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Author Archives: colingarrow

About colingarrow

Indie author of murder, mystery and horror books. Short stories in: SN Review, Flash Fiction Magazine, Flash Flood, Word Bohemia, Every Day Fiction, The Grind...

A Face at the Window


Diary of Doctor J. Watson

I bade Mary to hang back with me while the others disembarked – I wished to observe the faces of our companions as they were met in turn by the two strangers on the shore. However, if anyone recognised either of them, they hid it well.

Staying close behind, we were able to hear what was said as our companions moved along, and I noted the man introduced himself and his wife to each guest with the exact same phrase and the same intonation – if he was not a butler, he was doing a damn good impression of one.

As we drew level, the man gave a nod of the head and said, “Good morning sir. My name is Rogers. I am the butler here and this is my wife, Mrs Rogers. I trust you will both enjoy your stay on the island.”

I reached out a hand in greeting to which Rogers offered the hint of a smile and gave another deferential nod, indicating it was not his place to shake hands with guests.

With a cough, I brushed my hand down my jacket, as if that’s what I’d intended all along, but I was pleased to see my little ploy had at least proved Rogers played his part well.

Mary put in a small performance of her own with the man’s wife, giving the woman a pat on the arm and observing that it was nice to see the sun out again. The woman, a dark-haired and rather slight-looking thing, offered a curtsy and forced a smile, though her timid sideways glance at her husband told us she was very definitely under his thumb.

As we joined the others on the beach with our belongings, Rogers collected a quantity of mail and other items from the captain and announced that we should follow him up to the house where we would be shown to our rooms.

Trudging up the rough track that led to the house, one of our companions dropped back and fell into step with us.

“What d’you think, then, Doctor Watson?” said he, in a low voice.

“About what, Mister Blah?”

“Call me Billy,” he said, “everyone does. I mean about all this – all of us here, total strangers, gathered on a remote island in the hope of a nice bit of something coming our way.”

“A nice bit of something?” I said. “And what might that be in your case?”

“Murder, of course,” he said, with a laugh.

I stopped and stared at him. “Murder?”

He laughed again. “Not actual murder, no, I mean the board game – Murder. You know, each one gets to play a part, like Colonel Mustard, or Miss Green or whatever and everyone has to try and work out who the murderer is.”

“You think we’re here to play a game?” said Mary.

Billy Blah rolled his eyes. “Ain’t that what I just said? That’s why I’m here.”

Mary and I must have looked blank, for he continued, “My invitation said I was to organise a real-life version of the board game for a private party and I would be rewarded for my troubles.”

“Rewarded how?” said I.

“Well, with money, obviously.” He strode off quickly in an effort to catch up with the others.

Mary tugged my sleeve. “What did your invitation say? Doctor Armstrong’s I mean?”

Thinking back to that day at Baker Street, I recalled the wording on Armstrong’s invitation. “Rather ambiguous in his case, I’m afraid. The words ‘wonderful opportunity’ were mentioned, but otherwise it was spectacularly unspecific.”

She nodded. “Vera Claymore seemed to think there was a teaching post in the offing.”

I frowned. “Teaching? Here?” I shook my head. “Whatever each one of these people thought they were going to get out of this trip, it had to be enough of a temptation to lure them away from their everyday lives.”

“It’d be interesting to know what all the other invitations said.”

“Yes,” I agreed, “it certainly would. Though since the point must have been to get them to the island, the murderer is already ahead of the game.”

We had reached the crest of the incline and were now standing on the edge of a vast lawn. A flagged path snaked away through a series of topiaried hedges, depicting numerous animals of the woodland variety. There was something a little unnerving about the sculptures and I was reminded of a case Holmes had declined to get involved in, where a man had slaughtered his entire family with an axe at an isolated hotel in the Scottish Highlands. On that occasion, it eventually emerged that the killer had gone completely insane. Could the same thing be happening here? Was our host – whoever he or she was – just a total fucking nutcase?

Negotiating our way through the ornamental gardens, Rogers and his wife halted by a narrow gateway halfway along a high Leylandii hedge. Passing through the gate, we were finally confronted by the house itself. Like the lawn, it was vast, spanning at least two hundred yards across and three storeys high. Being a connoisseur of architecture, I recognised the style as vaguely Tudor Rivivalist, with the usual characteristics, including steeply pitched-roofs, mullioned windows and half-timbered herringbone brickwork. The place was striking in its sheer immensity and I couldn’t help but let out an appreciative gasp.

Mary tugged my hand and leaning over, whispered, “Whoever owns this must have an absolute shit-load of cash.”

