The Mammoth Book of Historical Whodunnits Volume 3
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Synopsis
The third new collection of historical murder and mystery stories A brilliant new collection of thirty stories of mystery and intrigue spread over three thousand years, from Ancient Egypt to spies on the Titanic. Selected by bestselling editor Mike Ashley, the stories include brand new contributions as well as rare reprints, from writers such as Ian Rankin, Lynda Robinson, Sharan Newman, Gail Frazer, Gillian Linscott and Peter Tremayne. Among the characters featured are the Queen of Sheba, Attila the Hun, Hildegarde of Bingen, Geoffrey Chaucer, Henry the Navigator and Benjamin Franklin. And with settings as far-ranging as Botany Bay and ancient Pisa, New Amsterdam and old Edinburgh, ancient Greece and the court of Kublai Khan.
Release date: February 27, 2015
Publisher: Robinson
Print pages: 470
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The Mammoth Book of Historical Whodunnits Volume 3
Mike Ashley
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All of the stories are copyright in the name of the individual authors or their estates as follows. Every effort has been made to trace the holders of copyright. In the event of any inadvertent transgression of copyright please contact the editor via the publisher. My thanks to David Sutton of Copyright Watch and Bill Pronzini for their help in tracing authors’ estates.
“The Duke’s Tale” © 2005 by Cherith Baldry. First publication; original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author.
“His Master’s Servant” © 2005 by Philip Boast. First publication; original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author and the author’s agent, Dorian Literary Agency.
“Murder in Old Manhattan” © 1945 by McCall Corporation. First published in Blue Book Magazine, January 1946. Copyright © renewed 1973 by Frank Bonham. Reprinted by arrangement with Golden West Literary Agency. All rights reserved.
“The Living and the Dead” © 2005 by Judith Cutler. First publication; original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author.
“Death in the Desert” © 2005 by Jean Davidson. First publication; original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author and the author’s agent, Dorian Literary Agency.
“The Witching Hour” © 2005 by Martin Edwards. First publication; original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author.
“If Serpents Envious” © 1998 by Clayton Emery. First published in Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine, July 1998. Reprinted by permission of the author.
“Footprints” © 1929 by Jeffery Farnol. First published in Collier’s Weekly, 11 May 1929. Reprinted by permission of the author’s estate.
“The Stone-Worker’s Tale” © 2005 by Margaret Frazer. First publication; original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author.
“The Jester and the Mathematician” © 2000 by Alan R. Gordon. First published in Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine, February 2000. Reprinted by permission of the author.
“Threads of Scarlet” © 2005 by Claire Griffen. First publication; original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author.
“The Uninvited Guest” © 1996 by Edward D. Hoch. First published in Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine, November 1996. Reprinted by permission of the author.
“Sea of Darkness” © 2005 by Sarah A. Hoyt. First publication; original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author.
“Poisoned with Politeness” © 1997 by Gillian Linscott. First published in Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine, September/October 1997. Reprinted by permission of the author.
“The Gentleman on the Titanic” © 1999 by John Lutz. First published in Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine, November 1999. Reprinted by permission of the author.
“Botanist at Bay” © 2005 by Edward Marston. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author.
“The Dutchman and the Wrongful Heir” © 2005 by Annette and Martin Meyers. First publication; original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the authors.
“Benjamin’s Trap” © 1994 by Richard W. Moquist. First published in The Franklin Mysteries (Salt Lake City, Northwest Publishing Inc, 1994). Reprinted by permission of the author.
“Catherine and the Sybil” © 2005 by Sharan Newman. First publication; original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author.
“The Tenth Commandment” originally © 1912 by Melville Davisson Post. First published in Saturday Evening Post, 2 March 1912. Copyright expired in 2001.
“The Serpent’s Back” © 1998 by John Rebus Ltd. First published in Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine, April 1998. Reprinted by permission of the author and the author’s agent, Curtis Brown Ltd.
“The Oracle of Amun” © 2005 by Mary Reed and Eric Mayer. First publication; original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the authors.
“The Judgment of the Gods” © 2005 by Robert Reginald. First publication; original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author.
“The Abolitionist” © 2005 by Lynda S. Robinson. First publication; original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author.
