Zippy
09-03-2008, 11:31 AM
Just a little story I hope entertains...
Whodunnit?
Tobias Peters stepped gingerly over the body on the study floor. He crouched down and removed the lens from his inside pocket, using it to examine the gaping and very bloody wound on the back of the dead man’s head.
“Hmmm…” he said, “I’d say the murder weapon was definitely a blunt object. Most probably something grabbed in the heat of the moment. Something handy.”
“Yes, yes,” said Doctor Ringwart. He removed his spectacles and polished them furiously with a bloodstained handkerchief before continuing. “We’ve already established the murder weapon. We found the golfing trophy in the garden, remember? It looks like the burglar discarded it when he got away. It’s almost certainly what was used.”
Tobias got back to his feet, ignoring the firecracker pop of his knees. “Yes, quite. But it always pays to be sure, doctor. An investigation rests on facts, not assumptions.”
He smiled, pleased with his riposte. He held up the lens and pointed it at Ringwart for emphasis. “Facts doctor. Always remember - not assumptions. Facts.”
“I say we question the butler again. That feller’s got somethin’ to hide I tell ya! Don’t trust that snake as far as I could throw’em!” Bart Spanner stumbled as he spoke, spilling scotch on the Persian rug. His cheeks were alcohol flushed, broken capillaries standing-out a livid, grape purple.
“The stiff’s wife was real cosy with the butler. Maybe they wanted him bumped off. Take the insurance money and run.”
“What insurance money?” said Ringwart. “The victim had no insurance.” He sighed and pinching the bridge of his nose. “Look, I really think we need to take some sort of note of what we know so far. This is getting confusing.”
Moira Fairwater was leaning against the mantelpiece, smoking a cigarette from an ivory holder. “Oh James, don’t be such a pendant,” she said. She blew a pall of smoke in Doctor Ringwart’s direction, making his eyes smart. “A man’s been killed, that’s what matters. We simply must find his murderer.”
“Yes, Moira, I realise that, but there are so many strands –”
Moira gave a little scream as Spanner whacked her on the buttocks.
“Sweet cheeks is right. Ain’t no sense dilly-dallying, doc. We’ve got a stiff and someone sure as hell did for him. And I for one don’t buy this burglar crap.”
“Wait a moment,” said Ringwart. His face was suddenly very drawn and pale. “Just what do you think you’re doing?”
Spanner looked uncertain. He took another sip of scotch before replying. “Trying to solve a murder, doc. What’d ya think I’m doin’ –”
“-No, no, I didn’t mean that. I mean what on earth do you think you are doing slapping my wife on the buttocks? Perhaps that sort of thing is acceptable where you are from, but I assure you we are used to more civilised behaviour!”
“Please, James. Mister Spanner meant nothing by it, did you, Bart? He was just being playful and frightfully American.”
“Yes…well, I do wish he’d be playful somewhere else. To be quite frank, he’s getting on my bloody nerves!”
Tobias stepped quickly between the two men, separating them. Spanner’s trilby was knocked off his head in the resulting melee.
Serge Montpassion entered the study, delicately eating a barbeque chicken wing. He watched in silence for a few moments, his sparse, Chaplainesque, moustache twitching as he chewed.
“Mon amis! Please to be stopping the fighting, non? It is, how do you say? Unseemly. Please, respect for the dead can be shown.”
He sucked up the last scrap of meat from the wing and dropped the bone into a cut-glass ashtray. His greasy fingers he popped into his mouth one after the other, licking them clean.
“Ugh!” said Moira Fairwater, lowering herself onto the chez longe. “Must you do that Monsieur Montpassion? It really is most disgusting.”
“Disgusting, Madam Fairwater? Non, what is disgusting is getting away with murder I think.” He put his hands behind his back and began pacing the room, looking down at his tiny feet.
“Oui, it is correct. Murder most foul, Madam and Monsieurs. That is why I have gathered you here -”
“You ain’t gathered nobody. We were all here anyways,” said Spanner.
Montpassion looked disconcerted. He began to pace faster. “M-Murder most foul, Madam and Monsieurs –“
“
You’ve said that already, Frenchie. We turned up on the same goddamn bus, remember! All the way from Milton Keynes!”
