EQMM, September-October 2007

by Dell Magazine Authors

  It did not happen. Instead:

  "Oh,” the Widow Paxton screamed, as Mrs. Dacres staggered, clutching at the widow's skirts; but then her hands fell away, as she collapsed on the grass.

  "She swoons,” I cried, but there was no movement, no sound from anyone, and the fiddler played on.

  Then Dr. Meek came hurrying from the other set, and the music came to a screeching halt, as it was observed that we had all stopped dancing. I was already at Mrs. Dacres's side when Dr. Meek arrived. Why? I think I knew even then that this was no mere swoon.

  "She has no need of your services, Caleb,” Dr. Meek said, after a quick examination, but even so I knelt by the body for a few words with the One who alone knows the secrets of the most evil of our hearts.

  The doctor had spoken quietly, but even so William Dacres heard. He was pale with shock, but I heard no outburst of lamentations either from him or those now gathered around.

  I was aware that Squire Holby was staring at me enigmatically. “Get her inside, Caleb,” he said. “We must send our guests away."

  "Not for the moment, sir,” Dr. Meek said.

  Squire Holby is our magistrate, but poaching and charge-orders on men unwilling to wed the mothers of the children they have sired are the worst of the crimes usually tried before him. Even so, he grasped the doctor's meaning, and quickly ushered the guests into supper.

  "An apoplexy,” he cried dismissively. I longed to believe it.

  Warm food provides a licence to believe that nothing can be amiss with life, and I had a brief wistful desire to join the diners. Then I apologised to our Lord for such sinful thoughts while a woman lay dead for an unknown reason, awaiting His and my attention. As I looked down at that still-lovely face, now pale in death, I lamented the abuse she had heaped upon God's gifts. We carried her inside to the powder room, and left Dr. Meek for a while to decide how she had died. The coroner must be informed if there were no clear reason for it.

  The squire, William Dacres, and I went not to the dining room, dearly though I would have liked to. I thought longingly of the happy winter evenings I had spent here at the squire's fireside eating his good victuals and basking in his good cheer, but now I entered dark territory at Diplock Hall. We went instead to his breakfast room, where the servants obligingly brought us some sustenance. Much as I welcomed it, it tasted of little while we waited for news. At last Dr. Meek rejoined us, but it was to ask only me to accompany him, not the squire or William.

  "Deuced odd,” I heard the squire say to William as we left.

  I thought so too, and foreboding returned as I followed the doctor back to the powder room.

  "I had thought it heart disease,” Dr. Meek said gravely.

  He is a youngish man, but I have great faith in him, albeit he is not such a believer in the old country cures as I am. Young men bring new ways with them.

  "Until I saw this,” the doctor continued.

  The clothing had been loosened now, but was still in place. All I saw at first was a spot of blood underneath the left breast. Then I realised that what I had taken for a design on the dress was in fact a round object sticking out from it. As Dr. Meek pulled it clear, out came darkened blood upon it. The instrument was something I recognised with shock.

  "A stiletto,” Dr. Meek confirmed.

  This was not in its usual sense of a dagger, but the so-named instrument women use in their needlework to create such holes as eyelets; it is long, strong—and, I presumed, lethal, if it struck the heart. I have seen my housekeeper stab at coarse cloths with hers often enough.

  "She was unfortunate,” he continued. “It went between the bone struts of her stays and found its target."

  A silence, as I wrestled with my conscience. “So she was murdered, Doctor,” I said at last.

  "This is a woman's tool. Could a woman have killed her?"

  Rapidly, I thought of the Sir Roger de Coverley, and those who had met her in the whirligig while she progressed down the set. It would take no great force to drive the stiletto in, but I saw no chance of a woman having had the opportunity to kill Mrs. Dacres, nor indeed any of the men without great risk. And yet, Constance Dacres had been moving from enemy to enemy on the men's side. The womenfolk opposite might have had little love for Constance Dacres, but would lack the opportunity.

