EQMM, January 2007

by Dell Magazine Authors

  "You'll be pitched out on your ear. I'll summon a constable."

  To judge by his clothes, the young man belonged to the labouring class, but he looked clean and respectable. He had a pleasant, manly face, Sir John considered, and he appeared sober. To the baronet's surprise, the fellow pointed at him.

  "Why, there he is! Sir John, sir, let me speak to you."

  "What is it, my man? Who are you?"

  The man pulled off his cap. “Robbie Trevine, sir, at your service. It's—it's about your watch. And what happened last night."

  Sir John frowned. “The burglar? What had he to do with my watch? It was stolen hours earlier."

  "I know, sir. If you'd let me explain?"

  "Come over here."

  Sir John led the way to a sofa near the fire. He sat down and the man stood cap in hand before him. The servants hovered but kept their distance.

  "The watch was stolen by a young woman I know,” Trevine said.

  Sir John's eyebrows rose. It had not been given out that the thief was a woman. “Go on."

  "She's not a thief, sir, I swear it, not by nature. Her mother's ill, and she can't pay for the doctor."

  Sir John waved a hand. “Right is right, Trevine, and wrong is wrong. Nothing can alter that."

  Trevine's lips tightened. “Yes, sir."

  "Do you know where she is now?"

  Trevine nodded.

  "Then I'm obliged to you. If this results in an arrest and the recovery of my watch, I shall see that you receive the reward. Tell me where to find her and leave your direction with—"

  "I don't want your reward."

  "What?"

  Trevine lowered his voice. “She's wounded, sir. I saw her through a window not an hour ago, lying in a yellow dress like a streetwalker's. There's blood on her, all over the place. Maybe someone shot her."

  "Stuff and nonsense."

  "Yes, sir."

  Sir John glanced at the servants, making sure they were still out of earshot. He remembered the scrap of yellow silk he had found on his bedroom floor. “And—and where precisely is she?"

  "If I tell you, you'll help her, sir?"

  "I make no promises.” Sir John wished he had not described his burglar to the authorities as “a hulking great brute.” “But I'm not a vengeful man. If this young woman can procure the return of my watch, I shall be content to let sleeping dogs lie. But first things first. Where is she?"

  "In Clifton, sir—up near the Downs where they're building the new bridge. Rodney Place."

  "What number?"

  "I don't know, sir. But it's where the Missionary Society is. Mr. Fanmole's house."

  Sir John slumped back in his chair as though flicked by an invisible finger. The air rushed from his lungs. “Fanmole?"

  Trevine looked at him in astonishment. “Yes, sir. A reverend gentleman."

  "Little fellow with a fat neck? Slimy voice and a laugh like a hacksaw?"

  "That's him to the life, sir."

  Sir John stood up. “Damme, I see it all now.” He waved to the nearest servant. “You there! Whistle up a hackney carriage.” He turned back to Robbie Trevine. “Wait—I must fetch something. Then we'll see what Mr. Fanmole has to say."

  When he came back to the lobby, he was wearing a hat and a big overcoat and swinging what looked like a weighted walking stick. He swept Robbie into the hackney carriage at the hotel door and they rattled up the hill to Clifton. Sir John talked as they drove—he would have talked to anyone; he was as full of pressure as a GWR Northern Star locomotive.

  "That damned rogue Fanmole! My brother gave him one of our livings just before he died. But it didn't take long for the rumours to start. Tittle-tattle about the village girls. Then the mother of one of my tenants died, turned out she'd just altered her will in Fanmole's favour. Next thing I knew, he'd invested some money on behalf of his curate, and the money was lost; and the poor fellow blew out his brains; and guess who owned the company? Fanmole's aunt, or some such. I could have taken him to court, but the scandal would have looked bad. So I made him resign the living, and I had a quiet word with the bishop, too."

  "Mary says it's his aunt's house in Rodney Place,” Robbie said.

  "And what does the aunt say about her precious nephew, eh?"

  "If she does any talking, sir, no one's taking much notice. She's in a private asylum in Totterdown. But he runs his Missionary Society from her house."

  "For the benefit of the heathen, eh? A tribe of one, I'll be bound, and its name is Fanmole. Any servants?"

