This'll Be the Day That I Die

 

Part I- “The Devil's Only Friend”

 

     The shriek that emanated from the core of Tudor Manor immediately shattered the repose of all there who were asleep, as if a mirror had dropped from a great height. Eyes opened onto the darkness and bodies bolted upright in beds, momentarily suspended in that twilight between dream and waking.Thunder then struck, and rolled through the valley in response, and in a few more moments the startled guests had gathered about half their wits and crept from their rooms into the upper hallway. There in the dimly moonlit vestibule, they soon became aware of the reason for this untimely reveille‒ Miss Scarlett stood at the first-floor landing of the grand staircase, a body lying sprawled and unmoving at her bare feet.

 

     “He's dead”, she sobbed, then slowly inched backward, shaking her head in disbelief.

 

     The red negligee she wore, under any other circumstance, would have caused quite a stir among those in the impromptu gallery. It left little to the imagination and less to chance. But all gazes for the moment drew south of her silhouette, and focused on the corpse of Mr. John Boddy.

 

     Unknown to the majority still witnessing the scene from above‒ one in their company, although quite startled as well by the scream, had been wide awake at that witching hour. And this night owl was the murderer, unable to rest in the aftermath of matters that had transpired a few short hours ago. The culprit had recognized the mezzo-soprano wail of Miss Scarlett as it echoed through the corridors, and had smiled for an instant in the wicked reverie of how he knew it to be hers.

 

     The next voice to break the silence was a booming baritone that turned heads and stopped hearts for a couple beats. It was Colonel Mustard, seizing the moment and the opportunity to order people around. It was a trait that came quite naturally. “Someone should call the police at once!” he thundered. “Mrs. White, see to that, if you will. No one here is to touch the body, nor to leave these premises. And Miss Scarlett, would you kindly find a robe or something to cover yourself with?” She gasped in embarrassment, just then realizing her degree of exposure, and quickly disappeared down the corridor toward her room.

 

     As the other guests filtered back to theirs, Colonel Mustard marched slowly down the stairs, then lit his pipe. Muttering to himself between puffs, he surveyed the scene. Was it foul play? That was a reasonable assumption; not very likely that a man like Boddy, in the prime of his life, would fall down a staircase. But accidents can happen... Crouching down, the Colonel was looking for something, though he wasn't sure what, that might be out of place. Boddy was face down. No moving of the body would be wise before the constable and coroner arrived.

 

     After a few minutes, Mustard hadn't seen anything peculiar, but another sense had come into play‒ Mr. Boddy smelled quite strongly. A pungent mixture it was, of alcohol (Boddy enjoyed his Irish whiskey) and a lady's perfume. Well, thought the colonel... there's certainly worse ways to go. Maybe he'd had a bit too much to drink and tripped. But who had he been drinking with? Nothing but questions in his mind for the moment, Mustard decided to step outside on the deck and smoke it over until the authorities arrived. They would be there soon.

 

     Professor Plum was a regular guest at Tudor Manor, and had been alone in his suite most of the evening. Doing a crossword puzzle, drinking some fine brandy, smoking cigars... just idly passing the time. But now he was beginning to feel a little claustrophobic. Down the hallway and then the staircase, he sidestepped the body on the landing nonchalantly and then joined Colonel Mustard outside.

 

     “Ah, Professor- haven't seen you all day” said the colonel. “Not even at dinner. Did it take our illustrious host's tumble down the stairs to get you out this evening... what do you make of it?

 

     “Colonel, I only wonder how the old sod managed to avoid it as long as he did. Haven't seen him sober in years. I took dinner in me room tonight; couldn't bear the thought of hearing another of his rambling monologues. I guess that's one worry I shan't have to suffer again” the Professor answered.

 

     He and the colonel then saw the police van coming up the driveway. They exchanged a brief look at each other, each showing just a hint of a smile as they lit up fresh smokes. Colonel Mustard began walking down to meet the team, and Professor Plum stepped inside and made his way upstairs.

