Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine 11/01/12 (3 page)

"But how could the thief get into these locked exhibits?" asked Manette. "Ravi
had no keys."

"And there's no broken glass," said Finn. The room fell silent. Finn stared at
Manette. "You and I are the only ones with keys to these cases."

Manette stared back. "What did you do with the keys turned in this morning by
Jarvis Dedlock? Someone could have used those."

Finn pulled two sets of keys from his pocket. "I've carried both Jarvis's and my
own all day."

A long silence, and then Manette spoke. "I know I didn't kill him, Thatch."

"I know I didn't," said Finn.

"Neither one of you killed him," said Henley. He recalled the scene from this
afternoon. The young woman—the wife of the professor
downstairs—had known the boorish young man sitting next to her. Surely
they had collaborated on an elaborate scheme to steal from the collection. In
the confusion after the young man pretended to faint, somebody could snatch the
Dickens letter and stash it in the reading room, perhaps inside the card
catalogue. In case of a search, the thief would not be holding incriminating
evidence and could return to fetch the letter later. The young man had spent the
entire evening downstairs. But couldn't the young woman be here too, somewhere
out of sight? Her husband had loudly proclaimed that she wasn't attending the
performance. That could have been a classic act of misdirection. Could the woman
have been hiding in the house all day, waiting for an opportunity to retrieve
her stolen goods? Was that possible? For a visitor to lurk unbeknownst to the
staff for so many hours after closing time?

Only a couple of minutes had passed between Ravi Vikram's exit at the end of Act
One and Henley's discovery of the body. No one could have killed the man and
then had time to slip down the stairs undetected. There was no fire escape or
elevator or laundry chute. Whoever had killed Ravi Vikram must still be on this
floor of the house.

"What's that?" asked Henley, pointing to a door in the corner.

"A cupboard," said Thatcher Finn.

What Americans call a closet. "It's locked, I suppose."

A policeman tried it. The door was unlocked, but the closet was empty.

"That's odd," said Thatcher Finn. "That door is supposed to be locked
always."

"That's where the killer was hiding until Ravi Vikram arrived."

"But where is this mysterious figure now, Mr. Henley?" asked the inspector.
"There are no more cupboards to check. Who is this person, and where?"

The answer came too easily. "The killer is in the room next-door."

"The other bedroom is empty."

"Not the other bedroom. The dressing room. Look under the tablecloth of the
special exhibit. It's long enough to conceal someone."

Two policemen left the room. He heard them enter the dressing room, then the
sounds of a brief scuffle. In a moment they reentered the room escorting a
handcuffed, writhing prisoner. It was a man Henley had never seen before, a
diminutive bald man in a dress shirt, suit trousers, and sneakers.

"Jarvis Dedlock," said Thatcher Finn, shocked.

The former director of the museum.

"They said I'd just missed you this morning," said Henley. "But you never left
the house, did you? Mrs. Pierce looked the other way when you slipped upstairs.
You convinced her that you were innocent and were springing a trap for the real
thief."

"But he turned in his keys," said Finn.

"Duplicates," said Henley. He turned to Jarvis Dedlock. "When did you steal the
letter?"

Dedlock didn't even bother to ask who Henley was. He must have overheard the
entire conversation from his hiding place next-door. After a moment, he
shrugged. "Two days ago. As soon as the authenticators from the British Library
left the building."

"And where did you hide it?"

Dedlock snorted. "I didn't hide it. I took it home with me." He paused, as if
waiting to see if Henley would work it all out.

"You took a priceless letter home," said Henley, "but you brought it back with
you this morning when you came to turn in your keys. Why would you do that?"

Dedlock said nothing.

Henley worked it out as he talked. "You hid all day in this cupboard with perhaps
the most valuable letter in the collection. Why? You weren't trying to return it
to the archive. You could have done that at five o'clock when the place closed
and you had the premises to yourself."

Now everyone was listening to him.

"You slipped out, found my briefcase downstairs, and loaded it with Dickens
memorabilia. But if you'd simply been planning to steal, you could have left
immediately while the museum was still deserted. Instead, you went back to your
hiding place and waited for everyone to return for the performance tonight."

Dedlock appeared to gain some respect for Henley. "You're clever for a Yank.
Cleverer than most." He glared with loathing at Thatcher Finn.

Then Henley caught on. "You came for revenge. You must have really hated Ravi
Vikram. To wait here for him to arrive at intermission."

"He got me sacked," said Dedlock. "Complained to the board that materials were
missing. All the evidence against me was circumstantial, but they held me
accountable."

