by Ruby Loren
It looked like an infected mosquito bite.
Holly swallowed nervously. She got herself out of the room and back outside into the icy air. Chrissy was just ending a phone call.
“The police will be here in one minute,” she confirmed.
They both sat on the step at the entrance to the house, looking up at the last fading rays of sunlight in silence. All Holly could think about was that bite mark and what it meant.
Unlike the members of the Amateur Archaeological Society, she wasn’t an expert on ancient mysteries, but even she could recognise the similarities between Aidan Banks’ murder and the death of the pharaoh, Tutankhamen.
“What about the bite? The police won’t talk about it, but it could be a big part of this case,” Holly said, taking a sip of her chai latte and looking up at George.
It was two days since Aidan had been murdered. They were sitting in the best (and the only) coffee shop in town, a small cafe called Auntie Something-Or-Others. (No, that really was the name).
George frowned and sat back in his chair. His own drink - a double espresso - was practically untouched.
“They’re probably keeping quiet about it. They might be hoping it’s a detail that only the murderer would know. What makes you think it’s important?”
Holly wrinkled her nose and shook her head, as she mentally re-entered the murder scene. “It wasn’t what I expected - the bite, I mean. There aren’t any biting insects around at this time of year. It was either caused by something else, or… it was fake,” she finished, feeling a little thrill of elation as she suspected she’d hit on the right answer.
George shrugged his slim shoulders, which were currently clothed in a lovely blue and dark grey striped sweater. “You could be right. After all, the killer clearly wants the deaths to mimic ancient murders and the mysteries that surround them.” He sighed. “I know I said I thought it would be a good idea for us to talk and bounce some ideas around, but all I keep thinking is why? Why would any member of our little club want to start murdering the other members in such sick ways? It makes no sense at all! There isn’t a clear motive for any of it. Perhaps it’s someone on the outside who found our group offensive in some way and is now punishing us all.” His eyes met Holly’s and there was an awkward moment.
“Don’t worry, I’m still a suspect,” she told him, her tone dry. George had the good grace to blush.
Holly tilted her head and looked at the man sat across the small table from her. “Have you been okay? I know what it’s like, wondering if…”
“…If you’re next,” George finished for her.
She nodded.
He ran a hand through his blonde hair and sighed. “It’s on my mind, of course. I can’t help looking through the history books and trying to figure out which murder from the past I’d be matched up with.” He shuddered. “But you’ve got to get on with life. There’s still work to do, and things still blow up all over the place. Just the other day, I had to get Carl out to fix a sink that had decided to flood for no reason that I could find. Then Chrissy came over wanting to borrow a book on a Roman site.” Holly tried not to bristle at the mention of the other woman being so close to George. She had no right to be jealous.
“It was only after the news of Bernie’s death came through that I wondered about the wisdom of being alone with another member…” He frowned and shook his head. “I’m still not sure it’s one of us.”
Another silence fell. They both looked out of the window at the street outside. Few people were walking around in the cold weather. The sky was a depressing slate grey, although nothing fell from it yet.
Holly sighed. The weather was only exacerbating her current mood. This spate of killings had also killed off her business - from local sources, anyway. People had noticed her trips to the police station… and people had gossiped. Holly supposed there were some who thought she’d picked up a few pointers during her stay at Horn Hill House, or had perhaps even been involved in the mass killings herself. The fingers on her right hand itched when she remembered she technically was a killer. Although - killing someone with a book wasn’t one of the most bloodthirsty methods of dispatch.
“Weapons…” she mused, as something snapped into place in her brain. “Where are the weapons?” she said a little louder, her eyes focusing on George.
He looked mildly interested again. “Yes, there’s the rock… but they haven’t found what was used on Aidan. I suppose with Bernie, they’ll probably never know. Half the town has foxgloves in their gardens. They’re a regular plague!”
Holly finished her latte, reflecting for a moment that it was a shame that this was definitely not a date. When she’d first met George, she’d had her hopes. Now she could see his mind was far from thinking about any of that. She couldn’t blame him. He thought he was on the murderer’s kill list, and she knew exactly how that felt.
“I have a feeling the weapons will turn up,” she said.
George looked at her in surprise. She pushed her fringe out of her eyes for a second. “Look… that rock wasn’t in Louise’s car by accident. Someone wanted to make her appear suspicious. The killer is playing with us.”
“But why? And why make the deaths mirror history?” George’s hands shook a little as he downed his coffee. Holly privately thought a double espresso may not have been the wisest choice. She impulsively reached out and steadied him, before withdrawing as quickly as she’d done it, her cheeks already colouring.
“If we knew that, I think we could probably solve the mystery.”
Cupid’s Arrow
A day later, Holly was no closer to cracking the case, and she had a nasty feeling that it wouldn’t be long before the killer struck again. The first three deaths had been pretty close in time to each other, and she didn’t see why they’d slow down now that they had a taste for it. It wasn’t as if there was a shortage of historical deaths for them to choose from. Everyone from history was dead.
