The Book of Extraordinary Amateur Sleuth and Private Eye Stories Read online

  The book of Extraordinary Amateur Sleuth and Private Eye Stories

  Copyright © 2019 by Maxim Jakubowski

  Copyright © 2019 individual contributors stories

  Published by Mango Publishing Group, a division of Mango Media Inc.

  Cover & Layout: Elina Diaz

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  The Book of Extraordinary Amateur Sleuth and Private Eye Stories: The Best New Original Stores of the Genre

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication number: 2019944136

  ISBN: (print) 978-1-64250-078-3, (ebook) 978-1-64250-079-0

  BISAC category code FIC022100—FICTION / Mystery & Detective / Amateur Sleuth

  Printed in the United States of America

  The book of Extraordinary Amateur Sleuth and Private Eye Stories

  The Best New Original Stories of the Genre

  Edited by Maxim Jakubowski

  Mango Publishing

  Coral Gables

  Table of Contents

  Introduction

  Maxim Jakubowski

  The Asphodel Meadows

  Alison Joseph

  Darkness in the City of Light

  Rhys Hughes

  The Mystery of the Missing Vermeer

  Eric Brown

  The Chocolate Underpants Caper

  Mary Harris

  Look for the Silver Lining

  David Stuart Davies

  Dodie Golightly and the Ghost of Cock Lane

  Paul Magrs

  Sharon Leigh Takes Texas

  Sandra Murphy

  Resolution

  Keith Brooke

  Around the World in Five Serial Murders

  Yvonne Eve Walus

  A Little Tennessee Williams Drama

  O’Neil De Noux

  The Single-Handed Soldier

  Jane Finnis

  Intake

  Nick Mamatas

  Rosy Is Red

  Sally Spedding

  No Direction Home

  Nick Quantrill

  Our Evie

  Ricki Thomas

  Closure

  Russel D McLean

  A Wonderful Time

  Lavie Tidhar

  About the Editor

  About the Authors

  Introduction

  Maxim Jakubowski

  With all due respect to police officers and eminent official representatives of the law, it can easily be argued that the amateur sleuth, whether intentionally or not (or dutifully employed as a private investigator) has for almost two centuries now been at the fulcrum of mystery fiction.

  As far back as Edgar Allan Poe’s “Murders in the Rue Morgue,” which the dogged Chevalier Auguste Dupin solved, and the immortal exploits of Sherlock Holmes, the heroic detective with an eye for the truth and the intellectual patience to solve the most challenging of conundrums and baffling criminal cases has dominated the often-bloody pages.

  The list of classic amateur sleuths is endless, ranging from the cozy, but nonetheless impeccable, credentials of Agatha Christie’s set of Hercule Poirot, Miss Marple, and the lesser-renowned but seductive duo of Tommy and Tuppence, through to a whole cohort of Golden Age sleuths like Margery Allingham’s Albert Campion, Dorothy L. Sayers’ Lord Peter Wimsey, Ngaio Marsh’s Roderick Alleyn, S.S. Van Dine’s Philo Vance, Erle Stanley Gardner’s Perry Mason, and more realistic treks through the mean streets with Raymond Chandler’s Philip Marlowe and Dashiell Hammet’s Continental Op and Sam Spade.

  And, more recently, Lee Child’s Jack Reacher, Colin Dexter’s Inspector Morse, Jeffery Deaver’s Lincoln Rhyme, Sara Paretsky’s V.I. Warshawski, Sue Grafton’s Kinsey Milhone, and so many others have joined the ranks.

  The figure of the lone investigator as a servant of the truth is one that is inherent to crime and mystery fiction. Readers never tire of watching brain and brawn crack open the most difficult cases, brushing away red herrings with every new twist of the plot, seeking a resolution amongst the forest of confusion that crime elicits.

  Our second volume in Mango’s series of collections presenting the best in the field follows in the footsteps of the Book of Extraordinary Historical Mystery Stories and highlights some of the more original and brilliant amateur sleuths and private eyes conjured up by the fevered imagination of many of the genre’s leading US and British practitioners of the art of the criminous short story. Each protagonist is both unique and fascinating, some created for the occasion and others established characters that have appeared on a regular basis in the respective authors’ previous novels and stories, but each tale is brand new and specially crafted for this anthology.

  I hope they and their exploits have you scratching your head (or other parts of your anatomy…) and enjoying the way their gray cells are put to work as they resolve puzzles and uncover the truth behind our seventeen new sets of often fiendish mysteries.

  The Asphodel Meadows

  Alison Joseph

  The woman on the stairs had uneven pale hair and a glassy, bitter stare.

  “Maybe you’ll last longer than the previous tenant,” she said.

  Sister Agnes fixed her with a look. “Maybe I will,” she said.

  The woman tilted her head, gave her an empty smile, and went on her way, her limping tread echoing on the staircase.

  ***

  “What on earth did she mean?” Athena turned away from the window, silhouetted against the spring sunlight. “Really, sweetie, those nuns should have moved you into somewhere safer. An ex-council flat in a rough part of South London, with weird women hanging about on the stairway muttering curses—”

  “It was hardly a curse—”

  “Just because they claim they’re doing up your old place—”

  “The roof was leaking.”