  "None that live in, I believe."

  The hackney carriage drew up in Rodney Place. Sir John told the driver to wait, stormed up the steps, and hammered on the door. A moment later, bolts scraped from their sockets, and the door opened.

  Fanmole blinked up at them. “Why such unseemly noise, my dear sir? In any case, the Society is closed until the morning."

  Sir John thrust his stick into the doorway. “You blackguard."

  He shouldered his way into the house with Robbie at his heels. Fanmole gave ground before them, retreating up the dimly lit hallway.

  "Where's my watch? Where's that unfortunate girl?"

  "The girl you shot, Sir John?” Fanmole said. “Who now lies at death's door? She came to me for help, and I gave her shelter. She is a common prostitute by the look of her, but no doubt that was part of her charm for you. I wonder what Lady Ruispidge will say when she hears that you consort with common sluts and then murder them."

  * * * *

  5: Nothing Begets Nothing

  In the hall of the house in Rodney Place, Robbie said quietly, “You lie. Mary's no slut."

  Fanmole's eyes flicked towards him and then returned to Sir John. “I assure you, sir, the girl is a prostitute, and a thief besides. I found a watch in her pocket when I was tending her, and I cannot believe she came by it honestly. I have prayed for her. Joy shall be in heaven over one sinner that repenteth, more than over ninety and nine just persons, which need no repentance. Luke, chapter fifteen."

  "If she's a thief,” Robbie said, “it is because you made her steal."

  "Take us to her,” Sir John demanded. “Let the girl put her side of the matter."

  "You are not master here,” Fanmole said with his harsh laugh.

  Sir John pulled a revolver from his pocket. “I've not come here to argue with you."

  Fanmole shrugged. He picked up a candlestick from the hall table and led the way through a green baize door. With their shadows dancing beside them on the whitewashed wall, they descended a flight of stairs and reached a passage running from front to back of the house.

  "She's in a wood store,” Robbie said. “Lying on the floor without even a blanket."

  "She was feverish,” Fanmole said over his shoulder. “She could not abide to be covered. The wood store was convenient since it is near the office where I conduct the business of the Missionary Society. Ah—here we are."

  At that moment the candle went out, and total darkness enveloped them. There was the sound of a blow. Sir John cried out. Hobnails scraped on stone. Something clattered to the floor. Robbie blundered into a wall.

  A match scraped; a flame flared. Mr. Fanmole had the pistol in his hand. Keeping his eyes on Robbie, he lit the candle, which was now standing on a narrow shelf near a door at the back of the house. Sir John lay motionless on the floor, and there were streaks of blood in his silver hair.

  "You've killed him."

  "I doubt it,” Fanmole said. “I hit him with the candlestick but I used no more than reasonable force. You are my witness. He threatened me in my own house with a stick and a pistol. But let us be charitable. Age has infirmities of the mind as well as those of the body.” The barrel of the gun swung from Sir John to Robbie himself. “And what would a court make of your role in this, young man? Much depends on how you act now. Our first step must be to restrain this poor gentleman before he does any more damage. Open the back door. You will find the wood store beyond. He might as well c
ool his heels in there, along with his young woman. And you shall keep him company."

  A revolver is a powerful argument. Robbie did as Fanmole had told him. The back door led to a basement area containing the wood store. Robbie unbolted the door, conscious all the while of Fanmole behind him. Light from the candle spilled across the floor. There was no sign of Mary near the heap of logs.

  "Take Sir John's legs,” Fanmole said.

  Robbie turned back. At that instant he saw Mary, standing by the doorway in her bloodstained yellow dress, her face as pale as wax. She held a finger to her lips. In her other hand was a hatchet.

  "Hurry, damn you,” Fanmole urged.

  Robbie bent down and took the old man by the ankles. He dragged him slowly into the wood store. Fanmole advanced slowly, the revolver in his right hand. He reached the doorway and gripped the jamb with his free hand.

  "Where's the slut gone?” he cried.

  Robbie felt the air shift by his ear. There was a thud. Fanmole screamed. The revolver fell to the floor. Robbie saw the muzzle flash before he heard the crash of the shot. Mary fell backwards onto the logs. Fanmole danced with pain, blood spurting from his left hand, flashes of bone where the tips of two of his fingers had been.

