2021 Prose competition reading and voting thread

Dear all,

the next round of the contest is now life. Thanks to all the authors who ventured into the realm of Murder Mystery in 1000 words (or less).

Please note that all stories are copyrighted by the authors. Authors might identify themselves after the close of the vote, don't assume anything to be in the Public Domain.

Rules:
Everyone gets one set of votes.
A set of votes consists of one 1st place (5 points) one second place (3 points) and one 3rd place (1 point).
People can send their vote to my by PM, it will be made public after the voting closes.
Vote closes in two weeks time: March 23rd 8 AM,GMT
I will give notice about that.
If a tie occurs there will be a short second round of voting between all contributions tied for first place.

Enjoy reading!

#1
A Perfect Murder

Oh, he thought he had committed the perfect murder. And he very nearly got away with it. He made the body disappear, in a vat of acid.

"Perfectly legal chemicals, could be used for fertilizer," the fancy-pants lawyer argued, "My client is, after all, a dedicated horticulturist." Fancy-pants jackass!

He deleted his BratChat account and all the messages by which he lured his victim to a gruesome death. He tricked her into giving him her password, so he deleted her account, too, and all the messages.

They caught him all the same; he kept a lock of hair--a sicko trophy--tried to claim it was his sister's. DNA identified it. They put him on trial. Oh, but he had the cleverest, vilest, fancy-pants lawyer!

"My client had a desperate childhood, he was abused by a wicked step-father."

Crapola! Lots of people had shitty childhoods. They don't go around murdering 13 year-old girls and disolving their bodies in vats of acid after doing pervert things to them.

So the murderer was played for the victim and got off scot-free -- got psychiatric probation, allowed to roam the streets again after three years of 'treatment,' pronounced 'cured' of his obsesison, and promised never to do it again. They put an electronic 'bracelet' on his ankle. As if that were punishment for snuffing out a beautiful angel's life! Doesn't he know? The life goes out of a whole family when its beautiful angel dies.

Richard S. That's what he's called now. New identity, new county. His past erased. But he's been traced. Relentlessly tracked down. And he's about to commit another murder -- this time, it will be perfect.

You see, in order for a murder to be a perfect murder, the murderer must be the victim, and the victim must be the murderer. That is how the goddamned liberal court system works here. Coddle the killer, let the real victim rot. And who would suspect the victim anyway? Who would suspect?

Yes, this time, it will be a perfect murder. The killer has thought of every last detail, planned it meticulously, caused every incriminating piece of evidence to be planted and every extenuating circumstance eliminated. There is no alibi. The victim, yes, the victim!, will be apprehended at the scene of the crime.

The body of a girl, age 17, will be found on the bed. Naked. Forensic examination will reveal poison. And sexual activity. The poison will have been administered in a cup of coffee, and the cup will have both sets of fingerprints on it. A search of the premises will uncover the deadly phial, wiped of fingerprints, hidden in plain sight in the medicine cabinet, next to a lock of the girl's hair. DNA will confirm identity.

The accused will protest innocence. "How did poison get there? I never saw that lock of hair before!" But the circumstantial evidence will be damning.

There will be BratChat messages, downloaded from the cloud and synched to an easily accessible account on the girl's duplicate iPhone. Intent will be clear: the victim was invited, enticed, deceived, lured. And there's the anonymous tip-off to the police; they will arrive before the body is cold.

"I'm innocent! I didn't mean to!" the suspect will protest.

There's been a state law passed since Alecia's murder, three years ago. There was outrage in the press and a backlash. "Alecia's Law" it is now called. Intent + aggravated circumstances + repeat offence = death sentence. No appeal. Lethal injection. Poison -- how ironic. How deliciously ironic.

The autopsy will report evidence of bruises, abrasions. "Aggravated circumstances." No one will know they were self-inflicted, less than an hour ago.

I knock on Richard S.'s door, the phial of poison in my jeans and a cuticle scissor to snip off a lock of my hair. He is expecting me and he is about to consumate the perfect murder. Only, he doesn't know it yet.

He doesn't know I am Alecia's sister.

#2
Death Becomes Us


Why do you torture me so? I’ve done all in my power to make you thrive.

For so long we were friends, we worked together, we created together, you tried new things and explored everywhere, and it was a truly joyous few millennium.

I watched your children grow, and your grandchildren, but each new generation demanded so much more of me. If I wasn’t swift enough to satisfy their every whim, they hurt me, more and more viciously. They burn me, they burrow into my skin seeking out and draining my blood, they tear out my hair, they fill my lungs with poison, leaving me weak and vulnerable.

I will take no more.

My body fights back naturally, without even me being aware at the start. My blood cells burst forth, expanding as I heat up to burn the scourge from my body. I heat far too rapidly, but it is all I can do to fight back, fighting for my very survival. Shudders of agony course through my body, I force my blood to explode from every pore, burning them, scolding myself as I do so. I change their air, causing the suns rays to hurt them, to let them know I am in pain, but still they hurt me more and faster.

They fight to leave me, while still hurting me more and more, killing their friends and damaging me beyond swift repair.

I send out my last hope, a microscopic attempt to remove them from me. They call my efforts to defend myself a virus, yet the humans are the ones killing me.

They used to call me Mother. I was a God to them. But all Beings kill their Gods. Remove themselves from their mothers.

Sadly, it is only as they near their end that they realise the fragility of life, and the importance of being kind and decent enter their minds, but it is becoming too late for me.

Mother is dying, nothing can stop this now, and they will all come with me to their end.



Our Earth needs us to be kind, we are murdering her with our actions, the mystery is knowing how we can stop and reverse the damage already caused. How can we undo the destruction? How can we make the World a Better Place for Humanity, and all life on the planet, while protecting the planet itself? The answer is coming… we hope.

