Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 122, Nos. 3 & 4. Whole Nos. 745 & 746, September/October 2003

Sir Quentin and his fair Elaine strode out upon the sward
To steal a quiet moment from the celebrating horde.
The shadowed wood did beckon them.
The cooling breeze did sigh.
The lady caught a lusty gleam within her lordship’s eye.
But deep within the cozy copse a painful moan did sound
And soon the lovers noticed
Drops of red were sprinkled ’round.
The knight stretched out a gauntlet
And touched a scarlet smear.
“Forsooth, Elaine,” Sir Quentin said,
“Foul mischief happened here.
The archers in their joyous zeal have let their arrows fly.
Some forest creature mort’ly pierced
Has crawled away to die.
’Twas careless of those fellows.
They shall feel my rightful wrath.”
But quoth the fair Elaine to him,
“Please, Pete, I need a bath.
This corselet’s crushed my ribs and waist.
The headdress weighs a ton.
You can run around in sword and spurs,
But I’m not having fun.”
And turning on her slippered foot
From the dappled glade she ran,
Leaving her weekend warrior, a young dejected man.
“Pat, wait,” he cried and then he spied
A limp and bloody hand.
“Oh, help me,” said a wretched voice, “Please help me or I’ll die.”
But frightened of legalities, Pete let the victim lie.
He soon joined Pat, they drove on home
To air-conditioned clime.
A movie and hot popcorn would now occupy their time.
But far away bright moonlight shines upon the newly dead.
And gleaming still upon the grass
Are darkened drops of red.

Cupid’s Arrow by Marilyn Todd

Marilyn Todd’s eighth Claudia Seferius novel, Dark Horse, was published by Severn House in the U.K. in October of 2002, and received a strong review in PW. Claudia also continues to solve crimes at short story length, while managing to avoid romantic entanglement with her nemesis, Marcus Cornelius Orbilio. “I enjoy writing these Claudia stories so much, it almost feels like I’m indulging in a guilty liaison,” Ms. Todd confessed to EQMM.

* * *

“Let me see if I’ve got this right.”

Claudia stopped pacing and ticked the points off on her fingers.

“In six days’ time, we, as producers and merchants of fine wines, celebrate the Vinalia, when no lesser light than the priest of Jupiter himself will pronounce the auspices for the forthcoming vintage?”

“Correct, madam.”

“Except,” she turned to face her steward, “we have no grapes to lay on his altar on the Capitol as offerings?”

“Correct.”

“Because some clod on my estate came down with a sniffle and the bailiff took it upon himself to quarantine the entire workforce?”

“To be fair, madam, the clod in question was the bailiff himself. He did not feel he could jeopardise the harvest by exposing—”

“Yes or no to the grapes?”

“Yes. No. I mean, yes, we have no—”

“So in effect, I’m asking the King of the Immortals, God of Justice, God of Honour, God of Faith, who shakes his black goatskin cloak to marshal up the storm clouds and who controls the weather, good and bad, to very kindly not drop a thunderbolt over my Etruscan vineyards, even though I haven’t bothered to propitiate him this year?”

The steward’s Adam’s apple jiggled up and down as his long, thin face crumpled like a piece of used papyrus. “That does appear to pretty much sum up the current situation, madam.”