He was drinking too much to drown out his real feelings, she knew. He realized he should be with her, Calliope, his brilliant muse, his soulmate. But he couldn't, because of the family pressures, because of his mother's expectations, because of the social stigma. And he probably wanted to protect her reputation at work: People would talk so! If they became lovers, if they married, they might have to seek jobs at different colleges to avoid accusations of nepotism. It could get very complicated, and he was probably only thinking of her, poor boy. But there was no need to make this rash move, to get engaged to this Sharmila creature, just because he thought he couldn't have her, Callie, his muse, his Athena! She could free him. She could change the course of destiny, for was she not brilliant and beautiful and powerful, as a muse should be?
* * * *
The guns were in the basement. Her father had gathered them over the years, at gun shows and pawn shops and collectors’ meets. When she was a little girl, he had allowed her downstairs once in a great while to look at them, and had pronounced their names for her: Luger Parabellum P08, Colt 45, Walther SP22. Smith & Wesson, Glock, Steyr. They gleamed on the wall, polished to a high shine, deadly and menacing. She had watched him load and fire them, though she had never been allowed to touch them herself. She'd never wanted to, either. She was afraid of them. Her mother thought they were dangerous, dirty, frightening, and so did she. When her father had died, they had left them alone; now they were dusty and dull, but just as menacing in the light of the naked bulbs that dangled from the dark ceiling.
But she knew what she had to do now, knew that the guns would be her salvation, hers and Nikhil's. It was the Walther that she thought would be the easiest to handle—it had been her father's favorite. She knew where he had kept the ammunition, and she'd watched him load it many times. She knew what to do, though her fingers shook as she fitted the bullets into the chamber and cocked the hammer. She took the gun upstairs with her. It lay on the mahogany table while she took out her best linen notepaper and penned the letter.
Dear Sharmila (if I may), she wrote, I was delighted to meet you today. I am so pleased to learn of your and Nikhil's soon-to-be wedding, and I regret that I had to leave that lovely luncheon in such haste.
The words came easily, flowing onto the page from her fountain pen in the precise, feathery curlicues of her old-fashioned script.
I feel we really should get to know one another better. Nikhil and I have grown so close in the months that he has been here, and I know I will learn to love you as much as he does.
I hope you will come to tea with me next week. I would like to spend time with you alone. I look forward very much to becoming your friend, as Nikhil is mine.
She read it over and was satisfied that it conveyed nothing more than a genuine eagerness to get to know the slut. She wondered if she should put in something about “girl talk” or “woman-to-woman time,” but decided against it. She signed it with a flourish.
Cordially, Calliope Chambers
* * * *
It started snowing again that weekend, a freakish Iowa late-spring snow that grew worse every day until it was piled halfway up the fire hydrants and blanketed the streets. It crushed the budding flowers that had sprung so hopefully out of the ground, froze the buds on the trees and broke their branches. Stoically, people pulled their down coats back out of their closets: Iowans are accustomed to atmospheric disappointments.
For Callie, the weather sharpened the pangs of anxiety that had gripped her all morning. What if it kept the wench from coming? What if she decided it was too much, to drive all the way out to Callie's deserted house in the snow? What if she canceled?
When she had called to accept Callie's invitation, she had sounded puzzled. “Would you like us both to come?” she had asked, and Callie had almost dropped the receiver in panic.
"No, no,” she'd said, forcing a note of brightness into her voice to mask her fear. “Just you, dear, just you. I want to get to know you. It's important that we spend some time together. Us girls!” she added, with a brittle laugh.
"Okay,” said Sharmila. “Sounds like fun."