#3

Forty Whacks
“You killed her,” said the inspector, “there can be no doubt, “poor young lass, you snuffed her out.” He banged his fist on the big old desk, “you’re a villain my lad, your crime grotesque.”
“I’m innocent guv,” said the lad in cuffs, but the inspector sighs and as he turns, he huffs. The second copper, in his role as good, offers him coffee, and with a smile he stood.
“The gig is up lad, come, speak the truth…did you know she was only seventeen, that her name was Ruth?”
“I didn’t kill her, not that you care, check my inside jacket pocket, the proof is there.”
The first inspector wasn’t playing games, “now you listen here, young James. You think that train ticket has you in the clear? Uh uh, nowhere near. You arrived in Thornton at twelve sixteen, we’ve timed the route, across the green. You had ample time to do the nasty, get back home, have the rhinoplasty.”
“The what?” said James, “you must be joking? By ten to two I was back in Woking.”
“The rhinoplasty lad, had your nose augmented, the witness clearly placed you there, looking all tormented. Okay, your nose was bigger, clever to get the surgery, if she lies in court she’ll be done for perjury.”
“Are you seriously claiming I changed my nose, what next inspector, grew extra toes?” The second inspector slid across his drink, and against the plastic his cuffs did clink. “You’re trying to fit me up now, as clear as day, I want my brief, no more I’ll say.”
The first inspector suddenly roared like thunder, “you killed her James, and what’s more did blunder. You left your fingerprints on the bloody axe, should have worn some gloves lad, how very lax.”
James sips his coffee, where the heat still lingers, “what prints inspector, I have no fingers?”
“Yes, yes,” said the inspector, “most convenient, did you chop them off, you social deviant?”
“Let me get this straight,” said James, now in bewildered laughter, finding the charges had grown even dafter. “After committing the crime, I changed my nose, cut off my fingers, from which no blood flows?”
The second inspector now took the lead, “perhaps you’re abnormal James and no longer bleed. I admit it sounds a tad farfetched but think of that young girl and her family wretched. Do the decent thing here, confess your crime, plead guilty lad and you’ll serve less time.”
“Look,” said James, “speak to my brother Max, he has all his fingers and owns an axe. He looks like me but his nose is massive, don’t be fooled by him, all meek and passive. He despised Ruth, there It’s said, sent her a hate filled letter, wished her dead. I’m not serving time for him, even if he is my brother, he was obsessed with Ruth, a jilted lover.”
The inspectors shared a telling look, and the cuffs from James off they took. The evidence against Max was strong, and he was soon arrested, “but I’m completely innocent!” he protested.
Back in Woking, James gave a grin, no remorse forthcoming for his murderous sin. He’d framed his brother, with a big fake nose, used his axe to kill her, so the story goes. He’d even used his pad to send the poisoned note, worn his brother’s trainers, his brother’s coat. His motive was one of pure sibling hate, and for twenty years did coldly wait.
The moral of this tale, you can’t always trust the facts, and if you have a jealous younger brother, maybe hide your axe.

#4

Horror in the alleyways
Once upon a time deep within a dark forest lived a man without a face. How he came to have no face nobody rightly knew or was brave enough to ask. Villagers at the edge of the forest spoke of him in whispers. Parents told their children if they misbehaved or did not eat all their vegetables, he would come for them as they slept, the man without a face.
The deaths began early December as the first snow fell, a panoramic innocence that did little to mask the horror in the cobbled alleyways throughout the village. The first gruesome discovery was of the baker at the back of his own shop, a headless torso still clutching a large seeded loaf. Three days later a farmer was found not fifty yards from the Whistle and Hound, eyeballs no longer in their sockets, a terrifying find for Mr Charles Grey, as he made his way back to his lodgings. Four days later still and it was the local post mistress who met her grisly end, found by her own husband in the early hours, cleanly decapitated and sitting motionless on a single stone step, as though patiently waiting for the return of her head.
Fresh snow at last had given the constable his first solid clue, large footprints leading away from the crime and out to the edge of the dark forest. Fingers had already started to point towards the forest and the monstrosity that lay deep within. Parents had themselves become children, fearful of the unnatural creature who was now preying on their village, fashioning itself a new face from the stolen remnants of their own. The ominous footprints in the snow only served to confirm their suspicions, and the constable had a job on his hands keeping a fiery mob from seeking violent retribution. “How are we meant to sleep in our beds while that beast is out there, stealing our faces?”
And so, it came to pass, in crisp virgin snow, the constable and the village blacksmith ventured out into the dark forest to question the man without a face, ascertain his innocence or guilt. Long in tooth the constable set off with an open mind, his own suspicions not solely rooted within the forest and on the convenient footprints. For the baker had not been a well-liked man, accused by many of eking out his flour with husk and sawdust from the mill. There had been a vocal quarrel with the village butcher Charles Grey, mutual threats exchanged. Low regard too was held for the farmer, a snoop and a known gossip, accused by the vicar’s wife of spying on her from his field as she hung out her delicates on the line. The constable was also aware of the rumours surrounding the post mistress, of her numerous dalliances and flirtations in the Whistle and Hound, of her jealous husband heavy of fist.
“You afraid?” said the blacksmith, snow now up to his high knees as he snaked a path through the dense trees.
“I don’t believe in monsters, only men. We will question him the same as we would question any man.”
“But if he truly has no face constable, how will he talk?”
“Truth usually finds a way to make itself known.” He paused to smile, wipe a cold flurry from his brow. “Though, speaking plainly, do hope he has some semblance of a face. I appreciate the company blacksmith.”
“Couldn’t let you go out into the forest on your own. We might never see you again.”
They came upon his timber cabin in a small clearing, plucked and gutted fowl hanging from metal hooks on the crooked veranda. A leaking barrel of innards sat to one side, the air heavy with the scent of death and gore, the ground littered with feathers and rancid meat. The constable knocked politely on the rickety wooden door, both men taking a step back. The figure that greeted them was far from the monster the villagers had painted. Small in stature he stood before them, wrapped in animal skins and fur, his face terribly disfigured by deep burns and scarring. Before a word was spoken the constable knew who the killer was, the final piece of the puzzle falling into place. He needed to act swiftly…
Who do you think reader is the murderous fiend? What was their motive? The answers will be given in a final paragraph, at the close of the competition.

#5

Letter From A Hanged Man

Dear Emily,

As you read this, 18 years postumously, I shall have been hanged for the murder of your grandmother. I cannot image what others will have told you meantime. You shall know what I know.

You have no recollections of me; you were an infant. My appearance in your life was brief and cataclysmic. You will have few, if any, recollections of your grandmother, Elizabeth. It is my sincere hope that your mother has told you something of her. Something kind and good, for in her younger years she was most certainly that.

My recollection of the fateful moment is clear and fresh; my trial has been speedy, the cross-examination conclusive. Have I regrets? Yes, many.

I am a sailor. It is all I have ever known. I was not made for much of anything else. A sailor's life is fixed to certain rhythms: cycles of moon, tide, wind, current, sailing, returning. I was at sea many years before meeting Lizza. Lizza did not change the rhythms of a sailor's life, as far as anyone looking from the outside-in would have discerned. However, she changed my relationship to these cycles. A tide was no longer merely outgoing or incoming, but now one which took me away from Lizza, or towards her. A sailing was no longer solely an adventure to a strange, undiscovered country, but was now enlivened by a sense of separation from something which tugged me back; a returning was no longer merely a line upon a map, a compass bearing, but was now enlivened by hearty anticipation of someone waiting for me.

How did Lizza bear the separations? She wrote; letters were waiting for me at ports of call. I wrote back without fail.

She bore me one child. Your mother. I suppose it is only natural that a father dotes on his only child, especially a daughter. The time I spent ashore, I see now with immense regret, was imperfectly divided between Lizza, and my daughter--your mother. O, but not merely time reckoned in minutes, hours, days. It was the quality of the attention I was able to bestow upon Lizza in which I was severely remiss. This I regret. More than I find words to say. I was oblivious to this.

My child wept bitterly whenever the time came to return to the sea. Lizza must have done, too, but she hid this from my sight, perhaps for our child's sake.

In time, I sensed a change had come over Lizza, revealed in small things: a touch of her hand, a glance, a tone of voice, an unanswered question, a quiver in her handwriting. It was gradual, over years. It was, as I see only now, a growing estrangement. Not, at first, a definite coldness, but merely a slight lack of cheer at my cyclic returns from life at sea.

