Hayworth

The first murder case of Genolind, England, solved during my lifetime, he was fifteen.

 “Could you pass the teapot?” I wordlessly passed it to him, quickly redirecting my gaze to the documents scattered on the table in front of me. He was resting by the fire. The vintage maroon rug that his wooden rocking chair sat on was glimmering in the glow of the flames; the light was mesmerizing. 

The papers were so plentiful that there were hardly three square inches of the mahogany table left visible. Every piece was dressed in my handwriting. Hours upon hours worth of notes and analysis. 

“Hayward, have you discovered anything new for me?” 

“No, sir. No new information has surfaced.” I exhaled and searched around for my folder. He handed it to me. My hands swiped the pages into the open thing and slammed it shut, frustrated beyond words. 

When all the papers were cleared, today’s paper was resting in the center of the table. “Sir, I forgot to deliver the paper to you this morning. Here it is.”

“Ah, yes, thank you David.” He shook the paper out of its folds and leaned back to read it. He smiled widely. The fire’s light reflected off of his teeth, making the smile appear sinister. “James Whitlock, England’s Most Brilliant Detective, Investigating Mr. Baldwin’s Death.” Whitlock sighed. “What a lovely headline, don’t you think?” 

“Yes, of course sir, would you like me to add it to your collection?”

“Absolutely. Put it next to the clipping about Mrs. Cavendish.” Mr. Whitlock handed me the page and busied himself skimming through the rest. 

James Whitlock is a twenty-nine-year-old private detective. Whenever the authorities of this town feel over their head, which is most of the time, they send for him. The Genolind authorities are able to effectively deal with straightforward occurrences (a robbery, a break in, unlicensed practice of any sort of activity), but crimes with a story behind them are a job for Mr. James Whitlock. Killings are among these crimes. 

Yesterday in the early morning, John Baldwin was found stabbed at the bottom of a flight of stairs. His body had bruising and other blunt force marks covering it, as if he had been pushed. The murder weapon was a seven-inch kitchen knife that was found nearby; the kind commonly used to cut meat. According to the maid and the wife, he was home alone. 

Once I finished extracting the newspaper clipping, I placed it in the same frame as the one mentioning Mrs. Cavendish’s case and hung it back up on the hallway wall. The clock at the end of the hallway chimed, telling me it was four o’clock in the afternoon. I returned to the study, where Mr. Whitlock was still reading the paper.

“Sir, the time is four o’clock. We must be going off to the Baldwin house to collect information from the wife and cleaner.” He waved me off. 

“I’ve almost finished this article. Fetch my coat and shoes, will you?” He didn’t turn around to give me this request. 

“Of course.” Exiting the study, I turn to my left and move down the stairs to the hatstand. I first put on my coat and pulled on my shoes. Hustling up the stairs, I meet Whitlock in the middle of the hallway. 

“You were taking so long I figured I should come and make sure you hadn’t fallen down the stairs.”

“Of course sir, I apologize for the inconvenience.”

“It’s no problem Hayward,” He says, pulling on his coat as he walks down the stairs. He grabs his hat and pulls it onto his head. “Shall we be off?” I nod, following him out the door and into a carriage. 

* * *

Upon arrival, James Whitlock had a distant look in his eyes, as if pondering something of utmost importance. His long fingers emerged and rapped on the door. The Baldwin estate was a large brown house. There were many windows, some with the curtains open, others with the curtains drawn. No light was showing through any of the windows, which was unsurprising, as it was around five o’clock.

The grand, dark, walnut wood doors slowly opened to reveal a small blonde woman in the doorway. Judging by her appearance, she was the maid. Her expression was a mix of shock and dread. She seemed surprised to see us, even though she knew we were coming. When let us in, she was standing with her arms crossed, as if she was afraid of us. Whitlock looked like he was noticing all this as well. 

The door swung shut behind us, enclosing us into the brooding atmosphere of the house. I immediately identified the crime scene. There was a line drawn on the floor to mark the boundaries. The people in the household must have tired of looking at the area, for there was a collection of furniture keeping the bottom of the stairwell from view. 

James Whitlock was already observing the scene. He had moved two chairs and a table off to the side to create a walkway. He waved me over, looking around. 

“What do you see Hayward?” 

I sighed. I always seem to be the one presenting ideas, but of course he knows best, so why ask questions?

