“Oh, you noticed that?” said my mistress with a secret smile. “Well done, Pepin.”
“A stroke or an embolism?” I proposed. “The excitement at the joke over-stimulated him… Natural causes.”
My mistress laughed. “Darling Pepin, always finding order in the madness. Naturally there doesn’t have to be a murderer. And yet … somehow, there always is. Anyway, didn’t you smell the body?”
“Kimchee blossom,” I said. “What of it? A man like Everard Dray always tricks himself out with the most fashionable perfumes.”
“Exactly. As you should well be aware, Pip, the fashion for gentlemen’s scents this season is towards the caramel, almond, vanilla … kimchee blossom isn’t even chic for grannies and kitchen maids. No, the how of the thing isn’t worrying me. It’s the why that I’m still working on.”
“Am I intruding?” asked Drusus Savon, in the doorway.
“Of course you are,” said my mistress, the laughter fading from her voice. “That’s your job, isn’t it?”
He tilted his head a little. “You think I belong to La Policia, or some other agency of your government? I am sorry to disappoint you, Madame.”
“Not them, perhaps,” said La Duchesse. “What’s the Martian equivalent, Pepin?” Too late, she saw the danger in my eyes. “Ridiculous of me. How would you know?”
“She would know,” said Drusus Savon, “because Mademoiselle Pepin’s father is the Chief of the Justice Ministry on Mars, and he is personally responsible for the Martian Investigative Cohorts. But I’m not one of them, either.”
La Duchesse’s eyes went very cold. “So what are you, M. Savon, apart from an impostor and a bully?”
“I am a friend,” said Drusus Savon. “Believe it or not. And now, Mme. Marchmont wishes us to gather in the dining room for the Feast of Saturn while the police examine the body.”
“How pragmatic of Mme. Marchmont,” said La Duchesse. “An extravagant five course meal is just what we all need.” She held her hand to me, and I escorted her to dinner.
###
Mme. Marchmont had embraced the traditions of the Feast of Saturn with the same gusto as with the coffee house reproduction. The windows of the dining parlour were decked with boughs of greenery, and the centrepiece of the room was an immense tub containing a yew tree (an actual Earth type yew rather than the usual New Ceresian plantation pine) from which hung sweetmeats, almonds in paper, silvered raisins and small lighted candles.
Mme. Marchmont herself, garbed in a gown with sleeves so up-to-the-minute in fashion that she must have had it delivered that very morning from Prosperine, presided over the table with a satisfied air, possibly because the death of her brother had ensured that her Feast of Saturn was, if not the fashionable seven, then at least not the deeply unfashionable nine.
Now, there was a motive for murder I hadn’t previously considered.
Far from the sparse pickings of the night before, the table groaned with a mixture of exotic and traditional dishes. Catherine Stevens and Drusus Savon both looked startled at the gross array of food, though Bob Stevens — in no better mood than the night before — merely grunted at the vision of honeyed goose, ladypork, figs-in-jelly and spicy Minervan lump-eel pie.
As is traditional, the ‘Christmas pudding’ emerged at the time when all diners were least prepared to deal with it, somewhere between the third and fourth courses. It loomed, black and ominous, from its bright silver platter, and the Ambassador (no more enthusiastic than the rest of us) was handed a matching silver knife with which to carve the beast.
It was at this moment that the local representative of La Policia arrived, a sergeant in a rumpled uniform. “Our physician’s having a look at the body now,” he announced. “Not that there will be much point to it, but your honour may find his report useful.” He nodded to the Ambassador.
“Would you like some dinner?” the Ambassador offered politely, oblivious to his wife’s tension about seating arrangements. “A slice of pudding, perhaps? Or some turkey croquembouche?”
The sergeant wore the expression of a man who had never seen poultry served in caramelised pastry. “No thank you, your honour. My wife’s got my dinner on at home, and I’ll be off in a minute or two.”
“So what do you mean, nothing you can do?” said Bob Stevens belligerently. “Don’t you people investigate murder?”
“Not in this instance,” said the sergeant. “Not with the Lady-Governor’s new law going into effect as of midnight last night.”
