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

by Mike Ashley

  “Ask him.”

  As soon as the convicts arrived next morning, I confronted Davy Warren. Of the three of them, he was the one I liked most because of his impish sense of humour and his determination not to be quashed by authority. I never forgot that it was Davy’s money that earned me my first, succulent taste of Annie Creed and, even though the coins later turned out to have been minted out of pewter by Davy himself, I didn’t hold it against him. Annie – poor girl – never got to see a penny of it because the money was paid as rental to the naval officer enjoying her favours on a regular basis. When he discovered that I’d hired his mistress by means of forgery, he rewarded me with fifty lashes but I didn’t even blame that on Davy. Those two magical minutes with Hannah Richardson (in the person of Annie Creed) had filled me with the spirit of forgiveness. Besides, the scars on my back eventually faded.

  “I’m told that you found that table of mine, Davy,” I said.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You’re not supposed to be in my garden.”

  “I was taking a short cut to the woods,” he explained. “It’s where we go for a shit. I did no harm in the garden, sir.”

  “Someone did. They destroyed my table.”

  “I know. I saw a piece of it, poking out of that mound.”

  “What did you do?” I asked.

  “I told Luke about it so he could report it to you.”

  “And you think Cicero put the table there?”

  “Who else, sir? He’s the only one of us who could have done it.”

  “Why?”

  “He knew where the table was kept and knew where to hide it.”

  “But he had no reason to take it,” I argued. Davy turned his weasel face away as if wanting to contradict me but unwilling to do so. I grabbed him by the shoulders. “You believe he did, don’t you?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “All right, what was his motive?”

  “It’s not my place to say, Tom – Mr Beresford, that is.”

  “Tell me, damn you!” I ordered, waving a fist.

  Davy shrugged. “It’s this marriage of yours, sir. Cicero is afraid that it will change things.”

  “Change things?”

  “He likes it how it is – you and him, tending this lovely garden together. Mrs Beresford would change all that. Cicero is afraid that he’ll lose you, sir. You’re everything he’s got.”

  I was chastened. I’d never seen it from my gardener’s point of view. As a Negro, he’d always been an outsider among the convicts, resented, baited, mocked and abused. Working for me had given him back a small degree of dignity. My garden was his escape. My readiness to confide in him was the only sign of affection he’d been given since his arrest. Davy Warren may have seen something that eluded me. Cicero didn’t want me to take a wife because – in a sense – I was already married to him. We were botanical spouses.

  “It’s what it stood for, sir,” said Davy, hammering home his point. “That table was a wedding present and Cicero doesn’t want the wedding to take place. If it did, you’d have someone else.”

  My gardener was usually the first to arrive and the first to get started on the work that he loved so much. Because he was late that day, I began to wonder if he was trying to keep out of my way. When an hour had passed, I had doubts about his turning up at all. Eventually, however, he ambled into sight and gave his accustomed salute before moving towards the garden with his head down. I called him over and soon understood why he was avoiding me. It’s difficult to see two black eyes on a black man but the swollen lip, the flattened nose and the gashes on his temple could not be missed. My anger flared up.

  “You’ve been fighting with Ned Paget again,” I accused.

  “He attacked me, sir.”

  “I told you to keep clear of him.”

  “Ned was saying terrible things about me, sir.”

  “What sort of things?”

  “He said that I was a thief,” replied Cicero, “and that I took things from your house. I’d never do that, Mr Beresford. I swear it.”

  “But you did look into my house, didn’t you?”

  “Is that what Ned Paget told you?”

  “No,” I said, “it was Luke Fillimore and I believe him.” Cicero was shamefaced. “Well,” I pressed, “did you or didn’t you go up to the house?”

  “I only peeped through the window, sir.”

  “You trespassed, Cicero. You know my rules. No convict is permitted within twenty yards of the house. Why did you do it?”

  “I wanted to see those leaves again, sir.”

  “Then you should have asked me.”

  “You weren’t here, sir.”

  “No, Cicero. I rode over to Sydney to see my betrothed. How do you think that she’d feel if she’s sitting in our house – and it will be our house when we marry – and she sees you staring at her through the window? That’s enough to scare any woman.”

