“Early March,” said Simeon, who had been reading the rubrics.
“Brrr. Not ice cream, definitely. What about a nice treacle sponge? Both of them have spoons, they look into each other’s eyes, lovingly, lustfully. And when the dribble of treacle slips down Rizzio’s chin, Mary bends down and licks it off.”
They jumped at a noise behind them. Peering round one of the screens on which pictures were hung was Gavin, and Simeon had his first sight of him: big, shambling, clutching a mobile, and peering through rimless spectacles at them.
“Oh Lord, it’s my Darnley,” said Marge.
Not much of a Darnley, thought Simeon. He did not say so, but Gavin saw him looking over to the double portrait of the Darnley brothers.
Marge was not to be interrupted, though, and once again came on in full flood.
“Mary’s Darnley was followed by three or four macho noblemen, or clan chiefs, or whatever they called themselves. They no sooner got to this point than they took out their knives.”
“What did Rizzio do?”
“Clung to Mary’s skirts — and a lot of good that did him! They dragged him through this room and over to the Outer Chamber, and that’s where they killed him. You can see his blood to this day. But clutching her skirts! Doesn’t that tell you something? Lousy judge of men, Mary. Just like me, I often think.”
“Watch out!” came a cry. Marge turned. It was the burly attendant. He was running forward and pointing at Gavin. Gavin had drawn from his pocket a deadly-looking carving knife, probably procured in the dining room. The attendant ran straight at Simeon and tackled him to the floor. Then he realized with horror that Gavin was running straight past him: He had not been aiming at the foreign lover, but at his wife. The attendant grappled with the lumbering ankles but Gavin kicked him away and continued to where his wife was gazing at the little window-room with an odd smile on her face. She liked being fought over. As she began to turn towards her husband, disdain on her face, she felt the knife go through her shoulder and back. Running footsteps came from the poky staircase, tripping and stumbling, as attendants from the lower floor, alerted by the noise, were coming up to see. By the time they arrived outside the tiny love-nest Marge was lying on her back, her eyes glazing over, and the attendant had Gavin’s arms pinned behind his back, the right hand dripping blood.
It was the material for a thousand stories in the newspapers and the weekly magazines for the feeble-minded. “Palace Love Triangle,” whooped the Sun newspaper. “Royal Slaughter Gets Repeat Showing,” said the Daily Mail. “Slaughter in Queen’s Love-Nest,” said the Express. It didn’t worry them that the wrong person had got killed. Perhaps in their blundering, ignorant, sensation-seeking way they sensed that this time it was the right one.
Copyright © 2010 Robert Barnard
Loon Life
by Brendan DuBois
A writer who so impressed two other great EQMM contributors, Edward D. Hoch and Clark Howard, that each once named him among their favorite short story writers and possibly the best of his generation, Brendan DuBois also continues to be recognized by the field at large. He is currently nominated for a Barry Award for a story that appeared last year in Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine, “The High House Writer.” The New Hampshire author has more stories coming up in EQMM soon.
The Honda SUV I had been dumped in had a handrail up above the door, to assist elderly passengers in getting in and out, but I’m sure the SUV’s designers would have been shocked to see how it was being used this evening: My hands were in stainless-steel handcuffs looped through the handrail, stretching my arms above me. I also wasn’t wearing a seatbelt, but I wasn’t complaining. Earlier complaints about being cuffed had led to the man sitting behind me placing a 9mm pistol against the base of my skull and saying, “Shut your mouth. Just be glad you’re riding while you’re still breathing.”
The man who was driving had laughed. I hadn’t. Not much to laugh at.
And all because I wanted to write a book.
My escorts had taken me from a summer cottage I’d been renting along Lake Walker, in a remote part of northern New Hampshire. During my time there I had swum a lot, canoed, and learned about the wildlife that lived in and around the lake. But I wasn’t some back-to-nature creature, and coming to Lake Walker hadn’t been an accident. You see, a resident on the northern side of the lake was someone famous — infamous, rather — and after my layoff from the Providence Journal, I’d started researching a book about said resident, to pass the time before I had to find a real job, and maybe, if I was very lucky, to get a book contract before my severance package was exhausted.
But luck hadn’t been with me this summer. My severance package was within a week or two of being depleted, and the rise of the Internet and the decline of newspapers meant nobody was hiring experienced journalists, so now I really was counting on this book project and the infamous resident to save the day.
However, said resident obviously had other ideas.
The SUV’s driver took us along the main dirt road that circled the lake, and despite the uncertainty and the terror of being where I was, I recognized that there was also an element of the ludicrous in it alclass="underline" Within several yards of me as we drove along were people who were having a barbeque or were watching the Red Sox or playing Scrabble with their grandchildren, and they had no idea that a man was going by in a Honda, handcuffed, with a 9mm pistol pointed at the back of his head.
The motto of this odd state is Live Free or Die. I was hoping the evening would end with me following the first half of this saying, and not the second.
After a while the number of houses and cottages thinned out, and those remaining looked as if they belonged in a pricier neighborhood. I’d only been on the lake for a short while but I’d quickly learned about the conflict between those who liked having small homes and cottages along the lakefront and those who feel there’s nothing wrong with building a three-story mansion and cutting down all the surrounding trees. And the funny thing is, this argument isn’t always between old-timers and newcomers. Sometimes it’s the newcomers who are most adamant about keeping things the way they were, and the old-timers — if they come into some money — who splurge on building something huge and overpriced.
And my destination this evening was the hugest and most overpriced house on Lake Walker.
The driver made a quick turn to the right, where two stone pillars flanked a dirt driveway. A tall, black, wrought-iron fence stretched out on both sides of the pillars, and the gate between the pillars was made of similar iron. From past experience, I knew that there were small signs on the gate — not legible from my present vantage point — that said NO TRESPASSING, NO SOLICITORS, PROPERTY UNDER SURVEILLANCE, but those signs weren’t going to halt my intrepid driver. He pressed a button on the Honda’s dashboard and the gate slid open, and after passing through the gate, another press of the switch closed it up.
And it was like entering some sort of playground or fairyland, for the driveway was now paved and curved up to the left, rising up to a huge home. Beyond a line of trees, a manicured lawn was exposed, and little recessed lights on both sides of the driveway illuminated the way. There were two stone fountains and a couple of statues of lions and cherubs. At the top of the rise of land, the driveway widened into a parking area, just before the large house, which had separate wings on each side, big bay windows, and lots of wood and brickwork. The thought of having to haul all those bricks from halfway across the state made me shake my head.