martinsmithstories

Image Credit: G_r_a_f_i_c from Pixabay

Surprised that Holmes knew the mansion had such a room, I followed him as we walked upstairs and along the hall and into the conservatory, where a raven-haired beauty dressed in a flowing crimson gown sat.

‘Good evening,’ Holmes said. ‘I am Sherlock Holmes.’ He clicked his heels and bowed his head.

‘Good evening,’ the woman in red said, extending her hand towards Holmes. ‘I am Miss Scarlett.’

Holmes leant forward and kissed the back of her hand and said, ‘Enchantée, Mademoiselle. May I ask you some questions about tonight’s tragic occurrence?’

‘Certainly.’ She returned her hand to her lap.

‘What was your relationship with Doctor Black?’

‘His lover and confidante.’ She dabbed the corner of her right eye with a crimson lace handkerchief and sniffled.

‘But not your first or only?’

‘A lady would never reveal such matters.’

‘And your reason for being here this evening?’

‘I asked the doctor to meet me before dinner in this very room as I had a little surprise for him, but he never arrived.’

‘And what was the little surprise?’

‘A lady would never reveal such matters.’

‘Have you and Doctor Black met often in this room?’

‘Yes, we’ve had many trysts in here.’

‘And tiffs?’

Miss Scarlett’s face reddened. ‘A few.’

‘And did you share secrets? His and yours?’

Miss Scarlett’s reddening deepened.

‘Secrets,’ Holmes continued, ‘that, if revealed to others, would cause embarrassment or even ruin a life?’

‘A … A … A lady would never reveal such matters.’

‘Ah, a lady, indeed.’ Holmes rubbed his chin and studied the downcast face of the woman in red. ‘Tell me, Miss Scarlett, what trade does your father ply?’

‘My father? How did you know he was a tradesman?’

‘The way you enunciate your vowels, Mademoiselle. Your father? He lives and works in Cheapside?’

‘Why, yes. He repairs hansom cabs.’

‘Did you ever spend time in his workshop?’

‘Yes, as a girl, after school.’

‘So you would be familiar with your father’s tools—tongs and hammers and wrenches.’

‘Certainly.’

‘And did you visit your father today?’

‘Yes, I did. It’s Thursday. I always visit him on Thursdays.’

Again Holmes rubbed his chin and studied her face. ‘Thank you, Mademoiselle. I have no further questions. If you could wait in the lounge room, I will be with you and the other guests in due course.’

As the flame-red femme fatale sashayed from the room, I whispered to Holmes, ‘By Jove, Holmes, the motive for Dr Cluedo’s murder must be concealment, the suppression of the revelation of a sordid secret. Surely that rubescent, reticent, wrench-wielding, wanton, working-class wench must be our killer. Come, Holmes, voice your suspicion: Miss Scarlett, in the conservatory, with the wrench.’

‘Patience, Watson. Let us adjourn to the doctor’s study.’

***

When we walked into the study, a tall, lean man wearing a sage suit and with buck teeth, a stiff stoop and an even stiffer collar greeted Holmes with a handshake and said, ‘Good evening, I’m the Reverend Green.’

‘Good evening, Reverend,’ Holmes said. ‘I am Sherlock Holmes, and this is Doctor Watson. You’ve not always been a man of the cloth, have you?’

‘No. How did you know?’

‘Your hands. They are far too rough and calloused for a person who’s spent their adult life preaching God’s Word.’

‘Indeed, Mr Holmes, I have undertaken an assortment of occupations. Slaughtering in a shambles, bread-making in a boulangerie when I lived on the Continent and tinkering whilst roaming the English countryside. That’s where I found my faith: in a rural church, repairing a tabernacle.’

‘And what of candlesticks?’

‘I’ve handled a few in my time.’

Holmes made a note in his pocketbook. ‘Vicaring can be a poor, lonely, peripatetic existence, can it not, Reverend?’

‘True, I’ve moved about a lot, yet I’m fortunate that the Lord doth provide and my flock provide companionship.’

‘No envy towards any of your flock, particularly those who have wealth, position and the alluring devotion of a black-haired beauty?’

‘N … N … Never. Envy is the devil’s work. I am rich in God’s words and work.’

‘And was Doctor Black a benefactor to your parish?’

