Love Songs from a Shallow Grave

for rheumatism?” Civilai asked. “You’re trotting around like a young calf.”
    “It comes and goes,” she said, returning to the table with the bottle.
    “As do hangovers,” said Sihot.
    Siri said nothing. He knew that rheumatoid arthritis didn’t come and go at all, especially not at his wife’s advanced stage. Just that afternoon she’d been limping painfully, never complaining but certainly in discomfort. Now, here she was being brave so as not to embarrass her guests. She was some woman. The rum helped gather together the loose ends of the atmosphere and for reasons he couldn’t work out, the kick of the alcohol reminded Sri about old Mrs Bountien’s blood analysis findings.
    “There are those of us at Mahosot,” he began, “who believe she merely matches the colour, like on a paint chart; dark red, light red. But it was her considered opinion that the blood on the sauna towel belonged to Dew. She said there was only the one blood type.”
    “So, your modesty theory still holds,” Civilai said. “She was covered with a towel out of propriety.”
    “It’s the only possibility that makes sense,” Siri continued. “Which would suggest the killer had some fondness for his victim. At least he showed some respect to the body. They appreciate that.”
    “Who do?” Sihot asked.
    “The bodies,” said Dtui. Sihot was about to inquire further but Siri had the floor.
    “Then, next on my list is fingerprints…”
    He was interrupted by hoots of derision. Thus far, he had failed to convince anyone of his qualifications to extract or compare fingerprints. Despite the fact that the western world had been using the system for hundreds of years, communist Laos was not yet ready for such an innovation. Siri remained firm that he would have the last laugh in this matter. He ignored the laughter and forged ahead.
    “I have compared the prints I found on the first and third épées,” he said, “with those of the victims. Although it’s extremely difficult to tell (another hoot)…to tell without projecting the prints on some sort of screen – ”
    “…or buying a decent pair of glasses,” Civilai laughed.
    “…or comparing them under a microscope,” Siri continued. “Sadly, Mrs Bountien did not allow me to use hers and the only other one I know of is at Dong Dok college, locked up. But, from the evidence of my naked eye I am convinced that the print on blade one does not belong to the victim, whereas the two prints I found on sword three, did.”
    Everybody applauded.
    “And this tells us…?” Phosy asked.
    “I’m not sure (he rode out the final jeers), apart from the fact that the print on sword one is likely that of the perpetrator.”
    “Who we don’t have with us to compare it with,” Dtui nodded.
    “But we will. Trust me. Then you’ll all thank me for having concrete evidence. And while I have the floor, the épées themselves are interesting. They aren’t all the same.”
    Sihot found an empty page in his notepad and prepared to take notes.
    “The first two,” Siri said, “were very similar. About ninety centimetres long with a traditional triangular shaft. But somebody had gone to the trouble to hone the angles of the triangle into three very dangerous, almost razor-sharp rims. The third was quite unusual in that the blade was almost round. The angles had been filed smooth. It was more like the shaft of an arrow. You could hardly inflict damage with it. But the tip had been sharpened to a point like a needle. Just touching it would be sufficient to draw blood.”
    “So, do you suppose they’re different types of blades for different competitions?” Phosy asked.
    “It’s possible, I suppose. I don’t know enough about the sport. It’s likely the killer collected whatever type of weapon he could find wherever he happened to be, and brought them back to Laos. But there was something about all three of them that looked…I don’t know, as if they’d been re-engineered. As if they were designed for a specific purpose.”
    “We need to find a fencing expert,” Daeng decided.
    “Apart from our assassin I doubt you’d find anyone in the country who could tell you which end to hold,” Civilai suggested.
    “That doesn’t include the embassies,” she told him. “I bet we’d find someone there with fencing experience. Someone who wasn’t thrown out of fencing class after two weeks.”
    She smiled at her husband.
    “Good point,” Phosy decided. “Sihot, I