She thought of the riddle. When is a box half empty or half full?
Then she knew. He had not been unpacking those books as she had assumed. He had been packing them.
There was a sound at the back of the house as the glass in the door gave way.
She could identify him. And she was bound to see him again. And again.
“I read somewhere that killing a person was far easier than killing a duck. I have not found it so.”
He switched on the lamp at the desk. It lit his face from below, distorting the fine cheekbones and throwing his eyes into shadow. “You’re hard to kill. Not like Keller. He was easy.”
She was almost relieved to see him, proving to herself that he was real and not some spectre of her mind. “You couldn’t bear to burn the books, could you? Dr. Bennett, isn’t it?”
“I’m not a thief or a vandal,” he said mildly. “Those books are irreplaceable. After I set the fire, I used Keller’s keys to let myself into his house in town and left them there on my way to the airport.” He stepped closer. In the light from the lamp she could see the old-fashioned straight razor in his hand.
“I thought you’d died in the fire, my dear. You should have, but when I returned from Italy, I discovered they had found only Keller’s body in the ashes. You were the only one who knew I was there that afternoon. Fortunately, you naturally assumed I was Keller. His body was in the other bedroom. Poor timing, my dear.” He smiled sadly, she thought. “You wouldn’t think you’d be so hard to kill...”
She felt a perverse pride in that, and it was that pride that impelled her past him.
He seized her before she could reach the door. He caught her about the waist and swung her toward the bathroom.
“No, don’t!” he said. “Let me ease you into that Good Night.” His mouth was close to her ear. “You wanted it once — I have seen your wrists—”
“No!” she cried. She hadn’t meant it. They all told her she hadn’t meant it. They told her that the serious ones cut the tendons. The really serious ones make their slashes lengthwise and to the bone.
She felt the blade, the cold, the sting, and the bite of it as he drew it across her wrist.
He forced her to her knees with the weight of his body, over the edge of the old-fashioned tub.
His hands were slippery with her blood as he grappled with her. He was too strong for her, but she fought on stubbornly, unwilling to make it easy for him. She felt the blade slide across her other wrist, and she groaned, and then screamed at him.
She heard the door splinter open, and she had a chance to glimpse Geoffrey’s pale face, and then there were others, and hands upon her, lifting her and binding her wounds.
After a time she lay again in a white, orderly place. The nurses came and went on rubber soles, but clattered dishes and trays and dropped enough things to assure her that they at least thought that she would remain among the living.
In the night, when they moved like aquarium fish through green light, she allowed herself to think of her demon lover. She felt only a little anger now, and something akin to pity for the waste of so much knowledge lacking in wisdom. Then she found herself thinking of James, but not with so much pain. It was as though she were merely bruised now and even that was healing. The intense feelings of shame and loss were lessening, fading. In their place was a little sadness, which, as she thought on it, seemed more like peace.
Bly-Bugh
by Katherine H. Brooks
You call me “Evil Captain Bligh.”
Don’t dump me, I implore!
The salty brine that chills my spine
blows many miles from shore!
A crew should never mutiny.
Your leader — do you hear?
Is making hasty plans to be
the Captain of the Year!
I’ll give you extra rations, men.
I’ll lay aside the whip.
You’ll never walk the plank again.
We’ll sail a jolly ship!
I’ll grant you hours of leisure sport,
with grog in every jug,
And women when you get to port,
and gold and gifts and—
G
L
U
G
The Inheritance
by Betty Rowlands
Though we have already published two short stories by Betty Rowlands, we include now her first work of fiction, a story that won the Sunday Express-Veuve Cliquot short story contest in 1988, and was published that year in the U. K...
It was a perfect summer afternoon in rural England. Birds sang, roses bloomed, couples sipped champagne and strolled beneath stately trees; well-bred laughter echoed across velvet lawns. Outwardly, the scene was idyllic, but to Nicholas, leaning on the parapet of the stone-flagged terrace overlooked by the magnificent southern facade of Lensbury Court, the all-pervading sense of opulence was as acid eating into the soul. By rights, he thought gloomily, he should be the owner of a property such as this. And as he brooded on his own dismal financial situation, there formed in his mind a simple proposition: since Great-Aunt Honoria was the sole obstacle between him and his inheritance, Great-Aunt Honoria would have to go.
Honoria Stacey’s industrialist husband had bequeathed her a vast fortune. Now eighty-five and in frail health, she spent most of her time in her rambling mansion flat in West London, attended by McPhee, a dour Scotswoman who had been her companion for many years. Nicholas was her sole surviving relative but, sadly, she had never shown him any particular affection. On the contrary, she was contemptuous of his lifestyle and scathing about his disinclination for work. For his part, however, he prided himself on his tolerant nature. He bore no malice. From the moment he learned of the untimely demise of his one remaining second cousin, he devoted himself heart and soul to the welfare of his elderly kinswoman.
It was disappointing that his attentions were so little appreciated. Despite his frequent visits and assurances of devotion, to say nothing of money that he could ill afford spent on flowers and chocolates, Honoria treated him with a blend of suspicion and parsimony. None of his hints about the inadequacy of his means evoked so much as an offer to pay for the taxi that brought him regularly to her door. Still, when she was in a good mood, she let it be known that she accepted him, albeit reluctantly, as her natural heir.
While his fellow guests drifted and gossiped around him, Nicholas considered possible ways of disposing of Great-Aunt Honoria. He might beat in her brains with a blunt instrument. There had been a number of reports in the press recently of elderly people being attacked in their homes and robbed of their possessions. If he were to ransack the place and pinch a few things it would seem like burglary — but the noise would inevitably bring the cat-eared McPhee rushing to the scene and he’d be caught red-handed. His stomach turned over at the unintended double meaning; he always became queasy at the sight, or even the thought, of bloodshed.
Strangulation seemed on first consideration to be a distinct possibility. He visualized his hands locked round Great-Aunt Honoria’s stringy throat and the sensation was not unpleasant. He dwelt on it for a while before dismissing the idea as impractical. Despite her age and her dicky heart — her doctor was always warning him that she might pop off at any minute and he had been living in hopes for some considerable time — Honoria was a spirited old bird, quite capable of putting up a struggle and bringing McPhee flying to the rescue. Suffocation with a pillow in her sleep? That would mean being a house guest, and since she never invited him to spend a night under her roof, smothering would also seem to be out.