The Mammoth Book of Historical Crime Fiction

“Auguste Larrey, sir, of the French Sûreté. I had every reason to believe that this device would explode the moment you pressed the switch, and that you would be killed … sir …”

“Balderdash!” Freddie said loudly.

The Ambassador tried to straighten his coat, but it was hardly worth the effort, and he gave up. He looked like a scarecrow that had barely weathered a storm, and he knew it.

“Monsieur Larrey,” he said with freezing politeness. “As you may observe, I have met with great mischance, and in front of our neighbours and friends, the English, but the machine, it has not exploded. It has imploded, under the combined weight of your body and mine. It is wrecked! We owe the English a profound apology! You, sir, will offer it!”

“Yes, Monsieur,” Auguste stammered wretchedly. “Indeed, Monsieur.” He looked at the assembled company. “I am most deeply sorry, ladies and gentlemen — most deeply. I have made a terrible mistake. I regret it and beg your forgiveness.”

* * *

“Really?” Brodie said with wide eyes when Pamela told her of the incident that evening, when they were alone in the withdrawing room, the others having retired. Stockwell was just leaving to see if the footmen had locked up. She looked at Stockwell and caught his answering glance. “How very regrettable” she said with quiet sobriety.

Pamela looked at her narrowly, but said nothing further.

Stockwell cleared his throat. “Indeed,” he said with shining eyes and a rather pink face. “Most regrettable, Madam.

Forty Morgan Silver Dollars

MAAN MEYERS

Maan Meyers is the collaborative pen name of husband-and-wife writing team Annette and Martin Meyers. They have both written novels individually under their own names, but together have penned a series about the Tonneman family in New York, through the centuries. The series began with

The Dutchman (1992), set in 1664, and later novels depict descendants of that family, all with roles in the police or detective forces, up to the late nineteenth century. The latest novel, The Organ Grinder, is set in 1899. The following story takes place soon after the events in that novel and includes two surprising but well-known individuals. The authors impressed upon me that just about every person and almost every event in this story actually happened. Almost …

1

The idea arrived with the mashed potatoes, gravy, plantation stew and biscuits, that week’s house lunch special at the Fred Harvey in Dearborn Station, Chicago, though it had been simmering for a while now.

South America.

They were two travellers, not much different from any of the others, except their hands were gnarled and calloused, their eyes a little more knowing than the travelling salesmen they sat among at the counter.

The one with heavy red side-whiskers had deep-set, wary eyes. The other’s eyes were blue, his hair and handlebar moustache black. They spoke in short sentences, as if they’d been together a long time and knew what the other would say.

Harvey’s food was good and gave value for the money, but Red Whiskers was getting fidgety. He had the itch to get moving. Damn, he couldn’t keep track of all the stuff hopping around in his head. They were almost out of money, and his partner was sitting there shovelling stew and biscuits into his mouth like there was no tomorrow, his moustache full of gravy and crumbs, and him making goo-goo eyes at the waitress.

“Time to skedaddle.”

“Why not.” Handle-Bar gave his moustache a good wipe with his napkin and twirled the end of each point. He winked at the pretty Harvey Girl in her black dress and white apron, felt there was promise in her smile as she cleared away their plates and delivered their coffee. She bobbed and beamed, but she was only doing what Mr Harvey taught the pretty girls he hired to do.

“So?” Red Whiskers said.

“What?” Handle-Bar reckoned that the Harvey Girl was sweet on him.

“Good guess our mugs are all over the place.”

“Better than good.”

“You said something about South America.” Red Whiskers set his cup down. The coffee was hot and bitter.

“Something.”

“Ship out of New York.”

“Right.” His companion downed what was left of his coffee.