  "Any man could have brought such an object if he had decided to kill Mrs. Dacres in advance. He could wait for an opportunity to arise in the crowds where many might be suspect,” I said unhappily. “What easier weapon to obtain and conceal unnoticed in hand or clothing. Nevertheless,” I felt obliged to point out, “she fell at the end of the whirligig.” I could have added, “where I stood,” but it was obvious enough.

  "She might not have died instantly,” Dr. Meek said. “I have heard of several cases of delayed death where the victim kept moving without difficulty for some little while."

  "She would have made some sign, cried out, even if all she felt was the pain of entry."

  Dr. Meek considered this. “The dance is fast, and hardly quiet."

  He was right. The Sir Roger de Coverley is usually a cheerful dance. The cries of “Hey!” were many as the dancers twirled and spun, and there was much laughter, too. A murderer could easily have covered any cry from Mrs. Dacres with one of his own.

  "She could not have been stabbed before she joined the set,” I said. “There would have been too great a risk while she stood alone at the doorway, and yet surely I would have seen if she had been stabbed in the line."

  Or would that be so? I then wondered. As the squire and Mrs. Dacres made their way down the set through and around the other couples, those gentlemen who had not yet “met” the lady would be watching the one in front, whose back (since he and the lady would pass on each other's left) might mask movements from those watching behind. Those who had already “met” the lady would not be watching her progress down the rest of the line of gentlemen, but the ladies’ side, as the squire made his way down the set. Yes, it might have been possible, I conceded.

  "We must inform the coroner,” Dr. Meek declared.

  "First the squire and the lady's husband,” I reminded him.

  We decided in this awkward situation that, having done so, I should remain with the squire, and Dr. Meek return to the dining room with William Dacres to inform the company of what was going on. I needed to talk to the squire in private.

  * * * *

  Once the news was imparted to Squire Holby, there was, as I expected, an appalled silence. Then: “What,” he enquired, “the devil do we do, Caleb?"

  Crime in Cuckoo Lees is a matter for careful consideration, as the village runs on well-oiled and accepted lines. Our unpaid parish constable, Samuel Byward, is hardly equipped to judge a murder, only to deliver the presumed guilty party to prison through the magistrate in order to await trial at the Assizes. Alternatively, a Bow Street Runner may be sent for to discover the miscreant. There is a drawback to this apparently simple solution: He would be an outsider, and as a result, other secrets in Cuckoo Lees could face the unwelcome light of day.

  Such as the smuggling arrangements for our tea, brandy, tobacco, and other such essential comforts of life.

  Cuckoo Lees lies near the smuggling route from the coast at Hythe to London, and, as has every other village, possesses its own organisation to deal with the goods. This organisation must therefore have its leaders. Obviously I cannot reveal the identity of our captain, but there is a stalwart lieutenant and his second in command.

  These are respectively myself and the squire.

  Somehow Mrs. Constance Dacres had discovered this, as had been evident from her threat to me. Our position was therefore very delicate, particularly since the squire is also our magistrate. We have our own enemies in Cuckoo Lees, but even they draw the line at bringing in the law from outside. But what should we do now?

  "We have no choice,” Squire Holby said gruffly. “We must solve this affair ourselves, send for Samuel and notify the coroner; then
put the villain behind bars."

  I agreed, with only one reservation, but this time it was I who had no choice. “You'll forgive me, Squire, but we're in too fine a pickle here."

  Rather to my surprise, he glared at me, but took my point. Not only might he be prejudiced in the matter, but I might myself, so we sent for the doctor and William Dacres again and candidly explained our dilemma. Since most people, poor and rich, benefit from our activities, we had a sympathetic audience. Nevertheless, I was aware that William Dacres would appear to have every reason to wish his wife dead, as would his son.

  "What about me?” William asked. He stared down at the body of his wife, and still I saw no emotion there, though this was a woman he had held in his arms and loved enough to marry. “She cuckolded me, made me a laughing stock, and would have ruined my son's happiness too. You'll think it strange the power she held over me, but you didn't know her as I did. It was as if she sucked the life blood from me, everything that made me a man. I'd say that makes me prejudiced, too."

  "I'm not prejudiced,” Dr. Meek pointed out.