  “It’ll never happen again, sir.”

  “The best way to ensure that is to find myself another gardener.”

  “No!” he cried. “I like it here. I work hard for you, Mr Beresford. You’ve been kind to me. You’ve been my only friend.”

  “I’m wondering if I’ve been too kind and too friendly,” I said, watching him carefully. “I’ll not let anyone take liberties with me, Cicero, and I won’t brook any dishonesty. Do you hear me?” He nodded. “Now – did you steal that little table I made?”

  “No, sir!” he attested.

  “Did you take anything else of mine?”

  “No, sir!”

  “How did that table end where it did?”

  “I don’t know, sir.”

  There was an edge of defiance in his voice that worried me. He’d been truthful with me in the past but I was less convinced that he was being wholly honest with me this time. I remembered what Davy Warren had told me about a possible motive for the thefts.

  “Are you happy about me getting married?” I asked.

  “It’s nothing to do with me, sir.”

  “But it is, Cicero. My future wife is very fond of gardening so you’ll have to take your orders from two people. How will you cope with that?”

  His eyes flashed for a second. I had my answer.

  Ned Paget wasn’t working with the others in the field. Instead, he was sleeping against a monstrous eucalyptus tree with a girth of over twenty feet. It was a most appropriate place for him. Eucalypts break all the rules of botany by shedding leaves throughout the year. Out of a similar perversity in his nature, Ned Paget also broke all the rules. I kicked him unceremoniously awake.

  “Get up, you lazy dog!” I yelled.

  He swore, he spat and he hauled himself awkwardly to his feet. It was clear that he’d come off worse in the fight. His face was heavily bruised, his lips twice their normal size and his eyes blackened. Cuts and grazes abounded. But it was the way that he held himself that told me how much punishment he’d taken. He was hunched over, pressing one arm gently against some damaged ribs. Ned Paget couldn’t stand properly on both legs. Long periods of time in fetters had left him with a limp but there was a more serious disability now. I had no sympathy.

  “It looks as if Cicero gave you the hiding you deserve,” I said.

  “I’ll kill that cunt-faced nigger!”

  “Not in a fair fight. He’s got the measure of you, Ned.”

  “Black bastard!”

  “In any case,” I went on, sternly, “you were warned not to brawl with him. Left to himself, Cicero is a peaceable man. I told you that you’d lose your job here if you set on him again – yet you did.”

  “Only because of you, Tom,” he claimed.

  “Mr Beresford, please!”

  “You’ll always be Tom to me, no matter how high and mighty you think yourself. And because we went through that hell of a voyage together,” he said, shifting his feet to ease the pain, “I still got loyalties, see? I won’t let any man – white, black or yellow – steal from Tom Beresford. I
was hitting Cicero for you.”

  “No, Ned. You were disobeying my orders.”

  “I couldn’t let him get away with it.”

  “If he’s guilty,” I assured him, “then Cicero won’t get away with it, believe me, but I’m not convinced of his guilt yet. I’ve suspended him from his duties until I’ve found the real culprit.”

  “He’s the real culprit!”

  “Is he – or did you steal that table so that suspicion fell on him?” He glowed with indignation. “And it’s no good giving me that look of injured innocence,” I said. “You want Cicero’s job and the only way you could get that was by having him dismissed.”

  “Kangaroo shit!”

  “Go back to the barracks, Ned. One of the guards will take you.”

  “But I’ve work to do here.”

  “Not in that state. Besides, I won’t have you on my property until this crime has been solved. And if you turn out to be responsible,” I added, wagging a finger, “I’ll recommend to the governor that you’re sent to Van Diemen’s Land.”

  It was a threat that struck him like a blow. Muttering a string of expletives under his breath, Ned Paget hobbled off gingerly. Judging by his movements, he’d not be able to fight with Cicero for some time.