“Sir, I see a trail of blood, indicating that-”

“That the victim was stabbed at the top of the stairs, correct.”

“Yes, I also see that there is roughly the same amount of blood on the top of the stairwell as there is on the bottom of the stairwell, indicating that the knife was rem-”

“Removed at the top of the stairwell before the victim took his tumble down the stairs. Very good Hayward.” 

“Thank you, sir.” I turned around and noticed that a tall, thin woman with dark black hair was now standing next to the maid. “You must be Mrs. Baldwin.” I tapped Mr. Whitlock, and he turned to face the women. “Sir, should we begin our questioning?” He nodded. 

“Mrs. Mary Baldwin, will you please come with us?” Mrs. Baldwin looked puzzled, somehow shocked, that we were here to question her. 

“Of course, the study is this way.” She led us through a luxurious kitchen and into a small library. In between the W and Y sections, there was a small oak door. The glass design at eye level was intricate and foggy. You could not see inside. 

The first thing I noticed when we entered the room was that this was one room that had the curtains drawn. 

“Why are the curtains drawn? It’s such a bright day outside.” I observed Mrs. Baldwin’s reaction.  

“John never enjoyed having any light other than lantern light in here. He said it broke his focus.” She sat down in one of the chairs. Her response seemed genuine. I looked at Whitlock to see if he was watching. Asking somebody a simple question gets you accustomed to their honest body language. Whitlock was looking the other way. 

I took a seat in a chair across from Mrs. Baldwin; Whitlock sat next to me. He crossed his legs and took off his hat and coat, folding the coat over the arm of the chair and placing his hat on the back. I did the same. 

“Now tell me. What is James Whitlock doing in my home?” Mrs. Baldwin asked. It was a ridiculous question. She knew what we were here for. “And who is this with him?” I held back a sigh. Nobody ever knew my name, no matter how many times they have seen me. I am always sitting in Whitlock’s shadow.

“Da-”

“This is David Hayward. My assistant.” 

I cleared my throat. I was perfectly capable of introducing myself. 

“Yes, I work with Mr. Whitlock.” I crossed my legs and folded my hands. 

“More accurately, you work for Mr. Whitlock.” Whitlock chuckled and smiled. The lantern light reflecting off of his face. I stayed silent for a moment, watching his offputting smile form. 

“Yes, of course. Now, Mrs. Baldwin. On the night of your husband’s death, you were not in the home, correct?”

“Correct. I was at a get together with my friends.”

“Hay-” Whitlock tried to interject, but I was tired of the constant comparison to a doormat. 

“Where was this ‘get together’ organized?” I could see Whitlock getting frustrated with me, but I had a list of questions I was almost through with. 

“We were drinking wine and chatting on my friend Jane’s patio.”

“If I called this woman, Jane, would she tell me the same story?”

“Yes she would, Mr. Hayward.” I nodded. When I looked over at Mr. Whitlock, he was sitting up straight in his chair. “Are there questions you would like to ask, Mr. Whitlock?” Whitlock cleared his throat. 

“No, I think that pretty much covers it.” He unfolded his hands and prepared to call in the maid. 

“Very well, I have one last question to ask Mrs. Baldwin.” I watched Whitlock settle down and tense up. “Does Mr. Baldwin own this property?” Mrs. Baldwin thought for a moment. 

“No, I suppose he doesn’t yet.”

“And what exactly does that mean?” 

“Well, he is set up to inherit this property from his parents when they pass, but they wanted to move to a quieter area, letting my husband move in early.” I nodded. At this point, I was quite certain that this crime was the same scenario as the case we investigated a few months ago. A sibling that wants the family inheritance murders the eldest in order to come first on the list. 

“Does Mr. Baldwin have any siblings?” Mrs. Baldwin nodded.

“A younger brother. He actually just left town the day before the murder.” Just to be sure, we called in the maid. Whitlock quickly began talking, not even bothering to introduce me this time. We asked the maid the same questions. Her name is Emma. She was at home with her husband and child. She lives nearby and comes early in the morning to work during the daytime hours. When the maid left the room, I filled Mr. Whitlock in on my theory. On our way back home, we swung by the maid’s and confirmed the story. 

