By Decius Aemilius © March 2006.


“Horace? Is that you?” The man being addressed turned, and then had to turn somewhat further, as the speaker was on his blind side. “It is you, Horace!”

“General Heath!” Horace, a Continental Army Major, saluted. The general paused and lifted his hand toward his left eye.

“I’m sorry, I’d not heard…” The major fingered the patch over his left eye socket.
“This? I lost the eye at Harlem Heights. I came here to recuperate.” Horace chuckled grimly. “Since I was already here, I volunteered to take charge.”

“Frankly I’m glad you’re here. Come, walk with me.” The general walked over to the edge of the dam causeway. “Colonel Putnam and I have been surveying the land around here. The situation isn’t too good. We gave the bloody British a good smart blow at the Heights, but still had to retreat into Westchester County. The geography…” William Heath shook his head.

“You don’t need to tell me about the geography, general. You forget I live around here. I have relatives in West Chester.” Horace gestured with a thumb over his shoulder to the village several hundred yards behind them. “That’s why I was here.”

“Ah! Indeed I had,” the Massachusetts man admitted. “Then you can help make sure I have things straight. As you know, General Washington is currently at Rodman’s Neck with the bulk of the army. Things are rather disorganized. When Rufus – Colonel Putnam – and I left camp they were just beginning to assemble formal battalions from the various companies. The plan is to march north to White Plains. However, the British can use their navy to land troops and trap the entire army. And without an army our rebellion is doomed. Fortunately there are only a few places they can land, thanks to the marshland. Frog’s Neck is one of them.”

“Throgg’s Neck, sir.”

“What?”

“The land is called Throgg’s Neck, not Frog’s Neck.”

“Oh? General Washington said Frog’s Neck.” Heath dismissed the semantic dispute with a wave. “They can land just south of here at the Neck, or they can land at Pell’s Point at the top of Eastchester Bay. Either gives them a chance to cut off our retreat. The problem is there are a few other possible places too; I just don’t have enough men. If the British do land at the Neck, they’ll have to come over this causeway.”

“More or less, sir. Westchester Creek here is really a salt-water tidal estuary, and flows into the marshes. It’s deep enough and wide enough you could sail a small boat up it, at least as far as the dam here. Still, they’ll probably land near the Hammond estate. From there they can march here, and once over this causeway they’re maybe ten miles to Kingsbridge. They could also take the East Chester Road though, there’s a ford there.”
“Thanks. I’ll station some men there, too. Of course that just makes the situation worse. I have under two thousand men and a few guns. Our spies tell us the British will be sending the Highlanders and the Hessians.”

“That’s well over three thousand men!”

“Closer to four, probably. If they come this way it will be up to you and these twenty riflemen to delay the advance as best you can. It will take me about four hours to get here with reinforcements.”

“Twenty men against four thousand.” The major set his face determinedly. “Yes, sir. At least we have the cordwood here for cover.”

“Yes. Pull the planks up, too.” The general nodded toward the wooden planking forming a serviceable bridge over the top of the dam. “The British don’t have much cavalry, and infantry crossing the water will certainly wet their powder.” General Heath gave the major a firm handclasp. “Godspeed, Horace.”

With that last gesture the general turned and walked away, certain he had just ordered a friend to fight to the last.



“So why is all the wood here?” someone asked. Horace raised himself slightly from where he’d been crouching, trying to best position a crude loophole to fire through the woodpile while concealed.

“What was that?” he asked.

“Why is all this cordwood lying around on this side of the dam, anyway?” the voice asked again.

“Well—I don’t know. I guess it’s just a convenient place.” He shrugged, but before he could order the men back to work he caught sight of two figures approaching. Pushing himself upright he walked to intercept them. “Halt! Who are you?” he called.

“We—ah, we—we came to join you, major,” one said, making an attempt at a salute. Beardless boys, Horace thought, surely not more than sixteen and armed with their fathers’ hunting rifles. He was tempted, strongly tempted, to tell them to go home. But he needed all the help he could get if he was to buy precious time for the Continental Army. Even mere minutes might be valuable.

“Do you have names?” he asked, temporizing.

“I’m Herman, and this is Lars,” said the boy who had spoken before. “Ah, sir, I mean.”

“Just call me Major, kid,” the major said not unkindly. “If you really want to volunteer, you can.”

“Thank you, Major! We don’t want the British coming to our homes.”

“It’s possible the British will land somewhere else, and we won’t see them,” Horace told them. “But it’s equally possible they will come here. And if they do, we’ll fight. And people will die.” He looked at their faces. “I know you think it won’t be you; I thought the same once. But everyone dies. You don’t understand, not yet, but I have to say it. You can walk away, no-one here will think any less of you.”

“We’ll stay, Major,” Herman said, and Lars nodded vigorous agreement. Horace sighed acceptance.

“Then go help pull the last of the planking off the causeway. Put your rifles over there.” He pointed to the stack of cordwood he planned to conceal himself behind. He wanted to keep an eye on them.

“They don’t understand,” he said to himself softly. “But they will. They will.” He frowned for a moment, lost in a memory, and then with a shake of his head went back to work.



“So I burned ze haus down, just to prove my point.” The Hessian soldier burst into laughter. He was one of a number of Germans whose regiment was sharing the transport with British regulars, and had been telling the story to an Irishman from the Grenadier company of the British 16th Foot. Lieutenant Walham, who had been making an effort to ignore the chatter, turned away in disgust. He watched the fog roll across the bay, the light breeze stirring up whirls as it slowly moved the transport across the water. The men under his command disgusted him. He was a gentleman, and had paid a high price in British Pounds for his commission. The enlisted men were escapees from debtor’s prisons or the hangman. Brutal hoodlums kept in line only by the most stern and severe discipline.

The Hessians were worse, hard as the lieutenant found it to picture. The British soldiers were at least nominal volunteers. The German privates were conscripts, sold as mercenaries by their princes to a foreign king for a foreign war. Barely any of them spoke English. The officers, at least, were professional. The conscripted men were a mix of criminals fresh from prison, farmers pressed from the plow, and educated men with the poor luck to be caught in the wrong place at the wrong time. They were not a happy bunch, and tended to assume all colonists were the enemy. Walham’s stomach turned at the thought of them being let loose on Englishmen, even if they were rebels.

Still, he had his duty as an oath-sworn officer and gentleman, and so he pulled out the folded map from his belt-pouch and glanced over it to refresh his memory.

“Excuse me, Lieutenant.” Sergeant Knowles sidled up next to him. “The Colonel sent word that we’ll be landing just before dawn tomorrow. Apparently the navy won’t be able to place us into position until dusk, and the General doesn’t want to begin the landing at night.”