I nodded, and we walked on, heading for the entrance hall with its studded wooden doors. As we approached, I let my eyes wander upwards and caught a glimpse of a shape at one of the windows. The woman’s face, for that is what I believed it to be, disappeared in an instant. Stepping up to where Rogers was waiting, his hand on the open door as our fellow travellers passed through, I tapped the man on his shoulder.

“I just saw someone at one of the upstairs windows. Would that be your Mistress?”

The butler blinked several times. “Mrs Owen, sir? Why no sir. Mister and Mrs Owen are away on business and won’t be back until this evening.”

“Ah,” I said. “Then it must have been one of the servants?”

A frown creased the other man’s forehead. “Servants, sir? No, sir. Only servants are Mrs Rogers and me.”

I took a few steps back and peered up at the window again. There was nothing to see.

Mary joined me and followed my gaze. “Perhaps it was a trick of the light, darling?”

“Yes,” I murmured. “I suppose it must have been.”

But as we made our way into the house, I knew I had witnessed no optical illusion. I had seen a face. And it was the face of Agatha Christie.

 
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Posted by on March 26, 2019 in Detective Fiction

 

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The Island Awaits


The Diary of Mary Watson (Mrs)

As the sun came out and gradually eased the chill from our bones, I settled into my seat with a flask of tea and a few Custard Creams I’d put away for just such an occasion. The sea lay all around us, calm and blue, and I could almost have believed we were off on some jolly jaunt, rather than keeping an appointment with a killer. While Johnny concentrated on bringing his journal up to date, I spent my time watching our fellow travellers. It occurred to me that each of them must have considered that the murder of Mr Marston might have something to do with this whole enterprise, and yet here they all were, waiting for their turn to die.

I had chastised my husband earlier for thinking Holmes might have disguised himself as the ship’s captain, but now found myself looking at the gnarled old soak as he stood in his cabin, one hand on the wheel and the other brandishing a half bottle of rum. From time to time, he glanced across and gave me a sly wink, which I at first thought was nothing more than a randy old sea-dog’s second-nature, but then I noticed a familiar twinkle in his eye and wondered if perhaps Johnny had been right after all.

My musings were interrupted when Vera Claymore sat down beside me and gave me a firm nudge with her elbow.

“Come on, then,” she said, “what’s your story?”

I gave her my best ‘honest’ face and said, “No story, Miss Claymore, simply a wife doing her wifely duty accompanying her husband.”

“Of course,” said she, with a roll of her eyes. “But you’re not here on holiday, are you? And as we’ve already heard, your husband is more than a family doctor, isn’t he?”

“If you mean his association with Sherlock Holmes, then yes, he does assist in the occasional investigation.”

“Which would imply there’s something going on that needs investigating, that this so-called invitation has some underlying purpose the rest of us are not privy to.”

She clearly had more about her than I’d given her credit for, so I decided to find out what she knew. “Why did you accept the invitation?”

She coughed. “I’m between appointments at the moment and thought this might be a chance for development.”

“A job offer?”

“Yes.”

“As a teacher? On a remote island?”

She waved a hand dismissively. “Well I don’t bleedin know, do I? But the invite said there was an opportunity to be had so here I am.”

I noted how she’d slid easily into her native cockney twang. Presumably she kept her ‘posh’ voice for her pupils.

“Anyway, it’s all paid for so what’s not to like?”

“Getting killed.”

She pulled a face. “Like that inspector said – the incident was merely an unfortunate coincidence.”

Dropping my voice, I said, “I think he was just trying to make us feel better.”

We sat in silence for a moment, then I asked the question I’d secretly been dying to ask everyone. “Do you read much?”

“Of course. I teach English, don’t I?”

“Detective novels?”

She shrugged. “Some.”

“Agatha Christie?”

She gave me a funny look. “Strange you should mention her.”

“Strange how?”

“Well, I have read one or two but a few weeks ago I bought her latest one.” She furrowed her brow. “Can’t recall the title now. Something about one or none, or summat.”

“And Then There Were None?” I prompted.

Her eyes lit up. “That’s the one.”

“So you’ve read it?”

“No. That’s what’s strange. My flat was broken into only a day or so after I bought that book. But the burglars, they didn’t take nuffin. Except for that book.” She shook her head. “I mean I ain’t rich or anyfing, but there’s other stuff around they could easily have swiped, but all they took was that one book.”

“Almost as if someone didn’t want you to read it,” I said, half to myself.

“Yes. Funny that, ain’t it?”

I wondered if anyone else had had a similar experience. Before I could pursue the matter, the captain blew a toot on his horn, announcing our arrival at Huge Island. Peering over the side, I saw the jetty come into view as we approached a sheltered inlet.

“Ah-ha,” said Johnny, putting his diary away. “Here we are.”