She’d invited George along on a research mission to keep his mind on other things. As they walked down the little side-street that led away from the main high-street, Holly wondered if this was a good idea. Most people thought the narrow cobbled streets of the town were quaint. She just thought they made it much more likely that you’d twist an ankle.
The other reason she’d never normally have come down the side street is because of the shop that existed at the end of the narrow road. In a town as small as Little Wemley, it was unusual for there to be a specialist costume shop, but they had one. Even more remarkably, it had been in business ever since Holly could remember.
The reason she wasn’t fond of this particular cobbled road was because of the clown the shop kept in its window. It was a life-size monstrosity that contained some sort of sensor, which meant it shrieked with laughter and flashed its LED eyes at you whenever you walked by. She was a rational adult and knew that clowns were nothing to worry about, but that didn’t stop this particular clown from giving her the heebie-jeebies.
Unfortunately, the creepy costume shop was their final destination.
The man behind the counter of the costume shop didn’t fit with his slightly creepy surroundings. His face was round and jovial and you’d struggle to get the smile to fall off his face. Holly immediately decided she hated him.
“Excuse me please, do you sell any costume makeup - for example, to make fake scars?” George asked.
The counter man nodded, far too happily.
Holly stared at the rear of the window clown and wondered if perhaps the noise of its maniacal laughter had finally driven this poor shopkeeper loopy, and he was now stuck with that smile on his face for good.
“What sort of kit were you looking for? We have lots,” he said, gesturing to a wall of brightly coloured makeup. Holly’s eyes alighted on a couple of very likely possibilities. The costume shop’s makeup was surprisingly good quality. She thought that her theory was looking more promising by the second.
“Have you sold any kits rec
ently?” she inquired.
The man rubbed his bald head.
“They’re pretty good sellers. I’ve sold a few in the past week. Two women wanted some for a birthday party their children were going to. A young man wanted to prank his girlfriend, and then another man bought a kit but didn’t hang around to chat.” The shopkeeper looked disappointed about that last man, but Holly’s ears pricked up.
“What did the last man look like? If you don’t mind,” she hastily added.
She needn’t have worried. The shopkeeper loved to talk.
“There’s not much to say about him really. I told you he wasn’t the friendly sort. He was an odd kind of fellow, dressed in a beige waistcoat with pockets and a floppy hat.”
Holly looked at George, who had already turned several shades paler.
“That sounds like Dylan,” they both said together. They thanked the man and left the shop, where they stood outside the clown window wondering what to do next.
“But it can’t be him! He wouldn’t hurt a fly,” George was saying, while Holly chewed her lip, remembering the way he’d argued with Bernie at the Christmas dinner.
She wondered what they should do with the information. It should be a matter for the police, but after the way they’d treated her lately, she wasn't feeling inclined to be helpful. She also wasn’t sure if they’d even be interested.
She sighed and frowned at the ground, realising that this information could be the difference between life or death for whomever was unfortunate enough to be the next intended victim. She’d just have to suck up her prejudices.
Holly’s eye was caught by something on the ground. Her frown deepened.
“George…” she said, staring at the dark red spot just in front of her foot, and the trail of dried droplets… which she could now see led down the tiny alley by the side of the costume shop.
“That looks an awful lot like blood,” he commented, his face turning even whiter.
They started to follow the trail that led to nothing good at all.
“George, don’t!” she said when her companion reached out and lifted the flap of the stained cardboard box, which had been balanced on the bin. It was from this box that the red liquid had been leaking.
George had already touched the flap and the open box now displayed its grisly contents. A crude flint axe was inside, its sharpened edge clogged with gore. Holly swallowed and took a step back, but George’s eyes were fixed on the deadly weapon.
“Don’t touch it,” she warned, having learned that lesson the hard way during the Enviable Emerald case.
“I’m not going to,” George reassured her, his voice strangely calm.
Holly pulled out her phone and started dialling. “We’ve got to call the police. This weapon doesn’t fit any of the other murders, which means someone else is either dead, or seriously wounded…” She paused when the phone started ringing.
“There’s just one problem,” George said, still staring at the axe. “That’s mine.”
Holly hung up just as the operator started speaking.
“What?” she asked, suddenly feeling nervous.
“It’s my axe. I’m not the one who used it, but it was on display in my living room. I collect ancient weapons, you see,” he said.
Holly struggled to draw in her next breath. “You know how bad this looks, right?” was all she could think to say.
George nodded. “It must have been stolen by someone. Make the call. The police have to know. I just hope they’ll believe it wasn’t me,” he said, turning his eyes on Holly, who felt her heart jump in her chest. They both knew he was really asking for her to believe it wasn’t him.
At this moment, she wasn’t certain of anything.
“I don’t like this George guy,” Rob immediately said after she called him and recited the whole sorry story. She’d been hoping for an outsider’s opinion, thinking that it might turn up something she’d missed due to being too involved. She probably shouldn’t have chosen Rob.
