by Cathy Ace
The foreman of the jury rose from his seat.
‘Not guilty.’
Clear and loud: NOT GUILTY.
It was An Accident. A tragic accident.
The past few weeks had been a tremendous strain; the newspapers had been full of it – photographs of ‘The Accused’ and ‘The Victim’ appeared everywhere, many of them none too flattering. But now it was over. The jury agreed with the general public: awful, but certainly not premeditated. The judge was saying something, then there were lots of congratulations being shouted from the gallery. Outside were more photographers and, thankfully, a taxi. Not back to the house; not to that hallway where it had happened. No, off to a hotel room; a bright, impersonal room with just a hint of luxury. Oh yes, that insurance money would come in very handy.
George Melrose turned on the television set, then bounced on the edge of the hotel bed. The afternoon movie crackled in monochrome and George smiled wryly at Katherine Hepburn in a dressing gown, not unlike the one his wife Joyce had worn as she had descended the stairs that fateful night.
George had looked at her disapproving eyes peering from beneath her curlers for the last time, had approached her, taken her hands in his, pointed the gun toward her heart and had pulled the trigger. The blood had ruined the dressing gown, of course. Then he’d put the gun in Joyce’s dead hands and shot again, this time breaking the glass in the big old oak hallstand.
The police hadn’t believed George that his wife had tried to kill him. He had never thought they would. After all, George was such an inoffensive chap, why would Joyce want to kill him? Unless she had a screw loose, of course. No, George was quiet and unassuming; a teatotaler who was hard-working, and happy to stay at home of an evening, watching the box. No one had ever known him to go out except to his country and western club, where he was a well-respected and diligent club secretary; dozens of members had come to the court to say so.
The police hadn’t known what to believe, until they found the diary, tucked away in a drawer beneath one of Joyce Melrose’s nightdresses. For months it had been hidden in the glove compartment of George’s car, wrapped in plastic bags to keep it forensically clean. He’d carefully filled in each day’s entry in painstakingly formed copperplate, copied from the calligraphy book the police had also found in Joyce’s chest of drawers.
George rang for room service, and ordered himself a cream tea. The weather was brightening; George wondered if perhaps the summer would liven itself up a bit now. Joyce had actually liked summer, but of course it had made her sneeze. That woman had been allergic to almost everything. Possibly even life itself.
Miserable, boring, plain, whining Joyce. It really was incredible that anyone could believe she had been bright enough to think of what would have been a really clever plan. But then, as George often told himself, people could be unbelievably stupid.
That Inspector Glover they’d put on the case late in the day had been the only one sharp enough to spot that Joyce would never have got away with her plan. Indeed, he was the only one who pointed out it was clearly all a set-up, because of the silver in the bag on the living-room floor. After all, who could have put it there but Joyce herself, if she’d supposedly shot someone entering the house? No, George hadn’t wanted them to think she was that clever.
Detective Inspector Evan Glover and his wife were finishing a late supper. They rarely discussed work, but the George Melrose case had aroused a great deal of interest nationwide.
As Betty Glover collected the dirty plates from the table and pushed them into the soapy water in the washing-up bowl she said, ‘You look tired, Evan.’
‘It’s been a hard day. I won’t be sorry to get off to bed.’ Her husband’s voice was heavy.
‘Look, cariad, I know we don’t usually talk about your cases, but if you want to chat about this one, you go ahead.’
Evan Glover finished his tea and carefully placed his cup in the center of the recess in the saucer. Betty didn’t care for mugs.
‘Don’t worry, love, a good night’s sleep will cure me.’ He looked up at his dear wife of thirty years as she balanced the dishes in the rack to drain. Their eyes locked for a moment, then they smiled at each other; a smile of understanding, and sympathy.
Glover rubbed his tired face, hard, with both hands. He scratched his head and pushed his still-black hair from a furrowed brow. He sat quietly for a moment, hands clasped behind his head, rocking gently on his chair. Betty stacked the dishes, and waited.
