The Impossible Murderer

by Allison Osborne

  Joe intervened, stepping between Irene and Mr. Richardson.

  “Please, Sir,” he pleaded. “I know this is a strange occurrence for everyone, but you must trust that we want what’s best for you and your horses. Leave us be, and I promise we will turn up answers for you.”

  Mr. Richardson looked beyond him at Irene but decided against arguing back. He instead heaved a large sigh and stomped away.

  Joe turned back to the crime scene and tried to look at everything from an inspector’s point of view.

  The bedroom was of standard size and setup with a bed in the middle, a nightstand on either side and a closet at one end. A small desk was tucked in the corner, the chair tipped over below Phillip’s hanging feet.

  Phillip’s face was purple and swelling, and a slick, shiny substance coated his hairline. Blood, perhaps? Water from the rain? Both shoes were still on, and so was his jacket. As far as Joe could tell, this was a suicide. He pulled his notebook from his pocket and stood to the side of the room, eager for Irene’s dictation on what she observed.

  The maid came back with two canisters and set them on the ground at the door, refusing to enter the room. Joe scooped them up and put them on the mantle, ready for Irene to do god knew what with them.

  Irene pulled thin gloves from her trouser pocket and tugged them on. She started with the body, carefully circling Phillip.

  After a moment, she reached into her pocket and produced a small magnifying glass, no bigger than a silver coin, attached to a long gold chain that appeared to have a missing clasp. Joe hadn’t seen her use that before and thought to ask about it, but he knew better than to do so when she was in this mode of thought. She probably wouldn’t hear him anyway, so he tucked the question away for a later time.

  Irene paid special mind to Phillip’s hands, looking at his fingers through the small magnifying glass. She dug into her pocket again and brought out a hairpin, next scraping the pin under his fingernail and examining what she found. She let out a disappointment grunt and wiped whatever was under his fingernail onto his jacket, causing his body to sway, the ceiling creaking with his weight

  She dropped to the floor and crawled around the room, slithering like a lizard, head bobbing back and forth, tracking clues that were invisible to Joe.

  Irene ended up back at the chair, tilting her head to look at the dark wood. She stood and grabbed the corn starch. She popped the lid and grabbed a small pinch of the white powder between her fingers. She sprinkled some on the top of the chair, then gently blew off the excess. When she was done, the dark wood was dusted with white powder, and she looked at each spot with her magnifying glass.

  Once satisfied, she moved swiftly to the window, grabbing the other canister as she went and tucking it under her arm with the first. She sprinkled some corn starch on the window sill and blew it almost clean. Then, she took to the white wallpaper, grabbing a handful of cocoa powder and tossing it halfway up the wall next to the window.

  The power clung to the wall in what looked like a wonky-shaped hand.

  “My god,” Joe said, finally figuring out what she was doing. “You’re finding fingerprints.”

  “What else would I be doing with cocoa and corn starch?”

  He laughed, but she was serious as she continued with her investigation.

  “Note,” she ordered him. “Big loop and small arch. “

  She pointed to Phillip’s hand. “Neither. His are a whorl pattern.”

  Joe nodded as if understanding and jotted the words in his notebook. He looked at his own fingerprints and all he saw were little swirls. He wondered if Irene would classify them as arches, loops, or whorls. Or perhaps swirls was an entirely different fingerprint all together?

  She moved to the bed and crouched, placing herself at eye level with the comforters, then spotted something under the bed. A damp oak leaf. A disgusted look crossed her face and Joe was about to inquire as to the reason when she saw something on the other side of the room.

  She leapt over the bed and stopped right in front of the closet. The door was open only a few inches when she peered in.

  “What’s in there?”

  “Something that may be important,” she replied with a furrowed brow. “Though I am not sure. Write the word 'bag' with a question mark beside it.”

  He did as she asked and as he finished the word, she came to stand beside him. She again observed the room, one hand on her hip, the other in a closed fist, pointer finger straight and pressed to her lips, taking in the scene as a whole.

