EQMM, August 2007

by Dell Magazine Authors

  "Who are you?"

  "My name's Jamie Feldon."

  Vaughn shook his head. “Do I know you?"

  "Not really, but we've met."

  "What can I do for you?"

  Jamie said brightly, “I've come to see you about making amends.” He nodded at the Champagne.

  "Amends?” Vaughn asked, frowning. “What did you do to me?"

  "Oh,” Jamie said, “it's not what I did to you. It's what you did to me."

  "To you? What—?” Vaughn asked. But before he could continue, Jamie lunged forward and swung the bottle into the side of the businessman's head.

  The businessman went down like a rock.

  * * * *

  Five minutes later Charles Vaughn came to.

  Jamie was standing over him, aiming the man's pistol at his chest, the grip of the gun wrapped in a napkin he'd found in a nearby trash bin.

  "What,” Vaughn gasped, “what's this all about?” He squinted.

  "Amends,” he said. “Like I said."

  "But I don't even know you.... What'd I do?"

  "You really don't remember, do you?"

  "No. I swear."

  "Well, take a good look."

  "I'm sorry. Really. Please put down the gun. We can talk about it."

  "Think back,” Jamie said in a smooth voice. “Think back to late March. You were in the Lincoln Brew Pub."

  "I go there all the time."

  "I know. But this particular day you should remember. You started to walk out the door, but all of a sudden you jumped back, like you saw a goddamn ghost. You spilled my Bloody Mary all over me. And then you just run out the back door.” Jamie gave a cold laugh. “Do you say you're sorry? Do you offer to pay for the dry cleaning? No."

  "Wait...” Vaughn was shaking his head. “I remember that. But ... Wait, how did you find me?"

  "Just asked the bartender at the Lincoln Pub what your name was. Then I Googled you and found where you lived and worked. Had to see you alone, of course. Didn't want your family around."

  "You have to understand—at the bar back then in March? That guy I was telling you about, the attacker? I thought he was outside. I was afraid."

  Jamie shrugged. “I was supposed to pick up my kid for visitation but I had that drink all over me. Couldn't pick him up looking like that, could I? I had to go home and change. I was late and his mother'd taken him someplace with her by the time I got there. Made a big deal about it with the court, too."

  "I'm sorry, but—"

  "Sorry, but,” Jamie mocked. “See, I've been putting up with crap like that all my life. People've insulted me, cheated me, made fun of me, bumped into me ever since I was a kid. And I've never had the guts to fight back. I just swallowed it all.... I get walked over and I never have the balls to do anything. But a week ago I decided I'm not going to put up with it anymore. People're going to make amends to me for what they've done. And you're the first on my list."

  "Make amends?” Vaughn gasped. “But I just spilled something on you. What do you want? You want money?"

  "No, I want you to die,” Jamie said matter-of-factly and shoved the gun against Vaughn's head, then pulled the trigger.

  After he cleaned the blood off his own face and hands Jamie wrapped the dead man's fingers around the gun and quickly left the garage. He looked around. Nobody seemed to have heard the shot. He walked slowly down the stairs and out to the lot where he was parked, carrying the Champagne. Jamie'd taken the bottle to use as a weapon; it was something that nobody would be suspicious of. He'd planned to either beat Vaughn to death with it, or, if it broke, use the jagged neck to slash the man's carotid artery.

  But Vaughn had actually been carrying a gun! If the businessman was really so jittery about whatever'd happened on St. Patrick's Day, the cops might get the idea he'd gone over the edge and killed himself. Or maybe they'd think that guy who'd attacked him had finally tracked him down.

  Jamie climbed in his car and drove slowly out of the parking lot. He kept hearing Vaughn's words in his mind.

  At the bar back then in March? That guy I was telling you about, the attacker? I thought he was outside. I was afraid.

  Excuses, Jamie reflected in disgust. There were always excuses.

  And he wasn't going to accept them anymore.

  Jamie was going to be true to his resolution. The TV show he'd seen had changed him forever. People had to make amends for their transgressions, and he was going to be the angel of justice to make sure they did.

