From the diary of Rosabell Harris

May 12, 1921.

Well, well,  well. The situation I find myself in is rather peculiar, and unpleasant. I suppose any good lady, chap, or bullfrog in a rather snazzy hat would want an answer as to why I am currently in a manor full of fighting staff, shouts filling the air. Your answer would require some backtracking  of the story, and some information, so let’s. I am Rosabell Evlyn Harris. My husband was murdered two weeks before this confuzzling madness began. Little do these poor fools know, I was the one who took the

 pathetic man’s life. 

I was married to James Eric Harris for about two years. It wasn’t my plan to be wed, nor did I intend to marry. It was a proposal from his family, who had offered a good sum of money for the marriage. As a respectful woman who thought of her future, I agreed. I am from a lower class family. Not quite poverty stricken, but not among the elite as the Harris family. He treated me fairly well. Treated me as all ladies should be treated. It is alarmingly less common for men to respect their women, so this was a lovely change. 

Now, I’m sure this far, the question of “Why did you kill your husband and report it to the police if you could have gotten away with it?” Is already flogging your mind. had decided I was done. Although I was treated as any lady should, I was still the workhorse of the house. We had one kid, a child no older than eleven months from one of his previous marriages. I took care for all, as my husband did no short of nothing. I had gotten so fed up with the poppycock. I wanted to stick two fingers up and be over with it. One lucky day, though rather unlucky for James, we had gotten into a particularly feisty verbal dispute, and ended up with being drawn on with an old dusty pocket knife he kept in an old coat on the coat rack. Little did poor James know, I had his other pocket knife.

 I would like to spare you the details of how that ended, but I’m sure you can deduce it did not end with a “happily ever after,” 

As someone who tended to the house, I kept everything in suitable condition. It made sense for my hands to have been on the knife. There was a guest there that evening, though, who had a motive, access, and previous misdemeanor on her record. 

His sister, Helena Olivia Harris. She had been visiting that night. I had the perfect plan. She had been the prey unfortunate to be caught in my web of lies and deception. I reported this to a detective agency as soon as I “Found” my husband dead. The detective was famous for solving cases deemed unsolvable. And before you stick your head in the clouds, no, it was not Sherlock Holmes. It was a lovely lad by the name of Christopher Wallows. He had come from America, is what I’ve heard. I genuinely can’t tell though. He has a half-accent? I am unable to read if he is English or American. 

My apologies, for I have sidetracked myself. Back to what I was writing about. I figured I would be less suspect to report the crime myself. After all, I had set Helena up so perfectly, it would be wrong to not find her guilty of first degree murder, or maybe if she’s lucky, she’s to be charged with manslaughter. Or there is the possibility to just have her plead insanity. Hm. The word insane. It’s so… easy. It’s so easy to call someone insane. lock them up and move on. And yet the truly insane are hiding in the shadows, watching those be accused of the mind games they play. Truly a beautiful thing, indeed. 

As the detectives and cops investigated for about a week or two, they finally stumbled upon the clues that led them to the “truth”. 

So, we arrive at Helena’s manor to see if she was the culprit for a crime she didn’t commit. It was Helena herself that had opened the door, not a butler or maid. I had never liked the idea of anyone serving anyone. The police start talking and Helana talks back. She was saying exactly what I needed her to. Everything was going by design.

And then we move to the present. I will try my best to describe what’s happening as it happens. Please excuse any inaccuracies.

Helana yelled, “I DID NOTHING AND YOU WILL TAKE HANDS OFF OF ME AND MY BUTLERS AND MAIDS.” 

Detective Wallow’s team shouted back, “You have the right to remain silent, madam.”

I apologize for this, but I was unable to make out what was said. All I know is that Helena is being taken away in cuffs, her screams and wails pierce all of our ears. 

May 15, 1921.

My plan had succeeded. Helena is currently in custody, her trial is soon. There were no real witnesses. Our son was asleep. I was “folding clothing” upstairs. All evidence points to Helena. Is this cruel of me? Am I a monster? Am I going to hell after I die? I have no idea. All I know is it felt good to see the colour drain from his face. I do get the rights to some properties he owns. My life has improved. I made the right decision, ending that poor idiot’s  life. I understand, today was a short entry, but I suppose I just don’t have much to write about. I will check in soon.

May 21, 1921.

Helena’s trial started today. I was brought up to the witness stand. Thankfully, I was prepared for this. I don’t remember exactly what I said, but it was along the lines of “I was folding recently dried laundry (because I was when I stabbed him) upstairs and heard a thump on the floor. I decided something probably fell over and when I checked  a few minutes later I found him dead on the carpet”. The defense did an incredible job picking apart my testimony, looking at all the evidence to his disposal. But there were no contradictions. The frantic look on Helena's face almost made testifying at all worth it. She had been sleeping when it actually happened, of course. But sometimes people black out when they get super enraged. It was in poor manner of me to present this as a possible reasoning she didn’t “remember” murdering her brother. 

Now that I have given it thought. No. I am not a monster. I am in the right. I am a puppeteer, playing everyone and everything with strings. I am the one in control of how this ends. And the best of all? No one knows a thing. 

Yes, that sounds rather fitting. Another interesting thing has happened today. The paper is printed on the case. I heard of it from a good lady by the name of Elanor, who lives nearby the house. The headline stated as is. “Member of the Harris family murdered by his own sister?!” quite the title,  I tell you. I did read the paper. Not much to see.

June 12, 1924

it has been a moment since I wrote in this old diary. One last thing I wanted to write. I got away with it.