Marvelous Mystery's

It was a infinite sight of marvelous mystery, and he stares as though one could not have imagined he has seen the same thing a billion times before. The body of the old lady engrossed him. 

The house was in a dilapidated state, he'd always inquired who was deranged enough to live in the old house by his neighbors, never did he know that he would be called to solve the question behind her death.

 The women was an unaccomplished one, that hasn't ever done a thing of importance in her long, sad, life... It ruled out murder. Or did it? Was the simple act of murder for the pure adrenaline that couldn't let him ignore the cruel, selfish part of humanity.

If not that then it is an open ended question, she could have collapsed due to a number of different medical issues, for a women her age, its not uncanny. Could it be a heart attack? Could she have died a slow painful death, clutching her heart as she fought desperately for air, he let the vision fill his head.

No. Nothing medical, if it were to be written off by poor health, he wouldn't be there in the first place. This was something more.

Most of his cases would be written off with heart attacks. In his years of detective work, death was a most popular of his needing to solve. Ever since he stared, he had dealt with stupid delinquents that died on their own account. Potentially the case of the old lady? Had she died of her own unknowing-ness. Was the women living in the ruined house the cause of her own death. 

He went on deeper, to his earlier years, to when he first picked up the magnifying glass, and became a working detective. A teenage boy was found dead in his bedroom. It was suicide, the boy had injected poison in his blood, and then lay on his bed while the poison slowly killed him.

Could it be suicide then, perhaps, the women was laying face down, hands holding a petty pink gardening knife. her finger nails dirty and stained with mud. Even if unaccomplished, she took great care in her garden outside, (which he seen and declared impressive.) Almost meticulously, were the bushed cut, and roses watered, and dirt swept off the walk. The precision in her craft was... Obsessive. He pondered the thought of it, using her only virtue to help her cope with her deep sinking depression.

What frustrated the tall man wearing the blazer; there was no blood on the body, no gashes, cuts along her neck, windows were wide open, and `she appeared to not have owned any needles. If it were truly suicide, how could she have gone about it ?

The only other thing the detective could go off of, was that she not wearing any gardening gloves. The women was too lazy to put on gloves, for did she own any? Any way, she dug and planted... Without gloves, the man did not know of any one that would purposefully dirty their hands. It all was peculiar. 

(1973 a year before this women met her fate. The London plants association announced a federal invasive plant had stared to mass grow throughout London at an unstoppable rate, the weeds grew and spread. A poison... A year ago, but a detective always remembers the slightest bit of information given, especially if they were as clever as he was.)

It would cover the lack of gloves, and obsessive gardening. It all made sense, she was in fact half way to the door, seeming to have to intention to go out again. Not a heart attack, a poisoning. The sudden impact of vile germs entering through her skin because of that poison weed. 

" Officer it seems our victim is very stupid," Outright he spoke, in a prideful tone. for he had came to a sensible conclusion

A look of concern crosses the officers face, 

" This women was tinkering with White Snake-root in the garden, only to come in her house near night, just to die twenty four hours later, right as she picked up the knife and was walking back out to her garden." with a smirk he added

" I'd say she took too much pride in her plants."

White Snake-root was a very poison weed, and stupid for not knowing how deadly, even stupider for not wearing gloves. 

They carried her body out. and he was paid enormously for his aiding in her mystery. 

The deed was carried out, another death solved by an individual that carried her own death upon her shoulders...

Behind his back the people seem at ease knowing not a murder is among them to catch.

His leer growing, striding down the street in the gloomy rain filled afternoon. With umbrella pulled low over his head, the police and all that would, think still he, the greatest detective of all. When, in the dark corners of her house, it was him, that struggled with her heavy body to place it half way to the door, to place the shovel in her hand, and to fill her blood stream with the poison that he dismissed her death for, not a plant. 

For he had not a thing to do with this women, just a stranger to him, she was. For his clever story of an insignificant weed, and his sly place-ment of her shovel, and her dirty fingernails. But the thrill of walking down the sidewalk away from his miss- doings, not one person to clue him, he was the one to solve the mystery after all! He was the innocent, clever, man to seek the truth about things like this. He, the detective only to see the crime first time by his eyes. No one ever suspected the detective, they turned to him for answers, to dumb to find them on their own. They always believed whatever silly excuse he came up with!

They were all stupid. Simply pawns in his game of kill and solve.