EQMM, February 2010

by Dell Magazine Authors

  Sir Robert was smiling grimly.

  "Then it seems we will have to leave his apprehension in the hands of the thief-takers. I suppose he will be as hard to find as the footpads that killed your young cousin. So, Master Drew, you have no hesitation with your findings? May I send a magistrate tomorrow to take down your statement for the record? We would not want any false rumours to spread abroad as to the circumstances."

  "I will expect the magistrate to call on me morrow, Sir Robert. I am content in my resolve,” agreed the constable.

  "And you, Sir Christopher, art content? It is but poor hospitality your cousin received here in London. And you, Sir Edward? Are you both content?"

  Sir Edward nodded, while Sir Christopher said shortly: “I wish nothing more than to accord Henry a speedy burial. He was almost a stranger to us and there will be none in our family who will long mourn him. Alas, he came to London at the wrong time."

  Sir Robert grimaced.

  "A sad time, a sad time for all of us. A shadow hangs over the realm, gentlemen. Our good lady has served us well and deserves rest from her worldly chores. Soon she will fear no more the burden of government of this realm. She may go peacefully to her rest. Before the week is out, we who remain shall see if a brave new era of prosperity will begin or whether we shall sink back into the dark days of civil war and blood feuds. I hope, for the sake of all of us, gentleman, that we may come through this night of mourning."

  Later that night, Master Hardy Drew sat gazing thoughtfully into his own fire. He had been extravagant enough to build up the fire and heat some mulled wine, even cutting himself a slice of cold mutton pie. His extravagance was compensated by the thought of the ten gold crowns that Sir Christopher had given him, which now lay locked away in the small wooden box he kept under his bed. It had been an exhausting evening and one which still sent chills through his body. He hoped that Broder Power would make it safely to France or Spain. He would be glad when Sir Robert's magistrate had officially taken down his version of the story.

  He was not sure how Sir Christopher had planned to present the young man called “Henry Hatton” as heir and claimant to Elizabeth's throne on her death. Well, that plot was ended and he was lucky to have extricated himself from involvement in it.

  Who exactly was “Henry Hatton"? His features proclaimed him to be a Tudor. His resemblance to the portraits of Elizabeth was obvious. The locket bore the coat of arms and motto of Anne Boleyn, Elizabeth's mother. Elizabeth was known to have still revered her executed mother and despised her father for the state murder. Who would Elizabeth love so much to present that locket to? And the signet ring, so described by Master Power. The pelican on a ruby background. The pelican was one of Elizabeth's favourite symbols, used to portray her motherly love for England. The legend had it that in times of food shortages, pelicans plucked flesh from their own bodies to feed their dying young. And then there was the ermine-edged cloak—a status symbol which only high nobility and royalty were allowed to wear. The missing sword, with roses on the hilt—Tudor roses?

  "Henry Hatton” had been no ordinary person. It was obvious to Master Drew that Hatton had been a Tudor, sent into exile by Elizabeth for safety. Was he Elizabeth's own son? Sir Christopher Hatton, dead these eleven years, had been known to be her favourite. Was Henry a child by him? Or was Henry a child by someone else, given to Sir Christopher to take care of until such time as he could come forward and be recognised? Did Lady Elizabeth Cecil, during the time that she had been married into the Hatton family, come to learn this dark secret? Certainly, she was instrumental in Henry Hatton's death. Hearing of his return to London as the queen lay dying, Lady Hatton had arranged a meeting with the young man to identify him. Having done so, she had reported to her uncle, Sir Robert Cecil, the spymaster and chief assassin, who favoured the King of Scots as heir to the English throne. Master Drew had no doubt that Sir Robert had given the orders for his men to kill the young man and remove any evidence that would link him to the Tudors.

  Master Drew shivered at how close he had come to being arrested by the Lord Chancellor—or worse.