All morning, Callie paced the hallways, the cat watching her inscrutably from the armchair. The gun, heavy and gleaming, lay on the hall table. Callie picked it up from time to time, hefting it, fingering the trigger, feeling the weight of the loaded chamber. It would only take a moment, but that moment was crucial, she knew. She had to aim and fire it before her will failed her. She did not think it would. Every time she thought of the girl—Sharmila, with her vacant doelike brown eyes and pouting lips—she grew agitated and furious. How dared she imagine she could marry someone like Nikhil, someone so brilliant and sensitive and malleable, someone who needed a kindred spirit to share his passions and his commitments, to shepherd him through the rigors of academic life? What could this little business girl know of the beauty of literature, the poison of academic politics, the triumph of parsing a text in deeply theoretical ways? She would destroy him, would wreck his potential, would rob literature of one of its future greats. She had to be stopped, Callie knew, for every possible reason.
She was confident a judge would understand that. She knew there might be questions, an investigation, maybe even a trial. But Nikhil would be at her side, overwhelmed by the enormity of what she had done for love, and the entire literary world would make her case. She would be acquitted and absolved, for she was on the side of the angels.
* * * *
Still, when the door-knocker's sharp clatter resounded in the hallway, fear clutched at her heart and her knees buckled. The moment of truth had come, and she was not sure she was ready for it. She took the gun in her hand. It was cold and heavy, and suddenly slippery from the sweat on her palms. She drew a deep breath and reached to open the door, the gun raised, the hammer cocked, her finger on the trigger. The door swung slowly open.
And she gasped, because it was Nikhil who stood before her in the snow, smiling tentatively, snowflakes clinging to his head and collar. She stepped backward in confusion, lowering the gun, and then suddenly she felt a hand gripping her wrist. Sharmila had stepped out from behind Nikhil; her gloved hand held Callie's tightly, powerfully.
"I knew it!” she said. “You crazy bitch.” She twisted Callie's hand sharply, turning it and forcing it upward, and Callie felt her fingers tighten in an involuntary spasm; in that split second, she knew she had lost.
The gunshot shattered Callie's face; it went off at such close range that death came instantaneously; her body crashed backward. The cat leapt from the chair at the crash and fled; Callie's head hit the edge of the hall table as she fell. Then there was silence, a silence so deep that the sound of the snowflakes filled it.
"I told you,” the girl said contemptuously. “I told you she would try to kill me. I could tell she was crazy. That's why you had to go to the door first; she wasn't going to touch you. She thought she was in love with you."
"My God,” he responded, dazed, leaning against the door weakly. Callie's blood, fragments of bone, the aftermath of her death was everywhere: on the doorjamb, the step, their clothes, the snow. “My God, Sharmila, you just . . . we . . . you just committed . . ."
"She shot herself,” said Sharmila sharply. “Poor thing was just so close to the edge. She opened the door and just shot herself.” She stepped back, pulling a cell phone from her purse. “Don't look so poleaxed, Nikhil. We didn't kill anybody. She did it to herself, the silly bitch."
"But . . .” He turned away, then back to look at Callie sprawled on the floor. Her face was beyond recognition. He flinched and turned away. The cat wandered into the hallway, then sat and began to lick its paws.
"It was suicide,” said Sharmila. “Hardly surprising, living all by herself out here in the middle of nowhere, just her and her work and her cat. All that literary nonsense just got to her. She had to go out with drama."
"Dido,” said Nikhil. “She was Dido and I, her Aeneas."
Sharmila paused and pouted
at him. “What are you babbling about?” she asked.
"Dido,” said Nikhil. “She was the queen of Carthage who fell in love with Aeneas, and when be betrayed her, she killed herself."
"Yeah,” said Sharmila. “Yeah, that's it. You got it. It wasn't murder. Dido. Whatever."
She flipped the cell phone open: It was pink, like her lipstick. She smiled at Nikhil, slipped her arm through his, and dialed 911.
Copyright © 2011 by Meenakshi Gigi Durham
[Back to Table of Contents]
Fiction: THIS THING OF DARKNESS by Peter Tremayne
Peter Tremayne, a writer Booklist has called “a master of the medieval mystery” for his books and stories featuring 7th-century Irish legal advocate Sister Fidelma, shows in his latest stories for EQMM that he is equally a master of the late Elizabethanperiod. His sleuth Master Drew Hardy returns here for his second EQMM adventure, following February 2010's “Fear No More the Heat o’ the Sun.” Mr. Tremayne's latest novel in U.S. publication is The Dove of Death (a Sister Fidelma mystery).