Henley nodded. His eye caught on the apple core still in the corner of the room.
"You were so tidy. Why eat the apple and toss the remains onto the floor?"

"I thought it was Finn's apple," said Dedlock. "I thought I was taking his
briefcase from his desk."

Henley understood it all. "You thought you were framing Thatcher Finn, not me. In
one move you'd get rid of your accuser and your replacement. Did you expect to
get your job back?"

Dedlock stared straight at him. "Not only would I get my position back, but the
Governing Board would apologize for ever doubting me."

When Henley eventually spoke to Suzanne McClain on the telephone, it was midnight
in London, seven p.m. in the States. "I solved the mystery," he said.

"Already?" She sounded genuinely impressed. "So tell me. Why did Dickens write
novels instead of plays?"

"Because he could be in complete control as a novelist," said Henley. "In plays
actors could change lines or ad-lib or otherwise tamper with his scripts. When
he was the narrator of a story, he was in total command of each gesture, speech,
thought. He got to play every part himself, always perfectly."

She approved. "How did you conclude that so quickly?"

He told her about his evening. "Jarvis Dedlock had scripted the plot right down
to what the Governing Board would say when they reinstated him. But a couple of
actors improvised and spoiled his production."

She congratulated him. "What are you going to do in London for the next
month?"

He had thought about that too. "I might as well take care of the Shakespeare
authorship question while I'm here," he said. "Stay tuned."

Copyright © 2012 by W. Edward Blain

 
The central characters in this new story, Lysander, head of
the Spartan secret police, and Iliona, high priestess of the Temple of Eurotas,
also appear in three novels by Marilyn Todd set in the fifth century B.C.E. The
most recent book,
Still Waters
(Severn House/April
2011) was praised by
Publishers Weekly
for its "solid
puzzle and . . . intriguing lead character."
Booklist
applauded "Todd's knack for painting antiquity with a spectacularly suspenseful
brush . . . "
 

 
Below the majestic peaks of Mount Parnon, Night sloughed off her
dark veil and handed the baton of responsibility to her close friend, the Dawn.
Daughter of Chaos, mother of Pain, Strife, Death, and Deception, Night continued
her journey. Gliding on silent, star-studded feet towards her mansion beyond the
Ocean that encircled the world. Here she would sleep, until Twilight nudged her
awake and her labours would begin all over again.

At the foot of the temple steps, Iliona rinsed her fingers in the lustral basin,
carved from the finest Parian marble, and lifted her face to the sun. In the
branches of the plane trees, the bronze wind chimes tinkled in the breeze. White
doves pecked at the crumbs of caraway bread that was baked daily especially for
them. Whether the seeds were addictive, or the pigeons were simply content with
their lot, the High Priestess had no idea. But the doves rarely strayed from the
precinct, and it wasn't because their wings had been clipped.

Another few minutes and the first of the workers would start to arrive. Scribes,
libation pourers, musicians, and heralds. Basket bearers, janitors, and the
choirs. Every day was the same. They would barely have time to change into their
robes before the sacred grounds were swamped with merchants, wanting to know if
today was the day they'd grow rich. Wives, desperate to know if last night's
efforts had left them with child. The poor, fearful of what lay ahead. Cripples
would flock to the shrine, seeking miracles. The sick would come seeking cures.
Wisely or not, Iliona had taken it upon herself to interpret their dreams,
sometimes the behaviour of birds, even the shapes of the clouds, to give them
the peace that they needed.

But for now—for these precious few minutes—that peace was hers, and
she basked in its solitude. The soft bleating of goats floated down from the
hills. Close at hand came the repetitive call of a hoopoe. Letting the sun warm
her face, she breathed in the scent of a thousand wildflowers carried down from
the mountains and over the wide, fertile meadows. Narcissus, crown daisies,
crocus, and muscari . . . along with, unless she missed her guess, a faint hint
of leather and wood smoke.

"I'm beginning to think the rumours are true," she said without turning round.
"That the
Krypteia
never sleeps."

"You should know better than to listen to gossip," chided the leather and wood
smoke through a mouth full of gravel. "I sleep." He paused. "Upside down in a
cave, admittedly. Cocooned in my soft velvet wings."

The hair at the back of her scalp prickled. If the chief of Sparta's secret
police was making jokes, it must be serious.

"What can I do for you, Lysander?"

