Sherlock Holmes Mystery Magazine, Volume 16

by SIR ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE

  I was happy. After tonight Iraq would never bother Nia again. No one would. They can’t send you upstate for killing a kid in the ring, can they?

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Stan Trybulski, who wrote One Trick Pony and other crime novels, was a Brooklyn felony trial prosecutor before he went into private practice. Before he entered the legal profession, he was a newspaper reporter, college administrator, and bartender (not all at the same time). He says that he now divides his time between France and “two acres of Connecticut tranquility.”

  INSPECTOR ROMFORD’S GREATEST CASES, by John Grant

  It was Romford’s 65th birthday, and the day of his retirement from the Yard. He and a few select colleagues—fellow senior officers plus Romford’s longtime secretary Miss Rutherford—conducted the farewell party at lunchtime at their usual pub, the Spoon & Lobster, and of course it had gone on longer than it should. Miss Rutherford openly wept on his shoulder; when she looked as if she might be sick—and hadn’t she had six glasses of Ruby Red port, no less?—he’d phoned for a taxi to take her home. Now he was here on his own in his office, boxing up the last of his personal possessions. Tonight would be the last time he’d finish his working day by taking the 7:45 from Waterloo to the little village of Cadaver-in-the-Offing, where Mrs. Romford would have his slippers warmed and ready for him.

  The carton was almost full. There was only one more important item to pack, and then he’d be on his way.

  He slid open a deep side-drawer of his desk, then pulled it with a hard tug so that it came off its runners. Reaching into the dark space behind, he fished out a large black notebook. In a fit of self-indulgence a few years ago, he’d stuck a label on the front of the notebook that read, in his own crisply inked block capitals:

  INSPECTOR ROMFORD’S GREATEST CASES

  The elderly detective read the label once, twice, and felt the memories flooding back. He tussled the drawer back onto its tracks and flopped into the chair behind his desk, pulling the notebook towards him.

  The writing on the earliest page had faded from black to a sort of rusty, streaked brown, but was still legible enough.

  Battley, Martin, sentenced to life imprisonment on 3 July 1981 at Teesside Crown Court on 14 counts of rape and murder committed over a three-year period in…

  Romford sighed. That had been his first big success, the one that brought him to the attention of the Yard. Battley was still alive in prison, still—like so many of them—swearing vengeance against Romford for banging him up.

  Romford ran his eyes over the pages, his gaze resting only on the highlights. It was interesting to watch how the handwriting became more mature with each new entry.

  Gubbins, Theodore, sentenced to life imprisonment on 14 December 1986 at Colchester Crown Court on 11 counts of murder by strangulation between 1981 and…

  Dinbroody, Albert John, sentenced to life imprisonment after pleading guilty on 29 February 1996 at the Old Bailey on 26 counts of sexual molestation and murder…

  That had been the big one. He’d not just nailed the profoundly slow-witted Dinbroody, he’d actually persuaded the simpleton to confess. There had been features about Scotland Yard’s new star in the newspapers and magazines for weeks and months afterwards. He’d gone from being just plain old Chief Inspector Romford to “Romford of the Yard”—a household name like those great cops before him: Fabian, Stryker, Gideon…

  He closed the notebook and tossed it into the carton.

  A life in crime. Of course, it wasn’t the complete account by any means. That was contained in his full-scale autobiography, which would take the form of the diary he’d been secretly dictating over the years onto cassette tapes that he stored in a secret box in the potting shed. After Romford’s death, his solicitor would open the letter he’d left giving instructions as to where the tapes were, and what to do with them. The resulting book could hardly fail to be a sensation.

  Romford was nationally renowned already. His retirement would make the national TV and radio news tonight.

  But this was as nothing compared to how brightly his posthumous fame would shine.

  * * * *

  As the little suburban train clattered along between stations, Romford lost himself in thought.

  He fondled the pipe in his jacket pocket, longing for the days before smoking was banned on trains.

  In retrospect, it was so strange that none of his colleagues had ever noticed the similarity in modus operandi of the men Romford had succeeded in putting away as serial killers—Battley, Gubbins, Dinbroody and the others. The strangled bodies had always been found in a remote tract of forest, fully dressed and with an ivory chess piece lodged between their teeth. They’d all been rendered unconscious using ether before being molested and strangled. Most obvious of all, their forenames ran in order from A to Z and then starting again at A, the alphabetical sequence being uninterrupted between one supposed perpetrator and the next.

  No one had thought to take a second look at the living legend of British policing who nabbed the men.

  And no one had ever uncovered Romford’s secret motto: You can’t get to the top of the promotional heap without breaking a few eggs.

  But they’d surely pay heed when, after his death, his autobiography was typed up and published, complete with details of the murders that had never been released to the public, not even during the various trials.

  Romford wasn’t sure he believed in the afterlife, but he hoped that somehow he’d be able to watch everyone’s faces when they learned the truth…

  * * * *

  Sure enough, when he got home to Blossom Cottage he found that Mrs. Romford had warmed his slippers and put a schooner of sweet sherry on the low table beside his armchair in front of the fire. In her own slippers, which were of the carpet variety, she plodded around putting the final touches to their celebratory dinner: Yorkshire pudding with all the trimmings followed by a nice Bird’s Eye trifle, and everything washed down with a glass or two of room-temperature Sauternes.