As the boat slid into place alongside the rickety quay, I grasped Johnny’s hand. Standing on the shore waiting, were two people – a man and a woman. From their dress, I guessed them to be the butler and his wife. If I remember rightly, the wife gets poisoned, and the husband is found dead while chopping wood. But of course, that’s what happens in the book, and this isn’t a book.

Miss Claymore nudged me as we began to disembark. “I should think that inspector was right. I mean, it’s not as if we’re all going to be murdered, is it?” She laughed gaily and followed the others down the gangplank.

 
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Posted by on March 17, 2019 in Detective Fiction

 

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To the Island


Diary of Doctor J. Watson
Dolphin Cove

Leaving Lestrade to arrange for the body to be removed, Mary and I retired to our room. Jamming the chair against the door handle and sliding my revolver under the pillow, I snuggled up next to my dear wife and tried to sleep.

It was a pleasant surprise to find that the adventures of the night had not removed my ability to slumber, and I awoke this morning feeling brisk and alert to a rapid knocking at the door. It was Lestrade.

“Ah, Doctor,” said he. “Just to let you know I ‘ave ‘ad Marston taken to a suitable location in order to ‘old the post mortem.” He sniffed. “Though I don’t ‘old much ‘ope of discoverin anyfing else that could assist our investigation.”

I nodded. “You’ll want to talk to the others, I suppose?”

“Indeed. If you would be so good as to meet me downstairs in ten minutes, we’ll get started.”

I closed the door and stood for a moment, thinking.

“We’re due on the boat in two hours,” said Mary in a low voice.

I looked at her and couldn’t help but let out a long sigh. “Yes.”

She raised an eyebrow.” You haven’t changed your mind, then? About going?”

“Lestrade’s probably right,” I said. “The whole thing is utter folly, but even though we’ll be placing ourselves in danger, I feel we have to go through with it. Otherwise…”

She gave me a half-smile. “Otherwise the killer is free to do his worst.”

A few minutes later we made our way downstairs. Lestrade had assembled the other guests who were all sitting around the bar-room in the same seats they had occupied the night before. The only one missing was Marston.

“Now then,” said Lestrade. I’m Inspector Heehaw of Scotland–”

I harrumphed loudly, interrupting him. “Not sure there’s any point in aliases…”

He bit his lip and thought for a moment. “Quite. As I said, I’m Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard. And this is…” He glanced at me.

“Doctor John Watson, and my wife, Mary.”

A few members of the group let out audible gasps.

General MacArthur raised a finger. “Not Armstrong, then?”

I shook my head.

He twirled a thin moustache between finger and thumb and gave a quick laugh. “Heard of you. Baker Street, etcetera. Your detective chap. Holmes. Be arriving at some point?”

I thought it best not to herald my companion’s entrance, so I said, “He has no plans to join us.”

Former police inspector Blah shifted in his chair. “So if you’re not Armstrong, what are you doing here?”

I coughed in preparation for the lie. “Doctor Armstrong is ill. Terminal, in fact, but he wished that I, and my wife, should replace him, taking advantage of his good fortune in being invited to the island. Of course, he had no notion he might be thrusting us into a dangerous situation.”

Vera Claymore leaned forward. “Are you insinuating there may be another murder?”

I glanced at Lestrade and he jumped in.

“I expect this er – incident – was merely an unfortunate coincidence. After all, you lot are not actually on the island yet, are you, so no reason to assume Mister Marston’s death and your visit are connected, eh? Probably just some local lunatic on the rampage.” He looked around the room using his ‘optimistic’ expression.

“Well,” said Lawrence Warmonger in a voice loaded with sarcasm, “that is a relief.”

Lestrade continued. “If anyone has any further information that might ‘elp wiv enquires, I should be obliged if you would speak to me privately before you leave.”

No-one said anything more, and the following hour or so was spent attending to our individual needs regarding breakfast and preparations for the trip.

Lestrade took Mary and I aside as our companions drifted back upstairs.

“I don’t know what your pal ‘as planned, but I do ‘ope he gets ‘is proverbial finger out before anyone else gets the chop.”

He wasn’t the only one with concerns regarding the non-appearance of Holmes – I was beginning to think the Great Detective might be leaving his grand entrance a little late. We chatted for a few minutes about communications, as the only sure way of getting messages onto the island would be via carrier pigeon. Lestrade had come prepared with a dozen or so police-trained birds. He suggested we leave a portion of bird seed on our windowsill in preparation for such messages.

“This should keep you going,” he said, handing me a small paper bag. He turned and stared out of the window. From here we could just make out the island itself – a dark blotch on the distant horizon.