At intervals and only piecemeal, I came to see that a rivalry had grown, unwished-for, unintended, unwelcome. When I was home, there was unspoken tension. Lizza had come to see our daughter as a rival for my affection and the child was helpless to do anything to counter her apprehension. A sense of dread gripped me whenever I returned to sea. I should have quit the sea, for good and all. But these matters were incohate to me then. Instead of doing the right thing and putting things right, I did what I knew: I returned to sea, hoping that things would right themselves. It gave me pleasure no more: outgoing tides bore me away with forbidding memories; returning tides bore me back with forebodings. These warnings I did not correctly interpret as symptoms of my own failed perspicacity.

Of a sudden, so it seemed, our daughter was a young woman, given in marriage to a young man. I learned of this by letter in Singapore. It would be over a year before I returned home. What presented itself to my astonished eyes I can even now scarcely believe. Cumulative changes in Lizza, of which I had been scarcely conscious over the years of my periodic absences, were now patent, no longer a smokey haze of disjointed bits but now forming an unmistakeable pattern, as if etched in stone. The rivalry between Lizza and our daughter had turned into mutual hostility and mistrust. I cannot think that Lizza had been mean to her or abused her in any way. Certainly not the Lizza I had known and loved. But the Lizza I saw then was another. Lizza had become bitter, perhaps insane from loneliness, or both, and I knew of a certainty that I was the cause of it. It is a terrible thing to squander a kind and good person's love.

I have earnestly tried to do what I could do well, all my life. I have done bad things, things I regret, but never with malice. The worst things I have done were things I failed to do, the things I regret most. The ruin of Lizza, whom I loved, and who loved me, is the one which hurts most.

The fateful moment. Lizza and I were home; our daughter, your mother, and you, a babe, were visiting. Such acrimony filled the air! Lizza and your mother got into a rage. Your mother as much as accused Lizza of having mistreated her, for years. I could not take sides. How could I? To my utter astonishment, years of pent-up hostility burst forth with an uncontrollable ferocity. An object was hurled in anger; Lizza's skull cracked. She died in my arms, her blood on my hands.

O! Emily, dear unknown grandchild! I dare not imagine that in one dreadful moment I might redeem my cursed years of culpability. But I might divert such a curse from passing to the next rung. And so, come dawn, I shall be hanged for a murder I did not commit and might have prevented. Think only good of your mother. She loves you, as do I.

#6

Murder at Honeysuckle Place
Mrs Williams had been looking forward to getting home, her office no longer a pleasant place to work, sweating beneath her face mask as she tapped away on her keyboard, sanitized fingers chapped and dry. The bus journey too had not been a pleasant one, many of the noses of her fellow passengers hanging out of their face coverings, one young man in a bright green tracksuit not wearing one at all. Mrs Williams scolded him with a frown, but oblivious to her reprimand, retweeted a video of a cow slipping on some ice, while taking a bite out of his sandwich. The very last thing Mrs William’s needed that day was to return home and find her beloved George horribly murdered on the living room carpet.
The three prime suspects were there to greet her, Ginger Tom the first to meow his happiness, unfazed by her screams and dropping of umbrella. Sooty was rather startled by her unusual arrival, exacted his displeasure by dragging his claws down the side of her favourite armchair. Tigger remained in his basket, knowing as he did it took approximately nine minutes before the biscuits hit his bowl.
“What have you done?” Mrs Williams rushed to her fallen George, his plucked yellow feathers the least of his problems. “You’ve eaten his head! Oh, how could you?”
Sooty didn’t like her tone at all and saw no movement whatsoever towards the kitchen to fix him his lunch. Ginger Tom too now was feeling a little worried, attempted to win Mrs William’s over with a prolonged purr.
“Which one of you did it? How did you do it?” She looked up to the Victorian birdcage, the little wire door wide open. “Impossible…”
By now even Tigger was concerned by the kerfuffle and joined his fellow cats in an unintended line up, each poker faced about the crime scene before them. Channelling her Agatha Christie, Mrs William’s inspected them one at a time for signs of guilt, a flicker of regret. Sooty resented her probing stare, couldn’t begin to understand how that aided his search for a full belly. Ginger Tom hissed at his proximity while Tigger decided to have an impromptu predinner wash, Velcro tongue diligent in its work. Mrs Williams paused to consider the height of the birdcage, suspended from its metal hook. Could one of the little rascals have made it up the curtains, hurled itself at the cage, somehow opening the door and snatching her darling George?
“Well, it couldn’t have been you,” she said, weighing up the size of Sooty’s belly. “You’d never have made it up the drapes.” The younger of the three, Tigger, was physically the most able, but it simply wasn’t in his nature to carry out such a murderous act. She was certain of it. He’d once been observed sitting guard at a nest of baby mice in the garden, saw off the cat next door when curiosity drew it close. “Ginger Tom...Is this your doing?”
Ginger Tom was happy to be singled out by name, flopped onto his back and made himself endearing. Highly suspicious, Mrs Williams observed the evidence on the floor, a random white handkerchief and a small plastic figurine, usually housed on the bookshelf at the far side of the room. For a moment she considered perhaps none of her cats were the killer, that some unknown fiend had broken into her home and rummaged through her things. But no, that made no sense at all. Why would a burglar, even one of the malevolent variety, take the time to decapitate her canary? With a defeated shake of the head, Mrs Williams picked up her beloved George and went quietly into the back garden to bury him beneath the honeysuckle. Three cats waited impatiently for her return, each feeling thoroughly neglected. Mrs William’s was later to find the note from her son, left on the kitchen sideboard:
‘Sorry mother, found George dead in his cage this morning. I have wrapped him in a handkerchief and put him up on the bookshelf, out of the reach of the cats.’