  “These riverside views—they could at least have chosen the fashionable bit—”

  “And anyway, it was either that or moving into the community’s house in Hackney.”

  “Oh no. You? Living with a load of nuns? Out of the question.”

  Agnes laughed. “Athena, I am a nun.”

  “Yes, but you’re different. You have standards. Mind you, those old jeans have seen better days. And your hair, I mean it’s okay keeping it short, but, you know, with all that gray… All I’m saying is, a decent cut and color, you’d be back to normal in no time.”

  “I’m not sure my fellow sisters would see it that way.”

  “They just don’t have a best friend to tell them, that’s all.”

 
Athena went back to unpacking boxes. She wore a navy tailored skirt, a blue blouse. Her long black hair fell in measured waves.

  “Do you really read this stuff, kiddo?” Athena held a book out to her.

  “Some of it, yes. Some of it I just kind of absorb without taking it off the shelves.”

  “The last thing one finds in writing a book is knowing what to put first…” She peered at the spine. “And do we find out who dunnit?”

  Agnes smiled. The room was bare, with cream-painted walls. But the new paint couldn’t hide the 1970s functionality, the low-ceilinged meanness of the space.

  “And a new job too,” Athena said. “It’s like a midlife crisis that you haven’t even chosen. It’s not for me to criticize Father Julius, but for him to insist you go and work in that hospice up the road and then bugger off on retreat—”

  Agnes laughed. “The job is all good. And Julius needed a break.”

  “I mean, some of us could really do with sitting up a Welsh mountain with a load of shaven-headed Buddhists. Me, for example, it would barely touch the surface of my sinfulness. But him… I’d have thought he’d be holy enough.” She went back to the boxes. “Ooh—this is pretty. Where did you get this?” Athena held up a square of thick paper. “A drawing,” she said. The pencil lines showed three tall flowers, with thick stems and rows of tiny petals. “Asphodel, isn’t it? I remember it from Greece.”

  Agnes took the paper from her, held it in her hands. “That is so weird,” she said.

  “What?”

  “Heavens. I’d forgotten all about this.”

  “What’s weird?”

  “It’s just—the boy who drew this for me—years ago…in Provence…”

  “A boy?” Athena sat back on her shiny navy heels.

  “I was sixteen,” Agnes said. “Living with my parents…”

  “Before I knew you, even. Aeons ago.”

  “Olivier.” Agnes touched the creamy paper. “That was his name. I just heard from his cousin, like—yesterday…day before…I’d not even thought of him forever, and then I get this email from Jean-Yves…and now you’ve found this. Weird.” She looked up. “He was English. Oliver. Though all the locals called him Olivier. He was staying with his aunt. He was very shy. Lonely. Both of us. That’s what this is…” She gazed down at the paper in her hands. “The Asphodel Meadow, he called it. We used to take refuge there. And now—”

  “Oh sweetie. Look at you. Bad news.”

  “He died. Last month. His cousin tracked me down, thought I should know. They had the funeral back there, in Marseilles, where he lived. His aunt is still alive. Oh, God, I don’t know why I’m crying…”

  Athena laid a hand on Agnes’s. After a moment she said, “The Asphodel Meadows. In Greek mythology—it’s where ordinary people go, after death. The Elysian Fields, that’s for heroes. But for the likes of us…” She gave a brief smile. “Unless we’re headed for hell. Always a chance, I suppose, for you and me.”

  They listened to the silence, the soft rumble of the London traffic.

  “He was lovely,” Agnes said. “Kind of vulnerable. Sensitive. He didn’t seem to have parents. Never mentioned them. We used to talk about English novels. And heroism. And cheap wine. And smoking. He used to draw a lot. Characters from myths and legends. Odysseus, was it? Someone who visited the underworld.”

  “And flowers. For you.”

  Agnes dabbed the tears from her eyes. “He was found dead in his flat. Heart disease, apparently, though it would have been treatable if he’d bothered to look after himself.”

  Athena traced the lines of the drawing with a pink-painted nail. “You might have married him,” she said.

  “He asked me once, as a joke. Both of us being half-English, as he put it.”

  “You’d have swerved being a nun.”

  Agnes shook her head. “Whatever path I took to get here—this is where I’m meant to be.”

  ***

  There was no sign of the woman on the stairs. Out in the street, Athena gave Agnes a hug. “You look after yourself,” she said. “I’ll be back tomorrow. For more unpacking. And more tales of lost loves.”

  Agnes walked away from the river, toward the City. She glimpsed the church of St. Mary Magdalen, sat squarely between the soaring concrete and steel, as she approached the hospice. A chaplaincy job, arranged by her friend Father Julius, who’d persuaded her Order that she needed a change.

  “You’ll love it,” Julius had said. “Helping people from this world to the next—just your kind of thing.”

  “You make me sound like a serial killer,” she’d said.

