"Apparently."
"Then she knew that just as Miss Bartlett could swear to your innocence of theft, so you could, and would, swear to hers! That would leave her own guilt suspect, in just the manner Mr. Albury has said."
Darcy paled, glanced at Albury, then back at Henry Rath-bone. He made as if to speak, but no words came.
"But my dear chap, it makes no sense," Jesmond said in utter confusion. "You must be mistaken."
"It makes perfect sense," Henry explained. "If you consider the story from the beginning, not as Mr. Darcy would have us believe. Take all the facts as he described them. A young man, betrothed to one young lady, finds himself most attracted to another, perhaps more vivacious. He cannot break his word to the first. That is legally breach of promise, and socially suicidal to one who has considerable aspirations. Also it would be unlikely to gain him the hand of the lady he desires. Her father, also wealthy and of eminent position, would not countenance it."
Darcy was ashen now.
"He must find another way out," Henry continued. "The young lady will not leave him. He must create an honorable cause to leave her, one in which he remains untarnished, free to pursue his ambitions. At a country house party the opportunity presents itself and the idea is born. He needs only the help of a clever actor." He glanced at Albury, who was now in an extremity of embarrassment. "And two witnesses of reputations above question, and by nature honorable, eager to right a wrong, and perhaps a trifle innocent in the ways of young men with too few scruples and too much appetite for success."
"Good heavens!" Jesmond was appalled.
Henry looked again at Darcy.
"Don't feel you have failed entirely, Mr. Darcy. As soon as I acquaint Miss Carlton with the facts, she will free you to pursue Miss Bartlett, or whomsoever else you wish. Although I doubt Sir George Bartlett will accept you into his family, any more than I should. I have not been the service to you that you intended, but I have indeed served a purpose. Come, Jesmond." He led the way to the door, then, with Jesmond at his heels, turned back. "Don't forget you owe Mr. Albury for an excellent piece of acting! Good day, gentlemen!"
For What She Had Done by SHEL SILVERSTEIN
She had to die.
This Omoo knew.
He also knew he could not kill her.
Not even try to kill her.
Those eyes. Would look at him. Not even try. So, what to do?
There was one Ung. Who lived in a cave.
Beyond the hard mountain. A foul cave.
Far from the village.
Ung, who hunted with stones.
Who killed with his hands.
Who had killed two saber-tooths.
And one great bear, whose skin he now wore hanging from his hairy shoulders.
And Ung had killed men. Many men.
And, it was said, a woman.
Ung, who took the fresh meat left upon the flat rock for the
Spirit of the Sky.
And the Spirit of the Sky would go hungry.
And bring pain and darkness to the village.
But none dare say words to Ung.
Who had killed two saber-tooths.
And one great bear. And men, many men.
And, it was said, a woman.
He went to Ung.
Yes, said Ung, I will kill her.
For what she has done, said Omoo.
For equal weight, said Ung, in bear meat or lizard skins.
She is a large woman, said Omoo.
Equal weight, said Ung. Now you must come and show her to me, that I may kill her.
That I cannot, said Omoo.
Then how will I know her?
Her hair is long, said Omoo.
Her eyes burn like the pools of night.
Many have the long hair, said Ung.
Many have eyes like the pools of night.
She will be bathing, said Omoo.
Tomorrow, as the sun dies.
She will be bathing. Washing her long hair at the falling water.
Many women will be bathing, said Ung.
Many long-haired, night-eyed women.
How will I know it is she?
Omoo thought.
Ah, he said, she shall be carrying flowers.
Bright hill flowers, that I shall gather and place in her hands, before she goes to bathe at the falling water.
Then you will know her.
And you will kill her.
For equal weight, said Ung.
Yes, said Omoo, for equal weight.
And so was begun the custom of giving bouquets and corsages.
True Crime by DONNA TARTT
Things were getting hot in Idaho. Smiling,
strangled, in his distinctive red-and-silver pickup,
he seethed with the name of actress Elke Sommer.
Full moons seemed to bring out the worst in him.
So did eighteen year old neighbor Debra Earl. Lake Charles,
Louisiana.
Prognosis: poor. Following a late dance at the VFW hall,
Authorities recovered a diary, a favorite rifle, a sales receipt
For antifreeze. "I have a problem. I'm
A cannibal." He spoke of plans
For a G.E.D. degree, a part-time candy business.
Stick figures of his first-grade sweetheart
Were scratched along the barrel of his gun.
william j. caunitz
No matter how much research an author does, no matter how meticulously facts are checked, no one can bring a sense of verisimilitude to a police story the way a cop can. Joseph Wambaugh was the first important author to illustrate this, but no one during the past decade has had greater success writing police stories than William J. Caunitz.
A New York City policeman for thirty years (well, actually twenty-nine years and a few months, since he retired from the force after the enormous success of his first novel, One Police Plaza), he worked his way up from patrolman to sergeant, during which time he saw as much as there was to see of the low side of human life. Apart from the bureaucracy that seems to pervade all government departments, he loved the life. His enthusiasm was conveyed to those around him, evidently, as one of his daughters has also become a police officer.
This is the first short story William J. Caunitz has ever written. Life-and, often, death-is too complex to try to describe in just a few pages, he says. But the passionate elements of life have been superbly conveyed in the pages that follow.
– O. P.
carol higgins clark
It would be naive, even downright foolish, to suppose that Carol Higgins Clark didn't have an advantage when she completed her first mystery novel, Decked. Her mother, Mary, was firmly established as the bestselling female mystery writer in the world, and it was expected that some of that fame and affection would spill over to her daughter.
In fact, the first book had numerous hardcover reprints and then made the paperback bestseller lists. All went as hoped and predicted. But affection for a writer's book, while it may make a reader curious enough to buy one book by a relative, cannot extend to a second purchase. If readers bought Decked because they liked Mary Higgins Clark, they bought Snagged because they liked Carol Higgins Clark. And Snagged, about murder at a panty-hose convention being held in the same hotel as a funeral directors' convention, did even better than her first book. It made the national bestseller lists both as a hardcover and as a paperback. Her third book, Iced, has been the biggest success of all.
The beautiful actress-turned-writer has enjoyed success in two careers, her bestselling status as an author having been preceded by starring roles in made-for-television movies, among other vehicles.