The Trench Coat Chronicles

By Ruth Littner and Ann Stolinsky

Ah, the sturdy trench coat. A traditional mainstay not only in classic wardrobes, but classic literature. Plenty of pockets to hide things in. Water repellent and sometimes, villain repellent. An icon for beloved detectives, inspectors, and spies for generations. (Not to mention flashers, femme fatales, and minor characters who just need to keep dry in the rain.)

The Trench Coat Chronicles, cleverly conceived and superbly assembled and edited, offers the reader far more than a clever way to tie stories together. It provides myriad ideas of how to defy stereotypes, upend the murder mystery genre, and, perhaps, even make wardrobe a character.  With varied writing styles from conventional noir to cozy mystery to feminist detective, there is much in this collection to delight and admire.

Engaging for readers, and inspiring to writers. What more could a short story anthology possibly offer, short of being packaged with whiskey?

So settle in for a fun ride.  Enjoy the variety of colorful settings and interesting characters.  Smile as you watch each coat emerge and work its story magic.

We promise, the next time it rains and you open your closet? You'll never look at those epaulets and belt the same way again.

And who knows what's next from this talented editing team? I, for one, will be advocating for The Go-Go Boot Collection.

--Kelly Simmons, international selling author of suspenseful women's fiction.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Celestial Echo Press
• Release date: Nov 24, 2020
• ISBN: 9781951967543

Book preview

THE TRENCH COAT CHRONICLES

Edited by

Ann Stolinsky and Ruth Littner

Gemini Wordsmiths

CELESTIAL ECHO PRESS

ROSLYN, PA, USA

2020

Published by

Celestial Echo Press

An imprint of Gemini Wordsmiths

P. O. Box 1191

Roslyn, PA 19001

geminiwordsmiths.com/publishing

Copyright © 2020 Celestial Echo Press

ISBN: 978-1-951967-54-3

The authors of the stories featured in this anthology retain the copyright of their individual stories.

All persons, places, and events in this book are

fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons,

places, or events is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of the contents of this book

may be reproduced or stored in a retrieval system or

transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic,

mechanical, photocopy, recording, or otherwise, without

express written permission of the authors.

Cover art and design: Don Dyen

Acquisitions and editing: Gemini Wordsmiths

French novelist Honore de Balzac once wrote, Behind every great fortune lies a great crime. And we believe him. Some of the stories you will read in this anthology include criminals motivated by riches and fortune. Some of the stories have perpetrators with more pure agendas. But as Jacques Barzun quipped, The danger that may really threaten crime fiction is that soon there will be more writers than readers. We don’t believe him.

We know you, along with millions of other book lovers, will continue to enjoy reading stories throughout the ages. It’s because crime stories evoke the bad boy in all of us, the hidden, mysterious desire to vicariously commit the crime—and get away with it. And we love to read about those criminals. We don’t give our criminals much punishment, but we sure give ‘em plenty of publicity. Thanks, Will Rogers. We agree, and we promote.

This murder mystery anthology is dedicated to Sam Spade, Hercule Poirot, and Dick Tracy, as well as to all the writers of hard-boiled detective stories of years past, many of whom formed the basis for the crime mysteries we read today.

Enjoy this wide variety of storylines, each of which include criminals, victims—and trench coats.

Praise for The Trench Coat Chronicles

This collection of clever shorts features trench coats worn by cunning murderers and world-weary detectives, wrapped up in mysteries both wild and domestic. A treat for fans of mystery and imagination.

Dennis Tafoya, author of Dope Thief, The Wolves of Fairmount Park, and The Poor Boy's Game

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"The Trench Coat Chronicles is an eclectic collection of stories that mixes mystery and suspense while exploring the detective who-done-it in new and fascinating ways."

Janice Gable Bashman, author of Predator and Wanted Undead or Alive. JaniceGableBashman.com

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

From a whimsical murder mystery in a world where rabbits mimic people, to a chance encounter with a vintage motorcycle and its young rider on a lonely road in the middle of the night, to long overdue reckoning in the fog shrouded English moors, this collection of short stories, all incorporating a trench coat in their theme, has something to catch the attention of and delight every reader.

Nick Russell, New York Times bestselling author of the Big Lake mystery series

goodreads.com/author/list/659478.Nick_Russell

Foreword

Kelly Simmons

Ah, the sturdy trench coat. A traditional mainstay not only in classic wardrobes, but classic literature. Plenty of pockets to hide things in. Water repellent and sometimes, villain repellent. An icon for beloved detectives, inspectors, and spies for generations. (Not to mention flashers, femme fatales, and minor characters who just need to keep dry in the rain.)

