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  Master Drew sat back with a curious smile on his face.

  Within fifteen minutes he was standing before the desk of the secretary to His Grace, the Bishop of Winchester, with the officer of the Lord Chancellor’s guard at the door. Sir Gilbert was frowning in annoyance.

  “I have much business to occupy me, Master Constable. I trust this will not take too long, and only condescend to spare the time as you now say you come on the Lord Chancellor’s business.”

  Master Drew returned his gaze steadily, refusing to be intimidated by the man or his office.

  “I would tell you a brief story first, about one of the Bishops of Winchester. Fortunately for him he died in the time of Queen Mary and so did not have to account for the Protestant souls he cast into the flames to cure them of what he deemed to be heresy. He was a wealthy and influential man and owned many houses here when he occupied this very palace. One particular building was used to interrogate and torture heretics. You know it... the one that was burned down last night.

  “It seems he gathered together some wealth, a chest of coins, that, if Mary lost her throne and the Protestant faction came in, would help him escape to Spain and ease his exile. In the end, Mary outlived him and it was members of his own family who later had to flee to Spain. Before his death, he seems to have written instructions to his family there as to where they could find that chest of coins. But war between Spain and England prevented any member of the family seeking it... until now, nearly twenty years later, when it so happened one of his family was appointed secretary to the Spanish ambassadors who are now in this country to agree the peace.’

  Sir Gilbert looked stony-faced.

  “Are you coming to a point, Master Constable?”

  “Last night this scion of the Gardiner family, now known as Chevalier Jardiniero y Barbastro, came in search of the Gardiner house wherein the box was buried. He made the mistake of being too free in his enquiries.”

  “Are you saying that someone decided to kill him for vengeance when they knew he was the relative of Bishop Gardiner?”

  Master Drew shook his head.

  “Not for such a lofty motive as vengeance was he killed, but merely of theft. He was followed and watched, and when he dug up the box of coins, they attacked, bound him so that he could hardly breathe and left him to the tender mercy of the fire that they had set. They hoped the conflagration would destroy the evidence of their evil. They had a coach waiting and set off with the strongbox. That much was seen.”

  Sir Gilbert raised an eye, quickly searching the constable’s features.

  “And were they thus identified?”

  “When the young man came here asking directions, he was told the way by Master Burton,” Master Drew went on, avoiding the question.

  “Master Burton? My manservant?”

  “Where is Master Burton?”

  Sir Gilbert frowned.

  “He set out this morning in my coach with some papers bound for Winchester.”

  “And with the chest of money?”

  “If he is involved in such a business, have no fear. I will question the rogue and he shall be punished. You may leave it in my hands.”

  Master Drew smiled and shook his head.

  “Not in your hands, I am afraid, Sir Gilbert. Master Burton had an accomplice.”

  “And do you name him?” Sir Gilbert’s jaw tightened.

  “You were that accomplice.”

  “You cannot prove it.”

  “Perhaps not. But you revealed yourself earlier when I was asking you about the ownership of the house and spoke of the body found there. I had not mentioned anything about it or the possibility of its Spanish identification - yet you said to me that the burning of a house and murder of a foreigner was not to be wondered at in this city. How would you know that the body found was that of a foreigner unless you shared Master Burton’s secret?”

  Sir Gilbert’s eyes narrowed.

  “You are clever, Master Drew, and with the tongue of a serpent. But when all is said and done, I am an Englishman with good connections, and the young man was a foreigner and a Spaniard at that.”

  “The war is over, Sir Gilbert, or will be when this treaty is signed.”

  “My answer to any charge will be that I was retrieving what is rightfully the property of the Bishops of Winchester from theft by a foreigner. I shall say that he tried to make away with this treasure and Master Burton and I prevented him and reclaimed it for its true owner.”

  Master Drew paused and nodded thoughtfully.

  “It is, perhaps, a good defence. But there is one aspect that may not sit well with such a plea; that is, the Chevalier Stefano Jardiniero y Barbastro was a member of the delegation currently negotiating the treaty. True, he was but a secretary within the delegation, and there are arguments to be made on both sides as to whether the treasure to which he had been directed was his family’s property or whether subsequent Bishops of Winchester had a right to it. And, of course, we will have to ascertain whether Master Burton has gone directly with the chest to the Bishop of Winchester or whether he may have cause to rest with it awhile in your own manor at Winchester Town.

  “And, even when these arguments are all set in place, it will come down to a simple matter of policy. How badly do the Lord Chancellor and His Majesty desire this treaty ending the twenty years of war with Spain? The Spanish ambassadors may seek to be compensated for the murder of one of their number before agreement can be reached.”

  ~ * ~

  It was at the end of August of that year of 1604 that the treaty of peace and perpetual alliance between England and Spain was finally signed in Somerset House. Two weeks before the agreement, a certain Master Burton was taken from Newgate in a tumbrel to Tyburn Tree and hanged. A year later a prisoner in the Clink caught typhoid, in spite of the payments he had been able to give the jailer to secure good quarters for himself during his incarceration. He was dead within three days. It was common gossip in the prison that he had once been a man of some status and influence and had even dwelt in the grand palace of the Bishop of Winchester, adjacent to the prison.

