The Mammoth Book of Historical Whodunnits Volume 1 (The Mammoth Book Series)

by Mike Ashley

  “The Emperor was contemplating flight,” Anatolius confided, “but the Empress counseled him to stay.”

  “Well, between her and the guards, what does he want me for?” John was irritated. “Surely he doesn’t expect me to wear a sword?”

  “By Mithra!” his companion swore. “If he knew you were at a religious service with the city in an uproar, and blood fresh in the gutters . . .”

  “Well, no doubt he’s been doing a fair bit of praying himself.”

  “It’s true that the Patriarch was here some time.” They were approaching the doors of the Throne Room, which was standing open, and John, was surprised to see, unguarded. As they approached, Anatolius lowered his voice. “But then the Church is burning down, and the mob not yet crushed.”

  “Well, it’s not too late to persuade Their Excellencies to leave for their country retreat, I suppose. Perhaps we could disguise them as Greens? Or Blues? Which do you think?”

  Anatolius glared at him. Although the Emperor and Empress were commonly linked with the Blue faction, she had been born a Green, but since both factions were equally involved in the rampage of scattered destruction and pillage across the city, blame would be difficult to apportion – but, thought John as he stepped into the half-lit room, so would retribution. Behind him Anatolius’ footsteps receded quickly, and, he thought sourly, thankfully into the distance.

  Justinian, ever mindful of his position, occupied the great canopied throne, which John approached slowly, bowing his head to his earthly ruler.

  The tall dark-haired man with arched brows, hooded eyes and a weak chin, spoke in a whisper. And an odd thing, that, John thought, since they were alone, as he bent his head respectfully to hear what had summoned him to this strange appointment.

  “I have a special commision for you,” the Emperor said, “of such delicacy that I cannot reveal it save but to you and the Empress.” The chamberlain raised mental enquiring eyebrows while keeping a poker face. “The only other person who knows – as yet – is the Patriarch. But soon enough word will get out, and we must have the matter resolved by then.” He paused. “It is a spiritual matter.”

  Ah, thought John. No wonder the Patriarch is involved. Like many followers of Mithra, he was amused by the similarities of the new – to them – religion, and his older, more spartan, cult. John found the encrusted palaces of the gentle god little to his taste, and thus the destruction of the Church of the Holy Wisdom, its smoldering ruins not far from where they stood, of little emotional consequence, unlike the deep blow it had been to Justinian, Although he, John, admittedly would have liked to have dealt harshly with the looters whom he had seen carrying out gem-encrusted reliquaries and beautifully painted icons, only to shatter them on the cobbles almost under the horrified nose of the stylite in the square – not so much because of outraged religious feelings, but because it offended his sense of order. What was it to him that an icon supposedly painted by St. Luke was regarded as protecting the city – not to mention the staff of Moses, or any number of other holy relics cared for by the white-togaed priests. Mere superstitious nonsense, in his opinion.

  Justinian stood, pushing aside an ornate footstool with an impatient toe. “By God and all his angels, swear never to reveal what you will learn”, he said hoarsely, descending from the dais and gripping John’s arm tightly. The latter was reminded of King Midas’s barber, who was given a secret to keep, but eventually unburdened himself to the reeds which whispered it abroad.

  “Of course I swear,” John said.

  “I will rebuild the Church,” Justinian said obliquely, in a distracted way, “and it will outdo Solomon. It will be a worthy home for all the relics which protect us, and of course, the city.”

  How like Justinian to mention protection for himself first, John thought contemptuously, for he did not suppose that the “us” was anything but the imperial us. He inclined his head respectfully as the Emperor spoke quickly and sibilantly in the shadowy hall.

