The Mammoth Book of Historical Whodunnits Volume 3 (The Mammoth Book Series)

by Mike Ashley

  I felt a bit uneasy – an intruder into that world – but, at length a voice from within the house called her name. Pegging the towel about her shoulders, she carefully poured the bucket of water on a wild rosebush that climbed a treillage in front of her house, then gently closed the door on the quiet half hour she had unknowingly shared with two onlookers.

  At ten, it was the dogs that took a turn with our thoughts. A distant howl began a procession of barking that seemed to blanket all of Philadelphia. Just when all became still, another dog would begin and the process would start anew. It took some forty minutes for the game to lose its appeal and once again all was quiet.

  At eleven, the nightwatch made his way down Chestnut Street. With his oil lantern swinging in hand, he travelled back and forth on the stone street, checking windows and doors and making sure all was well. The light of his lamp disappeared as he turned up Fifth, and I thought of my own time on the night watch. I wondered if ever some unseen eyes had once followed my movements just as we followed the watchman tonight.

  And so from our little lookout, the night passed, nine to ten, ten to eleven, and finally a far-off bell tolled twelve times. The lights of the Crow on the Shoulder Tavern were the last to be extinguished and the street before us lay in hushed quietude.

  Presently, the grilled iron-gate that stood before Carpenters’ Hall creaked, then swung open by some unseen hand. A shadowy figure of a man, tall though barely visible under the pale moon, tread softly down the stone path, then onto the grassy lawn. His footfalls nearly inaudible, he crept steadily forward with what appeared to be a musket in his right hand.

  The mysterious apparition stopped for a moment, alerted by the approaching footsteps of another man making his way down Chestnut. The first ducked behind an elm, settling into a crouch. Constable O’Boyle and I took the same posture. We all looked on for five minutes as the stranger strolled leisurely down the street before disappearing into a house on Fifth.

  The night prowler continued toward us, passing at one point within arm’s length from our secret vantage. He halted at the north-west corner of the west wing and seemed to be counting planks on the wall. I glanced at the library window where Uncle Benjamin waited in darkness, but I saw nothing save the reflection of a half moon on the glass.

  The musket in the man’s hands proved not to be a musket at all, but rather a lever bar with which the man set to work, removing a board from the corner of the building. When there was a sufficient space between board and building, he pushed the bar into the groove and gave it a jerk, whereupon the board groaned, then snapped. The man eagerly reached his right hand in and groped for some unseen object in the open space where the board had been.

  The events that transpired next came in such rapid succession I cannot say what thoughts passed through my mind. It was, to be sure, one of those occasions when one’s body is set into motion before the mind has had sufficient time to decide on a proper course. It was our raptured watch of these strange activities that caused us not to hear and see the approach of another figure whose presence, beneath a dark, hooded cape coat, was only revealed when the glint of steel was seen shining through the darkness. The metal object landed with a thud on the board directly above the first man’s hand.

  Springing through tangled branches I landed full-force on the back of the mysterious hooded figure who fought and thrashed like a trapped animal. But the struggle was short-lived and I soon slipped my manacles around a pair of wrists. O’Boyle likewise had the first man in check, though the constable used only the reason of his pistol.

  A light was lit in the library window and we were soon joined by our out-of-breath companion. Benjamin stepped toward us and lifted his lantern high. Its light reflected on a metal kitchen cleaver stuck tightly into the wood, just above a missing wall plank. He reached into the empty space and, with some effort, his hand emerged with a rather large cloth sack. But the sack must have been old, rotted by time and weather. When Benjamin drew his light close to it, the bottom gave way, and pieces of eight, paper notes, and silver plate spilled onto the lawn of Carpenters’ Hall.

  “Ah ha!” he exclaimed. “So that is what you were after, Lieutenant Becker.” Benjamin turned to the two prisoners, now both under the guard of O’Boyle’s pistol. “Now, let us see what face lies hidden behind this hooded cape coat.” Benjamin stepped forward and pulled back the hood. The lantern was raised, and its light fell on the piercing, vengeful eyes of Elizabeth Salisbury.