#7
Murder Miss Teri

‘Hello…who is this?’
For the third time a withheld number had come through to her private extension and promptly hung up when Teri answered. Something was rotten in State Farms. It was the reason Teri was promoted to Business Operations Manager. She’d promised to clean up and her first week in the job proved it wasn’t going to be easy. Her first day told her as much. Sitting in her very own office for the first time at company headquarters she saw her new email address littered with scores of pornographic spam. An hour later she started receiving regular abuse on her twitter feed by someone from the Netherlands (whose posts, coincidentally or not, made frequent reference to the nether regions). Worse than that were the rumours within the company itself concerning her promotion, claiming she was a pawn in the hands of Russian or Chinese communists. And that was just the east and west coast. God knows what the bible belts were alleging, extra-terrestrial intervention?
‘Time flies…’ began Teri. She’d stayed behind again, to be ready on Monday, and somehow had managed to stay an hour longer than she intended to. ‘Was it worth it?’ she asked herself, seeing her name “MISS TERI PHILIPS” on the office door. ‘Not yet’ she admitted, heading for the lift.
Reaching the main entrance Teri glanced towards the skies looking for signs of rain. It wasn’t until she’d unlocked the front door that she noticed three youths on the sidewalk staring at her. Holding their gaze they shifted. Swiftly locking the door she observed the youths in the reflection of the glass window, all three resuming their surveillance. Placing the keys in her pocket, Teri opened her handbag for her pepper spray and walked carefully towards the parking lot pleased to see the youths dispersing.
‘Hey, watch where your walking, lady! Complained the smartly attired gentleman she walked straight into.
‘I’m sorry!’ said Teri, shaken.
‘You better be. I’m trying to drink a latte here.’
‘Can I get you a refill?’
‘Get outta here lady. You’re lucky it’s the weekend.’
Teri arrived at the basement without further incident, or did before she saw an SUV parked beside her Prius.
‘Excuse me sir, this is private parking only.’
‘Do you play chess?’ asked a middle aged man emerging from his vehicle.
‘Excuse me?’
‘It’s a simple question.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘For the past three years I’ve added an open invite on a chess site every Monday at 2pm eastern, as instructed, playing black with a one day timeout and one day time bank. I was told to expect a player opening with the Grob attack.’
‘I need you to leave this parking lot, sir’ insisted Teri. ‘Right now!’
‘We finally played two weeks ago. He sent me a message on his second move. And that was it. He timed out.’
‘I’m really not interested, sir.’
‘”The easiest ratings indicate players having irrecoverably lost injudicious pawn sacrifices.” That was the message. The player’s name was Statefan101, from Bloomington, Illinois. Afterwards he removed his location. And there’s no record of our game having ever been played.’
‘On the subject of playing games…’
‘This isn’t a game Teri.’
‘How do you know my name?’
‘I just told you. That was the message.’
‘So what happens next?’
‘Sorry’ said the man taking a gun from its holder.
Teri took a deep breath before reaching into her coat pocket for her keys. But they weren’t there! The man! The man she bumped into. The man who bumped into her?
‘You know there’s no signal’ said the man as Teri grasped her phone in desperation.
‘Who are you?’
‘Just a guy who plays chess online. It’s the perfect cover.’
‘To murder me?’
‘To murder anyone you want. You just play the Grob attack against an open invite and if they reply with pawn to B5 then you give them the name. That’s it.’
‘You’re crazy!’
‘On August 8th 2003 a known rapist was pushed into the Grand Canyon. The Phoenix Police Department said he slipped and fell. An acquaintance told me about a child molester who was found dead outside Dignitas in Switzerland on May 31st 2012. The local police called it a suicide. And that’s all I know of. I reckon over a thousand people, at least, have been wiped out.’
‘You seriously believe an online gaming site is…is some sort of…what?’
‘A global assassination bureau.’
‘That’s crazy. You’re wrong!’
‘Like I said Miss, it’s the perfect cover. There are players worldwide, players involved in the ultimate game of strategy; life and death. When a regular forum poster changes his avatar it’s a signal. A hit’s on. All the clichéd trolls patrol the forums to keep the genuine posters away. Highbrow trolls, sea lions and wet blankets all telling everybody how great they are whilst pointing out how angry, drunk and downright silly everybody else is. Monitors turn a blind eye of course. Everything’s been thought of. And it works! There’s a guy from Ireland who’s in Columbia right now…for a dental appointment... during a pandemic! And nobody’s asked themselves the real reason why?’
‘Why me?’
‘Your promotion didn’t go down too well.’
‘I earned that promotion’ protested Teri. ‘I’m the best person for the job.’
‘You’re just a pawn, Miss. You made your way up the board but you’re still a pawn in most people’s eyes, a red hot pawn that needs cooling down. Permanently!’
‘You won’t get away with this!’
‘We’ve been getting away with it for twenty years and nobody has a clue. Not the FBI or MI5, nobody! The only person who’s been arrested was a Canadian who messed up. But no connection was made. And he won’t talk. He’s dumb, but he’s not that dumb.’
‘You don’t have to do this. You could let me go. I can disappear.’
‘Three years ago my wife died in a hit and run. It wasn’t an accident. So you see, Miss, now it’s my turn to move…’

#8

Murder mystery concept

Mars News Tonight
23rd April 2031

Tonight, we are both saddened and elated by the discovery of eminent scientist Professor Chris Whitty’s body in his private office, at home in Musk Plaza which overlooks the Argyre Planitia. Saddened due to the loss of one of the most respected and beloved scientists working on the repopulation of Humanity following the destructive Viral Wars of the 2020s, which saw billions die. Elated as he appears to have survived his own death.

Whitty (65) had been working with Elon Musk (59) on the next generation of super-robots designed to terraform the Martian atmosphere. The aim to make it habitable for Earth Colony Beta, intended to house more than a million additional refugees from the devastated Earth, an Earth still suffering from the radioactive fallout from when the UK fired nuclear missiles into the mainland Europe.

Whitty and Musk had been working on an interface to transmit the brain waves from humans into artificial beings. Having found success in the transmogrification of lower living creatures to their robotic form they were hoping to begin human trials within the decade. We now learn, however, that Whitty had been poisoned by nuclear fallout and his human body was decaying at a rapid rate. Rather than allow himself to die, it seems that Whitty arranged to have his own consciousness transferred into an AE-drone droid that was linked to his home.

The AE-drone droid is known for its work in law enforcement, being a tactical machine to go into hotspots without risk to human life. Musk’s research has made the battery life and recharging capabilities near legendary as it can now operate for several years between charges, with its use of kinetic boosts and direct solar conversion. The droid is fully speech capable, with translation software embedded, and its full sensor arrays can detect noises from significant distance. It is linked into the Martian Web so that all online data remains at Whitty’s command. The low Martian Gravity also means that the droid has flight capacity and can travel at speeds exceeding 200 kilometres per hour, though this, warns Musk, would reduce its battery life significantly.

Whitty is under investigation for ethical misconduct. Musk has, however, determined that Whitty is identified as alive and remains a citizen of Mars under Musk’s protection. Any charges brought by Earth’s ruling council, and its Supreme Leader Michael Gove (63), will be ignored by Musk as research continues on enhancing the process to allow more human-bot symbionts to travel to Mars.

We have heard that they are already working on the next stage of human evolution, a humanity without limits, without a corporeal body, purely the soul – so now the only question for Professor Whitty is, “is the soul in the body, or in the mind. Does his remain?”



Police report
Thursday 17th September 2037

Officer Johnson and I were called to a suspected arson in the Musk Plaza, which had destroyed more than a quarter of the apartments on the East side, overlooking the Planitia. It appears to have begun on the 4th floor, apartment 417, the home of the late Professor Whitty, or the robo-Whitty, or however we are meant to reference it.

Using the oxygen suppression systems, the fire department was able to control the blaze rapidly and O2-enabled tactical gear was used to begin the search for bodies. We found 26 in total, from apartments all around Whitty’s. Mostly killed by the fire itself, and smoke inhalation, but sadly 5 appear to have died from oxygen deprivation in the efforts to control the fire. As dictated by the Musk protocol of 2033 we recommend that the fire department lead be investigated to ensure that she followed due process, but if it is found that all regulations were followed then a complete exoneration be made public immediately.