  “The Nubian is over six feet tall and has the strength of ten,” protested Alexander, head charioteer of the Blue faction, picking his way over the rubble of a small wine shop toward a large barn. “And with all, clever with his hands. A fine carpenter and worker of wood, in fact right now repairing my best chariot, the one that nearly killed me by losing its axle last week.” He turned his attention to his old friend John. “But he has the mind of a child. I doubt you’ll get anything from him even if he understood you. His Greek is virtually nonexistent.” His glance was curious, but he did not enquire in so many words what had brought John to visit, since he had appeared at the walnut door robed in officialdom from the red wool cloak to the golden wand of office.

  John smiled thinly. “We’ll see, Alexander.”

  “But what makes you think he can cast light on whatever it is?”

  “My dear Alexander, even in a half-light of leaping flames and confusion, a man of his size stands out. He was seen on the spot. He may have . . . information.” His tone was neutral but Alexander thanked Apollo he wasn’t about to be interviewed. They entered the high-ceilinged building. Sitting at a workbench next to a wheel-less chariot, carving one of several pieces of wood with sure hands, was the slave under discussion. He glanced up as they entered, rising quickly to his feet. John looked at the young man before him. Tall and well proportioned, he noted, with symmetrical scars on his chest – tribal marks no doubt – he wore an ornate silver cross, a woodshaving-bedecked kilt and a disturbingly blank look.

  “Mahmoud, I wish for you to answer the Lord Chamberlain’s questions in all particulars, and truthfully, as a good servant should.” The master spoke kindly and carefully as to the child to whom the giant had been compared. The man nodded, his eyes moving slowly to John as he spoke, then back to Alexander as he answered, as if it were the latter who was interrogating him. But he had nothing to tell, and indeed denied even being outside his master’s enclosure during the riots, maintaining that he had been cowering in the barn during the entire night. Although he looked progressively more and more uneasy and upset, nothing changed his story, and, in the end, John told him to return to his work, gesturing Alexander to go outside. Sunshine washed the cobbles as they returned the way they had come.

  “So,” said his friend, “it seems he cannot assist.”

  “As you say, the mind of a child, although a faithful and certainly a talented one.”

  “He has given good service,” Alexander replied, “and I would certainly be sorry to lose him if you’re thinking of making an offer.”

  But lose him he did, because only four hours later, the body of the child-man was pulled out of the Bosphorus, as the barn burned down, taking with it his former master’s best racing chariot.

  John the Eunuch knelt long before the image of his lord, praying for divine help. The Emperor had given him but 24 hours to find the culprit, and he was no closer to solving the mystery. He had a feeling he might well find himself in the unenviable role of scapegoat, particularly since the Empress was just as likely to insist a Green such as himself was responsible – and had the power to make the allegation unchallenged truth. No, the prospects were not pleasant. His eye wandered over the sanctuary carvings, seeking inspiration as he formulated fantastic theories as to who the culprit could be. He was tired, and so was his mind, after interviewing several citizens seen, or supposedly seen (Constantinople being a city which thrived on intrigue and counterintrigue) abroad in the riots, pockets of which were still being put down by Imperial troops. How curious it would be if the culprit was not one of the street, but at a higher level of the hierarchy. Why, he thought with a thin smile that Alexander would recognize but shudder at, what if it were the Empress herself? It was said that she was devoted to Justinian, who upon marrying her had raised her from lowly ranks, but her back-stair intrigues were common enough knowledge, and her ambition endless.

  His thoughts flowed on, from the highest to the lowest, or, in other words, the Nubian. How strange that he should have
died so suddenly, so soon after he had seen him. Alexander had been angry about the loss of such valued property. John had replied he could only suspect suicide, or an accident, but now his thoughts began to take a different road. A slave might kill himself, although in his experience it was fairly uncommon. Accidents happened, of course, although this one was oddly timed. Yet who would want to kill a man like the Nubian? Unless, of course, he knew something he had not revealed. Or perhaps he thought he had been found guilty in absentia, and was terrified of the possibility of being taken away by the “gold stick man’s” guards. Pillars of the community had a hard enough time establishing their innocence, particularly if they got on the wrong side of Empress Theodora. The vulgar irony of the thought prodded him into laughter, its chuckling echoes suddenly ceasing as John thought again, Pillars of the community? Pausing only to utter a quick prayer of thanks, he hurried out from the small room into late afternoon sunshine.