  Irene strode to the window and opened it. The sound of rain and wind blew into the room, a few stray drops spraying her ensemble. She shut the window and as soon as the wood hit the window sill, the pack of hounds sounded from downstairs, barking and yowling at the thump.

  Mr. Richardson bellowed at them and eventually they silenced.

  A smile tugged at Irene’s lips.

  “What?” Joe asked. “That look doesn’t seem good. What are you about to do?”

  She righted the fallen chair below Phillip, bumping his feet. Then she knocked it over.

  The dogs went mad again.

  “I hope there was a point to that,” Joe said, shaking his head. “I may be a vet, but I do know when a man is about to have a heart attack, and that poor soul yelling at those dogs is a likely candidate.”

  “Everything I do has a point.” She tugged off her gloves. “We can let the coroner take the body now. Eddy should be arriving shortly and he can deal with it.”

  She grabbed a handkerchief off the bedside table and rubbed the powder and cornstarch off the chair and wall. Her jaw clenched back and forth, and Joe knew her brain worked overtime at this moment, piecing together several pictures in her mind.

  “Do you have a theory?” he asked.

  “I have four, actually.”

  “Care to share?”

  “Not until I have worked out more facts,” she said, then left the room. They descended the stairs and Margaret met them at the bottom.

  “Can we retrieve my husband?” she asked, eyes puffed and red.

  “You may get him down,” Irene said. “I have everything I need.”

  “Thank goodness.” Margaret pushed past her to climb up the stairs, tears starting all over again.

  “I would ask, though,” Irene said, voice loud to make a point. “That everyone stays in the house until Detective Inspector Lestrade arrives. There’s been a lot of foul play in this case, and you all are suspects.”

  Mr. Richardson’s eyes grew wide and he looked ready to take a swing at anything that came into range. Anthony let out a great sigh.

  “We will not be kept here,” he argued. “I have horses to worry about with a murderer and thief out there.”

  Joe couldn’t take it any longer. Sometimes these people sounded like they cared about their horses, other times it seemed that horses were just a tool for them to win money. Joe had seen enough animals euthanized out of desperation and he’d seen enough heartbroken people who genuinely cared about their pets and who would give anything to have the number of animals these people had in their home.

  “You should be worried about your horses all the time,” Joe said hotly. “Not just when they could be stolen. The past few years weren’t kind to most animals in this area.”

  “And you are an expert on horses?” Anthony raised a brow.

  Joe opened his mouth to state his credentials, but Irene, true to form, leapt to his defence.

  “He’s a Doctor of Veterinary Medicine and a war veteran,” she snapped. “I say he’s perfectly qualified to comment on your horses, considering you didn’t serve yourself, and can’t seem to win against Mr. Richardson’s horses.”

  Everyone stared at her, but like usual, she didn’t seem bothered.

  “Unless I am mistaken and you did serve,” Irene continued. “If that was the case, though, you would have displayed your medals of service on that jacket you’re wearing and you would have a certain walk of a man come back
from war. Most of them have a specific cadence to their gait from slinging a rifle around everywhere, while yours is more from carrying a crop and failing to win at horse dancing.”

  Anthony strode forward, pointing his finger at Irene in rage. “Listen here, you–”

  Joe blocked him, thumping a palm on his chest. Irene could trade words with someone all she wanted without his interference, as she could hold her own better without his help, but he wouldn’t let anyone assault her like Anthony looked on the verge of doing.

  “This has been a testy few days for everyone,” he stated, eyeing the man warily. “Let’s take a breath, have some tea, and wait for the Inspector.”

  “Get off of me.” Anthony shoved Joe and he stumbled back a few steps. He recovered, but not quick enough to stop Irene before she pounced.

  She grabbed Anthony’s wrist and twisted his arm. He spun, crying out in pain. She kicked the back of his leg and he dropped to his knees. He let out a slew of curse words and struggled under Irene’s grasp.

