The Conniving Corpse

          I lay on the floor as I had fallen, ignored. No-one looked at me. Instead they milled around, keeping upper-lips stiff and appearances up. None of them would look down at me, lying there. None of them acknowledged the knife that protruded from my chest or the blood pooled around me.

          There were five of them in all, standing in my library, drinking my brandy, ignoring my limp, crumpled body. Lyla Rosenthall was by the window, gazing blankly out at the darkness, a forgotten cigarette burning down between her fingers. Her cherry-red dress which had gone down so well earlier in the evening now seemed garish and inappropriate.

          Reverend Patterson perched in my favourite armchair, eyes fixed on the mirror on the opposite wall. One of his hands was at his neck, absent-mindedly tugging at his collar, the other scratched at the arm of the chair. Across from him, Dr Gardner sat alone on the sofa, habitually sipping from his drink – his fifth of the evening. He began taking them neat after the second; the clinking of the ice betrayed his shaking hands.

          Behind the couch, leaning against the fireplace, was Lieutenant Appleby. Unlike the good doctor, he was still on his first glass, staring ponderously into its depths as he swirled the liquid around, scattering refracted firelight across his stern face.

          And then there was the Detective.

          He sat apart from the rest, hunched over a notebook in the corner of the room, scribbling frantically. He moved a pipe to and from his lips with a rhythm that was almost mechanical. Despite being the one who had assembled the party, he took no notice of them.

          Four on one side, one on the other, and me in the middle.

          We all sat in cloying silence that seemed only to get thicker as the time ticked slowly by. The Reverend continued staring into space as Dr Gardner poured himself another drink. Miss Rosenthall let her cigarette burn until it reached her fingertips, discarded it, lit another, and promptly forgot about it. Appleby glowered at the fire disdainfully. I remained on the floor with a knife in my chest.

          Even I was beginning to wish he’d hurry up.

          Appleby’s patience came to an abrupt end. “For pity’s sake, man,” he blurted out, slamming his glass down on the mantlepiece, “if you’ve got something to say, say it! Don’t keep us here all night waiting in suspense.”

          The Detective raised a placatory hand, but was otherwise unmoved. He continued writing for some time, until Appleby was near seething.

          Finally, he snapped his notebook shut and look up cheerily.

          “Shall we commence?” he asked, in his thick French accent.

          Nobody answered, but he jumped up like a man receiving rapturous applause. Pacing dramatically, he began to speak.

          “Gentlemen and Lady, I have called you here for a purpose. As you can see by our unfortunate friend—” he gestured towards me, “—we have a killer in our midst.”

          There was much murmuring at this, despite it having been common and obvious knowledge for some time. It was something one simply didn’t like to speak of.

          “All of you were present when, at precisely nine o’clock this evening, there was a brief power cut. When the lights came back on approximately sixty seconds later, Mr Hawcroft was found as he lies before you now: dead.” He smiled proudly.

          I’m glad you’re enjoying yourself, I thought.

          Dr Gardner finished his drink; Miss Rosenthall took her first draw of the evening.

          “Now to start, as is common, from the beginning. A week ago, all of you received invitations from Mr Hawcroft to spend a week here, at his estate. You all agreed, but! did so under the misapprehension that you were each the only one invited.

          “On your arrivals, however, you discovered this not to be the case. Of course being the polite, upstanding members of British society that you all so evidently are, this proved no issue, and you prepared yourselves for a night of…” he snapped his fingers searchingly, “well, whatever it is you English do.”

          So far, so fair.

          Appleby evidently did not share my assessment. “Yes yes, we know all that already!” he interrupted. “Now what in the blazes is the point of all this?!”

          With the patiently condescending smile of a schoolteacher, the Detective replied, “One must first lay out all the pieces before one may expect to solve the puzzle.”

          “Yes, let the man talk, Appleby, for God’s sake,” said Lyla.

          “I would ask you to not take the Lord’s name in vain, Miss Rosenthall,” snapped Reverend Patterson, drawn out of his reverie.

          “Oh, what’s He going to do about it?”

          “Well, he might do that…” said Dr Gardner, gesturing to me with his glass and slopping brandy over himself in the process.

          “Messieurs et Mademoiselle!” The Detective’s voice cut through the squabbling like a knife through… well, me. “If you would please all be so kind as to remain silent, I will lead you through the facts of the case and attempt to come to a satisfactory conclusion.”

          Let’s hope so.

          The Detective resumed pacing. “As I was saying before I was so rudely interrupted: you all convened for dinner. However, instead of a polite and amicable affair, it quickly turned into something of a show. A collective airing of dirty laundry, as it were.”

          The atmosphere became noticeably frigid.

          I hope you know what you’re doing, Detective.

          “Lt Appleby. You and Mr Hawcroft were lovers, were you not?”

          Appleby glowered at the detective, his jaw clenched. “What on earth gives you that idea?” he said, his tone tantamount to admission. Lyla smugly took another draw.

          “Answer the question, please.”