“Good grief,” said the Ambassador. “She hasn’t actually passed The Diplomatic Land Act, has she?”
“Yes, your honour. This property of yours is now Diplomatic Land and that means La Policia have no grounds to investigate any crimes committed here, saving for High Treason and Contraband Smuggling. Murder’s right out — if you do figure out who did it, though, you can file a civil suit.”
“Sue a murderer for depriving me of my brother-in-law,” said the Ambassador. “How novel.”
Bob Stevens, the only one of us who had made inroads on his pudding, started coughing.
“As you were, sirs and madames,” said the sergeant, making to leave.
“Bob?” said Catherine Stevens, looking alarmed as her husband continued to cough violently. “I think he’s choking!”
With a swift movement, the Policia sergeant stepped behind the large man and gave him a solid whack between the shoulder blades. Something hard and shiny flew out of Bob’s mouth and landed with a ringing sound in La Duchesse’s pudding dish.
It looked like a ruby the size of a thumbnail.
“My,” said La Duchesse, wiping the gem with her napkin.
“That’s rum, that is,” said the sergeant. “My wife only ever puts a silver sou in our pud.”
La Duchesse held the ruby up to the light. “Is this yours, Valeria?”
“I’ve never seen it before,” said Mme. Marchmont.
“Oh really?” La Duchesse flicked her finger back and forth. If it were an illegal offworld data crystal rather than a family jewel, she was awfully close to the release catch. “How interesting.”
“Ah, you’re all here!” said a cheerful voice that belonged — it seemed — to the Policia physician. “Doctor Tilyard, how-dee-do. Anyone interested in how this Everard fellow died?”
“I know I am,” said Drusus Savon.
“Oh, yes,” said La Duchesse, practically batting her eyelashes. “Do tell.”
“Aspherida,” said the physician, sounding proud of himself. “A nicely rare poison, what with it being so hard to get, and only working on about a quarter of the population. It was the pink stains on the fingertips that gave it away — hard to spot if you’re not looking for them.”
La Duchesse beamed at him. “It would have been the smell, of course, that alerted you to the possibility. An ordinary person might dismiss it as kimchee blossom, a common perfume, but a smart man like yourself would know that a famous dandy like Everard would never wear a common perfume.”
The physician looked a little startled, and rather less pleased with himself. “As you say, Madame.”
“Aspherida,” she mused. “It induces stroke, doesn’t it? No wonder he died so quietly. I didn’t know anyone used the stuff outside stage farces. How exactly did he come into contact with it? His morning coffee, a poisoned glove?”
“Actually, I think I found the culprit in his pyjama pocket,” said the physician, lifting up a glass jar containing a second, identical ruby.
Bob Stevens almost choked for a second time.
“Oh, I wouldn’t worry,” said La Duchesse. “If the one in the pudding was contaminated with Aspherida, several of us would be dead by now. Those with a genetic link to Everard would be the most likely victims — am I right, Valeria?”
“I don’t know why you’re asking me,” said our hostess, sounding affronted.
La Duchesse dropped the pudding ruby on the hardwood floor. “Oops,” she said with great emphasis.
r /> A page of holographic text rose from the gem and the name ‘Lady Heinlein’ scrolled across the empty air.
The sergeant coughed. “And that would be a properly registered piece of technology for the Saturnal, would it, your grace?”
“Indeed,” said the Ambassador between clenched teeth. “I’m sure that when you report it to the Lumoscenti after Twelfth Night, and they come to investigate the matter, they will find that I hold the appropriate paperwork.”
“Of course, your grace,” said the sergeant. “I’d … well, you know how them golden monks are, sir. Doesn’t pay to try and keep things from them.”
“I quite understand,” said the Ambassador. He rose from the table politely. “If I might see you gentlemen out?”
There was silence at the table for a minute or two. Mme. Marchmont’s knuckles had gone white. Sarah Marchmont was staring at the flickering text of the ‘ruby’ data crystal that bore the name ‘Lady Heinlein’.
“Is this another one of those gambols you guys are so fond of?” Bob Stevens asked.
“That depends on your definition of entertainment,” La Duchesse murmured.