  Mr. Richardson, shocked, looked at Joe as if compelling him to stop Irene. Truthfully, Joe didn’t want to stop her. He wanted Anthony to learn his lesson, but he didn’t want anything to happen to Irene. She twisted a little more and Anthony let out another cry.

  “Big loop,” she hissed at Joe.

  “What?”

  Before Irene could answer him, a loud knock came from the front door. The dogs howled and scrambled into the room, followed by the maid. She opened the door and a rush of rain and wind blew into the foyer.

  Inspector Lestrade hurried in, water rolling off his shoulders, shutting the door behind him. He immediately took in the scene, dogs jostling him, before letting out a long-suffering sigh at Irene.

  * * * * *

  Lestrade paced back and forth, a cigarette between his lips. He inhaled deeply, then plucked the cigarette from his mouth and smashed it into an ashtray. The three of them were in the small guest wing of the house, in the common room connecting their bedrooms. Joe sat on the couch, feeling a little like a reprimanded child, despite Lestrade’s frustration primarily being aimed at Irene. She didn’t seem to care, however, as she sat cross-legged in front of the fireplace.

  Lestrade pointed to her, even though she wasn’t looking at him.

  “Only you two could add a suicide to a double homicide and a missing horse,” he barked.

  “It wasn’t suicide,” Irene mumbled from the floor.

  “Are you any closer to finding out...anything?”

  “It wasn’t suicide,” she mumbled again, in the same monotone as before.

  “Tell me what it was then, Irene.”

  She jumped to her feet and spun to face him. “If it wasn’t suicide, then clearly it was murder, Eddy.”

  “If you would fill us in with whatever you’re working out in your head,” he responded, voice tight with frustration. “That would be greatly appreciated.”

  She shook her head, jaw working back and forth again, brow furrowed in determination. “Too many theories right now all jumbled up like yarn. I must organize them to cohesive thoughts.”

  “Would it help if you talked them out with us?” Joe offered. He often spoke out loud while trying to work through problems. Most of the time, Irene never heard him, but talking out loud seemed to be of a considerable aid.

  “My mind works much faster than my mouth,” Irene sighed. “So, I would be a dozen steps ahead of whatever I was saying, and even more than you both.”

  “No offence taken,” Eddy said, picking up his mug and sipping his tea.

  Irene sat down in front of the fire again, cross-legged, and went straight into deep thought. Joe looked over at the collection of items Lestrade had brought with him.

  “What is that?” Joe pointed at a large brown box that was clipped shut with large metal hinges.

  “A recorder.” Lestrade puffed out his chest, proud of his treasure. “The department’s only one.”

  “And they let you take it?”

  “A double homicide like this doesn’t usually happen in the countryside. They also got wind I’d sent you both on it, and the superintendent knows how in-depth Irene’s explanations can be.”

  “Superintendent,” Irene huffed. “How is Mr. Lestrade doing, anyway?”

  Joe raised an eyebrow at Lestrade.

  “My father is a superintendent,” Lestrade said, cheeks reddening in embarrassment. “And he’s going to roll his eyes once he finds out what I observed when I arrived here.”

  “He should know better than most,” Irene said with a cheeky grin. “That if you put a Holmes on a case, they will get a thorough, if not an elaborate, explanation of a solved crime. He should also know that you don’t put a Holmes on a case unless it is an odd and intricate one, such as this.”

  “More and more people are learning that,” Lestrade said, finally calming down. He lit another cigarette and blew out smoke as he sighed. “My father still asks if you would ever choose to come to dinner with all of us. You too, Joe.”

  “Joe is more than welcome to attend on his own,” Irene said, staring into the fire.

  Joe watched a look of sad defeat cross Lestrade’s face and he wondered how many times Irene had refused to go for dinner with the man's family. He didn’t have too much time to dwell on that thought, though, because barking erupted from the other side of the house.

  “That will be the coroner,” Lestrade said, smoothing his hair and straightening his shirt. “I’m going to go help with the body.”