  When I arrived at Market Street the next morning, Benjamin was again at his workbench, making some adjustments on his curious trap. His monotone whistling sounded like the plucking of a single out-of-pitch lute string and gave no clue to the identity of the tune. Upon seeing my face, he dropped everything and ushered me to our waiting chairs in the drawing area. His eyes showed the readiness of a man eager to reveal his astute line of reasoning.

  “Now, where should I begin, Wendell? Oh yes, the parchment. You see, the parchment paper found on the first dead man contained a message which was unclear, though it seemed to indicate a meeting at Carpenters’ Hall. But the paper itself was the most telling detail, for it was, as I mentioned, an English parchment of a kind not used in some five to ten years. This bit of information I stored away for a time.” He tapped the side of his head with a forefinger.

  “The next morning when we found a second man dead, I discovered two more very telling facts. The first was that the three English spice merchants were once soldiers. This, of course, I induced from the cross of St George and the military airs of Mr Becker. And as things turned, Becker freely admitted they were once in the service of the King, though he claimed they had not served in America. But I knew this was not so, and I further knew that they were once in General Howe’s army, which occupied Philadelphia during our war for independence.”

  “How could you have possibly come to that conclusion?” I asked, with astonishment.

  “Ah! Wendell. You are becoming more and more adept at uncovering a case’s relevant details, but oft times those details are more subtle than footprints or poisons – they are merely words. Mr Becker claimed he and the two other Englishmen had never visited Philadelphia. Yet recall the words of the innkeeper, who reported that arrangements were made weeks in advance for their quarters. And those arrangements included the requesting of rooms with windows facing Carpenters’ Hall. How was it that men who had never visited our city could give such a specific request?”

  Benjamin paused, offering a liquorice drop from a bowl on the side table and, after taking one for himself, continued. “During the war, the British soldiers were housed at the various inns and in Carpenters’ Hall itself. As you know, Deborah and the rest of my household were forced to leave Philadelphia at this time and my own house became home to the notorious villain and thief, Captain John Andre of the British Army.

  “In those days, Elizabeth Salisbury’s father was a wealthy man, but he died penniless soon after the English occupation. How could this be? It is my theory that during the war, the old innkeeper, being a Loyalist, gladly quartered the British soldiers. He was, to be sure, a very wealthy man but, it is said, he hoarded his fortune. The two young recruits must have found his hiding place one day and planned to keep the fortune for themselves. But then the French navy sailed up the Delaware and was joined by the brave men of the Continental Army.” Benjamin paused and gave me an acknowledging nod. “It appeared Philadelphia would soon be liberated. And so, the two soldiers must have enlisted the aid of their lieutenant and told him of the innkeeper’s fortune. However, since they could not retreat with gold coins and silver plate in their pockets, they would have to leave it and return later, at war’s end. It so happened that one wing of Carpenters’ Hall was under repairs at that time and so they hid the old innkeeper’s loot behind the ninth board in the north-west corner of the west wing.

  “Soon after the British were forced to leave, the innkeeper became deathly ill and told his daughter of the soldiers and how they had
stolen from him. It must have been quite a horrible shock to the young woman. Through the years, their faces become etched in her memory. Despite the beards that they all wore to disguise their faces, she recognized them at once.”

  “It all holds well,” I said in some amazement. “But how did Pascales fit in?”

  “Pascales was a victim of fortune, Wendell. Elizabeth Salisbury knew the men stole from her father. But how would she exact her revenge? Fate stepped in and offered an opportunity. The chambermaid was ill, you will recall, and so Mrs Salisbury would have been required to perform the maid’s duties. When she cleaned the room of the South American tobacco broker, she found several bottles of poison. She then merely took a small amount and, one by one, began to poison the three. When the young woman checked on the poison’s progress, it must have been quite a shock to find her victim completely immobile, yet very much alive. She retrieved a cleaver from the kitchen with plans to perform before their very eyes the ancient punishment for thieves.