The Ambassador returned. “What exactly has been going on in my household?” he demanded to the room at large.
La Duchesse coughed discreetly. “I might be able to suggest an explanation.”
“This isn’t one of your cases, Claudine.”
“Actually, it is. But that’s hardly the point.” La Duchesse picked up the fallen data crystal and placed it on the table so that the holographic text scrolled out across the Saturnalis dishes. “There are three mysteries here. One: how did this data crystal containing a new ‘Lady Heinlein’ novella, if I’m not mistaken, end up in the Christmas pudding? Two: who killed Everard Dray? And three: why, to both of the above? Am I right in thinking that this pudding was not originally intended for the Feast of Saturn?” She looked beyond the expectant faces to the nearest serving maid.
“Permission to speak, Molly,” said the Ambassador.
“Um,” said the girl. “That’s right, Madame. Something went wonky with the mould, and the pudding broke up on the plate. So Cook got out the spare.”
“And that is the answer to part of question three, why anyone would conceal a data crystal in a pudding,” said my mistress triumphantly. “They thought it would stay safely undetected in there until Twelfth Night, when presumably they wished it to come to light. Now to question one: who? I would think we can limit this to those resident in the house on the day that the puddings were mixed and boiled.”
“That was before we arrived,” said Catherine Stevens. “I remember, they were hanging in the back stair when Mme. Marchmont showed us around the house. That was three weeks ago.”
“Excellent,” said La Duchesse. “Was Everard Dray visiting when the puddings were mixed?” Again, she addressed the question to Molly the maid.
“Yes, Madame. He’s always ducking in and out of the kitchen — I remember him trying to get a taste of the mixture, and Cook rapped him over the knuckles with her wooden spoon.” Molly giggled, and then suddenly went quite teary.
“There we are,” said La Duchesse. “I find it most likely that the culprit in this case was Everard himself.”
“Are you suggesting that my brother was a smuggler of contraband?” asked Mme. Marchmont in outrage.
“No, Valeria,” said my mistress patiently. “I think he was a blackmailer. I’m suggesting that you are the smuggler of contraband, though obviously I haven’t explained that part yet.”
“I think you had better, then,” said the Ambassador. “Never mind the dramatic tension, Claudine. Plain and simple language will do.”
“Plain and simple,” agreed the Great Detective. “It’s all about the timing, Ambrose. Your brother-in-law discovered this data crystal somewhere in the house, before Saturnalis rendered the thing temporarily legal. Everard hid the thing in the Twelfth Night pudding, knowing it would not come to light until a few hours before the anti-tech sanction descended once more. He then used his knowledge of the crystal’s existence to tease his sister mercilessly.” She glanced briefly at Mme. Marchmont. “I don’t believe that he knew of its true significance, or even he might not have been so frivolous. He blackmailed Valeria into giving him treats — a new suit of clothes, a holiday at a spa, his bills paid for a month.”
“Your allegations are insulting,” said Mme. Marchmont stiffly.
“But at the spa,” my mistress continued, “Everard met Drusus Savon. Savon was interested in meeting me … for reasons of his own … and having discovered that I was due to stay here over Saturnalis, he introduced himself to Everard in the hope of procuring an invitation. When Everard heard that I was a guest in his sister’s household, he guessed she had hired me to locate her ‘missing jewel’ and hastened back here to join the fun.”
“So these data crystals are yours?” the Ambassador said, rounding on his wife. “Saturnalis or no Saturnalis, I’m going to have to get forged papers to justify the damn things to the Suncatchers — do you realise what kind of a position you’ve put me in?”
Mme. Marchmont burst into tears.
“Don’t shout at her!” said Sarah Marchmont. “It’s not her fault, it’s mine! I’m ‘Lady Heinlein’, so there!”
There was a long pause.
“Well, I was getting to that,” said La Duchesse. “Mme. Stevens, do you notice anything in particular about this novel?” She handed the ‘Lady Heinlein’ data crystal to Catherine Stevens.
The novelist thumbed the data crystal, scrolling through several pages of text. “This isn’t a published book. There are line edits marked in the margins. These are corrected proofs. Only a publisher … or an author would have these.”