“Cupid’s Arrow” © 2003 by Marilyn Todd. First published in Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine, September/October 2003. Reprinted by permission of the author.
“The Spiteful Shadow” © 2005 by Peter Tremayne. First publication; original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author and the author’s agent, A. M. Heath & Co.
For once I shall part with convention. In all my previous anthologies I have set out the stories in chronological order from the earliest setting to the most recent. Although the rest of the anthology follows that format I wanted this story to open the book because it contains a theme which will keep recurring. It is set during the Crusades when the European and Arabian cultures clashed, something we are still all too familiar with today, and the basis of this story prepares us both to look further back in time and to consider the present. You will find the theme of prejudice throughout this anthology, whether it be religious, racial, sexual or philosophical.
Philip Boast has written a number of historical epics, often with a fantasy or religious theme, including Sion (1999), the story of Jesus and Mary Magdalene, and Deus (1997), which also has links with the Crusades and deals with the legacy of a crime committed in London in the thirteenth century.
“Hear your servant, O Lord!”
I waited. Darkness. The single candle flame. The stone walls of my prayer-cell.
“Your humble servant begs you to hear, Lord.”
Silence.
“Lord, give me strength to slaughter the infidels,” I prayed. “Guide my sword to the throats of the Saracen demons. Give me grace to kill those spawn of Hell, their women, and children, and their animals, and burn their buildings and blasphemous books, to make a world fit for your holy Cross.”
I whispered prayers until I was hoarse. Not a sound in the great fortress; the ninth hour of the night, the soul’s darkest hour between Matins and Lauds. My aching knees bled into my chain mail, my hair-shirt burned and itched my flesh. I rested my forehead on my sword-hilt shaped like the Cross. “Lord, give us back Jerusalem.” Jerusalem, City of God, that we call Hierosolyma. “Let me die seizing your holy City from the devils. Show me a sign.”
But my master, the one true God, did not reply.
I groaned, falling on my face. What earthly master notices his servant? None. The servant performs his duties or is whipped. But to be ignored is worse.
I grasped the whip-handle that lay on the stone bed, tore my back bare of my hair-shirt, raised the whip high.
“Grant my eyes one last sight of Jerusalem, O Lord,” I prayed.
“Sir Roger,” said a small voice.
I brought down the whip upon my back, in flagellante delicto, the agony both startling and familiar.
Know me, Christian: I am Sir Roger de Belcourt, servant and slave of the One True God, Knight of the Order of the Poor Soldiers of Christ and the Temple of Solomon. I am Knight Templar, soldier of God, warrior-priest. My life is God and death.
The healing blood trickled on my spine. More, more, I cried. Hear your loyal servant, O Lord. I was dizzy with prayer.
“Sir, ’tis me!” That small voice again, mouse-small, frightened.
I paused, panting and rose to my knees. The boy stood in the doorway, sixteen years at most, head bowed over the candle in his hand, peeping eyes terrified. He was small because starved as a child, abandoned at Temple Gate in London; I am six feet tall, my sword longer than he. I stared at the lad through my sweat, the lead tails of the whip dripping my blood, trying to think.
“Sir Roger,” he quavered, “ ’Tis I, Dickon-a-Ferret, your servant.”
“Ah,” I croaked. “You. It’s wrong for a master to forget his servant.” I tousled his hair. “Dickon, yes.”
“For the last five years,” he said eagerly, “since I was a child and Jerusalem was lost to Satan, I serve you night and day.”
I’d hardly noticed the boy; why should I, my weapons and armour are always oiled ready, my war-horse saddled; on campaign he turns up wine, a cockerel leg, a loaf, something; a good servant.
“Well, boy, goodnight.” I threw myself on the straw. “I’ll sleep now. Wake me for Lauds.”
In chapel we thousand knights pray as one man, brothers all. There are no women here, not one. No female contaminates our purity. The only female flesh I have touched, to my knowledge, is my mother when I was born. My war-horse is a stallion, to ride a meek small mare would disgrace me. Hen, or sow, or ewe, or cow meat, has never passed my lips. No milk, ever. The boy coughed, still waiting. I sighed. “What?”
“Sir,” he burst out. “ ’Tis someone!”
