The Mammoth Book of Best British Crime 9

by Maxim Jakubowski

  We were all so engaged in our varying capacities with this bitter discussion that none of us paid any attention to what else might be going on around us, until a familiar voice remarked:

  “What a jolly hoax, eh?”

  It was Horatio. We turned in disbelief to see him standing upright in the tomb, merrily laughing at us.

  As we gaped at that dreadful sight, wondering whether this were a sudden recovery from death’s cold grasp or the work of the devil, Horatio, seeing he had our full attention, kindly explained that he had merely, in the common parlance, been gaming us.

  “I always thought I’d like to be present at my own death,” he chortled. “That was more than you could offer me, Parson. You’d have me packed off to hellfire like the rest of them here. Splendid to know what everyone thinks of me, all for the price of an arrow and some red paint. Pity about the ruined sheepskin but worth it to see your faces. Look at you all. No one glad to see me returned from the dead, eh?”

  Still none of us spoke.

  No matter, Horatio was eager to do that for us. “Eleanor, my faithless betrothed,” he grinned. “John, my envious brother, Montague Kettle, my avaricious rival, wherever he is. And dear old Tom, our reluctant gardener, packing me off to the devil before my time, and of course Nat, my faithful Grecian echo.” His gaze swept over the anguished Nat, then switched back sharply to Mr Kettle who had returned to join us. “Kettle,” Horatio screamed out, “you can put that statue back where you found it. It’s mine.”

  Kettle stood there, eyes popping, with Aphrodite clasped to his bosom, looking as though he had just seen Jupiter descending from the clouds aiming a thunderbolt right at him. Eleanor had swooned into John’s arms and John looked as if he would stab Horatio with the very arrow he had mocked us with. And I? I stood there, torn between outrage that I had been deceived into playing a role in this tawdry jest and misery on behalf of those whom Horatio would now proceed to punish.

  “You’ll be out of that cottage tomorrow, Tom,” Horatio continued gleefully. “You too, Nat. I need no more of you around. Nor you, loving brother John. I’ll only keep one of you for myself.” He paused. “My sweet Eleanor.”

  Jacob and I sat in that so-called Arcadian paradise for another two hours. The doctor and coroner had duly arrived, Jacob had broken the news to them that their services were not required and they had returned to their homes unimpressed with the jests of Horatio Simple. Jacob is not accustomed to having hoaxes played upon him, and required much soothing as we waited. Waited for what? I did not know, but something would surely draw this dreadful day to a close.

  We had watched as the guests began to leave. First a few crept away singly, then, as more gained courage, they left in small groups, then in a flood, but at last the sound of hooves and carriages rattling over the gravel was dying away. The Squire had long since departed, I had seen nothing of Mr Kettle, nor of Eleanor, nor of John, nor of Nathaniel. Only old Tom refused to leave the garden and wandered about, reluctant to return to tell his family of what must happen on the morrow. I had seen nothing of Horatio either, and I was grateful for that.

  My heart was heavy and even Jacob had lost his taste for classical argument, now that the notorious Hellfire Club seemed to have re-established itself in Kent. I had heard of the devilish capers that went on in those caves, but I had not thought that such outrages could take place here. It seemed to mock God Himself, and God will not be mocked.

  At last as the sun set over Arcadia, Jacob and I stretched our weary souls and legs, and strolled back to Fern House to make our way home. It was only then, as we passed through the orangery, that we saw Horatio Simple again, lying amidst the exotic leaves and fruit in what had been another of his extravagant innovations.

  He was dead. No arrow had been used this time, and there had been no hoax. He had been brutally and savagely strangled.

  “What is amiss?” Eleanor cried, as I entered the drawing room. She must have seen from my face that something was very wrong. “What worse news can there be?”

  John looked as if he were drained of the will to live. “There can be none, Parson. Eleanor is condemned to a life with a monster and I to a loveless future.” He might have added, “a penniless one, too,” since his only income depended on his brother. “We have been discussing what we might do, but there is nothing. Either we condemn Eleanor’s parents to starvation, or Eleanor and I must part for ever. We have decided upon the latter and I shall sail for the Indies shortly.”

