Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine. Vol. 133, Nos. 3 & 4. Whole Nos. 811 & 812, March/April 2009

“I was afraid to fight Macker,” he said, looking away. “Afraid for my life, or my face, or my honor. Afraid. Terrified! I coated the blade of my sword with poison from the chemistry lab, to kill Macker, or at least sicken him and let me win the duel. But then Cassan fought with my sword, and when it broke a piece flew back to nick his scalp. And kill him.”

“My God!”

“A foolish thing, a senseless thing. As I said, a vorpal blade.”

They had reached the farthest point of the prison yard, and now the uniformed guard was motioning them back. The exercise period was over, and they must return to their cells. “It is something of a paradox, I suppose,” Von Baden observed as they walked slowly back. “We are caged here because they call us war criminals, and yet I killed this first man because I feared to fight. Was I perhaps a peace criminal in those days?”

But the guard separated them at the entrance and the question went unanswered.

Dead and Breakfast by Marilyn Todd

Marilyn Todd currently sets her work in three different historical periods: Ancient Rome, where we find series heroine Claudia Seferius; Ancient Greece, in which the adventures of High Priestess Iliona unfold; and the 1950s, which the author has chosen for a just-completed novel and a variety of (so far) non-series stories, including last year’s Shamus Award nominee “Room for Improvement.” Her latest published novel is Blood Moon (Severn House), in the Iliona series.

* * *

“Georges, have you put those pillows in Number Twenty-two yet?”

Pillows. Pillows. Georges dragged his eyes away from the grebes out on the lake as he remembered the pile of goosedown in his arms.

“Doing it now, Mother.”

But it was so comical, the way they dived for fish. You watch them go down, follow the ripples on the surface, then pick a spot where you think they’ll come up. Except you’re wrong. Every time, it’s that much further from where you expect them to, and this time one of the grebes had caught a fish. A big one. Georges watched, fascinated by the contest between predator and prey. One false move and the fish was gone forever. Both sides fighting for survival.

“And don’t forget to unblock that drain in the second-floor bathroom while you’re up there, love.”

Drain? He looked at the spanner in his hand. Oh. Drain. “No, no,” he called down. “I won’t forget.”

Georges loved this lake. He loved the way the boats bobbed on smooth days as well as in rough weather, their yards clanking gentle lullabies, their hulls gleaming in the sun. He loved the way that spring dawns glimmered hazy and yellow on the surface, like melted Camembert. How fiery sunsets multiplied out and flickered on the water. How autumn mists swirled round the islands and then disappeared, as if by magic, and how the moon reflected double on the lake. And none of this would be possible, were it not for the pines that surrounded it, repelling the winds that drove in from the west, fending off the snows that swept up from the Pyrenees, thwarting the desiccating frosts that gripped the rest of France. In fact, he thought, if it wasn’t for the gulls, flapping round the perimeter in search of tiddlers in the shallows, you’d think the coast was a lot further than eight kilometres away.

Except not everyone enjoyed neat promenades that served up ice creams and carousels, or took pleasure in roasting themselves on broad, white sandy beaches that stretched to infinity in both directions. The people who holidayed at Georges’ lake were more discriminating. Not for them long treks through woods, laden with parasols and picnic hampers, just to then do battle with the highest dunes in Europe. Let others wrestle with deck chairs and drink lukewarm lemonade—

“Oh, Georgie!” His mother jerked the pillows from his arms with a good-natured, but nonetheless exasperated sigh. “Will you ever stop your silly daydreaming?” She gave his cheek an affectionate squeeze, before setting off down the corridor to give 22 their extra pillows. “But if you don’t mind, love. The drain?”

The what? Oh, that. Second floor. Blocked. At last, the grebe managed to turn the wriggling fish and gulp it down. Almost at once, it was diving back down for more.

“Now, if you wouldn’t mind.” She didn’t seem entirely surprised to find her son still staring out of the window when she returned. “Breakfast’ll be over any minute, and the guests are bound to need the bathroom.”

“Right-oh.”