  Riots may come, emperors may go, city buildings might burn all about him like red-tongued flowers from Hell, but the ancient stylite still stood 30 cubits above the Augusteum, wild eyed and half-naked, content to eat whatever was left by charity or a passing bird, standing aloft until his joints locked and his flesh mortified in more ways than one. There on his pillar, he communed with God and himself, always there, never descending, as much a part of the landscape as the Senate House or the statues on Zeuxippus’ Baths – not that the stylite likely frequented the latter, John thought, wrinkling his nose a little as he ascended the ladder, to address the saintly occupant of the pillar, who had just received a pious gift of edibles.

  “Bless you, my son,” said the old man, through a mouthful of fish. John inclined his head in acknowledgement.

  “O father,” he began in a hoarse whisper, although there was little need to do so with the usual clamor from the street rising up about them, providing a cocoon of babbling sound which effectively masked their conversation. “I am here in the name of the Emperor, and wish to enquire of you certain things.”

  “Ask on, then, my son,” the greybeard said, sunken eyes gentle under tangled brows, eyes much younger than the weatherbeaten face from which they peered. They were eyes, John hoped, which could, and had, seen far – and well.

  “Tell me what you saw a night ago,” he commanded.

  The stylite smiled. “Ah, many things! It was as a vision, of hell on earth, with the flames of torment destroying all before them, and damned souls stalking the streets, crying for salvation, yet finding none.” John hoped fervently that his informant would not, at this particular time, be seized with visions to recount. He was beginning to feel ludicrous, not to say precarious, as the wind from the Sea of Marmara plucked at his cloak. Furthermore, his sandals were increasingly insecure on the rungs. His informant bent kindly eyes upon him, fervent words a contrast to the gentleness of his gaze.

  “It was as Orpheus must have experienced on his trip to Hades,” the old man said. “Even to dark demons with treasures to tempt the faithful, stalking the pious in the shadows.” John narrowed his eyes slightly. “Yes?” he prompted, wondering if he was barking up the wrong ladder. Hell, demons, torment, indeed. “Demons aside, did you see anything in the vicinity of the Church? It was certainly light enough.”

  “Yes, my son, I did. I saw the faithful remove all they could from the wicked conflagrations of the Devil blooming all over the city. Surely those pious souls were reserved a place in heaven because of their actions?”

  John, noting to himself that while the stylite had excellent eyesight, he could not see too well, in that those whom he had characterized as pious souls saving religious treasures were actually looting the beautiful Church now in ruins to their left. A blindness which he shared, he felt, seeing, but not seeing. And time was growing short, darkness was creeping around the ramparts of the city. It would be another wet and cold night.

  His informant wiped sticky fingers on his wild beard. “Yes, they stalk the night,” he said, almost reading John’s mind. “The demons, the demons . . .”

  But more than that he was not prepared to say.

  Justinian sat once more on the double throne on the dais below the domed roof, every inch an Emperor. He smiled kindly upon his Lord Chamberlain, once more standing before him in the straight-backed stance of a man with good tidings.

  “The results of your enquiries?” The tone was appropriately imperious.

  John bowed. “Success, Excellency. The culprit was a simple-minded slave, now dead, who apparently saw his opportunity in the general unrest and took it. I have been able to recover . . . it.”

  Justinian beckoned him to the throne. “Bring it here!” he commanded, yet in a trembling voice. John obeyed, mounting gold-cloth covered stairs to three or four below the top, bowing low. Extending a thin, sunburnt hand, he placed into the Emperor’s grasp a nondescript, slightly splintered piece of wood. John received it as his salvation, as indeed, John thought, he would consider it.

