Murder of the Genre

(5-minute tales contest entry:
Prompt: Write as AMATEUR SLEUTH, e.g. Miss Marple.
Genre: MURDER/MYSTERY
Word count: 2000 (Phew!))


MURDER OF THE GENRE

“At last a reply from Mrs. Malaprop!” smiled Cathy Davis. She had been trying to secure the rights for the latest Amateur Detective book for months. Every publisher in the country was chasing the title, due to the media circus that had recently surrounded her client. Cathy was anxious to ensure that Dodo Publishing got this lucrative novel.

The postmark was Denver; this puzzled Cathy as she tore open the envelope. Inside she found a letter and several pages of extracts from Mrs. Malaprop’s new book. Cathy began to read:

---oooOOOooo---


Nurse Marjorie Malaprop,
Dorm 151/A1,
Beth Israel Recovery Clinic,
Denver,
Colorado.

Dearest Cathy,

I so miss you and your sweet husband – how are the children? Is little Johnny still a devil? I’m sure he’s not little any more – did I hear he’s a hippie now? Fugit irreparabile tempus!

I do hate to be so hard on you, I know that you’ve been the truest friend for so many marvellous years, but I’m getting so many offers! I rather think a further 15% should see us both happy.

I’ve enclosed some snippets from the book, just to whet your appetite!

Yours, etc.


Marjorie.

---oooOOOooo---


“THE SILENT ASSASSIN”
MRS. MALAPROP, AMATEUR DETECTIVE.


PREFACE

I did not plan to become an Amateur Detective, I rather prefer to imagine that the vocation sought me.

Some considerable time has passed since I discovered my skills, when I assisted the police investigation into the murder of my neighbour, Captain Roger Daly. You are no doubt familiar with the details from my account of the saga, “Death on The Bowl”.

From that day to this, I have been called upon to conduct inquiries into the surroundings of umpteen foul deeds (each of which has been serialised in my best selling “Mrs. Malaprop, Amateur Detective” novels, published by Dodo).

And so I came to this current investigation with familiar old feelings: heightened anxiety (lest the killer strike me!), the thrill of the impending chase, the tension of sharpening faculties that we investigators must hone.

Now that the case has been solved and its intricacies documented in this publication, I am sorry to tell you, my fans, (my eyes are dampening as I type) that this is to be my last novel. I feel the urge to return now to my earlier vocation – that oldest and noblest vocation, nursing. (Keep your fingers crossed! The lucky ones amongst you may have the fortune to meet me in hospital.)

You, my readers, have been my Watson, my Southampton and my Aristotle. I cannot articulate how much you have given me, and I remain,

Your Amateur Detective,

Mrs. Marjorie Malaprop.
August 2007,
Denver.


CHAPTER ONE

It was with a heavy heart that I watched the muscular workmen pack the last of my things into the removal van. “Be careful!” I advised, as two large rustic labourers with perspiring brows and bulging arms carried my precious dog Caligula into the rear of the truck.

“Oh Caligula,” I sighed, recalling how I would spend the pleasant afternoons sipping dandelion tea in the balmy New England gardens as my faithful bloodhound whimpered at my feet for a tiny piece of biscuit. After the dreadful business of the poisoning, I found I could not do without his slobbering presence, and my sweet platonic friend Nathan exercised his singular taxidermist skills to great effect: My hound would remain forever in his usual self-indulgent pose.

I was packing up and leaving New England. This place had been kind to me, for it was here I first established my independence. My husband having disappeared, I retired to the peace and quiet of the country and I found, for the first time, my own circle of friends. And my destiny found me, for it was here I began solving cases; and it was here in the wee hours of the morning you could find me: Typing, and writing, and creating my Works.

But my friends were all gone now – every one of them excepting Nathan – fallen leaves.

From my maid Polly, who murdered Jones the gardener, to Reverend Greene (who would have thought it in him?), my social circle diminished year after year. The butcher, Mr. Skinner, turned out to be quite as malicious as my dear friend Inspector Paget, and as time went on so few people were left in my village it was quite an ado to muster onward in my trade. Everyone was either dead or in prison, Lord bless them all, so I resolved to move. Minneapolis would be my next stop.
…


CHAPTERS TWO to FOUR omitted

CHAPTER FIVE

Nathan was dead to begin with. There was no doubt whatever about that. Breathless, I looked desperately around the lawns. Beneath my patent-leather shoes the grass was damp with evening dew. “Look to the lady!” I protested, whereupon Lieutenant Rotherham provided me with a chair, and I swooned into its lap. It was frightful to see the body of Nathan, my good friend and longtime companion, undulating so lifelessly upon the bouncy castle.

I tried to collect my thoughts. Preventing an eruption of emotion was key, so I instructed myself to grasp onto my professional detachment. This may be my Nathan, the man whose taxidermic artisanship held renown at the Pet Cemetery, the man who professed his love for me that night we overdid it on the sherry (advances I rejected as I never could replace Samantha in his heart); it may be my Nathan, but this was my job. A good detective must be ever-alert and, upon the discovery of a corpse, I required my fullest faculties.

I felt my mind clearing of its fog, a relief not unlike that experienced when escaped flatus finally dissipates out the open windows of a crowded automobile, and I began to take a rapid inventory of witnesses to the scene: The brave Lieutenant Rotherham looked pale and unsteady. A soldier like him, retired from a long career in the army, should be used to seeing death, I marked.