Montpassion stopped pacing and shook his head slowly. He pursed his lips before throwing his arms up in exasperation.
“Really…sometimes you make it impossible, Francis!” All traces of the French accent were gone as he hopped from foot to foot. “We’re supposed to be sticking to our roles,” he said. “What’s the point of paying good money for a murder mystery weekend if you’re not going to take it seriously?”
“Oh, get a life, Tom.” Francis – dressed as pulp detective Bart Spanner – drained his glass of scotch and went hunting for more. “It’s just a bit of bloody fun. No-one’s really died.”
A muffled voice came from the floor. “You really are an insufferable prick, Francis.” The dead body moved into life, sitting up on the thick shag carpet and stretching his arms. “We all agreed that we’d play our parts. I’m a corpse for God’s sake. If anyone should be complaining it should be me.”
“If you ask me the part suits you,” said Francis.
“What do you mean by that?”
“Suits your bloody personality. Dead bloke. That’s what they call you behind your back in accounts.”
“Can we get back to why we’re here,” said Tom, pressing his false moustache firmly to make sure it stayed on. “Give me a moment and I’ll get in character –”
“How dare you! It’s not true. Dead bloke…I’ve never heard anything so ridiculous!”
Francis found a bottle of beer wedged down the side of a nearby couch. He took it to the cabinet in the corner of the room and used the edge to pry loose the bottle top. After a few tries and much splintering of wood he finally managed it, beer foaming over his hand and onto the carpet.
“That’s an antique, you know,” said Janet, shaking her head in disgust. She was still lying on the chez longe, looking uncomfortable squeezed into the tight, red cocktail dress that was the costume of Moira Fairwater – vamp extraordinaire.
“So what?” said Francis. He took a long pull from the bottle then belched. “I’ve paid my money like everyone else.” He staggered across the room and leaned on the edge of the chez longe, leering down at Janet’s cleavage.
“You know,” he slurred, “if you’re selling those puppies I’ll take the one with the pink nose.”
“You’re a pig, Francis! An utter pig!”
Francis laughed. “You didn’t always think so, Janet. Once you –” he stopped, apparently thinking better of the whole thing. “Oh, never mind. Sod this, I’m off to the ballroom. The disco should have started by now.”
He headed towards the door of the study, swinging the bottle of beer in his hand.
“You’re not going anywhere until you’ve apologised to Janet.” James, dressed as the village physician – Doctor Ringwart- took his clear glass spectacles off his face and folded them carefully. He tucked them, business-like, into the top pocket of his jacket and angled himself between Francis and the door.
“I’ll teach you to speak to a lady like that,” he said, beginning to roll-up his sleeves. “With your vulgarity and…and filthy innuendo!”
Francis stepped up and pushed James sharply on the chest, sending him tottering backwards into a nest of mahogany tables. “Don’t be a fool, James. It doesn’t suit you, acting the tough guy. She’s just stringing you along you know. She’ll dump you before you even get a chance to sample the goods. To be frank, you’re not missing much.”
“What do you mean? How the hell would you know?”
“Oh, figure it out for yourself. Or better yet ask her. She’s your bloody fiancée after all.”
“You’re a pig!” shouted Janet, crying. Francis left the room. He bounced off the wood panelled walls, following the sound of base-beat towards the disco.
Tom stood in silence for a moment, his false moustache hanging limply from his top lip. Eventually it dropped off onto the carpet.
“I told you we should have booked-up for the Tolkien weekend,” he said miserably.
***
He didn’t think he would enjoy it at first, but Rodger had to admit, he was actually having a good time.
It was stifling hot in the ballroom and, dressed as he was as Reverend Merryweather – the village vicar - he was sweating profusely. The starched clerical collar and black woollen jacket did not lend itself well to the twin pursuits of drinking and dancing.
That’s probably why you see so few vicars in nightclubs, he thought, taking a sip of gin and tonic. The costume no doubt cramped their style.