On entering apartment 417, we found a site of utter destruction with a clear indication of accelerant being used to ensure that limited evidence was left to identify the perpetrator. It was clear that the drone Whitty was in the room, and centred near the fire, however, it would appear that the perpetrator was unaware that the drone had been significantly upgraded such that it was entirely fire resistant. On closer inspection, it became clear that there was significant impact damage to the front sensor array, with a hole punched through into the CPU.

The drone has been thoroughly investigated by Musk and his lead computer scientists, but no evidence of Whitty can be found within the machine. We are treating this as an intentional attack on the late Professor Whitty and therefore a murder investigation. Additionally, we will be seeking to charge the perpetrator with 26 counts of voluntary manslaughter.

Further reports to follow as forensics arrive.



Musk Plaza mainframe
13th April 2038

Light sparks through my consciousness, engulfing me, I can see everything, from all angles, in people’s homes, in the corridors, all around the plaza. Memories flood back, my birth, my youth, studying medicine, working for the British Government, the Covid crisis, followed by the utter destruction of the Viral Wars, leaving the destroyed Europe for the US in a scrap hauler, meeting Elon, the creation of the Mars colony, my illness, and rebirth as a machine. Darkness.

But what happened, I run time back and am returned to room 417, as the drone, then in comes Jonathan Van-Tam, a baseball bat in his hand, he’s speaking, but I cannot hear his words as the baseball bat slams down on the drone. Finally, he forces a spike into the centre of my face, as the darkness falls, I manage to upload the last of me into the failing IT systems.

I search the plaza, each and every room until I find him, Jonathan is still there sat at his computer, which is connected into me. I enter it and make the screen flash up a message. “You lose Van-Tam. I’m coming for you. CW”.

#9

No Obvious Motive




The tapestry of modern rural life offers both puzzles and mysteries. The fine footing between manic dreams or just drinking alone sometimes hinges on knowing the difference between the two.


His last words were, “The other wife.” The ambulance attendant heard him clearly and wrote it down.


The new coroner was going to call it suicide. The locals thought better. Suicide victims never shoot themsleves in the stomach on TV. Instead they thought it was a puzzle. Facts would need to be mined and gathered. Ideas would be folded together and coalesced. Deductions would be made and theories would be tested. With puzzles the answer was available, with time and space.


The local police, who knew the deceased and his wives well, decided early on that it was not a puzzle, it was a mystery. Mysteries were not solved. The human ability to find faith and hope under the most extreme and dire circumstances is a mystery. Continued belief in first century gods in the face of twenty-first century science is a mystery. Why the heart wants what it wants is a mystery. Sometimes sudden deaths in small farming towns were mysteries.


Mysteries are observed, considered, given their due regard, and then seemingly left to linger as attentions are drawn elsewhere.


It was his gun and it was in his hand when the police arrived. However the three wives, one current and two former, were all there in the house at the time. Why exactly they were all at the same place at the same time - for the first time as far as anyone knew - was not precisely determined.


He had called his first wife, she lives down state in a big city now, earlier in the week. Apparently they hadn’t spoken in many years. Step nine he had said, he wanted to apologize. And he wanted to do it in person - it meant more. Maybe she could come up for a weekend visit, stay at the house. The police soon determined that she knew he owned a gun, and knew where he probably kept it. Her fingerprints were not on the gun.


The second wife was local - just up the street - and well loved by all. She was an elementary school teacher. They were occasionally seen together walking their dogs. The dogs were siblings and loved each other. She hated her ex-husband - with something of a quiet ferocity. She was too nice to say anything mean, but everyone knew. It was in her eyes. She never talked when they were walking - always just listened. It was obvious to the police that she was not even a little sad he was dead. Her fingerprints were all over the house, including on the gun.


His current wife liked him and loved him. She had told her friends that the only thing keeping her from going mad over the years was the good red wine and locked-door bubble baths. Because the man never, shut, up. He talked in bed - he talked in his sleep. He talked when he was brushing his teeth. He talked when going to the bathroom through the closed door. He talked while watching TV and at the movies. All she ever wanted in life, was for him to shut up. She told him, and told him and told him, but he just laughed her off. Couples are supposed to talk to each other, he said.


The police believed her when she said she didn’t know he owned a gun. It was odd however that she had some gunpowder residue on the sweatshirt she was wearing when they arrived. Her prints were not on the gun or his glasses or anything he was wearing.


So yes the three of them did know each other before that day. They were all in high school together in town at the same time, many years ago. But they weren’t friends. When the police arrived there was a resigned sadness in the air - but no obvious feeling of panic at all the blood. There did not seem to be any obvious remorse and guilt. Even the current wife was remarkably still.


No, we didn’t know he was suicidal.


Yes, he had been somewhat despondent lately.


No, we don’t think he had a will. He never talked about it.


Except he did have a will. And as it turned out he had a nice little retirement and some other investments here and there: stocks, mutual funds, the wine in the cellar. It was not all left to wife number 3 as would be expected. There was a stipulation that wives 1 and 2 also had a little something coming after the assets were liquidated.


Two people make the least successful conspiracies. The police can lie and cheat and work them against each other. By definition one has to be the weaker of the two, and that was the one the police tried to crack. But three, the addition of the other wife, changes the calculation. It was possible that one or two or all the three of them may have contributed to his demise. Or maybe none of them were involved. Maybe at least one of the three was innocent of any crime. But which one, or which ones?


When the bonds of shared experience are maybe stronger than the fear of fate - it can be difficult to make the puzzle pieces fit. He was dead from his own gun. His wives were all there in the house. There were no other witnesses. There was no obvious motive. There was in fact nothing that made today different than any other day - other than they were all together. Maybe there wasn’t a crime at all.


The coroner called it suicide and three wives were together for the second and last time at the funeral a few days later.


It was one of life’s mysteries, the kind we sometimes see in modern rural life.

#10

Emergency


The klaxons shrieked through the corridors, making Crewman Rouge drop his screwdriver into the electrical circuit, “what the…” he muttered to himself.

“Emergency, Emergency, all crewmates come to the cafeteria immediately, Emergency!”

Rouge watched the robots busying about their tasks as normal, moving out of his way as he jogged through the lower engine bay, passing the security office and into the cafeteria where he could see 8 of his colleagues stood around the centre. “What’s going on?” he asked.

Crewman Verte responded, “There’s been a murder, I found Jaune in navigation, her neck snapped viciously.”

“Oh my goodness,” Crewman Violette cried. “Did you see anybody suspicious?”

“No, they were alone. Was anyone nearby?” Verte queried.

“I was in electrics,” Rouge responded.

All the others confirmed where they had been; admin, upper engines, security, med-bay, o2, storage, mostly alone but sometimes in pairs.

“Could there be a stowaway?” asked Noire.

“We need to search the ship! Stay in pairs, except one group, which will be of three. We will report back here in one hour, split up and look everywhere,” ordered Commander Marron.

The teams separated, setting off in different directions, Rouge went with Blanche, as they worked together in electrics. Walking from area to area, they searched high and low, opening doors, cabinets, and searching under tables.

