A Case of the Obvious

It was a strange dinner party. Four of the guests sat deathly silent, flicking their eyes left and right accompanied by discreet raises of their eyebrows and short, quick jerks of their necks – as if trying to communicate a strange form of bodily semaphore. The intended recipient of such a choir of twitches and tight lips seated around the table was none other than Anthony Pratt, the co-creator of the board game, Cluedo. Seated next to him, his wife Elva was engrossed in full conversation with the evening’s soiree host, Mrs. Hannah Osmington, whose perplexed expression stared blankly ahead.

“Has anyone called the police, Hannah?” Elva impatiently enquired.

“The lines are down,” interrupted the butler, Harrison. “…and it’s too stormy to venture out into the wild night,” he assertively added.

“All the same… Anthony! We must do something.”

Anthony Pratt was busily observing the eyes of each guest’s unremitting erratic movement. At this stage of his life, he thought the drama of deception, despots, and dark alleys were a thing of the past. The war had catapulted him into the clandestine world of espionage, followed by Churchill recruiting him time again for globe-hopping intelligence gathering in the hunt of Nazis fleeing prosecution. The gold watch seated comfortably around his left wrist was a personal gift from Churchill – a testament to the conclusion of a career well served in defence of the monarchy and country. Now retired, Anthony Pratt looked forward to life as a guest speaker at public events, afternoon lectures on board game strategies, and guest of honour invitations for dinner parties. He certainly hadn’t expected to be caught up in the middle of a real-life murder mystery evening.

“To the drawing room!” Pratt bellowed - as he assumed command of the confusion. “We must gather around the body and determine whether or not we have a killer amongst us.”

“Darling,” Elva interjected. “This isn’t an Agatha Christie novel. Besides, the Egyptian-looking dagger sticking out of poor Mr. Osmington’s chest clearly testifies a killer is assuredly within the confines of these storm-lashed walls… don’t you think?”

“…I was merely trying to provoke a reaction from them.”

“You’re getting a little carried away.”

“Sorry, darling.”

“…So, can you point the proverbial finger at anyone, yet?”

“…No, too early…”

Situated on the edge of Rigg’s Moor in the Yorkshire Dales of England, Mrs. Hannah Osmington and her husband of thirty-nine years, Professor Calvin Osmington, had taken early retirement to write their memoirs of time spent together amongst the Valley of the Kings in pre-war Egypt. Keen archaeologists, Calvin and Hannah had helped unearth a plethora of artifacts dating back to the reign of Ramses III, of which some of the smaller items such as pendants, bracelets, and gold rings, had found themselves smuggled out of the ancient dunes and back to Yorkshire. On occasions like tonight, they would unashamedly display their booty for all to marvel over.

“Let’s get this over with,” the impatient Reverend Gordon Hillary demanded.

Urged on by his wife, Lady Hilary Hillary of Muker in the Yorkshire Dales, the clergyman had reluctantly accepted the dinner invitation, knowing his socialite wife had such a high opinion of herself that his ear-whipped parishioners nicknamed her “Lady Muck.” If there was gossiping to be done, or rumour to be spread, Lady Muck would be the one to creatively enlarge its beginnings then propagate it beyond recognition. She once had an innocent chambermaid hounded out of the Dales after it was mentioned to her in confidence that the naïve young lass had been indiscreet with the master of her house. After nine months of denial, the poor maid was given two weeks’ notice to leave. The guilty party – namely a Mr. George Frobisher - coincidentally sitting opposite her on this wild-weathered evening, flashed a cordial smile towards her, while repeatedly attempting to prevent his wife from lifting her wine glass. Denying his betrayed wife, the opportunity to freely embrace her remaining passion in life, was a hazardous endeavour, but an inebriated wife was much more dangerous. George was merely trying to prevent a potential drunken confrontation.

Unable to wriggle from her husband’s vice-like grip, a vexed Alice Frobisher angrily responded by kicking George’s shin – causing him to painfully recoil from the blow.

“My goodness, Mr. Frobisher. Are you alright?” Elva politely asked.