The Trench Coat Chronicles, cleverly conceived and superbly assembled and edited, offers the reader far more than a clever way to tie stories together. It provides myriad ideas of how to defy stereotypes, upend the murder mystery genre, and, perhaps, even make wardrobe a character.  With varied writing styles from conventional noir to cozy mystery to feminist detective, there is much in this collection to delight and admire.

Engaging for readers, and inspiring to writers. What more could a short story anthology possibly offer, short of being packaged with whiskey?

So settle in for a fun ride.  Enjoy the variety of colorful settings and interesting characters.  Smile as you watch each coat emerge and work its story magic.

We promise, the next time it rains and you open your closet? You’ll never look at those epaulets and belt the same way again.

And who knows what’s next from this talented editing team? I, for one, will be advocating for The Go-Go Boot Collection.

Kelly Simmons is an international selling author of suspenseful women’s fiction.

Visit her at Kellysimmonsbooks.com

Kinurie Mist

DJ Tyrer

Alasdair shuddered as he stood in the doorway of his cottage. The thick moorland mist reminded him of the gas. He could almost hear the peep! of the officer’s whistle, the shouts, the rattle of gunfire, the rumbling thunder of counter-battery fire.

He screwed his eyes tight shut and willed the memories away. The fog remained, horrible and gas-like when he opened them again, but silent now.

Not for the first time, Alasdair regretted taking the position here, but really, what was the choice? Jobs were as rare as compassionate factory owners these days and he was lucky the Captain had owed him a favour.

Still, he would’ve preferred a country estate whose hills were less often draped in mocking mist.

If only the grouse could care for themselves, he’d stay within the stone walls of his cottage and make the day a holiday. If only he could’ve found another post. ...

Movement brought him out of his self-berating reverie and he blinked as he looked into the murk.

For a moment, Alasdair thought it must just have been the motion of the vapor, coiling in upon itself, that had caught his attention. Then, he saw it. A figure.

Alasdair cursed. A dark shape, half-hidden in the fog, outline blurry like ink that had run, the figure was almost formless—and, yet...

He stepped back inside his cottage and reached, clumsily, for the door, desperate to shut out the vision.

The figure was a familiar one. One he recalled from the fog of gas over ten years before.

You’re dead, he whispered as the figure drew near.

Though little more than a shadow in the mist, Alasdair had no doubt who stood before him.

Leave me alone! I never did you no wrong!

The figure stepped up to the cottage doorway.

You shouldn’t have lied, Alasdair.

The cart clattered to a halt outside the grey hulking edifice of the baronial-style hall in a scene that wouldn’t have looked out of place before the war.

Angus Shand dropped down with a crunch onto the gravel, his long overcoat flapping about him. Shreds of mist scattered away from his feet, agitated by his presence.

Some would doubtless refer to such a day as ‘bracing’ or even ‘wholesome,’ but in his opinion, it was merely cold and damp, and the scent in the air had the unpleasant hint of sodden wool and mouldy wallpaper. Angus pulled his coat tight about himself. It might be natural, but he would’ve rather known the smell of city smoke and seen the welcoming front door of a house that didn’t look as if it might once have hosted a chilly Robert the Bruce or Macbeth, and been neither maintained nor aired since.

The cart driver tossed down Angus’s travelling case. Angus caught it with ease as the doors to the hall swung open and a ruddy-faced man in tweed with wild whiskers stepped out to greet him.

You must be Shand, he said in a loud, but raspy voice that Angus recognised from over the telephone.

Aye, that I must, sir. Angus Shand, at your service.

Captain Campbell. There was no proffered hand to shake, no exchange of pleasantries, merely a curt gesture for Angus to enter his home. After all, he was nothing more than hired help. Hired help that, he suspected, Campbell would much rather have done without. Indeed, in his shabby grey trench coat, he probably looked more like a vagrant than a man of any worth.

Nodding in acknowledgement, Angus paused to brush away the droplets that had condensed upon his beard, and then shook the drips from his coat, before following his employer inside.

A bad business. A damnable bad business.

Angus nodded again and entered a bleak drawing room behind his employer. He wasn’t invited to sit.

Whisky?

He doubted the Captain wanted him to answer in the positive, but there was a line between gruffness and being a bad host that even a man such as he wouldn’t cross, even with an employee. After all, Angus wasn’t a mere tradesman, but more akin to a doctor or a man of the cloth.

Please, he said. A small libation would be just the thing to revive body and soul after my ride from the railway station.

