by Mike Ashley
THE MAMMOTH BOOK OF
Historical Whodunnits
Brand New Collection
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THE MAMMOTH BOOK OF
Historical Whodunnits
Brand New Collection
Edited by Mike Ashley
ROBINSON
London
Constable & Robinson Ltd
55-56 Russell Square
London WC1B 4HP
www.constablerobinson.com
First published in the UK by Robinson,
an imprint of Constable & Robinson Ltd 2001
Copyright and editorial material copyright © Mike Ashley 2001
All rights reserved. This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out or otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
A copy of the British Library Cataloguing in
Publication Data is available from the British Library.
ISBN 978–1–47211–707–6 (ebook)
Contents
Copyright and Acknowledgments
Introduction: Past Crimes Mike Ashley
Poppy and the Poisoned Cake Steven Saylor
Blind Justice Michael Kurland
A Payment to the Gods Rosemary Rowe
The Last Legion Richard Butler
And All That He Calls Family Mary Reed and Eric Mayer
Death of an Icon Peter Tremayne
King Hereafter Philip Gooden
The Death Toll Susanna Gregory
The Isle of Saints Kate Ellis
A Perfect Crime Derek Wilson
On Wings of Love Carol Anne Davis
A Lion Rampant Jean Davidson
The Amorous Armourer Michael Jecks
Benefit of Clergy Keith Taylor
The Pilgrim’s Tale Cherith Baldry
And What Can They Show, or What Reasons Give? Mat Coward
Heretical Murder Margaret Frazer
A Moon for Columbus Edward D. Hoch
House of the Moon Claire Griffen
Flibbertigibbet Paul Finch
The Vasty Deep Peter T. Garratt
A Taste for Burning Marilyn Todd
Copyright and Acknowledgements
All the stories are published here for the first time and are copyright © 2001 in the name of the individual authors, unless otherwise stated. Permissions and acknowledgments for the use of the stories are as follows:
Cherith Baldry for “The Pilgrim’s Tale”; Richard Butler and the Dorian Literary Agency for “The Last Legion”; Mat Coward for “And What Can They Show, or What Reasons Give?”; Carol Anne Davis for “On Wings of Love”; Jean Davidson and the Dorian Literary Agency for “A Lion Rampant”; Kate Ellis and A.M. Heath & Co. Ltd for “The Isle of Saints”; Paul Finch for “Flibbertigibbet”; Gail Frazer for “Heretical Murder”; Peter T. Garratt for “The Vasty Deep”; Philip Gooden for “King Hereafter”; Susanna Gregory and A.M. Heath & Co. Ltd for “The Death Toll”; Claire Griffen for “House of the Moon”; Edward D. Hoch for “A Moon for Columbus”; Michael Jecks for “The Amorous Armourer”; Michael Kurland for “Blind Justice”; Mary Reed and Eric Mayer for “And All That He Calls Family”; Rosemary Rowe and the Dorian Literary Agency for “A Payment to the Gods”; Keith Taylor for “Benefit of Clergy”; Marilyn Todd for “A Taste for Burning”; Peter Tremayne and A.M. Heath & Co. Ltd for “Death of an Icon”; Derek Wilson for “A Perfect Crime”. “Poppy and the Poisoned Cake” © 1998 by Steven Saylor, first published in Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine, December 1998, reprinted by permission of the author.
Introduction
Past Crimes
In the last ten to fifteen years the field of the historical mystery has grown from a small seed to a flourishing forest. It’s wonderful to see a new genre establish itself like this in such a relatively short time. In my previous two anthologies in this series, the first volume of The Mammoth Book of Historical Whodunnits and its companion The Mammoth Book of Historical Detectives, I put together a diverse selection of stories showing the type of material that had been written over the years, to show the pedigree of this field.
For this latest book, I have chosen to present all new material. Only one of the stories has previously appeared in print, and that in a magazine. None of these stories has been published in book form before, and all but one was written especially for this anthology.
The emphasis in this volume is on stories set in Roman and Celtic times and the Middle Ages. Stories span sixteen centuries from ancient Rome to the days of James I of England. In between you will encounter the last Roman crime in Britain, the days of the saints, Macbeth, the Crusades and the Knights Templar, Chaucer, the Peasant’s Revolt, Columbus and even an Elizabethan serial killer.
