The Mammoth Book of Historical Crime Fiction Read Online Free PDF

Scaurus was distinctly low-key. There were just the three of us, in a small garden at the back of the palace. We sat like civilized men under a fine old beech tree, and a boy served wine and honey cakes.
    Hiero – he was the third member of the party – wiped his lips delicately on a linen napkin and gave Scaurus a friendly smile. “I asked you here,” he said, “to see if we can’t work something out. Something sensible,” he added. “Just the three of us.”
    Scaurus nodded gracefully. “I can’t see why we shouldn’t be able to,” he said. “If you’re prepared to be realistic.”
    Hiero nodded. “And since you’re such an admirer of my cousin’s work,” he went on, “I’ve asked him along. I know you’ve had your differences, let’s say, but I feel sure that deep down, both of you men of science, you can really talk to each other. Wouldn’t you say?”
    “Of course,” Scaurus said. “And you’re right. The very greatest admiration.”
    I acknowledged the compliment as best I could. “Maybe,” I said, “we could have a chat about scientific method.”
    A slight frown crossed Scaurus’ face. “I’d have thought we had rather more urgent—”
    I raised my hand. “Method first,” I said, “then the specifics.”
    He shrugged. “If you like.”
    “What I admired about that paper of yours,” I went on, “wasn’t the actual conclusions, which are fanciful, or the empirical data, which is deeply flawed. No, what I liked was the approach . Confronted, you said, with various different explanations for an observed phenomenon – all of which fit the facts equally well – logic requires that we choose the explanation that calls for the least number of new assumptions. Is that right?” I asked nicely. “My Latin’s nothing special, but I think that’s what you said.”
    He looked at me as if he didn’t like me nearly as much as he used to. “More or less,” he said.
    “In other words,” I went on, “the simplest explanation is likely to be the right one.”
    “That’s not actually what I—”
    “Near enough,” I said firmly, “is good enough. In which case,” I went on, “try this. The simplest explanation for what happened to Naso isn’t that he climbed the wall on his own, or that this mysterious and wonderful flute-girl of yours winched him over the wall on an improvised crane. The simplest explanation,” I said, beaming at him like the rising sun, “is that when he came outside to shag the flute-girl, he found the sergeant of his honour guard waiting for him. The sergeant killed him, and a couple of squaddies lugged him out through the open gate and put him on a cart, to be disposed of later in a nearby warehouse. Well?” I asked him. “Simple enough for you?”
    Bless him. He didn’t say a word.
    “And why would the sergeant do such a thing?” I continued. “Because he was ordered to, or paid, or both. Who by? Well, that’s a subject for speculation, I grant you. It could have been a member of a rival political faction – let’s see, Naso was well up in the Popular party, just as you’re quite well thought of among the Optimates, aren’t you? Or maybe it was someone who reckoned the best way to make sure there’d be a war would be by manufacturing a serious diplomatic incident. Mind you,” I added, “they’d have to be a Optimate, since the Populars don’t want a war right now. Or it could simply have been the uncle of Naso’s first wife; you know, the one who died in mysterious circumstances, falling down the stairs or something like that, thereby making it possible for Naso to marry that rich and well-connected heiress. Or maybe it was just that someone whose career’s been nothing special lately simply wanted his job. We just don’t know. I’m sure,” I added sweetly, “that once we’ve shared our theories with Naso’s friends in the Populars, they’d have no trouble thinking of someone who answers one of those descriptions. Or maybe all of