‘Yes, he was most generous, although his support waned in recent months. I asked him to meet me in his study tonight, before dinner, so I could discuss financial aid to repair the rectory roof, but he never arrived.’

‘Did you meet the doctor in this room often?’

‘Yes.’

‘And did you ever disagree about matters of the Church?’

‘We had our little spats over faith and dogma. Indeed, he infuriated me at times. Sometimes I felt the urge to crack him over the head with whatever was close at hand and knock some blessed sense into him. I speak figuratively, of course. One mustn’t break the fifth commandment.’

Holmes jotted in his notebook. ‘Thank you, Reverend, you’ve been most helpful. If you could wait in the lounge room, I will be with you and the other guests in due course.’

As the hunched clergyman hurried from the study, I whispered to Holmes, ‘By Jove, Holmes, the motive for Dr Cluedo’s murder must be envy, a coveting of thy neighbour’s goods. Be he butcher, baker or candlestick re-maker, surely that avaricious, viridescent, vapid, vagabond vicar must be our killer. Come, Holmes, voice your suspicion: Reverend Green, in the study, with the candlestick.’

‘Patience, Watson. Let us make our way to the dining room.’

***

We entered the dining room, and at the dining table sat a thin woman dressed in an elegant blue gown. Her aloof head perched upon a long neck, and her black, beady eyes presided over a beaked nose. A feathered fascinator, a mix of royal blue and vivid cerulean, nested upon her grey hair.

‘Good evening, madam,’ Holmes said. ‘My name is Sherlock Holmes, and this is Doctor Watson.’

‘Good evening,’ the woman said. ‘You may call me Mrs Peacock.’

‘Tell me, Mrs Peacock, how did you come to be invited to Doctor Black’s house tonight?’

‘Doctor Black is—I should say—was my brother-in-law. I married his stepbrother, Alchester Peacock. Sadly, a rogue horse knocked down and trampled my Chess when he was in trivial pursuit of a hansom cab. Had he not died, I would be Lady Peacock.’

‘My condolences, madam, for your loss. How long have you been a widow?’

‘Fifteen years.’

‘And how long have you loved Doctor Black?’

Mrs Peacock blued in the face. ‘Pardon? I … I … I … How did you know?’

‘That heart you wear on your sleeve. It bears the engraved initials C.B. How long?’

‘Twenty years.’

‘And did you ever declare your love to him?’

‘I have—sorry, had been waiting for the right moment.’

‘And the good doctor? Did he reciprocate your feelings?’

‘Well, not yet, but I believe he was—as the common folk say—“coming around”. A woman knows these things. I asked him to meet me here in this room tonight as I planned to declare my affections for him and then have him announce our engagement over dinner. But he never came, and now he is … he is … dead! And … and …’

Mrs Peacock buried her face in her handkerchief and howled.

‘There, there, madam.’

Mrs Peacock wiped her tears and blew her nose.

‘Madam, I have just two more questions. Did Doctor Black ever provide you money?’

‘Why, yes. Although Alchester left me the house and an annuity, I’ll admit I’ve struggled to get by. It’s not cheap to maintain a plumage like mine.’ She stroked her feathered fascinator. ‘Let alone entertain in high society. So, yes, Cluedo was kind enough to deposit a small sum into my bank account each month.’

‘And finally, Mrs Peacock, may I ask what occupation your Alchester pursued?’

‘He, sir, was a gentleman.’

‘No, before he acquired his fortune.’

She looked past us and towards the doorway. She raised the back of her hand to her mouth and whispered, ‘He … he … he was … a plumber.’

‘Thank you, Mrs Peacock. I have no further questions. If you could wait in the lounge room, I will be with you and the other guests in due course.’

As the snobby socialite swanned out the dining room, I whispered to Holmes, ‘By Jove, Holmes, the motive for Dr Cluedo’s murder must be personal gain. Surely that plummy, plumaged, pipe-plying plumber’s widow must be our killer. Come, Holmes, voice your suspicion: Mrs Peacock, in the dining room, with the lead pipe.’

‘Patience, Watson. Let us venture to the library.’

***

Entering the library, we came upon a portly gentleman standing before a bookcase. He had a mop of wiry, white hair sprouting from his head and wore a mulberry-coloured three-piece suit, a fob chain and a pair of thick, round, purple spectacles.

