The New Black Mask Quarterly (No 2)

Peter Lovesey Trace of Spice

Peter Lovesey is best known for his series of novels featuring the Victorian detective. Sergeant Cribb, who has been seen around the world on television. He prefers, he says, to regard his books as “Victorian police procedural novels.” He was awarded the Gold Dagger of the British Crime Writers Association for The False Inspector Dew (1982). Mr. Lovesey, a former college teacher who lives in Wiltshire, writes that he has made a living out of murder for ten years now. “Trace of Spice” is his most recent story.

The detective-story writer, Lavinia Quan, blessed with a physique that was difficult to sidestep, had succeeded in stopping Justin Fletcher, who reviewed crime fiction for one of the Sunday papers. “Just he man I want a few words with,” she told him ominously. “I wish to inform you that I have not altered my style of book in twenty years and I will not be bludgeoned into doing it by a newspaper critic.”

“Bravely spoken,” Fletcher tactfully remarked. “Why change a formula that pleases so many readers and brings you all those royalties?” Stupid old bat. Even if she turned her Inspector Fotherby into a compulsive flasher, it wouldn’t salvage her books from their monumental tedium. “I hope my review last Sunday didn’t upset you.”

“Your phrase, Mr. Fletcher, was ‘same old recipe without a trace of spice.’ ”

He coughed. Why the hell had she invited him to the party if the piece offended her? “Yes. The metaphor came over a trifle more strongly than I intended. But as a reviewer, Miss Quan, I’m bound to be sensitive to new trends in crime writing. Frankly, your world of country-house parties and decent-mannered detectives is somewhat outmoded.”

“My stories have a foundation in fact, Mr. Fletcher, and so do my characters.” The sweep of Miss Quan’s glance took in most of the room.

God, yes! Why hadn’t he seen it? This house of hers was the country mansion of all her novels. The people standing around were the stock set of suspects who inhabited it. He had already met half a dozen of them, and it had simply not dawned on him. There was the colonel by the french windows with the vicar. Under the chandelier was the eccentric professor making conversation with the inevitable doctor whose eyebrow twitched. The world of Miss Quan’s books was still in existence, preserved like a pharaoh’s tomb here in rural Sussex. There was even a butler — the butler who had done it nine times out of ten! — possibly on hire from a catering firm, but here to the life in tie and tails, carrying a tray of drinks.

Fletcher recovered himself. “Your characters, Miss Quan? Straight from life. It’s your plots I find predictable.”

She frowned. “Really? You attacked my last novel but one for being too implausible. Remember your words? I do. ‘Miss Quan is welcome to select any murderer she likes from her cardboard-cutout kit of suspects. After twenty or more of her novels, I am indifferent to the latest arrangement. But I am bound to protest when she asks me to believe all fifteen of her suspects are equally guilty.’ That was unkind, Mr. Fletcher. It spoiled the book for thousands who would have read it. I shall not forgive you for revealing the denouement of that book.”

Fletcher bridled. He had taken enough of this. If she wanted the truth, she could have it. “The story was totally implausible. Fifteen people with grudges against one man, all combining to murder him? Pure fantasy. Any thriller writer deals in the bizarre and absurd to some extent, but a plot must have its thread of logic. Your book didn’t. That’s why I hammered it.” He smiled. “Even so, I expect your loyal readers bought it in thousands.”

“That isn’t the point,” said Miss Quan icily. Then, with an effort at sociability, “However, you’ll have a drink? I didn’t invite you here to have an argument.”

“No argument,” said Fletcher charitably. “Better if these matters are aired.” He took a whisky from the butler’s tray. There was a good selection of drinks, generous quantities ready poured in English cut glass. The old girl wasn’t in penury yet for all the hostile reviews.

Miss Quan took a glass of Madeira and placed it on the mantelpiece nearby. “Implausible, you said. Suppose I told you, Mr. Fletcher, that I have devised another plot — a neater one, I believe — with the same result, that fifteen people are so united in hatred of one man that they combine to murder him?”

He laughed aloud. “Julius Caesar, eh? That wasn’t a whodunit, as far as I recollect.”

“No,” said Miss Quan quietly. “I’m speaking of something more modern. Right up to date, in fact.”

Fletcher was suddenly conscious that Miss Quan’s voice was the only one in the room. All the other guests stood facing them, glasses in hand, listening.

She went on portentously, “If I told you that we are here tonight to participate in a murder, would you believe me, Mr. Fletcher? There are fifteen of us, if you include the butler, and he most certainly wishes to be included.”

Fletcher’s laugh had a note of unease. “What do you mean? Party games?”

“Not really. We invited you here to exact a kind of justice. You probably assumed that my guests were neighbors. Not so. The vicar there came up from his parish in Cornwall for tonight’s party. You will know him better as Arnold Dellar, the author of A Box for the Bishop. Remember your review last October?”

The vicar himself recited it, intoning the words like the last rites: “ ‘Murder in the Cathedral, modern style. Plot rattles like a collection box. Enough padding to upholster all the pews in St. Paul’s.’ ”

Nobody smiled.

“You were no less vitriolic toward the colonel over there,” Miss Quan continued. “The Bloody Brigadier was his first crime novel and will be his last thanks to you. Yes, we are all crime writers who have suffered from your obnoxious brand of criticism — even the butler. Remember Skulduggery in the Scullery?”

Too well. Fletcher nodded, liking the situation less and less.

“I won’t bore you by listing all the books you have destroyed in your column, Mr. Fletcher, although they meant a good deal to their authors. I shall return to an earlier point.”

Thank God for that! Cold sweat was rolling down his sides.

“You dismissed the notion of fifteen people participating jointly in a murder as preposterous. Look around you, Mr. Fletcher. Do you doubt our ability to commit a crime? Aren’t we the experts? And haven’t we motive enough? When you have sacrificed countless precious hours to bring to life a work that a critic snuffs out in two sentences, you have the motive, believe me.”

He was ready to believe anything.

“Since you are a connoisseur, Mr. Fletcher, I’ll tell you how this plot unfolds. Each of us, naturally, is conversant with the properties of the deadly poisons. Instead of bringing bottles lo the party tonight, my guests brought vials of strychnine, cyanide, digitalis, and others they could obtain. Everyone brought something — isn’t that the rule at all the best modern parties? We added something deadly and quick-acting to each of the drinks on the butler’s tray. You took a whisky, I notice, and you haven’t tried it yet. I can’t tell you what went into it, but we may know from your reaction. Aren’t you going to try it?” Remembering something, Miss Quan snapped her fingers. “Of course! As a connoisseur, you want to know how we plan to dispose of the, em, inevitable. With a doctor and a vicar in our group, need I say more? Drink up, Mr. Fletcher.”

He looked at the yellowy liquid. The idea was outrageous. Pure fantasy. A party joke. His gaze returned to the faces watching him, decent, inoffensive people anyone would respect. Would a doctor or a vicar countenance such a thing? It had to be an elaborate practical joke. The hell with them all.

He raised his glass high. “To crime, then, ladies and gentlemen,” he announced, his confidence returning, “of the fictional kind!” Without another thought, he gulped it down and looked around the room.

No one else had lifted a glass.