“Well, I can appreciate that. In this fog the rebels could have a whole army waiting for us and we’d never see them. Well—ready the men for a dawn landing, then.”

“Yes, Sah!”



It was a warm, foggy morning. Horace rubbed grit from his eyes and surveyed his small command. The major hoped the humidity wouldn’t dampen their powder. A subtle vibration unsettled him, and he cocked his head.

“Do you hear that?” he asked Herman and Lars. He waved his squad to silence. Another low rumble.

“I’m not sure, but think I heard something,” Herman said. The major could tell this was honest uncertainty and not an attempt to butter up his superior.

“The fog is dampening and confusing sounds. But let’s assume that’s the enemy. Load your rifles, gentlemen. But nobody is to fire a shot until I do. When I fire, try for a volley. But aimed fire, if you please. Take out the non-coms first.”

“Non-coms?” Herman and Lars asked for clarification.

“Sergeants and Corporals. The guys with stripes on their sleeves.”

“Ah, okay, Major.”

“Just load your rifle, kid.” Horace shoved the ramrod down his barrel in emphasis. Putting the weapon on half-cock he raised it to his shoulder to make sure he had a clear line of sight to aim through the stacked cordwood. Then he waited. Idly he adjusted his eyepatch slightly. He wasn’t used to it. But even without binocular vision he was still a good shot.

The recurring rumble grew louder, revealing itself to be a British drummer marking pace. The first ranks of the redcoat column emerged from the fog. A British officer on horseback paused to check his map just to one side of the major’s angle of view. The column of lobsterbacks came to a jumbled halt at the far side of the creek, apparently surprised by the missing plank bridge.

“Remember, lads,” Horace murmured. “Nobody fires until I do.” He clicked the hammer back to full cock. He could see a sergeant having a heated discussion with the officer, the subject of which revealed itself when the sergeant abruptly saluted, about-faced, and picked off ten men. The patrol was apparently going to attempt to cross the narrow top of the dam. He waited until they reached the first spillway and as one of the redcoats handed off his Brown Bess to try and leap across Horace took aim at the sergeant and pulled the trigger. Before the echo of the rifle’s discharge died the rest of the American defenders let loose a ragged volley and the British patrol was eliminated.

“Boys, down” Horace called abruptly. He grabbed Herman and pulled him under cover and was reaching for Lars when a crisp command barked ‘Volley fire!’ and the British shot back. The musket volley was unaimed and inaccurate and most of the lead shot was wasted harmlessly against the wooden barricade.

Most.

Lars froze before slowly raising a hand to his chest. He stared in surprise at the crimson. Then he collapsed.

“Lars!” Herman called in anguish.

“Stay down, kid!” The major grabbed Herman’s shoulder.

“But Lars—he needs help!” The youth began to cough up blood, and Horace knew the wound was mortal. Herman looked at him with surprise, as if this wasn’t supposed to happen. Horace sighed.

“Stay low, and pull him back under cover.” Then, louder, he called to his command “Return fire at will!” The rebel return fire was slower and less regular as the fog and musket smoke served to cloak the battlefield. Horace was certain, however, that each rifle shot was aimed. The incoming fire grew thicker, and then tailed off as the British retreated a short distance to regroup.

“Poole!” Horace called out to one of his men. “Get your ass over to General Heath and tell him the British are here.”

“With respect, Major, I’d like to borrow your horse instead!” came the reply.

“Yes, that’s fine. Just go!” Horace turned to Herman. “Are you okay, kid?” The lad still held his rifle, but his friend’s blood covered his shirt in a spray pattern.

“Lars died.”

“I’m sorry, kid.”

“I didn’t… expect that.” Slowly, focusing on each part of the task, Herman reloaded his firearm. Hands shaking, he tried to stand and take aim.

“Whoa there, kid.” Horace put out a hand and pushed Herman’s muzzle to the ground. “Better take the ramrod out first if you want to do any more shooting” he said, not unkindly.

“Oh. Thanks, Major. I’d forgotten.” Hands still shaking, Herman pulled out the rod and replaced it in the sling below the muzzle. Horace studied him.

“Look, do me a favor. Just load the weapons. I’ll do the shooting. It’ll be faster that way.” The shaken youth nodded and exchanged weapons with the major. Horace raised the weapon and sighted down the barrel. The fog was beginning to burn off, and a slight sea breeze slowly cleared the gunpowder smoke. To his surprise, the British were in retreat, falling back to the top of the hill on the far side of the creek and digging in just out of rifle range. The regimental battle flags appeared atop the rough entrenchment.

“Fourth and Sixteenth Regiments of Foot,” he said. Herman was puzzled.

“Sir?”

“The enemy forces,” the major explained. “I see we’re facing companies from the Fourth and Sixteenth Regiments of Foot.” Darker uniforms appeared. “Damn. Hessians, too. Looks like Von Wurmb’s Guards. I think…” He raised his voice to shout to the rest of his men. “I think they’re going to try and storm the position! Get ready!”

“Can they do that, Major?” Herman asked anxiously.

“I dunno. Ask me afterward. If they can get across they could, since they have bayonets and we don’t.” He tapped the muzzle of the rifle to indicate its lack of a mount for a bayonet. “So the trick is to discourage them from getting across. And that water is pretty deep.”

The Americans watched the Hessian regiment form up and attach their bayonets. Every now and then an American rifle would crack and a Hessian would fall. Horace could tell the soldiers were not happy about being told to charge across the water. Most probably couldn’t swim even without the equipment they were carrying.

“Here we go again.” Horace and Herman crouched as the German regiment let loose a volley of musket fire to cover their advance, and then rose to return fire. The Hessians discovered the water downstream of the dam was at least seven feet deep at the center, and trying to wade across made them highly vulnerable targets. The regiment cracked, men beginning to retreat back to the hill. Not one had managed to get even mid-way across, and bodies shot and drowned turned the salty water to a shade of burgundy.

“We did it!” Herman shouted. The American rebels rejoiced and shouted their battle cry “Hurrah!”

“Quiet down!” the Major shouted. “We’re not done yet, not by a long shot.”

“Surely they won’t try that again?” Herman said.

“Oh, they will.” Horace cautiously raised up his head to get a quick glance toward the British fortification. “But first they’ll try and soften us up.”

“Soften us up? What do you mean?”

“Take a look, carefully. See the guy in the blue coat and white pants?” Herman took a quick glance and nodded that he did. “That’s the Royal Artillery, kid. They’re bringing up at least a battery of guns.” Herman looked worried.

