Collected Short Stories

by Jeffrey Archer

  “We do not speak of King Herod,” said the second man, “for he is but a king of men, as we are.”

  “We speak,” said the third, “of the King of Kings. We have come from the East to offer him gifts of gold, frankincense, and myrrh.”

  “I know nothing about any King of Kings,” said the boy, now gaining confidence. “I recognize only Augustus Caesar, emperor of half the known world.”

  The man robed in gold shook his head and, pointing to the sky, inquired of the boy: “Do you observe that bright star in the East? What is the name of the village on which it shines?”

  The boy looked up at the star, and indeed the village below it was now clearer to the eye than it had been in sunlight.

  “That’s only Bethlehem,” said the boy, laughing. “You will find no King of Kings there.”

  “Even there we shall find him,” said the second man, “for did not Herod’s chief priest tell us:

  And thou Bethlehem, in the land of Judah,

  Art not least among the princes of Judah,

  For out of thee shall come a Governor

  That shall rule my people Israel.”

  “That’s just not possible,” said the boy, now almost shouting at them. “Augustus Caesar rules Israel, and half the known world.”

  But the three robed men did not heed his words, and left him to ride on toward Bethlehem.

  Mystified, the boy set out on the last stade of his journey home. Although the sky was now pitch black, whenever he turned his eyes toward Bethlehem the village was still clearly visible in the brilliant starlight.

  When he reached the great wooden gate, he banged loudly and repeatedly until the guard, his sword drawn and holding a flaming torch, came to find out who it was that dared to disturb his watch. When he saw the boy, he frowned.

  “The governor is very displeased with you. He returned at sunset, and is about to send out a search party for you.”

  The boy darted past the guard and ran all the way to the family’s quarters, where he found his father addressing a sergeant of the guard and a dozen legionnaires. His mother was standing by his side, weeping.

  The governor turned when he saw his son. “Where have you been?” he said in an icily measured tone.

  “To Bethlehem, sir.”

  “Yes, child, I am aware of that. But whatever possessed you to return so late? Have I not told you on countless occasions never to be out of the compound after dark?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Then you will come to my study at once.”

  The boy looked helplessly toward his mother, then turned to follow his father into the study. The guard winked at the boy as he passed by, but he realized that nothing could save him now. His father strode ahead of him, and sat down on a wooden stool behind his table. His mother followed and stood silently drying her eyes just inside the door.

  “Now, tell me exactly where you have been, and why it took you so long to return. And be sure to speak only the truth.”

  The boy stood in front of his father and calmly told him everything that had taken place.

  He told how he had gone to the village and taken great care in choosing the food for their dinner, and how in so doing he had saved half the money his mother had given him; then how on the way back he had seen a fat lady on a donkey unable to find a place at the inn. He explained why he had followed her into the barn and parted with all their food; how the shepherds had shouted and beaten their breasts until there was a great light in the sky, when they had all fallen silent on their knees; and then finally how he had come to meet the three robed men who sat astride camels and were searching for the King of Kings.

  The father grew more and more angry at his son’s words.

  “What a story this is!” he shouted. “Do tell me more. Did you meet this King of Kings?”

  “No, six, did not,” the boy replied. His father rose and started pacing around the room.

  “Perhaps there is a simpler explanation as to why your face and fingers are stained red with pomegranate juice.”

  “No, Pater. I did buy an extra pomegranate, but even after I had bought all the food, I still managed to save one silver denarius.”

  The boy handed the coin over to his mother, believing it would confirm his story. But the sight of it only made his father angrier. He stopped pacing and stared down into the eyes of his son.

  “You have spent the other denarius on yourself, and now you have nothing to show for it.”

  “That’s not true, Pater, I …”

  “I will allow you one more chance to tell me the truth,” said his father as he resumed his seat behind the table. “Fail me, boy, and I shall give you a leathering you will never forget for the rest of your life.”

  The boy did not hesitate. “I have already told you the truth, Pater.”

  “Listen to me carefully, my son. We were born Romans, born to rule the world because our laws and customs are tried and tested and have always been based on complete integrity. Romans never lie; that is our strength and the weakness of our enemies. That is why we rule while others are willing to be ruled, and as long as that is so, the Roman Empire will never fall. Do you understand what I am saying to you, boy?”

  “Yes, Pater, I understand.”

  “Then you will also understand why it is imperative always to tell the truth, whatever the consequences.”

  “Yes, Pater, I do. But I have already told you the truth.”

  “Then there is no hope for you,” said the man quietly. “You leave me no choice as to how I will have to deal with you.”

  The boy’s mother raised her hand, wanting to come to her son’s aid, but knew any protest would be useless. The governor rose from his chair, removed the leather belt from around his waist, and folded it double, with the heavy brass studs on the outside. He then ordered his son to bend down and touch his toes. The young boy obeyed without hesitation, and his father raised the belt above his head and brought it down on the child with all the strength he could muster. The boy didn’t once flinch or murmur as each stroke was administered, while his mother turned away and wept.

