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Authors: Jack Adrian (ed)

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'We will travel a distance by night, as you wished.'

Now another surprise was waiting at their tent. As Melchior raised the
flap to enter, there was a whimper from within. Gaspar pushed past his
hesitating companion and lit the oil lamp. By its glow they saw the girl
Thantia crouched behind a pile of robes.

'Please!' she gasped. 'Please hide me. My father has beaten me and I fear
for my life!'

'I fear for ours if he finds you here,' Melchior said.

Gaspar held the oil lamp closer and saw the bruises on her face and arms.
'We cannot send you back to him. Remain here with Melchior and Balthazar. I
will return shortly.'

Then he made his way to the place where old Dibon rested, and he told the
elder what had happened. Dibon nodded and said, 'My daughter and her husband
will find room for Thantia until Nevar regains his senses. You were wise to
come to me.'

Gaspar and his companions delivered the girl to Dibon, and went with them
to the dwelling place of Dibon's daughter. Later, in their tent, Balthazar
grumbled again about the delayed departure. But they settled down at last to
sleep, as the fires of the encampment burned low around them.

In the morning, by the first rays of the rising sun, Gaspar was awakened
by Balthazar's panic-filled voice. 'Wake quickly, Gaspar!' he pleaded, shaking
him. 'Someone has stolen our gold!'

 

Gaspar saw at once that the words were true.

The leather sack of grain contained only grain now. Though the tent showed
no sign of forced entry, and though their regular supplies were untouched, the
gold had vanished.

'I cannot believe it!' Melchior gasped. 'How could a thief have entered
while we slept?'

Gaspar agreed such a thing was impossible. 'The gold was stolen before we
retired last night,' he reasoned. 'We were away from the tent during the gaming
and fire, and again while escorting Thantia. A thief could have entered at
either time.'

'What of the perfume and incense?' Melchior asked.

'Untouched,' Balthazar said. 'My special knot is still in place on the
other bags.'

'Only the gold,' Gaspar mused.

'It is truly as if someone knew where to look.'

'The girl!' Balthazar exclaimed. 'We found her in here! She could have
searched for the gold and found it.'

'Possible,' Gaspar admitted. 'But I cannot bring myself to believe it'.

'We cannot leave Ziza without the gold,' Melchior said.

'Let us put our minds to the problem while we work at the stable,' Gaspar
said.

Now when they reached the stable Nevar was already there, toiling with the
others. He paused in his labours when he saw the three, and shot an accusing
finger at Gaspar. 'You have stolen away my daughter. I will revenge myself!'

'Your daughter is safe, in the care of Dibon and his family.'

His words quieted Nevar, but Melchior asked, 'If he was so concerned, why
did he not come after us in the night?'

Balthazar agreed. 'Or did he come, and steal our gold away?'

Then presently old Dibon appeared, with the girl Thantia at his side. She
cast not a glance in her father's direction, and he went about his work
ignoring her. Gaspar laboured diligently through the morning, instructing Dibon
and the others in Persian building techniques. He too ignored Nevar, not
wanting more trouble.

Once, while Balthazar was off to the well for water, Melchior whispered,
'Is it possible that our companion betrays us, Gaspar? Might he have stolen
the gold himself to cover his losses at the stone game?'

But Gaspar would hear none of it. 'We must never doubt each other,
Melchior. In my heart I know Balthazar is innocent, as I know you are innocent.
And I remember the scene at the stone game. There were gold coins in front of
him. He was winning, not losing.'

'How will we recover the gold, Gaspar?'

'Through the power of our minds, Melchior. We are wise men, and we must
use our minds to determine the thief's identity.'

'But there is no clue to his identity!'

'Sometimes the lack of a clue can be one.'

Balthazar returned with the water and they drank eagerly. Later as they
ate of their supplies, Thantia came to them. 'I thank you for helping me,' she
said. 'The elders have spoken to my father and he has promised never again to
beat me. I will return to him now.'

'We need no thanks,' Gaspar assured her.

Then old Dibon came to join them. 'How may we repay you for your work on
the stable?'

'You may recover our stolen gold,' Balthazar blurted out.