  Who next? He glanced down at the list and noticed his wife's name, but she was at the bottom. He'd have to handle that one carefully since he'd be a prime suspect in her death.

  But there were plenty of scores to settle before her.

  He saw the name below Vaughn's.

  Carole, in Scituate. She was a thirty-five-year-old bank manager he'd taken out on a date in February. They'd gone to the Red Lobster, All You Can Eat ... and she sure had.

  But afterwards, a double insult: She'd refused to sleep with him and then she'd never called, like she'd promised.

  It was seven-thirty. Did he have time to take care of Carole tonight?

  Sure he did, Jamie decided. Tomorrow was Saturday; he could sleep in. Besides, there were a lot of names on his list; it'd feel good to mark another one off.

  He lit a cigarette, only his fourth of the day, and headed for the turnpike.

  (c)2007 by Jeffery Deaver

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  THE SHAKESPEARE EXPRESS by Edward Marston

  Edward Marston's forty-some crime novels mostly belong to four separate series, set in four distinct periods of history: the 11th century, the Elizabethan era, London after the Great Fire of 1666, and the Victorian period. The former university history lecturer is adept at bringing the past alive, as readers of his latest Christopher Redmayne Victorian novel, The Iron Horse (Allison & Busby,) will see.

  * * * *

  Art by Allen Davis

  * * * *

  1938

  Have you traveled on the Shakespeare Express before?” she asked.

  "No,” he answered. “This is our first visit to England. Mary Anne and I are still trying to find our feet."

  "It's a wonderful train. In the old days, you could only get to Stratford by changing at Leamington Spa—a dreadful nuisance. Ten years ago, they introduced the Shakespeare Express so that we could go direct from Paddington to Stratford-upon-Avon."

  "That will suit us fine."

  Cyrus and Mary Anne Hillier had been standing on the railway platform that morning when they fell into conversation with the attractive young woman in a tailored suit that somehow managed to look both smart and casual. Dipping down towards one eye, her hat concealed much of her close-cropped fair hair. Since their arrival in the country, they had found English people rather reserved, but here was the exception to the general rule. Tall, shapely, and impeccably well bred, she described herself as an unrepentant worshiper at the altar of the Bard.

  "Then you and Cyrus are two of a kind,” said Mary Anne, looking fondly at her husband. “He's written books on Shakespeare."

  "Really?” said the other wo-man. “How marvellous!"

  "Cyrus is a professor of Drama at Penn State University. In fact, he's the chairman of the department."

  "That means nothing over here, honey,” he said modestly.

  "Well, it should do."

  "I'm just an anonymous mem-ber of the audience today."

  "You're an expert,” his wife in-sisted.

  "I agree,” said the younger woman. “If you've written books on a subject, you must be an authority.” She offered her hand. “It's an honour to meet you, Professor.” They shook hands. “My name is Rosalind Walker, by the way. I'm not an authority on anything."

  "Except the Shakespeare Express,” noted Cyrus.

  They shared a laugh. The three of them were soon on first-name terms. Rosalind learned that they had saved up for years in order to make the pilgrimage to Stratford-u
pon-Avon. She warmed to them. They were a delightful middle-aged couple who seemed to complement each other perfectly. Cyrus was a short, stout man with a bushy black beard flecked with silver. He was shrewd, watchful, and bristling with quiet intelligence. Mary Anne, by contrast, a trim, angular woman, was spirited and voluble. It was left to her to boast about her husband's academic career, to talk about their two children, and to recount the pleasures of their Atlantic crossing.

  "How long are you staying in Stratford?” asked Rosalind.

  "Three nights,” replied Mary Anne. “At the Shakespeare Hotel."

  "Very appropriate."

  "That's what we thought."

  "Tony and I usually stay at the Billesley Manor."

  "Tony?"

  "My brother. He's as mad about Shakespeare as I am.” Rosalind glanced at her watch. “He should be here by now. Tony had better get a move on. The train leaves at nine twenty-five on the dot."

  "What time does it reach Stratford?” asked Cyrus.

  "At eleven thirty-three precisely."

  "You certainly know your schedule."

  "On the Great Western Railway, punctuality is a watchword."