  After the father had delivered the twelfth stroke he ordered his son to go to his room. The boy left without a word and climbed the stairs to his bedroom. His mother followed. As she passed the kitchen, she stepped in and took some olive oil and ointments from a drawer.

  She carried the little jars up to the boy’s room, where she found him already in bed. She went over to his side, sat on the edge of the bed, and pulled the sheet back. She told him to turn onto his chest while she prepared the oils. Then she gently removed his night tunic, for fear of adding to his pain. She stared down at his naked body in disbelief.

  The boy’s skin was unmasked.

  She ran her fingers gently over her son’s unblemished body, and found it as smooth as if he had just bathed. She turned him over. There was no mark on him anywhere. Quickly she slipped his tunic back on and covered him with the sheet.

  “Say nothing of this to your father,” she said, “and remove the memory of it from your mind forever.”

  “Yes, Mater.”

  The mother leaned over and blew out the candle by the side of his bed, gathered up the unused oils, and tiptoed to the door. At the threshold, she turned in the dim light to look back at her son and said: “Now I know you were telling the truth, Pontius.”

  THE LOOPHOLE

  “That isn’t the version I heard,” said Philip.

  One of the club members seated at the bar glanced around at the sound of raised voices, but when he saw who was involved only smiled and continued his conversation.

  The Haslemere Golf Club was fairly crowded that Saturday morning. And just before lunch it was often difficult to find a seat in the spacious clubhouse.

  Two of the members had already ordered their second round and settled themselves in the alcove overlooking the first hole long before the room began to fill up. Philip Masters and Michael Gilmour had finished their Saturday-morning ga
me earlier than usual and now seemed engrossed in conversation.

  “And what did you hear?” asked Michael Gilmour quietly, but in a voice that carried.

  “That you weren’t altogether blameless in the matter.”

  “I most certainly was,” said Michael. “What are you suggesting?”

  “I’m not suggesting anything,” said Philip. “But don’t forget, you can’t fool me. I employed you myself once, and I’ve known you for far too long to accept everything you say at face value.”

  “I wasn’t trying to fool anyone,” said Michael. “It’s common knowledge that I lost my job. I’ve never suggested otherwise.”

  “Agreed. But what isn’t common knowledge is how you lost your job and why you haven’t been able to find a new one.”

  “I haven’t been able to find a new one for the simple reason that jobs aren’t that easy to come by at the moment. And by the way, it’s not my fault you’re a success story and a bloody millionaire.”

  “And it’s not my fault that you’re penniless and always out of work. The truth is that jobs are easy enough to come by for someone who can supply references from his last employer.”

  “Just what are you hinting at?” said Michael.

  “I’m not hinting at anything.”

  Several members had stopped taking part in the conversation in front of them as they tried to listen to the one going on behind them.

  “What I am saying,” Philip continued, “is that no one will employ you for the simple reason that you can’t find anyone who will supply you with a reference—and everybody knows it.”

  Everybody didn’t know it, which explained why most people in the room were now trying to find out.

  “I was let go,” insisted Michael.

  “In your case ‘let go’ was just a euphemism for ‘fired.’ No one pretended otherwise at the time.”

  “I was made redundant,” repeated Michael, “for the simple reason that the company profits turned out to be a little disappointing this year.”

  “A little disappointing? That’s rich. They were nonexistent.”

  “Simply because we lost one or two of our major accounts to rivals.”

  “Rivals who, I’m informed, were only too happy to pay for a little inside information.”

  By now most members of the club had cut short their own conversations as they leaned, twisted, turned, and bent in an effort to capture every word coming from the two men seated in the window alcove of the clubroom.

  “The loss of those accounts was fully explained in the report to stockholders at this year’s annual meeting,” said Michael.

  “But was it explained to those same stockholders how a former employee could afford to buy a new car only a matter of days after being fired?” pursued Philip. “A second car, I might add.” Philip took a sip of his tomato juice.

  “It wasn’t new car,” said Michael defensively. “It was a second-hand Mini, and I bought it with part of my severance pay when I had to return the company car. And in any case, you know Carol needs her own car for the job at the bank.”

  “Frankly, I am amazed Carol has stuck it as long as she has after all you’ve put her through.”

  “All I’ve put her through—what are you implying?” asked Michael.

  “I am not implying anything,” Philip retorted. “But the fact is that a certain young woman, who shall remain nameless”—this piece of information seemed to disappoint most eavesdroppers—“was also let ago at about the same time, not to mention pregnant.”

  The bartender had not been asked for a drink for nearly seven minutes, and by now there were few members still affecting not to be listening to the altercation between the two men. Some were even staring in open disbelief.

  “But I hardly knew her,” protested Michael.

  “As I said, that’s not the version I heard. And what’s more I’m told the child bears a striking resemblance—”

  “That’s going too far—”

  “Only if you have nothing to hide,” said Philip grimly.

  “You know I’ve nothing to hide.”

  “Not even the blond hairs Carol found all over the back seat of the new Mini? The girl at work was a blond, wasn’t she?”