Clearing his throat while giving his wife an angry side look, Frobisher returned an insincere smile back toward Elva.

“Peachy,” he insipidly replied.

“Mr. Pratt,” asked Mrs. Frobisher. “Would you be so kind to pass me the carafe of wine next to you?”

“Allow me, Madam,” interrupted Harrison, as he proceeded to fill her wine glass.

“Too kind,” she mechanically gestured.

Anthony Pratt had taken a few moments to observe both his surroundings and the people in it. Apart from his wife, Elva, everyone else in the room was a suspect until he could determine the culprit. A couple of curious things had already caught Pratt’s attention; however, to accuse anyone of misgivings at this stage of his investigation would only pander to the suspicious and distrusting nature of those sat around the table – of whom all - were attempting to direct suspicion onto each other with their animated facial expressions and eye movements. The antics of each of them were so bizarre, Pratt briefly compared it to a gathering of Tourette sufferers struggling to suppress their facial tics. Attempting to get Elva to look at them, Pratt innocently found himself copying the involuntary muscle twitches and had to quickly correct himself.

“Elva, please…” he whispered to his wife, who taking the initiative, suggested they all excuse themselves from the table and follow her into the drawing room.

Reluctantly, each of the four other guests and Mrs. Osmington obligingly followed the Pratt’s and gathered standing around the body. To Pratt’s surprise, not one of them displayed any outward demonstration of emotion – including Mrs. Osmington.

“Darling,” Elva piped up. “Where’s the dagger?”

Pratt knelt on one knee to get a detailed look at the body. On close examination of the chest area, there seemed to be no puncture wound at all. Upon further inspection, this was confirmed by the lack of any blood stains on the body and the floor rug underneath it.

“It appears we have been deceived, Elva. The cause of death does not appear to have been executed by any sharp object at all. There is something afoot.”

“Oh Anthony, must you quote Agatha Christie at a time like this?”

“My apologies…”

 “Is it blood, darling?”

Pratt ran his forefinger across the stain, then held it under his nose to sniff it.

“No, it appears to be a drop of Tawny Port, I believe.”

“Port? Before dinner?”

“I don’t see what this has to do with the professor’s death,” the impatient Reverend snapped.

“Neither do I,” Pratt snapped back. “Harrison, did you serve the Professor any wine tonight?”

“I can answer that,” Mrs. Osmington interjected. “My husband did not imbibe in any form of alcohol. He has…” She stuttered her words as the realisation of the moment took an emotional hold of her. Gathering her composure, she continued in a solemn and slow cadence. “…He… had… been a strict teetotaler for the past thirty years. We frequently host dinner parties and although he liked to keep up a smart appearance, he hated polishing his shoes. I imagine the stain is from a previous dinner evening. Probably a clumsy spill from one of our guests.”

“Darling?” Elva was brimming with so much energised excitement, that she felt she needed to add some focus to her husband’s dilly-dallying. “We should start with the cause of death… the dagger was obviously a distraction. Why? I can’t say. But without a cause, we have no effect.”

“My good woman,” Frobisher interrupted. “Surely, we should begin with the motive.”

“YES!” Mrs. Frobisher exclaimed. What was your motive, George? It certainly wasn’t to have a bastard child, was it…”

“Alice, please. Not here.” Her words sharp and hurtful, a deflated George took a seat on one of the Chesterfield sofas opposite the large fireplace to stare into its hypnotising dance of flames.

“Cause… Mr. Frobisher… Cause and effect,” Elva chimed in. “Finding out how he died, will narrow the motive down. We find the motive and it will lead us to the answers that we seek.”

“Very good, Elva. Clarity wins the moment,” Pratt declared as he proudly congratulated her.

Something caught Pratt’s eye. On the side of the Professor’s right ear, there appeared to be a circular reddish mark. Upon closer inspection, Pratt also noticed a red mark around the neck area. It wasn’t complete in its ring shape. It ran around the back of the Professor’s neck and tapered off on both sides, forming a shape like the letter “C.”