“That doesn’t sound good at all, major. They’ll pound us!”

“Maybe, kid. But it will take them an hour or so to get into position at a minimum. That’s yet another hour we’ve bought for General Heath.”



Time passed. The British hauled guns into position. The Americans watched and worried. Horace studied the angle of the sun and guessed the hour.

“I hope Poole didn’t waste any time,” the major muttered to Herman. “And I hope General Heath isn’t wasting any either.”

“Will they be here soon?”

“I hope so, kid. Because my guess is—” Before he had time to finish the sentence the British opened fire with their cannon. The iron balls roared overhead and into the village of West Chester. “Dammit!” Horace cursed. “There are civilians in there.” With a crack and a roar the bell tower on the church collapsed, sending the bell to a clanging crash. Cries went up from the injured. “Of all the places they could hit, they hit the church.”

“Should we see if the villagers need help?”

“No, we can’t. There aren’t enough of us guarding this dam crossing as it is. Bloody British are undoubtedly hoping we send some men off. Probably targeted the church on purpose.”

The guns roared again, this time sending up a vast mist of salt water as the cannonballs fell into the creek.

“We’ve been bracketed.” Horace hunched down, back against the cordwood that separated him from the enemy, and indicated Herman should do likewise. “Right now I wish there was a lot more wood stacked here.”

The next time the artillery opened fire the echo was lost in a horrible roar as iron smashed into the stacked cordwood. Chipped fragments of wood rained down on Horace and Herman. The major had enough presence of mind to cover the muzzle of his rifle with one hand. Herman said something, but neither could hear what it was. His mouth was open, perhaps screaming. The major nodded approval and likewise opened his mouth, trying to keep his eardrums from bursting under the pressure of the incoming rounds.

Temporarily deafened, Horace counted off the volleys and the time-between by the vibration. One part of his brain noted that the guns were being reloaded with decent speed. The battery captain was probably pleased.

When the lull came the major clapped Herman on the shoulder and indicated he should load his weapon. Raising his own rifle to his shoulder, Horace found plenty of targets as the breeze blew the smoke clear to reveal the formed British lines. The regimented redcoats moved toward the rebel lines in what seemed to be a roaring silence to the deafened Americans.

Muzzle flash and recoil pounded his shoulder. The small company of Americans had an effect out of proportion to their numbers, as accurately aimed fire reduced the British company by a tenth in a single volley. Once again the narrow dam proved a chokepoint, and not a single British soldier reached the far side of the creek.

Cannon fire resumed.

Horace felt the difference of the next impact before he saw the log spin overhead and vanish into the underbrush between the creek and the village. A cannon ball had broken the ropes binding the cords of wood, and the constant bombardment had damaged the balance. The stack began to tilt. There was no time to run. Instead Horace grabbed Herman by the shoulder and belt and heaved him to safety as the wood toppled over, burying the major.

More time passed. Horace never quite lost consciousness, but time stretched as he lay under the fallen timbers. Cannon roared, and he must have lost his sense of direction because it sounded like it was on the wrong side of the creek. He heard marching troops; the position must have fallen. If he had the strength, he would have cursed. Instead, he waited. At last he heard timbers being pulled away. A voice spoke in the tones of someone educated at Oxford.

“Ah, I think I see him! Just a bit more.” Light dawned for Horace as the covering logs were removed. “Easy there, chap. Anything broken?” The major pushed himself into a sitting position and looked up into the face of a British lieutenant. The British officer raised his hat slightly in greeting. “Lieutenant Walham. Sixteenth Regiment of Foot.” He proffered a canteen. The major took a swig.

“Am I—am I a prisoner?” Horace asked. The lieutenant sighed.

“Alas, no.” The officer beckoned to someone behind Horace’s line of sight. “General Heath, I believe this is the last of your men.” Walham reached into a pocket and flipped open an expensive pocket watch. “And the time for our parlay has just about expired. I should be on my way.”

“We won?” Horace asked in bemusement. General Heath reached out a hand and pulled the major to his feet.

“Yes, you did, Horace!” the General said. “You held them off long enough for reinforcements to arrive. You won the battle.”

Looking around, Horace caught sight of his surviving men sitting off to one side. Herman, among them, raised a hand in salute.

“Indeed, major. A remarkable achievement.” Lieutenant Walham extended a hand. “I congratulate you, and would like to shake your hand. But the war is not over yet. I shall undoubtedly see you again. I suspect this war will go on for some time. Both sides will be quite stubborn. After all, we’re all Englishmen.”

“You are right about one thing, lieutenant,” Horace said. “This war shall continue. But we are not Englishmen, who can indeed be stubborn. That is the heart of this war; we are Americans, and we are a hundred times as stubborn as you!” He laughed without joy and took Walham’s hand. “Be that as it may,” Horace continued. “Today we won. And, for today, that is enough.”

Lucretia: Lex et Dispositora
By Decius Aemilius © January 2006.


In the criminal justice system, sexually-based offenses are considered especially heinous. In the City, the dedicated detectives who investigate these vicious felonies are members of an elite squad known as the Special Victims Unit. These are their stories.


********************************

As Brutus turned into the driveway of the palatial estate he could see the red-and-white flashing lights from the patrol car that had been the first to arrive on the scene. Brutus flipped the Chevy Blazer into park, and he and his partner stepped out. A uniformed officer met them. Brutus flashed his shield.

“Detective Brutus, SVU.” He waved at his partner. “This is Detective Tutuola. You were the first on the scene?”

“Yessir. We were on routine patrol and got the call. Apparent suicide. We thought there were some suspicious circumstances, and called that in.” The patrolman paused. “The deceased was the wife of the aide to General Tarquin,” he added.

“Jove. Those Tarquins?”

“The Senator’s son, yes.”

“Damn, I hate the political ones,” Tutuola cursed.

“Crime scene unit arrive yet?” Brutus asked the officer.

“Ah, no… The coroner is waiting for you, though. The, ah, the family asked to avoid a scene.”

The officer led them up a grand staircase and around to the master bedroom. The detectives surveyed the scene.

“I can see why you called it in as suspicious circ” Tutuola commented. If the dead woman was a suicide she’d managed to achieve one of the tidiest deaths either detective had seen. The deceased was a fairly attractive woman, but lay on a well-made bed with her hands folded across her chest. The coroner was in the process of packing up his equipment as they entered. The patrolman coughed and flipped open a small notebook.

“We have here Lucretia, wife of Lt. Collatinus. Maid found the body and called the husband. Husband called us.”

“She didn’t call the police directly?” Brutus asked.

“You know these old families. The domestics live on sufferance, are foreigners without ties. They don’t trust us anyway.”

