A Lesson Learned

Nancy laid aside her knitting and picked up her book, which was sitting beside her on the sofa. She’d been saving it for bed-time but couldn’t wait; her hero was about to meet the love interest of this particular novel. She knew it because at the end of the previous chapter, he’d caught sight of a woman, and… Nancy went back and read that part again.

Mason looked up from his coffee. There, gliding across the piazza towards him, came a dream-like vision of loveliness, her diaphanous dress billowing seductively in the warm Tuscan breeze — the same breeze that now stroked the hairs on his forearms to attention.

As if in harmony with the text, Nancy felt the scant hairs on her own wrinkled forearms react. She chuckled softly, and to prolong the pleasurable expectation of what was to come in the next chapter, she closed the book to look at the cover, keeping her thumb on the page.

Death In Siena was the title, and underneath that, the familiar tagline: Mason Chamber, man of mystery. He may love you. He may kill you.

Nancy had read all the twelve previous books in the series. In each one there was a passionate love affair, as well as a good number of violent deaths. Mason’s weapon of choice was a knife — silent, elegant, lethal — and he was an expert in the use of it. Nancy didn’t mind the violence because Mason was one of the good guys, and the people he killed were not.

Opening the book again, Nancy fidgeted to get comfortable. But then she felt it: a real breeze this time, on her neck. No, not a breeze — a draught. She frowned, perplexed.

Before settling down, she’d made sure all the windows and doors in the house were closed and had laid a draught-excluder at the base of the living-room door.

She twisted round one way and saw that the living-room door was open. She twisted the other way and saw the man.

With a muted little shriek, she let go of the book and made to scramble off the sofa. The man’s words stopped her.

“No missus. You just stay where you are.”

His tone was flat, neutral. Somehow, Nancy wished he were more brusque; ‘neutral’ suggested hidden layers. She’d learned this from the Mason Chamber books: the scariest baddies were the ones that didn’t seem to have any emotions.

“What do you want from me?” she managed when the man had moved across the room to face her. He was thin, with greasy black hair and an untidy beard. Nancy caught his unwashed scent.

“From you personally, nothing.” The man glanced from Nancy to various points of the room; ‘shifty’, she’d call him. “I’m no psycho, don’t worry. That is … no need to worry if you’re straight with me.”

“I don’t understand.” Nancy’s voice was trembling, she could feel it.

“When I say ‘straight’, I mean that if you speak truthfully, no harm will come to you.”

The man went over to the sideboard and poked around at the ornaments on top of it.

“I don’t have any money, if that’s what you’re after,” Nancy said, a little bolder.

The man turned to her and shook his head ruefully.

“There you go. See what I mean? You’re not being straight with me. And what did I just say?”

He reached in his pocket and pulled out something that looked like it was made of a yellowish metal. Nancy had seen these before in crime films on the TV: a knuckleduster. The man slipped it over the fingers of his right hand and punched his left palm.

Nancy flinched and pulled her cardigan around her as a reflex.

“You wouldn’t hurt an old lady,” she said; the tremble had returned to her voice.

“I never have,” the man said in the same flat tone and now with a menacing grin. “But there’s always a first time…”

Nancy’s mind raced. She glanced around the room for inspiration, then down at the book by her side. What would Mason do in this situation? she thought. Then she remembered the plot of Death In Paris, book 5 in the series. Play for time, that’s what! And then—

“So?” the man said. “What do you reckon?”

“Well, if I did have any money,” Nancy said, “and I gave it to you, what’s to stop you killing me anyway? I mean, I’ve seen your face, haven’t I?”

“Very true.” The man rummaged about in the drawers of the sideboard, throwing bills, letters, pens and pencils onto the floor. Moving away, he pulled a chair out from under the dining table and sat, fixing Nancy with an icy glare.

“But I would bank on you not telling the cops anything because, you see, I know where you live. And if I go to jail, I have friends who will know where you live. So, all in all, I think you just might give me what I want.”

“But I told you,” she said defiantly, “I don’t have any money. I mean, look at this place. Does it look like I’m a rich woman? No, I’m a pensioner. And do you know how much a pensioner gets these days.”

The man stood up and punched his palm again.

“I’m losing my patience, missus,” he snarled through gritted teeth. Nancy was half-pleased he’d lost his even tone because that could mean he’d dropped his guard.

“All right, all right,” she said, putting on a whimper she hoped was convincing. “Don’t hurt me! The money’s in…”

She began weeping, mumbling her words now.

“What’s that?” the man said, straining to catch what she was saying.

Nancy continued to weep and mumble, throwing in the odd intelligible word, like “cupboard” and “shelf”.

The man came across and grabbed her by the shoulders, shaking her.

“What’s that?!” he repeated. “Stop mum—”

The knitting needle pierced his heart as he spoke. He let out a strangled grunt, his face a mask of pain and surprise. Then he fell backwards onto the floor with a heavy thud.

Nancy pulled herself off the sofa and prodded the man with her foot. His body jerked — once, twice — and then was still.

When she was quite sure he wouldn’t be moving ever again, she went to the sideboard, picked up the phone and dialled a short number.

They told her not to touch anything, that they’d be there in ten minutes.

While she was waiting, she settled back on the sofa and picked up her book.

“Now, where was I?” she said to herself.