Mike Ashley - The Mammoth Book of Perfect Crimes and Impossible Mysteries

“Bear in mind that Gurney knew nothing of Kimball’s planned alibi for himself, or of the witness waiting in the lobby; he was simply disposing of the body as quickly and as safely as he could. But the result turned into a perfect illusion. A little over ten minutes had elapsed since Kimball said goodbye to his wife, his first witness, and stepped into the elevator on the eleventh floor. Now it was two or three minutes past seven, and the elevator was on its way to the lobby and its rendezvous with Bailey, the second witness, who would assume the car had just come from the eleventh floor. The closed circle was complete; the incontrovertible alibi was forged. The only discrepancy was that Gurney, the intended victim, was alive, while Kimball, the murderer, was dead.”

“Well,” Doran exploded, “I’ll be a double-dyed prestidigitator!”

Sheilan shrugged modestly. “It’s not really so amazing. Once you tumble to the significance of the silencer on the gun, the rest follows inevitably from the logic of the so-called ‘impossible situation’.”

Doran grinned. “I suppose, in keeping with hoary tradition, the wise old detective will now insist that it was all the work of a celestial Fifth Magician who stood back in the shadows, invisible and omniscient, pulling the strings-”

“Oh, yes,” said Sheilan, “I believe in that, most definitely. Fate does work startling tricks at times. In fact,” he said, smiling, “that’s the only kind of magic I do believe in.”

Peter Tremayne (b. 1943) is best known for his series of historical mystery novels set in seventh century Europe and featuring Sister Fidelma. The first of them was Absolution by Murder (1994) and you will find several impossible mysteries amongst the novels and stories. Under his real name, Peter Berresford Ellis is a noted Celtic scholar, author of such books as The History of the Irish Working Class (1972) , The Celtic Dawn (1993) and The Ancient World of the Celts (1999). He has also written biographies of the authors H. Rider Haggard, W.E. Johns and Talbot Mundy. The following story features a puzzle involving the last of the Stuart Pretenders to the throne of Great Britain.

A full-grown man in the grip of uncontrolled panic is not a pleasant sight. Worse still, was the sight of His Majesty, James II, King of England, Scotland and Ireland, Duke of York, Earl of Ulster and Duke of Normandy, wringing his hands, his lips quivering and eyes flitting from side to side in fear, pacing the entrance hall of Dublin Castle.

“Are the horses ready yet?” he paused and demanded of Henry Fitzjames, the Lord Grand Prior of England, who stood nervously near the great doors that opened onto the cobbled courtyard. It was not for the first time that he had asked his son the same question in petulant, fearful tone.

“Your Majesty’s Life Guards are not yet fully assembled.”

“God rot them! What ails them to be so negligent of the safety of their King at such an hour?”

“Sire, it is hard to obtain fresh horses in the city at this time. His Grace, the Duke of Powis, has scoured every stable unsuccessfully for fresh mounts.”

“It is already dawn.” The King pointed with shaking hand to the early morning light outside. “Have I not been given intelligence that my son-in-law’s army,” he referred to William, Prince of Orange’s relationship to him, with a sneer, “that his piquets have already marched within cannon shot of the outer defences of the city?”

“A report greatly exaggerated, sire. My brother, His Grace of Berwick, has his regiments encamped far to the north and there are no rumours of any alarums.”

The King was not listening.

“Men of the like that flock to the banners of the Prince of Orange captured, tried and executed my poor father when I was but sixteen years old. They cut off his head in front of his own palace of Whitehall. I do not intend to suffer the same fate. We must mount immediately and ride for the coast, fresh horses or not. See that it is so!”

The Lord Grand Prior left to obey his father’s orders.

Her Grace, Lady Frances, the Duchess of Tyrconnell, had roused herself in the early morning hours to witness the King’s departure from the city of Dublin. Now she stood watching him with a look of contempt. With her in the hall was the Lord Mayor of Dublin, Terence McDermott, while at her side stood Father Taafe, her husband’s chaplain who had just arrived in the city. Her husband, Richard, was James’ Lord Lieutenant of Ireland, and was even now in continued danger at the head of his cavalry regiment somewhere between Dublin and the River Boyne, facing the Prince of Orange’s army. Her Grace had tried her best to calm the panic of the King.

“Majesty, our Irish troops will hold the army of the Prince of Orange long before they reach the city. You are safe as yet.”

“Hold them?” The King sneered, turning an ugly countenance to her. “Did they hold them at Oldbridge, madam, when the Prince of Orange and his men swarmed across the Boyne River? Cowards, every one. They fled before William like greyhounds in a race. Your countrymen, madam, can run well.”

Her Grace of Tyrconnell’s lips twitched in anger. She was not Irish. She had been born near St Albans in Hertfordshire but she felt a desire to defend her husband, the Duke of Tyrconnell, and his countrymen against this insult.

“Not so well as your majesty,” she snapped back, “for I see that you have won the race.”

Her companions could not disguise the smiles that sprang to their lips, for King James had been in continued panic since he had galloped into the city at midnight, directly from an engagement at the Boyne, shouting that all was lost.

“The horses are ready, Your Majesty,” cried the Lord Grand Prior, coming swiftly back into the hall and saving the King from trying to think of a suitable retort.

James turned quickly, without even bidding farewell to the wife of his Lord Lieutenant of Ireland, the Duke of Tyrconnell. The King seemed to have forgotten her presence and those of her companions as he scuttled towards the doors. Then a thought seemed to strike him. He paused and crashed one pale fist into the palm of his hand.

“Pox take me! Have I no one to remind me?”

The Lord Grand Prior looked in bewilderment as his father turned and almost ran towards the room where he had spent the last few hours. It was a small study in which he had previously been engaged in writing his final orders to the Comte de Lauzun, commander of his army. The King hurried to the desk. Ah, thank God he had remembered. A small metal box stood on the desk where he had left it. He picked up the heavy object, unlocked and pushed back the lid. It was filled with jewellery. On top of the diamonds and emeralds and assorted jewels lay a glittering blue stone about one and a half inches in length by an inch wide. The Stuart Sapphire was the pride of his collection. His brother, Charles II, had saved it from falling into Cromwellian hands after his defeat at Worcester. It was worth a king’s fortune; it was the fortune of this King, anyway. These were all that were left of the Crown Jewels of the Stuart Dynasty. He snapped the lid shut and turned the key again.

“This casket is to stay with me at all times. It is the guarantee of the survival of the House of Stuart,” he grunted at his bewildered son, the Lord Grand Prior. “Now, let us ride for Waterford with all speed.”

Without another word, he swept by Lady Tyrconnell, who performed a courtly curtsey; her every movement was filled with irony. Her companions merely inclined their heads.

Lady Tyrconnell waited a few moments until she heard the clattering of horses leaving the castle yard and then her features twisted in disdain.