Campbell grunted and grudgingly poured him a neat shot and slid it along the side-table.

Thank you.

Kinurie House was a good long cart ride up muddy lanes from the nearest station. Angus felt as if the chill and the damp had, in spite of his trench coat, penetrated right through into his marrow on the journey. Still, he was here for a reason and a sip of the whisky was certainly revivifying.

He nodded at the Captain.

There was a murder?

Campbell’s face reddened with an apoplectic expression at the word.

"We don’t know it is murder."

Yet, you called me in.

A colleague of mine, from my days in service to His Majesty, said you are a discreet and reliable fellow. I trust he was correct?

Indubitably, sir. I have handled several such cases for gentlemen like yourself in order to avoid unwanted attention from both the police and the press.

Captain Campbell snorted. Vultures.

Indeed. Angus wasn’t certain to which august body the man was referring, but men such as Captain Campbell, men of status and reputation, always had good reason to avoid scrutiny from either. Captain Campbell more than most.

There has been a death, Angus said, laying down the now-empty glass and beginning again. An unfortunate and mysterious one.

It wasn’t a question, but his employer nodded.

One of my employees. The Captain had said as much across the telephone wires.

And you haven’t involved the police?

Only the local constable. He’s deferential and a couple of drams smoothed his acceptance of the death as nothing but an accident or ill fate. Doctor Drummond, likewise. They nodded it through, no questions asked.

"Yet, you have questions ..."

Yes, dammit! Captain Campbell sighed and poured himself another whisky without offering Angus one.

Who died—and why does it have you worried?

The Captain downed his shot and was silent for a moment.

It was a man named Alasdair McKeith. My ghillie. He died in his cottage on the estate. His neck was broken. His eyes ... Campbell’s voice trailed off.

His eyes? prompted Angus.

Wide with fear, as if he’d seen a ghost.

The shock of snapping his neck? Terror in the moments before death claimed him?

Perhaps. Perhaps. Captain Campbell shifted nervously. Yet, that isn’t how it struck me.

You think he was murdered and saw it coming?

Possibly.

Very well. I shall need to take a look at his cottage, although I doubt there are any clues that escaped the notice of an erudite and perspicacious man such as yourself.

It isn’t far.

Then, let us go now. We can continue our conversation as we walk.

The mist thickened as they followed a lightly gravelled path across the moor, transforming it into a fog as dense as any peasouper.

The Captain patted a stout wooden post as they passed.

Should you be out here alone and the mist grow too thick to see, these can guide your way. Every two yards. Look for their outline and you shan’t become lost, lad.

Thank you for the advice, sir. Now, to return to my questions.

Yes?

Had McKeith worked for you long?

He was in my employ for about six years, but previously he served under me as a lance corporal in the army.

So, you knew him well?

As well as any master can know his man. We didn’t socialise, save for the odd dram when discussing the grouse, but I knew him to be a reliable fellow.

Any enemies?

McKeith? Every ghillie has enemies—it’s his job to make the lives of poachers hell.

Forgive me if I’m ploughing in the wrong direction, said Angus, I am, after all, a city boy, but would a poacher break a ghillie’s neck or stage an accident? Wouldn’t they just take a pot shot at him? I’ve read in the newspapers ...

The Captain’s silhouette shrugged at him through the fog.

"That would be more likely, but I cannot say for certain. That is why I hired you."

Angus chuckled. Very true. But he had no other enemies? Nothing from his army days? He was never involved in anything illegal?

Captain Campbell was silent for a moment, then said, Nothing that I know of.

And yourself?

Sorry?

Do you have any enemies, someone who might have wished to strike at you by killing your man? Someone who wished to embarrass you, maybe?

Again, Campbell was silent for a time, the only sound the soft crunch of gravel beneath their boots, before he again replied in the negative.

Then, said Angus, it would seem it was most likely a poacher—unless, of course, it was a ghost.

A ghost?

I was referring to his look of wide-eyed terror.

Oh, yes, of course. Captain Campbell gave a weak, raspy laugh. Angus supposed that, out here in the grey mist, it was easy to start believing in ghosts and echoes of the past returned to haunt you.

Ah, it looks as if we are here, he said, looking past his employer. Ahead of them, the late-ghillie’s cottage was visible as a dark, ill-defined shape through the murk.

They approached it and the Captain took out an old iron key and unlocked the door.

It is as it was when he was found.

Angus nodded and followed him into the shadowy interior, taking out an electric torch and shining it about, examining the single room that McKeith had called home.

The door was open when he was found?

