The Whatever Files

Murder At The Expensive House

"I just wrote this note to let you know
The Whatever Contest has a week to go."

"And that's it?"

"Uuh, yeah! I mean. You did say, you wanted something short and sweet to counter the inevitability of viewer fatigue."

"Yes, but."

"I was going to add some lines about how it all works, but I thought 'Naw' why not let Schnujo's Doing NaNoWriMo? do that on a comment afterwards."

"So that's your complete effort for today Adhere-San?"

"Okay, okay, I get it. Chop-chop. I'm writing, look, I'm writing."

....

Some time later.

Chief Inspector Ferdinand Galbraith rapped smartly on the front door of the perfectly positioned country residence with superb views of the Dorset countryside, all mod cons, a must see.

He had been summoned, as was so often the case in these hack Christie wannabes, to investigate a murder. Being a modern depiction of an old stereotype, Galbraith had other things he would rather do, such as patching things up with his dour and Scandinavian boyfriend, or picking up their seven year old daughter from school.

After just long enough for him to admire the fabulous original oak door, and rather regret the dents his firm rap had caused, it opened.

"Yes.... Sir?" Enquired a cultured and somewhat patronising in a class conscious sort of way that suggested tradesmen's entrances were about to be introduced, voice.

"Chief Inspector Galbraith, here to investigate the murder. And you are?"

"Butler Sir. I'm the Butler here."

"Yes I gathered that, but what is your name?"

"Butler is my name Sir, I'm Butler the Butler."

"Ahh right. Well Mr. Butler, I hereby arrest you for the murder of... Whoever it is that has been murdered."

"That would be Sir Reginald Fitz-Gore Sir, the notable explorer."

"Ah, right. For the murder of Reginald Fitz-Gore, the notable explorer."

"Thank you Sir, and may I add for the sake of true authenticity, that it's a fair cop."

Having instructed his constables to take Butler down to the station, Galbraith wandered into the well appointed living room, carpeted throughout and with hot and cold running footmen. Here he encountered the entire family, gathered conveniently for the soon to ensue plot twists and misdirections.

"So Butler did it did he, always had my doubts about that one, he's been in the family for decades man and boy, totally loyal." Baronet Wilfred Carte-Blanche gazed with un-cracked clarity at the Chief Inspector.

"It's quite amazing really how Butler managed to get the better of Fitz-Gore, what with being near blind, and having only the one leg. Fitz-Gore was a bear of a man, six foot seven and built like an angry chef." Volunteered Cynthia NoimnotalwaysProusingaboutthankyouverymuch, who was Glaswegian, which probably explained the diamond studded knuckle dusters.

"Afternoon all, teatime is it? I'm dying for a slice of battenberg."

"Fitz-Gore!! Good Lord man, we thought you were dead."

"Really? I can't see why, I just spent a pleasant morning disguised as an exquisite oriental rug in the drawing room.

"We called the the police and everything. Good Lord, I am sorry Chief Inspector."

"Not to worry Baronet, I just nip back to the station to write all this up."

"Don't forget to mention the splendid gardens and the gazebo." Said Cynthia, Reallyican'tbebotheredtotypealthatagain.

"What do you think Butler will get?" Enquired the Baronet.

"Murder is an automatic Life Sentence Sir. I would think he'll do a minimum of 35 years for this."

"Perfect."

"Chief Inspector, may I ask a question?" Asked Cynthia.

Galbraith considered this.

"Yes Miss, you just did."

Cynthia rolled her eyes, but this isn't '50 Shades of Grey', so we just ignored that.

"No, I mean, what has any of this to do with promoting The Whatever Contest?"

"That's an easy one Miss. This is a murder mystery. That bit is the mystery."