  He stuck the cigarette in his mouth, pulled his jacket and hat on, then left the room. Joe leaned forward and scooped up the envelope with the photos from the mortuary of the dead mystery man and the young groom.

  The groom’s death was apparent. His forehead had been smashed in a precise “U” shape, identical to a horseshoe. The mystery man’s body was a little worse for wear, however. He was wholly bruised, several fingers crushed, and a hole in the side of his chest. Joe examined the wound as best he could in the picture.

  “Professional thoughts, Doctor?” Irene’s voice came from close to his ear.

  She’d curled up on the couch and leaned against him so that she could see the pictures. Her skin and clothes were warm from the fire and her hair still smelled of damp rainwater. He didn’t mind either of those things, and she didn’t seem to mind invading his personal space.

  He tilted the picture of the mystery man to her.

  “This hole in his chest,” he began. “Crushed ribs and split skin are where all the blood came from. The full weight of the horse probably came down on him. He must’ve fallen and the horse reared and...crunch. All these other bruises are consistent with horses hooves. They all have a “U” shape, though, all in different directions. For whatever reason, the horse that did this didn’t flee. Which means something kept its attention and angered it, or it was tethered to the spot.”

  Irene took the pictures and stared at them for a long while, leaning against Joe, while the fire flickered away. If there hadn’t been a murder involved, and if they weren’t looking at pictures from an autopsy, it would’ve been a peaceful, if not romantic scene.

  Lestrade came back into the room and sighed.

  “Well, that’s never fun.” He shook his head. “That poor woman was quite upset, though I almost arrested that Anthony fellow for being incredibly rude.”

  “These two men were definitely killed by a horse,” Irene announced. “But it was not Snowball.”

  “And that hanged man,” Lestrade said. “Was apparently also murdered? You want to enlighten us on how you knew that?”

  “I am curious, as well,” Joe said. “What made you treat it as a crime scene and not a tragic event?”

  She sat back on the couch and raised her eyebrow, a bemused smirk on her lips.

  “The dogs, my dear fellows. They barked only once during dinner when Anthony entered the house. During my investigation of the apparent suicide, I knocked the chair over, just as Phillip would have done had
he actually hanged himself, and the dogs went mad. If that chair had fallen during dinner, those dogs would’ve told us, yet they stayed quiet. The dogs did nothing because nothing happened during dinner. Perhaps the murder occurred before dinner and was set to look like a suicide that took place during the meal.”

  Joe stared at her and didn’t try to hide his impressed look. It all made sense, and he felt like a fool for not paying more attention to such small details, especially details that involved animals.

  “So, who do I arrest for the murder?” Lestrade asked. “And what caused the horse to kill those two men? Can I arrest someone for those two murders as well?”

  “All in good time, Eddy,” she said. “There are still a few things I need to confirm first before you go shackling people. There are several layers to this. Secrets, people conspiring against each other. It’s all twisted.”

  “Then untwist it,” he urged.

  “I am,” she said with a deviant smile. “In the morning. Goodnight, my darlings. Be ready for an eventful day tomorrow.”

  “No more events, please,” Joe groaned.

  “Unless that event is me arresting someone,” Eddy said.

  Irene threw them another amused look before heading into her bedroom.

  Lestrade tamped out his cigarette, lips pursed, turning a serious gaze to Joe. “How has she been today?”

  “We were rained out,” Joe said. “And she refused to put on clothes for dinner. Then she almost caused a riot at the scene of a murder.”

  “So, her normal self, then?”

  The men shared a laugh, then Lestrade sighed.

  “I’m glad someone else is here to keep an eye on her,” he admitted. “She seems to be doing well under your care.”

  “She is barely under my care,” Joe said.

  “Still.” Lestrade stood. “I’ve seen positive changes in her. She seems to like life more than she used to.”

  Joe didn’t know how to respond, so he picked at the hem of his shirt. “That’s good, I suppose. Are you coming riding with us tomorrow to search for clues?”

  “Not one part of me wishes to,” Lestrade said with a chuckle. “I appreciate horses, but I have no intention of riding one.”