“So, doc, you got a C.O.D?”

“Cause of death is a gunshot wound, punched through-and-through the heart,” answered the medical examiner. “Gunpowder residue is consistent with the muzzle pressed to the skin. Husband’s service revolver looks like the weapon; I’ll have to have ballistics check for sure. But before I can do that you’ll have to find the bullet.” The coroner raised an eyebrow.

“It’s not in the mattress?”

“No hole, not even a burn mark. Here, help me turn her over. On three, one, two – three!” Brutus and Tutuola rolled the body over. “Blood on the sheets, but no scatter pattern. She’s been dead a few hours.” The doctor paused hesitantly.

“What else, doc?” Brutus asked.

“There’s evidence of recent sexual activity.”

“Rape?”

“I ran a kit, but evidence is… ambiguous. No signs of struggle. It could just be forceful consensual intercourse.” The detectives grimaced. “Anything else? I’d like to get her back to the morgue and get started. The press will have a field day with this one when they get their hands on it.”

********************************

Downstairs Brutus and Tutuola found Lt. Collatinus hunched in a chair, hands over his face. They also found his commanding officer reclining on the sofa, a glass of brandy in one hand.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” Brutus told the grieving husband. “But we do need to ask some questions.”

“Is—is this really necessary? Lucr—my wife, her death was a suicide. That’s all there is.”

“Where were you when you heard about your wife?”

“The lieutenant and I were at headquarters when we received the sad word,” General Tarquin interjected. “Our brigade just got back from deployment overseas, and we’ve been arranging leave.”

Brutus studied the young lieutenant.

“Had your wife been depressed lately? Concerned about anything?” He asked. The lieutenant glanced over towards Tarquin.

“No,” he got out hoarsely.

“As I said, we’ve been overseas, and the lieutenant hasn’t had much contact with home.” The general rose from his seat, replacing a brief expression of irritation with a more deliberately friendly one. “The lieutenant is very broken up about this. Let me show you out.”

The general chivvied the policemen out the front door, but paused before closing it.

“I really wish you would just let this go,” he told them. “I’d not say this in front of the poor man, but Lucretia – well, there’s some feeling she was unfaithful to him while we were away. Probably when her husband returned she felt guilty and took her own life. Really I doubt there is anything more.” He closed the door.

“You buy that story, Tutuola?” Brutus asked rhetorically as they left.

“Hades, no. Tarquin was being way too helpful. And answering questions for the husband. Why?”

“Why, indeed. I think we need to have another talk with the coroner.”

********************************

“I’ve completed my autopsy.” As the coroner spoke he continued to remove the internal organs from a corpse. “Nothing particularly different from what I had expected from the prelim.”

“Any evidence of depression?” Brutus asked.

“I didn’t find any evidence of anti-depressants. Or birth control medication. There was, as I told you, evidence of sexual activity. I saved a sample. If you have a suspect I can run a DNA comparison.”

“Anything else?”

“Yes.” The coroner looked up and his monotone grew a bit more heated. “You can tell me why I got a call from the D.A. telling me to close the case and move on.”

“The district attorney called?”

“Yes. I dislike that. Your evidence is over there. Take it and go.”

********************************

Brutus had barely gotten back to his desk when his phone rang.

“Clusium County District Attorney’s Office. Hold please…” a female voice told him. A moment later a masculine baritone replaced it. “Is this Detective L. J. Brutus?”

“Speaking. What can I do for you?”

“This is Lars Porsenna. I assume you know who I am.” The question was clearly rhetorical; everyone knew Porsenna was the District Attorney, and that he had his eye on higher office. “What you can do for me, detective, is drop your harassment of the Tarquins.”

“I’m not ‘harassing’ the Tarquins. With respect, sir, I’ve just been doing my job. It’s a death under suspicious circumstances.”

“Fine. You’ve done your job, then. Lucretia was having an affair, became guilty and remorseful, and shot herself.”

“I believe that is one possibility, sir…”

“It’s what happened. And I better not hear any more about you and the death. I don’t need influential friends of mine like the Tarquins having their name dragged through the mud.” The call disconnected with a sound suggesting the distant handset had been slammed down.

“Tutuola? That was the D.A… This case gets weirder by the minute. Why would the D.A. have the details of the death when it just happened? Tarquin must have called him almost as soon as we left, maybe sooner.”

“I swear the husband knows more than he said. Which was barely anything.” Tutuola sneered. “Want to try and pick him up? Maybe we can get something if General Tarquin isn’t answering all the questions for him.”

“Let’s go. I’ll drive.”

********************************

“There he is.” The two detectives slowly cruised down the road behind Lieutenant Collatinus, who was jogging off to one side. Tutuola rolled down his window.

“Hey, lieutenant, can we offer you a lift?”

Collatinus turned, recognized the detectives, and collapsed against a parked car.

“You again. Somehow I knew you’d be back.” He pushed himself upright, walked over, and climbed into a back seat. “What can I do for you?”

“I think you know something you didn’t want to talk about in front of your boss,” Brutus told him, catching his eye through the rearview mirror.

“And why would I tell you now? Does it change anything? My wife is still dead.”

“Did you know your boss, the general, has been telling people– us among others –that your wife was unfaithful and killed herself from guilt?”

“Lucretia was a saint!” Collatinus paled, and then went red with suppressed rage before he began to silently weep. “A saint,” he repeated. “I was told to keep my mouth shut, or there’d be consequences. But what’s the point now, anyway?” He continued, sounding hopeless. “About a week ago we returned from overseas. All of us on the staff were pretty revved up and needed to let off some steam after the pressure of operations, so the General took us all out for drinks. At some point somebody began moaning about their girlfriend who was unfaithful, and a few other people chimed in on one side or another. I, having imbibed rather heavily, told the others in great detail about how virtuous my Lucretia was. There was some dispute, I’m a little hazy, but we ended up driving out to check on Lucretia and a few others. We found Lucretia hosting her weekly sewing circle. The others we checked on had a party going on, and had drunk more than we had, and that was saying something. Maybe that was how she came to the general’s attention.”

He reached into a pocket, pulled out a folded sheet of paper and handed it wordlessly to the detectives.

“That is all I saw. Well, other than that later, after I read that note, I checked the base logs. Someone with access had edited all the entries to remove all comings and goings for that day. Rather obvious in retrospect. I read the note, called the general to--I don’t even know what I wanted. Senator Tarquin answered the phone. He told me to keep quiet; he’d ‘fix’ things. He told me to destroy that note, too, but I couldn’t do that.”