  “Well, how does my reasoning hold up?” Benjamin asked with some satisfaction as he sat back in his armchair.

  “It holds well. But how did you know of the hiding place and that the lieutenant would try to make an attempt last night?”

  “Ah, yes, the iron lever bar found in Captain Becker’s room was the final clue. Why would a seller of spices and sundries carry one with him? To get at some object seemed a likely answer. But the criminal is a wily creature and, like a clever mouse, not so easily trapped. So I decided to give him a little incentive and he took the bait very nicely. I informed Lieutenant Becker that many Philadelphians still harbour ill feeling toward British soldiers. To avoid further incident, he would be required to leave town immediately.

  “Then all that remained was to wait to see if the trap was set properly. I thought it certain that Becker would make an attempt on whatever he was after, and that his steps would, in all probability, be followed by the murderer. Who that murderer was came as a shock, however, for I did not think it likely Mrs Salisbury capable of such crimes. I was inclined to think Mr Salisbury was the guilty party.”

  “It all fits very well, Uncle Benjamin,” I said. “Very well, indeed.”

  Benjamin took another liquorice drop from the bowl on the table. “And now the story is complete,” he said, then sat back comfortably in his chair with the contented look of a fat Tom cat.

  The Serpent’s Back

  Ian Rankin

  Ian Rankin is undoubtedly Britain’s best-selling male writer of detective fiction, best known for his novels featuring Inspector John Rebus of the Lothian and Borders police. The series began with Knots and Crosses (1987) and from the start has portrayed a psychologically dark and violent world. In the later novels in the series Rankin became fascinated with how echoes of the past haunt the present, the novels almost taking on an extra dimension of time against the existing harsh dimensions of place. Rankin’s fascination with the past led him to write several short radio plays set in Edinburgh at the end of the eighteenth century, the first of which was adapted into the following short story. It features Cullender, a “caddy”, or personal escort who looks after the safety of visitors, but who knows only too well the perils of the city.

  This was, mind you, back in 1793 or ’94. Edinburgh was a better place then. Nothing ever happens here now, but back then . . . back then everything was happening.

  Back then a caddie was indispensible if you happened to be visiting the town. If you wanted someone found, if a message needed delivering, if you wanted a bed for the night, fresh oysters, a shirt-maker, or the local hoor, you came to a caddie. And if the claret got the better of you, a caddie would see you safely home.

  See, the town wasn’t safe, Lord no. The streets were mean. The hifalutin’ were leaving the old town and crossing the Nor’ Loch to the New. They lived in Princes Street and George Street, or did until they could no longer stand the stench. The old loch was an open sewer by that time, and the old town not much better.

  I was called Cullender, Cully to my friends. No one knew my first name. They need only say “Cullender” and they’d be pointed in my direction. That’s how it was with young Master Gisborne. He had newly arrived by coach from London, and feared he’d never sit down again . . .

  “Are you Cullender? My good friend Mr Wilks told me to ask for you.”

  “Wilks?”

  “He was here for some weeks. A medical student.”

  I nodded. “I recall the young gentleman particularly,” I lied.

  “I shall require a clean room, nothing too fancy. My pockets aren’t bottomless.”

  “How long will you be staying, Master?”

  He looked around. “I’m not sure. I’m considering a career in medicine. If I like the faculty, I may enroll.”

  And he fingered the edges of his coat. It was a pale blue coat with bright silver buttons. Like Master Gisborne, it was overdone and didn’t quite fit together. His face was fat like a whelp’s, but his physique was lean and his eyes shone. His skin had suffered neither disease nor malnourishment. He was, I suppose, a fine enough specimen, but I’d seen fine specimens before. Many of them stayed, seduced by Edinburgh. I saw them daily in the pungent howffs, or slouching through the narrow closes, heads bowed. None of them looked so fresh these days. Had they been eels, the fishwives would have tossed them in a bucket and sold them to only the most gullible.