Gillian, a thin and rather glacial blond who worked for an insurance firm in the City, looked in his direction and smiled. She was dressed severely - hair scraped back into a bun, thick framed glasses half way down her nose – but managed to make the ensemble look sexy. He wracked his brain, trying to remember her character’s name. She was supposed to be the village librarian – Ms Bullfinch, Bullrush, Bulldyke, something like that. She looked away briefly and laughed at something her friend said, glancing back to look at him again. He was definitely on to a winner, he thought.
Rodger took his drink and left the ballroom. Outside, in the hallway, eight or nine people lolled about, talking, a few couples getting friendly on the sofas that lined the wall.
He stood for a moment and looked back into the ballroom, enjoying the scene. Professors, tarts, nurses, policemen and retired army colonels, all drinking and dancing, having a good time. It was like a living, breathing game of Cluedo, he thought. A total hoot.
He made his way into the study, taking a cigarette from his inside pocket. It was dim inside the room, the only illumination from a single lamp in the corner.
A drunken man sat prone on an overstuffed armchair, a bottle of beer resting on the floor beside him. He wore a raincoat and had a trilby pulled down over his eyes.
“Excuse me,” said Rodger. “I don’t suppose you have a light?”
The man did not move or say anything. Rodger leaned closer and saw a smear of blood coming from the man’s slack mouth.
“Oh, I get it,” he said, smiling.
“Reverend! I thought I’d find you here, skulking!”
Rodger turned to see Gillian standing at the door, leaning seductively against the frame.
“Why, Miss Bullfinch, thank goodness you’re here. I’m afraid I have some ghastly news!” He gestured to the man on the chair. “You see, there’s been a murder!”
Gillian feigned horror, lifting her hand to her head and swooning. “Oh my!” she said.
A man and women entered the room, arm in arm. The man wore a bowler hat and smoked a brier pipe, the woman was dressed in a woollen cardigan and grey wig.
“Inspector Abbington of the Yard,” said the man. “What seems to be the problem?”
On and on it went. For the dozenth time that night the participants acted out their parts, savouring the absurdity of the situation.
Only Francis, lying on the chair, took his part seriously.
He’d been dead for quite some time now.
The End.
Whodunnit?
Tobias Peters stepped gingerly over the body on the study floor. He crouched down and removed the lens from his inside pocket, using it to examine the gaping and very bloody wound on the back of the dead man’s head.
“Hmmm…” he said, “I’d say the murder weapon was definitely a blunt object. Most probably something grabbed in the heat of the moment. Something handy.”
“Yes, yes,” said Doctor Ringwart. He removed his spectacles and polished them furiously with a bloodstained handkerchief before continuing. “We’ve already established the murder weapon. We found the golfing trophy in the garden, remember? It looks like the burglar discarded it when he got away. It’s almost certainly what was used.”
Tobias got back to his feet, ignoring the firecracker pop of his knees. “Yes, quite. But it always pays to be sure, doctor. An investigation rests on facts, not assumptions.”
He smiled, pleased with his riposte. He held up the lens and pointed it at Ringwart for emphasis. “Facts doctor. Always remember - not assumptions. Facts.”
“I say we question the butler again. That feller’s got somethin’ to hide I tell ya! Don’t trust that snake as far as I could throw’em!” Bart Spanner stumbled as he spoke, spilling scotch on the Persian rug. His cheeks were alcohol flushed, broken capillaries standing-out a livid, grape purple.
“The stiff’s wife was real cosy with the butler. Maybe they wanted him bumped off. Take the insurance money and run.”
“What insurance money?” said Ringwart. “The victim had no insurance.” He sighed and pinching the bridge of his nose. “Look, I really think we need to take some sort of note of what we know so far. This is getting confusing.”
Moira Fairwater was leaning against the mantelpiece, smoking a cigarette from an ivory holder. “Oh James, don’t be such a pendant,” she said. She blew a pall of smoke in Doctor Ringwart’s direction, making his eyes smart. “A man’s been killed, that’s what matters. We simply must find his murderer.”
“Yes, Moira, I realise that, but there are so many strands –”
Moira gave a little scream as Spanner whacked her on the buttocks.
