a little. “On considering the problem, it seems clear to me that it can only have been either the General himself or Harrison. I have weighed the issue in my mind since you brought it to my attention, and I believe that the General has no reason for such a thing, and would bring about his own ruin, since he will naturally be blamed. Whereas Harrison appears to dislike the French, and may have some deeper cause for his feelings than we know. He has far less to lose, socially and professionally speaking. And he would be able to disappear after the event, take the next train up to London, and never be seen again. We know nothing of him, whereas we know everything of the General. Mr Dagliesh has had his acquaintance on and off for thirty years.”

  “I am sure you are right,” Brodie nodded. “But as you point out, it remains to prove it – after we have removed the dynamite. I shall purchase some fresh bread at the bakery across the street. Can you obtain some black paint and a brush without returning to the house?”

  “I am sure I can. Where shall we meet to do the work? It must be discreet.”

  Brodie thought hard, and no answer came to her.

  “I have it!” Stockwell said with pleasure. “There is a public bath-house on the corner of Bedford Street. It has private changing places for both ladies and gentlemen. If you use the rooms for ladies, you can make the bread the requisite size. Do you know what that is?”

  “I do. It is two inches less than the distance from my wrist to my elbow, and as thick as my thumb.”

  “Bravo! Then we shall begin. I think I may say ‘the game’s afoot’. Come, Miss Brodie. Let us advance to battle.”

  *

  But distracting the attention of the curator was less easy than they had supposed. They returned some considerable time later, the long, black stick of bread, paint just dry, concealed up Stockwell’s sleeve. The curator regarded them with displeasure. Had it been anything but the utmost urgency, Brodie would have left and gone home. But that would be cowardice under fire, and Brodie had never been a coward. England’s honour was at stake.

  “Now, Miss Brodie,” Stockwell said gently, and perhaps with a touch of new respect in his tone. “Charge!”

  She gulped and sailed forward. There were only four other people in the room: a gentleman and two ladies, and of course the curator.

  “How wonderful to see you again!” she said loudly, staring at one of the ladies, an elderly person in a shade of purple she should never have worn. “You look so well! I am delighted to see you so recovered.”

  The women stared at her in perplexity.

  “And your great uncle,” Brodie went on even more loudly. Now the others were staring at her also. “Is he recovered from that appalling affair in Devon? What a perfectly dreadful woman, and so much younger than he.”

  The woman now looked at her in considerable alarm, and clutched at the hand of the gentleman next to her.

  “I don’t know you!” she said in a high-pitched voice. “I don’t have a great uncle in Devon, or anywhere else!”

  “I’m not surprised you should disown him,” Brodie said in a tone of great sympathy, but still as loudly as she could, as if she thought the woman in purple might be deaf, and shouting would make the meaning plainer. “But older men can be so easily beguiled, don’t you think?”

  Two more people had entered the room from one of the other halls, but they paid no attention to Stockwell or the exhibits. They focused entirely upon Brodie and the scene of acute embarrassment being played out in the centre of the floor. The curator dithered from one foot to the other in uncertainty as to what to do; whether to intervene in what was obviously a very private matter, or to pretend he had not even heard. Sometimes the latter was the only way to treat such a matter with kindness.

  The woman in purple was still staring at Brodie as if she were an apparition risen out of the floor.

  “Of course she was very attractive,” Brodie resumed relentlessly. Stockwell could not be finished yet. She must buy him time. “In an extraordinary sort of way. I’ve never seen so much hair! Have you? And such a colour, my dear! Like tomato soup!”

  “I don’t know you!” the woman repeated desperately, waving her hands in the air. “I have no great uncles at all!”

  “Really!” The man beside her came to her rescue at last. “I must protest, Mrs Er … I mean …” He glared at Brodie. “Lady Dora has already explained to you, as kindly as possible, that you have made a mistake. Please accept that and do not pursue the matter.”

  “Oh!” Brodie let out a shriek of dismay. “Lady Dora? Are you sure?” Lady Dora was very pink in the face, a most unbecoming colour.

  “Of course I’m sure!” she shrieked.