  <>

  ~ * ~

  BIG GUY

  Paul Johnston

  S

  o I’m on the train back from Oxford, where I’ve been signing copies of my latest novel. The staff in Blackwell’s and Waterstones were about as interested as Hollywood producers are in actresses over fifty, so it didn’t take long. Then again, the seventh in my series featuring the maverick, eighteen-stone muscleman Storm Waters (yes, unaccountably, I like Pink Floyd) got only one review in the national press and that was less than complimentary: “Andy Stewart’s Waters series is about as lively as a dried-up lake these days. Give us a break, mate - preferably terminal.” And I bought the tosser a ludicrously overpriced drink at the Taunton Crime’n’Cider Fest last summer.

  I peer through the rain and make out the stained concrete cooling towers at Didcot. Already the honeyed walls of my alma mater seem leagues away. Ha! Like I went to Oxford. It was the university of life for me - left school at sixteen with no GCSEs, worked in various burger bars for more years than I can remember, wrote unsolicited album reviews until one (of Bowie’s Reality - think hatchet) finally got picked up by an ever-so-cool (they thought) monthly, worked behind the bar at far too many music festivals, drank a lot, smoked even more etc., etc. But I also read, widely and carefully. I did my research, I calculated what sold. And then I wrote the first Storm novel. You know the clichéd advice, “Write what you know”? Screw that. I’m five foot five in my DMs and have never been over nine stone, even when I binged on burgers and beer. I used my imagination and uncaged the big guy - ex-Royal Marine, ex-SBS, now freelance fist-for-hire, Storm Waters. He takes the fight to the bad men and saves the world. Frequently. Kind of James Bond with bigger abs and biceps, plus a much bigger weapon or three. Naturally, the women go wet for him. More surprisingly, they’ve gone for me too. I’v
e had publicity girls, editors, bookshop managers, journos, TV interviewers and even a supermodel (admittedly well past her prime) in my pants. Then there are the fans. Don’t, whatever you do, get me started on my fans...

  I’m reading a film mag and listening to Radiohead on my iPod when I realize something’s going on further down the carriage. It’s one of those crappy trains where the first-class section is small and only for City wankers. Besides, I like to go steerage. It keeps me in touch with my readers though, disappointingly, I’ve seen no one reading a Storm novel all day. Anyway, from the way the white-haired ticket collector’s head is going back and forward, it’s obvious he’s having a go at a passenger. I unplug and listen in.

  “That’s only a single,” he’s saying. “You’ll have to pay full price to cover your return journey.”

  The punter, a young guy with unwashed hair and a scabby leather jacket, starts mouthing off, not too loudly. I still catch several F-words. So do other passengers in the vicinity. One of them’s a well-dressed old woman with blue hair.

  “Do you mind?” she says, in a voice that could cut crystal from long range. “Some of us don’t appreciate that kind of language.”

  Leather Jacket ignores her and keeps unloading on the ticket collector, whose cheeks have gone what I think is puce - I’ve never been much good at anything other than the basic colours. Maybe that’s why I’m a noir writer.

  “If you don’t pay, I’ll have to issue a penalty notice and put you off the train at Reading,” the official says. There are beads of sweat on his forehead and suddenly he looks well past retirement age.

  The kid doesn’t care, he just keeps on fucking and buggering, his head down. I wonder if he’s ingested illicit pharmaceuticals. Or maybe he’s a diabetic having a hypo. Someone should take a look at him.

  Blue Perm’s on her feet now, having a good old rant. Three or four other passengers have joined her, surrounding Leather Jacket like a lynch mob. The sun comes through the clouds and I can see spittle flying from their lips.

  I ask myself what Storm would have done. Probably grabbed the offender by the ankles, held him upside down and shaken him till the money for his fare fell out of his pockets. That’s not an option I have. Although Leather Jacket’s skinny, he’s at least six inches taller than me. So I decide to play peacemaker.

  “Excuse me,” I say, from behind the ticket collector. “I’ll pay his fare.”

  That makes them look round. The offender is the only one paying no attention, his chin resting on his chest as he keeps on spouting semi-audible abuse.

  “You can’t do that,” Blue Perm says, the powder on her face shifting like snow before an avalanche.

  “Yes, I can.” I wave a twenty-quid note under her nose, then offer it to the official. “Keep the change...” I peer at the badge on his jacket “...Ken Burns, Customer Services Specialist.”

  It would have been the smile that did it. I’ve been told about it often enough, usually by women after the main event. Apparently it makes me look patronizing, arrogant, rude, vicious and self-obsessed, maybe all at the same time. Anyway, I’d successfully got everyone in the vicinity’s goat. Except the kid’s. At last he’s quiet, maybe even asleep. Or has he passed out?

  “The lady’s right, sir,” Ken says, pronouncing the last word with maximum disrespect. “Passengers are obliged to have a valid ticket on their person for all parts of their journey.”

