“So who was it?” Edie asked.
“First the two clues. Look at those messages in the jacket quotes. One is pretty bland and unfocussed: ‘Come on give me a break.’ Another is clever and insulting — ‘About as erotic as a route canal’ — but still relatively harmless. The third one, though, could easily be taken as a threat: ‘Disbar this guy immediately.’ A pretty serious thing for a lawyer, especially if there was some criminal activity involved that would bring an even worse penalty.”
“So from that you get Gresham Turnbow?” Vanessa said. “That’s pretty thin.”
“Ah, but my other clue was that discussion with Turnbow that McDougall alluded to. He mentioned three writers, a very odd combination that seemed to have little in common. John Updike, great American novelist, recently deceased. Ogden Nash, poet, also a radio personality and mystery-book editor, too. And the third, Richard Armour, humorist, comic historian, not as widely known as the other two. But they had one thing in common. They all wrote light verse. Like Cosmo McDougall — and like the author of that deceptively laudatory poem. Like Gresham Turnbow. Why would the two of them be discussing those three otherwise dissimilar writers in a group if they didn’t have a common interest in light verse?”
“Still pretty thin,” Vanessa said. “Lots of writers can or could write light verse.”
“Never said it was airtight. But the stuff they found in McDougall’s papers, evidence of a massive financial fraud Turnbow had been involved in, plus some forensic evidence on the knife, made the case. I understand Turnbow caved in immediately, either had a mental breakdown or started laying the groundwork for an insanity defense. He’s in custody now writing not legal briefs but poetry.”
“So really they didn’t need your brilliant deductions at all,” Vanessa said.
Stephen looked at Edie for sympathy. “Did Ellery Queen ever have to put up with this?”
The Murderer’s Lament
My legal infraction wasn’t much of a crime;
Thousands have done it time after time.
But mistakes were made and it was found out
And I am disbarred, disgraced, left with nowt!
I really do have a dog, name of Beans,
Plus a wife and two growing teens.
If I cannot argue court cases hammily,
At least I can spend more time with my family!
But to effect this, they’ll have to know
Where to find my cell on death row.
When Mourning Stirs the House
by Gary A. Mitchell
Gary Mitchell is a quality engineer who has worked for companies such as GE and Kodak. He tells us that his strong interest in history makes him fantasize he might have been an archaeologist. A West Point graduate, he received several awards for excellence in historical studies while a student there. He’s employed his knowledge and love of history in this tale, a mysterious retelling of the story of Helen and the Trojan War.
Not the great Agamemnon. He bent the fractious Achaeans to his will, and he was cruel and greedy, but I did not fear him. Nor Odysseus, either. For all his stratagems, he was no wiser in war than I. Odysseus I respected. I wish him fair winds on his homeward voyage to distant Ithaca. But that leaves your question unanswered, doesn’t it, boatman? Of all the Achaeans, who was it that brave Hector feared?
You expect me to say Achilles, who plunged his bronze spear deep into my back and dragged my body three times around the city walls, tied behind his chariot. But I never feared the rage of Achilles. In truth, I was slain by the one Achaean who surpassed Agamemnon in cruelty, Odysseus in cunning, and Achilles in anger. That is the Achaean I should have feared.
Helen.
Why have you stopped rowing? We’re nearly halfway across the river, and my shade hungers for the peace promised by the distant shore. You would bargain? My story for the price of passage? Is this a common practice, boatman?
Then I suppose I should be flattered, but honeyed words do not sway me. No, do not turn the boat around. I will tell it to you, for I fear it will never be heard if Helen has her way. Rest upon your oars, then, and listen to the story of Hector’s betrayal.
It begins the way all such tales of war and murder do, with a father’s advice to his son.
“I will beat you this time, Hector.” Paris waved his sword in my face and thrusthis ox-hide shield, bound in bronze, between us. I was eighteen, tall, already broad of shoulder, and marked by my grandfather’s red hair as a warrior. I had commanded the Trojan host in a short, successful campaign against the Dardanians. Paris was sixteen, olive-skinned like his mother, and slight of build. Men called him Hector’s little brother.
Priam, our father, called to us from his couch, where he watched us train on the grassy field set aside for practice beyond the Scaean Gates. “Let us see if all those months training with Sacander have given you more than just the arrogance of a warrior, Paris.”
Pain and anger darkened my brother’s eyes.
“I bested Glauchos, the captain of your guards, didn’t I?”
“Old Glauchos? He is captain for his loyalty, not his swordsmanship.”
“He is a better warrior than you, Father, and younger.” Paris swung his sword back and leapt at me with a cry of rage. Our blades were blunted for practice, but could break a bone if a strong blow landed. Paris meant to hurt me.
He battered at my shield; I shrugged off the attack. He had the advantage of speed, but he let anger guide him. We circled, looking for an opening. Several men gathered to watch. Paris had worked hard with Sacander and had won praise from him, no easy feat.
We closed and traded a flurry of blows. His defense was solid. I could find no gaps. Sacander had done well. We broke apart, and circled again.
“Stop prancing like a temple dancer, Paris. You bragged you had learned how to handle a sword. Your brother is holding back, like Glauchos.” Our father’s words came straight out of the pinch-mouthed jug of wine he’d already emptied.
Some men, like me with my ruddy complexion, turn red when anger rides us. Paris wasn’t like other men. His face turned as white as Egyptian royal linen. He swung at me with all his might and sought to club aside my shield with his own. Did he think to overcome me by brute force? His wrath had betrayed him. I dodged, leaving him unbalanced and vulnerable; I kicked out with my foot and sent him sprawling. His shield flew off his arm and clanged noisily against the low stone wall that surrounded the field. He lay facedown on the ground. I pitied my brother.
“Contemptible!” shouted the king, slamming his ivory cup down on the low table in front of him. “Praise the Gods that they gave me at least one son.” He tossed a gold armband at my feet. “For the victor. As for you, Paris, I am sending you on an embassy to Paionia. They live by the bow, and cower behind somebody else’s spearmen in battle. You will be among brothers, there. I charge you to master their weapon. That, or take up the shuttle and whorl.” He was standing now, shouting at the top of his voice. “And pay court to Menze’s daughter while you are there. You remember Lelwani, don’t you? Try not to dwell on her hog-jowled face. It is the hips that matter. Maybe you can find a son in there and then there will be at least one warrior in your family.” He tried to drink and laugh at the same time, and succeeded only in choking. A pair of slaves guided him back to the palace.
I offered Paris my hand. “He only wants to make you a better man.”