>   “I do apologize,” Brodie shouted back, still on the assumption Lady Dora was hard of hearing. “I mistook you for Mrs. Marshfield, who looks so like you, in a certain light, of course, when wearing just the right shade of … what would you say? Plum? Claret? I really should remember my spectacles. They make such a difference, don’t you think? I am quite mortified. Whatever can I do?” She asked it not rhetorically, but as if she expected and required a reply.

  Lady Dora looked not a whit comforted. She stared at Brodie with loathing. “Please don’t distress yourself,” she said icily. “Now that the issued is settled, there is no offence, I assure you.”

  “You are too generous,” Brodie exclaimed. Where on earth was Stockwell. Had he finished yet? She dared not glance around in case she drew anyone else’s attention to him. What on earth was there left for him to do? “I feel quite ill with confusion that I should have made such an error.” She rolled her eyes as if she were about to faint.

  “Water!” Lady Dora’s companion said loudly.

  The other woman moved forward to offer assistance, still looking sideways at Lady Dora as if she half-believed Brodie’s tale of the uncle. There was something of a smile about her lips.

  “For heaven’s sake fetch some water, man!” Lady Dora’s companion commanded the curator, who at last moved to obey. With much assistance, Brodie was led to a seat and plied with water, a fan, smelling salts, and good advice. It was a full five minutes before she could bring herself to leave. She staggered out into the fresh air and was overwhelmed with relief to see Stockwell looking triumphant, and pretending not to know her, as the curator let go of her arm, and suggested very forcefully that she did not return.

  “The atmosphere is not good for you, Madam,” he said, between thin lips. “I think for your health, you should refrain from such enclosed spaces. Good day.”

  *

  The following morning Pamela and Freddie went with Bertie and Violet Welch-Smith to see the formal opening of the exhibition. Both men were very excited about it, and Pamela felt she had to balance Violet’s disinterest by feigning an enthusiasm herself. They were accompanied by Harrison, a just reward for his many hours of work in helping to construct the General’s machine, and for his care and maintenance of it.

  When they got there, it was very difficult. Almost all the exhibits seemed to be French. There were electric jewels invented by Monsieur Trouve of Paris, largely for use on stage. Next to that was an optical theatre designed by a Monsieur Reynaud. There were other French inventions: a portable shower-bath, created by Monsieur Gaston Bozetian; a device to prevent snoring; a construction for reaching the North Pole by balloon; and an invention by Dr Varolt – again of Paris – for electroplating the bodies of the dead so that they were covered with a millimetre thick layer of metallic copper of a brilliant red colour, so that the remains of a beloved could be preserved indefinitely. Violet became even more appreciative, praising them vociferously, and making Pamela feel more and more irritated.

  At eleven o’clock the French Ambassador arrived, a neat and elegant man immaculately dressed and carrying a furled umbrella as if he did not trust the mild and delightful spring day. He declared the exhibition open, made several remarks about the service that inventors performed for humanity, and then proceeded to walk around the various exhibits and examine each in turn. He was followed by a small crowd of people.

  He reached the boot polishing machine at about a quarter to twelve.

  “Oh! And this is the English invention!” he said with as much enthusiasm as he could muster. He looked at it carefully, and it was apparent he was highly dubious about its value, but it would be a national insult if he did not try to use it.

  Pamela watched, as gingerly, he put his foot on the pedal and reached for the switch to turn it on. She saw Harrison, his face alight with jubilation, as if a great moment of triumph had at last arrived.

  The Ambassador’s finger was on the button.

  “No! It is a bomb!” someone yelled wildly, and a dark-haired, dark-faced man leaped from the crowd, waving his arms, and hurled himself on the Ambassador, carrying him forward on to the machine, and the whole edifice collapsed beneath them in a pile of fractured metalwork and flailing arms and legs.

  There was an indrawn breath of horror around the room. The women screamed. Someone had hysterics. One woman fainted and had to be dragged out – she was too big to carry.

  “Send for the fire brigade!” the curator shouted. “Bring water!”

  A quick-witted man fetched a fire bucket of sand and threw it at the Ambassador and the other man on the floor, knocking them back again and sending them sprawling.

  “A bomb! A bomb!” the shouts were going around.

  Pamela stared at Freddie, and saw the complete bewilderment in his face.

  “What on earth is going on?” she demanded fiercely. Then she looked farther across and saw consternation in Harrison’s face, and thought perhaps she glimpsed an understanding.

