Эллери Куин: Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 47, No. 4. Whole No. 269, April 1966

It began with a double celebration — the birth of the New Year and the 70th birthday of Godfrey Mumford, famous throughout the horticultural world as a breeder of chrysanthemums. But happy as the double occasion was, there were ominous, deeply disturbing overtones.

If only the others had known, they might have been forewarned... For Ellery had come back to Wrightsville — one of his spur-of-the-moment visits to the town he loved so much, to the New England town where he had experienced some of his greatest triumphs — and greatest failures; and it was no secret (especially to Chief of Police Newby) that Ellery Queen was Wrightsville’s perennial jinx. Whenever Ellery came to Wrightsville, evil came out of its lair...

The Chrysanthemum Case proved no exception. Indeed, it proved to be one of the most perplexing mysteries in Ellery’s career — a crime whose investigation made the “great detective” think he was Ellery in Blunderland; and to add the ultimate grotesquerie, the case offered the “last word” in bizarre and fantastic clues, the “last word” in baffling and frustrating “dying messages.”

A brand-new short novel never before published anywhere...

December 31, 1964

The birthday of the new year and the old man became a fact at midnight. The double anniversary was celebrated in the high-ceilinged drawing room of Godfrey Mumford’s louse in Wrightsville with certain overtones not in the tradition. Indeed, in accepting the offerings of his family and his friend, old Godfrey would have been well advised to recall the warning against gift-bearing Greeks (although there had never been a Greek in Wrightsville, at least none of Godfrey’s acquaintance; the nearest to one had been Andy Birobatyan, the florist who was of Armenian descent; Andy had shared the celebrated Mumford green thumb until the usual act of God had severed it).

The first Greek to come forward with her gift was Ellen Mumford Nash. Having gone through three American husbands, Godfrey’s daughter had just returned from England, where she was in the fifth year of a record run with number four, an Egyptologist connected with the British Museum — the prodigal daughter home for a visit, her nostrils flaring as if she smelled something unpleasant.

Nevertheless, Ellen said sweetly to her father, “Much happiness, darling. I do hope you find these useful.”

As it developed, the hope was extravagant. Her gift to him was a gold-plated cigarette case and lighter. Godfrey Mumford had given up smoking in 1952.

Christopher’s turn came next. A little less than 30 years before, Christopher had followed Ellen into the world by a little less than 30 minutes. (Their father had never allowed himself to be embittered by the fact that their birth had killed their mother, although he had had occasional reason to reflect on the poor exchange.)

Ellen, observing her twin over the champagne they were all sharing, was amused by his performance. How well he did the loving-son bit! With such talent it seemed remarkable that dear Chris had never risen above summer stock and walk-ons off Broadway. The reason, of course, was that he had never worked very hard at his chosen profession; but then he had never worked very hard at anything.

“A real swinger of a birthday, father,” Christopher was saying with passionate fondness. “And a hundred more to come.”

“I’ll settle for one at a time, son. Thanks very much.” Godfrey’s hair was gray but still vigorous; his big body tended toward gauntness now, but after 70 years he carried himself straight as a dancer. He was examining a silver-handled walking stick. “It’s really handsome.”

Christopher sidled stage right, smiling sincerely; and Godfrey set the stick aside and turned to the middle-aged woman standing by. She was small, on the dumpling side; the hands holding the gift had the stub nails and rough skin of habitual housework. Her face under the snowy hair lay quiet as a New England winter garden.

“You shouldn’t have gone to all this trouble, Mum,” the old man protested, “with the work you have to do around here.”

“Goodness, Godfrey, it was no trouble. I wish it could have been more.”

“I’m trying to remember the last time I had a hand-knit sweater.” Godfrey’s voice was gruff as he fingered it. “It’s just what I need to wear to the greenhouse these days. When on earth did you find the time?”

The sun came through to shine on the garden. “It’s not very elegant, Godfrey, but it will keep you warm.”

It was 28 years since Margaret Caswell had come to Wrightsville to nurse her sister Louise — Godfrey’s wife — in Louise’s fatal illness. In that time she had brought into the world a child of her own, buried her husband, become “Mum” to the three children growing up in the household — Godfrey’s two and her one — and planned (she had recently figured it out) more than 30,000 meals. Well, Godfrey Mumford had earned her devotion; he had been a second father to her child.

She sometimes felt that Godfrey loved her Joanne more than his own twins; she felt it now, in the drawing room. For Godfrey was holding in his hands a leather desk set decorated with gold-leaf chrysanthemums, and his shrewd blue eyes were glittering like January ice. The set was the gift of Joanne, who was watching him with a smile.

“You’re uncanny, Jo,” Godfrey said. “It’s taking advantage of an old man. This is beautiful.”

Jo’s smile turned to laughter. “With most men it’s supposed to be done with steak and potatoes. You’re a pushover for chrysanthemums. It’s very simple.”

“I suppose people think I’m very simple. A senile delinquent,” Godfrey said softly.

A frail little man with a heavy crop of eyebrows above very bright eyes hooted at this. He was Godfrey Mumford’s oldest friend, Wolcott Thorp, who had formerly taught anthropology at Merrimac University in Connhaven. For the past few years Thorp had been serving as curator of the Merrimac University Museum, where he had been developing his special interest, the cultural anthropology of West Africa.

“I’ll contribute to your delinquency, too,” Wolcott Thorp chuckled. “Here’s something, Godfrey, that will help you waste your declining years.”

“Why, it’s a first edition of an Eighteenth Century work on mums!” Godfrey devoured the title page. “Wolcott, this is magnificent.”

The old man clutched the tome. Only Jo Caswell sensed the weariness in his big body. To Wrightsville and the horticultural world he was the breeder of the celebrated Mumford’s Majestic Mum, a double bloom on a single stem; he was a member of the Chrysanthemum Society of America and of chrysanthemum clubs in England, France, and Japan; his correspondence with fellow breeders and aficionados encompassed the globe. To Jo he was a gentle, kind, and troubled man, and he was dear to her heart.

“I’m grateful for all these kindnesses,” Godfrey Mumford said. “It’s a pity my response has to be to give you bad news. It’s the wrong occasion, but I don’t know when I’ll have you all together under this roof again. Forgive me for what I’m about to tell you.”

His daughter Ellen had an instinct for the quality and degree of trouble. By the flare of her nostrils she had sensed that what was coming was bad news indeed.