“Keep in touch, then,” I said, patting his arm.

He looked at me then with an expression of sadness I’d not deemed him capable of, and he laid his hand on mine. “Don’t go an get yerselves bloody murdered, will yer?”

“We’ll try not to,” I said, forcing a smile.

Twenty minutes later, together with the remaining travellers, Mary and myself made our way down to the harbour where a battered old paddle steamer waited by the meagre jetty. I was heartened to see it was a decent-sized vessel, though its obvious unsuitability for the journey across to the island did not fill me with hope. The captain, too, turned out to be a sad stereotype of that traditional old sea-dog – the drunken sailor whose knowledge of the sea had long since been overtaken by his familiarity with hard liquor. He stood by the jetty smoking a clay pipe and caressing a grizzled grey beard.

“Ar,” he muttered as I approached him. “Be thou one o’ they bound fer Huge Island?”

“That’s right,” I said, peering into his piggy little eyes. His skin was dark and leathery, and reminded me of a football I’d had as a boy.

“It be a grand day fer a crossin, ey?” He gazed up at the sky and I took the opportunity to examine him closely.

His height was about right and the sharp angle of his jawline too familiar to fool me for long. Giving him a playful punch in the shoulder, I said, “Nice one, Holmsey.”

The sailor swivelled his head toward me. “Say summat?”

I nodded and winked.

With a sudden movement, he reached out and grabbed my lapel. “Now lissen ‘ere, Mister. Oi don’t want no screamin bend-overs on moi boat, so if’n you’ve got any of that sort o’ nonsense in mind, ye can take yerself an’ yer whore of a wife back ter where ye came from.”

Recognising that I had perhaps granted my detective friend more talent for disguise than he actually had, I muttered a quick apology, grabbed Mary’s hand and hurried to our allotted places aboard the boat.

Once seated on one of the benches in the prow, Mary leaned over and whispered, “You surely didn’t think that was Sherlock, darling?”

I coughed. “It had crossed my mind.”

She laughed lightly and patted my knee.

A few minutes later, steam was up and the vessel pulled away from the dock, turning its nose towards our destination.

I couldn’t help wondering if we’d ever see Dolphin Cove again.

 
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Posted by on March 7, 2019 in Detective Fiction

 

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The Chamber Pot Explained

The Diary of Mary Watson (Mrs)

As I’d expected, the door opened into a store cupboard located directly beneath that portion of Mr Marston’s room where the chamber pot had originally been located. Sturdy shelves lined each wall, stowing linen, blankets and household cleaning products. A couple of cardboard boxes in the corner housed several rusty kitchen utensils including a bread knife. Evidently the proprietor was not a man to throw anything away, and this presumably extended to an unwillingness to squander profits on the latest dust-sucking devices. Instead, he relied on an old dustpan and brush and a variety of besoms and brooms, all of which had seen better days. (It also occurred to me that we had not seen our host since entering the inn the evening before. I made a mental note to mention this to Johnny later.)

“Ah-ha,” said the inspector, pointing up at the ceiling.

Aiming my lantern upwards, Johnny and I saw the object of his attention. The planking which created not only the roof of the store cupboard but formed the floor in Marston’s room, had been tampered with. In a well-maintained house, of course, a separate layer of boards would have been fitted underneath the ceiling. This was not a well-maintained house. However, the single layer of flooring would’ve allowed our culprit to generate a diversion that had initially fooled me.

“He must’ve climbed up the shelving and put ‘is eye to that gap in the boards,” observed Lestrade.

“He must, indeed,” said my husband.

I resisted rolling my eyes melodramatically and waited for one of them to suggest an alternative scenario, but the pair of dimwits simply stared up at the section of ceiling where someone had gouged away part of the wood, leaving an easily accessible hole which nevertheless would not have been visible from above, had we not been looking for it.

“So?” I prompted.

They both looked at me.

“What does this tell us?” I tried again.

Lestrade began to say something but whatever it was lost its motivation and petered out. John also opened his mouth but again, was unable to elucidate.

“Really,” I muttered. “You two are hopeless. Isn’t it obvious?”

“Oh come on, darling,” said Johnny, adopting a whinging tone that only succeeded in annoying me. “It may be obvious to you, but…” He shrugged.

Lestrade coughed. “Wiv all due respect Mary, we ‘ave established that the perpetrator could easily ‘ave put his eye to that hole to see into the room above.” He smiled as if this explanation solved the whole case.

“And what would he have seen?” I said, doing my best to sound interested.

“Well,” said he. “He’d ‘ave seen the er…into the er…well, the room itself.” He nodded at Johnny, but my husband had realised I was ahead of them both and dutifully kept quiet.