Had he discovered that she was still aiding deserters? A crime punishable by
being blinded by pitch and thrown, bound and gagged, in the Torrent of Torment.
Or that she was rescuing deformed babies that were thrown over the cliff . . . ?
Slipping food to prisoners in the dungeons . . . ?

"Me? My lady, I wouldn't dare to presume." His voice was slow and measured, but
the teasing note was unconcealed "Your country, on the other hand, would be
immensely grateful for your input and wisdom." He cleared his throat, instantly
changing the mood. "Three women have been found hanged."

Now she turned.

"Three?"
But for all the shock, what was uppermost in Iliona's mind was
that he looked older than the last time they'd met. The lines round his eyes
were as deep as plough furrows, and there were more silver strands framing his
temples. On the other hand, his short warrior kilt showed no weakness of thigh
muscle, and his chest still put a strain on the seams of his tunic. "On the same
night?"

"Same night, same house," he said, explaining how they were three generations of
the same family. "Girl of fourteen, her mother, and grandmother. And as much as
I would like to dismiss this as some eccentric death pact, or even double murder
followed by suicide, there were no stools that could have been kicked away. No
chairs, no tables, no blocks of wood. Nothing."

Small wonder he looked weary. However feared and hated the secret police, when it
comes to women being strung up like hams, even the toughest among them are
affected.

"It's no mean feat to creep into a household, overpower three women, and hang
them," she pointed out. There would be servants. Dogs. Any number of
obstacles.

"The alarm horn wasn't blown," he said. "In fact, there were no signs of a
struggle in or outside the house."

Which might, she mused, be because the killer was cunning enough to cover his
tracks. Or maybe obsessively tidy—

Now that acolytes had begun milling round the precinct, lighting the incense in
the burners and sweeping the steps with purifying hyssop, Iliona suggested a
stroll down to the river. Here, shaded by willows and poplars, they would be
able to speak without being overheard. Gathering up her white pleated robes, she
found a perch on a rock and watched a heron stalk the lush grasses on the far
bank for frogs, while moorhens dabbled in and out of the rushes and butterflies
fed off the thistles. The river was at its fullest, thanks to the snowmelts, but
the Eurotas was one of the few rivers in Greece that didn't dry up in high
summer. That's why the river god was so revered by the people, and why so many
flocked to his temple.

Why peace was so hard to come by.

"This is a monstrous crime, truly it is. But I don't understand why the
Krypteia
is involved."

Unless the victim was royalty or a member of the Council, murder was hardly the
preserve of the secret police. Much less its ruthless commander.

"Two reasons." Lysander picked up a pebble, dropped to one kilted knee, and
skimmed the stone over the water. Flip-flip-flip, eight times it jumped. But
then everyone jumped for the
Krypteia
. "Primarily, this triple murder
will send shock waves round Sparta, and I need to neutralize the situation
before it undermines morale."

To remain the strongest land power in Greece, Sparta had turned itself into a
nation of warriors, with boys joining the army at the age of seven. In the
barracks, they would learn the values of endurance through discipline, hardship,
deprivation, and pain, pushing their bodies to limits that most men couldn't
stand. Not for nothing was the mighty Spartan army feared wherever it went. But
with the men away, protecting smaller and weaker city-states from being gobbled
up by their neighbours, they had every right to expect their womenfolk to be
safe. Murder had suddenly become a political issue.

"Also." Flip-flip-flip, another eight times. "This was the family of one of my
generals."

"And naturally you owe it to him to bring the culprit to justice?"

"Not exactly." His smile was as cold as a prostitute's heart. "This man is after
my job, and I don't intend to give him a reason to get it."

Iliona watched the swallows dip over the river for flies. Smelled the wild
mountain thyme on the breeze. "What has this to do with me?"

Something twitched in his cheek. "Who else sees through the eyes of the blind,
and hears the voice of the voiceless? You count the grains of sand in the desert
and measure the drops in the ocean."

She jumped to her feet.

"How dare you mock my work! You know damn well that the poor, the weak, the
dispossessed, and the lonely come to this temple because they need something to
lean on. Well, the support I give them is solid and sound, and it matters
this—" she snapped her fingers "—that my oracular powers are fake.
I set riddles, Lysander, in order that these people can find the solutions to
their problems themselves, and don't get me wrong. These murders are tragic."
Desperately so. "But since I don't know the women, I have nothing useful to
contribute. On this occasion, I am unable to help you."

Without pausing for breath, she rattled off a long list of tasks that could not
be abandoned. Oracles aside, who would preside over the endless rituals and
sacrifices? Dispense oaths in the name of the river god? Log donations and
offerings in the various treasuries?

