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  The show started promptly at eight with the ringing of a hand bell. The snug parlor somehow accommodated chairs for forty people. Henley realized that he was attending not a play but a reenactment of a reading by Dickens. Ravi Vikram, in a brown nineteenth-century pinstriped suit, squared goatee, and a curly pompadour wig, stood at a lectern and spoke of "his" early life of poverty, of the effect of having to work in a factory, of how those early memories crept into his fiction. Then he read passages from Oliver Twist and Nicholas Nickleby.

  "I also had a lifelong interest in crime," said Vikram in character as Dickens. "After the interval, I'll read to you some of my most gruesome descriptions of violence, including the murder of Nancy by Bill Sykes. Let me warn you now: Sometimes members of the audience faint."

  He winked at Henley, who sat in the front row, then he exited through the crowd before the audience had come to its feet. Henley was the last member of the audience to file out. When he reached the door, Manette Marley stopped him.

  "Ravi left a note for you," she said, and she handed him a small piece of paper. Meet me upstairs at the interval, it said, and it was signed with an initial, R.

  Henley was flattered by the invitation. He must have made quite an impression during their brief introduction this morning. Most actors had business to tend to at intermission—costume changes, touching up makeup, looking after props, and, most important, staying in character. While the rest of the audience milled about in the ground-floor dining room, Henley peeked into the office to make sure that Vikram wasn't waiting there. The only inhabitant was Thatcher Finn, who talked on a cell phone, so Henley proceeded to the upper floors.

  In the smaller upstairs bedroom, where young Mary Hogarth had died, he found Ravi Vikram. The actor, still in makeup and costume, lay on his back with his head propped against the wall. His eyes were open but stared at nothing. The velvet rope from the neighboring dressing room was wrapped tightly around his throat. One end of Vikram's necktie was knotted to his left wrist, while the other end twisted around the handle of a black briefcase—Driscoll Henley's briefcase, to be exact.

  Henley rushed to the body and loosened the rope around Vikram's neck. This attack could not have happened more than a moment before Henley's arrival, and he hoped that CPR might yet revive the man. As he unwound the last of the rope, he heard footsteps on the stairs.

  "Mr. Henley?" It was the horrified voice of Manette Marley. She was with Thatcher Finn, who was already dialing 999 on his cell phone.

  In what seemed like no time at all, a dozen police officers converged on the house, cordoned it off, forbade anyone to leave the premises, and arrested Driscoll Henley.

  "Give me five minutes," Henley begged. But what could he prove in five minutes?

  "You acknowledge that this is your briefcase," said the inspector.

  "Yes," said Henley. "I left it this afternoon at the request of Mr. Finn. I was going to take it with me after the show."

  "What's inside?"

  "Only an apple," said Henley. "See for yourself."

  But when the inspector opened the briefcase, out spilled three periodicals from 1863, a first-edition autographed copy of David Copperfield, and the missing letter from Charles Dickens to Ellen Ternan. Henley was dumbfounded.

  "The book and magazines came from this very display case," said Thatcher Finn, indicating the glass enclosure along the far wall.

  "Do you have CCTV cameras?" asked the inspector.

  Finn shook his head. "My first priority. But there's no camera system at present."

  Henley felt sick. "I did not take those items," he said.

  "You were present when that letter disappeared today," said Manette Marley.

  "You saw the contents of the case," said Henley. "Except for the apple, it was empty." He looked at Thatcher Finn. "You told me this briefcase was missing. But you had it all along, and you packed it with these stolen materials."

  "I'd never do that," said Finn. "I'm here to protect the collection, not to pillage it."

  "Didn't your predecessor lose his job because bits of the collection were disappearing?" asked Henley. "He can't be blamed for this latest episode, can he?"

  Thatcher Finn reddened.

  Encouraged, Henley continued. "You could have stashed these items in my case after you killed Ravi Vikram. As a diversion."

  Finn shook his head. "When would I have had time to do all that? You saw me on the telephone in my office at the interval. Ravi was only a few moments ahead of you."