          Appleby hesitated, then said, “Alright, yes. If you must know, we… had a relationship.”

          That’s true.

          “…But no ‘love’ was involved.”

          That is not. And you’re usually such a good liar.

          “And Mr Hawcroft ended it publicly over dinner, correct?” the Detective asked.

          “Correct,” he said through gritted teeth.

          “To be with the lovely Miss Rosenthal in holy matrimony, no?” he said innocently.

          The Reverend snorted. All enjoyment fled Lyla’s face as she met The Detective’s gaze. “No,” she said dismissively, “No, I’m afraid that isn’t it at all, Monsieur.”

          If that’s really the line you’re going with, then I doubt you’ll get far, Detective.

          His mock-surprise quickly proved me wrong. “Oh, I apologise, Miss Rosenthal, I had only assumed—”

          “Well don’t,” she clipped back. “He called the engagement off. Though you already knew that, didn’t you?”

          “Not as surely as I do now. You expected this?”

          “Of course I didn’t. He spent the whole bloody argument with the General here winking at me and making out like he— like I was—” She screwed her eyes shut and took a long, laboured breath. “He was toying with me, Detective, that’s all. The bastard.”

          That would hurt if it wasn’t true.

          The Detective nodded. “Yes, I can see why that would be painful, Miss Rosenthal.”

          For a moment, they stood staring at each other in confrontational silence.

          Surely you’re not going for the most obvious option, Detective?

          At last he shifted his attention to Dr Gardner. “My good Doctor! How are we doing this evening?”

          “Wha—?” Jolted out of his stupor, the old man dropped his glass which landed on the floor with a dull thud, dregs of brandy spilling onto my favourite carpet.

          “Dr Gardner, would you like to elaborate on your own relationship to the deceased?"

          “I… I don’t know what on Earth you mean,” he stammered.

          “I was under the impression that Mr Hawcroft accosted you over dinner about a certain sum of money?”

          “Well—  I—  You see—”

          “Is this not the case?” The Detective raised his eyebrows encouragingly.

          “I… Yes, it is…” he said at last, visibly deflating.

          “Excellent! However, I also think it relevant to address what this money was for.”

          Dr Gardner suddenly looked more sober than I had seen him in a long time. “I don’t see how that has any relevance—”

          “Au contraire!” The Detective interrupted, drawing from his pocket a small piece of paper.

          I didn’t think you’d find that one. Well done, Detective.

          “Here I have a letter detailing an arrangement wherein you agreed to the regular payment of a sum of money along with multiple vials of morphine. In exchange, Mr Hawcroft ensured that certain information regarding your own particular fondness for such medication would not… ‘find its way into the public eye’, shall we say?”

          A hush fell over the room. Lyla and Appleby both leaned forward in unashamed interest. The Reverend shook his head in self-righteous disapproval.

          I didn’t reveal all the details at dinner, darlings.

          Dr Gardner stared at his shoes, sitting uncommonly still. “This is true,” he said meekly.

          “Thank you very much Doctor, you have been most helpful.” He addressed the room. “So many motives, so little time,” he said, “Anyone here could have taken the opportunity so generously provided by the power outage.”

          His eyes trawled over the room, picking out each person in turn, even me. Nobody met his gaze. If my heart had been beating, it would have done so with anticipation. Then, finally, they came to rest on Reverend Patterson.

          “Reverend,” he said, “Why did you do it?”

          “I’m sorry?”, he said, eyes wide with amused incredulity. “I’m afraid I don’t understand, Detective.”

          "Then allow me to elaborate: You killed Hawcroft.”

          I’d very much prefer if you didn’t get this wrong, Detective.

          “Forgive me, but haven’t you just established a plausible motive for everyone except myself?”

          “Quite so.”

          “So why in the name of all that is holy are you accusing me of this crime if, as you have already established, I had no reason to commit it?”

          Yes, please tell us, Detective.

          “Ah! I see what has caused confusion. My apologies, Reverend, you misunderstand me. I admit, my English is not perfect.”

          The slightest look of relief drifted into Reverend Patterson’s expression.

          Well wouldn’t you know, I think he might be onto it.

          “What I was trying to say, Reverend, is that these were all your motive.”

          The relief dropped from his face like an anvil. “What?”

          “You are a man of God, are you not?”

          “I fail to see—”

          The Detective held up his hand and said, “if you would bear with me, Reverend. Did it not bother you, as a man of God, that Mr Hawcroft revealed himself to be an adulterer, a jilter, a blackmailer, and a drug addict over the course of one evening?”

          “I really don’t see—”

          “Did his wilful sinning not disturb your strong moral sensibilities?”

          “This is utterly preposterous!”

          “Or are you saying that you approve of his actions?”

          The Reverend flew out of his chair. “I approve nothing of the sort! He was a heathen; a Godless man, and so help me God he reaped what he sowed!”

          “Did you kill him?”

          “You’re damned right I did!”

          They stood still, their faces inches apart, as what had been said sunk in.