  “Do not,” I said gently, “for all has changed. Your brother is dead, John.”

  He did not seem to take the words in, just looked hopelessly at me.

  “Another jest, Parson?” Eleanor said wearily. “I would not have believed that of you.”

  “This time it is certain,” I assured her.

  “He has taken his own life?” John asked.

  “Another took it.”

  I should have condemned the look of hope and joy that crossed their faces, but I prayed for forgiveness because I could not do so. Surely their reaction could not be feigned? Horatio’s fate had been unknown to them.

  “Come with me, John,” I bade him. “There is much to be done.”

  The Squire was once more sent for, but he was from home. With John’s permission, therefore, I bade the servants carry the body to a more seemly resting place until the Squire should join us.

  Death’s grinning skull was before my eyes as I looked my last on this would-be Arcadia. I was contemplating who had finally brought death to Horatio Simple. I thought back to Jacob’s and my conversation earlier, and then I knew beyond a doubt who it had been. I sought the guilty one out, with a heavy heart. It was not difficult. He was sitting on the terrace looking out upon his handiwork, admiring it.

  “Why did you do it, Nathaniel?” I asked.

  Why had I not noticed the strangeness of his eyes before? They looked right through me as though they saw nothing but himself, like the mythical Narcissus who was oblivious to all others, even the lovely nymph Echo. Echo had been condemned only to repeat the last words of others, and Nathaniel too. Or so I had believed, but Nat saw only his own reflection in the pool.

  “He took it away from me,” he explained at last. “He took everything I discovered. I found Aphrodite, I found the sarcophagus, but it was Arcadia whose loss I minded, when he claimed it as his own. My heart is here, for I designed it, not he.”

  Nathaniel had not always been echoing Horatio’s words, he had been telling us pathetically the truth that he was the designer.

  “But because of what I said at the tomb,” Nat continued, “when I believed him dead, Mr Simple was going to turn me from the house, from my own creation. He came to me and said that he would ensure I would never design or travel again.”

  “You put Arcadia before God’s commandments to man.”

  Nat bowed his head, and had no reply for me.

  I sighed. “Then it is not Arcadia you dream of, Nathaniel,” I told him bluntly, as I heard a carriage approaching. “It is yourself. Arcadia is merely your reflection.”

  The Squire had come at last together with the doctor, coroner and parish constable, and I could do no more. I was sad indeed as Nathaniel was taken away, and I gave one last look at what had been one man’s vision of Arcadia. The sheep had gone, the garden looked dreary. What had been delightful wildness now looked merely untidy and ordinary, and I longed for my home.

  Jacob rode back to his vicarage at Tunbridge Wells, and I to Cuckoo Lees where my beloved parsonage and my loving housekeeper Dorcas awaited me.

  She was standing at the door as I rode up. “Where have you been, Caleb?” she cried, tears of relief running down her face, as I had been expected much earlier.

  “In one man’s bubble of a dream,” I told her sadly.

  She looked at me in bewilderment, and then smiled. “I have a wheatear pie and fine tansy pudding for supper, Caleb.”

  I took her hand, and said I would stable my horse and be with her. My
heart grew warm again, for I was about to enter my home. I too live in Arcadia.

  THE LONG DROP

  Tony Black

  * * *

  SOMETIMES IT WAS the thing to do.

  There was no keeping the needle under seventy; eighty was a trial but the lights went out when the grille clipped the dumpster. These dark country roads called for careful driving; stick in the dirt from the slips and the wet – and the fact that this was the night luck ran out on us – we were always going to go to shit.

  The Toyota came to rest on its roof; Craven watched the wheels spinning and shook his head. He tried to crack his backbone into place. “The car’s fucking finished. We’re finished.”