“All the evidence is here.” I waved my free hand towards the corner of the cupboard.

Both men looked.

“What? A brush?” said Lestrade.

“That,” I said, “and the bread knife.”

I sometimes wonder how the male of the species ever manages to get himself out of bed in the mornings, let alone achieve the miracle of procreation.

Striding to the corner, I picked up the broom and held it in front of them. “There’s a crack here in the end. D’you see?” They nodded. I picked up the knife and slotted the thin handle into the end of the broom. “And this?” Still they didn’t get it. I raised the device upwards towards the ceiling.

“Bloody Norah,” exclaimed Lestrade.

“My God, “said John. “He used it to poke through the gap and rattle the chamber pot.”

“Yes,” I said. “Though not so much a rattle, as a thump, thump, thump. Leading you and I to the conclusion that someone was engaged in –”

“Ah!” said the inspector, cutting off my description. “So after committing the crime and making those bloody footprints to throw us off the scent, he came down here to make a bit of a noise in order to create the effect that someone was doin…somefing untoward…in that room?”

We all looked at each other for a moment, then Johnny said, “Which means they must have been in here when you and I entered the bedroom and found Marston.”

“And then whoever that person was, simply joined in when the alarm was raised, eh?” said Lestrade.

“Which means the killer is someone in the house.”

I shook my head. “Not necessarily. Well, it’s hardly the Tower of Londen, is it? Anyone could have walked in here in the middle of the night.”

“No.” Now it was my husband’s turn to shake his head. “Holmes made it clear to me before we left – we mustn’t get distracted, because this case is all about the book. Whoever’s behind it must be one of our travelling companions, otherwise it makes no sense. Also,” he added, “in the book, Marston is the first one to be murdered.”

Lestrade gave a short laugh. “We’ll I don’t mind admitting, I ain’t goin to no island wiv you. If you two and Mr Holmes want to hang around til the bitter end, you’re welcome, but as far as I’m concerned, I don’t want to be around to hear the killer announce, ‘and then there were none’.”

I had to agree.

 
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Posted by on February 26, 2019 in Detective Fiction

 

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What Lies Beneath…


Journal of Inspector G. Lestrade
The Dolphin Cove Hotel

I don’t mind admitting that I’m not used to this journal-keeping lark, but what with all the strange goings-on, and not having my usual police-issue notebook with me, I thought it best to get the details of the murder down on paper.

Following our initial assessment of the murder scene, Doctor Watson and myself brought in two paraffin lamps. We placed one on the chest of drawers and the other by the window. The light was not perfect, but illuminated the scene well enough for our examination. We then had a good look round the room and noted the following items of possible importance:

1. The naked body of Anthony Marston, strangled to death and nailed to the floor of the room in which he was occupying at the time, ie first floor bedroom – one of three on this side of the inn and with a single window from which the stable and yard can be observed. Said window frame is painted shut and therefore could not have been opened recently.

2. Items of furniture: one bed, one wardrobe, one chest of drawers, one rug (on top of which lies the body) and one piss-pot (unusually located on the floor between the bed and the wardrobe).

3. A small statuette of what I would’ve supposed was a red-Indian person, but which Doctor Watson tells me is properly termed a native American, depicted holding a bow and arrow and sporting a small feather in his headgear. This was found on the dead man’s chest when I first inspected the room. Doctor Watson assures me it was not present on his first assessment of the scene.

4. A piece of notepaper found pinned to the back of the dead man’s door, bearing the words ‘And then there were seven’ written in black ink. Again, Watson assures me this was not there before, but I suspect that on discovering the murder he may have neglected to check behind the door. For the present time, I shall assume the latter situation to be the case.

Aside from what is in the room, there are several bloodied footprints leading away from the doorway to the end of the passage. There is no indication of any similar footprints in either the dead man’s room or in the room beyond where the footprints end.

“And that’s our bleedin lot,” said I, having read over my notes for the benefit of Doctor Watson. “Unless I’ve missed anyfing?”

Watson shook his head, held up his hands and dropped them hopelessly at his sides, then tutted several times and shook his head again. I took this to signify he had nothing to add.

“What about the chamber pot?”

I looked up and saw Mrs Watson (lovely woman) standing in the doorway. “Ah,” I said, raising my hat in greeting, “Nice to see you again, Mary.”

“And you, Inspector,” said she. “But if you’ll permit me, I think there is a clue here.” Holding up her candle, she pointed at the pot, which still stood on the floor between the wardrobe and the bed.

“It’s in an odd position, right enough,” said Doctor Watson, “but I can’t see that it has any bearing on the murder.”

“Your ‘usband’s right, missus,” I said. “It’s just an empty piss-pot after all.”