I opened my eyes.
“The Master sent me, sir. He commands your presence.”
“The Master?” I blinked, fully awake. “De Gondemar commands me?”
“Himself!” squeaked the boy. “Quick, sir.” He covered my torn hair-shirt with a linen vest (permitted in hot climates), jumped on the bed to pull my tabard over my head, lifted my sword from the rack with both hands and strapped it around my waist. “He commands no delay!”
There’s no mirror in my cell lest the sin of vanity claim me, but there was a water trough in the stone corridor. I glimpsed my face as I plunged my head beneath the surface: my blue eyes in blistered sunburnt cheeks, lips split by weeks of thirst on campaign, black beard matted to my chest, unkempt hair to my shoulders.
My tabard was blazoned with the Holy Cross, red on white, in God’s fresh blood.
I walked fast. “Is the castle attacked?”
He ran behind me, not my equal. “All’s quiet, sir.”
It was too quiet. The king’s men snored. I stepped over them in the shadows. None woke. Where were the sentries? From the winding stair I crossed the Order’s immense stable, a thousand stallion ready for battle at an hour’s notice despite the truce forced on us by Satan’s army. Princes back home stabbed us in the back with intrigues and vices, and so the Devil, taking the shape of his creature Saladin, mocked us safe from the conquered heart of Christendom: our holy, bleeding city of Jerusalem, which my eyes would never see again.
“Where’s the stable boys?” I whispered.
No sentries on the ramparts, only the moonlit sea. I pushed the boy away and drew my sword. “Orders, sir,” he whispered. “No one sees you come or go. The Master says so.”
“Why?” I kept my sword ready, and well clear of pillars and dark doorways.
“Someone, sir. Disguised. From outside. Masked, his cape caked with desert-dust.”
“No traveller crosses the desert, it’s a place of demons.”
“Yes, sir,” he shuddered.
It was a long, steep climb to Gondemar’s quarters. No aide-de-camp, not even a foot-soldier waiting at the stair-top. The heavy arched door to the sanctum swung open at my touch. The Master, shorter than I and plumper, took my elbow without a word. The door closed softly behind. “What of my servant?” I asked.
“Who?” Gondemar already forgot the boy. Without a word, nervous, agitated, he led me to his private sanctum. A few candles flickered in the great turret, casting more shadow than illumination. The sanctum was a masonic circle on several levels joined by stairs. Tapestries and hieroglyphs hid the stone walls, a fortune in golden books lay stacked on sideboards, and I was amazed by a huge Holy Bible open on a stand, the first I’d seen outside a chapel. Such knowledge is dangerous without a priest’s guidance, yet thrilling; I glimpsed dense hand-written Latin, some monk’s life’s work, but still Gondemar pulled me forward. A candle flared in the draught from an arrow-slit, and for a moment I marvelled at a Templar world-map with Jerusalem at its centre. In a chair behind the map something moved, a shape more shadow than flesh, then a crown-circlet glinted. I gasped and threw myself to my knees. The King, but not a word was said.
Gondemar lifted me to my feet, murmuring, “Whoever you think you see here, he is not.”
I nodded, for Gondemar commands me, and over him the Pope, not King Richard. Behind the English King who was not here, and a few steps below, a half-shadow moved across a lower level as though blown by the draught. I could not fix my eye on its shape; examining a book, the weave of a tapestry – I glimpsed a pale hand – moving on.
Gondemar began, “A matter of the utmost delicacy –”
I drew my sword with a clatter. “I’m your man, Master!”
There was laughter from below. A child’s laughter. There was mockery in it.
“ ‘I’m your man’,” drawled the King’s voice. “My dear Gondemar, is this bluff fellow really the same Sir Roger de Belcourt who famously claimed that, if it could be proven to him beyond doubt, he would deny even the existence of God?”
“Indeed, Sire.” Gondemar sounded uncomfortable. “He was lucky to escape excommunication and the stake. On the other hand, as His Holiness the Pope pointed out, St Augustine proved beyond doubt that God definitely does exist, so the question of Him not doing so cannot possibly arise. Sir Roger was freed from his chains without recanting.”
“An honest man, then?”
“I believe no less, Sire.”
“Perhaps he is a lucky fool.”