* * * *
Art by Allen Davis
* * * *
"This thing of darkness,
I acknowledge mine."
William Shakespeare, The Tempest, Act V, scene i.
* * * *
Master Hardy Drew, Constable of the Bankside Watch, stood regarding the blackened and still-smoking ruins of the once imposing edifice of the house on the corner of Stony Street near the parish church of St. Saviour's. There was little left of it, as it had been a wood-built house and wood and dry plaster were a combustible mix.
"It was a fine old house,” Master Drew's companion said reflectively. “It once belonged to the old Papist Bishop Gardiner."
"The one who took pleasure in burning those he deemed heretics in Queen Mary's time?” asked Master Drew with a slight shudder. He had not been born when Mary had been on the throne but he knew it to be a strange, unsettled period when, during those five short years, she had earned the epithet of “Bloody Mary."
Master Pettigrew, the fire warden, nodded.
"Aye, Master Drew. The same who condemned some good men to the flames because they would not accept Roman ways."
"Well, it is not infrequent that buildings catch alight and burn. You and your sturdy lads have put out the flames and no other properties seem threatened. Why, therefore, do you bring me here?"
Master Pettigrew inclined his head towards the smouldering ruins.
"There is a body here. I think you should see it."
The constable frowned.
"A poor soul caught in the fire? Surely that is a task for the coroner?"
"That's as may be, good Master. Come and examine it for yourself. It is not badly burned,” he added, seeing the distaste on Master Drew's features. “I believe it was not fire that killed him."
He led the way through the charred wood and the odd standing wall towards what must have been the back of the house and into an area that had been partially built of bricks, and thus not much had been destroyed by the conflagration.
Master Drew saw the problem straightaway. The body of a man was hanging from a thick beam by means of iron manacles that secured his wrists and linked them via a chain over the beam. He breathed out sharply.
"This is a thing of darkness. A deed of evil,” he muttered.
The constable tried not to look at the legs of the corpse for they had received the force of the fire. The upper body was blackened but not burnt for, by that curious vagary which fire is often prey to, the flames had not engulfed the entire body. The fire seemed to have died after it had reached the corpse.
The body was that of a man of thirty or perhaps a little more. Through the soot and grime it was impossible to say much more about the features.
Master Drew saw that the mouth was tied as in the manner of a gag. The eyes were bulging and blood-rimmed, marking the struggle to obtain air that must have been filled with smoke and fumes from the fire.
"You will observe, Master Drew, that the upper garments of this man speak of some wealth and status and the manner of his death was clearly planned."
The constable sniffed in irritation.
"I am experienced in the matter of observation,” he rebuked sharply.
Indeed, he had already observed that, in spite of the blackened and scorched garments, they were clearly garments affected by a person of wealth. His sharp eyes had detected something under the shirt and he drew the long dagger he wore at his belt and used it to push aside the doublet and undershirt. It was a gold chain on which was hung a medallion of sorts.
Master Pettigrew let out a breath. He was probably thinking of the wealth that he had missed, for being warden of the fire watch around Bankside did not provide him with means to live as he would want without a little aid from such items collected in the debris of fires such as this.
Using the tip of his dagger, Master Drew was able to lift the chain over the head of the corpse and then examine it. Master Pettigrew bent over his shoulders.
"A dead sheep moulded in gold,” he breathed peering at the symbol.
Master Drew shook his head.
"Not a dead sheep but the fleece of a sheep. I have seen the like once before. It was just after the defeat of the Spanish invasion force. They brought some prisoners to the Tower and I was one of the appointed guards. One of the prisoners was wearing such a symbol. When one of the sergeants wanted to divest him of it, our captain rebuked him, saying it was the symbol of a noble order and that the prisoner should be treated, therefore, with all courtesy and respect."
The warden looked worried.