  "How do we know?” William growled. “No, there's only one person I'd trust. The parson can find out who did this."

  Three pairs of eyes rested on me thankfully when I reluctantly nodded. “But with your assistance, Squire,” said I. The stakes were high. If I failed, the parsonage, Dorcas, Barnabas, and my whole peaceful life would be forfeit.

  * * * *

  The body of Constance Dacres was a grim reminder that time was short. Once the guests dispersed, there would be no solving of the crime amongst ourselves. Early in the evening we had been merry with wine and brandy, but now our minds were sobered with the responsibility before us. I allowed myself one brief image of my quiet study at the parsonage and Dorcas sitting there with her sewing. That brought unwelcome thoughts of the stiletto, so I hastily changed it to her baking a tench pie.

  The squire and I had a brief word alone in order to agree our way forward. I began the task with a final plea: “Squire, you're a magistrate. Are you sure—"

  "No, Caleb. This is your game of chess, and you must win it."

  And so I began. “You were her partner, Squire Holby. Tell me how that came about."

  "That devil woman,” he grunted, “came up to me and told me it was my duty to dance with her. I thought she'd be less trouble there than left on her own."

  "It seems unlikely that she could have been harmed during the early stages of the dance,” I began.

  He avoided my eye, naturally enough. I had been the person dancing with her. “I agree,” he said, fortunately.

  "Did you notice anything strange as you turned her at the end of the whirligig?"

  "The what?"

  Somewhat sheepishly, I explained Bertha's quaint term.

  "Can't say I did,” the squire replied to my question. “She wasn't speaking, but I took that as natural in the circumstances."

  I was no further forward. The answer to who killed her must lie in the Sir Roger de Coverley, and the old dance was laughing at me. “Very well, Squire. We must dance it again."

  He gaped at me and I explained my reasoning. “Dr. Meek can play the part of Mrs. Dacres."

  The squire made no objection to this eccentricity of mine. The rest of the guests could be jurors if they chose, but the greatest Judge of all would be on my side, and I trusted in Him that together we might reach the answer.

  It was with some difficulty that I managed to reassemble the set, but I had my way. There are advantages in being considered an eccentric elderly parson. Owing to the squire's excellent stock of brandy, Mr. Primrose was beyond accompanying us on the fiddle but his son nobly wound the music box and its raucous sound sufficed to convey the speed at which we had danced, despite the toll it took on my nerves and ears.

  I watched carefully as Dr. Meek ("Mrs. Dacres") took his place. In other less desperate circumstances I would have chuckled to see our serious young doctor honouring the squire with a curtsey. I carried out with straight face the early figures of the dance, feeling somewhat foolish stepping out with the doctor. However, when, as Mrs. Dacres, Dr. Meek approached the line of gentlemen in the whirligig, I asked another gentleman to stand in for me while I took an outsider's view.

  As I watched “Mrs. Dacres” approach I realised to my dismay that I had been mistaken. A strong lunge with a stiletto as she passed her enemy could hardly have escaped notice were it delivered by William or Thomas Dacres, Mr. Collett or Mr. Farrow—or even myself. Nor could it have been achieved when she approached the squire for the turns by the right hand. I was relieved that the squire was formally ruled out. He could in no way have delivered that blow to her far side without being seen.

  "Do you have the truth of it yet, Parson?” the squire called out hopefully.

  "No."

  "But it couldn't have been me. You agree?"

  "I do."

  The squire looked mightily relieved. The same went for William, Thomas, Christopher Collett, and Gerald Farrow. “None of them could use a right hand to inflict a blow on the far side of her body,” I declared.

  "Now, see here,” the squire began grandly, addressing the company at large, “you all heard Parson say I couldn't have done it, even though Mrs. Dacres threatened my Evelina. There's more, though. She threatened me tonight. Said she had others here, too.” He coughed in a meaningful way. “She held us in the palm of her hand, she said. That's you, Mr. Collett, and you, Mr. Farrow, and I, all in the same whirligig, as Parson would say. All lies,” he said firmly, as Mrs. Collett and Mrs. Farrow showed signs of swooning, and their husbands looked as scared as smugglers caught by the Preventive. I almost clapped, so sensible was the squire's move.