  He was still unsure whether Sir Edward and Sir Christopher had brought him into their conspiracy to investigate as a witness against the Cecils or to give an official pronouncement in support of the footpad theory that would allow them their freedom, proclaiming them innocent of the knowledge of the identity of the young man and therefore the reason for his assassination. Had they expected Master Drew not to realise the truth or to disguise it?

  At times, Master Drew reflected, as he stretched before the fire, it was far better to pretend ignorance than boast his talent for gathering and interpreting the facts.

  It was in the early hours of Thursday morning, four days later, that it was announced that Elizabeth of England had passed peacefully to death in her chambers at Richmond Palace. She would, as Sir Robert said, fear no more the heat of the sun, for she had fulfilled her worldly task and gone to receive her heavenly wages. The nation was in mourning. Already, a cortege had left Holyrood Palace in Edinburgh and was heading south into England bearing the thirty-seven-year-old James Charles Stuart, King of Scotland, Duke of Rothesay, Duke of Albany, Earl of Ross, and Baron Ardmannoch, who had now been proclaimed Elizabeth's successor.

  Copyright © 2010 Peter Tremayne

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  Fiction: A DARK REUNION by Kate Ellis

  * * * *

  Art by Laurie Harden

  * * * *

  Kate Ellis's longest running mystery series features archaeology graduate DS Wesley Peterson, who fights crime in South Devon, England. Each entry in the series combines an intriguing contemporary murder mystery with a parallel historical case. More recently, Ms. Ellis decided to create an additional series set in a fictional northern English city whose model is the real city of York. She has made many visits to York in recent years, and it's there that she takes us in this new story.

  Sorry. What did you say your name was?” I asked, looking the man in the eye. He had a broad face topped by a shock of fair hair. And something about his face seemed familiar. If only I could place it.

  The stream of tourists, already out in force first thing on Monday morning, parted around us like the incoming tide around a pair of immovable rocks. We were getting in the way, holding up the flow of pedestrians through the Shambles, one of York's narrower streets. I started to edge away but my companion stood firm.

  "How did you enjoy the reunion on Saturday?” His lips turned upwards in a secretive half smile as though he was enjoying some private joke.

  Enlightenment had come at last. We must have met at the school reunion but I had no recollection of it. It was clear that he recognised me, but some people, I knew, had a better memory for names and faces than I had. In my work as a writer, I always tended, so my ex-wife used to tell me, to walk through life in an imaginative haze where my creations seemed more real than the people around me.

  I stood there trying to remember. The reunion for my year at Semchester High School for Boys had taken place in a hotel just down the road—the Viking Suite of the Royal Boar, all patterned carpets and flocked wallpaper. Being there had reminded me that I would be fifty next year and the slim waistline of my youth was a distant memory, as was most of my hair. But I took comfort from the fact that my former classmates were in the same sorry physical state—paunches and thinning hair seemed as uniform now as our school blazers and ties were back in our distant school days. Time had gnawed away like a rat at all of us, with the possible exception of Sebastian Sitwall. Sebastian had become an actor—he'd even appeared in a couple of TV soaps—and I suspected that he was no stranger to the cosmetic surgeon's knife. But then, I'd never liked him much.

  The reunion—the sight of all those aging bodies I'd last seen as lean, hopeful teenagers—had made me feel a little depressed and I must have drunk more than I normally would. I'd woken the next morning with a roaring headache and, although I remembered the dinner, the spe
eches, and the raucous singing of the school song, the later part of the evening was a complete blank, which surprised me, as I've always been able to hold my drink. Perhaps this was a sign of incipient old age. I remembered that Shakespeare speech we learned in the sixth form—sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.

  To tell the truth, I had found the reunion—or what I could remember of it—rather a disappointment. My friend Robbie hadn't been able to make it and I'd found myself stuck with people who had been more acquaintances than friends during my time at Semchester High. Sebastian Sitwall had monopolised me for a time, as though he felt our occupations had formed some kind of bond between us. But I found that I liked him no more now than I had done during our school days. He'd been an arrogant bully then and, although time had added subtlety to his repertoire, I suspected that the unpleasant nature of the schoolboy still lurked beneath the veneer of sophistication.