  “No, no,” he’d replied. “We leave the heavy lifting to Him up there. All you have to do is lighten the load.”

  ***

  The hospice was a clean, sleek building in red brick and glass. The wide, low windows shimmered in the late afternoon sun.

  “The thing is, Sister…” Donald MacBride was sitting in his usual chair, watching the buses go by, the trees coming into leaf. “It’s a question of what happens next. All this…” He gestured to his chest. “This is going to be empty of me, I can understand that. But then, where will I be? What happens to the me of me?”

  Agnes smiled as she took a seat next to him.

  “You’ll tell me it goes on somewhere, won’t you? You being a nun and that.”

  “Well…”

  “Heaven, Hell, or that other one. The in-between one.”

  “Purgatory,” she said.

  Donald had a brightness about him that his illness had so far failed to diminish, and a feathering of silver hair. He wore a tweed jacket over his thin frame, sharp-creased trousers.

  “That’s the one,” he said. “Purgatory. Where we atone for our sins. I’ll be there a long time, I tell you.”

  “Not you,” she said.

  He looked up, and a shadow crossed his hazel eyes. “I’m seventy-two,” he said. “I feel I’ve lived a long time. Those flats,” he said. “Across the road there. I remember them being built. My father, he worked on the sites. Came over from Ireland, made a life for himself. Carpenter, he was, in the end. Like me.” He fell silent, his gaze fixed on his hands in his lap. “I’ve had a happy life.” He raised his eyes to her. “I have no complaints.”

  “So—”

  “Sister. I’m terrified. I’ve sinned, Sister. So many sins.”

  “Donald,” she began. “If our faith speaks of anything, it speaks of forgiveness.”

  He shook his head. “Where do I start? I stole from the shop there. Cigarettes. Me and my little brother, Jason, we used to sell them in the school yard. On the days we went to school, that is.”

  “That’s not a sin—”

  “I lied. To my sister. She was seeing a man, we were older by now, he was from the Island, down by the docks. Baz, they called him. Connie adored him. I never liked him. I told her he’d been speaking ill of her, told her he’d been calling her the names men call women when they feel they can’t own them… She believed me, called it off. She was heartbroken at the time.”

  “But were you right about him?”

  He gave a brief nod.

  “Then—that’s not a sin,” she said. “Or rather—it’s doing the wrong thing for the right reasons,” she added.

  “And I killed a man,” he said.

  Outside a siren passed, a loud pulse of blue light.

  “You…”

  “You heard me,” he said.

  Silence hung in the air.

  “What happened?”

  “You’ll call it doing the wrong thing for the right reasons,” he said, with an almost-smile. “I went armed. I knew what I was about. A kitchen knife. I cornered him, there was an alehouse where he always drank, down by the river there, it’s all done up now, full of City boys. I challenged him. We went outside. And…
I stabbed him.” He held his hand out, and Agnes saw the shake in his long carpenter’s fingers. “Even now, I feel it, the way the knife went into him, there, between his ribs. The smell of it. The slicing of it. It wakes me at night, even now.”

  “And he died?”

  He nodded. “He stumbled. Tried to walk away. But the river was just there, the tide high… He fell.” He clutched his hands together in his lap. “The band was playing that song. That one that goes, ‘At last I am free…’ I can’t listen to it now without the smell of blood.”

  Agnes sat silent.

  “He was found, three days later. Washed up. Downstream.” He looked up at her. “Your God ain’t going to allow me through the pearly gates. Not with that on my record.”

  “Did no one—?”

  “No one knew it was me.” He shook his head. “You’d call it getting away with it. It was dark, that night. I threw the knife into the river. It was never found. And in any case, Victor, he had so many enemies.” He shrugged. “The police did what they could. Time passed. He had a pauper’s burial.” He gave an empty smile. “Getting away with it,” he said.

  “Why did you kill him?”

  “I had to.” His gaze was steady. “My little brother. Jason. Good as gold, everyone adored him. And because of Victor, he died. We were all mates, to start with. We all worked together, on the sites. We did a big contract, Mermaid Court, up toward the City there. In the boom times. And out of that, Jason, he bought a garage, out by the Salter Road. Did very well. Limos and that. And Victor, he went into property. But then, Victor’s company, he bought up the site where Jason had his garage. And then Vic, he puts up the rent, drives Jase out of business.” He stopped, took a breath. “He lost everything, my brother. He was a proud man, proud of his business, and to be ruined like that…” A small shake of his head. “He killed himself. Put a noose around his neck. He was found by his mechanic, hanging from the rafters.” He smoothed his hair from his forehead.

  “We never got over it. My sister, she moved away. My Mam, she didn’t live much longer after that. Broke her heart, it did. And me… left here. On me own. Victor kept away. But then, about a year later, there was the night when he appeared. At the bar there, flashing his money around. And—I’d been drinking, I admit it. And I went out of the pub, walked along the riverbank, frosty sky, you could see all the stars… and it all became clear. Like it was written up there, in the heavens. And I went back. I went armed. You know the rest.” He leaned back in his chair, settled his breathing.