Doug Allyn - Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 137, No. 3 & 4. Whole No. 835 & 836, March/April 2011

“No, inserting the same travel-writing chunk in different letters. Harmless enough if he had more skill with his computer, and hadn’t been so obsessive about backing everything up. The thing is, along with the travel bit, he had screwed up and copied — highlighted, probably — more than he intended. Once you realized what he had done, you could see it all.”

Daisy said, “Is there a chance that all of his correspondents would have got the same message?”

“We’ll never know, will we? Let’s move on.”

“Did you kill him?”

“One step at a time. I didn’t mean to kill him, if that’s what you’re asking. It was an accident.”

“What do you mean?”

“I just wanted to land a symbolic blow before I kicked him out. It seemed appropriate. His field was the French Symbolistes,after all. So I waited until he put down his laptop — I wanted to hit him with that — that’s what I call symbolism — and I picked it up and swung it down on his head. The thing that killed him, though, according to the doctor, was hitting his head on the corner of the table as he went down. He was dead when the paramedics arrived. It was the hall table, not me. So it was accidental. That’s the verdict.”

“You meant to hit him, though.”

“Just symbolically.”

“What did you tell the police?”

“I said he tripped on the rug and hit his head on the table. They were very sympathetic.”

“Why are you telling me all this?”

“Obviously, so that you will know. I think you ought to know how your little dalliance in Au Bon Coinended.”

“Isn’t that a bit of a risk? If I take this story to the police?”

“Not much risk of that, is there? I’ll keep the letters on file. There’s the other story there, isn’t there, the one you wouldn’t want to share with anybody?”

Daisy stood up. “Robert told me all about you. I see now what he meant.”

“Did he? He didn’t say a word to me about you, and that’s rather the point, isn’t it?”

Copyright © 2011 by Eric Wright

In September of 2010, a large-print edition of Robert Barnard’s much-praised novel A Stranger in the Family (Scribner, June 2010) was released by the Wheeler Large Print Book Series. Also new from the Cartier Diamond Dagger Award winner is his podcast for EQMM of his story “Rogues’ Gallery” (March 2003), which can be accessed from iTunes, from PodOmatic (eqmm.podomatic.com), or from our website (www.the mysteryplace.com/eqmm).

Miss Trim, the English teacher and form mistress of 6A, looked around at the eleven-year-olds staring stolidly back at her. “The essay topic for your Easter break,” she said, then paused solemnly. She had begun to sense a giggle going through her class every time she set the inevitable “How I spent my school holidays” as the vacation task. This time they were going to get a surprise: “is ‘How I spent the last day of my holidays.’ ”

She was disappointed, because she sensed an identical giggle going around the class. She frowned like a disappointed fish, her protuberant eyes glaring through the rimless spectacles until she noticed that Morgan Fairclough was already setting down the odd note on a piece of rough paper. She did not ask herself how Morgan could be making notes for an essay on the last day of his holidays when the holiday had not yet begun. She approved of Morgan: solid and hard-working, though these virtues were tinged with arrogance when he talked to his less gifted classmates. But his estimable qualities were so much better than brilliance or flair that she looked forward to reading his account.

Morgan began his account two days after the day in question. He knew it was going to be hard to get the facts and angle right. He was, after all, the son of a writer. And he had to use mostly fact. There were still so many around who knew the facts: Mum, Deirdre, Timothy, Samantha...

Morgan licked the point of his Uniball and began.

Please excuse all spelling mistakes. My dad has not tought me to use a dictionery as he promised to do in the holidays.

While she was clearing away breakfast things my Mum said: “Are you planning to have one almighty row over lunch, or would you prefer this time to have a series of minor explosions going off throughout the day?”

My father stretched, smiling a narsty smile.

“I think the latter, all things considered. Or maybe it would be fun to have no row at all. Have them waiting nervously all the time for something that never comes.”

“Oh, very suttle,” said my mother. “Anyone would think they were not family but enemies.”

“Can’t they be both? I must say that’s how I regard them.”

All this I’d heard over and over in previous years. By now it sounded rehearsed, like a play. One of my dad’s plays. Rows were an everyday occurrence in our house, and the terms of the rows never really altered.

“You only regard them as enemies because they’re my family,” said my Mum.

“They can be your family and still be your enemies,” said Dad. “In fact I remember when you and I were courting, you and Deirdre were constantly at each other’s throats. Both of you were feisty girls, after all.”

“Now you’re being ridiculous,” said Mum. “Of course I love Deirdre, and did then.”

But I noticed Mum disappeared into the kitchen and began the washing up. Running away from a fight — that’s how I saw it.

“Anyway,” said my mother ten minutes later, coming back with her arms white from soapsuds, “after all these yearly rows they won’t come expecting a good time.”

“I don’t know why we don’t stop asking them,” said Dad. “They don’t ask us to Greenacre Manor. Probably afraid we’ll use the wrong knives and forks.”

Deirdre’s husband Timothy had sold his father’s car hire companies when he inherited them and bought into traditional bricks and mortar, playing the squire to the point of ridiculousness (these are my dad’s words — he can be very spiteful). Uncle Timothy is Head of Religious Broadcasting at the BBC. Dad says his religion is tweed-suiting, pipe-smoking and Brideshead Revisited .

“I think you’re right,” said Mum. “Just make a row big enough to justify it and I’ll put my oar in and suggest we call it a day. It will follow naturally if we do that.”

“Hmmm. Not a bad idea,” said Dad. But I could tell he was having second thoughts about his proposal. He always gave the impression of enjoying himself in these annual rows, and I must admit I thought they were quite fun.

“I like Uncle Timothy,” I said. “Some of the things he says make me laugh.”

“They make me laugh, too,” said Dad. “Like his pretending to be still in love with Deirdre after all this time.”

“So the row is still on the schedule,” said my mother. “Is after the walk the best time for staging it? Because that’s what it is: a little play, stored away for when, if ever, you write your own Who’s Afraid of Virginia Wolf .”

“If that’s what I’m aiming for, the rows would have to be with you, Lois.”

“Well, God knows, you’ve had enough experience of them. Oh shit — that’s them now.”

My father cast an eye at the window, the Rolls outside, and the path that led from the front gate.

“Oh, God Almighty!”

For a household containing not one Beleiver we were very free with God’s name. When I wrenched my eyes away from Auntie Deirdre, who looked as if she was carrying a shopping basket in front of her under her dress, I caught a look on Dad’s face that was a mixture of relish and foreknowledge. He’d known in advance!