Campbell nodded. Yes. He was lying before it, as if he’d been staring out into the mist when he was attacked.

Then, it seems likely whoever attacked him came from out of the mist, in that direction.

If you say so, lad.

I do. The Captain accepted his assertion; he seemed to Angus the sort of man with enough sense not to quibble with the expert advice he was paying for. That was good.

Then, we should seek answers in that direction. He shone the torch-beam at the Captain as if interrogating a prisoner. Did you and your men look for tracks? Did you find anything?

We did, but no. I assumed whoever did it took the path, as we just did.

I doubt it. No, I believe they came over the moor. To do otherwise would’ve brought them too close to the hall.

But there were no footprints.

The grass is scraggy but springy and a footprint might not take. Besides, I’m sure a poacher would know how to move without leaving a trail. Or ...

Or?

Angus lowered the electric torch and gave his employer a thin smile.

Or, it might have been a ghost. I’m led to believe they leave no trace in passing.

Captain Campbell returned the thin smile, but there was uneasiness in his eyes, not mirth.

Pulling his coat about him against the cold, Angus stepped out into the mist.

Let’s take a look and see what we can find.

A bad idea, said Campbell. In all this, we’re liable to get lost and stumble into a bog and never be seen again.

Ah, yes, I’ve heard of them pulling ancient bodies out of the peat in Ireland. I shouldn’t want to find myself as a museum exhibit in a dozen centuries time!

He shone the torch-beam back into the cottage.

There’s a length of rope there – tie it to the door handle and toss it here. That way, we shan’t become lost.

He caught the rope and tied it about his waist, then slipped the coil over his elbow to feed out as they went.

Just stay near me, Captain.

His employer nodded and placed his hand upon the taut rope as a guide.

Here. He passed Angus a walking stick. Test the ground as you go.

I will.

Probing ahead of them, Angus led the way across the mist-shrouded moor.

Behind him, Campbell snorted. This is hopeless.

On the contrary, sir, I believe this is the route your killer took to McKeith’s cottage.

Whistling, Angus strode on as if taking a constitutional around a city park and not a trek over rough moorland.

Wait up, lad; you’re leaving me behind, dammit.

Just follow the rope, sir.

Compared to his employer’s damp splashing footsteps, Angus moved with confident ease, outpacing him without effort.

Nearly there, he called back.

Where?

Angus didn’t answer, just watched through the mist as Captain Campbell approached the silhouette before him and listened with a wry smile as the man cursed at the discovery it was a stunted moorland tree and not his employee.

Dammit, where are you, Shand? What the hell kind of game are you playing?

Just my little joke, sir.

It had taken him no more than a moment to tie the rope about the tree and slip it from his waist, before vanishing into the thick mist.

He approached the Captain and heard him curse again.

Anything wrong, sir? Angus asked. There were several feet still between them, but he could make out the Captain well enough.

For a moment, I thought...

Thought what, sir?

Nothing. Nothing. Your talk of ghosts had me imagining things.

You thought you saw a ghost, sir?

Captain Campbell wheezed a sound intended as a chuckle. For a moment.

I reminded you of someone? A shade from your past? Lieutenant McKenzie, perhaps?

How did –? I mean, I don’t know what you’re talking about.

"Really, sir? I would’ve thought you would recall the name of an old colleague? Or did you perform a damnatio memoriae of those who were considered cowards?"

I don’t know what –

Oh, but you do, sir. Angus took a step towards him and Captain Campbell took an involuntary one back. "You do know. You were there when he died: struck in the back by a German bullet as he cut and ran, yes?"

The reply was a slow wheeze: Yes.

"Liar! You shot him in the back as he led the advance, then turned his body so that the shot looked as if it came from the German trenches. In the chaos, who would think to suspect murder? Not when that vile word – cowardice – was uttered. Hush it over and move along, eh?"

That’s not true!

Quite out of character, those who knew him said, yet who could argue with the facts?

Who are you ...?

Only McKeith was there, and a sergeant named Dalziel. You paid them off and even got McKeith a position when he needed it, to keep them quiet. Nobody else knew.

Who are you?

But I had my suspicions, spoke to those who knew him and eventually, I spoke to Dalziel.

Angus took another step forward, forcing Campbell back.

"He gave you up, told me everything—about your business in looted goods and smuggled whisky and gin. Told me how Lieutenant McKenzie found out and refused to be bought.

Told me how you murdered him and besmirched his name and reputation to save your own.

"Who are you?"

I was eight when you killed my father. Mother remarried and I was given a new name to blot out the shame attached to the one I was born to. But I could never believe my father was a coward.

