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

How soon could I get away from this place? I listened anxiously for the sound of a police car. My thoughts were redirected by Rupert. He slipped back into the room and tapped a finger on one of the photographs of the Lady Alienore.

“Always puzzled me, this,” he said. “I’ve spent hours in church on Sundays looking, enchanted, at this figure, and there’s something about her I’ve never understood. Dad says you’re an art historian? Well, tell me, Ellie.” He indicated the flowing hairstyle of the stone image. “In all the other table tombs I’ve seen, the ladies have their hair gathered up into a headdress. Why is this one different?”

Should I tell him? Would he want to hear? I’ve never been able to keep knowledge to myself. “That’s the key to the whole mystery, Rupert,” I said. He looked genuinely at a loss so I went on, “In those times it was the fashion for women to have their hair dressed and caught up in concealing coifs... if you were a respectable, married woman, that is.”

“But Alienore was all that! What are you trying to say?”

“That in those days this sumptuous spread of tresses was seen as the outward badge — the emblem, if you like — of a common prostitute. Whoever put this here knew it and wanted succeeding generations to know it, too. Sir John was announcing this to the world in sculpture. Vilifying his wife for eternity. An obscure but neat way of getting his own back for what he saw as his wife’s shortcomings.”

“Interesting theory, but a bit thin, I think. Impossible to read that much into a hairstyle.”

“Perhaps, but there’s something else. Look here... and here...” I pointed to the inscription which ran around the sides of the tomb. “Know any Latin, Rupert?”

“Enough,” he said. “This, at any rate — I’ve known it for years.” He started to translate the lines about Sir John, his date of death and age at death.

“It’s the short statement about Alienore that’s important,” I said.

“Easy,” said Rupert. “ ‘Hic iacet Alienora Iohannis Hartestis uxor.’ That means ‘Here lies Alienore, wife of John Hartest.’ ”

“But that’s not the end of the sentence. My firm is nothing if not thorough, and back in the past someone must have thought he was not doing his job properly if he failed to check out the condition of the fourth side of the tomb.”

“But you can’t see it. It’s hidden — it’s right up against a half-height run of panelling.”

“As I said — we’re thorough. Someone must have taken down a bit of the panelling to observe the north face and recorded what he saw in a photo — this one.”

“There’s a bit more Latin,” said Rupert, surprised. “But you’ve got me this time. I can’t translate that.”

“I can,” I said slowly. “It’s a continuation of the inscription about Alienore. The whole thing reads: ‘Hic iacet Alienora Iohannis Hartestis uxor et meretrix.’ A slap in the face from beyond the grave.”

“Ellie — please stop showing off and tell me — what the hell does ‘et meretrix’ mean?”

“It means ‘and harlot.’ It says, ‘Alienore — wife and harlot.’ It means, Rupert, that Sir John considered his wife a — what did you say earlier? — a silly little trollop.”

We looked at each other steadily for a moment. The fire crackled. Somewhere a clock struck eleven.

“What are you saying?” Rupert’s voice was smooth and quiet.

“I’m saying that for some men — for some families — the idea of the purity of the line was very important. We’ll never know whether your ancestor went as far as killing his lovely young wife — not unknown in those days — but the legitimacy of his offspring would have been vital to him. If Alienore had been pregnant — inexplicably pregnant — and don’t forget that these old knights were quite frequently away from home, for years on end sometimes — then horrors might ensue on his return. If he suspected that the child was not his, he might well have murdered her.”

He listened without comment. We both knew I was really talking of Taro.

“Of course, we wouldn’t have a problem nowadays,” he said confidently. “DNA testing will sort out any paternity question.”

“After the baby’s born,” I said, “and by then it’s too late if it’s been accepted into a family which declares it never recognises illegitimate children.”

“You’re saying that Taro was killed for a family reason. By me, in fact?”

Before I could answer, Edward strode into the room. He had changed into a black jersey and light linen trousers. I stared. I had been too quick to write him off as a waxed jacket and wellies type. He was slim and tall with stronger features but the same floppy hair as his son. An impressive man.

“Dad!” Rupert greeted him. “How did he take it? Is he all right?”

“Of course. What would you expect? He took it well. His heart may be a bit dicky but there’s nothing wrong with his mental equipment. Steady as ever.”