The Old Dog and the Doorstep

by JP Wright

My big sister was pretending to study whilst listening to her vanilla-flavour, low-fat, decaff, powdered milk, ersatz pop music when I burst in with the bad news. She pretended not to care, but my keen senses detected a quiver in her core at the thought of no dinner. Perhaps her eating problems stem from a primitive fear of starvation, exasperated by having a Mother who does not properly appreciate the importance of regular mealtimes for growing girls. Especially when they are growing as fast as V. She was doodling pictures of plates of food.

  I explained my theory about the Maid running flustered from the study after finding the Master with a knife in his back that had not killed him, and how I had deduced she must have tipped the cake out of the window. She pretended not to care about that too, although she ought to have, since it looked as though she might be off the jolly old hook. “But I am not sure,” I added, looking ask-ance at her which is when you are asking someone a question without really saying it, “I am not sure that all the evidence is counted for by that theory.”

  “Hypothesis,” she grunted.

  “Whichever. For instance, the scatter of the cake-crumbs is wrong for a nudge. It suggests a more violent defenestration, and there were footprints under the window, though you smudged them with your great big hooves.”

  “Footprints?” spluttered she. Now I had her attention. Could they have been her prints after all?

  “If only the crime scene had been undisturbed,” I scolded, “I would have been able to identify the perp for sure.” My latest thought was in fact: the Maid, not satisfied with jumping onto the counter to avoid a mouse or Stable-boy or Dr, had catapulted herself and the cake through the window together. She narrowly avoided being peppered by the Colonel's blunderbust, he being out shooting at ghosts or pink elephants. Cake was not so lucky; caught it right in the butter-cream and was blown to smithereens before it hit the parsley bed. V snorted and started scribbling at her school-work again. A cat will not drag away a cake for a king, I remembered, and there is more than one way to scale a fish. “The Colonel thinks it might have been a curse,” I reported.

  “Maybe that's it,” she muttered, without looking up.

  “No,” I countered, “Despite your superstitious nonsense about Farmer's ghosts, mummies and great-grand aunties, I suspect no supernatural force. Alas, the ill nature of man – or woman, or chubby girl – is enough to explain all the broken cakes in the world.” “Belle and Dr Plain both say they did not do it, but they were being blackmailed by the Master of the house,” I told her, ticking the names off in my notepad, “The old crocks are spilling tea; the IT geeks are accusing one-another; the Vicar and the Choirboy are holding hands and giggling a lot. It may be an hysterical reaction to the brutal murders. They are not worldly-weary like me. The police have not yet accused any gypsies or jugglers, but it can only be a matter of time. It is poisoning apparently, but they have ignored the cake element ...” I wondered whether not gypsies, but angry peasants could have been responsible, but no: they come in mobs with pitch-forks, not single spies with cake-forks.

  V put down her pen. “What does cake have to do with anything? Clara must have popped the question. Did you say Belle was back?”

  “The cake has everything to do with everything – it is the key to the case. What question and back from where?” I wanted to find out how much she knew.

  “I mean they are going to get married,” she said, in that arrogant tone that older sisters get.

  “In real life? Those two teachers? The Tisket-Taskets?”

  “Ash and Clara. Yep,” she grinned.

  “Gross. They should not be allowed out after school hours to mix with decent people. All that will come of it is the breeding of more teachers, if you allow them to mix,” I lightly said, watching for V's reaction. I am not a fool, but sometimes it pays to seem like one. “You should go and talk to them,” I added, “They'll need a Matron of Honour.”

  “Bridesmaid, idiot.”

  “You are more the matronly sort,” I assured her. “You should definitely ask them. Chubby Roger needs someone to make her look thin.”

  “Get out.”

  “In time.” I turned as if to go, then spun back to face her. “Where was Belle back from? Did you see her go out?” Could the two of them be in league? Maybe the fat cow had faked her disdain of the Actress. I stared into her eyes.

  “Back off you weirdo. You told me she had gone out, didn't you?” V said, panicked by my hypnotic interrogation technique.

  “Of course,” I nodded, releasing her from the fire of my burning eyes. She was still in the frame: she knew more than she was letting on. “I wonder about those footprints,” I idly commented, browsing through the beast's wardrobe. Black, black, purple. Baggy, saggy, stretched. Nothing to complement what I already had.

  “Get out.”

  “Of the wardrobe? Sure. Nothing in there for me,” I said, tucking a pair of pink and purple banded long socks she never wears anyway up my t-shirts. “I wonder, if we could have measured those prints, who else would be a suspect?”

  “How about the Wet?” She was trying to throw me off the scent again. But we must keep our minds open and so Simon must be another suspect for cake number one. I am sure his servile and feeble manner conceals some hidden purpose here. The inner man has begun to come to the surface – admittedly under the cover of Butler's whiskers. He is playing a long game – if a fellow will lurk in the house for four months just to destroy a cake, who knows what he might be capable of? “And they are all in the drawing room still?”

  “Yep.” Or they were. I had better get back. V was clearly not going to be any use with the dinner problem.

  “Get out, then.”