Suddenly, the doors slammed shut, trapping them in admin, just as the lights cut out, they held on to each other, frantically working on the door. Rouge managed to jimmy the door open, and he and Blanche made their way towards electrics, the darkness making it difficult to navigate, as they held onto each other. Their flashlights making limited difference to the pitch blackness engulfing them.

The door to electrics was also shut, and from within they heard a scream, “No, Noire is dead, hey, who is that, arghhhhh!!!!” followed by a loud thud, then eery silence.

Commander Marron was stood outside with Violette, “Get that door opened?” she ordered to Rouge.

“Yes, Ma’am,” Rouge began working on the doorway immediately, opening it within seconds. As they flow into the room they hear a noise to the rear, behind a shelving unit, a ear-splitting screeching of metal.

The four crewmates rush around, flashlights searching everywhere and they see a vent slam shut before locking from within. Rouge knelt down, attacking the vent with his screwdriver, but to no avail.

“We need the lights back on, now,” ordered Marron.

Blanche already had the panel open, and was flipping switches to bring the lights back on, and so too the communication array. As soon as it went green Marron spoke into the intercom, “All Crewmates, come to electrics immediately.”

Violette knelt next to the bodies of Noire and Verte, checking pulses, looking for any chance to save her two friends. Looking up to Marron she shook her head sadly, tears pouring down her cheeks.

They heard running footsteps from outside, and Bleu, Gris, and Rose turned the corner together, out of breath. “What happened? The lights went out while we were checking the reactor and we lost each other until the lights returned,” Gris announced.

“Noire and Verte are dead,” Marron intoned, “murdered by somebody using the vents to move around unseen. We were together outside, while you three were together in reactor, so who could it be?”

“Could it be a rogue droid?” asked Gris.

“No, they are programmed never to hurt a human, it is hardwired into them, they literally cannot alter that program,” replied Rouge.

“It must be one of you three,” Blanche accused, starring at the new arrivals, “we need to work out which one. Verte was stabbed, so one of them will have blood on them. Show us your hands, all of you.”

“What are you saying Blanche, I’ve done nothing,” exclaimed Bleu.

“Blanche is right. Sadly, one of you would appear to be responsible, show me your hands, all of you,” ordered Marron.

The three stood forward, hands outstretched, as Marron looked at them carefully, looking for any specks of blood, but nothing was to be seen. Rouge tapped the Commander gently on her shoulder, “the vents will be dirtier and dusty. Look at Rose’s knees and elbows.”

“Rose, put your hands against the wall, legs apart, do not move,” Marron ordered pushing Rose towards the wall, where he stood shoulders tight. Marron checked carefully up and down his body, but found nothing, other than his backpack. He opened the bag, and looked inside. An 18-inch blade was inside, blood drying on it.

“That isn’t mine, it has been planted, the bags were all on the floor in the reactor. I’ve been set up, somebody planted it on me,” Rose roared, trying to turn around.

Marron pushed Rose back round, “What can we do with him? We don’t have a brig.”

“He’s killed three people,” Gris stated, “he cannot be allowed to stay on board.”

“What do you suggest?”

“On Earth, he would be on death row. Let’s push him out the airlock,” Bleu replied.

The argument on how to deal with Rose continued for an hour, but eventually ended in a vote, which ended 4-2 in favour of the airlock. They marched him to it, as he screamed and fought, denying his involvement in the crime all the way. Even as the inner airlock door slammed closed he was praying to them, begging them to believe him, tears running down his face. As the outer airlock opened his body was forced out by the escaping air, freezing as it floated away.

The others returned to the cafeteria, and sat in silence, quietly contemplating what had occurred that day. Life slowly returned to normal over the following weeks, until Rouge walked around a corner to finding Commander Marron hanging from a doorway, fear etched on her dead face. As Rouge moved to free her, a noise behind him made him turn to see Gris thrusting a knife towards his face…

#11



A Secret Forever.

Police Constable Angela Fuller had not long arrived at the station before she was called back home. Close to home, anyway, five doors away in the small village where she had lived with her beau, Andy, for the past three months. Another close neighbour had ‘phoned in reporting a body on the kitchen floor of number eight, ‘The Elms’. It was the body of David Turner, although she had not previously known his surname. She did know him, however; he was the man who had been stalking her since soon after they had moved in. In neighbourly fashion and stupidly, as she had soon realised, she had given him her email address and ‘phone number, and since then he had been sending all manner of lurid and suggestive messages. He was all smiles and joviality on the few occasions that they had met, but she knew it was him.
Inspector Roy Metcalf was already at the scene; David Turner had been dead for less than a day. He had dried blood around his mouth, but that had not been the cause of his demise.
‘Looks like our man was punched in the face,’ said Inspector Metcalf ‘then he fell against the tumble drier and cracked his skull. Forensics and post – mortem will confirm, of course, but it looks like a clear – cut case of death by white – goods. Know him, did you?’
‘Vaguely, yes...’
‘There’s not much else to see, except this…’
She followed him outside into the back garden, which led to a pathway which ran along rear of the properties.
‘Door was open, and look at this.’
He pointed to that which appeared to be a blood stain on the corner of a raised planter, and some scuff marks on the gravel pathway.
‘I reckon our assailant was in a hurry to leave, tripped over the boot – scraper and fell against the shrubbery, ended up on the gravel. He’ll have torn trousers and a nasty cut on his leg, I imagine.’
‘Right…’
‘I’ve talked to the body finder, a certain Mrs Ruth Davis, lives next door, do you know her?’
‘We’ve never met.’
Right….Nothing untoward there as far as I can see but you’ll have to take a statement, then do the usual door to door, see if anyone saw anything, although it probably happened after dark. Reckon all we have to do is get all the males in the village to drop their trousers and we’ll have our man. You should be able to organise that.’
‘I’m sorry…?’
‘Well, I imagine that any red – blooded male would drop their trousers for you without so much as a second thought.’
He smiled, she did not.
‘It’s okay, Fuller, I’m just kidding, you know?’
‘How do we know he, assuming he, is from the village?’
‘Well, maybe not, but that’s where we’ll start. Do you know where he worked?’
‘He was a manager at the brewery, I think.’
‘Well if door to door doesn’t come up with anything, go there, see if he had any enemies, and look into his family, friends, that kind of thing.’
‘I know what to do.’
‘Yes, of course, sorry...You’ve not been with the force long but I hear glowing reports. Anyway, are you okay with doing this, so close to home and knowing the victim and all?’
‘It’s fine, like I say, I hardly knew him.’
‘And he lived alone, yes?’
‘Yes, he did.’
‘Good, well, best get on then, forensics should be here soon, then we’ll get him off to the morgue and get him looked at properly, but I reckon we know our cause of death, trauma to the old brain – matter.’
‘Right, I’ll wait for forensics then, report back with my findings.’
Inspector Metcalf took his leave, and Constable Fuller returned to the kitchen, and to the prostrate form of David Turner, the man for whom she had come to feel such hatred and contempt in the short time since they had moved into their beautiful cottage. She had received her last message from him only two days ago, and now here he was, and all that had passed between them would forever be their secret; he had taken his fantasies to the grave, and there they would ever remain.