  "Do we stop on the way?"

  "Yes—at High Wycombe, Leamington Spa, and Warwick. There'll be something of an exodus at Leamington Spa."

  "Will there?” asked Mary Anne in surprise. “Why catch a through train to Stratford then get off before we reach it?"

  "The passengers will reach it in time,” explained Rosalind. “Their trip includes a coach trip, you see. They visit Guy's Cliffe and Kenilworth before having lunch at Warwick Castle. The coach then brings them on to Stratford so that they can see all the sights before catching the train back to London."

  "I bet you can tell us the exact time that it leaves,” said Cyrus.

  "Five-thirty."

  He grinned. “Are you employed by the railway company?"

  "No—I'm a regular passenger, that's all."

  "So I gather."

  "Matinée performances start early so that people will have a chance to get back to the station in time to catch the train home. The Memorial Theatre prefers to give a full text."

  "I'm all in favor of that, Rosalind. I want my money's worth."

  "It does mean that performances can be very long. The last Hamlet went on for well over four hours."

  "Cyrus could sit and watch all day,” said Mary Anne, beaming with approval. “He relishes every single word."

  "So do I, as a rule,” said Rosalind, “but I doubt if I'll do that this afternoon. Troilus and Cressida is not my favorite play—too dark and brutal for my taste. But it's so rarely performed that I felt I had to catch it."

  "I love the play,” admitted Cyrus. “I did a production of it with my students last year. In my view, Troilus and Cressida is a neglected masterpiece. And, as it happens,” he went on, “its themes have taken on an unfortunate topicality."

  "In what way?"

  "Look at the newspapers, Rosalind. The situation is increasingly grim. War clouds seem to be gathering all over Europe."

  "Too true!” she sighed, pulling a face.

  "The play is essentially about war and its implications. It's a pity you can't invite Adolf Hitler over to see it. He'd learn how futile war really is. One of the papers reckoned that if things go on as they are doing, Britain might be dragged into the conflict."

  "Oh, I hope not. Tony would rush to enlist."

  "A good patriot, obviously."

  "My brother just likes adventure, that's all."

  As they were talking, the platform had been slowly filling up and the noise level had risen markedly. There was a tangible air of anticipation. When the train came into the station, everyone surged towards the cream-and-brown carriages. Rosalind stood on tiptoe to look around her.

  "Where on earth can he be?” she said anxiously.

  "You'll have to go without him,” suggested Mary Anne.

  "Impossible—Tony has our tickets!"

  "Oh dear!"

  "Ah, there he is,” declared Rosalind, looking back towards the barrier. “Do excuse me, I'll have to go.” She moved away and tossed a farewell comment over her shoulder. “I'll see you at the theatre."

  "What a charming young woman!” said Mary Anne.

  "Yes,” agreed Cyrus, helping her into the carriage.

  Lifting up his suitcase, he paused long enough to watch Rosalind Walker greet a tall young man near the rear of the train. After exchanging a few words, the two of them got into a carriage. Mary Anne put her head out of the open door.

  "Come on, Cyrus,” she cajoled. “What are you waiting for?"

  * * * *

  The locomotive was an elegant green monster of gleaming metal. It left on time in an explosion of steam and sustained clamor. When it hit its cruising speed, the train took on a steady rhythmical beat. Mary Anne was soon asleep. Travel of any kind invariably made her eyelids droop and her husband was grateful. It meant that he was spared any conversation and could concentrate on going through the text of Troilus and Cressida once more, savoring its multiple pleasures without having to persuade his wife that they actually existed. Mary Anne had many virtues and he loved her for them. She was not, however, an academic. Plays only existed at a surface level for her. She missed their deeper subtleties.

  After stopping at High Wycombe, the train steamed on through the Oxfordshire countryside, rattling amiably and leaving a thick, gray cloud of smoke in its wake. When it eventually slowed again, Cyrus looked up, expecting to see the name of Leamington Spa on the station. Instead, he discovered that they were making a brief stoppage at Banbury. Back in motion once more, the Shakespeare Express gathered speed, its insistent chuffing like an endless stream of iambic pentameters.

