Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 100, Nos. 4 & 5. Whole Nos. 603 & 604, October 1992

Farmers told about it on Saturday when they came into town for market. They told of weird sounds and strange lights and of owls flying through the air the night before. On Sunday a priest heard of it and led some of his bolder parishioners to the spring. They found the destroyed grove grown up into a thick and rambling copse. There was no sign of the burned shrine. But there were other things.

Sir John Mandeville lived at the inn, so he was usually among the first customers at its tavern after dusk. On a cool September evening, Tuesday the third of the month, he was especially convivial. People crowded in, seeking light and warmth and companionship. As on many recent occasions, they looked to the one man in the city who would know how to deal with arcane events.

Mandeville received them gladly. He told them of the race of Cyclops, huge men with one eye in the middle of their foreheads, of others who had no heads at all but had eyes in their shoulders, of the damsel changed into the likeness of a dragon — all scary tales from distant lands. But of the horror at home, no one spoke.

Then Alain entered. Hankin Levo, the innkeeper, greeted Alain with enthusiasm. Patrons of the tavern were even more obsequious. After all, Alain was an echevin, a member of the municipal governing council, and a man of undetermined but considerable wealth.

Only Mandeville failed to show pleasure at his entry. The old man was in the middle of one of his yarns and hated distractions. He paused, waved Alain to an empty chair at his table, and resumed his narrative. “It has been told, though I myself have not seen them, that there are Pygmies only a cubit tall who marry and beget children when they are only three years old and who grow old when they are five. They are nourished solely by the aroma of apples...”

The traveler’s story continued but Alain’s thoughts were on Louise de Broux.

He had seen her only once, last May. He had found her, a beautiful child of fourteen, screaming in terror as a large rat alternately lunged at her and then retreated when she kicked at it and flapped her skirts. The rat had her cornered and was attacking out of simple meanness.

Alain didn’t bother to scare it away. He drew a dagger and hurled it at the beast, killing it at once. The girl calmed immediately. She smiled at him and laughed, a wonderful smile and a happy laugh. “You must be Alain the rat killer,” she said.

He admitted that he was.

“How lucky for me it was you who came by.”

“And how lucky for me,” he replied.

The unconscious gallantry brought about a subtle change in the girl. Her hands, which had been clutching her skirt, let it drop and smoothed it out. Her smile softened from delight to pleasure and her eyes spoke messages which no daughter of the nobility would ever put into words to a commoner, even a wealthy echevin.

Laughter in the tavern brought Alain back to the present.

Mandeville had finished his story and was looking at him with mock disgust. “You don’t have to laugh at my stories,” he said, “but at least you might listen. Where was your mind? You have been staring at that glass of wine for ten minutes. Wine is meant for drinking, not for crystal gazing, though there is a certain Spanish wine that can conjure up five friendly familiar spirits if one gazes intently enough and says the right charm.”

“I wasn’t crystal gazing. I was thinking of a rat I killed last summer.”

“It must have been some rat. What made it different from the hundreds you kill every week?”

“Not hundreds. The people exaggerate. Still, hardly a day goes by that I don’t kill at least one. I hate the creatures.”

The last was said with such passion that Mandeville couldn’t ignore it. “Some special reason?”

“When I was a child,” Alain began, then moved his hand across his eyes to dismiss the subject. “Let’s not talk about rats. I hate them. How’s your gout?”

Mandeville smiled and drained the last of his wine. “The gout is much better,” he said. “The climate of Liege suits my old bones.”

Mandeville’s beard of three colors began to bristle. Alain knew this to be a sign of curiosity. The man who had traveled all over the world never lost his inquisitiveness. “When will Freddy Pluys return?” he asked.

“Not until November. We are delivering tapestries to Genoa for Julien Feys. Freddy is to come back with olive oil. Why?”

“I asked Freddy to make notes for me on the increase of rats in Paris, Naples, and other places. I’m puzzled at the increase. I’d like to know where it is greatest and why. Your mention of killing a rat reminded me.

“That brings up another matter. Those daggers of yours, they are especially made for throwing, aren’t they?”

“Yes. I can generally kill a rat with any dagger or knife, but I never miss with these.”

“And I bet I could name the man who made them for you. He lives in Milan, doesn’t he?”