The detectives read the note:


My dear husband, I am sorry. I know you would not blame me, although I blame myself, but I feel filthy, and violated, and I cannot go on. Know, however, that I care deeply for you. I ask you not to judge me too harshly.

General Tarquin arrived unexpectedly earlier this evening. Knowing he was your friend and your superior, I invited him for dinner, and offered him use of a guest room. I found him unsettling, but I could not guess his intent! He followed me, and held a gun to my head, and told me he desired me. That I could either submit, or he would both kill me and one of the servants and leave our bodies together. Lucius Tarquin forced himself upon me, and to my shame I did not resist. Now I am afraid that he will come for me again, protected by his family from any justice. I cannot bear to face him, as I would have to, in society, knowing what he knows and what he is. I cannot live with my shame and fear. At least in this way I can protect my honor, and yours.

My dear husband, I love you. And I am so deeply sorry.

Lucretia



“I feel sick,” Brutus murmured as he finished reading. “We need to nail this guy.”

“Let’s bring him in,” Tutuola suggested. “This gives us probable cause to get a warrant for his DNA.”

“It would be pointless,” Collatinus told them hopelessly. “My beloved Lucretia was right; the Tarquins will just… get away with it.” The lieutenant looked like he wanted to spit. “Even if you arrest the general, his daddy will get him off the hook.”

“Damn. He’s probably right, Lucius.”

“He probably is. Unless...”

“Unless what?”

“Unless we can bag them all in one go.”

********************************

Lieutenant Collatinus was fidgeting nervously when Senator Tarquin sat down on the park bench beside him.

“What is it, son?” the Senator asked.

“Please don’t call me that. I really don’t think I am up to facing your son on a daily basis. You know those detectives want to arrest him?”

“Getting cold feet? They’ll not succeed. My boy is not going to prison. I’m sorry for you, lieutenant, but these things happen. I don’t care what evidence they think exists. I assure you, it won’t be there. Things will be better if you keep quiet. For you, and for your wife’s reputation.”

“Do you know what filth your son is spreading about my poor Lucretia? Her reputation! Hah.” Collatinus spat on the pavement in disgust.

“I’ll talk to him. Look, you don’t want to deal with Junior, fine. Lars will make the evidence vanish if I lean on him, so you’ve no advantage talking. Keep your mouth shut. I’ll get you a promotion to captain and a new assignment somewhere nice. Maybe even a medal of some sort. Will that do?”

“It certainly will.” Brutus and Tutuola stepped from the shrubbery. “Lucius Tarquin, you’re under arrest for conspiracy, accomplice after the fact, and tampering with an official investigation.”

“You’ll never get away with this!” the Senator hissed. Collatinus opened his shirt to reveal a wire.

“Your son is a rapist and you covered for him.” Tutuola grimaced as he handcuffed the man. “Senator, you disgust me.”

“We arrested your son an hour ago,” Brutus told him. “The reign of the Tarquins in this City is over.”

********************************

Lucius Tarquin, Jr. was convicted and sentenced to twenty years in prison for rape in the first degree.

Lucius Tarquin, Sr. was convicted of conspiracy in the third degree and obstructing governmental administration in the second degree and was sentenced to five to eight years.

Lars Porsenna resigned from office rather than face charges of official misconduct.

Lucius J. Brutus is currently running for mayor as the Reform candidate.

A Lordly Investigation
By Decius Aemilius © November 2003

The night was quiet. The wind rustled the leaves, and clouded skies indicated rain to come. The wash of the tide joined the creak of boats in the distance.

A shot rang out. A moment later, a second shot.

The seeming peace of the dark resumed until the rain began to fall.



It was muddy. Heavily muddy, in fact, and there was a large puddle. He paused in the carriage door and sighed.

"Here, milord, let me hel--"

"Blast you, no!" He waved off the footman and stepped down heavily. As he expected, the mud splashed across his boots, trousers, and cloak. He stumbled, and his stick sank deeply as he strove for balance. He found it.

"Sorry, milord," a sheepish servant said. "Next time we'll pull up at a drier spot." He gestured at the servant with his stick, and then gave his left thigh a rub.

"Just- oh, Hell, Hawkins, you- just don't- ah, forget it." Torn between irritation at the mud and a stubborn refusal to be pampered to, he gave up and turned away. He limped to the cottage door, where the Vicar was standing. Blocking the entrance, actually.

"Good morning, my lord," the Vicar greeted him. "Although I fear it is rather inappropriate under the circumstances. It's pretty bad in there." He nodded to the Vicar.

"Good day, Reverend. Are you keeping people out?"

"Since I arrived. Not you, of course, but it seemed so ghastly, I chased out the gawkers." The cleric nodded at the crowd gathered nearby. The nobleman turned to them, his face red.

"Don't any of you have homes to go to?" he shouted. "Bugger off!" Stepping into the cottage, he grimaced. The cottage was larger than most fishermen's, with two rooms on the ground floor and an upstairs. It was still distinctly lower class.

The place was also a mess. The lord stood in the kitchen, and observed the open drawers. Even the table had been turned over. Ignoring the stairs for the moment he turned to enter the second ground floor room, which had clearly been a later addition. Starting to take a step he paused as a rectangle on the floor caught his eye. He knelt, picked it up, and turned it over. It was a watercolor picture that had apparently been tossed aside.

"She painted."

"Hmm?" The lord found the Vicar also kneeling to examine the painting. It was an amateur watercolor of a fishing boat tied to a pier.

"Mrs. Saylor," the Vicar softly clarified as he rubbed his beard. "She was often about, painting this or that." Both men stood, the lord leaning a bit on his stick, and the Vicar took the picture and carefully placed it back on the wall.

"Where is her body?"

"Upstairs. Both-- bodies --" the Vicar choked a bit on the word, "are still upstairs. Her sister found them, and came out shrieking." He shook his head slowly.

"And then?"

"Her husband got me, we sat her down, went upstairs. They're both still in the next room. I would have removed the Saylors, but the sister is still on the verge of hysteria."

"Well, I will need to question them anyway." With that he stepped into the other room. It was furnished as a sitting room. Like the kitchen, it appeared to have been ransacked. Sitting on a couch was a short brunette in a light yellow dress. She was shaking and being comforted inadequately by the balding man sitting beside her. The lord paused. Acting as a nomenclator, the Vicar told him the names.

"Henry and Clara Davis, my lord." The nobleman nodded in receipt of the information. Hearing their names, the couple looked up and their eyes widened with surprise.

"My condolences on your loss. Now tell me what you know." Quickly deciding their condition of shock might make them more truthful than otherwise, he fired off the questions sharply. "Who found the bodies?"