  The voice of the man who'd stopped me brought me back to the present with a jolt. “I didn't manage to talk to you at the reunion. I think you were a bit out of it later on, then you seemed to disappear,” he said with a knowing wink. “Someone said you were a writer. What kind of things do you write?"

  It was a common question, and all writers have an automatic answer. But I was so busy searching the recesses of my mind for his name that I heard myself stutter, “Er, sort of crime. Detective stories and all that."

  "So you get them published?"

  I nodded, feeling a little stab of irritation that he hadn't heard of me ... but, on the other hand, so few people had.

  I decided to tackle the problem head-on. If I offended this man, what would it matter? I might never see him again in my life. “Look, I'm so sorry but I really can't remember your name."

  The man's grin widened. It had been fixed there on his lips since he first greeted me and it was beginning to get on my nerves. It was as though he knew something that I didn't. “Now I don't believe that for one moment, Jack. You always did have a sense of humour."

  "Honestly, I don't remember. You'll have to give me a clue."

  The man's smile became more guarded. “You write detective books, so clues are your department."

  I suddenly felt uneasy. It could have been my imagination, but his words sounded vaguely threatening.

  I made a great show of looking at my watch. “Sorry. Got to rush,” I said, trying to sound like a busy man. The truth was, I'd just delivered a manuscript to my publisher so I had a precious period of leisure before she delivered her verdict—but I wasn't going to let him know that. He was still smiling as I raised my hand in farewell and wove my way through a crowd of Japanese tourists, escaping down a side street and through the bustling market.

  I hurried home to my flat on Bootham, walking swiftly through the narrow streets filled with ambling sightseers and past the golden magnificence of the Minster, hardly aware of my surroundings. I couldn't think why the encounter with the anonymous classmate had unnerved me, but there had been something about him that didn't quite fit in with his story. Or perhaps it was my imagination.

  It was when I reached my flat that events really began to take a strange turn. Especially when I found two plainclothes police officers waiting for me by the front door.

  * * * *

  I'd never been arrested before and I found the whole process rather surreal. I was taken to the police station and informed that I was being arrested on suspicion of murder before being placed in an interview room facing two detectives, a man and a woman, across a table. I had written about this so many times, but I'd never ever imagined that I'd be on the receiving end, and I must confess that I felt frightened. This wasn't a story. It was real, and I didn't understand why I was there.

  "How long have you known Elizabeth Uriel?” the woman asked, leaning forward, her face uncomfortably close to mine.

  "I've never heard of her. Who is she?"

  My interrogators looked at each other.

  "We found your photograph in her flat. You'd signed it. To Liz with all my love, Jack."

  I closed my eyes. Had I known a Liz Uriel? Or any Liz, come to that? I'd met one once at my publisher's office, but I was sure her surname was something quite different. And I certainly hadn't given any woman a signed photograph. That's not the sort of thing I normally do.

  I took a deep breath, trying to keep calm. “As far as I know, I'm not acquainted with anyone of that name. Have you consulted a handwriting expert?” I asked hopefully. “Because as far as I can remember, I've never signed a photograph in my life."

  When there was no answer, I sensed they were on shaky ground and I felt a fresh wave of confidence. “Look, I really don't think I've ever met this Liz Uriel, but if you show me a picture of her, I'll be able to tell you for sure.” I tried to sound helpful, playing the cooperative citizen with nothing to hide.

  Another glance was exchanged between my interrogators and the woman, a plump mouse-blonde with too-perfect teeth, produced a photograph like a conjurer producing a rabbit from a top hat. She slid it towards me, face down. I reached for it and turned it over.

  My hands began to shake. It was the shock of seeing that dreadful image of the dead woman with her discoloured face and staring, blank eyes. At first I looked away in horror, then I forced myself to study the face. It was the face of a stranger. I was as sure as I could be that I'd never seen her before.

  The two detectives looked at me expectantly.