  “See you later, sweet sis,” or something like that, and I strolled back down to see whether the guests had set upon one-another yet.

  No blood, sadly. Still a lot of talking. The Colonel and Beryl were explaining themselves. Seems they too were the victims of a blackmail plot. The Surgeon as well – who had known both Belle and the Master at the time of their saucy french affair.

  “We were at the King's Head over Friday night,” puffed the Colonel, “Got up late, had gammon for breakfast. Fellow there could vouch for us.”

  “Nothing to stop you slipping out before breakfast,” commented Roger, meekly.

  “With my knees?” protested Beryl, hitching up her skirt to show off a horrid knobbly example, “Not on these misty mornings. More creaking than sneaking, my dear.”

  “And my gout!” roared the Colonel, “But there was another chap there, at breakfast. A gentleman by his shoes, but harried-looking, don’tcha think Beryl?”

  “Hurried, yes. If not downright furtive. In he hurried, all bedevilled. I had eggs rather than gammon. Regretted it.” Shoes again. And the sloth had trampled all over the evidence.

  “Sergeant,” Mummy asked, glancing at the clock, “were there by any chance any fingerprints found at the scene of the crime?” I could have told her that cake does not take an imprint well – we would need DNA. Also, I had carefully inspectored the floury kitchen, and nothing. Not a sausage. Which reminded me of dinner while Sergeant Able pulled himself back to attention and saluted raggedly, clonking Easy on the head by the way.

  “Ma'am, there were,” he solemnly said. Raised eyebrows and basted breath all round.

  “Then you know who the killer is, Sergeant?”

  “Not so, ma'am.” Disappointed sighs. “There were three sets of prints on the letter-knife. Those of the Butler, of the Master (rest his soul), and – begging your pardon ma'am – of the lady of the house. All three have legitimate access to the letter-knife.”

  “Nasty thing, a paper cut,” said the Vicar, oddly. Vicars always tend to lurk about after tragedies, but this one was particularly persistent. “Was being blackmailed too by the dead chap. Nasty business. Be pleased to move on. Odd thing though – letter inviting me here in a different hand.” She paused – glanced at her notes, nodded. Clicked at her pen, red to blue to black. “Last letter
from him, inviting me down here, in a different hand. Be interested to see the last letter he opened.”

  “The Butler!” broke in Beryl excitedly. Of course it was the Butler. Despite trying to disguise himself by changing actors overnight, it was easy to deduce that he was the murderer: everyone else – Stable-boy, Maid, Cook – being horribly dead, it could only be him. But how and why? And how did that murder relate to the destruction of the cake? Able and Easy dragged the Butler into the middle of the room.

  “I knew he wasn't to be trusted,” growled Mr Cutter, while Dr Plain gazed at Butler with wide-eyed interest.

  “The Devil!” roared Colonel Rooting-Compound, “Right under our noses! Pouring our sherry!” The rest murmured. Belle looked confused and checked her phone.

  “I confess,” sighed Butler, pressing a stray whisker back into place. The police officers stepped back and he did not try to run for it, but stood in front of the guests and said, “I was aware of the Master's blackmail plots against you, our ready-penned Doctor; against you Colonel, for your hidden part in an infamous defeat; against you, silly girl,” pointing at Belle, “for your indiscretions; and you Vicar ... well, let us not go too far into detail. I had delivered to him your envelopes padded with cash, and had personally handed over to the post-office his notes of gratitude and requests for further funds. I know each of your names and addresses, and it was not a difficult matter to find out the crimes for which you were each being punished.” He paused and stroked his whiskers villainously. “Why not, then” he hissed, “take over the franchise for myself?”

  “Well,” cried Mummy brightly, “that seems clear enough.” Belle jumped up, checking her phone again. She seemed keen to get away: a little bit rude.

  “Wait!” barked Mr Cutter, “What about the other murders?” Belle sat down obediently; Mummy bit her lip; Butler glanced at her and they exchanged a small secret nod that could not escape my trained eyes.

  “Yeah, not so fast,” sneered Sergeant Able, not too quick on the uptake but determined to make up for it, “What about the other two?”

  “Three, Sarg. Cook, Maid, Stable-boy.”

  “Thought I saw Cookie at lunch,” said the Colonel.

  “No, sir,” Easy assured him, “It may not be enough to keep her from the table, but she is definitely dead.

  “Poison,” Beryl reminded everyone.

  Never mind about the other murders, what about the cake? thought I. Butler tried a snarl, tried a sneer, winked at Mummy then turned back to the Paying Guests. “I found the Master at his desk – asleep or dead: it mattered not which. I did not need a moment to consider my course. I have been watering the port for years; I have substituted vin de table for premier cru; half the silverware has been pawned or sold, either at the Master's instruction or on my own initiative.” His hands clawed at the air and he prowled up and down the carpet: the Wet was pulling all his stops out of one basket. “I needed more than petty pilfering to satisfy my villainous soul. The death of the Master was my opportunity for wealth, and for the pleasure of blackmailing the weak and the crooked.” The guests gasped in horror at the villain. Even the Great Detective was shocked at his pride. He continued: “So I plunged the letter-knife into the drunkard's back, to make sure of him, but as I left the study, I heard a gasp and running feet. That silly little Maid, I was sure. And if she knew, the Stable-boy soon would. I took my first opportunity, before dinner, to slip out of this drawing room, around the front of the house and in at the dining room window, which I had previously opened.”