  This banquet consumed, they returned to the fireside.

  Mrs. Romford’s eyes could not often be said to dance—the most they ordinarily managed was a sort of ungainly shuffle—but they were dancing tonight.

  “You may be wondering about your birthday present,” she said coyly.

  “I already have the best birthday present I could ever wish for,” her husband responded gallantly. “You, my love!”

  Her chin dimpled. “You saucy rogue. But I’ve got you another gift, one that I know you’ll like. You know that little strongbox you keep in the potting shed that you think I don’t know about…”

  Romford sat bolt upright, no mean feat what with all the sherry and the Yorkshire pud and the trifle and, oh God, the Sauternes.

  “I’ve sent all your tapes off to a transcription service in London with a nice fat check to cover the expense…”

  She paused, then added, “Do I need to call the doctor, my dear?”

  about the author

  John Grant is author of over sixty books. Among his nonfiction works have been The Encyclopedia of Walt Disney’s Animated Characters (three editions), The Encyclopedia of Fantasy (with John Clute), and a series of books about false belief and manipulation in science: Discarded Science, Corrupted Science, Bogus Science, and most recently Denying Science. For his nonfiction he has received the Hugo Award (twice), the World Fantasy Award, and various others. Under a different name he has received a Chesley Award and a World Fantasy Award nomination for his work editing the fantasy artbook imprint Paper Tiger. His most recently completed book is the monumental A Comprehensive Encyclopedia of Film Noir, which he proudly boasts is longer than the Old Testament; it was released in the fall of 2013. His most recent fictions are two standalone novellas published by PS Publishing: the Ed McBain homage The City in These Pages and the noir-tinged literary mystery/fantasy The Lonely Hunter.

  THE LAST SONG, by Dianne Neral Ell

  On that first Tuesday in August, Amanda
Haines sped east along Route 27 toward Bridgehampton, Long Island. It was the beginning of a three week hiatus, or vacation as she preferred to think of it—a time between her old case load with the FBI in Washington D.C. and her new assignment with the Paris, France, office. For three weeks there would be nothing but solitude on her agenda. No new cases, cold cases, anything having to do with crime investigation. Three wonderful empty weeks where the most complicated decision she’d make was whether to have white wine or a vodka and tonic, take a walk before breakfast or swim in the pool.

  As she came to the light at Ocean Drive, her cell phone rang. The screen showed it was her cousin Gil Haines, a lawyer and a member of Southampton’s oldest law firm.

  “Hey there,” she said.

  “Where are you?”

  “Waiting for the light to change at Ocean. I’ll be at the house in five.”

  “Amanda, I’m sorry. I know you’re starting your first real vacation in a long time, but I got a call from George Simmons this morning. Remember him? You know him best as Will Peterson’s attorney. He wants to talk to you. I put him off, but after the third call I told him you’d be at the house this afternoon and to try you there. I didn’t give him your cell number. But when you get to the house you may find him on the front porch.”

  Amanda could feel all the good spirits taking flight from her body. “What does he want?”

  “Don’t know. Asked. Wouldn’t say. Just wanted to warn you. Oh, and Mark Ashford is looking for you. Didn’t give him the number either. Big time on Saturday night. Can’t believe it’s been twenty-five years.”

  “I know. There were signs all along twenty-seven for the concert. And of course the radio stations are anchored on their music. Wonder where they’d be now if you hadn’t come up with the name ‘Mark Ashford and the Surfriders’.”

  “They’d still be sitting on the front porch.” He laughed. “Let me know what’s up with Simmons.”

  Turning south at the light, Amanda rode past century-old estates. At Surfside Drive, the last street before the ocean, she turned left and four houses down made another left into the Haines family summer home driveway. She parked her dark gray rental around back of the rambling two-story brown shingle structure with its new turquoise trim and entered through the back door dragging her two stuffed suitcases behind her.

  She pulled the suitcases down the main hall with its highly polished hardwood floors and up the stairs to the room she had always loved—front room with a view—of Aunt Ellen’s rose bushes, the dunes and the ocean.

  Amanda put one suitcase in the closet and the other on the bed. Fifteen years of FBI training had her opening her laptop and sending an email to the office that she had arrived in Bridgehampton.

  In the far corner of the room, leaning against the wall, was a framed, signed, twenty-fifth anniversary edition poster of Mark Ashford and the Surfriders tagged for Ellen’s art gallery. Ellen Haines, her mother’s youngest sister, lived in the house nearly year round. An excellent artist, she was also part owner of a Southampton art gallery, and one of the local museums.

  As Gil mentioned, it was on their front porch, that night in August so long ago, that the Surfriders were born. Until then, they were a summer band, casually linked through music and membership in the Bridgehampton Tennis Club, who called themselves the Dropouts. She could still see that night—where everyone sat, what they were wearing, what they were drinking. And always, the history making moment when Sara Ragland ran up the porch steps, out of breath, talking about a band competition with the winner opening for Bon Jovi in two weeks at the Westbury. They decided to compete. The Dropouts became Mark Ashford and the Surfriders. And twenty-five years later they were still riding the top of the charts.