* * *

Later that evening, we expressed our theory to the sheriff, who swiftly arrested the younger brother while he was boarding his escape vehicle, the nine o’clock train back to his home. Once Mr. William Baldwin was behind bars, Sheriff Conner invited Whitlock and I out for a late meal and drinks, to which we happily agreed.

“However did you catch William Baldwin fast enough to prevent him from leaving Genolind?” Asks Sheriff Conner, taking his cigar out of his mouth for just long enough to down the last bit of his whiskey. 

“Well-” I was immediately cut off by Mr. Whitlock. I sat back in my chair, puffing on the cigar I had been given. I listened as James Whitlock told Sheriff Conner about our success. About my success. I was too intoxicated to bother with listening, so I closed my eyes. Anger was welling up behind those eyelids. Whitlock was getting details wrong. Mrs. Baldwin’s friend was Jane, not Veronica. Veronica was the Maid’s daughter. The blood was on the right side of the stairs, not the left. William was right side dominant.

Every detail that Whitlock got wrong, every one of my observations that he took credit for, was one more angry sip of the fine whiskey the kind Sheriff had provided. I was hardly even listening to the men in front of me when Sheriff Conner made his toast. 

“As the clock strikes midnight, I wish a happy birthday to Mr. James Whitlock. Here’s to the start of a new decade for you, my friend. May you live to continue discovering the answers to difficult questions with your assistant, Mr. Hayworth!” 

I raised my glass and drank with the other men, but I was in a state of shock. I was the brains behind this operation. Whitlock was just a man, still on a high from a lucky break at fifteen. What sort of acknowledgement do I get for it? None. I simply get to sit next to James Whitlock as he gets praised by people who can not remember my name. 

* * *

The carriage slowly took Whitlock and I home. It was the longest time of my life. I stepped through the door and hung my coat and hat on the black, looming hatstand. My shaking legs took me directly to the kitchen. The knife that I picked up glistened as its angles changed. It reminded me of James Whitlock’s smile. 

I heard James walk through the door and heard him hit the corner as he made his way to the light of the kitchen where I was standing. I put the knife down. James turned the corner and met my eyes.

“Hayward.”

“Yes, Mr. Whitlock?” My fingers traced the edges of the handle. 

“You disrespected me today.” He was leaning against the doorframe. 

“Oh? Did I? Please enlighten me.” My fingers twisted around the wood. 

“You kept talking over me. You are my assistant, just as the Sheriff said. You sit with me and only speak to people if I allow you to. I have been solving crimes since I was fifteen years old. I have much more experience and knowledge than you.” My hand, along with the blade, rose off the counter. I could feel the metal cool against my back.

“Oh? Well then, what was the name of the woman Mrs. Baldwin was with at the time of the murder?”

“Veronica, they were on her patio.”

“Wrong. Veronica was the maid’s daughter. Jane was Mrs. Baldwins friend.” 

“Simple mistake.”

“From the place we were standing, was the blood trailing down the right or left side of the stairs?” Slowly, my feet were taking me closer to James.

“The left.” 

“Wrong!” I yelled, looking into his eyes. “When a person who is strongest on their right pushes somebody down a flight of stairs, it is much easier for the body to fall down to their left. Meaning we saw it from the right.”

“You cannot expect me to remember every detail of every crime I solve, Hayward.”

“You?” I scoffed. “I solve every crime we are called to. I ask the questions, I observe the scene. You simply sit back and read your name on the paper while sipping a gifted whiskey.” Whitlock’s face darkened. 

“How dare you speak to me in that way? I have been solving crimes since I was fifteen! You, David Hayward, are far beneath me.” 

My eyes weren’t focused when I plunged the knife into his abdomen. 

“You got lucky at fifteen. You were in the right place at the right time.” I let go of the knife as he fell backwards through the door frame.

“I never needed you, you needed me. I am finished tagging along behind you. Goodbye Mr. James Whitlock.”

* * * 

There was a great deal of alcohol in my system when I was walking the streets of Genolind. It was one-twenty-three when I arrived at the river. I watched my bloodied gloves float down the river, then I vomited in the dirt of the river bank. I bought a ticket at the train station, the only one available to me. The man who gave it to me looked concerned, but took the bills out of my shaking hand. The train left this horrible place behind me. I shut my eyes. 

The last murder case of Genolind, England, solved during my lifetime, he was twenty-nine.