Mrs Watson rolled her eyes in a way that made me feel a bit inferior (though I’m not sure why).

She stepped across and stood over the aforementioned item. “I may not be Sherlock Holmes’ most strident supporter, but sometimes I wonder if the pair of you ever listen to a bloody word he says. Imagine Holmes was here. Look at the pot through his eyes. Look at it properly.”

Watson and myself did as she asked, but for the life of me I couldn’t see what she was getting at.

“Well,” I said, straitening up and folding my arms, “I like ter fink I know the methods Mr Holmes utilises, but I can’t see anyfing.”

The good lady’s husband nodded. “Have to say, Lestrade’s right, m’dear. It’s just a chamber pot.”

At this, Mrs Watson let out sigh and her wonky eye swivelled back and forth, which made me think she must be annoyed with us.

Picking up the pot, she tipped it up. “Well?”

“It’s empty,” said Watson.

“And tell me, dear husband, where do we place a chamber pot when it is in a state of emptiness?”

I looked at Watson and he looked at me, then we both sort of got what she was going on about at the same time and the both of us turned to look under the bed. Now, I’m not one of those chaps that goes around putting down the fairer sex, but obviously womenfolk aren’t as bright as men are, for if they were, we’ve have them in all the top jobs that blokes do now. Anyway, this thought was running through my head when Mary Watson said something that proved she is not like other women.

“Move the bed across to the far wall.”

The Doc and myself exchanged a look but thought it best to keep our thoughts to ourselves, so with him at one end and me at the other, we lifted up the bedstead and shuffling our feet, moved the whole thing a yard or so to the right, thereby exposing the space which would normally be unseen due to it being beneath the bed.

“Now,” said Mary. “What do you see?”

“Dust,” said the doctor.

“And what else?” Mary shook a finger at a particular patch of floorboard.

Taking care not to step into the cleared space, I strode forward and leaned down in order to see better. Watson crossed over and stood beside me and the two of us immediately grasped Mary’s meaning.

“There’s a mark,” said I.

“In the dust,” said Watson.

“Exactly,” said Mary. “A mark in the dust where the chamber pot stood.”

I looked at Mrs Watson with a new sense of admiration. “Someone moved it.”

She smiled. “Yes, Inspector. And why would someone move it?”

“It would only have been moved,” said Watson, “in order to…well, to take a leak. Excuse my language, darling.”

“You’re excused, Johnny. So, given that the pot is empty, it has not been used for its normal purpose, therefore I say again – why was it moved?”

Watson walked around to the wardrobe and looked at the place where the chamber pot had been found. “It was here, and it should have been there, and as it has not been used it must have been placed here for some other reason.”

“Finally, he gets it,” said Mary Watson. Then, crouching down on the floor, she ran a finger along the floorboards where the boards joined, right at the point where the chamber pot had stood. Holding the palm of her hand a few inches above the crack, she looked up. “Air. There’s a gap through to the room below. A gap that could accommodate…” She shrugged. “Well, come on – I’m not going to do all the work…”

Dropping to my knees, I put my eye to the crack and peered through. “It’s dark. What’s underneath this room?”

A moment later, all three of us were hurrying down the stairs, Mary holding one of the paraffin lamps and Watson brandishing his gun. Reaching the ground floor, we saw that directly underneath Marston’s room was a door. I tried the handle. It opened.

Watson grabbed my shoulder and held up his revolver. “Careful, Inspector.” And with that, the two of us stepped into the room.

 
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Posted by on February 11, 2019 in Detective Fiction

 

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A Note on a Murder


Diary of Doctor J. Watson
Dolphin Cove

Having dragged one of the serving girls out of bed and sent her to fetch the village constable, I urged the other guests to return to their rooms. Then, standing in the doorway of Marston’s bedchamber, I gazed down at his body.

“Oughtn’t we to stay and keep guard?” said Mary, clutching my arm.

“I’ll wait for the constable, or whoever passes for the law in this God-forsaken place.” I patted her bottom. “You try and get some sleep.”

After she’d gone, I stepped into Marston’s room and looked around. What would Holmes do? Rubbing my chin, I struggled to stimulate something approaching inspiration, but the killer had taken great pains to avoid leaving any trace of his (or her) tracks. The bloodied footprints were clearly a blind, no doubt intended to lead us, quite literally, in the wrong direction. But what I couldn’t get out of my head was the fact of the thump-thump-thump we’d heard only moments before discovering the body. How could the murderer have been in the room and then vanished completely? More mysterious was the fact that, according to Mrs Christie’s version, the prime suspect should be Justice Warmonger, yet he had only appeared on the scene after coming downstairs from his room in the attic and could not have carried out the murder, escaped Marston’s room and gone back upstairs without us seeing him.

