Wrongful Death

The ancestral home loomed up, impassive against the darkening sky. 

Inside, Sir Frederick was in the library near a crackling fire, busy at his desk. It had been his father's, and was made of gleaming mahogany with cubbyholes and secret drawers. Frederick remembered his father sitting at this very desk with his pots of glue and ink restoring tattered old books. Something he could never understand. He picked up a glue pot filled with white powder and sniffed it. The shelves above him were filled with books and documents that his ancestors had collected over many years. He chuckled and ran a large white hand through his thinning hair. Such scholars, they were, his forebears. So refined and educated, always on the lookout for some obscure manuscript to add to their collection. And now he, and only he, could do with it as he liked. The collection had been appraised recently and Sir Frederick had been delighted with the results. He shook his head now, thinking about it, and laughed out loud.

He turned as Agnes, the housemaid entered the room and then stopped, seeing him. "Oh I'm sorry Sir. I didn't know you were here. I left my something in here earlier."

Sir Frederick frowned in annoyance but waved her in. "Go ahead." he said and returned to his work. "But don't let it happen again." Carefully he tapped some powder onto a slip of tissue paper and twisting it closed he placed it in his breast pocket.

His thoughts turned to the evening ahead. A small intimate gathering. Nothing elaborate. Diana Desmond of course, the latest celebrity to catch the world's attention and oh so beautiful. Considered herself an actress, but really! He frowned and laughed again. He recalled the previous evening when he had proposed marriage to her and she had accepted. That was something, even though, he was sure, she was mainly interested in his money. Ah well, he would see to it that an airtight pre-nup was in place before he set foot in any church.

And her friend, what's her name, the plain, dumpy one. She would be there too. He couldn't recall her name, but he remembered her sharp, questioning eyes, and the startled way she had looked at him when he had made a small joke at Diana's expense. Diana had blushed prettily, but the other one, (what was her name?) had only frowned.

Sir Frederick went over the remaining guests. Arlen Hardwick, the manuscript appraiser and his snooty wife. Arlen had spent the past two weeks in the library, poring over Sir Frederick's vast collection and cataloging everything in his precise handwriting. He had been an old friend of Frederick's father and Frederick recalled with a shudder the many boring bookish discussions he had been subject to as a child. When Frederick had contacted him to appraise the collection, Arlen had jumped at the chance. Frederick had hinted that he would be "well compensated" for his efforts and Arlen had glowed with pleasure. He told Frederick that the collection should be sold to the right buyer, someone with taste and refinement, someone with plenty of money. And apparently, he had such a buyer lined up. He would not give a name, only smiled secretively. Well, Frederick thought, let him have his joke. He had been pleased that Hardwick had been so ready to help, because he vaguely remembered some unpleasantness in the past. Oh well, no worries. That was all so long ago. And yet, there was something. He felt a little ... unsettled. There was something odd about Arlen, but he couldn't quite put his finger on it. 

And of course Mr. Morgan Temple, the distinguished businessman. Very rich and powerful. Kept to himself and was seldom seen in public. Sir Frederick was pleased that he had agreed to attend this party. He supposed he really was a 'big deal'. Perhaps he was the secret buyer that Arlen had spoken of. Sir Frederick nodded to himself. Yes that would make sense. 

The locals around here would soon see that he, Sir Frederick, was a man of importance. He knew that many of them laughed at him behind his back. Never to his face of course. And that they sneered at him for not being educated like his father. Well so what? Books had never interested him. He enjoyed parties and having fun. And why shouldn't he? It was his money, after all, and he could do with it as he wished. 

His thoughts were interrupted by a discrete knock on the door. It was Bixby, the butler.

"Excuse me Sir, several of the guests have arrived. Where shall I put them?" He stood in silence, gazing respectfully at the wall of books behind Frederick.

"Oh, the drawing room is fine. I'll be in shortly."

Bixby bowed his head and left the room. 

Sir Frederick tidied up the desk and stood, frowning, for a second, then strode down the hall to meet his guests.

"Welcome, all of you!" he cried, ever the genial host. He circled round the room shaking hands and kissing cheeks. The air rang with joviality. 

Arlen Hardwick grasped his arm and Frederick jerked away, alarmed. Hardwick took no notice. "That piece," he murmured with emotion, indicating a beautifully framed manuscript above the fireplace, "It's breathtaking. I'm so glad you had it framed and found the perfect spot for it. The way the light falls on it, so--" he stopped as Sir Frederick stared blankly at him. "Oh that?" said Frederick carelessly. "Yes, Bixby arranged to have it framed. It's nice, isn't it". He moved away. Hardwick stared after him, open-mouthed with dismay. He turned to gaze again at the manuscript.

Diana Desmond slipped a delicate hand through Sir Frederick's arm. "Oh there you are Freddy darling! I was beginning to think you had forgotten all about me!" She pouted attractively and Fred drew her close to him a in a warm embrace.