  "I don't know her. Who is she? Where does she live? Where did she work? How was she killed and where? If you tell me about her, I might be able to prove I'm innocent."

  The woman took the photograph from my trembling fingers. “She lived near you in a flat just off Bootham. She was twenty-five years old and she worked in the box office at the theatre. She was killed in her flat ... strangled. Her body was found the next morning by a friend who'd arranged to call round for coffee. We found various items in her flat indicating that you and she were..."

  My heart began to pound. I didn't know Liz Uriel. And I hadn't been to the theatre for at least seven years. “What items?” I heard myself asking.

  "A couple of utility bills. Your passport. Your credit-card statement."

  I was half aware of my mouth falling open in amazement. As far as I knew my passport was stashed safely at the bottom of the chest of drawers in my living room. I hadn't bothered looking at it since I'd put it there for safety after my last trip to the States six months ago. As for the credit-card and utility bills, I'd paid them and filed them away in a kitchen drawer as usual.

  "Now we have your fingerprints and a sample of your DNA, we'll see what turns up at the murder scene."

  I began to feel the first flutterings of panic. “Look, this is ridiculous. I've no idea how those things came to be in this woman's flat. I didn't know her. And why should I have taken my passport and an assortment of bills round to her place if I was going to kill her anyway?” Suddenly I saw a ray of hope in the darkness of that windowless interview room. “It's a setup. I'm being set up. Someone must have stolen those things from my flat to incriminate me."

  "And who would do that?"

  I shook my head. It was a question I couldn't answer. I had no enemies as far as I knew. Certainly nobody who'd go to all this trouble. “When exactly was she murdered?” I asked. Surely there must be some way to prove my innocence.

  "The pathologist reckons she'd been dead for roughly twelve hours when she was found, so death probably occurred sometime on Saturday night between nine and midnight."

  I felt my lips twitch upwards in a smile. “I was at a school reunion that night. Lots of witnesses. You can check."

  This time the glance between the two police officers was one of deflated disappointment. “We will,” the man said before pushing a notepad and pen towards me.

  I scribbled down some names and the woman left the room with the pad. Then I sat back in my chair, arms folded, awaiting her return and my inevitable release.

  But when she came
back, I was in for a shock.

  * * * *

  I had been in the cell for over three hours before they came for me again, and I realised that I hadn't known true boredom until that day. How long, I wondered, could a man sit on a blue plastic mattress in a small room staring at four blank walls before going insane? The time dragged, and each minute seemed like an hour. When they came to take me to the interview room again, I felt an unexpected rush of relief.

  But my elation was short-lived. The same two officers were waiting for me and the young man had a smug look on his face.

  "We've been speaking to some of your old school pals.” He let the sentence hang in the air, as though he was about to impart a juicy piece of news.

  "And?” I prompted. “They confirmed I was at the reunion all evening?"

  The man sat back, a self-satisfied smile on his face. For a few moments I felt like punching him, but I knew I'd come off worst. “Nobody saw you after ten, and everyone presumed you'd left early. Apparently you were so drunk you could hardly walk straight. Someone saw you being helped outside, but they can't remember who you were with."

  "I didn't. I...” I found myself stuttering, my heart sinking with despair. I didn't remember leaving the reunion. In fact, I didn't remember anything of that evening after around nine-thirty. Had I left alone? How had I got home? Suddenly I realised I had no idea. “I want a lawyer,” I heard myself say before giving them Robbie's name. My old classmate, Robbie Galton, had missed the reunion because of a prior engagement, but he had been a good friend over the years. And he was a partner in one of the city's leading law firms.

  If anyone could get me out of there, it would be Robbie Galton.

  * * * *

  I waited in the cell for two endless hours for Robbie to turn up, and when he did he looked worried. Robbie was still lean as a ferret, with sharp features and restless hands. At school he had been good at games—the one picked for all the teams—and he had been an amiable, easygoing boy who had grown into an amiable, easygoing man. I liked Robbie, and we met up often ... usually in far better situations than the one I found myself in now.