“A righteous Christian,” Gondemar said. “A heart pure and true.”
“Truth is dangerous,” Richard murmured. “Is he ready to die horribly?”
“No man is braver.” Gondemar pressed my hand, returning my half-drawn sword to its scabbard. “You won’t need that tonight, Sir Roger. You’re asked for by name.”
I glanced at the King. “No, not by me, sir knight.” Richard sounded ill, weary. “I return to England, to more troubles of my own.”
Gondemar said, “By Saladin.”
“Satan?” I echoed dumbly, “Satan asks for me?” A shudder ran up my back – a shudder, and a thrill.
“Your honest man’s a fool!” called the child. “Time’s wasting.”
Gondemar ploughed on. “Your dangerous reputation spreads like a net to trap you, Sir Roger. Even Satan, it seems, hears of your, ah, controversial honesty.”
“Shall I prize compliments from our enemies?”
“Is it a compliment?” laughed the child.
“Saladin wishes to meet you, Sir Roger. The moment demands an honest man.”
I stared. At the Horns of Hattin the Devil-spawn captured ten thousand knights alive by a trick, and ordered them sodomised and beheaded in one afternoon. The bodies were eaten by dogs. He wished to meet me.
“My dear fellow, he’s a civilized chap,” Richard said. “In his way.”
The King wished the meeting to happen. Gondemar tugged my arm nervously.
I said hoarsely, “Where?”
The child called up, “Jerusalem, Sir Roger. Are you tempted?”
My ears roared. I clasped the railing that saved me from falling down the steps. “Jerusalem!” I heard myself say. “I have prayed for it with all my heart.”
“The holy city of Allah, al-Quds,” the child mused wickedly. I realised it was no child; the voice was wrong, a devil had stolen a child’s form. The shadow below me turned, gazing up. I could not see its hideous face, only its eyes flickering like candle-flames. From bending in examination of a book, suddenly it stood tall.
I cried out, “What devil are you?”
“I am no devil.” It held up its hand to me, and of course I shrank back from the horrific scent of its perfume, the stink of Hell itself: a woman. “I am Leyla ad-Din Salah,” she murmured, “precious and beloved daughter of the man you call Saladin, or Satan, who asks for your help.”
I couldn’t think. Worse than a demon. A woman.
A she-devil worse than any I could have imagined, for she would flay bare my very soul. But that was in the future; though only a short time in the future.
“A woman!” I cried out. “A woman has entered our fortress.”
“Sir Roger,” tsked the King, whom I suppose was quite used to the company of women, “there’s no need to shout. You’ll wake the horses.”
“Your man’s a fool after all,” the woman said contemptuously. “Have I been sent on a fool’s errand and risked my life for nothing?”
How could she be here? No knight would let her in. “Our fortress is impregnable,” I cried. “By what magic did you enter? How did you cross the desert? How could guards protect you, a mere woman?”
“I am my father’s daughter, servant and emissary. As for guards,” she said coolly, turning her back to me, “I travel alone. As for the desert, it is my home. As for your silly castle, it is not impregnable to one woman, one rowboat, one rope.” Examining a book with interest, not looking at me, she held a parchment over her shoulder. “The letter from my father.”
I went down the steps alone, came close, and took the parchment without touching her fingers. Her perfume was stronger down here. I opened it, shaking.
Not a word made sense. Her voice mocked me. “Do you not read Arabic, Sir Roger?”
The Devil’s tongue! I shook my head, contaminated by the air she breathed.
“Gondemar, your Master, does.” Still she did not look round. “So many of your Order’s books are in Arabic, are they not? Without our scholars you Christians would know nothing of the wisdom of the Greeks, or mathematics, or the stars.”
“There’s nothing wrong with knowledge, even infernal knowledge, in the right hands,” Gondemar said.
The girl turned to me suddenly, squeezing a corner of the letter between her fingertips. Her eyes were wide, black-brown, deep; I saw nothing of her hair, if she had any, and her face – if she had one – was blank, concealed by a veil. Our fingers touched the same parchment. I snatched away my hands as though they burnt.