  There were about a dozen people on the porch that night. One of whom was Will Peterson, who went on to become one of the most popular composers of music for movies and Broadway. He wrote many of the early Surfrider songs. Will died a decade ago in Southampton from a fall on his yacht. She hoped Simmons’ call wasn’t about Will.

  As she closed the suitcase, Louis jumped up on the bed. He sat looking expectantly at her.

  “I was wondering where you were,” she said to the large, orange tabby. She leaned over and kissed his forehead. Then gave him a hug. He nuzzled his nose against her cheek then jumped down.

  “That was it?” she laughed as she called after him. “It’s been a year and that’s the best greeting you can give me?”

  As she looked after Louis, the phone rang.

  It was George Simmons. He apologized for the interruption then he asked if she could come to his office this afternoon. He knew it was late but the matter was urgent. Knowing there’d be no peace unless she did, Amanda agreed to be there within the half hour. She took a comb to her shoulder-length blond hair, added some liner to her blue eyes, refreshed her lipstick, and headed downstairs to get her car.

  * * * *

  Twenty minutes later she arrived at the Simmons and Hollis law firm in Southampton. One step into the conference room told her she was right. This was about Will Peterson. Surrounding George Simmons was Will’s sister Terra Peterson, an old summer buddy, now famous star of stage and screen, and Clint Barnsworth, the consulting medical examiner still looking as the last time she saw him except his dark, curling hair now had streaks of gray. There had been a time when she thought she and Barnsworth could have been more than a nine-to-five investigative team. After the case they worked together in Miami ended, there were tries at getting together. But the timing was never on their side. Was this the tomorrow they promised themselves five years ago?

  “What brings us together?” Amanda asked, joining them at the table. She gave Terra a hug, and shook hands with Simmons, then with Clint until he took the move and kissed her on the cheek.

  “I couldn’t believe it when George said you were the FBI agent joining our small task force,” Clint said.

  “Task force. What task force? I’m here on vacation.”

  No one paid attention to the word ‘vacation.’

  “This is why we’re together. It was sent to Terra and me.” As they sat down Simmons handed Amanda a copy of a typed sheet of paper. It stated ‘It was time Will Peterson’s killer was brought to justice. Crime scene photos should tell the tale.’

  “Will’s killer? Not an accident?” She looked at Barnsworth.

  “The letter’s right,” he answered.

  Amanda felt her limbs going weak. “After ten years someone decides to send this. Did it come to the office?” She looked at Simmons.

  He nodded.

  “Then everyone here knows about it?” Amanda asked.

  “As does almost everyone on the police force,” Barnsworth added. “We had to go through them for Will’s case files. Ten-year-old solved cases are kept in the same warehouse as the Lost Ark. It took some doing but we got it.”

  “What was in the files?” Amanda asked. “There was no investigation. He died from a fall.”

  “Police report and photographs,” Barnsworth said. “Take a look at this. The second is a blow-up of the first.”

  The photograph he handed her showed the back of Will Peterson’s head. Plainly, someone had taken a hard object and bashed it in just behind his right ear. Clint had enlarged the photo to where she could see a partial imprint of the murder weapon in the skull.

  “How did this get overlooked?” she asked.

  “The police were not the first on the scene,” Simmons said. “Paramedics arrived after a 911 call. And they moved the body to see if he was still alive. It was over an hour before the police got there. A couple of rookies showed up and took photos. And the assistant M.E. never made it. Will was placed in an ambulance and taken to the hospital.”

  “He was on his back… still…” Amanda shook her head. The pain of lost opportunity shot through her. She should have been on this. Ten years is a long time in which to try and find Will’s killer.

  Terra asked for the photos. She looked at the one
of Will after he landed. “It doesn’t look like he tried to break the fall.”

  “His arms are to his side,” Barnsworth said. “It means he was already dead or at least unconscious as he fell. The photos also show that the stairwell walls had no blood smears. No doubt it was murder.”

  “We’d like to keep the investigation as close to the chest as possible.” Simmons looked at Terra then at Amanda. “Besides being an FBI agent, you knew Will. I know you’re on vacation, but can you help?”

  For a chance to work with Barnsworth again. To do something she should have done ten years ago, she said ‘yes.’ But she wouldn’t call the office until she had a chance to see what kind of success she had reconstructing the past. “I should know within a day or two if I can piece together enough evidence to solve this.”

  “I need to return to Queens tonight to finish up a case,” Barnsworth said. “I’ll be back by Friday. This should keep you going in the meantime.” He slid an envelope across the table to Amanda. “Photos, my report, and some extraneous information you might need along with how to reach me at all times.”

  Amanda gave out a business card to all with her new cell number on it.

  As the group broke up, Terra said to Amanda, “Let’s get together while you’re here. And if you need me for anything,” she took a card from her pocket, “call me on this number.” She didn’t offer it to Simmons or Barnsworth. Then she was gone.