 

     Standing in front of the mirror, back in her room, Miss Vivienne Scarlett noticed herself shaking ever so slightly, her breathing shallow... but understandable, wasn't it? What a shock! Just a few hours ago she and John Boddy had been in the library. He had his tumbler or three full of Bushmills, as usual, and started getting that look in his eye. She had been ready; she always had a soft spot for John. Over the years there had been numerous trysts there, with only dead authors as witness. But tonight it had

seemed more urgent. Her body lit by candlelight, their familiar choreography was off... something had him distracted, perhaps even worried. How odd, she recalled, that his parting words to her had been “Viv, I could die a happy man right now... You're wonderful, darling. Goodnight” and then left for his room, looking back with a smile as the door closed. When she had been awoken a short while ago by the loud thud, she never expected to find his lifeless body there when she went down the hallway... But

now there came new noises from the foyer‒ must be the police arriving, she thought.

 

     “Inspector Graham at your service, sir” she was saying to Colonel Mustard, when Miss Scarlett went to check. He looked like he was about to explode. “A lady?! They've sent us a lady at a time like this. Me gods!” and he stepped back out on the deck, puffing furiously on his Meerschaum.

 

     Several male officers and the coroner had entered behind Ms. Graham. She gave them some instructions, including starting the preliminary interviews of guests. Then she noticed Miss Scarlett staring at her. Her intuition led her toward this woman who was visibly shaken.

 

     “Hello” she said, extending her hand. “I'm the inspector. You can call me Anna. Did you know the victim?”

 

     “Yes, I... I knew him quite well.” A single tear streamed down Miss Scarlett's cheek. What a beautiful woman, thought Inspector Graham. I bet she played a role in this. And so she asked if there was somewhere they could talk alone. The mournful Miss Scarlett suggested the library, not just for the privacy, but for her own personal reasons. It was the last place for her and John; now a sacred one.

 

     The two ladies climbed the stairs, passing the coroner and a photographer beginning their work. “Get a close-up of this” barked the coroner. “It's the death-blow, for certain.” He indicated a curved gash in Boddy's forehead, sort of a crescent-moon shape, with heavy bruising. “Weird, though. I don't see anything here on the staircase that would have caused it.” There was something odd in the victim's hair, as well; little white droplets in a splatter-pattern. A few moments and the coroner had it‒ candle-wax. Snipping and bagging a small lock of hair with the beaded residue, the investigation continued. The coroner saw one of the officers talking in the upper hallway with a couple of guests...

 

     “Tell Graham I need her when she's done with the lass. Think I know the murder weapon.”

 

     The wielder of thus, through all of this so far, had yet to be interrogated. But it was only a matter of time, he knew. No worries. An old friend of John Boddy's, he was. A somewhat newer, and besmitten, acquaintance of Miss Scarlett, as well. He had known of their secret for months, and not without a great deal of envy. “Ah, the things I would do with her” he had thought many times... to the point of obsession, and eventually to madness.

 

     The first step in a vengeful idea that came to him was blackmail. Boddy was a married man, and the wealth of Tudor Manor had originated with his wife. He stood to lose it all (and should, the bastard) so that our villain could step into his shoes. “I'm so much more intelligent and cultured; what does she see in the man”; this had been voiced frequently to himself.

 

     A note had therefore been sent, typewritten and anonymously of course, to put a scare into Mr. Boddy. But other than make our late host look over his shoulder a bit, nothing had changed. John Boddy was a heavy drinker, and what nerves he had left were numb a good part of his waking hours.

 

     So tonight, by careful planning, the stalker had arranged to stay in the suite adjoining the library, knowing it to be their choice place of rendezvous. There was a shared balcony for the two rooms, and so by visiting the library earlier he had pulled a small gap in the curtains, so he could spy on them. That had been the scope of his sordid plot; to merely indulge in some voyeuristic pleasure. Maybe get a photo of them, in the act, if the light was sufficient‒ that would up the ante...

 

 

Part II- “And While the King Was Looking Down”

 

      Inspector Graham and Miss Scarlett had quite the conversation in the library, as it turned out. But there was nothing sinister to hide, thought the latter. He's dead now; what do I care if his widow finds out about us? And so she had shared it all with her interrogator‒ and actually felt a strange rapport with the pretty (but all business) Anna. The inspector in turn admired Miss Scarlett's forthright manner.