Sebastian Ffaulkes-Smyth, a man of steel, gibbered, wailed and averted his eyes. I would have expected his upbringing and Ivy-League education to have invoked his sense of leadership at a time like this.

Doctor John Christie, a small balding bespectacled man, was attending the body, stuttering “no pulse, no pulse” as his bewildered eyes darted everywhere. Absent entirely was his professional demeanour.

My eyes tracked then to the upstart girl. Patsy Wheeler, a low-class trollop from the West Coast, whose tiny skirts banished all mystery for her multiple suitors, and whose cheap shoes clattered as she walked. She looked me dead in the eye. “Well well,” I thought to myself, and I cast her a quizzical look, to which she nervously looked away.

“Nobody goes anywhere,” I stood to command, “Until the police arrive.” I already had my suspect.


CHAPTER SIX

…
Duty of care for Samantha had passed to me, and over the next week I studied sign-language in order that I could communicate with the ape. I found her an able student and revealed within myself a dormant tutor; before long she was bringing me tea and marmite toast, prompted by the simplest combination of hand movements.

Training went on late into the nights, until ape and human, exhausted, went to their respective beds. Other than the killer, I knew she was the only witness to the crime, and it was imperative that we could communicate.
…


CHAPTER SEVEN

…
In any event, "Doctor" Christie’s withered hands would never be able to squeeze a trigger.
…


CHAPTER EIGHT

…
Lieutenant Rotherham could not have been to blame. For hours I scrutinised every bump and fibre with my glass, and eventually I was satisfied: The unique birthmark on the Lieutenant's posterior identified it with certainty as the buttock from the photocopies. The machine's usage records confirmed his alibi. I shall never again think of Jimmy Durante with such sweet fondness.
…


CHAPTER NINE

…
“Arrest that man!” I said, pointing to Ffaulkes-Smyth.



CHAPTER TEN

…
It was a most unexpected turn and I could think of no alternative action. Abhorrent though it felt, and its likelihood of success so slim, I could discern no other course through the darkness that had set about me. Patsy Wheeler had shown me her ID and confirmed beyond all doubt that she was a member of the FBI.

I glanced in the gilt-edged mirror my nephew James had brought me from Thailand and sighed at my reflection, affirming in myself the strength to do what I must and reminding myself that I still looked very attractive for a sixty-five year old.

Stirring my tea, I sat down beside Agent Patsy Wheeler on my chez-longue. I smiled at her and placed a hand seductively on her thigh.


CHAPTER ELEVEN

With her gun pointing in my face, I did exactly what Wheeler instructed and put my hands behind my head. Handcuffs were roughly snapped around my wrists. I felt her reaction rather extreme, and I have said as much in a formal letter of complaint to my good friend Governor Gatling.
…


CHAPTER TWELVE

…
They had established that it was a bullet from my Derringer that had pierced the heart of the hapless Nathan. For lack of witnesses to the contrary, they had placed me at the scene. They had supplied a motive - to plot a book! How ludicrous!

So Agent Wheeler had apparently been investigating me for nearly three years? Her evidence I’ll grant you was thorough, but I felt she lacked the maturity necessary to portray credibility.

It was a fascinating world Wheeler's imagination had constructed, and as the attorneys pressed and badgered her, an appalling vista suddenly opened before me. Several times my representatives prevented her from describing events surrounding my previous cases. Anon I was advised that should this prosecution succeed, the State would reopen all my solved cases! And they would try to implicate me as the perpetrator in crimes I had already cracked!
…


CHAPTER THIRTEEN

…

My dignity could only brook contemptuous silence in reply to their accusations: As is my entitlement, I chose not to speak in my own defence. I had instructed my lawyer to call one witness only: Samantha.

…


As she approached the bench, Samantha recognised me, and I acknowledged her with a wave.

…

The unfortunate ape was taken away in chains and put down. Two bailiffs, the judge and a reporter were slain when Samantha let loose with the gun she pulled from the policeman’s holster. The remarkable scene will forever remain in my mind.

…


EPILOGUE

The retrial was rightly thrown out by Judge Zobel, and I feel I must quote from his summary. From memory:

“No pertinent evidence remains supporting the prosecution’s attribution of the cause of death of the late Mr. Nathan Hardwick to the fragrant Mrs. Malaprop. It remains for me simply to dismiss this case. And I further instruct the sheriff to transport Mrs. Malaprop to an appropriate facility and to release her forthwith.

“Mrs. Malaprop, you may go, a free woman, without a blot on your character. I hereby instruct the coroner to record a verdict of accidental death due to simian misadventure in the case of Mr. Nathan Hardwick.

“Mrs. Malaprop, ‘Marjorie’ if I may, I must say what a pleasure it has been to meet you, even under such unfortunate circumstances. I feel I should pre-empt the District Attorney’s inevitable statement and extend apologies on behalf of the Systems of Justice for this misguided trial.

“And might I engage upon you to approach the court one last time to autograph a copy of my favourite novel?”

You know, I almost forgot to mention Patsy Wheeler. I am saddened to say that she too was struck when the rampaging ape ran amok with the firearm. Although she will survive, she is presently severely mentally diminished. The poor dear is recuperating now, in a hospital right here in Denver.