Murder in the Manor

Murder in the Manor                                                                                

You laugh a hearty laugh, glad to be in your friend’s presence again, reminiscing old times.

“We were always quite reckless when were in medical school, weren’t we Charles? But I suppose we grew out of that when I had kids. You know, you practically raised them with us,” Christopher said casually. He was right though, you had spent most of your time with those kids; you loved them like they were your own.

“Oh, Charles, remember when you were teaching David to write before he went to school, and Matthew was so jealous of him, he made you teach him as well,” Christopher’s wife Christine, chimed in.

You smile at this memory, absent-mindedly tracing the patterns of the vintage chair with you finger. It was right here, in this very living room that you taught both the boys to write. Matthew was always quite jealous of David, always had to have what he had. You found that so charming, nothing like a little bit of sibling rivalry. While you reflect on these times long gone, the maid, impeccably well-timed, hands you your drink, a scotch, and you accept it graciously.

The door bursts open with a bang and you spill the scotch all over the carpet. At the door you see a panting, red-faced butler, looking like he had seen a ghost. You can see he is trying to say something of importance, but he is lost for words.

“Arthur, there had better be a good reason for this indescribably rude interruption, which has caused Charles to spill his drink,” Catherine said sternly, “otherwise you will be cleaning that carpet yourself.”

“I’m sorry Lady Catherine, but, there, you see, the library, he’s – well, it’s David, I think he’s, er, been murdered,” he whispered, horror evident on his face. You become confused: this huge manor was the only one for miles around, its spacious rooms echoed and the old floorboards groaned with the slightest movement; no-one could have gotten in without being heard.

“Murdered, you say! But surely, when we’re the only people around, that could not be true,” Christopher gasps hastily.

“Sir, I don’t wish to be rude, but I do think you’d agree if you saw.”

“Well, shall we go see?” You hear yourself saying hesitantly. The slow whimpering coming from behind you turns into wails and you realise that Catherine has collapsed in the arms of the maid bewildered, was struggling to accept this news. A curt nod comes your way from Christopher and you both head off to the library. Your steps echo in the hallway, the silence of the usually hectic manor becomes apparent to you. You pause at the doorway, and exhale. The blood is slowly seeping across the floor. You step in and immediately see the cause of death. A major blow to the back of the head, presumably from the golfing trophy now lying in pieces on the floor, its base covered in blood, like the discarded carcass of a lion’s kill.

“My poor son.” You hear the whispered words of your old friend and you know that he will never get over this tragedy until he knows who has done this. You call in the maid, and tell her to send for everyone currently residing in the manor; all are to gather in the sitting room. It would take hours before the police would be able to get here; something has to be done in the meantime. You know it’s important to act now and catch the murderer before evidence can be destroyed. You are practically trained for this type of work: you’ve read every Sherlock Holmes book there is.

You enter the room, and see them all in various states of distress.  They knew what had happened. You check to see that all of them were there. You count, hoping to reach eight. There was the maid, the butler and Matthew all murmuring in hushed tones in the corner. That makes three. Christopher and his father Jonathan sitting on the couch comforting Catherine, who is uncontrollably sobbing. David’s fiancée, Annaliese has collapsed behind the couch, distraught. That makes seven. And then there is Chef.  Eight. “You all know why we’re here. Did anyone notice anything?”

Your question is met with silence and blank looks. You sigh. So much for that then. You go down another path; you must eliminate as many suspects as possible.  “In the last hour where were you all? Actually, were you with anyone?” 

In turn, the suspects shake their heads and say each was were alone. You close your eyes and exhale. When you open them you find everyone looking expectantly at you. “Remain here while I check the other rooms.”

You make your way to David’s room, in the hope that there will be something there to assist you.  When you reach the door and it swings open, the sight that greets you, overcomes you with shock. The once pristine room has been torn apart, clearly ransacked. You see a torn folder lying on the floor, you walk closer to it. You carefully pick it up and peek inside. It’s empty. You examine it and see that it is labeled “inheritance”. You cast your glance across the room and see no other papers lying on the floor. Surely there must have been something in the folder. You know it must have been the murderer who had taken the contents of the folder.

As a thought strikes you, you leave the room, hastily making your way back to the library, certain that there must be a clue there that will make sense of the missing inheritance papers. The library is deathly silent and you try not to look at the body lying motionless on the wet crimson floor. You try to detach yourself from the scene. You pace, unsure of what you’re looking for. The fire crackles loudly, begging your attention. Try as you might, you just can’t ignore the raging flame. You wonder if the fire is trying to tell you something. Striding to the hearth you see what you were looking for. Just beside it, there is a partially burnt envelope. A scene flashes through your mind: David reading, the killer walking in and seeing the confidential letter in David’s hands and then bursting into a flying rage, killing him with one fell stroke.  You turn your attention back to the envelope, scrutinizing it and notice that it is addressed to Arthur, the butler. You look at the writing, surely, no it couldn’t be. Surely you’re wrong. But you know you’re not; you’d recognize that handwriting anywhere, after all you’ve watched it develop over the years. You swallow and decide not to come to any conclusions until you’ve seen the butler’s room.

So off you go again, keen to prove your growing assumptions wrong.  You slow down in front of the butler’s quarters.  You know he’s waiting in the sitting room. You won’t be caught. Glancing over your shoulder to assure you’re alone, you enter the room.  Impeccably clean, you feel very out of place. You get back to your work, and inspect his room.  There’s nothing there of interest, a complete dead-end. But as you go to leave a photo frame catches your eye. The picture is of Arthur and Matthew, the youngest of the brothers, out on the town.  Your suspicions are confirmed. You return to the sitting room.

“I know it was you,” you say, disappointment colouring your voice.

“Excuse me?” he replies.

“You killed him; you wanted his inheritance, which was considerably larger than yours. When he found that letter you gave to Arthur, it pushed you over the edge, he now knew of your shameful affair. You didn’t know what else to do, you hit him with that trophy; then he lay dead on the floor.”

“Prove it, Charles,” he snarls, clearly letting go of all pretense of being innocent.

“There is proof enough and the evidence will not lie.”