  “This is from the True Cross itself,” the Emperor said, eyes ablaze, “our most holy relic. You may go.” John tactfully withdrew from the Great Hall, thankful to get away before the Emperor commanded further details of how he had found the relic in the teeming streets of Constantinople without being able to even reveal what he sought. He left the building, walking slowly along the winding path. A hundred yards away a burst of song issued from the Imperial Guard barracks. He smiled briefly. They served the Lord of Light in their own way. And, in his simple fashion, he served Him also.

  For what was the Nubian but the dark demon with treasures (seen by the stylite emerging from the shadows) or rather with the gem-encrusted reliquary which had housed the holy relic for centuries? And why? Because he believed it would protect his master’s chariot. Doubtless, the blasphemy of it would not enter his calculations, but enquiries from the Lord Chamberlain would certainly terrify him. Not to mention the possibility of retribution from the master he evidently loved. Thus it seemed likely he set the barn on fire and willed himself to destroy both evidence and himself. A martyr to his religion, John thought, standing in the shadows of a small pavilion in a garden which in a few months would bloom with all the flowers of the East. He could almost pity the slave, but had expected none from Justinian, if he had failed on his mission. Thus he had accordingly equipped himself with a piece of wood to replace the holy fragment, reasoning few had seen it, buried so long in its priceless reliquary, and those who might have would scarcely dare to contradict the Emperor. For what, after all, was in it but superstition? Still and all, if nothing else, the Blues would have no supernatural advantage now, thought John the Eunuch, servant of Mithra and supporter of the Greens, as he walked slowly home.

  HE CAME WITH THE RAIN

  Robert van Gulik

  Robert van Gulik (1910–1967) was a Dutch ambassador to Japan who became fascinated with the traditional tales about a seventh-century Chinese magistrate, Judge Dee. While on war duties, he translated the stories into English as Dee Goong An: Three Murder Cases of Judge Dee (1949). He then continued by writing new novels and stories about the character, starting with The Chinese Bell Murders (1958) and continuing through to Poets and Murder (1968).

  “He Came With the Rain” is set early in Judge Dee’s career, in the first year of his magistracy, and follows on from the events featured in The Chinese Gold Murders (1959), his earliest case, and The Lacquer Screen (1964).

  “This box won’t do either!” Judge Dee’s First Lady remarked disgustedly. “Look at the grey mould all along the seam of this blue dress!” She slammed the lid of the red-leather clothes-box shut, then turned to the Second Lady. “I’ve never known such a hot, damp summer. And the heavy downpour we had last night! I thought the rain would never stop. Give me a hand, will you?”

  The judge, seated at the tea-table by the open window of the large bedroom, looked on while his two wives put the clothes-box on the floor, and went on to the third one in the pile. Miss Tsao, his First Lady’s friend and companion, wa
s drying robes on the brass brazier in the corner, draping them over the copper-wire cover above the glowing coals. The heat of the brazier, together with the steam curling up from the drying clothes, made the atmosphere of the room nearly unbearable, but the three women seemed unaware of it.

  With a sigh he turned round and looked outside. From the bedroom here on the second floor of his residence one usually had a fine view of the curved roofs of the city, but now everything was shrouded in a thick leaden mist that blotted out all contours. The mist seemed to have entered his very blood, pulsating dully in his veins. Now he deeply regretted the unfortunate impulse that, on rising, had made him ask for his grey summer robe. For that request had brought his First Lady to inspect the four clothes-boxes, and finding mould on the garments, she had at once summoned his Second and Miss Tsao. Now the three were completely engrossed in their work, with apparently no thought of morning tea, let alone breakfast. This was their first experience of the dog-days in Peng-lai, for it was just seven months since he had taken up his post of magistrate there. He stretched his legs, for his knees and feet felt swollen and heavy. Miss Tsao stooped and took a white dress from the brazier.

  “This one is completely dry,” she announced. As she reached up to hang it on the clothes-rack, the judge noticed her slender, shapely body. Suddenly he asked his First Lady sharply: “Can’t you leave all that to the maids?”