Finally Glover spoke, his tone betraying his exasperation. ‘I just haven’t felt right about this Melrose case all along. There’s something we’ve missed, but not something you can put your finger on. Forensics were inconclusive, and no matter how much of a gut feeling I’ve got, you can’t convict someone on the basis of my indigestion. They call me an “intuitive copper”, and my intuition says he’s got away with murder. Anyway, he’s cleared. That diary did it; all the experts said it was the work of someone missing a few marbles. Almost childlike. Still, she made it perfectly clear that she intended to do him in. Even covered the double insurance angle. You know, he’s actually quite a nice chap. Quiet. Almost invisible. Colorless sort. Yes, that’s it, colorless.’
Betty Glover wiped her hands on a tea towel, then spread the dishcloth across the taps to dry. ‘Put some water in that cup before you come up, cariad. I’m going to make a move now. Don’t you be too long. You need your rest.’ Her voice was gentle, comforting.
‘Night, love, I’ll be up in a minute,’ called Glover to the receding figure.
‘They said in the papers she had her hair in curlers when your lot arrived at the house. Did she?’ enquired Betty as she began to pull herself up the stairs using the banister.
Evan rubbed his eyes and answered nonchalantly with a sleepy, muffled, ‘Mmm? Yes. Yes she did.’
His wife chuckled as she clambered toward the bedroom. ‘Well, if I was going to bump you off, then give myself up to the police straight away, there’s no way I’d have my hair in curlers. Who’d want to be arrested in curlers? What would you do with them at the police station? Ah well. Curlers? Yes, very strange that. She must have been potty, as you say.’
Glover was stunned. He stared open-mouthed at the china cabinet as though it had uttered the words itself. The curlers!
FEBRUARY
The Corpses Hanging Over Paris
I looked up from my desk to see a shock of green-and-blue dyed hair poke around my door. ‘Professor Morgan, am I too early?’ asked Paris Chow in a hesitant voice.
I assured him he wasn’t, and didn’t even bother to point out he was ten minutes late; since my migration to Vancouver from my native Wales several years ago, I’ve learned that ten minutes late is often viewed as being five minutes early by those who live here. Which still annoys the heck out of me.
Another reason I didn’t mention his timekeeping was because it was the end of the week, and I had no particular plans for Friday evening, or indeed for the weekend, so I wasn’t in a hurry to get away. But I’d imagined Paris would be running out of the place; it was the end of the Chinese New Year celebrations, and therefore the Lantern Festival.
‘Come in, Paris, let’s get on. I’m sure you want to get away.’ He seemed to hold back, then stomped into my office room and pushed the door shut.
Okay, Cait, I thought to myself, so he needs this to be private, and his entire being is screaming he’s in turmoil. I teach a course here at the University of Vancouver in reading body language, so it’s fair to say I know my onions in that respect, and I steeled myself for what I feared might turn out to be an emotional conversation. All I knew for certain was that Paris had asked for an hour with me, as a favor. He’d taken a few of my courses in criminal psychology over the past couple of years, but I hadn’t seen much of him recently. A hard worker with a good brain, he’d told me early on he wanted to work in criminalistics one day – so many of them do nowadays with all those shows on TV – and he s
tands a good chance; he’s patient, listens well, attends to detail, and doesn’t mind taking his time over something. I knew his finals weren’t far off, so I thought he might want to talk about career plans, but now I was less certain of that original assumption.
Paris’s voice shook with forced bonhomie as he spluttered, ‘Yeah, well, you know, like, I wanted to, uh, like, thank you for giving me this time, professor.’ Born and raised in Vancouver, Paris suffered from the local disease – a seeming inability to speak a sentence that wasn’t liberally sprinkled with the unnecessary, and frankly irritating, seasoning of ‘like’, ‘you know’ and ‘for sure’; another local peculiarity I still struggled with. To be fair to him, Paris was always polite, but on this occasion he seemed positively deferential as he bowed his head to me; I’m used to a lot of my Chinese-born students doing this, but for this Vancouverite, it was a first. With his ripped jeans, Canucks’ hockey shirt, and stripes of green-and-blue hair down the middle of his head, he was hardly a vision of traditional Chinese values.
‘You’re welcome, Paris. Off to the game this weekend?’
His eyes lit up and he bared two rows of gleaming white, precisely aligned teeth in a grin that sparkled with excitement. His parents had probably spent a fortune to ensure the perfection of that smile. ‘Yeah, Amrit and I got tickets in the nosebleeds. We’re gonna, like, thrash The Avalanche!’