  “But you were drunk!” exclaimed the Colonel. Butler grinned evilly and hitched up his ill-fitting trousers.

  “A cunning piece of misdirection, old boy. I am of course an accomplished actor: every master criminal must be.” Mummy raised her eyebrows at him, but he carried on, striding over to the doorway where she stood, pointing dramatically past her into the dining room. The guests could not see, but I did not miss the conspicious smile he smiled at Mummy. “In the dining room, I did not find the Maid, but the Stable-boy. The silly girl did enter in time, though, to find me poisoning him, so I had to stab her with this ...” he ran across to the mantelpiece to grab a corkscrew and flourished it, at some risk to Beryl's hat, “and then slipped out of the window and was back in here in time to help drag away the bodies of my victims.”

  Who would have expected such fleetness of foot from a butler? Does their training include a ninja assassin element – just after soup-serving and before courteously interruptive coughs? This Butler was obviously pretty tough: his recovery from what had certainly seemed a broken leg had been remarkable.

  “Is it not true” I shouted out, disregarding the deadly corkscrew, “that after leaving the study you pursued the Maid into the kitchen, and from there out of the window, taking with you another victim – the cake?”

  Butler paused thoughtfully mid-flourish. “If you like,” he shrugged. Finally – a confession. “A mere cake could not stand in the way of my wicked scheme,” he declared, winking at me. Unnecessary smugness, or hubris, which is when you get your feet tangled in the curtain and fall over just after saying 'Ta-dah!' And it was not a mere cake, it was a chocolate-coffee cake.

  “So. You have your confession, officers,” said Mummy, “You may arrest him.”

  “But what about Cookie?” wondered Colonel R-C. Mummy sighed, and Butler shrugged,

  “Just a few drops in her almond essence. Enough to stop her quivering forever.”

  “Then it is solved,” said Sergeant Able, striding forwards to grab Butler. But just as Mummy was heaving a theatrical sigh of relief, up piped Reverend Younglove.

  “Master was dead when Butler stabbed him. Any freshly read letters on his desk?” What new twist was this? Easy pulled a sheet of paper from her packed shirt-front, and handed it to the Vicar, who shuffled through her notes and then nodded to herself, then passed it to Roger. “Thought so. Same hand as the letter inviting us here.” The other guests passed the letter around, and nodded wisely. “You will find, Sergeant,” the Vicar said, “ink on this page contains deadly poison, smallest dose of which will kill a man if enters his bloodstream.” Dr Plain hastily handed the letter on to her husband.

  “Arrest her!” shouted chubby Roger, standing, cheeks flushed, pointing at my Mummy. All gasp.

  “Ah! It is true, too true!” cried Mummy, staggering to the centre of the rug and falling to her knees very elegantly I thought. “It was I who plotted to take over my husband's schemes. It was I who invited you all here, hoping to further bind you by making you all suspects in his murder. It was I who wrote the poison-pen letter. I was relying on his habitual clumsiness: he never did read a letter but he got a paper cut. It was I who sent Butler to make sure of him.” That Butler sulked as Sergeant Able restrained him, and Easy stepped forward to lay a hand on Mummy's shoulder. She sobbed. Mummy I mean. “But I could not rein in the monster once I had released him. Together we planned this terrible crime, and we would have got away with it too ...” pause for a sniffle, “if it had not been for all of you!” She pointed at the Paying Guests, who looked very pleased with themselves. Though I am reluctant to give credit to a teacher, it was mostly the Vicar who had deduced whodunnit. Mummy allowed herself to be led away by the police comfortable.

  The guests sat looking variously shocked, amused, satisfied and confused (Belle) for a minute, and then began to get up, and wandered off to gather up their stuff from their rooms. Beryl said “Cheerio, dear,” and the Tisket-Taskets waved before strolling off hand in hand. The Cutter-Plains had already begun to argue about who was to drive home. The Actress Belle did not stop to say goodbye. Waving her mobile phone to try to get a signal, she trotted off upstairs and came scrambling down again less than a minute later. She was out of the front door and off down the drive as fast as her fat ankles would carry her. A strange, glamorous creature, flitting in and out of our everyday world? Or a fool, barely able to see beyond her make-up mirror? We will never know.

  And what have
we learned from this little mystery? 1. Everything is more complicated than it seems. Or, however complicated everything seems, it is all one. 2. Grown-ups are weird (which maybe we already knew), each in their own way. 3. When distracted by a bloody murder, it is easy to lose sight of the important stuff – none of them had regarded the crime from the bakery perspective, and the whole business seemed to have distracted Mummy from the most important part of a weekend, which is Sunday lunch (even at dinner time). I dropped my note-book and raced off after the police officers to find her and tell her before it was too late.

  Chapter 18