‘Professor Plum, I presume,’ Holmes said.

‘Indeed, I am,’ the gentleman said.

‘Good evening, sir. I am Holmes. Sherlock Holmes. I’ve read many of your research papers. I particularly enjoyed the one on How to Commit the Unsolvable Murder. Watson, may I introduce Professor Plum, a legendary don at Oxford and one of Britain’s leading criminologists?’

The professor and I acknowledged each other with nods.

‘Professor,’ Holmes said, ‘may I ask what brought you to this house tonight?’

‘Doctor Black asked me to meet him in this room.’

‘Indeed. To discuss what?’

‘A matter of a most peculiar nature, apparently, but I am none the wiser as he did not come.’

I saw Holmes run his eyes up and down the plump don. ‘May I compliment you on your necktie, Professor?’

‘Thank you. It’s bespoke.’

‘And do you prefer a particular knot?’

‘I like to think myself a Victoria Knot man although, on occasions, I’ll go for a Full or Half Windsor. Having said that, I’m not impartial to a Four In Hand Knot, and I have at times favoured a Trinity Knot or a Kelvin Knot. But what I cannot abide are Pratt Knots.’

‘You certainly know your knots, Professor. Tell me, did you and the doctor discuss matters of a professional nature?’

‘Indeed, we did. Many a time in this very room.’

‘And did he concur with your opinions? And you, his?’

‘Mostly, though sometimes our discussions got a little heated. The doctor could certainly be obdurate. Honestly, I could have throttled him at times, such was his obstinacy. Mind you, that’d be most unethical.’

‘I admired your propriety. Thank you for your patience. I have no further questions. If you could wait in the lounge room, I will be with you and the other guests in due course.’

As the purple, pudgy pedagogue paced from the library, I whispered to Holmes, ‘By Jove, Holmes, the motive for Dr Cluedo’s murder must be a clash of convictions. Surely that natty, near-sighted, nefarious, know-all of a knotter must be our killer. Come, Holmes, voice your suspicion: Professor Plum, in the study, with the rope.’

‘Patience, Watson. To the billiard room, I say.’

***

As we entered the billiard room, a squat, sallow-faced man marched towards us, wielding a swagger stick. He wore a khaki military uniform, a monocle and a flaxen-coloured walrus moustache.

‘It’s about bloody time, you laggards,’ he said. ‘What the devil do you mean by keeping me here? There’s none of this nonsense under Her Majesty’s service.’

‘My apologies … Major?’ Holmes said.

‘Mustard. That’s Colonel Mustard to you, laddie.’

‘Again, I apologise for keeping you, Colonel.’

‘I should bloody well think so.’

‘Tell me, Colonel, how did you know the doctor?’

‘Go way back. Shared dormitories and hijinks at school. Served together in the 5th. Under Tabby Tomkins. Blackie left to take up his doctoring. Damn shame to lose him to you civilians. Would have made a fine officer.’

‘But you maintained your friendship after he left?’

‘You’re damn right we did. Sampling single malts at the club, playing billiards in this very room and shooting duck at Farlington Park. There’s nothing like the thrill of hitting a moving target, nothing quite like the smoke of gunfire filling your nostrils upon the misty moors at dawn. I say, is this going to take much longer?’

‘I’ve almost finished. Shooting, you say?’

‘Yes. Blackie and I were crack shots. In fact, that’s why I arrived here early this evening. I wanted to show him my new revolver. He said he’d meet me here in this room, but the blighter never showed. Poor form, I say, poor form.’

‘May I see this new revolver of yours?’

The colonel’s eyes watered as he shuffled from foot to foot. ‘I’m afraid I seem to have misplaced it. Gave myself a good dressing down when I realised so.’

‘Poor form, I’d say.’ Holmes hinted at a smile.

‘Touché, laddie. Now, have we finished?’

‘Yes, Colonel Mustard, and thank you. But I’ll need you to wait in the lounge room, and I will be with you and the other guests in due course.’

‘Wouldn’t happen if I was running the show.’

As the crusty colonel with his swagger stick marched out the room, I whispered to Holmes, ‘By Jove, Holmes, the motive for Dr Cluedo’s murder must be hedonism. A thrill kill. Surely that obtuse, outspoken, ornery oaf of an officer must be our killer. Come, Holmes, voice your suspicion: Colonel Mustard, in the billiard room, with the revolver.’