"I-- I did, my lord," Clara Davis coughed out. "I was worried about her when she didn't come back, so I came to check and -- found them." She began to sob. "I never thought he'd--"

"That he'd what?" She continued to cry, but Henry Davis squeezed her arm and looked at the lord.

"My sister-in-law had a happy marriage, my lord." The lord raised an eyebrow at this.

"Did they argue?"

"It was a happy marriage." The lord found that an odd reply.

"Answer my question, please."

"Every married couple argues, my lord. If you were married yourself you would know this. It means nothing." The lord responded to this with a "hmm."

"I see," he said at last. It was a usefully vague statement. He turned his attention back to the Vicar. "I wish to see upstairs now." The Vicar was visibly startled.

"Well, it is not my home, my lord," he began with a quick glace at the seated couple. "You certainly don't need my permission."

"I want you to come upstairs with me."

"My lord? I would rather stay here and minister to the bereaved."

“Come, Reverend.” The lord headed up the stairs, with the Vicar trailing uncertainly in his wake.

It was still a horrible sight, thought the Right Reverend Randolph Secole, Vicar of Bosham, as he surveyed the scene for the second time that day. John Saylor lay sprawled on the floor, face up and arms out. Mary Saylor was stretched out on the bed. Each had been shot once.

“My lord, please, why do you want me here?” he asked. Lord Montverre lowered himself onto one knee and spoke without ceasing his examination.

“I need you, because you were up here before, because you know those involved, and because you have not lied to me.”

“Lied to you, my lord?”

“Yes. Reverend, why don’t you call me Charles? I know it’s not quite protocol, but it would be nice to have someone address me as something other than ‘my lord’.”

“I cannot call you Charles, my lord.”

“Call me Montverre then.”

“Well, if you insist, my lord-- Montverre. But who has lied to you?”

“Henry Davis for one. I only wish I knew why. This scene, for another.” He looked up and pointed at the Vicar accusingly. “How many people were up here? And did they move anything?” The Vicar thought for a moment.

“Perhaps five or six, just gawking. I don’t think they moved anything.”

“If they did not, then something is off here.” He tried to rise. “Ehm. Could you lend me a hand? My leg, you see.”

“Oh! Of course.” Secole helped Montverre stand up.

“Tell me, Reverend. What do you think happened here?”

“It looks like a burglary. Perhaps some thief surprised the Saylors?”

“No. They were upstairs. A thief could easily have fled. And why would a thief carry a brace of pistols?”

“Well, lawless men, you know.”

“Really, now, Reverend. Why would thieves use pistols when a knife would do? Pistols are noisy, inaccurate, and slow.”

“Highwaymen?”

“Around Bosham?” Lord Montverre responded with a bit of pride. “I think not! Besides, it doesn’t answer the question of why.” While he was speaking he had bent, raised up John Saylor’s hand, and released it. “No, highwaymen did not do this. You might as well accuse French spies. Try again.”

“Really, Montverre, I think you’re being deliberately cryptic.”

“I was thinking of smugglers,” Montverre said, turning a piercing gaze upon the cleric, who coughed.

“Smuggling. Why would smugglers do this?”

“That was precisely what I was hoping you could tell me, Secole,” the lord said, his eyes cold and unblinking. Trapped in the sight, the Reverend Secole coughed and began to sweat as he wondered what Montverre knew.

“Ah, I don’t quite see what you are getting at, my lord.”

“Come, Reverend, I told you that you had yet to lie to me,” he sighed. “I advise you not to start now. I did want your-- how shall I put it? --advice, on this issue. My dear Secole, I really don’t care what you keep in the church basement. Just assist me, hmm?” The Vicar gave in.

“What do you want to know?” Montverre pointed his stick to John Saylor. The Vicar grimaced and turned away from the bodies. “John was a smuggler. He brought in alcohol from the Continent. Half the fishermen in this village probably do the same.” Montverre moved across the room while the Vicar spoke and began to look through the pulled-out drawers.

“How well did you know them?” he asked.

“The Saylors? Moderately well, I suppose. They went to church regularly. I’ve dined with them once or twice. Any business transactions I had with John Saylor weren’t exactly the sort to promote a close personal friendship, you realize.” Secole, who had been staring at another watercolor seascape, reached out and straightened it. A dragging noise brought him around to see Montverre trying to pull a wooden chest out from under the bed. The lord looked embarrassed.

“I say, Secole, would you mind lending me a hand?”

“Of course.” Together the two men loudly pulled out a small but heavy wooden chest. It was stoutly locked. As both men paused for breath footsteps sounded on the staircase.

“What the bloody Hell are you doing up here?” An angry Henry Davis stormed into the room. “You’d better have a damn good reason for scaring my wife with that racket.”

“We are investigating, Mr. Davis,” Montverre replied calmly as he contemplated the chest. “This chest is locked. Do you know where the key is?” Davis remained excited and red-faced with rage.

“Here now! That chest belongs to my brother-in-law!”

Montverre sighed.

“Indeed it does, Mr. Davis,” the lord replied composedly. “We are attempting to discover who killed him. Do you know where the key is that unlocks this chest?”

“Eh? No! Anyway, you can’t do that!” At this outburst the Vicar stepped in.

“Now, now, Henry. Lord Montverre’s just trying to do his job and find a murderer. There’s no need to shout.” Reverend Secole patted Davis on the arm. Davis took a few deep breaths and became merely hostile instead of enraged. Secole continued. “The key, Henry. Do you know where it is?” Davis shook his head.

“No Reverend. I knew it was there, but J-John never told me what was in it.” Now it was Davis’ turn to look away. Montverre studied the room while the Reverend lead Henry Davis back downstairs.

“Secole,” he said when the Reverend returned at last. “Would you please see if the deceased has the key about his person?”

“I say, Montverre, is it really necessary? I’m not really comfortable with the notion.” Charles Montverre slowly nodded his head.

“I am afraid it is. I think we need to know what is in this chest, and it is quite solid oak. It would take quite awhile to hack it open. And would ruin a good oak chest.” He added apologetically “I would do it myself, but with my leg I am afraid I would never get up.” Secole nodded, knelt and checked the pockets of the late John Saylor. Something jingled. The Vicar pulled out a ring with several keys and held it aloft. Montverre wordlessly pointed to the chest with his stick, and Secole moved to it. Several keys were tried before there was a click.

“Well, Montverre said as both men looked into the oak chest, “his take, no doubt. We now know one thing for certain. Whatever the motive was here, it was certainly not a robbery.” Secole nodded. The chest was filled with gold sovereigns.

“Bring my carriage around, Hawkins,” Montverre ordered as he exited the cottage.