Apart from the bed, which like our own, was a metal-framed affair with plenty of space underneath for storage, the only furniture was a rickety wardrobe, a chest of drawers next to the bed and a chamber pot that stood on the floor, rather oddly, between the bed and the wardrobe. A window in the wall opposite the door, looked out over the stables, but as the frame had been painted shut, it could not have been opened without leaving some trace of that fact. In short, there was nothing that indicated an explanation.

Crouching next to the dead man, I studied his wounds. If the killer had hammered the nails into the body while the poor chap was still alive, we’d have heard his screams. Therefore, he must have already been dead, or at least unconscious, at that point. Then again, if he had been insensible during the mutilation, the pain must surely have brought him round. In any case, the fact of him being nailed to the floor would not have been sufficient to kill him.

Undoing Marston’s pyjama jacket, I noted a thin red mark encircling his neck. He’d been strangled, which suggested the apparent crucifixion routine must have served as a form of symbolic act. Was this significant to Marston’s line of work? Could there be a possible connection to the manner of his death? After all, the characters in the novel had all committed crimes.

It was about half an hour later that I heard the clunk of the front door and guessed the serving girl had returned with the police. Hurrying down to join them, I met the girl on the stairs. The poor thing was soaked to the skin, but visibly thrilled to be assisting with a murder enquiry. She happily informed me that as the usual constable was ill, she had taken the liberty of continuing up the lane to her aunt’s house where a gentleman lodger had happened to mention he worked with the police. On requesting that same gentleman’s assistance, she had discovered him to be an officer by the name of Inspector Heehaw.

My suspicions on hearing such an obviously made-up name were immediately raised, but I had no wish to make assumptions. As Holmes would put it, ‘It is a capital mistake to theorize before one has data.’ I therefore determined to avail myself of the facts before jumping to conclusions.

“Oi put ‘im in the public bar, sor,” said the maid, wiping a hand across her face. “If you loike, Oi’ll make yous a pot of chockerlit ter warm yer’s up.” And with that she scurried off to the kitchen, leaving me to make my own introductions.

The newcomer stood near the fire with his back to me, shaking the worst of the rain from his greatcoat. From behind, he had the distinct characteristics of a weasel on two legs, his small head waggling back and forth as if sniffing out clues. As he turned around, he whipped up a finger to his lips, warning me against giving away his true identity.

“Ah,” I said, loudly enough for the maid to hear, “Inspector Heehaw, is it?” I strode forward to meet him and shook his hand warmly. Then, dropping my voice to a whisper, added, “Lestrade, what the bloody hell are you doing here?”

The little man giggled and leaning forward, muttered, “Your pal Holmes found out I was due some holidays, so he persuaded the Chief to let me to come down ‘ere and lend a hand.” He shook his head. “All unofficial, of course.”

“Of course,” I said. “Did the girl tell you what’s happened?”

“No, though I guessed it’d be a rum old do if you was needing me in the middle of the night.”

“I nodded. “It’s a rum do, right enough.”

Just then, the serving girl came back with our hot chocolate and two mugs. I thanked her and told her to get off to bed. Within a few minutes I had enlightened Lestrade as to the facts as I knew them and expressed concern at the lack of clues to the killer’s identity.

“Indeed,” said he. “Holmes did warn me things might proceed a bit quick, but I don’t believe even he expected the killings to start before you reached the island.” He sipped his drink. “Supposed I’d better have a look at the body.”

We finished our hot chocolate and went up to Marston’s room, however, there was now an additional item on the body that I knew had not been there before. A small black figurine, about the size of a matchbox, sat on Marston’s chest.

Placing a hand on Lestrade’s arm, I bade him wait, while I stepped forward. Nothing else in the room seemed to have altered, only this small statuette. Gingerly picking it up, I studied it closely, then passed it to Lestrade.

“Looks like a little Indian,” said he, holding it close to the candle. “See – little bow and arrow there, and a fevver in ‘is bonce. What d’you think, Doc?”

But I had been distracted by something else. Closing the bedroom door for privacy, I’d caught sight of a small rectangle of notepaper pinned to the back of the door. Taking out the drawing pin, I held the note up to the light. Five words were printed across it in small, neat handwriting:

And then there were seven.

 
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Posted by on February 3, 2019 in Detective Fiction

 

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One Less for Breakfast


The Diary of Mary Watson (Mrs)

It was still dark when I awoke and the tingling sensation on my upper thigh suggested Johnny’s wandering hands were edging towards my ladyparts in the hope of some midnight fun. However, I soon realised he was merely rubbing my leg in order to wake me gently.