‘Patience, Watson. One last witness. The good doctor’s employee. To the kitchen, my good fellow.’

***

We arrived in the kitchen to a cloud of white dust. Holmes cleared his throat and called out, ‘Good evening?’ The dust settled, revealing a short, pallid woman with many chins and pudgy, pale forearms. A white knotted headscarf covered most of her snow-white hair, and behind her white apron she was all derrière and décolletage. A large sack of flour rested at her feet as she bent to lift it.

I stepped forward and said, ‘Madam, allow me to assist you.’ The woman in white stepped aside.

‘Good evening, madam,’ Holmes said as I bent my knees and gathered the sack in my arms.

‘No madam here,’ she said. ‘I’m Mrs White, the cook.’

‘Where to, Mrs White?’ I said as I strained to lift.

‘There, in the larder,’ she said, pointing a fleshy finger.

My attempt to lift the sack resulted in no movement of it and a considerable loss of breath on my part. Good God, I thought, what’s in there? Bricks? Ballast? A body?

‘My apologies, Mrs White,’ Holmes said. ‘I understand you were the one who found the good doctor in the cellar.’

‘Oh, yes, my poor master—’ And she burst into tears and covered her face with her apron.

Eager to lighten her mood and burden, I again held my breath and gritted my teeth and strained. Again the sack remained immovable.

Mrs White released the sodden apron and said, ‘Oh, for goodness’ sake, let me do that.’ She shoved me aside, picked up and slung the sack over her shoulder and disappeared into the larder. Following a thud and a groan, she returned bearing an enormous leg of pork. She slammed the meat onto the kitchen bench and whipped out a huge knife from under her apron. She scored the fatty flesh with precise sweeps of the knife and a steely gaze.

‘My word, Mrs White,’ Holmes said, ‘you’re quite adept at using that knife.’

‘Been slicing and dicing meat since I began cooking.’

‘How long have you been employed by Doctor Black?’

‘Been with the family for forty-three years.’

‘Have you always been a cook?’

‘Yes, I started as a girl. Although he has called upon me to perform other duties from time to time.’

‘What sort of duties?’

‘Womanly duties.’

‘You were the doctor’s lover?’

Mrs White blanched. ‘No! Other duties like cleaning and caring and counselling him when he seemed a bit low. And, of course, keeping all those doe-eyed beauties away from him. Plenty of times I’ve wielded this very knife in this very room to dissuade them from their silly ideas about marrying my Clue—master. Even that Miss Scarlett. I’d love to see her sacked and thrown in a river. And don’t get me started on that gold-digging, blue bowerbird!’

‘Indeed?’ Holmes said. ‘And what of Mr White?’

‘He disappeared long ago. No one’s seen or heard from him since. But, my word, if I got my hands on him, I’d waste no time skinning him alive.’

‘Indeed?’ Holmes jotted a note in his notebook. ‘And do you have any children, Mrs White?’

‘No, but I’ve done some nursing.’

‘Any other men in your life since your husband?’

‘No, I’ve only loved one man, and he wasn’t my husband.’

‘The good doctor?’

Mrs White blanched. ‘Y … Y … Yes. And now he, my Clue—master, is gone and I have no one.’

She lifted her apron over her head and burst into tears.

‘There, there, Mrs White.’

When Mrs White ceased crying, she released the apron and salted the scored pig flesh.

‘Finally, did the doctor ever question your service?’

‘Never! He loved my cooking. Why, this afternoon he even met with me to discuss his new dietary requirements. Can’t say I approved. It’s that crimson woman and her fancy ideas. A man needs his meat, I say. Oh, and now I’ll never cook for my Clue—master again.’ And Mrs White lost her head again to the white apron.

‘Thank you, Mrs White. I have no further questions. Once you have panned your pork, could you please join the guests in the lounge room.’

As we left the crying cook under her cloth, I whispered to Holmes, ‘By Jove, Holmes, the motive for Dr Cluedo’s murder must be passion, an enduring yet unrequited love. Surely that corpulent, carving, cutting, cunning, conniving culinarian must be our killer. Come, Holmes, voice your suspicion: Mrs White, in the kitchen, with the dagger.’

‘Patience, Watson. Let us adjourn to the lounge room. It is time to reveal our murderer.’