  The police inspector interrupted. "There's what remains of your apple." He pointed to the apple core under a window. "Didn't want to stain the valuables, did you?"

  Henley stared at the apple core and at the evidence in front of him. He considered asking the police to check his briefcase for fingerprints, but anyone wishing to conceal fingerprints would have easy access to the scholars' gloves provided by the museum itself.

  For a moment he wondered whether the dead man himself might have been stealing the documents, but he immediately dismissed that idea. Anyone who caught Vikram in the act of thievery would have raised the alarm, not killed him. And why put these artifacts into Henley's briefcase? Were they planning for Henley to serve as an unsuspecting mule, for him to carry the contraband off the premises and then, what? A street crime, a quick grab-and-snatch? Henley would report being mugged, and the thieves would escape with priceless Dickens materials. It would work, he supposed, but it seemed awfully complicated as a way of stealing from the collection.

  He recalled the scene in the reading room that afternoon. "The man who collapsed this afternoon. He was evidently faint from not eating breakfast. He could have eaten my apple. Did anyone notice whether he left the performance before intermission?"

  "I sat at the door," said Manette. "No one left."

  "If you were at the door, then you could have slipped out yourself," said Henley.

  "To do what?" asked Manette. "Ravi was alive at the end of the first act. And everyone in the audience exited the room before I did. You were the last to leave, and that's when I gave you the note."

  Yes, the note. Exactly why would Vikram invite Driscoll Henley, a virtual stranger, to meet him upstairs between acts?

  "He wrote a note to me but asked you to deliver it? That's awfully cumbersome. Why put the invitation in writing? He could have spoken to me directly as he walked past."

  She shrugged. "Perhaps he didn't want to break character."

  Henley thought about that. There was one logical conclusion.

  "Tick tock, Mr. Henley," said the inspector.

  He took a chance. "The note wasn't for me, was it, Manette?" When she didn't answer, he knew that he'd guessed right. "It was you that he wanted to meet upstairs, not me. You must have known what was going to happen to him, and you wanted me to find the body."

  Now all stared at him—and at her. Two fat tears slid down her cheeks. "It's not like that," she said. "I'm sorry. Ravi wrote that note to me six weeks ago. Tonight I used it to send Mr. Henley to find him." She looked at the policemen. "I didn't know Ravi was going to be assaulted. I just wanted to embarrass him. He had to stop."

  "Stop what?" asked Henley.

  She gestured at the display cases in the room. "Ravi would open the exhibits. Handle the books, touch the miniatures. He said it helped him stay in character. But of course it was entirely inappropriate."

  "You had the keys to the display cabinets," Henley prompted her. "And you'd open them up for him."

  She nodded. "But after today, I couldn't. Not after Mr. Jarvis was sacked and we had a letter missing."

  Henley nodded. "In the process of opening up the display cases to connect directly with Dickens, Vikram must have discovered that some original items had been replaced with replicas. Tonight he came face-to-face with the thief, who killed him and tied my briefcase to his hands after stashing these stolen items inside. It was a literal means of tying me to the murder."

  "But how could the thief get into these locked
exhibits?" asked Manette. "Ravi had no keys."

  "And there's no broken glass," said Finn. The room fell silent. Finn stared at Manette. "You and I are the only ones with keys to these cases."

  Manette stared back. "What did you do with the keys turned in this morning by Jarvis Dedlock? Someone could have used those."

  Finn pulled two sets of keys from his pocket. "I've carried both Jarvis's and my own all day."

  A long silence, and then Manette spoke. "I know I didn't kill him, Thatch."

  "I know I didn't," said Finn.