“Permit me to read aloud my father’s words to you.” Her voice was lighter and higher than a man’s, yes, but with depths, nuance, dark smoothness: so this was how a woman’s voice sounded. “ ‘Sir Roger de Belcourt, greetings. Your name is put to me as that as an honest, rational man, a rarity among Christians.’ ” She gave a little giggle. “Is he not naughty, my father? Anyway, he continues. ‘Such a Christian is not my enemy but, I pray, my friend. I have need of you, friend. My dear cousin Haran ad-Din, of blessed memory, is murdered most foully. The cursed murderer stole an object of great value from his body, an object of which poor Haran was the caretaker not the owner. The murderer was arrested almost at once, a Christian Jew well known to me who is now, along with his family and a steward, my house guest. His name is Belmondo; he claims you will remember him.’ ”
I nodded. “The richest man in Jerusalem. Rich as a Templar treasury, they said.”
She raised one of her eyebrows, which were all I saw of her except her eyes, most expressively. “Rich indeed, to be so rich.”
I ignored the barb. “I didn’t know him well. A soldier in his youth, then a merchant. He supplied wine to the chapel, I recall. I went to his house once or twice. His son, drafted into our city guard, begged to join our Order.” I groped for his name. “He was baptised William, but Belmondo practised Jewish ritual, I believe, even as he professed Christianity to us. The boy’s Jewish name was Reuben. He joined his father’s business in the end, I believe.”
She read, “ ‘There is no doubt Belmondo committed the crimes.’ ”
“That’s difficult to believe.”
She stopped, curious. “Sir Roger?”
“Why should the richest man in Jerusalem murder Satan’s cousin, I mean Saladin’s cousin, of all people, to steal something of value? I cannot see the reason.”
“Nevertheless, that is what happened.”
“Were Haran and Belmondo enemies?”
“Good friends. That night Haran was Belmondo’s guest at his house.”
“Can the object be of very great value?”
“To my father, perhaps. A jewel,” she murmured, with a small sideways shrug that I would learn to recognise. “The Rose of the Nile.”
“Why should Belmondo not simply purchase the bauble?”
“It would not be for sale.”
I contemplated Saladin’s dilemma: an Islamic leader newly ruling a fractious divided city, his dead high-born cousin whose blood must be avenged, an odd and irrational theft, and a murderer-thief who is Christian, Jewish, and rich enough for half the city to be his friend. Even great Saladin must clothe revenge with justice. Whose guilty verdict could be trusted more than that of an enemy, if he be an honest man? “So I, a trusted Christian, an incorruptible Templar knight, am to examine the crime and proclaim Belmondo damned to Saladin’s satisfaction? Allowing the horrendous torment and prolonged execution of Belmondo to proceed smoothly, no doubt.”
“Belmondo’s guilty and the Christians and Jews will accept your verdict.”
“Why hasn’t your father tortured the truth out of him?”
“As I said, political considerations. Also, he genuinely seeks truth. You said yourself that the crime does not make sense unless Belmondo is mad.”
“Is he?”
“He is afraid.”
“That’s the first thing that makes sense,” I said.
Another voice spoke. “Excuse me,” King Richard interposed. “I know Saladin for an honourable man. I negotiated the current truce with him in person, and his brother Saif, indeed with Haran himself. I trust Saladin as a man of his word. But we speak of Sir Roger’s life. What guarantee do you offer?”
I sensed her smile. “None. He alone will see Jerusalem for one last time. Perhaps he will spy some weakness in our walls, as you and the Master plot and plan, who knows? But I don’t think Sir Roger will come for that reason.”
“I’d die for my eyes to behold the City of God once more,” I told the King.
“You see?” she said. “It’s easy.”
Seventy-five years ago our Order was founded to guard pilgrims on the most dangerous way in the world, winding and twisting south-east from Jaffa to Jerusalem. No Christian dares set foot on this deadly desert track since the Holy City was lost. The hooves of my stallion, Outremer, clopped from the drawbridge at dawn. “Sir?” a voice called.
I’d forgotten him. It was too dangerous for the boy; I left him standing long-shadowed beside his palfrey. When I next looked back both boy and fortress were gone.