  As the echoes of the shot subsided, another sound forced its way down from the house above them: the pounding of the knocker on the front door.

  Fanmole raised his head. His nostrils flared.

  "The police,” Robbie said. “They've come for you."

  Fanmole ran up the steps to the garden at the back of the house. Robbie snatched up Sir John's weighted stick and set off after him. With surprising agility, the little clergyman darted down the garden. The distant hammering continued. Fanmole unbolted a gate and slipped into the cobbled alley beyond. Robbie followed the running footsteps. Once, when they passed the lighted windows of a tavern, Fanmole looked back. His pale features were contorted with pain and effort, the face reduced to something slimy and inhuman, a creature of nightmare.

  They ran through Sion Place and burst into the open. On the crest of the Downs, the Observatory was a black stump against the paler darkness of the night sky. Fanmole veered to the left, towards the edge of the Avon Gorge.

  "Stop!” Robbie cried, but the wind snatched away his words.

  The clergyman ran towards Brunel's unbuilt bridge. Within a stone's throw of the Clifton tower, he stopped. His breath came in ragged gasps.

  "Leave me.” He fumbled in his waistcoat pocket and pulled out something that glittered faintly. “Take this, Sir John's Breguet watch. Sell it or claim the reward. Just go. Say I gave you the slip in the dark."

  Robbie did not reply. The memory of Mary filled his mind, and the bloody stain spreading over the yellow silk dress. He moved slowly towards the clergyman. Fanmole clambered on the low wall around the abutment on which the tower stood, intending to drop down to the little footpath beneath. But Robbie's advance made him change his mind and retreat along the parapet of the wall.

  "No,” he said, flapping his hand as though waving Robbie away. “Pray leave me. I have valuables concealed in a place nearby. I shall tell you where to find them."

  He held out the watch. Robbie stepped forward and snatched it. But Fanmole jerked backwards immediately afterwards. By now he was on the corner of the wall, where it swung through ninety degrees to run parallel with the river more than 200 feet below.

  "Watch out,” Robbie shouted.

  But the clergyman's hunched figure was still moving backwards. His left leg stepped into nothing.

  Nothing begets nothing, as my mother used to say, Robbie thought.

  Fanmole toppled out of sight. Branches snapped and crackled as he tumbled down the steep slope. He cried out only once. Then came a moment's utter silence.

  At last there was a thud: and another, longer silence, this time as long as the century.

  * * * *

  6: Postscriptum

  Clearland Court

  Lydmouth

  23rd January

  My Dear Brunel,

  You will have heard from my solicitor that I have decided to accede to your request: I hope it will not be too many years before the Great Western Railway will bring you to Lydmouth.

  As to that other business, I cannot tell you how glad I am that the girl, Mary Linnet, is no longer at death's door. Without her intervention in Rodney Place, I might not have survived to write this letter. Both she and her mother are now on the road to recovery and I shall find them respectable employment when their health is restored.

  It was fortunate that, with the obstinacy of his breed, my hackney driver chose to pound on the door to demand his fare. Trevine tells me that Fanmole believed the knocking heralded the arrival of the constabulary, and that this precipitated his fatal decision to flee.

  I am informed that goods worth several thousand pounds were found in the shed which Fanmole rented by the Gorge. It appears that the work of his so-called Missionary Society among the poor allowed him to recruit weak-minded young people, such as Mary Linnet, and set them to thieving and other mischief on his behalf in Bristol and neighbouring towns. (So you see, my dear sir, the railway is not an unmitigated blessing!)

  But Fanmole's desire to have revenge on me proved his undoing. When he saw my arrival in Bristol announced in the newspapers, he sent the girl to discover where I was staying; she was then to take hold of me when I returned to the room, ring the bell, and complain vigorously that I had assaulted her! His design was to destroy my reputation as, he believed, I had destroyed his.