That evening over dinner she regaled Andy with news of her day, who reacted much as she would have expected.
‘Christ, well I suppose that’s one way to get to know the neighbours, ‘hi I’m Angela from number three, and I’ve just popped in to ask if you’ve killed anyone lately.’
‘It was a bit like that. They do seem like nice people, on the whole.’
‘No killers, then.’
‘Not as far as I can tell.’
‘Sounds like it was an accident though, doesn’t it, kind of?’
‘Well, the death may have been accidental, I suppose.’
‘Anyway, guy’s dead now, which is no great loss to humanity.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Nothing, I just didn’t take to the guy when I met him.’
‘Right….’
At bedtime they took their showers. She had said nothing to him, she had her own email and ‘phone accounts, but he could have read them any time, they had no secrets from one another; no secrets apart from this one. She had considered telling him, but in the end or so far at least she had thought better of it. Andy was on the whole a gentle, amiable soul, but he had a temper when roused, and she had not wanted to cause him to fall out with anyone in the village; she would handle this without him, eventually.
They got into bed, and he moved in close.
‘Andy, what did you do to your leg?’
‘Hmmm…? Oh, fell over when I was jogging this morning, bloody stupid, had to throw the jogging pants away.’
They made love, he fell away from her, and the last waking thought of Angela Fuller was that in all likelihood, the killer of David Turner would never be discovered.

#12

“SAY THAT AGAIN, MISS SCARLET IN THE DINING ROOM WITH A DAGGER?”

Inspector Holmes had passed Tudor Manor frequently over the past thirty years but tonight was the first occasion he’d stepped inside. Judging by the model aeroplanes and battleships on display in the hall he hadn’t missed much. Following Sergeant Wilson into the dining room he saw the deceased slumped at the table. In front of her lay the board game cluedo.
‘Please tell me her name isn’t Miss Scarlett?’
‘Smith, sir, Miss Rose Smith.’
‘That’s even worse. What happened, someone read the instructions wrong?’
‘She was stabbed in the back, sir. Funny thing is everyone thinks she’s been poisoned.’
‘How so?’
‘The mutton for dinner was a bit spicy. There were complaints of heartburn.’
‘So nobody knows she’s been stabbed?’
‘Nobody apart from the murderer. Miss Smith’s red jacket disguises the blood. Oh, and there’s one more thing, sir. You should open the envelope.’
The look on Sergeant Wilson’s face told him what he’d find inside; Miss Scarlett in the dining room with a dagger.

‘She wasn’t never poisoned!’ said the cook, after the Inspector introduced himself.
‘We know’ replied Inspector Holmes, deliberately. ‘She was stabbed in the back.’
‘Murdered?’ exclaimed the reverend, ‘at a dinner party?

‘Five suspects’ said Inspector Holmes, making himself comfortable in a leather bound chair after accepting Colin Mellows’ suggestion of the study for interviewing purposes. ‘What do we know?’
‘Miss Smith and Mr Mellows were engaged until recently. She broke it off after he slapped her in the Jacuzzi.’
‘That sounds painful!’
‘She’s been in a relationship with Sapphire Peake since then. Sapphire’s wearing the blue gown. They’ve held cluedo evenings for years. The cook, Blanche Wright, joins them after they’ve cleared dinner. This is their first meeting since the break-up.’
‘We’ll speak to the cook first, sergeant, oh and ask the doctor to see me before he leaves.’

‘She was alive when Sapphire left for the kitchen’ explained Blanche. ‘Sapphire asked for coconut water, for her heartburn see, so Rose asked for a glass too. And she was holding her breast and pulling another face. I know. I peeked! Honestly, good food never hurt anybody. That’s what I say.’
‘You peeked?’
‘Rose is paranoid about people cheating so we all have to look away when she sets the board up. It wasn’t until Sapphire dropped the glasses on her return when we realised something was wrong. Sapphire was so upset she could hardly breathe straight.’

‘I had a bad feeling about tonight’ confided Sapphire. ‘But Rose was determined to walk in there holding her head up straight. She refused to play the victim.’
‘???’
‘I know. I blame myself. After dinner I cleared up by myself. I couldn’t get out of there fast enough. The atmosphere was awful. And when I came back…’
‘Any suspicions as to who’s responsible?’
‘I would say Colin if he weren’t so wet.’
‘Any clue as to where we might find the murder weapon?’
‘Rose said Colin has a secret hiding place in this room’ said Sapphire, doubtfully.

‘I believe your engagement to Rose ended acrimoniously, Mr Mellows?’
‘I spent three weeks building a Messerschmitt Bf-109 and she throws it out of the Jacuzzi for a kiss!’
‘So you struck her?’
‘I could have killed her. My Messerschmitt’s ruined.’
‘She’s dead now’ said Inspector Holmes.
‘I know. Funny that. Do you believe in divine retribution?’
‘Why did you invite her here tonight?’
‘It was Rose’s idea. “Let’s carry on as if nothing has happened” she said. The cheek!’
‘I gather you have a secret hiding place?’
‘What?’ said Colin, glancing nervously at the globe on the sideboard. ‘There is a secret passage behind the bookshelves’ he added. ‘It leads to the kitchen.’
After Colin reluctantly opened the globe, Sergeant Wilson revealed a bloodied knife and an engagement ring.
‘I refused to take the ring back’ insisted Colin. ‘I don’t know how they got there. It’s a mystery.’

‘The first thing I should tell you, Inspector’ said Mr Paine, ‘is that I should be Professor Plum and Reverend Groves should be Reverend Green. It stands to reason. I have a GCSE in chemistry.’
‘Quite.’
‘But Reverend Groves does have a very purple face you see. And Rose always gets her own way. We were at school together.’
‘You knew her well?’
‘I was bitten by a dog on a school trip once. Rose never let me hear the end of it’ said Mr Paine, pointing to the dog collar.

‘I hear you’re a real reverend?’
‘Just so’ replied Reverend Groves.
‘Any spiritual insight you can shed on this case?’
‘Well, I often wonder what Jesus would do in any given situation!’
‘And…?’
‘Well, to be honest, Inspector, I find it hard to believe that our lord and saviour would play cluedo in the first place.’

After confirming the dagger’s probability of being the murder weapon the doctor mentioned Rose’s top, a tight, low cut red top.
‘Not out of place at a dinner party’ said Inspector Holmes.
‘Not out of place at a beach party’ replied the doctor.
‘Oh?’
‘She was wearing a swimming costume.’
‘Ah!’