  Days of calm ensued. Since there were no more thefts, I was persuaded that either Cicero or Ned Paget had been responsible for the earlier crimes. When they were absent, everything settled down. And then, the unthinkable happened. I came downstairs one morning to find that my other wedding present, my display cabinet of a hundred leaves, had gone. Instinct made me run to the place where the little table had been found. Sure enough, my botanical bounty was also there, smashed beyond recall, the century of leaves scattered to the winds. I felt a rage deeper than I’d ever experienced before. I didn’t just want to catch the thief. I lusted for blood.

  “I’ll be away for a couple of days, Luke,” I told him, “staying with friends in town. I expect you to take responsibility here.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You know what’s to be done. Make sure that they do it.”

  “You can rely on me,” said Luke Filimore, glad to be put in charge. “I’ll crack the whip over them.”

  “Do that. And keep everyone away from the house.”

  I gave him no indication that I knew about the theft the previous night. What I wanted Luke to do was to pass on the information to the others. It would then work its way back to my two main suspects. Convicts had to be in the prison before curfew each night but there were ways of making nocturnal excursions. Locks could be picked, guards bribed. Cicero was my chief suspect because he knew where the display case was and just how much it meant to me. Ned Paget, on the other hand, had greater malevolence. Also, he was a practised thief. Even in his wounded condition, he could have sneaked out at night and made his way to Parramatta.

  I did some gardening of my own that evening. Instead of quitting the property, as I had told Luke Fillimore, I simply stayed in my house. I knew that the man I wanted would come again. Having me out of the way was too great a temptation. I also knew what the target would be – the manuscript on which I’d worked for over two years and which was almost complete. Botanical Observations in New South Wales by Thomas Beresford would make my name and establish me once and for all as the botanist I yearned to be.

  Because of its importance, I kept the manuscript locked in a solid wooden box under my bed. It was the reason that the thief who stole my display case of leaves had been unable to get at it. Coming into my bedroom while I was there was too big a risk to take. With the house empty and unguarded, he’d be able to search every part of it. All that I had to do was to wait. It was hours past midnight when he finally came. I heard the crackle of vegetation under his feet. It was my cue to hide in the cupboard in my bedroom. I had a loaded pistol in my hand. I wasn’t there to take a prisoner.

  He let himself into the house by forcing open the back door. I listened intently for sounds of movement. Would it be Cicero’s shambling walk or Ned Paget’s exaggerated limp? Davy Warren’s patter, perhaps? Or was my visitor one-eyed Luke Fillimore, a common thief who had – albeit unwittingly – stolen books once before? It might even be someone else altogether. The search of the downstairs was thorough. When I heard footsteps on the staircase, I tensed myself for action.

  The door of my bedroom squeaked open. The footsteps got closer. Another search began. It was not long before the box was dragged out from beneath my bed and the lock smashed open. I could hold back no more. Somebody was trying to destroy me, to stop me from turning myself into a happily married man with a reputation as a botanist. With cold fury, I flung open the door, saw, to my horror, that he was about to set my precious manuscript alight with the flame of a candle, and fired the gun. The bullet split his skull wide open.

  When I’d calmed down, I wrapped him in a blanket and dragged him downstairs. I’d already dug the grave. It was tucked away in a quiet corner of the garden. Using the wheelbarrow, I took the corpse to the deep slit in the ground and tipped it in as if it were so much rubbish. Then I grabbed the spade and covered that treacherous employee of mine with six feet of earth. I was saved at last and my botanical masterpiece was saved with me. It could still be dedicated with love to Margaret.

  I was congratulating myself on my success when a figure suddenly stepped out of the gloom to tower over me. Cicero gave a macabre laugh.

  “I knew it was Davy Warren,” he said, “because I followed him when he climbed out of prison. I was going to kill him for you, sir. But you took care of him yourself. I could have you hanged for that.”

  “I could have you flogged for escaping from custody.”

  “You wouldn’t do that, sir, or the truth would come out.”

  “Shut up!” I yelled, “or I’ll kill you as well.”

  It was an absurd threat. Cicero was much bigger and stronger than me. Besides, I was exhausted from filling in the grave. My only hope lay in retrieving the gun from the house. He’d anticipated that.