  “Oh, y’think?” said Lois. She had a deep cut above her left eye; it looked like jello when she dabbed it with her shirtsleeve. As her flannel rode up I saw the SIG Sauer was still tucked in her waistband. That was something.

  “You need to get rid of that,” said Craven, “We’re finished!”

  She turned to me, gave a slight sigh, then looked back to her shirtsleeve. “Oh, I’m good for now.”

  Her tone was enough for Craven to fire up, “Someone’s been killed. We’re fucked.”

  He strode forward and flagged his arms like he’d lost control again.

  Lois didn’t like that. The way her lip twitched, the way she narrowed her eyes … I could almost smell her anger.

  She removed the pistol.

  I knew to look away.

  For a second, the spinning wheels of the car were lit by the muzzle flash.

  * * *

  I’d met Craven at NA. It was three weeks after my split with Pam, two weeks before Lois crossed the dark divide into the long drop that was my life.

  Craven was an old hand at kicking; he was wrapped far too tight for the real world and meth was his crutch. I liked to think I had the edge on him in that regard. When I used, it was because I was bored. Or working a job.

  “So, how’d you end up here?” Craven collared me at the coffee counter. He twitched and oozed sweat from his heavy brows. His hairline was receding and some freckles on his crown looked like they were ready to slide down his face.

  “Do I know you?”

  He shot up his hands. “Whoa, easy, cowboy!”

  “Don’t call me that, please.”

  “You object to being called cowboy? Or you’re just not real friendly?” The tone was queer, but I didn’t have him down as a homosexual. Either way, it had taken less than two minutes for me to tire of him. “I don’t like people messing with me.”

  “Well, fuck you!”

  He made a dramatic flourish with his coffee cup and some grey liquid spilled on the floor. A few heads turned.

  I moved off, found a vantage point by the doorway – it seemed a good place to assess the crowd. I soon had them sussed. The room was full of trembling, bug-eyed losers. All except the one. I watched over the cold decaf as Craven made a bee-line for her.

  I wished I had his courage – Pam had taken that.

  * * *

  The lot held only two vehicles, three if you included the trail bike a group of kids were using to burn donuts on the asphalt. I watched them from below a to-let sign hung over the door of a long-vacated Ho-Joes. The neighbourhood had lost its sparkle. Brownstones were being boarded-up left and right; cops kept clear.

  “This’ll do,” said Craven.

  “You sure?” I said.

  “Oh, yeah … these Toyotas, can’t kill ’em with an axe.”

  I took his word. Watched him approach with his steel rule out-stretched; it didn’t take him long to make the ignition kick, then the engine purred to life.

  I ran to the passenger’s door. Craven gunned the gas.

  As we drove he lit a Montecristo; said it was “his thing” on a job. I didn’t question it – I had met a lot of guys with strange rituals and superstitions. This wasn’t any take-down, though. We’d moved up a league. The thought made me edgy.

  “Hey buddy boy … you keeping it together there?” said Craven.

  I turned to face him, “Me?”

  “You think I’m talking to Mr Magic Tree? Fucking-A I mean you.”

  “Don’t worry about me.”

  His voice dropped, took on a mocking tone, “Oh, but I do, buddy boy … I do.”

  “Cut the shit, Craven … just spit it out, where you going with this?”

  He started to laugh. He laughed me up. “I ain’t going anywhere … and neither are you! Ain’t that what your little woman used to say?”

  I felt a rush of adrenalin enter my veins; I grabbed the SIG and pushed it in his throat. “Pull this fucking piece of shit over now!”

  His face changed colour, dropped several shades. His mouth turned down towards his chest. As he grabbed for breath his words came falteringly. “Jesus … I’m, I’m … only messing with you, man.”

  I moved the gun from his throat to the middle of his temple.

  “How many times I got to tell you? I don’t like people messing with me … Pull the fuck over!”

  * * *

  The job was bloody, I never meant for it to be that way. I knew Lois wouldn’t approve; she had insisted on one thing only – no body bags. We’d cleared the city, made the highway in good time but Craven wasn’t in any kind of condition. I took the wheel from him but I wasn’t in much better shape. She was only a girl.