“What is it, darling,” I whispered, sensing danger.

“Thought I heard something.” He was sitting up straight, staring at the door of our room, his revolver held firmly in front of him. Following his gaze, I noted the chair was still propped against the door.

“Shall I light a candle” I said, reaching for the Swan Vestas.

“No, wait.” He cocked his head to one side. ”There it is again.”

Holding my breath, I listened and after a moment, a low thump-thump-thump came from the room next to ours.

“It’s just someone having a bunk-up,” I said, sliding my hand towards my husband’s marital equipment. “Which is what we could be doing…”

“Sh!” He hissed, holding up a finger. “It’s coming from Marston’s room.”

“Perhaps he got lucky with one of the gals,” I said.

“What? Bent Emily and Dreary Vera? I doubt that.”

“Then perhaps he’s doing man things with one of those soldier chaps. What is it squaddies say – one up the–”

“Yes yes, I know very well what they say, Mary. What I’m saying is that Marston told me he’s not been sleeping well. I gave him something to knock him out. He couldn’t sprout a Morning Glory if his life depended on it.”

I looked towards the door. “You think he might be in trouble?”

“I’m sure of it. Come on.” And with that he leaped out of bed and crept across the room. Pulling on my dressing gown I followed closely and a moment later we were standing on the cold floorboards in the passage.

Our room was the first door off the landing, so turning right, we padded along to the next one and paused outside the door.

“It’s stopped,” said Johnny. He leaned forward and pressed one ear to the wood panelling. “Can’t hear a thing now,” he murmured.

At the end of the passage, a small window allowed the moon to cast a silvery glow along the floor. I was pondering on the simple beauty of this when I noticed something. In several places between Mr Marston’s door and the one at the far end, there appeared to be marks on the floorboards. I tugged Johnny’s pyjamas.

“Look,” I whispered.

He looked at the floor and I heard a low moan escape his lips. Crouching down, he dipped a finger in the first of the wet marks. “It’s blood.”

Then, in a move that made me feel awfully proud, he jumped up, spun round and aimed a kick at Marston’s door. The wood splintered and the door sprang open, banging back against the wall with a thud.

There, sprawled across his floor, lay Mr Marston, completely naked and covered in blood. His hands and feet had been skewered to the floor with huge iron nails.

“Oh, my Christ…” I muttered. “Is he…?”

Johnny knelt down beside the man and touched two fingers to the poor fellow’s carotid artery. Then looking up, he shook his head.

For a moment, we said nothing, simply staring at each other in utter disbelief. Then Johnny stood up and strode past me back into the passageway. I watched as he followed the trail of bloody footprints to the far end, where he halted. Standing there in the moonlight, illuminated like one of those quaint silhouettes that used to be so popular, his features reminded me a little of Holmes, with his jutting chin and determined stance suggesting a man about to pounce on the culprit. Raising his gun, he took a step forward, but in that same instant, the door jerked open and Emily Bent appeared, holding a candle in one hand and tugging her nightdress around herself with the other.

“Something wrong, Doctor Armstrong?” she said, in a voice so soft I had to strain to hear her.

“Damn right there’s something wrong,” barked Johnny, pushing her back into the room.

Hurrying along to join them, I saw my husband shove the woman roughly onto her bed. I was about to object on her behalf when his reasoning became clear.

“Show me your feet,” he ordered, taking the candle from her.

The woman stared at me, her mouth open in shock, but nevertheless, she held up first one naked foot and then the other.

Johnny examined each one intently, using the edge of a bedsheet to wipe the soles of each foot. After a minute, he stood up. “Nothing,” he said, turning to me. “No blood.”

At this point, a rumpus behind me told us our fellow travellers had emerged from their rooms to see what the fuss was all about.

General MacArthur was first on the scene. He stood in the doorway, looking at each of us in turn, before demanding, “What’s the meaning of this? Waking a chap up in the middle of the bally night, what?”

Johnny took my hand and led me past Messrs Blah and Lombardi and a wide-eyed Vera Claymore, to Marston’s door. He pointed. “Tony Marston’s dead.”

The General looked at the scene before us. “Oh. Bugger.”

A clump-clump-clump nearby caused me to whirl round. Justice Warmonger had descended from the floor above and stared down at me as if I were something he’d stepped in. “Ah. Mrs Armstrong. Something wrong, is there?”

I nodded in the direction of the dead man. “In there.”

Warmonger leaned forward and peered in. “Ah. One less for breakfast, then.” And with that he turned around and tramped back to his room.

I looked at Johnny and saw the fear in his eyes. The killing had started.

 
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Posted by on January 26, 2019 in Detective Fiction

 

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