  The most gullible, of course, being those newly arrived in the city.

  Master Gisborne would need looking after. He was haughty on the surface, cocksure, but I knew he was troubled, wondering how long he could sustain the act of worldliness. He had money but not in limitless supply. His parents would be professional folk, not gentry. Some denizens would gull him before supper. Me? I was undecided.

  I picked up his trunk. “Shall I call a chair?” He frowned. “The streets here are too narrow and steep for coaches. Haven’t you noticed? Know why they’re narrow?” I sidled up to him. “There’s a serpent buried beneath.” He looked ill at ease so I laughed. “Just a story, Master. We use chairmen instead of horses. Good strong Highland stock.”

  I knew he had already walked a good way in search of me, hauling his trunk with him. He was tired, but counting his money too.

  “Let’s walk,” he decided, “and you can acquaint me with the town.”

  “The town, Master,” I said, “will acquaint you with itself.”

  We got him settled in at Lucky Seaton’s. Lucky had been a hoor herself at one time, then had been turned to the Moderate movement and now ran a Christian rooming house.

  “We know all about medical students, don’t we, Cully?” she said, while Gisborne took the measure of his room. “The worst sinners in Christendom.”

  She patted Master Gisborne on his plump cheek, and I led him back down the treacherous stairwell.

  “What did she mean?” he asked me.

  “Visit a few howffs and you’ll find out,” I told him. “The medical students are the most notorious group of topers in the city, if you discount the lawyers, judges, poets, boatmen, and Lords this-and-that.”

  “What’s a howff?”

  I led him directly into one.

  There was a general fug in what passed for the air. Pipes were being smoked furiously, and there were no windows to open, so the stale fumes lay heavy at eye level. I could hear laughter and swearing and the shrieks of women, but it was like peering through a haar. I saw one-legged Jack, balancing a wench on his good knee. Two lawyers sat at the next table along, heads close together. A poet of minor repute scribbled away as he sat slumped on the floor. And all around there was wine, wine in jugs and bumpers and bottles, its sour smell vying with that of tobacco.

  But the most noise came from a big round table in the furthest corner, where beneath flickering lamplight a meeting of the Monthly Club was underway. I led Gisborne to the table, having promised him that Edinburgh would acquaint itself with him. Five gentlemen sat round the table. One recognised me immed
iately.

  “Dear old Cully! What news from the world above?”

  “No news, sir.”

  “None better than that!”

  “What’s the meeting this month, sirs?”

  “The Hot Air Club, Cully.” The speaker made a toast of the words. “We are celebrating the tenth anniversary of Mr Tytler’s flight by montgolfier over this very city.”

  This had to be toasted again, while I explained to Master Gisborne that the Monthly Club changed its name regularly in order to have something to celebrate.

  “I see you’ve brought fresh blood, Cully.”

  “Mr Gisborne,” I said, “is newly arrived from London and hopes to study medicine.”

  “I hope he will, too, if he intends to practise.”

  There was laughter and replenishing of glasses.

  “This gentleman,” I informed my master, “is Mr Walter Scott. Mr Scott is an advocate.”

  “Not today,” said another of the group. “Today he’s Colonel Grogg!”

  More laughter. Gisborne was asked what he would drink.

  “A glass of port,” my hapless charge replied.

  The table went quiet. Scott was smiling with half his mouth only.

  “Port is not much drunk in these parts. It reminds some people of the Union. Some people would rather drink whisky and toast their Jacobite ‘King O’er the Water.’ ” Someone at the table actually did this, not heeding the tone of Scott’s voice. “But we’re one nation now,” Scott continued. That man did like to make a speech. “And if you’ll drink some claret with us, we may yet be reconciled.”