  “I heard the shot,” he explained, calmly. “When you dragged Davy out, I went into the house to get your gun and hide it in the garden. It belongs to me now, Mr Beresford. And so do you.”

  “Don’t tell on me, Cicero,” I begged. “I’ll pay you anything.”

  “Money is no use to me, sir.”

  “You can’t betray me – we’re friends, aren’t we?”

  “Yes,” he said, “we’re good friends. That’s why you have to think again about this wedding. You can’t ask a wife to live in a house with a body buried in the garden. It’s not right. It’s not Christian. You don’t need to get married, Mr Beresford,” he went on, stating the terms of his contract with quiet menace. “Your wife would only come between us. We’re accomplices in murder, you see. That means I save you from the hangman – and you teach me how to read your book.” He looked down at the grave. “We can plant some bushes there to hide our little secret. Nobody else will ever know, Mr Beresford, will they?”

  Cicero grinned in the darkness. It was his garden now.

  The Living and the Dead

  Judith Cutler

  Judith Cutler is probably best known for her series of novels featuring Sophie Powers who, like Cutler, was a lecturer at an inner-city college in Birmingham. That series began with Dying Fall (1995). More recently in Power on Her Own (1998), Cutler started a new series featuring Kate Power, a former Metropolitan Detective transferred to Birmingham following a personal tragedy. These hard-edged contemporary series might not prepare you for the fact that Judith Cutler has also written several short stories in which cricketer W. G. Grace is the sleuth, plus the following story, set during the period of the Regency.

  After the ungodly wickedness that took place in Stelling St Anthony, some might wonder why I should choose to stay.

  The living, deep in the heart of the Midlands, was bestowed on me by a distant cousin on my mother’s side. It did little more than provide me with hearth and home, b
ut for a young man fresh from Cambridge with no family to support that was enough. My wants were more generously provided for than those of my parishioners, who never seemed to begrudge me the tithe that was my due. They took me, a stranger, into their homes, and treated me with the simple courtesy that is the very heart of hospitality. If their meals were little more than the herbs of which the Book of Proverbs speaks, they were nonetheless more enjoyable than the stalled ox provided on occasion by the family at Elmstead House. Here the dowager Lady Elmstead still ruled, her husband and his brother having ended their lives in violent hunting accidents. Her son, Lord Elmstead, as weak-willed as he was weak-chinned, had yet to find a wife that met his mother’s stringent requirements.

  The Elmsteads could, as her ladyship never tired of reminding me, trace their ancestry back to the Norman Invasion. As a student of history, I could have pointed out that William tended to bestow largesse on the most vicious of his henchmen; as a student of human nature, I knew better than to bite the hand that provided me with my after supper cup of tea in an exquisite china cup. It would succeed an admirably cooked repast, her ladyship’s chef sending up a succession of elegant courses.

  Her ladyship abhorring anything lacking style, there was never any doubt that I was there simply to make up the numbers at table when we took our places in the lofty dining room, complete with huge Tudor fireplace. Sometimes I was there to partner a tongue-tied maiden recently out but yet to gain town bronze; at other times I was to squire an elderly farmer’s wife, intent on eating her way through every dish, be it Davenport fowls, salsify fried in butter or Rhenish cream. Most of my partners, aware of my status, preferred to converse with the man to their other side. I was left to contemplate the linenfold panelling and set of family portraits; my favourite was an enchanting Lely redhead.

  The ladies having withdrawn, I was never expected to do more than sip and circulate the port. I might listen to the latest masculine on dits, but not contribute to them. Not, it has to be said, that Lord Elmstead provided much in the way of conversation. His less than robust health was the excuse for his having been tutored at home. Others said it was because he was beyond control. Whatever the reason, he lacked the social skills and ease with one’s peers that a spell at school imposes. Much as one strives to love all one’s fellow men, I confess to having found it hard to be attracted to this ginger-haired, loose-lipped, ungainly young man, whose ease in ferreting out his interlocutors’ weaknesses was matched only by his enjoyment of exploiting them. An aristocrat he might be by birth, but a gentleman in behaviour he was not.