  “Come on,” I say. “I’m giving you the money for him.” I look at Leather Jacket. He seems to be breathing regularly and his colour is normal. Probably stoned. “Just print out a ticket and we’ll get back to minding our own business.” I give Blue Perm a death stare.

  “I hardly think you’re minding your own business,” she says, turning to her friend, Purple Furze, with a tight, triumphant smile.

  With hindsight I shouldn’t have stuck my tongue out at her, but it was the only way I could avoid upending a tanker-load of Storm Waters’s notoriously esoteric vocabulary of abuse over her. I follow up with a pair of raised middle fingers that may have got a bit close to her nostrils.

  Both Blue and Purple give strangled squawks of consternation, the former grabbing the Customer Services Specialist’s sleeve with a vein-corded claw.

  “That’s it,” he says. “I’m calling the Transport Police.”

  Then I hear my hero’s voice.

  “Is there a problem here?”

  Everyone looks at the big guy - six foot four at least and built like Arnie before he did his Reagan act. He’s got crew-cut blond hair and is wearing a green combat jacket. Storm Waters in the flesh! Am I dreaming? Did someone sprinkle hash over my Bran Flakes this morning? I feel a stupid smile spread over my face.

  “This...man insulted me,” Blue Perm says. Nothing about Leather Jacket, who’s now snoring peacefully. “He...he...”

  “Flipped you the bird in stereo,” says Purple Furze, in an American accent.

  Storm runs a disparaging eye - actually, two - over me. “We can’t be having that, can we?” he says, in a voice with the same mixture of Cockney and parade ground as my man’s. He grabs my shoulder and turns to the smirking official. “No ticket, eh?” He plucks the twenty quid from my hand and gives it to Ken. “That’s no reason to cause trouble, sonny.” He pushes me towards the end of the carriage.

  I would have pointed out that I’m thirty-seven, but I’m struggling to keep up with his rapid pace. Plus the grip on my shoulder is vice-like.

  “I...I write books,” I say, trying to take the sting from the situation. “You’re...you’re in them.”

  The big guy stares at me as if I’m what pond life excretes. “Books? What do you mean, I’m in them?”

  “Storm Waters,” I say. “Ex-Marine, ex—”

  “I’ve read one of those,” he says, tightening his grip even more. “Or rather, a bit of one. Fucking shite, mate.” He leans closer. “And I should know. I was in the SBS.”

  That’s all we say. When the train comes into Reading, he frogmarches me to the doors. Ken’s there, but the coloured-hair ladies are keeping their distance. Leather Jacket’s still asleep.

  “Easy to trip when you get off these trains, isn’t it?” Storm says.

  Less puce now, Ken smiles. “See it all the time.”

  The doors open and I go flying.

  I wake up in hospital - a broken shoulder, three cracked ribs and severe concussion. I never find out what happened to Leather Jacket, but I’m not betting that Ken Burns, Customer Services Specialist Masturbator, used my money for his ticket. I could have set my lawyer after the big guy, but I believe in learning from experience.

  Storm Waters - he’s history. My new hero’s a baronet with a monocle, and his mother has a blue rinse.

  <>

  ~ * ~

  THE CONSPIRATORS

  Christopher Fowler

  A

  t the next table of the hotel restaurant, three waiters took their places beside the diners, and, with a synchronized flourish, raised the silver covers on their salvers. A fourth appeared, bearing a tray containing a quartet of tiny copper pots. Each waiter took a handle and proceeded to pour the sauces from the pots on to the salvers from a height of not less than eighteen inches. They might have been tipping jewels into coffers.

  Court and Lassiter barely bothered to break off their conversation and look up at the display. They knew that these ostentatious rituals were the hotel’s way of justifying the risible menu prices to tourists.

  The waiters finished serving and tiptoed away, leaving the diners to warble and coo over their miniscule meals, some kind of cubed chicken in cream. The restaurant was designed with plenty of steel, glass and black crystal, with the occasional tortured twist of green bamboo providing natural colour. It was as hushed as a funeral parlour. Everyone seemed to be whispering.

  Sean Lassiter had ordered a steak, medium rare, the only item on the menu that looked like meat. He had eaten it as if he
was in an American diner, using only a fork. The steaks were so tender you could do that here.

  “When was the last time you knew exactly what you wanted?” he asked Court, raising his whisky tumbler and studying his former business partner through the diamond-cut lattice.

  Oliver Court’s palms were dry, but he still pressed them against his thighs. Lassiter had once been his mentor, and was the only man in the world who could make him uncomfortable with a simple question.

  “Come on, Oliver, I saw the look in your eyes the first day I met you. Nowadays I can’t read them because you’re wearing coloured contacts. I remember, you were so hungry and envious I thought you might actually start taking notes during our meal. I see that look a lot, but it’s not usually so obvious. When members of my staff get that anxious, it usually means they’re frightened of failure and they’re scared of being found out. Well, I can’t blame anyone for wanting to make the best of themself. But you were prepared to leave behind an awful lot in order to be a success.”