“Sweet cheeks is right. Ain’t no sense dilly-dallying, doc. We’ve got a stiff and someone sure as hell did for him. And I for one don’t buy this burglar crap.”
“Wait a moment,” said Ringwart. His face was suddenly very drawn and pale. “Just what do you think you’re doing?”
Spanner looked uncertain. He took another sip of scotch before replying. “Trying to solve a murder, doc. What’d ya think I’m doin’ –”
“-No, no, I didn’t mean that. I mean what on earth do you think you are doing slapping my wife on the buttocks? Perhaps that sort of thing is acceptable where you are from, but I assure you we are used to more civilised behaviour!”
“Please, James. Mister Spanner meant nothing by it, did you, Bart? He was just being playful and frightfully American.”
“Yes…well, I do wish he’d be playful somewhere else. To be quite frank, he’s getting on my bloody nerves!”
Tobias stepped quickly between the two men, separating them. Spanner’s trilby was knocked off his head in the resulting melee.
Serge Montpassion entered the study, delicately eating a barbeque chicken wing. He watched in silence for a few moments, his sparse, Chaplainesque, moustache twitching as he chewed.
“Mon amis! Please to be stopping the fighting, non? It is, how do you say? Unseemly. Please, respect for the dead can be shown.”
He sucked up the last scrap of meat from the wing and dropped the bone into a cut-glass ashtray. His greasy fingers he popped into his mouth one after the other, licking them clean.
“Ugh!” said Moira Fairwater, lowering herself onto the chez longe. “Must you do that Monsieur Montpassion? It really is most disgusting.”
“Disgusting, Madam Fairwater? Non, what is disgusting is getting away with murder I think.” He put his hands behind his back and began pacing the room, looking down at his tiny feet.
“Oui, it is correct. Murder most foul, Madam and Monsieurs. That is why I have gathered you here -”
“You ain’t gathered nobody. We were all here anyways,” said Spanner.
Montpassion looked disconcerted. He began to pace faster. “M-Murder most foul, Madam and Monsieurs –“
“
You’ve said that already, Frenchie. We turned up on the same goddamn bus, remember! All the way from Milton Keynes!”
Montpassion stopped pacing and shook his head slowly. He pursed his lips before throwing his arms up in exasperation.
“Really…sometimes you make it impossible, Francis!” All traces of the French accent were gone as he hopped from foot to foot. “We’re supposed to be sticking to our roles,” he said. “What’s the point of paying good money for a murder mystery weekend if you’re not going to take it seriously?”
“Oh, get a life, Tom.” Francis – dressed as pulp detective Bart Spanner – drained his glass of scotch and went hunting for more. “It’s just a bit of bloody fun. No-one’s really died.”
A muffled voice came from the floor. “You really are an insufferable prick, Francis.” The dead body moved into life, sitting up on the thick shag carpet and stretching his arms. “We all agreed that we’d play our parts. I’m a corpse for God’s sake. If anyone should be complaining it should be me.”
“If you ask me the part suits you,” said Francis.
“What do you mean by that?”
“Suits your bloody personality. Dead bloke. That’s what they call you behind your back in accounts.”
“Can we get back to why we’re here,” said Tom, pressing his false moustache firmly to make sure it stayed on. “Give me a moment and I’ll get in character –”
“How dare you! It’s not true. Dead bloke…I’ve never heard anything so ridiculous!”
Francis found a bottle of beer wedged down the side of a nearby couch. He took it to the cabinet in the corner of the room and used the edge to pry loose the bottle top. After a few tries and much splintering of wood he finally managed it, beer foaming over his hand and onto the carpet.
“That’s an antique, you know,” said Janet, shaking her head in disgust. She was still lying on the chez longe, looking uncomfortable squeezed into the tight, red cocktail dress that was the costume of Moira Fairwater – vamp extraordinaire.
“So what?” said Francis. He took a long pull from the bottle then belched. “I’ve paid my money like everyone else.” He staggered across the room and leaned on the edge of the chez longe, leering down at Janet’s cleavage.
“You know,” he slurred, “if you’re selling those puppies I’ll take the one with the pink nose.”