“How’s this for a motive,” Mr. Frobisher offered. “…A certain clergyman unable to match his wife’s inherited fortune, asks the breathing professor for a donation to his clergy. When he is refused monetary assistance, he plots his revenge, biding his time for a night like this where the professor will breathe no more.”

“That’s preposterous and overtly dramatic!” protested the Reverand. “I’m a man of the cloth!”

“May I remind you that it’s my Frobisher and Frobisher Accountancy firm that fills in both of your yearly tax returns. Anyone that tries to deduct the local off-licenses’ most expensive wine as a business expense, is capable of anything – in my books.”

“It’s for my sermons,” the Reverand protested again. “…And consider yourself released from duties to the church!”

“You’re a fundamental Protestant! It’s supposed to be grape juice at the alter.”

In defence of her husband, Lady Hillary decided it was time to wade into the affray.

“Poppycock, you lecherous old bean counter. Wine or grape juice matters not – unless you’re as pickled to the core like your own watered-down wife… Was it not the professor that testified in court against her, after she drove into his garden wall – three sheets to the tempestuous wind we had last month. She wanted to keep it from the local parish notice board, but the professor – feeling aggrieved at the repair costs, filed a complaint at the local Magistrates. When the small press found out… my goodness. She was like a pickled onion squeezed into a glass jar. Nowhere to hide. If you want motive, Mrs. Pratt, I think that holds up… A confession, Mrs. Frobisher?”

“Isn’t it obvious, you pious pond scum?” Alice Frobisher bellowed. “It was the butler… It’s always the butler… Tell them, man. Tell them about your affection for the mistress of the house… Tell them all about your resentment for the professor.” Her words slurring, Alice Frobisher hiccupped loudly, then collapsed in a drunken swoon onto the leather sofa.

The room fell momentarily silent as everyone turned to look at Harrison – standing behind the sofa, holding the wine decanter – both white-gloved hands nervously cradling it. As he felt all eyes gazing at him, Harrison uneasily shifted his feet, then lifting the carafe to his lips, downed the entire contents in several big gulps.

“Harrison!?” Mrs. Osmington chided him. “We always pour the guests first.”

“I’m terribly sorry, Hannah… um Mrs. Osmington.”

“It’s alright, Harrison. Your sentiment toward me is no secret; however, that’s no motive for murder.”

“What of you, Mrs. Osmington?” The Reverend gently enquired. “Your late husband recently confided in me his concerns of upping his life insurance policy and revising his will to make you his sole heir.”

“What of it?” Hannah snapped back. “His children never come to see him. They never call, so why should they deserve anything but a life of regrets for their lack of caring…? Look closer to home, Reverend. Your little socialite has a past. Isn’t that right, Lady Muck? My husband told me about your little shoplifting career. Always getting bailed out by Daddy.”

“I had nothing against your husband,” Lady Hillary said in a huff.

“Then why did you undermine his achievements in the field of Archaeology? What was it you called him in front of your friends…? King Tut Tut Tut…?”

“It was the way he flaunted that Egyptian amulet around his neck… As if to say, look at me. Look at what I stole from Egypt.”

The bickering between the two women began to spread amongst the others, rising to a dissonance of hurled insults and accusations. Their immature behaviour demonstrated to the Pratt’s that they were far from being friends and should reconsider being neighbours with each other in their small village enclave.

Anthony Pratt was satisfied he had heard enough. After a brief, private discussion with Elva, he clapped his hands together, like he was hushing a bunch of rowdy schoolchildren demanding they pay attention to him. It worked. The room quietened, allowing Pratt to talk.

“Elektroschutz in 132 Bildern,” Pratt pronounced.

“That’s German, isn’t it, sir?” Harrison recognised.

“It is indeed, Harrison. Well caught. Tell me, Harrison. Was the professor talking on the phone at the precise moment that preceded the large clap of thunder earlier?”

“Yes, sir. I believe he was.”

“…And did you happen to see anything unusual right before that?”

“Not that I recall, sir. I did notice that he was leaning over the old phone, trying to reach for his pen on the table.”

“This pendant resting on his chest… Was he wearing it?”

“Yes, sir. He always wore it at dinner parties to stimulate conversation.”

