Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine. Vol. 101, Nos. 3 & 4. Whole Nos. 610 & 611, March 1993

“No, don’t!” he said. “Let me ease you into that Good Night.” His mouth was close to her ear. “You wanted it once — I have seen your wrists—”

“No!” she cried. She hadn’t meant it. They all told her she hadn’t meant it. They told her that the serious ones cut the tendons. The really serious ones make their slashes lengthwise and to the bone.

She felt the blade, the cold, the sting, and the bite of it as he drew it across her wrist.

He forced her to her knees with the weight of his body, over the edge of the old-fashioned tub.

His hands were slippery with her blood as he grappled with her. He was too strong for her, but she fought on stubbornly, unwilling to make it easy for him. She felt the blade slide across her other wrist, and she groaned, and then screamed at him.

She heard the door splinter open, and she had a chance to glimpse Geoffrey’s pale face, and then there were others, and hands upon her, lifting her and binding her wounds.

After a time she lay again in a white, orderly place. The nurses came and went on rubber soles, but clattered dishes and trays and dropped enough things to assure her that they at least thought that she would remain among the living.

In the night, when they moved like aquarium fish through green light, she allowed herself to think of her demon lover. She felt only a little anger now, and something akin to pity for the waste of so much knowledge lacking in wisdom. Then she found herself thinking of James, but not with so much pain. It was as though she were merely bruised now and even that was healing. The intense feelings of shame and loss were lessening, fading. In their place was a little sadness, which, as she thought on it, seemed more like peace.

Bly-Bugh by Katherine H. Brooks

Detectiverse

You call me “Evil Captain Bligh.”

  Don’t dump me, I implore!

The salty brine that chills my spine

  blows many miles from shore!

A crew should never mutiny.

  Your leader — do you hear?

Is making hasty plans to be

  the Captain of the Year!

I’ll give you extra rations, men.

  I’ll lay aside the whip.

You’ll never walk the plank again.

  We’ll sail a jolly ship!

I’ll grant you hours of leisure sport,

  with grog in every jug,

And women when you get to port,

  and gold and gifts and—

   G

      L

         U

            G

The Inheritance by Betty Rowlands

Though we have already published two short stories by Betty Rowlands, we include now her first work of fiction, a story that won the Sunday Express-Veuve Cliquot short story contest in 1988, and was published that year in the U. K...

* * *

It was a perfect summer afternoon in rural England. Birds sang, roses bloomed, couples sipped champagne and strolled beneath stately trees; well-bred laughter echoed across velvet lawns. Outwardly, the scene was idyllic, but to Nicholas, leaning on the parapet of the stone-flagged terrace overlooked by the magnificent southern facade of Lensbury Court, the all-pervading sense of opulence was as acid eating into the soul. By rights, he thought gloomily, he should be the owner of a property such as this. And as he brooded on his own dismal financial situation, there formed in his mind a simple proposition: since Great-Aunt Honoria was the sole obstacle between him and his inheritance, Great-Aunt Honoria would have to go.

Honoria Stacey’s industrialist husband had bequeathed her a vast fortune. Now eighty-five and in frail health, she spent most of her time in her rambling mansion flat in West London, attended by McPhee, a dour Scotswoman who had been her companion for many years. Nicholas was her sole surviving relative but, sadly, she had never shown him any particular affection. On the contrary, she was contemptuous of his lifestyle and scathing about his disinclination for work. For his part, however, he prided himself on his tolerant nature. He bore no malice. From the moment he learned of the untimely demise of his one remaining second cousin, he devoted himself heart and soul to the welfare of his elderly kinswoman.

It was disappointing that his attentions were so little appreciated. Despite his frequent visits and assurances of devotion, to say nothing of money that he could ill afford spent on flowers and chocolates, Honoria treated him with a blend of suspicion and parsimony. None of his hints about the inadequacy of his means evoked so much as an offer to pay for the taxi that brought him regularly to her door. Still, when she was in a good mood, she let it be known that she accepted him, albeit reluctantly, as her natural heir.