The woman rode a mare, of course, a black Arab of fine breeding left tied to an olive branch. She rode alongside me towards the sun even when I spurred ahead. I’d brought no water, trusting God to meet my needs. The morning grew hot. The midday heat was unbearable, my armour too hot to touch. She sipped from a spouted flagon as she rode. “Are you not thirsty?” she said at last.
I deigned to notice her. “God will provide.”
Her eyes smiled. “Not here, Christian.” By daylight her eyes were golden brown, with long lashes, but gave no clue to her age, young or old, comely or motherly. By night her veils and robes had been black; midday illuminated them richest, deepest purple. Her fingers were long and delicate. She rode well. I spurred ahead. She spurred beside me, her mare lithe as the wind.
She held out the flagon towards me for half a hundred hoofbeats, then laughed. “Are all Christians of the north cold like you?”
I was not exactly cold, but I knew what she meant. “Perhaps!”
“Drink, Sir Roger. The water will not poison you, neither will my hand.”
I spurred ahead but the woman balanced forward, seeming to weigh nothing, her mare racing nimbly on the curves and rises. My armour jangled, rubbing, and my head baked inside my helmet. I slowed. She rode a little ahead of me, looking over her shoulder from time to time.
“Why are you silent, Sir Roger?” It was best to reply nothing to her; no man had the power to enrage me like her. No man would waste the day in irritating, cunning, time-wasting stratagems to attract my attention. She was a devil indeed. She drank the water, and I imagined her tongue beneath the veil, licking the last drops from her lips.
“Why do you stare?” she called.
Dusty waterless hills, dusty valleys under a blazing sky. At first I feared demons behind every bush and wall, ambush in every olive grove, arrows from every hillock. Nothing happened, but we were watched. She read my thoughts. “When my father gives orders, they are obeyed.” We rode undisturbed all afternoon. As evening fell she swung aside from the track and I followed her to a cup between two hills, feeling for the first time that we were truly alone. A palm tree grew beside the pool. She dismounted. “You’re half dead of thirst. Your cheeks are blistered. I have oil.”
“Woman, don’t touch me.” I slid down, clanked, crouched, drank beside Outremer from the pool.
She watched. “Still you do not say my name.” She left me, moving as easily as a dancer beneath her robes, and sat silent on the opposite side of the pool. She made a fire with twigs and flint as the stars came out. I realised no servant would appear with a cockerel leg and a cup of wine; hunger possessed me. She cooked pieces of meat on sticks. The scent of lamb and spice drifted on the smoke. My mouth watered.
“We aren’t devils,” she called. “We’re Muslim. Our beliefs differ, that’s all.”
“You worship a false God, Allah.”
“You worship a false prophet, branding a human the Son of God.” She sniffed the meat and added a pinch of something.
I said firmly, “The Bible tells us Iacimus Christus is the Son of God and the Bible cannot lie.”
“Iacimus Christus?” She sounded angry. “Iesous Christos to the Greeks. Yehoshua ben-Yussuf to the Jews. You cannot even say his name in your own tongue!”
That was true; I had never thought of Him in English. Latin has no J. The divine name would sound strange in English, shorn of learning and mystery, made ordinary. “Jesus,” I said, my tongue clumsy as any bondman serf’s. “Jesus Christ.”
“There.” She pricked a lump of meat on her dagger-point. “A piece of lamb for you.”
But I shook my head and turned away. Somehow, she’d humiliated me.
I listened to her eating the meat. She burped and kicked out the fire. Her footsteps padded into the darkness.
“Leyla!” she called back at the top of her voice. “I’m Leyla! Even in English!”
I don’t know where she slept. I hated her more than words can say. Obviously she hated me.
I awoke with the sun. My hands went at once to my cheeks. They’d been oiled and no longer pained. Had the woman dripped the oil on my flesh, or wiped it over my skin with her fingers? Had her cursed satanic fingertips actually touched my face while I slept?
I sat up, then averted my horrified gaze as I glimpsed her head bobbing in the pool. Long, long black hair hid her face and shoulders that alone broke the water. Gleaming hair; I saw the strands gleaming in my mind though my eyes remained tight shut. She could swim.
Everyone knows devils can’t cross water, they sink.
When next I saw her she was dressed and veiled, breaking her fast with yoghurt and cheese, neither of which I touch, they being female. I c
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