“You’re a pig, Francis! An utter pig!”
Francis laughed. “You didn’t always think so, Janet. Once you –” he stopped, apparently thinking better of the whole thing. “Oh, never mind. Sod this, I’m off to the ballroom. The disco should have started by now.”
He headed towards the door of the study, swinging the bottle of beer in his hand.
“You’re not going anywhere until you’ve apologised to Janet.” James, dressed as the village physician – Doctor Ringwart- took his clear glass spectacles off his face and folded them carefully. He tucked them, business-like, into the top pocket of his jacket and angled himself between Francis and the door.
“I’ll teach you to speak to a lady like that,” he said, beginning to roll-up his sleeves. “With your vulgarity and…and filthy innuendo!”
Francis stepped up and pushed James sharply on the chest, sending him tottering backwards into a nest of mahogany tables. “Don’t be a fool, James. It doesn’t suit you, acting the tough guy. She’s just stringing you along you know. She’ll dump you before you even get a chance to sample the goods. To be frank, you’re not missing much.”
“What do you mean? How the hell would you know?”
“Oh, figure it out for yourself. Or better yet ask her. She’s your bloody fiancée after all.”
“You’re a pig!” shouted Janet, crying. Francis left the room. He bounced off the wood panelled walls, following the sound of base-beat towards the disco.
Tom stood in silence for a moment, his false moustache hanging limply from his top lip. Eventually it dropped off onto the carpet.
“I told you we should have booked-up for the Tolkien weekend,” he said miserably.
***
He didn’t think he would enjoy it at first, but Rodger had to admit, he was actually having a good time.
It was stifling hot in the ballroom and, dressed as he was as Reverend Merryweather – the village vicar - he was sweating profusely. The starched clerical collar and black woollen jacket did not lend itself well to the twin pursuits of drinking and dancing.
That’s probably why you see so few vicars in nightclubs, he thought, taking a sip of gin and tonic. The costume no doubt cramped their style.
Gillian, a thin and rather glacial blond who worked for an insurance firm in the City, looked in his direction and smiled. She was dressed severely - hair scraped back into a bun, thick framed glasses half way down her nose – but managed to make the ensemble look sexy. He wracked his brain, trying to remember her character’s name. She was supposed to be the village librarian – Ms Bullfinch, Bullrush, Bulldyke, something like that. She looked away briefly and laughed at something her friend said, glancing back to look at him again. He was definitely on to a winner, he thought.
Rodger took his drink and left the ballroom. Outside, in the hallway, eight or nine people lolled about, talking, a few couples getting friendly on the sofas that lined the wall.
He stood for a moment and looked back into the ballroom, enjoying the scene. Professors, tarts, nurses, policemen and retired army colonels, all drinking and dancing, having a good time. It was like a living, breathing game of Cluedo, he thought. A total hoot.
He made his way into the study, taking a cigarette from his inside pocket. It was dim inside the room, the only illumination from a single lamp in the corner.
A drunken man sat prone on an overstuffed armchair, a bottle of beer resting on the floor beside him. He wore a raincoat and had a trilby pulled down over his eyes.
“Excuse me,” said Rodger. “I don’t suppose you have a light?”
The man did not move or say anything. Rodger leaned closer and saw a smear of blood coming from the man’s slack mouth.
“Oh, I get it,” he said, smiling.
“Reverend! I thought I’d find you here, skulking!”
Rodger turned to see Gillian standing at the door, leaning seductively against the frame.
“Why, Miss Bullfinch, thank goodness you’re here. I’m afraid I have some ghastly news!” He gestured to the man on the chair. “You see, there’s been a murder!”
Gillian feigned horror, lifting her hand to her head and swooning. “Oh my!” she said.
A man and women entered the room, arm in arm. The man wore a bowler hat and smoked a brier pipe, the woman was dressed in a woollen cardigan and grey wig.
“Inspector Abbington of the Yard,” said the man. “What seems to be the problem?”
On and on it went. For the dozenth time that night the participants acted out their parts, savouring the absurdity of the situation.
Only Francis, lying on the chair, took his part seriously.
He’d been dead for quite some time now.
The End.