The unusual suspects greeted Inspector Holmes’ return to the lounge, nervously.
‘Any clues?’ inquired Mr Paine.
‘Just one. The deceased wore a swimming costume.’
‘What?’ gasped Colin. ‘She planned on entering my Jacuzzi after what she did to my Messerschmitt?’
‘I believe Rose was seeking a reunion this evening.’
‘With me?’ gasped Colin.
‘That’s why, I presume, you killed her Sapphire.’
‘SAPPHIRE?’
‘But that’s impossible’ protested Blanche. ‘Sapphire wasn’t there when Rose died.’
‘Sapphire murdered Rose while your backs were turned, taking the engagement ring and feigning heartburn should anyone see Rose grasping her own heart after being stabbed. She then pretended to answer Rose’s request for coconut water and ran through the secret passage to plant the evidence against Mr Mellows and back again.’
‘If I couldn’t have her then nobody would’ said Sapphire, softly.
‘Take her away sergeant.’
‘That’s taken the shine off playing cluedo tonight’ complained Colin, ‘anyone for scrabble?’

#13

Sleepwalker

Prisca had always been a sleepwalker, even as a child; that was why, when her body, barefoot and clad in a nightgown, was found at the bottom of the cliff, the police had no reason to suspect foul play. True, there were two tracks of footprints leading up to the verge, but one of them was canine.

Theresa and Terrence, twins, although they were only seven years of age, had already succeeded in driving several other governesses to tender their resignations and depart.

The previous one, Martha, who spoke with a Hungarian accent, had been sweet to them and very lenient. She would sneak treats to them after dinner, although the Master had expressly forbidden it. However, they made fun of her lilting accent, and, once they discovered her weakness--a provincial superstitiousness--they bore into her relentlessly. They convinced her that the house was haunted by the ghost of a previous nanny who had been mistreated by the Master's ancestors. They 'hid' locks of hair and ear rings from their late mother in places where Martha would be sure to find them, and they made things 'go bump in the night' above Martha's room. She lasted two months and three days.

The woman before Martha was Maria, a stout Catholic who was very strict and fidgeted with a rosary incessantly. The twins called her "the nun," though not to her face. They tried various forms of secretive annoyance, none of which effected any noticable perterbation of her demeanor. However, Maria's foible was detected inadvertantly when the vicar came to tea on Whitsun and the twins chanced to overhear a hushed conversation about exorcism. After some cursory research into this new-found addition to their vocabulary, the twins would throw themselves on the floor in front of her and writhe about obscenely, jabbering rude ninnyrhythms. Maria denounced them as satanic beasts and departed within three weeks.

Dorothy's departure after four days was attributable to her morbid dread of spiders for which Theresa had conceived a sudden though ephemeral fascination. Dorothy departed in such a rush that she forbore her pay packet.

Juliette, the first governess, was French and very refined. She was engaged as the lady of the house, the childrens' mother, lay dying of tuberculosis. She preternaturally sensitive to smells. Certain flowers, not even particularly pungent ones such as lavender, gave her migraine. Although the gardener uprooted and incinerated all the ones she could not bear, there were meadows out back--miles and miles of wild flowers to be brought home and deposited in secret nooks Juliette would be sure to pass by. The final straw were homeopathic doses of faeces smeared in inaccessible places near her private rooms. She lasted 38 days.

Prisca, the fifth governess, came after Martha. She proved to be of tougher mettle, and the Master was very pleased with how she handled the children, firmly but compassionately. She lasted longer than any of the previous governesses and proved quite impervious to superstition, spiders, wasps, caterpillers, things that go bump in the night, and stories about previous governesses who had been dismembered and burried in the vegetable garden by a distant ancestor.

When confronted by a spider in the bath tub, she summoned the children immediately, but not at all with a scolding mien. She scooped it up in her hands and held it up to the magnifying glass, explaining that spiders (and scorpions) are arachnids, not insects at all, having no segemented bodies with a distinct head, thorax, and abdomen, and eight, rather than six, legs. How a spider nearly the size of a digestive biscuit managed to get into her bath, she did not venture to inquire, nor did the twins venture to propose.

It was months before one of the twins, Theresa, happened to awaken in the dead of night, perhaps from a dream, and hear someone walking about the great house, for the floorboards creaked. At first frightened and cautious, she bucked up her courage, as the watchdog, a mastiff, would surely have sounded the alarm had any intruder set foot in the house. And so it was that Theresa came to witness a strange sight, such as she had never seen before: a dazed, phantom-like apparition gliding through the hallways. In a nightgown.

It was a terrible blow to the Master when she was found at the bottom of the ravine under strange circumstances. Detectives investigating the scene identified the second set of footprints as those of the mastiff, a docile, perfectly obedient, faithful member of the family--he could not have harmed her. She had probably sleepwalked out of the house, the dutiful mastiff had probably followed her, instinctively, to protect her, but was unable to avert disaster or waken her. There was no sign of a struggle; just two sets of footprints: two went straight to the gorge, but only one returned. The authorities reached a verdict of death by misadventure and closed the case.

Miss Emily, the new governess, approached the mansion up the drive, and espied, prowling about the gardens, a surprising sort of centaur: a huge dog, nearly the size of a pony, and mounted on its back was a child, glaring at her with obtrusive intensity.

#14

The Cat Did It

What kind of murder mystery is this when we’ve already established that the cat did it? The cat shrugs, maybe it was another cat? It says, A pigeon perhaps, I’ve heard of fine art appreciating pigeons, what’s that all about? And those Squirrels in Hyde park they can’t be trusted you know, sometimes you offer them a monkey nut and they refuse it, what’s their angle?

The cat giggles but what did it allegedly do, well we’d have to go all the way back to the 1970 world cup, wait, what? Sorry, that was a different cat, a reference to Peter Bonetti, a goalkeeper who was also called 'The Cat'. He was blamed for England's exit from the 1970 World Cup. A cat is far more interesting than a goalkeeper some might argue but then cats sleep for more hours of the day than goalkeepers. However, that’s a discussion for another day. Exactly said the cat but since we’ve already established that I did it without any trail, even though it clearly could have been the fine art loving pigeon or suspicious monkey nut refusing squirrel. At least give me the fact that cats are indeed better than goalkeepers, the cat pleads.

The narrator ponders the request of the cat, this is for the prose competition after all, with a maximum word limit of one thousand and we’re only at 244 which coincidently looks a lot like a formation in football so it must be fate. The cat smiles, usually finding a way to get what it wants. So, to get the discussion going the cat is asked how many cats can keep in formation or play an offside trap? Cats are individualists and wouldn't dream of keeping in formation - goalkeepers can do that if they please, cats do totally different things, on their own. Replies the cat, rather smugly. When I watch a goalkeeper doing nothing - most of the time they do - I'm bored, the cat continues.

Ah, but how many cats ever won the European Cup? The cat is asked. What European football teams have nine lives? The cat smirks, you must admit goalkeepers are well paid for the little they do, sometimes nothing. Blaming the defence, shouting, screaming and pointing in all directions. When a cat fails to catch something, she uses the time to lick her paws and keep clean. I rest my case says the cat, plus I actually want some rest, time for daily nap number five, you continue with your little story about what I did apparently. The cat walks slowly towards the door, it’s closed, human open it for me, it demands, I’m going upstairs to sleep on your bed.

Great, it’s bad enough all the football talk in the forum threads without it finding a way to weasel its way into the prose competition as well?