The collection includes old friends and new. Steven Saylor, one of the new superstars of the genre, presents another adventure of Gordianus the Finder. Peter Tremayne provides another mystery for Sister Fidelma, whilst Mary Reed and Eric Mayer test the skills of John the Eunuch once again. All t
hree of these detectives were with us in the first volume of Historical Whodunnits eight years ago. So too were the authors Margaret Frazer and Edward D. Hoch, who are here again. Joining them are a coterie of new authors who have established themselves in the historical mystery field in the intervening years, amongst them Rosemary Rowe, Michael Jecks, Susanna Gregory, Philip Gooden and Marilyn Todd.
In that first volume Ellis Peters said that the secret of the successful historical detective story was the ability to include a human and likeable detective in a background that is as real to today’s readers as it was to those who lived in those times. In this volume I’ve brought together a wide range of detectives and investigators, not all of them likeable, but all of them living in real worlds and facing problems of their age. The way they tackle the crime and try to solve the mystery is what brings that past alive and allows us a tantalizing glimpse of distant ages. That in turn allows us to compare it with the modern world – and may be then wonder which is best.
Mike Ashley
April 2001
Poppy and the Poisoned Cake
Steven Saylor
Steven Saylor (b. 1956) has become internationally established for his Roma Sub Rosa series of mystery novels set in the final days of the Roman Republic and featuring Gordianus the Finder. The series runs Roman Blood (1991), Arms of Nemesis (1992), Catilina’s Riddle (1994), The Venus Throw (1995), A Murder on the Appian Way (1996), Rubicon (1999) and Last Seen in Massilia (2000) plus a short story collection, The House of the Vestals (1997). I have included previous Gordianus stories in The Mammoth Book of Historical Detectives and Classical Whodunnits and I’m delighted to start this anthology with a new story, not previously published in book form.
“Young Cicero tells me that you can be discreet. Is that true, Gordianus? Can you keep a confidence?”
Considering that the question was being put to me by the magistrate in charge of maintaining Roman morals, I weighed my answer carefully. “If Rome’s finest orator says a thing, who am I to contradict him?”
The censor snorted. “Your friend Cicero said you were clever, too. Answer a question with a question, will you? I suppose you picked that up from listening to him defend thieves and murderers in the law courts.”
Cicero was my occasional employer, but I had never counted him as a friend, exactly. Would it be indiscreet to say as much to the censor? I kept my mouth shut and nodded vaguely.
Lucius Gellius Poplicola – Poppy to his friends, as I would later find out – looked to be a robust seventy or so. In an age wracked by civil war, political assassinations, and slave rebellions, to reach such a rare and venerable age was proof of Fortune’s favor. But Fortune must have stopped smiling on Poplicola – else why summon Gordianus the Finder?
The room in which we sat, in Poplicola’s house on the Palatine Hill, was sparsely appointed, but the few furnishings were of the highest quality. The rug was Greek, with a simple geometric design in blue and yellow. The antique chairs and the matching tripod table were of ebony with silver hinges. The heavy drapery drawn over the doorway for privacy was of some plush green fabric shot through with golden threads. The walls were stained a somber red. The iron lamp in the middle of the room stood on three griffin’s feet and breathed steady flames from three gaping griffin mouths. By its light, while waiting for Poplicola, I had perused the little yellow tags that dangled from the scrolls which filled the pigeonhole bookcase in the corner. The censor’s library consisted entirely of serious works by philosophers and historians, without a lurid poet or frivolous playwright among them. Everything about the room bespoke a man of impeccable taste and high standards – just the sort of fellow whom public opinion would deem worthy of wearing the purple toga, a man qualified to keep the sacred rolls of citizenship and pass judgment on the moral conduct of senators.
“It was Cicero who recommended me, then?” In the ten years since I had met him, Cicero had sent quite a bit of business my way.
Poplicola nodded. “I told him I needed an agent to investigate . . . a private matter. A man from outside my own household, and yet someone I could rely upon to be thorough, truthful, and absolutely discreet. He seemed to think that you would do.”
“I’m honored that Cicero would recommend me to a man of your exalted position and –”
“Discretion!” he insisted, cutting me off. “That matters most of all. Everything you discover while in my employ – everything – must be held in the strictest confidence. You will reveal your discoveries to me and to no one else.”
From beneath his wrinkled brow he peered at me with an intensity that was unsettling. I nodded and said slowly, “So long as such discretion does not conflict with more sacred obligations to the gods, then yes, Censor, I promise you my absolute discretion.”
“Upon your honour as a Roman? Upon the shades of your ancestors?”