“Thank you, Harrison.”

“Darling, it might be obvious to you, but could you enlighten everyone else here, please?”

“Thank you, Elva. I was getting to my point… Back in 1931, there was an entertaining but serious book published called, Elektroschutz in 132 Bildern. It was a wonderfully illustrated book depicting one hundred and thirty-two ways a person can be accidentally electrocuted. The illustrations were hilarious but brutal. I believe that was the goal of the author. To illuminate the dangers of electrical household items.”

“Dammit, man!” The Reverend surprisingly shouted in a vexed tone. “What does this have to do with anything?”

“The telephone, Reverend. It’s as dated as the illustrated book with metal parts.” Pratt replaced the handset onto the cradle as he prepared to explain his theory. “I surmise that as the professor reached for his pen, the pendant dangled and contacted or rested on the phone’s handset cradle. With all the timing of an act of God, the bolt of lighting that preceded the clap of thunder struck the television antennae on the roof and travelled through every electrical contact in the house. As this house is quite old, I can only presume that it lacks proper grounding spikes or wiring to prevent such an event. Mrs Osmington?”

Hannah Osmington inhaled a recollection breath of realisation.

“It was on our list of maintenance needs… Oh, Calvin,” she lamented as she addressed her husband’s lifeless body. “You kept putting it off to write our memoirs.”

“Are you sure, old chap?” George Frobisher asked empathetically. “I wouldn’t think there would be a high enough jolt travelling through the wiring.”

“Possibly not, except for the fact that by contacting the phone with his pendant, he completed the cycle. Now, at any one time, there may be up to 90 volts running through these old-style handsets. Not enough to notice – unless you attempted to touch the phone with your tongue – and before you try to debunk that thought, I’ve known school chums in my youth that tried it, before recoiling with a curt Ouch.”

“Darling…”

“Thank you, Elva… Forgive me for rambling, everyone. If I just lift the professor’s head a little… here… Do you see the burn-like ring around his neck…? That is indicative of an electrocution. The pendant’s chain pattern is encrusted in several areas where it melted. The telephone’s earpiece also heated up enough to tattoo its shape onto the professor’s ear. I saw similar markings on many victims of Nazi torture during the war, where crude electrodes had been applied to the victims’ temples during torture by electrocution. Controlled, it was seldom deadly, but it hurt like the dickens, and left comparable tell-tale burn marks.”

“Dear God,” came an anguished response from Mrs. Osmington.

“Please excuse my graphical explanation, Mrs. Osmington. I’m merely demonstrating that at the precise moment of the lighting strike, thousands of volts within the span of milliseconds coursed through your husband’s body killing him instantly.”

“But earlier,” Elva tried to clarify. “There was a dagger sticking out of his chest. We all saw it.”

“Yes, my love. Your eyes did not deceive you, but perhaps the shock of seeing it clouded the facts. Without sounding too dramatic, I deduce that the professor held or had near his person, the ornate dagger. As he fell to the floor with all those volts running through him, he became in essence, an electromagnetic field instantly magnetising the pendant so strongly that the dagger’s tip attached itself to the pendant. From the angle that we initially witnessed the professor’s body from, it looked like the dagger had penetrated his chest. It’s commonly known as the Lorentz force, where both electricity and magnetism manifest themselves as one. A curious phenomenon… Based on these facts, this is nothing more than… a case of the obvious… an unfortunate freak accident.”

“So, Monsieur Poirot,” a facetious Lady Hillary mocked. “How do you explain the missing dagger?”

Pratt acknowledged the question with a chuckle and a knowing nod of his head, then retrieved it from under the professor’s left armpit.

“The magnetic effect was… fleeting,” Pratt triumphantly concluded.

An astonished hush permeated the room, quickly broken by a loud ring of the telephone. Elva cautiously picked up the receiver, then after a few mutters of no… sorry, and a cheery goodbye, she replaced the receiver back onto the cradle. Sensing the collective air of anticipation filling the room, she turned to face everyone. After a short dramatic pause, she explained in a soft tone,

“Wrong number…”