"Never." he exclaimed and was surprised to feel her flinch in his arms. He looked in her face but her eyes were downcast, her thickly mascaraed lashes contrasting with porcelain skin. She pushed herself away and then gave him a dazzling smile. "I'll get you a drink". He watched her drift across the room towards the bar where Bixby was busy with glasses and ice. She murmured something in Bixby's ear and they both laughed. In a moment she was back at his side, holding aloft 2 martinis.

"Here you are,darling, just the way you like it. They were jostled at that moment and her drink spilled onto her dress. "Oh no! How rude!" She handed Frederick her glass. "Here, drink this. I've got to get cleaned up." She watched him through narrowed eyes while she backed away. He sipped the drink, wondering. What was going on? He felt cold and alone. Diana and Bixby? No it was impossible. She wanted him. He was sure of that. He had the money. He had the title. He had everything she wanted: the diamonds, the furs, the expensive cars. The stately mansion and the summer homes. And yes, the cocaine. She wanted it all and he could give it to her. Certainly not Bixby, who was- what, a butler? Sir Frederick almost laughed out loud. It was absurd. And yet- there had been that look. He had not imagined it.

The evening had suddenly lost its luster. Frederick looked about him with distaste. The strident voices and hollow laughter grated against his ears. He had a headache and his ulcer was acting up. He put his empty glass down on a nearby table and made his way across the room. Faces were becoming blurry. He looked down. His feet seemed so far away. He stumbled and heard someone scream. The sickening feeling in his stomach rose and exploded into a horrid retching sound. Blood sprayed all over the guests, the room. Sir Frederick swayed momentarily, looking around him with surprise, then collapsed on the floor amid shrieks of horror.

            ***********

"So he died right then and there?" said Detective Flynn. 

"Yes, I'm afraid so. The guests were all horrified, of course." The police constable looked at Flynn. "It was quite a job getting everyone calmed down and cleaned up but we've got them settled in the library right now. Several of the ladies fainted. There was, a lot of blood, you know--" he broke off.

"Yes, yes, of course. Most distressing" said Detective Flynn. He was studying the chalk outline of Sir Frederick on the Persian rug in the drawing room. 

   **************

Bixby was efficient and tactful. Detective Flynn had approached him and asked him to assemble the guests in an orderly manner so that he could interview them one at a time without alarming anyone.

"Of course sir." Bixby had inclined his head deferentially. Flynn studied him.

"Most upsetting for you I suppose, eh Bixby? I mean, you've known Sir Frederick for quite some time I take it?"

"Yes sir" allowed Bixby "It was --a shock". He turned to leave but Flynn stopped him with a raised hand.

"Exactly how long have you worked for Sir Frederick?"

Bixby stood still and thought for a moment. "Approximately 25 years sir." He stood waiting.

"Well," remarked Flynn "that's a long time. Difficult--for you, I'm sure." He eyed Bixby. "How was he, to work for, I mean? Was he-" he paused, "a good employer?"

Bixby looked up and raised his eyebrows. "Oh, quite. Yes, of course, sir. Most satisfactory". He looked expectantly at the detective, who nodded, and said, "I think we'll start with the housemaid, what was her name again?"

"Agnes Mueller, sir. I'll bring her right in". He glided from the room.

Flynn watched him go, then rubbed his eyes and set to work arranging forms and a pad of paper on the desk. He scrawled the date across the top of the pad and then waited. 

Agnes Mueller was ushered into the room. She was a small, bright-eyed woman of about 45 years of age with frizzy brown hair and wire-framed glasses. Her shapeless grey dress was pulled in at the waist by a rope-like belt. Flynn noted the shabby leather shoes on her feet and baggy stockings. He sighed. "Now then, Ms. er, Mueller" he glanced up at her and she nodded quickly. She licked her lips and waited.

After several hours of meticulous questioning, Detective Flynn sat back in his chair and studied his notes. He groaned. So many contradictions! Diana Desmond had seen Susan Hardwick take a small vial out of her handbag and unscrew the cap. Morgan Temple had overheard Bixby whisper "I'll do it soon" to Diana Desmond. Arlen Hardwick had seen some white tablets in someone's hand, but he couldn't remember whose. Diana's friend, whose name was Janet Granger, felt surenthat Sir Frederick had committed suicide, "because he was tired of his empty frivolous life". Bixby had seen the housemaid "going into the library in a suspicious way, and when she left she had something in her hand", but he could not say what it was. Agnes Mueller said she had definitely seen Diana Desmond, the movie star, "looking murderously at Mr Fred. Oh yes" she had insisted. "It gave me quite a turn. And I saw her with a letter opener. Wouldn't be a bit surprised if she stabbed him when no one was looking". 

Flynn had hastened to explain that Sir Frederick had not been stabbed, but was poisoned. Agnes remained unconvinced. "Well," she said darkly, "I know what I saw. She doesn't love him. Only after his money she is". She sniffed in disdain. "And another thing", she added, lowering her voice. "He uses drugs! And her too." She nodded meaningfully. Flynn thanked her for the information.

**************

The following day Flynn gathered everyone together in the drawing room. They watched him warily.