I smiled too, seeing such passion. ‘And what about other activities? Finishing up the family celebrations?’ I stayed cheery.
Paris stopped making eye contact, and his grin disappeared. ‘Yeah, a lot of family stuff.’ He paused, then added, ‘That’s why I’m here. I want you to help me solve a murder mystery.’
I was speechless; which isn’t something I can say about myself very often. I gathered my thoughts – of which there were many. ‘You’re having some sort of family murder-mystery evening?’ It was the most likely of all the scenarios I was contemplating.
Paris Chow, or to give him his proper Chinese name, Chow Zhang Yi, laughed nervously. ‘In my family we keep our cultural traditions alive in lots of ways. Every Lunar New Year, over the fifteen days, we all meet to eat, give gifts, then eat some more. And we tell stories. You know, like the way little kids here tell ghost stories around the campfire?’ I nodded. ‘Well, we tell stories that are supposed to engage and involve the rest of the family – all of them from nine months to ninety years, which is about the age range in my family. Of course, none of this is in English, and this year it’s my turn to tell a story during the lantern-making party.’
‘And you think I can help?’ My skepticism must have been audible.
‘Yeah.’ He seemed convinced.
‘Do you want some tips on presentations? Some ideas for props?’ I was at a bit of a loss.
‘Thanks, but no thanks. I just wanted to run the story past you so you can let me know if I’m telling it well. You said once that you try to tell a story to keep students interested – remember?’
Even with my eidetic memory, I couldn’t remember exactly when I’d have said it in front of Paris, but I try to say it at the start of every course I deliver. I nodded in what I thought was a non-committal way, as I pictured Paris when I’d first met him; back then he’d been three years younger and dressed in a less outrageous manner . . . I recalled khaki pants, a blue-and-white golf shirt, and hair shaved almost to his scalp. He’d carried a red backpack, and had looked about fifteen. Within two months his personal presentation had shifted to be a little less like the way you’d expect to see a forty-year-old on the golf course, and much more as you’d expect to see a teenager at university. It was a process so many of them went through as they wriggled around trying to find their niche in a world where almost everyone was new to them, and the group dynamics had to be worked out. Those first few months at university are an incredibly trying time – psychologically – for youngsters; they suddenly find they are minnows in a vast sea, no longer at the top of the food chain as they were at high school.
He took my silence as approval, and continued, ‘So I’m going to tell a story about Shanghai – which is where my family is from, so they’ll all, like, know the places I’m talking about. The story’s about star-crossed lovers. And I hoped you could help.’
I was puzzled. ‘Well, that sounds interesting, Paris, but romance isn’t really my strong point.’ As I spoke I was thinking, If only you knew how much it’s not my strong point you wouldn’t be asking me.
He smiled timidly and said, ‘Well, I don’t know about that, professor, but crime is, and this is a story about passion, and jealousy, and murder – and that’s your bag, eh?’
I was beginning to see some light but couldn’t help asking, ‘Do you think that’s the sort of story that would go down well with a family group? Aren’t you supposed to avoid the subject of death at the New Year?’
‘Oh yeah,’ he replied in a matter-of-fact way, ‘for sure, it’s supposed to be bad luck, but my family is a particularly gory lot; the more monsters, injustice, and tragedy there is in a story, the more they’ll love it. Have you ever seen a Chinese opera? They all love them.’
Short of admitting that my one and only experience of Chinese opera had left me utterly confused and almost deaf, I didn’t know what to say, so I countered with, ‘So you think that a professor of criminology is your best bet for a useful guinea pig?’
Paris nodded, and pulled out a fat folder stuffed with paperwork, divided into sections with colored tabs. He leafed through it until he found the right spot. He didn’t look up as he announced, ‘I’ll use my notes. I want to get the facts straight.’
I found his statement interesting. ‘And this is a case you’ve created yourself, for this purpose?’
He nodded, not making eye contact.
I decided to not mention the fact I could tell from his micro-expressions he was lying, on the basis I wanted to find out why he would do such a thing. I encouraged him to try a run-through of his tale. He sat forward in his chair and began. He’d obviously decided to adopt a special story-telling voice; it was low and conspiratorial, and I soon found myself enjoying his dramatic style of delivery.