  “Yes, but those hairs came from a golden retriever.”

  “You don’t have a golden retriever.”

  “I know, but the dog belonged to the last owner.”

  “That bitch didn’t belong to the last owner, and I refuse to believe Carol fell for that old chestnut.”

  “She believed it because it was the truth.”

  “The truth, I fear, is something you lost contact with a long time ago. You were fired first because you couldn’t keep your hands off anything in a skirt under forty, and second because you couldn’t keep your fingers out of the till. I ought to know. Don’t forget I had to get rid of you for the same reasons.”

  Michael jumped up, his cheeks almost the color of Philip’s tomato juice. He raised his clenched fist and was about to take a swing at Philip when Colonel Mather, the club president, appeared at his side.

  “Good morning, sir,” said Philip calmly, rising for the colonel.

  “Good morning, Philip,” the colonel barked. “Don’t you think this little misunderstanding has gone quite far enough?”

  “Little misunderstanding?” protested Michael. “Didn’t you hear what he’s been saying about me?”

  “Every word, unfortunately, like any other member present,” said the colonel. Turning back to Philip, he added, “Perhaps you two should shake hands like good fellows and call it a day.”

  “Shake hands with that philandering, double-crossing shyster? Never,” said Philip. “I tell you, Colonel, he’s not fit to be a member of this club, and I can assure you that you’ve heard only half the story.”

  Before the colonel could attempt another round of diplomacy Michael sprang on Philip, and it took three men younger than the club president to pry them apart. The colonel immediately ordered both men off the premises, warning them that their conduct would be reported to the house committee at its next monthly meeting. And until that meeting had taken place, they were both suspended.

  The club secretary, Jeremy Howard, escorted the two men off the premises and watched Philip get into his Rolls-Royce and drive sedately down the drive and out through the gates. He had to wait on the steps of the club for several minutes before Michael departed in his Mini. He appeared to be sitting in the front seat writing something. When he had eventually passed through the club gates, the secretary turned on his heels and made his way back to the bar. What they did to each other after they left the grounds was none of his business.

  Back in the clubhouse, the secretary found that the conversation had not returned to the likely winner of the President’s Putter, the seeding of the Ladies’ Handicap Cup, or who might be prevailed upon to sponsor the Youth Tournament that year.

  “They seemed in a jolly enough mood when I passed them on the sixteenth hole earlier this morning,” the club captain informed the colonel.

  The colonel admitted to being mystified. He had known both men since the day they joined the club nearly fifteen years before. They weren’t bad lads, he assured the captain; in fact he rather liked them. They had played a round of golf every Saturday morning for as long as anyone could remember, and never a cross word had been known to pass between them.

  “Pity,” said the colonel. “I was hoping to ask Masters to sponsor the Youth Tournament this year.”

  “Good idea, but I can’t see you pulling that off now.”

  “I can’t imagine what they thought they were up to.”

  “Can it simply be that Philip is such a success story and Michael has fallen on hard times?” suggested the captain.

  “No, there’s more to it than that,” replied the colonel. “This morning’s little episode requires a fuller explanation,” he added sagely.

  Everyone in the club was aware that Philip Masters had built up his own busines
s from scratch after he had left his first job as a kitchen salesman. “Ready-Fit Kitchens” had started in a shed at the end of Philip’s garden and ended up in a factory on the other side of town that employed more than three hundred people. After Ready-Fit went public, the financial press speculated that Philip’s shares alone had to be worth a couple of million. When five years later the company was taken over by the John Lewis Partnership, it became public knowledge that Philip had walked away from the deal with a check for seventeen million pounds and a five-year service contract that would have pleased a pop star. Some of the windfall had been spent on a magnificent Georgian house in sixty acres of woodland just outside Haslemere: He could even see the golf course from his bedroom. Philip had been married for more than twenty years, and his wife, Sally, was chairman of the regional branch of the Save the Children Fund and a JP. Their son had just won a place at St. Anne’s College, Oxford.

  Michael was the boy’s godfather.

  Michael Gilmour could not have been a greater contrast. On leaving school, where Philip had been his closest friend, he had drifted from job to job. He started out as a trainee with Watneys, but lasted only a few months before moving on to work as a rep with a publishing company. Like Philip, he married his childhood sweetheart, Carol West, the daughter of a local doctor.

  When their own daughter was born, Carol complained about the hours Michael spent away from home, so he left publishing and signed on as a distribution manager with a local soft drinks firm. He lasted for a couple of years until his deputy was promoted over him as area manager, at which decision Michael left in a huff. After his first time on unemployment, Michael joined a grain-packing company, but found he was allergic to corn and, having been supplied with a medical certificate to prove it, collected his first redundancy cheque. He then joined Philip as a Ready-Fit Kitchens rep but left without explanation within a month of the company being taken over. Another spell of unemployment followed before he took up the job of sales manager with a company that made microwave ovens. He seemed to have settled down at last until, without warning, he was let go. It was true that the company profits had been halved that year, while the company directors were sorry to see Michael go—or that was how it was expressed in their in-house magazine.