  “Man, this is wrong, dead wrong,” Craven whined.

  “Shut the fuck up!”

  “Why was she in the middle of the road?”

  “I said, shut the fucking hell up, Craven.” He rocked to and fro in the passenger seat. Tears streamed down the sides of his face as he tugged at the few tight red curls that sat above his neck. I could see the streaks of blood where he’d cradled her head on the front of his jeans; it had already dried dark on the pale-blue denim.

  “What was she, man … six?”

  I couldn’t listen any more. It was his fault; he rolled out way too fast after we cut Pam loose. Craven had fucked up twice now – tested our luck – and that was fucking fatal. If I had to produce the gun again I’d fire it in his face; make that two body bags.

  “Craven, listen … now listen. Are you listening?” I needed him to chill out; for all our sakes.

  He sobbed louder, brought his knees up under his chin.

  “We have to collect Lois from the drop … if she has the money, we can still make this work. Do you hear me? We can still clear out … go our ways like we planned. Only richer, a hell of a lot richer.”

  Craven didn’t answer. As the wind and rain picked up, and the sky darkened I started to think of Lois. It had all been her idea – the kidnapping. I had never had a thought to it; not even when Pam had turned me out without a dime, not even then. There was something about that line of business that brought nothing but bad luck; that’s what the old boys said. But Lois was certain we could pull it off … “You don’t need to be part of the gig … just feed us what we need to know,” she had said.

  I never believed her. I knew better, but Pam had taken something from me and I wanted to take something from her. Christ Almighty, my mind was ablaze. I was full of thoughts of the past, the present meant nothing to me, and Lois had this way of making me believe anything was possible. Anything at all.

  * * *

  Craven pulled the Toyota into the side of the street. The SIG started to feel heavy in my hand; my palm was sweating. If he had made contact with the mark then we were finished before we’d even started. We were skating close to the edge on this job as it was; it would take one look from Pam, one hint that I was back in her ambit, and her father would have her back under security. Billionaires are funny that way about only daughters.

  “What the fuck do you know about what Pam used to say to me?”

  Craven knew he’d fucked up. He had set about riling me, taking me for a ride … but he hadn’t thought it through properly. He didn’t see where his joking would end.

  “I … I … didn�
�t do anything.”

  He looked pathetic, his eyes looping in wide circles, searching for some answer that was never going to come.

  “I didn’t do anything … Is this fucking kindergarten? … Am I playing with you, here?”

  “No. No … I …”

  I smacked him with the gun. His cheekbone opened up, a little blood spilled out. “Tell me now … when did you speak to her about me?”

  He lowered his eyes to his lap, looked at his palms. “In the diner.”

  I hit him again; the force of it sprained my wrist. “What did you say to her?”

  “She didn’t know me … she didn’t know who I was … I just sat next to her at the counter and she asked me to pass the mayo … we started talking and she said something about an ex she had. I just put two and two together … that was it. I promise. She had no idea who I was … she’d never know me again. I promise. I promise you …”

  I took the SIG in my other hand; I was ready to blow his fucking dumb head through the window.

  “Craven, you stupid motherfucker. You stupid son of a bitch … you never heard of tempting fate.”

  * * *

  If I had been anything like the man I once was I would have pulled the trigger myself, but he was gone. Pam had turned me around, made me believe I could change … and I did. I had changed so much that I wasn’t capable of living the life any more. I’d grown soft; that’s what the meth was about. It was recreation to begin with, a break from carrying shopping bags in Beverly Hills, some kind of reminder of the old days, the old kicks. I knew I’d taken it too far. Pam knew that too … or maybe she was right when she said I was never going anywhere.

  “What the fuck happened?” Lois yelled. Her blonde hair was tied back tight from her face. It made her look harder than usual. Her features seemed severe as she squinted through the falling rain.

  “Get in!” I shouted.