  "Neither one of you killed him," said Henley. He recalled the scene from this afternoon. The young woman—the wife of the professor downstairs—had known the boorish young man sitting next to her. Surely they had collaborated on an elaborate scheme to steal from the collection. In the confusion after the young man pretended to faint, somebody could snatch the Dickens letter and stash it in the reading room, perhaps inside the card catalogue. In case of a search, the thief would not be holding incriminating evidence and could return to fetch the letter later. The young man had spent the entire evening downstairs. But couldn't the young woman be here too, somewhere out of sight? Her husband had loudly proclaimed that she wasn't attending the performance. That could have been a classic act of misdirection. Could the woman have been hiding in the house all day, waiting for an opportunity to retrieve her stolen goods? Was that possible? For a visitor to lurk unbeknownst to the staff for so many hours after closing time?

  Only a couple of minutes had passed between Ravi Vikram's exit at the end of Act One and Henley's discovery of the body. No one could have killed the man and then had time to slip down the stairs undetected. There was no fire escape or elevator or laundry chute. Whoever had killed Ravi Vikram must still be on this floor of the house.

  "What's that?" asked Henley, pointing to a door in the corner.

  "A cupboard," said Thatcher Finn.

  What Americans call a closet. "It's locked, I suppose."

  A policeman tried it. The door was unlocked, but the closet was empty.

  "That's odd," said Thatcher Finn. "That door is supposed to be locked always."

  "That's where the killer was hiding until Ravi Vikram arrived."

  "But where is this mysterious figure now, Mr. Henley?" asked the inspector. "There are no more cupboards to check. Who is this person, and where?"

  The answer came too easily. "The killer is in the room next-door."

  "The other bedroom is empty."

  "Not the other bedroom. The dressing room. Look under the tablecloth of the special exhibit. It's long enough to conceal someone."

  Two policemen left the room. He heard them enter the dressing room, then the sounds of a brief scuffle. In a moment they reentered the room escorting a handcuffed, writhing prisoner. It was a man Henley had never seen before, a diminutive bald man in a dress shirt, suit trousers, and sneakers.

  "Jarvis Dedlock," said Thatcher Finn, shocked.

  The former director of the museum.

  "They said I'd just missed you this morning," said Henley. "But you never left the house, did you? Mrs. Pierce looked the other way when you slipped upstairs. You convinced her that you were innocent and were springing a trap for the real thief."

  "But he turned in his keys," said Finn.

  "Duplicates," said Henley. He turned to Jarvis Dedlock. "When did you steal the letter?"

  Dedlock didn't even bother to ask who Henley was. He must have overheard the entire conversation from his hiding place next-door. After a moment, he shrugged. "Two days ago. As soon as the authenticators from the British Library left the building."

  "And where did you hide it?"

  Dedlock snorted. "I didn't hide it. I took it home with me." He paused, as if waiting to see if Henley would work it all out.

  "You took a priceless letter home," said Henley, "but you brought it back with you this morning when you came to turn in your keys. Why would you do that?"

  Dedlock said nothing.

  Henley worked it out as he talked. "You hid all day in this cupboard with perhaps the most valuable letter in the collection. Why? You weren't trying to return it to the archive. You could have done that at five o'clock when the place closed and you had the premises to yourself."

  Now everyone was listening to him.

  "You slipped out, found my briefcase downstairs, and loaded it with Dickens memorabilia. But if you'd simply been planning to steal, you could have left immediately while the museum was still deserted. Instead, you went back to your hiding place and waited for everyone to return for the performance tonight."

  Dedlock appeared to gain some respect for Henley. "You're clever for a Yank. Cleverer than most." He glared with loathing at Thatcher Finn.

  Then Henley caught on. "You came for revenge. You must have really hated Ravi Vikram. To wait here for him to arrive at intermission."

  "He got me sacked," said Dedlock. "Complained to the board that materials were missing. All the evidence against me was circumstantial, but they held me accountable."

  Henley nodded. His eye caught on the apple core still in the corner of the room. "You were so tidy. Why eat the apple and toss the remains onto the floor?"

  "I thought it was Finn's apple," said Dedlock. "I thought I was taking his briefcase from his desk."

  Henley understood it all. "You thought you were framing Thatcher Finn, not me. In one move you'd get rid of your accuser and your replacement. Did you expect to get your job back?"