Captain Campbell groaned.

I thought you might recognise this. Angus tugged at the trench coat he wore. It was my father’s. But, when the rank insignia have been torn off, and you’ve scrubbed the coat a dozen times to remove the mud and blood and patched the bullet holes, it no longer looks like an officer’s coat, just a shabby off-grey.

It was only business, lad. Had your father taken payment ...

"Sold his honour, you mean? Aye, he’d have lived, but at such a price. And, no, don’t think to buy me off. I value my honour just as highly as he did.

Besides, Angus laughed, bitterly, I cashed your cheque, so have done quite well out of today, regardless. As you can see, I had good reason to ask for payment in advance.

Please, don’t kill me.

Angus snorted. Don’t beg, Captain, it only demeans you.

With swift steps, he advanced on him and Captain Campbell turned and ran, just as Angus had planned.

The fool should’ve followed the rope, not that he had much hope of escape, but terror and guilt made men do foolish things. Things such as run headlong into a bog.

Angus doubted anyone would even find the man’s body and, if they did, there would be nothing to indicate that Angus was to blame for Campbell’s death. As he had calculated, when reconnoitring the area before killing McKeith, his father’s murderer had effectively killed himself.

Thank you for covering up McKeith’s death, he called into the mist after Campbell.

The Captain’s desire to avoid scandal had not only allowed Angus to lead him to his doom, thanks to the introduction made by a Dalziel desperate to salve his conscience, but meant that there was no evidence of his earlier act of revenge.

It was all very clean.

Angus pulled his father’s coat tight about him, then untied the rope from the tree and began to follow it back to the cottage.

It was over, done. His father was avenged and he could leave the damp moorland behind for the comfort of a modest town house.

For just a moment, in the eerie silence of the mist, he wondered if his father’s ghost was watching, satisfied.

DJ Tyrer is the person behind Atlantean Publishing, and has had stories in Disturbance (Laurel Highlands Publishing), Mysteries of Suspense (Zimbell House Publishing), History and Mystery, Oh My! (Mystery and Horror, LLC), and Love ’em, Shoot ’em (Wolfsinger Publications), and has a novella, The Yellow House.

https://djtyrer.blogspot.co.uk/

Raguel

Chris Chan

I was babysitting my girlfriend’s much-younger brother Bernard the other day, and halfway through a game of Scrabble, Bernard scrunched up his forehead, stared at my sleeve, and asked, Funderburke, why do you like your leather trench coat so much?

Someone who knows more about fashion than I do told me once that technically it’s a walking coat due to the knee-length hem and the absence of a belt, but I didn’t feel like quibbling over terminology. What makes you ask about that, Bernard?

I was just thinking about it. You wear it everywhere, and even when you’re in the house you rarely take it off, even at meals. Why is that? As soon as I get home from school, I take off my parka and hang it up. Is there something special about that coat?

Definitely. I ran a finger along one of my lapels and sighed. Raguel reminds me of one of my first cases as a private investigator. I managed to clear the name of a teenager who was falsely accused of murdering his own father.

Why haven’t you told me that story before? And why do you call your trench coat Raguel?

I like naming some of my favorite possessions. No real reason for it, but I’ve done it ever since I was a kid. And as for why I haven’t told you the story. ... I suppose I just haven’t gotten around to it yet. This story just slipped through the cracks. This last bit wasn’t exactly true. Some of the details just weren’t suitable for a kid Bernard’s age. Still, I figured I could bowdlerize it a bit.

Well, it all started a couple of years ago, when I was still working at that little agency, about a month after I started working as a P.I. My boss was out seeing his doctor about his alcoholic hepatitis–

What’s that?

Darn it, my attempt to tell this story at a first-grade level was blowing up in my face already. I decided to level with Bernard. He’d know if I was sugarcoating it. It means he drank too much liquor and hurt his liver. Anyway, I was the only one in the office since the receptionist went home early with a headache. As a responsible adult, I prudently neglected to tell Bernard the cause of our receptionist’s headache. "The phone rang, I picked it up, and I heard a woman sobbing.

‘Please help me! My son is going to be arrested for killing his father. And he didn’t do it, I know it!’

I spent about five minutes calming the woman down, until I was finally able to ask her for the details. The murder occurred at a seedy motel about two miles from the office, and the woman, Mrs. Feeback, begged me to hurry before the police dragged her son away in handcuffs.

I tugged on the battered old parka I’d had since high school. At the time, I didn’t have the funds to replace it, and the expensive coat I’d bought for myself a year earlier when I thought my financial future would be far