“Give the dog a good hiding,” said Tarrant with emphasis. “I see what you mean,” he added. “It’s the underlying principle of all detection.”
“Precisely,” said Miss Phipps. “Now I believe,” she continued, “that there were, about Mary’s appearance that afternoon, some details which, when added to her name, convinced John Kebroyd that she was Fletcher’s granddaughter. And perhaps, too, reminded him of that old wrong, of which he had so bitterly repented. He looked, you said, at Mary’s hand, at her cuff, at her face. Her cuff. I rather gathered from your account that Mary was in uniform?”
“Yes,” said Tarrant. “And I know what you’re going to say next, and you’re right; Mary’s grandmother, Helen Fletcher, was a nurse both before and after her marriage.”
“Mary’s face might be vaguely like her grandparents’, too,” said Miss Phipps thoughtfully. “Arneson is a Swedish name, and Swedes are usually fair, so as Mary is dark she probably ‘takes after’ her mother’s side of the family. But that’s a little far-fetched, perhaps, and I won’t press it. But John Kebroyd looked first at Mary’s hand, and started. Now what was there about Mary’s hand, do you think? Have you any idea?”
“Well, yes, as it happens I have,” said Tarrant, looking shame-faced. “You see, Mary and I are engaged, and I had chosen an engagement ring for her—”
“That afternoon?” queried Miss Phipps sharply.
“No. I chose it myself in Brittlesea. I wanted to bring it to London that day, but the engraving wasn’t finished,” said Tarrant. “But the point is this: a week or so before that day, that last time I had seen her, Mary lent me a ring of hers so that I could give the jewelers the size of her finger. I brought that ring back to her that afternoon, and she slipped it on; she must have been wearing it when old Kebroyd saw her. It was an old ring of twisted gold strands, with—”
“A monogram,” said Miss Phipps drily. “And it belonged to Mary’s grandmother.”
“No. It belonged to her grandfather’s aunt,” said Tarrant.
“Oh, my dear boy!” exclaimed Miss Phipps enthusiastically, her eyes gleaming. “But that’s brilliant! That’s really brilliant! It completes the whole story. Don’t you see? Can’t you imagine it? Some little Yorkshire town in the ’70s, and the rich old maiden aunt lies dying, and Mary’s grandmother is nursing her. And William Fletcher and John Kebroyd are cousins, and they each hope to inherit a share of their aunt’s wealth, and they’re each in love with Mary’s grandmother. And somehow or other, by some mean little trick which we shall never know for certain, Kebroyd turns his aunt’s affection away from Fletcher, and persuades her to leave all the money to him. She does so, and leaves only the ring to Fletcher. But the nurse, Mary’s grandmother, knows the trick and despises Kebroyd, and marries Fletcher. Fletcher’s so disgusted about the money — or perhaps it’s a business, you know; yes, that’s even better. There is now no place in the family business for Fletcher, so he emigrates to the States; while Kebroyd makes his aunt’s legacy the foundation for a large fortune. And presently Kebroyd is sorry, and tries to trace Fletcher, and hears that he died on shipboard and was buried at sea, leaving a wife and daughter. But he can’t trace the wife and daughter. And then one day, years later, suddenly he sees his aunt’s old ring on a girl’s finger, and the cuff above the hand is a nurse’s cuff, and the face is almost the face of the grandmother — and add to that, the girl is American and part of her name is Fletcher. All those things are crooked figures in the right place, and they make a million; they make Mary his cousin’s granddaughter. The stick, too, perhaps, with the carved dog — that may have been his aunt’s; and now it is all broken. Symbolism, you know. As he sits there, dazed, in the chemist’s chair, the whole drama of his life is set before him; and he knows what he must do. Yes, it’s all as plain as a pikestaff, my dear boy; and your Mary can accept her legacy with a clear conscience. In fact, it’s her duty to do so. You must confirm my hypothesis by inquiry at Kebroyd’s birthplace, and then if John William cuts up rough, you can just throw his great-aunt in his teeth. Now, what would you like for a wedding present?”
Miss Phipps beamed at him.
“It seems to me,” said Tarrant soberly, “that you’ve just given my wife twenty thousand pounds.”
Miss Phipps giggled excitedly. “In that case, my dear boy,” she said, “do you think your Mary would do me a favor?”
“If she wouldn’t, she isn’t my Mary,” said Tarrant smiling.
“Then would you ask her to allow me — I would take very great care not to make it libelous — would you ask her to allow me,” begged Miss Phipps, “to use the Kebroyd-Fletcher history in a story?”
Tarrant nodded emphatically.
Socrates solves a Murder
by Brèni James
Aristodemus was awakened towards daybreak by a crowing of cocks, and when he awoke, the others were either asleep, or had gone away; there remained only Socrates, Aristophanes, and Agathon... And first of all Aristophanes dropped off, then, when the day was already dawning, Agathon. Socrates, having laid them to sleep, rose to depart; Aristodemus, as his manner was, following him... to the Lyceum. — Plato: Symposium (Jowett trans.)
Brent James’s “Socrates Solves a Murder” is one of the thirteen “first stories” which won special awards in EQMM’s Ninth Annual Contest — last year’s competition. In her first story, Brèni James tackled what is probably the most difficult type of detective story — the tale in which a famous historical figure plays the role of sleuth and mystery-solver, against an authentic historical background. It is really a monumental ’tec task — so herculean a labor that your Editors have never had the temerity to attempt it. And yet a remarkable number of historical detectives have come EQMM’s way. In the pages of EQMM were born the first exploits, as manhunters and investigators of crime, of Dr. Sam: Johnson, Charlemagne, Merlin, Machiavelli, Benjamin Franklin, Sam Houston, and even of Abraham Lincoln, in his own account of a murder mystery in which he acted as the defense attorney. We have also had submitted to EQMM other apocryphal “adventures and memoirs” — about Leonardo da Vinci, Napoleon, François Villon, and Walt Whitman.
There is no doubt that the theme of a famous man (note that it seems always to be a famous man, never a famous woman) acting as a detective is fascinating, if not irresistible. The conception is easy enough — there are a multitude of historical figures who seem ideal for the role of masterminds; it is the execution of the particular idea that is the tremendous hurdle. For the historical figure has to be convincing as well as authentic, and the scene, time, speech, and manners have to be projected with equal authenticity. Brèni James has done a fine job in every way — characters, background, language, tone, and thought. And surely her choice of an historical detective — Socrates — is perfect: who in all history is more likely to have been so passionate a seeker of the truth and so logical an analyzer of the facts?
Socrates strolled along barefoot, having left his sandals behind at Agathon’s. Aristodemus, barefoot as always, ran on short legs to catch up with his friend.
Aristodemus: Here, Socrates; you left your sandals.
Socrates: You seem to be more interested in what I have forgotten, Aristodemus, than in what you ought to have learned.
Aristodemus: Well, it is true my attention wandered a bit, and I missed some of your discourse, but I agreed with your conclusions.