  Someone else arrived with a pail of water from the tearooms opposite. Without asking anyone, he also threw it over the Ambassador and the man, who was even now attempting to rise to his feet. They were both drenched.

  “I say, old fellow,” Bertie moved forward in some concern. He put out his hand and hauled the Ambassador to his feet. He was sodden wet, covered with sand and mud, and purple in the face. “I say,” Bertie repeated. “I can’t imagine what this is all about, but it really won’t do.” He looked at the other man. “Who are you, sir, and what the devil are you playing at? This is a machine for polishing the boots of gentlemen, not dangerous in the least … and certainly not a bomb! You had better explain yourself, if you can!”

  The man saluted smartly and addressed himself to the Ambassador, ignoring Bertie.

  “Auguste Larrey, sir, of the French Sûreté. I had every reason to believe that this device would explode the moment you pressed the switch, and that you would be killed … sir …”

  “Balderdash!” Freddie said loudly.

  The Ambassador tried to straighten his coat, but it was hardly worth the effort, and he gave up. He looked like a scarecrow that had barely weathered a storm, and he knew it.

  “Monsieur Larrey,” he said with freezing politeness. “As you may observe, I have met with great mischance, and in front of our neighbours and friends, the English, but the machine, it has not exploded. It has imploded, under the combined weight of your body and mine. It is wrecked! We owe the English a profound apology! You, sir, will offer it!”

  “Yes, Monsieur,” Auguste stammered wretchedly. “Indeed, Monsieur.” He looked at the assembled company. “I am most deeply sorry, ladies and gentlemen – most deeply. I have made a terrible mistake. I regret it and beg your forgiveness.”

  *

  “Really?” Brodie said with wide eyes when Pamela told her of the incident that evening, when they were alone in the withdrawing room, the others having retired. Stockwell was just leaving to see if the footmen had locked up. She looked at Stockwell and caught his answering glance. “How very regrettable” she said with quiet sobriety.

  Pamela looked at her narrowly, but said nothing further.

  Stockwell cleared his throat. “Indeed,” he said with shining eyes and a rather pink face. “Most regrettable, Madam.

  Forty Morgan Silver Dollars

  Maan Meyers

  Maan Meyers is the collaborative pen name of husband-and-wife writing team Annette and Martin Meyers. They have both written novels individually under their own names, but together have penned a series about the Tonneman family in New York, through the centuries. The series began with The Dutchman (1992), set in 1664, and later novels depict descendants of that family, all with roles in the police or detective forces, up to the late nineteenth century. The latest novel, The Organ Grinder, is set in 1899. The following story takes place soon after the events in that novel and includes two surprising but well-known individuals. The authors impressed upon me that just about every person and almost
every event in this story actually happened. Almost …

  1

  The idea arrived with the mashed potatoes, gravy, plantation stew and biscuits, that week’s house lunch special at the Fred Harvey in Dearborn Station, Chicago, though it had been simmering for a while now.

  South America.

  They were two travellers, not much different from any of the others, except their hands were gnarled and calloused, their eyes a little more knowing than the travelling salesmen they sat among at the counter.

  The one with heavy red side-whiskers had deep-set, wary eyes. The other’s eyes were blue, his hair and handlebar moustache black. They spoke in short sentences, as if they’d been together a long time and knew what the other would say.

  Harvey’s food was good and gave value for the money, but Red Whiskers was getting fidgety. He had the itch to get moving. Damn, he couldn’t keep track of all the stuff hopping around in his head. They were almost out of money, and his partner was sitting there shovelling stew and biscuits into his mouth like there was no tomorrow, his moustache full of gravy and crumbs, and him making goo-goo eyes at the waitress.

  “Time to skedaddle.”

  “Why not.” Handle-Bar gave his moustache a good wipe with his napkin and twirled the end of each point. He winked at the pretty Harvey Girl in her black dress and white apron, felt there was promise in her smile as she cleared away their plates and delivered their coffee. She bobbed and beamed, but she was only doing what Mr Harvey taught the pretty girls he hired to do.

  “So?” Red Whiskers said.

  “What?” Handle-Bar reckoned that the Harvey Girl was sweet on him.

  “Good guess our mugs are all over the place.”

  “Better than good.”

  “You said something about South America.” Red Whiskers set his cup down. The coffee was hot and bitter.