 

     “Anything else you can add, Vivienne?” was Ms. Graham's latest query. Miss Scarlett started to reply in the negative. But something about the room had been unsettling since returning there, moreso than its being the room she had shared with the victim in his final hours. Something was missing.

 

     Just then the coroner stepped in. “About finished here, ma'am”... Cause of death, my theory is a blunt trauma to the forehead, likely a candlestick of some size. I found wax droplets in his hair. The killer must have bashed him with the base of it... I'll be back at the morgue if you need me.”

 

     Miss Scarlett shuddered. That was it‒ the candelabra was gone; it had been the only light in the library hours ago. But just then the coroner stuck his head back in.

 

“One more thing, almost forgot... I found this note in his vest pocket; looks like a veiled threat, but some of it's nonsense, or maybe a kind of code. See what you make of it.”

 

     The inspector took it from him and read:

 

      SOS from Purple: You will pay. I know what you do. And with who... Maybe your wife should too: slim cat rests.

 

      She stared at the cryptic message for about a minute. Well, she thought, it's obviously a hint of some implied blackmail‒ sounds like someone knew about the deceased and Miss Scarlett. Doesn't explain the odd code words, but maybe she'll know something.

 

     “Vivienne, have a look at this. Got any idea who might have known about you and John?”

 

     Miss Scarlett looked bewildered as she took the note, then sad as she finished. “Poor John. I knew something had been bothering him, but he never would talk about it when I asked. Maybe he found out who the blackmailer was and went to confront him. That's what he'd do.”

 

     Just then Professor Plum poked his head in, looking a bit surprised to find the two ladies in the library. “Beg your pardon” he said. “Hello Vivienne.” He paused. “I don't believe I've met your friend.” He eyed her up and down, caught himself and grinned sheepishly.

 

     “Professor Plum, this is Anna. Miss Anna Graham. She's with the police.”

 

     “Ah yes” he said. “Forgive me. I was just going to grab something to read myself to sleep with" and he started away. “I'll wait 'til your finished. Interesting name, by the way, my lady. It was a pleasure meeting you.”

 

     Miss Graham thought to herself, I wonder what he meant by 'interesting name'? She was about to dismiss the thought as she turned toward Vivienne again, but then it hit her. She should have seen it right away...

 

     The murderer had indeed watched John Boddy's last hurrah with the delectable Miss Scarlett earlier that night. Through the balcony window, the candle glow played on her softly as she disrobed. There wasn't sufficient light for the photo he'd planned, but he was so mesmerized that it was not even thought about. All he felt was a blinding lust, as his heart beat faster and harder, until they had finished.

 

     He watched them leave the library, and was about to return to his room. But then John had stepped back in. (He had apparently left his drink). Watching him reach for the glass, our man outside had suddenly felt a great rage rush up within him. And before either of them quite knew what was happening, it was all over... the candelabra, just moments ago blown out, had now extinguished John Boddy's life in kind. The hour was late, the house quiet and halls empty‒ so the killer promptly drug him the dozen or so steps required, then threw him down the stairs. A crime of misguided passion and

misdirected resent, so mistakes were made. That wasn't characteristic of the culprit, normally a highly intellectual man. He knew that it wouldn't be long... his cravings had made him careless.

 

     The look on Colonel Mustard's face when they led Professor Plum out in handcuffs‒ it made the latter smile. Until he saw Vivienne watching too. At that, he lowered his head and walked off into the shadows with a couple officers flanking him.

 

     The detective stopped for a moment with Miss Scarlett. “Quite an arrogant man, the professor. To be so careless and stupid, that is. We found the candelabra in his briefcase. He's already confessed. I would have figured it out eventually anyway, but when he remarked on my name he tipped his hand.”

 

     “I'm not sure I follow you, Miss Graham.”

 

     “That's Anna to you, Vivienne... Anna Graham, get it? Anagram. Remember the note? The odd phrases were anagrams.” (SOS from Purple = Professor Plum. Slim cat rests = Miss Scarlett).

 

 

     Out across the countryside, one could hear something that sounded like a chorus of moaning, (or was it groaning?)‒ muffled but quite discernible. And some low rumbles that seemed to emanate from under the ground. It was the bodies of formerly talented mystery writers and their readers, now deceased. They were all beginning to roll in their graves...

 

The End