The Ambassador stared at his daughter.
“Sarah,” said Mme. Marchmont. “Stop telling your silly little stories…” Her mouth closed with a snap.
“You’ve been saying that since I was six years old,” Sarah said triumphantly. “That’s why I started writing them down. Honestly, mother. I’ve been writing scientifiction novellas since I was fourteen, and no one’s even suspected I was ‘Lady Heinlein’ until you started snooping around my bedroom. Another year and I’d have earned enough to send myself to university on one of the colonies.”
“You are the most notorious black market novelist in Europa,” said the Ambassador to his daughter.
“Yes, daddy.”
He turned on his wife. “And you knew?”
“Only recently,” she said. “I did everything I could to keep the matter from becoming a public scandal.”
He stared at her in disbelief. “If you think inviting the Great Detective into our household and then murdering your brother under her nose counts as discreet, then what would you do to intentionally cause a scandal?”
“I didn’t murder anyone,” said Mme. Marchmont.
The Ambassador’s eyes flicked to my mistress. “Claudine?”
“Someone left a second data crystal where Everard could find it — presumably someone who knew he had stolen the first one. But the second was smeared with Aspherida. That same someone had to know that Everard Dray was one of the quarter of the population who would be affected by Aspherida, which suggests a member of his family. Then there’s the timing of the thing…”
“The Diplomatic Land Act,” said the Ambassador.
La Duchesse agreed. “As of midnight last night, no one can be prosecuted for a murder on the personal property of an ambassador, unless he chooses to bring a civil suit against them. The timing is rather fortunate.”
“I didn’t know the law had been passed,” said Mme. Marchmont.
“Your husband didn’t know,” corrected La Duchesse. “I believe he relies on his wife to keep him up to date on such matters?”
“That’s right,” said the Ambassador, sounding stunned. “The Diplomatic Land Act would have been announced in the last Governance Gazette, Valeria, and you told me there was nothing relevant to u
s in there.”
“I didn’t have time to read the thing.” Mme. Marchmont rose from the table with great dignity. ”I refuse to be interrogated like this in my own house.”
“Indeed,” said the Ambassador. “I think perhaps we should discuss the matter in private.” He motioned to the door, and his wife walked stiffly out of the room. “You too, Lady Heinlein,” he said in an ominous voice. His daughter followed him rather reluctantly.
That left five of us at the table: myself and La Duchesse, the Stevenses, and Drusus Savon.
“Well,” said Bob Stevens in a jovial voice. “Is Saturnalis always this fun around here?”
“Extraordinary, La Duchesse,” I said, pushing my congealed pudding aside for the serving maid to remove. “What made you first suspect that Valeria could have murdered her brother?”
“You mean, apart from the motive, opportunity and the fact that I don’t like her very much?” said La Duchesse, reaching for her glass of sweet wine. “No reason at all, my dear Pepin. She didn’t kill Everard Dray.”
There was a long pause.
“Whatever do you mean?” asked Catherine Stevens.
“I was wondering that myself,” said Drusus Savon.
“The Lumoscenti,” said La Duchesse. “Suncatchers. Golden monks. You ask a lot of questions about our culture, M. and Mme. Stevens, but not once did either of you ask what those words meant. I wonder why that is.”
Catherine Stevens coloured faintly. “It seemed a sensitive matter.”
“Never discuss religious or politics,” Bob Stevens said proudly.
“Indeed,” said La Duchesse. “And there I was thinking that you weren’t asking the question because you had reason to know exactly what the answer was. Oh, dear. My pudding’s cold. I think I’ll have another piece of turkey croquembouche instead.”
“Go on,” said Drusus Savon with interest. “I know of the Lumoscenti, of course. They’re the ones who police the … historical integrity of New Ceresian culture, am I right?”
“Interesting phrasing,” said La Duchesse. “Of course, M. Savon. You would have been briefed before your arrival.”
“Not much of a brief,” he said with disgust. “None of the official material goes anywhere close to explaining how much power the golden monks actually have. Half the planet seems terrified of them. Offworld, if anyone’s heard of them at all, it’s as a — cultural oddity. Like the Santa Claus cult on Minerva.”