  Dedlock stared straight at him. "Not only would I get my position back, but the Governing Board would apologize for ever doubting me."

  When Henley eventually spoke to Suzanne McClain on the telephone, it was midnight in London, seven p.m. in the States. "I solved the mystery," he said.

  "Already?" She sounded genuinely impressed. "So tell me. Why did Dickens write novels instead of plays?"

  "Because he could be in complete control as a novelist," said Henley. "In plays actors could change lines or ad-lib or otherwise tamper with his scripts. When he was the narrator of a story, he was in total command of each gesture, speech, thought. He got to play every part himself, always perfectly."

  She approved. "How did you conclude that so quickly?"

  He told her about his evening. "Jarvis Dedlock had scripted the plot right down to what the Governing Board would say when they reinstated him. But a couple of actors improvised and spoiled his production."

  She congratulated him. "What are you going to do in London for the next month?"

  He had thought about that too. "I might as well take care of the Shakespeare authorship question while I'm here," he said. "Stay tuned."

  Copyright © 2012 by W. Edward Blain

  * * *

  COVER THEM WITH FLOWERS

  by Marilyn Todd | 7563 words

  The central characters in this new story, Lysander, head of the Spartan secret police, and Iliona, high priestess of the Temple of Eurotas, also appear in three novels by Marilyn Todd set in the fifth century B.C.E. The most recent book, Still Waters (Severn House/April 2011) was praised by Publishers Weekly for its "solid puzzle and . . . intriguing lead character." Booklist applauded "Todd's knack for painting antiquity with a spectacularly suspenseful brush . . . "

  Below the majestic peaks of Mount Parnon, Night sloughed off her dark veil and handed the baton of responsibility to her close friend, the Dawn. Daughter of Chaos, mother of Pain, Strife, Death, and Deception, Night continued her journey. Gliding on silent, star-studded feet towards her mansion beyond the Ocean that encircled the world. Here she would sleep, until Twilight nudged her awake and her labours would begin all over again.

  At the foot of the temple steps, Iliona rinsed her fingers in the lustral basin, carved from the finest Parian marble, and lifted her face to the sun. In the branches of the plane trees, the bronze wind chimes tinkled in the breeze. White doves pecked at the crumbs of caraway bread that was baked daily especially for them. Whether the seeds were addictive, or t
he pigeons were simply content with their lot, the High Priestess had no idea. But the doves rarely strayed from the precinct, and it wasn't because their wings had been clipped.

  Another few minutes and the first of the workers would start to arrive. Scribes, libation pourers, musicians, and heralds. Basket bearers, janitors, and the choirs. Every day was the same. They would barely have time to change into their robes before the sacred grounds were swamped with merchants, wanting to know if today was the day they'd grow rich. Wives, desperate to know if last night's efforts had left them with child. The poor, fearful of what lay ahead. Cripples would flock to the shrine, seeking miracles. The sick would come seeking cures. Wisely or not, Iliona had taken it upon herself to interpret their dreams, sometimes the behaviour of birds, even the shapes of the clouds, to give them the peace that they needed.

  But for now—for these precious few minutes—that peace was hers, and she basked in its solitude. The soft bleating of goats floated down from the hills. Close at hand came the repetitive call of a hoopoe. Letting the sun warm her face, she breathed in the scent of a thousand wildflowers carried down from the mountains and over the wide, fertile meadows. Narcissus, crown daisies, crocus, and muscari . . . along with, unless she missed her guess, a faint hint of leather and wood smoke.

  "I'm beginning to think the rumours are true," she said without turning round. "That the Krypteia never sleeps."

  "You should know better than to listen to gossip," chided the leather and wood smoke through a mouth full of gravel. "I sleep." He paused. "Upside down in a cave, admittedly. Cocooned in my soft velvet wings."

  The hair at the back of her scalp prickled. If the chief of Sparta's secret police was making jokes, it must be serious.