“I know it looks bad right now, but I’m telling you… he’s nice! He doesn’t seem like a murderer to me. Anyway, if he was, he’s had plenty of opportunities to kill me, and he hasn’t,” she finished, her voice sober.
She heard Rob hiss on the other end of the line. “Plenty of opportunities? I hope you’re not dating a psychopath?!”
Holly spluttered and protested. “We aren’t dating!”
“Jeez, but you want to! He’s bad news. It sounds to me like he’s the leader of the club. It could be he feels like he owns everyone who joins, and that’s why he thinks he has a right to kill them.” He paused. “Look, I’m coming up for a visit. Could you try to not get yourself killed before then?”
“Rob, I’m perfectly capable. Becky and I have everything under control here,” she said, shooting Becky a big smile across the room.
Becky pretended not to have seen.
“Becky? Who’s Becky?” Rob asked.
“My secretary,” Holly said, a light frown creasing her forehead.
“What does she look like, I mean what is she like… at her job?”
Holly’s frown deepened.
“Terrible, if you must know,” she said, smiling even more brightly at Becky.
“Do I detect a hint of jealousy?” Rob teased.
Holly rolled her eyes. She’d forgotten that talking to Rob had that effect on her eyeballs. “I’m afraid it’s the truth. I didn’t have many options.”
“Sure… sure,” Rob said, his voice telling her he didn’t believe a word.
“What are you working on right now? I wouldn’t want to drag you away from a case,” she said, hoping he’d take the hint.
“Nah, it’s fine. I’ve been, you know… digging holes. The usual. So far, nothing really interesting has turned up. Just a few unexpected archaeological finds while on the trail of some bullion thieves from the 1920s. Good for the coffers, but not what I’m looking for.” Rob sighed.
Holly tilted her head thoughtfully. When she’d first met Rob at Horn Hill House the other detectives had hinted - quite heavily - that Rob’s cases weren’t always intentionally solved. His greatest strength was his ability to dig up the truth. Literally. Whether it was buried treasure, stolen money, or even collapsing the tunnel of would-be bank robbers, Rob was a menace with a spade. But Holly had a feeling his mind wasn’t always on the case. It was almost as if there was something he was forever searching for and hadn’t yet found. She wondered if he’d ever tell her what it was.
“Didn’t we agree to share all income fifty-fifty?” she joked.
Rob coughed out a laugh.“Funnily enough, no!”
“Worth a try,” Holly said with a smile.
That was another thing about Rob. He claimed to not have a lot of money. She believed him when he said that he never took any of the stolen goods he uncovered home with him, but she knew as well as anyone that there were such things as finder’s fees… and Rob was one hell of a finder. It’s none of your business! Holly reminded herself.
“I’ll leave as soon as I can,” Rob announced.
Holly grudgingly gave him her address before hanging up. On one hand, it would be great to see Rob - especially as she wasn’t exactly sure how she felt about him - but she objected to him butting in on her case and saying that George was the bad guy. She chewed her lip, thinking of the time she’d spent with George. They hadn’t known each other for long, but she just couldn’t picture it.
She sighed and rested her head on the table. Was it terrible that she was just a little bit excited to see George and Rob together? She frowned and shook her head. Now was really not the time for picking an eligible bachelor, especially when the body count of this case was steadily rising.
She jerked back to life when her house phone rang.
“You’re coming in for questioning,” the voice on the other end announced. Holly deduced it was Stephan Chittenden, just from his unique phone manner. She’d expected a call. George had gone in earlier that day, but th
e police had needed time to look at the weapon, talk to George, and then (theoretically) figure out who was dead.
“Did you find anyone?” she asked.
The long silence on the other end of the phone told her all she needed to know.
“Just get here,” Chittenden growled and hung up.
Psycho Killer, Qu’est-ce Que C’est?
Jayne was dead.
The police had phoned all of the society members. When she hadn’t answered, they’d paid the young woman a visit and had discovered a scene even bloodier than Aidan’s.
A sergeant who was doing his best to model himself on DCI Chittenden sat on the opposite side of the table. His smile remained non-existent. It was as if everyone in the local police department had decided to play ‘bad cop’.
“How well do you know George Strauss?” the officer began. Holly felt a shiver run down her spine. There was something about the way he said it that made her suspect it wasn’t just the stolen weapon that had made them suspect George.
“We only met a couple of weeks ago. He made a really last minute booking for the club’s dinner, and I agreed to play. We’ve since met for coffee, and another time to visit the costume shop to check a theory I had.” She looked at the police officer, hoping he’d give her something in return for her honesty.
All she got was a frown.
“You shouldn’t be investigating anything. This is a police matter. Anything you find should be passed on to us.”
“It was passed on to you! As soon as we found the axe we called,” she said, but all she got in return was a withering glare.
“You should have told us before you found it,” he complained - so ridiculously Holly didn’t even bother to argue.
“Back to your question. The answer is: not very well at all,” she admitted and then clammed up. Now the officer would have to contribute something.