'Gold? Stolen gold?'

'It was stolen from our tent,' Balthazar hurried on, before Gaspar could
silence him.

'There are no thieves in Ziza!'

'There is one.'

'I will summon the elders. We will search for your gold.'

'No, no,' said Gaspar. 'We will recover it.'

'But how?'

'By finding the thief. It is best to say nothing and catch him off guard.'

Old Dibon bowed his head. 'I will do as you suggest.'

'One favour. Could you ask that our horses be brought to us? We must
appear to be leaving.'

Then, as they waited, Balthazar gathered their supplies. And Melchior
said, 'I have put my mind to the problem, Gaspar. But there are too many
possibilities. The girl Thantia could be the thief, or her father Nevar. Or any
of the game players.'

'Or old Dibon himself,' Balthazar added. 'There are too many to suspect.'

Gaspar nodded. 'What is needed is an oracle.'

'You mean to kill a beast as the Romans do?'

Gaspar shook his head. 'My oracle will be a living animal.' He saw the
herdsman Ramoth leading their horses. 'My steed will tell me who has our gold.'

'Your horse?' fat Balthazar laughed. 'Who learns anything from a dumb animal?'

Gaspar held out some grain for the horse. 'You see how he eats? He is
hungry.'

'What does that tell us?' Melchior asked.

'That our gold was stolen by Ramoth!'

It was after Dibon spoke to Ramoth that the young herdsman confessed his
crime and begged forgiveness. When the missing gold had been returned to
Gaspar's hands, the others questioned him.

'How did you know it was Ramoth?' Melchior asked. 'We barely spoke to the
youth.'

'My horse told me, as I told you he would. The horse was hungry, so had
not been fed. You see, the thief never touched our other supplies, never
unfastened Balthazar's special knot. How could he have found the gold so
easily, without searching for it? But the gold was hidden in a sack of grain,
and after the fire destroyed the stable, Ramoth came in search of feed for our
horses. He came while we were away, and looked in only one place—the grain bag.
Feeling the weight of it, his fingers reached through the grain and came upon the
gold. He stole it, but then could not take the grain lest we realize he was the
thief. So the horses went hungry.'

'You are a wise man, Gaspar,'' Balthazar conceded.

'As we all are. Come, let us mount.'

'It will be dark soon,' Melchior said.

Gaspar nodded. 'We will get bearings from the star.'

Dibon was by the well to wish them farewell. 'Ramoth will be punished,' he
promised.

'Show mercy,' Gaspar said.

'Do you ride west with your gold?'

'West with gifts for a King. Gold and frankincense and myrrh.'

'Good journey,' Dibon said.

He watched them for a long time, until the three vanished from sight over
the desert wastes.

 

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to Table of Contents

6
-
Murder in Store
by
P
ETER LOVESEY

 

P
ETER LOVESEY
(b. 1936) made his
name with a series of mystoricals (eight in all) set in Victorian times and
featuring the down-to-earth Sergeant Cribb.

The first Cribb case,
Wobble To Death
(1970), won the Macmillan best first
novel contest and has much to answer for, since it was almost certainly
responsible for the positive plague of Victorian sleuths with which the 1970s,
in retrospect, seem infested (although Arthur Swinson's popular Sergeant Cork
television series and subsequent books did precede). There were times during
that decade when it seemed that no one was writing a detective story not set
sometime during the nineteenth century (and if writers weren't busy doing that
they were dashing off Sherlock Holmes pastiches, which I suppose comes to the
same thing). Some were good, some were not so good; some were downright
dangerous to the blood pressure because their authors went to such insane
lengths to get their dialogue exactly right for the period that, unless you
happened to have a slang dictionary at your elbow, they might just as well have
been writing in Martian.

Lovesey didn't go to those extremes and his Sergeant Cribb books are
enjoyable enough without ever reaching the heights of ingenuity and gamey
realism of Francis Selwyn's (i.e. Donald Thomas's) Sergeant Verity novels or
the hilariously bawdy and inventive depths plumbed in the Jeremy Sturrock (a.k.a.
Ben Healey) saga.

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