"Thank you for your patience", he began. "I have sifted through all the evidence and I can tell you how Sir Frederick died". He paused as an excited buzz circled through the room. "He died from ingestion of a substance known as cyanide". The excited buzz rose again. Flynn held up a hand and the buzzing lessened. "We believe that Sir Frederick was murdered, and that a murder was planned in cold blood." There was shocked silence and then more buzzing.

"Let us go back to that night. All of you were here, milling about, laughing, talking, clinking glasses". He stopped. "Yes, lots of glasses." He tapped his head. "That was my first clue. It would be a simple matter to drop some cyanide in a glass at a noisy party. And Sir Frederick was the host. Everyone would be toasting him or handing him a drink."  

"We know that Sir Frederick not well liked. He was vain. He was rude and obnoxious and arrogant. He cared only for himself." The room was silent.

"And yet he was engaged to be married. He was 'in love' with Diana Desmond, a beautiful actress, who presumably, was also in love with him."

"Of course I was!" Diana burst out. "I did love him. Oh poor Freddy!" She dissolved in loud sobbing. Flynn ignored her.

"We know that Sir Frederick was poisoned by arsenic. Administered to him in a martini".

Diana Desmond gave a sharp cry. Flynn looked at her.

"Yes" he said, "You, Miss Desmond, gave a poisoned martini to your fiance." He held up a hand against her cry of protest. "We've learned that Sir Frederick's drink was spilled, perhaps deliberately, and then you gave him yours, which contained cyanide."

"However," He raised his hand higher and the chatter died down. "You did not place the poison in the glass. Why would you kill him before the marriage? You would gain nothing".

"No, the murderer is sitting right here in this room. Someone who knew Sir Frederick well. Someone who was near enough to tamper with the drinks and had access to the poison. Someone who Sir Frederick trusted." In the uneasy silence all eyes turned to Bixby. 

Bixby squirmed slightly. "If you're suggesting --" he began coldly.

Flynn again held up a hand. "You've hated him for years, haven't you Bixby? Here was a man with money, with a title, with everything but class, which,in your eyes, was unforgivable. And on top of that, he was marrying the woman you loved." He raised his voice above the excited whispers. "I know that you and Miss Desmond were making plans to meet secretly." Bixby had turned to stone, fear in his eyes.

"Nevertheless, although you may be guilty morally, I know you did not poison him. Bixby breathed again.

Flynn suddenly raised his arm and pointed a finger directly at Arlen Hardwick. "It was you Mr. Hardwick!" his voice rang out over gasps of surprise. "You put the arsenic in Sir Frederick's glass."

Arlen Hardwick stood up shakily but with quiet dignity. "I did no such thing" he insisted through white lips. "Oh yes, I hated Sir Frederick. He had no appreciation of the finer things in life. He was a crass, boorish oaf! His father had promised the collection to me and Sir Frederick just laughed when I spoke to him about it. I'm glad he's dead, and I wish I had done it". His voice shook with rage. "But I didn't." He sat down again, staring straight ahead.

All eyes turned to Flynn. His gaze swept over the upturned faces. "Each one of you had a motive to murder Sir Frederick. But only one of you had the opportunity. Mr. Hardwick, you did indeed place the arsenic in Sir Frederick's glass, although I believe it was unintentional."

Arlen Hardwick gaped at him. "W-what, me?" he whispered.

Flynn nodded. "Isn't it true Mr Hardwick, that you spoke to Sir Frederick shortly before he died?"

"Yes, I did, but I never --"

Flynn stopped him. "I know," he said gently. "You didn't murder him, but what you may not know, Mr Hardwick, was that Sir Frederick was planning to murder you!"

This time the buzzing could not be stopped. Flynn waited patiently.

"Some of you may know" he began, "that Sir Frederick had a rare collection of old books." He ignored Arlen Hardwick's snort.

"Mr. Hardwick is an appraiser of rare and valuable manuscripts and Sir Frederick had asked him to make a thorough list of his entire collection, which Mr Hardwick did, in order to sell it to the highest bidder, which, I'm assuming, was for a considerable sum." He looked at Arlen, who nodded.

Mr. Hardwick had been good friends with Sir Frederick's father. He was well respected as an appraiser and his word was needed to obtain the highest bid. But an appraisal of this magnitude costs a lot of money, which Sir Frederick did not want to part with. So he planned to get the appraisal done, contact the highest bidder through Mr. Hardwick and then kill Mr. Hardwick in such a way that it would look like an accidental overdose of cocaine. All in all an ingenious plan, except for fate, or Karma, if you will".

"Sir Frederick had prepared the cyanide powder earlier in a small twist of tissue paper, which would have dissolved in liquid. He had placed the paper in his breast pocket but when Mr. Hardwick grabbed his arm, the paper was dislodged and after Sir Frederick was jostled, it fell into the drink which Miss Desmond had handed him. He drank it without knowing that he was his own victim."

There was a stunned silence. "So now, ladies and gentlemen, I'm glad to inform you that you are all free to go. Thank you for you co-operation. It's not often that a murderer murders himself, but when it happens, it makes my job so much easier."