"Some nobleman murdered here on the Bankside? We will not hear the last of it, good Constable. Nobles have powerful influence."
Master Drew nodded thoughtfully.
"A nobleman, aye. But of what country and what allegiance? This order was set up to defend the Papist faith."
Master Pettigrew looked at him slightly horrified.
"The Papist faith, you say?"
"This is a Spanish order, for I see the insignia of Philip of Spain on the reverse."
"Spanish?” gasped Master Pettigrew. “There are several noble Spaniards in London at this time."
Master Drew's features hardened.
"And many who would as lief cut a Spaniard's throat in revenge for acts of previous years. Were there no witnesses to this incendiary act?"
To his surprise, Master Pettigrew nodded an affirmative.
"Tom Shadwell, a passing fruit merchant, saw the flames and called the alarm,” returned Master Pettigrew. “That was at dawn this morning. My men managed to isolate the building and extinguish the flames within the hour. Then we entered and that was when I found the body and sent for you."
"Well, one thing is for certain, this poor soul did not hang himself nor set fire to this place. To whom does this building now belong?"
"I think it must still belong to the Bishop of Winchester for he has many estates around here. Such was the office of Bishop Gardiner, but he has been dead these fifty years during which it has remained empty."
"That's true,” Master Drew reflected. “I have never seen it occupied since I came here as assistant constable. No one has ever claimed it nor sought to occupy it."
"Aye, and for reasons that local folk claim it to be haunted by the spirits of the unfortunates that Bishop Gardiner tortured and condemned to the flames as heretics."
Master Drew pocketed the chain thoughtfully and glanced once more at the body.
"Release the corpse to the charge of the coroner, Master Pettigrew, and say that I will speak with him anon but to do nothing precipitous until I have done so."
He was about to turn when he caught sight of something in the corner of the room that puzzled him. In spite of the fire having damaged this area, he saw that the floorboards were smashed and that, where they had been torn away, a rectangular hole had been dug into the earth. He moved towards it.
"Is this the work of your men, Master Pettigr
ew?” he asked.
The warden of the fire watch shook his head.
"Not of my men."
Master Drew sniffed sharply.
"Then someone has excavated this hole. But for what purpose?"
He bent down, peered into the hole and poked at it with the tip of his long dagger.
"The hole was already here and something buried, which was but recently dug up and removed and . . .” He frowned, moved his dagger again, and then bent down into the hole, carefully, trying to avoid the soot. With a grunt of satisfaction he came up holding something between thumb and forefinger.
"A coin?” hazarded Master Pettigrew, leaning over his shoulder.
"Aye, a coin,” the constable confirmed, scraping away some of the soot with the point of the dagger.
"A groat?"
"No, this is a shilling, and an Irish shilling of Philip and Mary at that. See the harp under the crown on the face and either side; under smaller crowns, the initials P and M? Now what would that be doing here?"
"Well, Bishop Gardiner was a Papist during the time of Mary and approved her marriage to the Spanish King Philip. It is logic that he might have lost the coin then."
Master Drew looked down at the hole again. He knew better than to comment further. Instead, he slipped the coin into his pocket and moved towards the exit of the blackened building. Outside, groups of people were already gathering. He suspected that some of them had come to forage and pillage if there was anything worth salvaging.
"Where are you away to?” called Master Pettigrew.
"To proceed with my investigation,” he replied. “I'll speak to the fruit merchant who first saw the conflagration."
"He has the barrow at the corner of Clink Street, selling fruit and nosegays to those visiting the folk within the prison."
The constable made no reply but he knew Tom Shadwell, the fruit-seller, well enough and often passed the time of day with him as he made his way by the grim walls of the old prison.
"A body found, you say, good Constable?” Tom Shadwell's features were pale when Master Drew told him of the gruesome find. “I saw only the flames and had no idea that anyone dwelt within the building. Had I known, I would have made an effort to save the poor soul. So far as I knew, it had been empty these many years."
EQMM, May 2011 Page 7