          Well wouldn’t you know…

          Patterson made a dash for it, shoving the Detective out of the way, but Dr Gardner stuck out his foot and he stumbled. Before Patterson had a chance to get up, Lt Appleby hurled himself over the sofa, and the two men wrestled on the ground As they fought Lyla grabbed a candlestick and knocked Patterson unconscious in one clean blow. He was babbling incoherently about “the Righteous Hand of God” when the police took him away.

          After this, the party dispersed fairly quickly. The atmosphere was not any less tense, and they all left as soon as permitted.

          Except the Detective. Once he was alone he did a circuit of the room, writing in his little notebook as he went, presumably taking down the final details of the now closed case. When he had finished he stood over me and said, “They really have, as they say, ‘done a number on you,’ haven’t they?”

          “Yes, I thought so too,” I replied, “but at the end of the day you can’t say I didn’t deserve it, can you?”

          I’ll never forget the look on his face; it was the look of a man who finally had all the pieces so perfectly aligned, only for someone to come and reveal he’s been playing the wrong game. It was exquisite.

          “Mais… but, you were dead.”

          “Indeed.”

          “I took your pulse! The knife, it is through your heart!”

          “Hm?” I looked down at where the knife was indeed sticking out of my heart. “Oh! Yes, really did the job, that. Still, better than if he’d made it messy, eh?” I sat up and slowly pulled the knife out of my chest leaving nothing but smooth, pink flesh showing through the ragged hole in my suit. “Blast, I rather liked this jacket.”

          He pointed to my chest, dumbfounded. “But how…”

          I gave him a wry smile. “Now now, detective, I must keep some secrets.”

          “Some trick… you are a magician?”

          “No, monsieur, no trick. As you said yourself, you checked my pulse.” I picked the bloodied knife up off the floor and handed it to him, hilt first. “Check this, if you like. I can assure you, it is quite sharp.”

          “But if this is true…” he said, gingerly poking at the end of the knife, “then why pretend? Why not simply reveal yourself and announce your killer?”

“Ah, well. You see the thing is, I was getting rather bored.”

He dropped the knife and stared at me in astonishment. “Bored?”

“Well, yes. One has to find some way to keep oneself occupied these days, and there are only so many games of bridge a man can play before it begins to lose its appeal somewhat.”

I could see him slowly trying to piece everything together in his mind. “So the dinner, the argument, the letters… it was all a performance?” he asked.

“Yes and no. Most of the props and such developed naturally as I got to know everybody. Once I’d gotten everybody suitably riled up the only think I really had to do was arrange the dinner party, and the rest took care of itself.” I leaned in slightly closer, and said, “if truth be told, I didn’t actually know which of them would go for it. Were I a betting man I probably would have lost a few bob on our girl Lyla.

“Oh, and I made sure the date of the date of the evening would overlap with your holiday in the village. I’d read about your exploits in the papers (marvellous work, by the way) and to be entirely frank I was interested in seeing you in the flesh. You might even say you inspired the whole thing. Indirectly, of course.”

He backed away from me, a look of increasing disgust overtaking him. “I solve murders, monsieur Hawcroft, I do not cause them,” he said stiffly. “And I take no pleasure in being tricked into this… game of yours.”

“Oh come off it, it was all a bit of fun!”

“People are not your playthings, monsieur!”

“They’ll all be dead soon anyway! Does it really make all that much of a difference if I inconvenience them a bit in the interim?”

“Was that a threat, monsieur Hawrcroft?”

“No no no, nothing of the sort my dear man. No, merely a… a difference of perspective, shall we say?”

          There was no answer to this. He regarded me coldly, and we sat in silence a moment.

          Then, suddenly, his eyes went wide in realisation.

“But this means… I have condemned an innocent man! I—”

          “Well, I wouldn’t exactly call him ‘innocent.’ He did still try to kill me after all,” I said, giving him my most disarming grin. “It’s not his fault I got back up.”

          He either ignored me, or did not process what I was saying. “We must go to the police station at once.”

          “I’m afraid I will be doing nothing of the sort,” I said, leaning over and picking up the knife from where it lay discarded by the detective’s feet. “You see, there will be need to be a body for him to be put away, and I’d hate to have gone through all this effort to not see it through.”

          I raised the knife and lined it up with the hole in my jacket, then looked back up at the detective and said, “of course it goes without saying that I’d advise against trying to stop me.”

          But he made no move to do anything of the sort. Instead, he stood very still, and in a voice dripping with scorn said, “I have one final question, if you would be so kind.”

          “Fire away,” I said. “But make it quick, I’d hate to be caught in such a compromising position by the doctors.”

          “Tell me, why reveal yourself to me at all? Why have this conversation, when you could have simply remained as your were and left nobody any the wiser?”

          I considered this for a moment. Eventually I said, “the problem with a good trick is that you always want people to know how well they’ve been had.”

          Then I drove the knife into my heart and dropped to the floor, ‘dead.’