“I hope you saw something I did not, Montverre,” Secole said to him as the Reverend too stepped outside and shut the door behind him. “I don’t mind telling you that I have no idea who could have done such a thing.”

“Nil desperandum, Reverend. We have learned much here. But now we must look elsewhere. Did you hand the chest key over to Davis?”

“Yes, I did. Where do we go from here, then?” the Vicar asked. Neither noticed the assumption of partnership.

“For today,” Lord Montverre replied, “We go home. I must think on what I have learned. And,” he added a bit chagrined, “my leg is paining me, and I must go lie down. Tomorrow we talk to the fishermen. I will send my carriage around for you in the morning.” The carriage appeared and came to a clattering halt. “Can I drop you off?”

“No thank you, my lord. I’ll walk to the church. It’s not far.”

“Very well, then, Secole. In the morning, then.” The two men exchanged handclasps and parted ways.

The next day the Reverend Secole found himself slowly walking down the docks of Bosham beside Lord Montverre.

“How’s the leg?” he asked politely.

“A bit better, thank you,” Montverre replied gruffly. “Sorry,” he apologized. “The servants have been getting on my nerves, constantly suggesting I rest. Still, that is no cause to be rude.”

“So, have you come to any conclusions?”

“No. Actually--” The lord bit off a curse. “Something is gnawing at me. If only I could think of what it was!”

“Well, I’m sure it will come to you. Was there anything you particularly wanted to see down here, or was it merely a place for a walk? The aroma of fish is particularly pungent today.” Secole wrinkled his nose in disgust.

“Actually, I wanted to see John Saylor’s boat.” Montverre looked about. “And I was hoping you might know where it is.”

“Hmm. It should be-- hmm.” The Vicar started to point, paused, turned around, and pointed. “There she is, behind us. The White Wave, John Saylor captain and sole proprietor. Normally she’s tied up at the other end but she’s out of position today. I guess Henry Davis is having her surveyed--”

“Wait. Say that again, please.”

“What? I was just saying that Henry Davis must be having the White Wave surveyed as part of the estate--”

“Before that,” Montverre snapped.

“Oh, well, she’s out of position. She usually ties up on the other side of the harbor,” Secole said, greatly puzzled.

“That is it!” Montverre exclaimed excitedly. “Position. That’s what was bothering me. The Saylor’s bodies were positioned after death.”

“How do you know that?” asked the Vicar.

“Why did I not realize it before? The bloodstains did not fit.” Montverre muttered curses to himself. The Reverend asked for clarification. “Blood, like any other fluid, flows downhill. But the stain on John Saylor indicates he was standing, or more probably sitting up, for a short while after he was shot. Yet we found him in the middle of the floor. And Mary Saylor was lying down after being shot, but the blanket she was lying across was not stained at all. This is very odd.”

“Good lord, Montverre. What does it mean?”

“I do not know, Secole. Someone arranged the bodies, but the motivation eludes me.” The lord tapped his walking stick thoughtfully. “I definitely want to see the boat.” Reverend Secole shrugged, and waived him on.

The fishing boat creaked at her mooring as the tide ebbed. The boat was deserted and, as expected, reeked of fish.

“It is smaller than I expected. You can really take something that small out onto the ocean?”

“Yes, Montverre. She is seaworthy.” Secole emphasized the feminine pronoun. “Ships and boats are referred to as female. A boat like this isn’t going to go out in a real storm, but for ordinary use she can certainly sail the ocean. In fact,” the Vicar added humorously, “you could probably take a rowboat across to America.”

“Really? How fascinating,” Montverre said, as he wrinkled his brow. “Should not there be an anchor watch or something?” The Reverend chucked.

“Only a large ship with items of value needs or can afford that.”

“Damn it. Sorry, Reverend. I admit I had been hoping to talk to the crew.”

“Was that it? We could summon them, you know.”

“I had rather wanted to catch one of the crew alone and off guard. Well, as long as we are here, why don't you tell me where the smuggled goods are kept.”

“Lord Montverre! I have no idea.”

“Really?”

“Really. I can tell you that if they brought anything in on their last voyage it was never delivered to me.” Montverre tapped his walking stick with annoyance.

“Could you uncover where they would keep it?” he asked.

“Maybe,” Secole admitted. “I’m not the customs man, but I’ve seen a few ways to hide goods.” Secole stepped onboard the fishing boat and helped Montverre stumble onboard as well. The boat bobbed slightly, causing the lord to go a bit green.

“Boats.” In the mount of Charles Montverre the word became a curse. Reverend Secole looked from the suddenly ill nobleman to the placid harbor and back.

“Ah, what did you have in mind if we found anything?”

“I am not sure,” Montverre admitted. “I guess I was curious, mostly, as to what it would look like.”

“Perhaps we should go back on shore and look for the crew?” Secole offered, both amused and concerned at how even the mildest movement of the boat affected the lord.

“No.” Montverre’s flat reply was a clear command, and the Reverend obeyed.

“I should say we ought to start in the hold. No customs man is going to root under a pile of dead fish,” he suggested. Montverre concurred. Although Secole suggested Montverre remain on deck to ‘supervise,’ the nobleman would have none of it and insisted on going below. Shortly thereafter both men within the moist and foul smelling hold, knocking on the hull. Their efforts were rewarded with a hollow echo that proved to be a shallow compartment running along part of the keel.

“Barrels, Secole?” the surprised Montverre asked.

“Yes, indeed.” Secole knelt to examine one while Montverre peered over his shoulder.

“I wonder what they contain?” Even as the lord spoke his question Reverend Secole was running his little finger along the join of the staves. He tasted the collected condensate.

“Rum,” he declared. “Caribbean rum.” Montverre raised his eyebrows.

“Did you know beforehand?” Secole rose but looked away, chagrined.

“I had a good idea,” he confessed, “but I wasn’t certain.”

“Hmph.” Montverre cleared his throat to fill the resulting awkward pause. “I wonder why the rum is still here?”

A third voice behind them unexpectedly provided an answer. This was followed by an ominous double-click.

“We didn’t know who the Captain’s contact was.”

Both Montverre and Secole whirled about. Standing by the hatchway to the deck was a burly, weather-beaten, bald man in the rough clothing of a sailor. There was a double-barreled flintlock pistol in his right hand. The click was the pistol being cocked.

“Hands out. Who are you, and what are you here for?”

“I strongly advise you to put down that pistol.” Montverre’s calm voice and demeanor contrasted sharply with the nervously sweating Reverend. “I am Lord Charles Montverre, son of the twenty-third Baron Montverre, and I am investigating the murders of John and Mary Saylor. This is the Right Reverend Secole, who is assisting me. John Saylor was your captain. I need answers you can provide.”