  As you know, the matter turned out very differently: and this was in great part due to the young man Robert Trevine, who returned my late brother's watch to me. He appears honest; he can even read and write. I offered to find him a situation on one of my estates—but no! the fellow wants nothing better than to stay in Bristol or its environs and work for you in some capacity on the Great Western Railway! It is true he shows some mechanical aptitude, but I fancy that the presence in the city of a certain young woman may have something to do with it. In any event, I should be very grateful if you could find him a position.

  I am, sir, yours very truly,

  J. Ruispidge

  Copyright ©2006 by Andrew Taylor

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  THE ROYALS OF SAN MARCO HIGH by Jodi Tamara Harrison

  Jodi Harrison has been writing stories, poems, and songs since she was six, but up till now she has shared them only with family and friends. She is a lawyer, and currently lives and works in North Carolina, though she confesses that her heart remains in the lake country of northwest Montana where she was born and raised.

  So you're recording this now? No, I do not want my mom here. She'd be all, Ashley, you snuck out? Ashley, why aren't you in school? I mean, sure, one of my best friends was just murdered, but that doesn't mean my mom would be okay with me skipping school. Can't I just tell you what I know? If I help you figure out who killed Chelsey, then you can help me explain to my mom why I'm at the police station instead of in math class. Okay?

  Okay. The four of us all go to San Marco High—Lauren and Chelsey and Madison and me. We are, like, the royalty of San Marco High. You're probably going, love yourself much? but I'm not saying we call ourselves that. That's what everybody else calls us—the Royals. Not the teachers but, you know, everybody who counts. People watch us and listen to us. And some of the other girls really, really hate us. They say some really mean stuff behind our backs, but never to our faces, because if we cut you dead you are dead at school. Life can't suck much worse than being on our shit list. But the list is totally short! Because like our Current Affairs teacher, Mr. Addison, says, if you have power, you have to use it responsibly.

  So, anyway, the four of us are totally close. We hang out together and eat lunch together—nobody sits at our table without an invitation. We call each other and decide what we're going to wear and how we'll do our hair. Mostly Chelsey does that because she's so totally into fashion. Was,
I mean. And we date the best guys, like the varsity football players and the guys on the water polo team—who are totally built—but we never steal guys from each other because we're friends and friends don't do that.

  It's weird, people think we're all the same and at the same time they think we're all different, and neither of those is right. What I mean is, everyone thinks we're all the same just because we wear the same styles and live in the same neighborhood and are all really popular, but we're not really that much alike. And then people stick us in these different roles, like we're the Powerpuff Girls or something, and that's not right either. Like, I'm the Smart One, just because I get good grades and actually take honors classes, but I don't think I'm that much smarter than the other girls, I just—I like school. I'm totally not supposed to admit that, but it's the truth. Madison is the Shy One, except she really isn't, she just doesn't like to talk to people, except guys, and then she sort of looks up at them through her hair and they're like, man, she is so cute and shy, but she isn't, she's just reeling them in, you know? Same thing with Chelsey—she's supposed to be the Nice One ‘cause she talks to everyone, but it isn't like it's that hard to say hi to people in the halls. But if you really piss her off? She will make you pay for it big time. Like I borrowed this Donna Karan sweater of hers one time? I snagged it getting out of Josh Miner's Miata but it was totally an accident and I was like, I'm really sorry and I'll buy you a new one, which I did, but she still didn't speak to me for, like, three weeks. Which kind of pissed me off, you know? So then I was all, I don't need to talk to her either if she's going to be such a bitch, but Lauren was like, both of you just get over it. Lauren's role is the Leader and, yeah, I guess that's accurate. But I think she's in charge because the rest of us don't really care about making the plans and basically driving the bus, and she likes to do it. It's not like she's got Stellar Leadership Qualities, though I'm actually kind of impressed she thought of this. Though maybe Tanner thought of it. I know he must be sort of smart since now he's Mister “Going to West Point,” but he totally cheated on the U.S. Government exam, so it's not like you can tell how smart he is by the grades he gets. That really pissed me off—because I studied for that test! And I got an A, of course, but on my own, but he got an A because he assists Mrs. Chelmiak in our Government class and has access to her desk, and he totally stole the answer key and photocopied it. And then? After the test? He was totally waving the answer key around and telling people he had it, which is majorly not smart, until Chelsey took it away from him and stuffed it in her backpack and told him not to be an idiot.