"The altars would not be properly purified, there are mountains of letters to
dictate, and let's not forget the accounts that need overseeing, the various
marriages and funerals that needed officiating, and not least, the preparations
for the forthcoming spring carnival."

"Hm."

For a long time he said nothing. Just kept flipping pebbles over the water. She
waited. Baiting him might be argued as the height of stupidity, but if he had
come to arrest her, he would have done it by now. A girl had her pride, after
all! At the same time, High Priestesses aren't exactly naive. She knew it was
only a matter of time before he resorted to blackmailing or bullying her into
cooperating, as he had so many times in the past. Even so, she had no intention
of making it easy for him, and job security wasn't her problem. In fact, many
more deserters would be helped, babies rescued, prisoners comforted, with a new
man at the helm of the
Krypteia
. One who did not know her past.

So it came as a surprise when Lysander rose to his feet and said quietly, "That
is your answer?"

She squared her shoulders. Wondered what pitch smelled like, when it was close to
the eyes. "It is."

"Then I bid you a very good day, Iliona." He placed his fist on his breast in
salute. "May Zeus bring you all that you wish for."

A chill ran from her tiara to her white sandalled toes. He was a fighter, a
warrior, a leader of men, who used every weapon in the book to win and get what
he wanted. The head of the secret police did not back down. He was up to
something, the bastard.

"Wait," she called, but he'd already gone.

Fear crawled in the pit of her stomach.

 
Night rose, slinking through the Gate of Dreams, to work again her
dark powers over the earth. The days passed, the nail on the wall calendar
marking their journey, highlighting those days which were propitious for
planting, those which were auspicious for building, as well as those which
cursed folk for telling lies. Not once did Iliona stop looking over her
shoulder, but as time passed, she began to relax.

Sacrifices were presided over with ritualist precision, oaths were dispensed in
the name of the river god, donations and offerings were logged in the various
treasuries. The altars were purified. Properly, of course. Those mountains of
letters were duly dictated, the accounts managed with customary efficiency, and,
thanks to the High Priestess's efforts, the spring festival went off without a
hitch. Even the procession of children carrying cakes stuck with burning torches
managed to reach the sacred pine tree without anyone tripping up. Usually at
least one child would set fire to the carpet of needles, and last year the
beekeeper's daughter exceeded all records, setting the harp player's tunic
alight as she stumbled, then singeing his hair when the poor man tried to stamp
out the flames.

"You're working too hard," said the Keeper of the Sacred Flame, one of the few
true friends Iliona had.

"It's the season," she lied. "Everything comes at once in the spring."

And to prove it, she went off to burn incense.

"You're not sleeping," observed the temple physician.

"It's the season," she shot back. "The nights are too hot."

And to prove it, she walked round wafting a fan.

As for the triple murders, the entire state was indeed sickened by the slaughter
of three defenceless women. What kind of monster would do this? And yet, thought
Iliona, in a country of full-time professional soldiers who virtually lived at
the barracks, Spartan women were strong. How was it possible to overpower three
at the same time?

As well as horrific, she found the crime deeply unsettling.

Being a second cousin to the king, she had many contacts at the palace and,
through them, kept abreast of events. She learned, for instance, that, with
typical
Krypteia
thoroughness, Lysander's agents had explored every
avenue in their attempt to bring the killer to justice. Could this have been a
grudge killing, to punish the husband? Goodness knows, an uncompromising general
collects enemies like a small boy collects caterpillars. Except there was
nothing in his military history to point to a need for such dire retribution,
nor in his personal life. Was the wife having an affair which had soured,
inspiring the lover to take revenge? Apparently, running the farm in the
general's absence left no time for romance; had the mother-in-law upset someone?
Again, this was ruled out—but the daughter? Wasn't she engaged to be
married next year? What about the family of the future in-laws? Was there
someone who didn't approve of the political union? At the time of the killing,
the general was heading an assault in the Thessalian hinterland, making his
alibi more solid than iron. Which was not to say he couldn't have paid an
assassin to wipe out his womenfolk. But why would he???

Through those same contacts, Iliona read the reports of every interview and
interrogation that had been conducted and monitored the leads on the literally
dozens of suspects. Consequently, she grew as frustrated as the investigators,
since everyone and yet no one was in the frame for these murders. Was one woman
the target, she asked herself? Forcing the killer to silence the others after
his crime was discovered? But why hanging? Why in a line . . . ?