  It was not until they reached their destination that Cyrus nudged his wife awake. Mary Anne blinked her eyes and sat up abruptly. She peered through the window.

  "Where are we?” she asked.

  "Stratford-upon-Avon."

  "Already?"

  "You've been asleep for two hours."

  "Never!"

  "As long as you don't do it during the matinée."

  "I won't, Cyrus, I promise. I'd never let you down."

  "William Shakespeare is the person you'd be letting down."

  Mary Anne was alarmed. “I'd never dare to do that—it would be a form of sacrilege."

  * * * *

  The jewelry shop was a double-fronted establishment in the High Street. It had a wide selection of rings, brooches, necklaces, watches, and clocks on display. Inside the shop, it also had a range of silver cups that could be engraved on the premises. Albert Ives was a slight individual of middle years who prided himself on his ability to sum up a customer instantly. When the young man came into the shop, Ives needed only a glance to tell him that his customer had serious intentions. The man was there to buy rather than browse.

  "Good morning,” said the newcomer affably. “I'm looking for an engagement ring."

  "What did you have in mind, sir?” asked Ives.

  "Well, you have a tray in the middle of the window that rather caught my eye. One, in particular, looked promising. Solid gold, twenty-two karat, with a cluster of five diamonds."

  "Would you like to take a closer look?"

  "Yes, please."

  "One moment."

  Albert Ives unlocked the glass doors and reached into one of the front windows. The customer, meanwhile, glanced idly around the shop. When the tray was placed in front of him, he took out a monocle and slipped it into his eye, examining the array of rings with care. Ives took the opportunity to study the man. Tall, well dressed, and well groomed, he wore an expensive suit and a trilby that sat at a rakish angle on his head. A neat brown moustache acted as a focal point in a face that was pleasant rather than handsome. Ives noticed the costly gold cufflinks.

  The customer was intrigued. “This is the one that I liked,” he said, indicating the diamond ring, “yet this solitaire is almost twice as muc
h. Why is that?"

  "The stone is of a far higher quality, sir."

  "But it's smaller than the cluster."

  "Size is not everything,” explained Ives. “If the solitaire were identical to the one that first caught your eye, then the price would be considerably higher."

  "Really?"

  Customers did not often show such a genuine interest in the trade, so Ives made the most of his captive audience. He talked at length about the virtues of the respective diamonds and drew the attention of the young man to the way that they were cut.

  "Fascinating!” said the other.

  "All that glitters is not gold, sir,” said Ives complacently.

  "I'll remember that, old chap. Well, it looks as if you've saved me from buying the wrong one.” He indicated the solitaire. “Is this the best one you have in the shop or do you have any others?"

  "We do keep a small selection in the safe."

  "That's all right,” said the customer airily as the other man raised a questioning eyebrow. “Money is no object. There's beggary in the love that can be reckoned.” He laughed. “Heavens above, one only gets engaged once in a lifetime! Why spoil the ship for a ha'p'orth of tar?"

  Ives ventured a smile. “I think you'll find it will be rather more than a ha'p'orth, sir. But, as you say, it's a unique occasion."

  "Let me see what you have."

  "I will, sir."

  Albert Ives moved to the back of the shop and drew back a small curtain that hung at waist height. A large safe came into view. After using a key to begin the opening process, he then twiddled the tumblers until he found the correct combination. The heavy door swung silently open. Ives was about to reach into the safe when he realized that his customer was now standing directly behind him. Before he could turn, he was knocked unconscious with a vicious swing of a cosh. The safe was ransacked within seconds.

  * * * *

  After checking into their hotel, the Hilliers had a light lunch before sauntering along to the theatre in the bright sunshine. The river swarmed with activity. Young men in baggy trousers, white shirts, and boaters were showing off their punting skills to decorous sweethearts who lounged on leather cushions under their parasols. An occasional rowing boat went by. Gaudily painted barges were moored along the towpath and swans glided effortlessly past, viewing the invasion of their territory with utter disdain. Crowds milled on both banks. Invisible to the eye, Shakespeare was nevertheless a discernible presence.