  "That woman,” the squire informed the company, “threatened to tell Mrs. Holby I'd been tumbling her in the hay. Mrs. Dacres, that is. I can tumble Mrs. Holby all I like."

  "And had you—er—tumbled her?” Mr. Collett asked faintly.

  "Zounds, sir, no.” The squire glared. “No more than you or Mr. Farrow had. But who'd believe us if she'd sworn to it?"

  A silence while Messrs. Collett and Farrow obviously realised with relief that they were neatly absolved from their sins, past and current. Except perhaps, I reminded myself, of murder.

  "What's more,” the squire continued, “she said she'd tell Mrs. Holby this, unless I refused to sanction the marriage between these two young people. I don't mind admitting it would have thrown the fox among the chickens, all right, if she'd poisoned Mrs. Holby's thoughts against me. But now the parson's showed I couldn't have killed her."

  I sighed. “You couldn't, Squire. Nor could a right-handed man in the line during the whirligig. But for a left-handed man it would be different, because the action would be masked from the rear by the gentleman's body, and from those ahead or opposite by Mrs. Dacres as she continued her turn to the left around the gentleman.” I paused. “Are any of you left-handed?"

  There was, not unexpectedly, an instant chorus of denials. “It can easily be ascertained,” I pointed out.

  "Do so,” barked the squire. Pen and paper was instantly brought, and each wrote with his left hand. There was no doubt. They were all right-handed.

  So, wearily now, we performed the dance yet again, myself included. I was too old for more than one such dance in an evening, and I grew heartily sick of Sir Roger's music. I was beginning to think I must have done the murder myself in a fit of absentmindedness, but then at last I saw how Mrs. Dacres had died.

  I took my colleagues aside, explained, and with sadness in our hearts we summoned the murderer into an adjoining room.

  "Widow Paxton,” I said, much grieved, “it was you, was it not, who slid that stiletto into Constance Dacres?"

  "It was.” She did not flinch. “And mighty grateful you all should be to me. Someone had to do it. She was ruining William's life, and Thomas's, not to mention those of others. Such as mine. She wanted to throw me out of Ten Trees. So I thought, I'm not long for this world. I have a
canker that grows the size of an apple. I took the stiletto in case I saw a chance this evening to take her with me after one last great dance."

  "It was murder,” I told her gravely.

  "Killing a mad cat. How did you know it was me?"

  "We ruled out all the women because Mrs. Dacres wasn't close enough to them. I forgot that after the last turn with the squire in the centre she would have to pass the last lady in line closely on the left side to get into the correct position to face her partner in the gentlemen's line again. No one would have seen you turn towards her as she did so. No one would have seen you stab her."

  She cackled. “I'm left-handed, as it happens. Even easier."

  "But,” I continued, still puzzled, “you were already in place when you saw her coming to join the set. Suppose she had not danced?"

  "I arranged that,” she answered with dignity. “I told her the squire was lusting after her and wanted to dance with her. He wouldn't make so much ado about Thomas and Evelina then. I knew Squire always had Sir Roger to end with."

  I was thankful I was but a lawyer in this matter, and that our Lord would be judging her sooner than any assize. This dance of life brings strange whirligigs, and as I returned to the parsonage that evening, my heart leapt to see the light still burning. Dorcas awaited me.

  "How was the Sir Roger de Coverley?” she asked me eagerly.

  She would know the terrible truth soon enough, but I would not spoil our dreams this evening. Dorcas could not perceive the ambiguity of my words. “As usual,” I said. “The best of all finishing dances."

  (c)2007 by Amy Myers

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  A COZY FOR THE JACK-O'-LANTERNS by James Powell

  Author of some 150 short stories of a mysterious and humor-ous sort, James Powell is one of our most valued contributors. Elements of fantasy occur in his tales, but always in the context of a mystery—often, as here, a whodunit. His stories have appeared in Best Detective Stories of the Year and The Year's Best Fantasy and Horror.