The sailor hesitantly elevated the pistol and uncocked it.

“Arright, yer lordship. You looking for other matters that might bother a court?” All the men noted that the pistol was still at hand.

“I am investigating a murder,” Montverre said, still calm. “I am not concerned with customs violations. You have my word.” The sailor mulled this over. The pistol vanished into his clothing.

“Yer word. Arright. M’name’s George. What do you want to know?” Montverre took a couple of steps forward.

“Why did you come down here just now?” he asked.

“Saw you snooping about. Wanted to run you off,” George replied.

“That pistol standard equipment for fishermen?”

“Sometimes,” George said a bit cagily. “Depends on the fish, you might say.”

“Your captain. Was he much of a womanizer?”

“Well, if the winds forced us to land in France, as may be, if you take my meaning, the captain’d be friendly with the locals.”

“But at home?” Montverre probed.

“He was devoted to his wife when we was in port.” George leaned back against the side of the hull and Montverre and Secole moved closer to the fresher air coming though the hatch. As Montverre moved, he contemplated the sailor’s last reply.

“He was devoted to his wife? Did she return his devotion?”

“Can’t rightly say,” George said blandly.

“Can’t or won’t, George?” Montverre bore in. “You stand here before your lord’s designated representative and a man of God. You stand, therefore, before representatives of the lords secular and spiritual. I gave you my word before, George, and I will give it to you again. What I ask is necessary to discover the man who killed your captain. Exchange your word for mine. Tell me, truly, about the relationship between John and Mary Saylor.”

The fisherman seemed moved by this. He looked straight at Montverre.

“Arright, my lord. The capt’n, he was devoted to his wife, like I said. She wasn’t so devoted. As a matter o’ fact, she didn’t like being left alone. Gossip was she’d taken up with someone else while we were away last trip.” George took out a tobacco pouch and bit off a chew.

“Thank you, George. I have just one last question. Do you know a name?”

“Sorry, my lord. I don’t. And the other folks who would, won’t tell you. That’s just the way it is.”

“I see,” Montverre said a bit softly, and he did. “Well, we had best be on our way. This hold is rather foul smelling.” Revered Secole nodded agreement and both started to climb back on deck.

“Is it? I don’t notice anymore,” George the sailor said. “I’ve answered your questions. Let me ask one of my own.” The lord and the Vicar paused. George looked at the Vicar hesitantly. “Reverend, do I understand you were the captain’s contact?”

“Ah, well, yes.”

“Er--”

“Um--”

Both men glanced at Lord Montverre, then back at each other, then back at the nobleman. Montverre looked off into the distance with lordly disregard and a small smile as both men managed to signal through grimaces, nods, and gestures that they really needed to talk to each other later. Montverre studiously failed to observe them for a minute before loudly thumping his stick.

“Time to go, Secole,” he said.

Some short time later both men were making a slow circuit along the waterfront.

“So,” Reverend Secole said at last, “where are we in this investigation?”

“Dead in the water, I am very much afraid,” Montverre replied, apparently resigned. “We have gone about as far as we can. Without that name, we have nowhere to go.”

“That name may turn up eventually,” the Vicar told him consolingly. The lord looked out over the waterfront.

“Perhaps, in time, yes,” he said. “But in the meantime a murder goes free. Out there,” he continued, sweeping his hand across the port, “out there, we have over a dozen suspects and no more leads. It is quite depressing,” he concluded.

“There, there,” Secole patted his arm. “God will see justice done on Judgment Day, if need be.” As the Vicar continued to murmur consoling remarks Montverre noticed a fishing boat tying up and paused, struck by an odd sense of deja vu. Secole noticed his comrade had paused. “Montverre? My lord? Are you all right?” he asked with concern as the nobleman took two steps to the right, then one back, and sighed.

“I am quite well, Secole, old boy. I have just solved the case.”

“What? How? Who did it?” The Reverend asked with great surprise. Montverre’s reply was as cryptic as his _expression.

“The captain of that boat.” He pointed it out.

“But how do you know?”

“If you should be so good as to summon my manservant, I will show you.”

The boat was just beginning to be unloaded as the investigators arrived.

“Montverre, this is Howard Carter’s boat,” Secole said, surprised.

“Another associate of yours, I take it. As I thought.”

“Ah, yes, but I would never have thought him capable of such a thing,” the Vicar replied ruefully.

“Ahoy the boat!” Montverre shouted. “Where is the captain?” Howard Carter emerged.

“What do you want?” he asked suspiciously. “I got a ton of fish to unload here.” The noble nodded.

“Howard Carter,” the lord said formally. “You murdered John and Mary Saylor. Why?”

“What?” Carter’s exclaimed question was simultaneously shared by Reverend Secole and those of the crew in earshot. “How dare you accuse me of such a thing!” Carter went on angrily, but Montverre merely raised a hand in a pause gesture before turning to Secole.

“Reverend, you told me Mary Saylor painted as a hobby when we first met. This stuck in my mind along with the painting I was holding at the time. That painting was of a docked fishing boat; her husband’s, I had assumed at the time. Yet when I saw Saylor’s boat it did not match. This one, however,” and here Montverre indicated the boat before them, “is a perfect match. The painting of it had been torn from the wall. Once I discovered she was having an affair with one of her husband’s competitors, the correlation became clear. All I want to know,” Montverre turned back to Carter. “Is your motive.”

Howard Carter did not move at all for a moment save for his eyes, which glanced from man to man. Then he leaned forward and whispered in the nobleman’s ear. “She used me. Used me for fun, and revenge on her husband, then cast me aside, the hussy.”
Stepping back he spoke at a normal tone. “You can’t prove anything based on that, and I have a dozen men who will swear to my innocence.” He smirked. Montverre merely nodded his head once.

“No doubt you counted on the loyalty of your crew and your general reputation,” Montverre said. Carter did not reply, but his eyes glinted agreement. “But there is one thing you have forgotten.”

“And what might that be?” Howard Carter replied with tolerant humor.

“You have forgotten that the magistrate who will preside over your trial is Baron William Montverre. My father. When I speak to him of this, he will make sure you are hung out to dry.” Now Carter was beginning to realize dismay as Lord Montverre turned triumphantly to Reverend Secole. “You may ask if this is just. Justice is for the Lord Almighty. But is this man’s fate fairly earned? I say it is.” Montverre’s expression was now icily pleased.

“Take this murderer away, Hawkins.”

---The End---

By Decius Aemilius © November 2003
All Rights Reserved