‘Shanghai in the 1930s was a rough place, especially if you were poor, and Chinese. It was known as the Pearl of the Orient, and the Paris of the East.’ He looked up. ‘All my family know it’s why I chose Paris as my western name.’ He grinned. ‘Anyway, at exactly the same time it was also referred to as the Whore of Asia, which tells you more about what the place was really like. Between the January 28th Incident in 1932, and the Japanese Occupation in 1937, Shanghai was demilitarized – but it was run by baron gangsters; some were Chinese, but most were Western. The wealthy, international residents known as the Shanghighlanders lorded it over the slums, and built their imposing Western-style finance houses and office buildings along the western bank of the Huangpu River. They got away with murder – quite literally – when they wanted, because of the extraterritoriality agreement which made them exempt from Chinese law. In truth, Shanghai was full of Westerners looking for easy access to everything that was illegal in the West, but which was available for sale on every street corner in a city of sin where girls came in from farms and villages looking to make quick money with their exotic looks.’
My right eyebrow shot up; it does that when I’m surprised, or cross, or trying to make a point, or displaying disbelief . . . to be honest, it’s a multi-purpose eyebrow. This time it shot up with amazement. I had to interrupt. ‘You’re quite sure this is a suitable story for the whole family?’
‘Yeah, they’ll be fine,’ replied Paris, using his ‘normal’ voice once again. ‘The adults know, like, all this stuff; it’s our heritage, see? But I have to frame the story for the younger ones. They’ll love it, for sure.’
Paris seemed quite certain of himself, and I rationalized he was talking about his family, after all; my own family now comprises an urn at each end of my mantelpiece in my little house a few miles fr
om the university, and a sister I haven’t seen for years because she lives in Australia, so I couldn’t really comment. I let him continue, interested to see where the tale would go; I suspected it would take me to some pretty questionable places.
‘During this wild period, a young girl named Lily made her way to Shanghai from a small village hundreds of miles away. She went there to make money to send home; her father was sick, and couldn’t work on the family’s farm any more. Her parents had forbidden her to go, but she had sneaked off in the night. She was a good seamstress and brought samples of her work to show to what she thought would be the nice women who ran the shops where fine ladies’ garments were made. But do you know what she found when she got to Shanghai?’
Paris stopped, and seemed to expect some sort of response from me. I furnished one. ‘She found they were all horrible people and she was ensnared into slavery?’
Paris smiled, and added in his non-storytelling voice, ‘Well, something like that, but that’s how I plan to get the audience involved, see? I’ll ask them questions and they can take the story forward themselves. Does that work okay?’
I smiled. ‘It’s a nice device. Where’d you come up with that one?’
Paris put his hands together and bowed mockingly. ‘Oh Great Master – I see how you do it, and I, humble servant, copy you.’
‘Ha! Very good. Well, if you think it works when I do it in my lectures, then feel free to use the technique yourself, oh humble servant,’ I replied cheerily. ‘So, come on then, what happens when Lily gets the awful job, in terrible conditions, for next to no pay?’
Paris took a deep breath, and was off again. ‘The woman who runs the shop where Lily takes a job, Madame Chang, is horrible. Lily doesn’t get paid at all, but she puts her mind to doing well and she gradually makes her way up the sewing hierarchy to become the seamstress who works in the back of the store, doing alterations and last-minute changes for the customers who come in for their final fittings. Lily’s now receiving a little money, which she saves, and she uses every opportunity to listen to the English-speaking customers. She even learns to speak some English herself; she is a very clever girl, you see. One day, Lily is called into the store to pin up the hem of a dress for a wealthy woman; Mrs Eversholt is Chinese, married to a rich Westerner. She dresses in Western clothing, which is Lily’s specialty. As Lily is hemming Mrs Eversholt’s dress, the lady’s son, Charles, comes into the store; he is young and handsome. Lily has never seen a wealthy young man of mixed race before, and she makes the mistake of letting her mouth fall open as she stares at him. When Madame Chang sees this she screams at Lily, and pushes her into the room behind the store. Mrs Eversholt and Charles can hear Lily being beaten. What do you think happens then?’