I sighed. Why must these nobles always take themselves and their problems so seriously? Why must every transaction require the invocation of dead relatives? Poplicola’s earth-shattering dilemma was probably nothing more than an errant wife or a bit of blackmail over a pretty slaveboy. I chafed at his demand for an oath and considered refusing; but the fact was that my daughter Diana had just been born, the household coffers were perilously depleted, and I needed work. I gave him my word, upon my honor and my ancestors.
He produced something from the folds of his purple toga and placed it on the little table between us. I saw it was a small silver bowl, and in the bowl there appeared to be a delicacy of some sort. I caught a whiff of almonds.
“What do you make of that?” he said.
“It appears to be a sweet cake,” I ventured. I picked up the little bowl and sniffed. Almonds, yes; and something else . . .
“By Hercules, don’t eat any of it!” He snatched the bowl from me. “I have reason to believe it’s been poisoned.” Poplicola shuddered. He suddenly looked much older.
“Poisoned?”
“The slave who brought me the cake this afternoon, here in my study – one of my oldest slaves, more than a servant, a companion really – well, the fellow always had a sweet tooth . . . like his master, that way. If he shaved off a bit of my delicacies every now and then, thinking I wouldn’t notice, where was the harm in that? It was a bit of a game between us. I used to tease him; I’d say, ‘The only thing that keeps me from growing fat is the fact that you serve my food!’ Poor Chrestus . . .” His face became ashen.
“I see. This Chrestus brought you the cake. And then?”
“I dismissed Chrestus and put the bowl aside while I finished reading a document. I came to the end, rolled up the scroll, and put it aside. I was just about to take a bite of the cake when another slave, my doorkeeper, ran into the room, terribly alarmed. He said that Chrestus was having a seizure. I went to him as quickly as I could. He was lying on the floor, convulsing. ‘The cake!’ he said. ‘The cake!’ And then he was dead. As quickly as that! The look on his face – horrible!” Poplicola gazed at the little cake and curled his lip, as if an adder were coiled in the silver bowl. “My favourite,” he said in a hollow voice. “Cinnamon and almonds, sweetened with honey and wine, with just a hint of aniseed. An old man’s pleasure, one of the few I have left. Now I shall never be able to eat it again!”
And neither shall Chrestus, I thought. “Where did the cake come from?”
“There’s a little alley just north of the Forum, with bakery shops on either side.”
“I know the street.”
“The place on the corner makes these cakes every other day. I have a standing order – a little treat I give myself. Chrestus goes down to fetch one for me, and I have it in the early afternoon.”
“And was it Chrestus who fetched the cake for you today?”
For a long moment he stared silently at the cake. “No.”
“Who, then?”
He hunched his thin shoulders up and pursed his lips. “My son, Lucius. He came by this afternoon. So the doorkeeper tells me; I didn’t
see him myself. Lucius told the doorkeeper not to disturb me, that he couldn’t stay; he’d only stopped by to drop off a sweet cake for me. Lucius knows of my habit of indulging in this particular sweet, you see, and some business in the Forum took him by the street of the bakers, and as my house was on his way to another errand, he brought me a cake. The doorkeeper fetched Chrestus, Lucius gave Chrestus the sweet cake wrapped up in a bit of parchment, and then Lucius left. A little later, Chrestus brought the cake to me . . .”
Now I understood why Poplicola had demanded an oath upon my ancestors. The matter was delicate indeed. “Do you suspect your son of tampering with the cake?”
Poplicola shook his head. “I don’t know what to think.”
“Is there any reason to suspect that he might wish to do you harm?”
“Of course not!” The denial was a little too vehement, a little too quick.
“What is it you want from me, Censor?”
“To find the truth of the matter! They call you Finder, don’t they? Find out if the cake is poisoned. Find out who poisoned it. Find out how it came about that my son . . .”
“I understand, Censor. Tell me, who in your household knows of what happened today?”
“Only the doorkeeper.”
“No one else?”
“No one. The rest of the household has been told that Chrestus collapsed from a heart attack. I’ve told no one else of Lucius’s visit, or about the cake.”
I nodded. “To begin, I shall need to see the dead man, and to question your doorkeeper.”
“Of course. And the cake? Shall I feed a bit to some stray cat, to make sure . . .”
“I don’t think that will be necessary, Censor.” I picked up the little bowl and sniffed at the cake again. Most definitely, blended with the wholesome scent of baked almonds was the sharper odour of the substance called bitter-almond, one of the strongest of all poisons. Only a few drops would suffice to kill a man in minutes. How fiendishly clever, to sprinkle it onto a sweet almond-flavoured confection, from which a hungry man with a sweet tooth might take a bite without noticing the bitter taste until too late.
