Art of Murder

Chapter 1



I always knew that I was meant to be a detective. It was my calling if you will. Throughout my life, I had just never been given the opportunity. There were the small things, the day to day inconveniences of a missing stapler and the like, little nothings that someone else always found. I knew that I was meant for something bigger. I would struggle those small things through to the end and, when they were eventually found, realise that I was being held in reserve and waiting patiently.

January 31, I was taken off the mantelpiece and set to work.



Retirement was suiting me well. My dearest wife, Alice, had died three years back of cancer that had robbed us of children. Her highfalutin job as a corporate lawyer (which I always felt had driven her more quickly into the grave) had left me financially abundant in her absence. I had worked, chained to my desk, almost right up until that fateful day ending January, the mundane inanities of paperwork drawing me through the dark days of my grief. Finally, my mother in law had thrust me into retirement, suggesting her daughter would want for nothing but my happiness and sending me on a cruise.

The bright lights and gaiety had not been for me, but two months away from work had proven the point. Alice had always been a connoisseur of the arts and a woman with a huge heart, and so, eventually I settled on the idea of getting away from all I knew using my wealth to provide for the advancement of art by working as a benefactor to create a world class art program through our local university.

The program had been established to great success and recognition and was flowing effortlessly to its next stage of implementation. The university had been approached by a well regarded museum who hoped to have an exhibition of work by one of the artists from the program. After some serious negotiations between the curator of the museum and Professor Blakshaw, it had been agreed that I would provide for a retreat for the students to a remote getaway so that the curator would be provided with ample opportunity to view and assess the merits of the best artists that the course had to offer and the exhibition could be offered accordingly. January 30 was to be day one of this getaway.



I was not the first to arrive. I don’t think that I would have gotten there at all had it not been for some very helpful information provided to me by the conductors at three separate train stations. Apparently, I had been meant to remain on the train until the last station.

I was eventually met at the station by a Mrs Genning, the proprietor of the establishment. She was a small woman, all heavy snow shelter and oversized boots. Grey hair drawn tightly into a bun, she looked through me with her big green eyes that were buried in a face pinked by exposure as I exited the train.

After we had met and she had hefted my luggage adroitly into the stately automobile Mrs Genning climbed behind the wheel and began to slowly chauffeur me along the winding mountain climb to the hotel. The roadsides were banked high with snow that, in places, had fallen from its confinement and overstepped the mark to mar the flat surface of the road. Easily Mrs Genning manoeuvred her way through the course of obstacles, with the promise that “We’ll be getting some reel snow a’fore long”. I chuckled at this suggestion as she joined me with a menacing cackle.

From riding alongside a sheer cliff face, we took a sharp left into the mountain before leaving the main road to travel further out to the right. We broke through a little crevasse in the rock to allow me to catch my first glimpse of the hotel.

It was really quite a magnificent dwelling, somewhat akin to my impressions of the gingerbread house of fairytales – or maybe possibly even a chocolate fudge house.  There were two impressive stories, which backed on to a sheer climb and almost fronted an equal drop. All available lips and gables seemed frosted with a thick layer of icing sugar that crested the wave of the chocolate brown of the residence to make it seem almost delectable.

Mrs Genning drew the car around the circular drive to allow me to exit beneath the roof extension and miss the extremes of the drifting flakes continuing to sugar the building. I followed her up the stairs and, taking a left, was shown to the last room at the end of the corridor. The small woman struggled with the door before flinging it open and depositing my luggage before the oaken chest beside the bed. With instructions on where to find the ‘Smoking Room’, she left me.

The room was relatively large, with an adequately sized queen bed, a chest, wardrobe and dressing table which was somewhat too feminine for my liking. The room branched off into another that proved to be an ample ensuite. Glass doors opened off onto a private balcony upon which I discovered biting cold to combat the warmth of the house’s interior.

After once more securing the door, I patted my face with warm water and performed a quick change before descending the stairs in my hunt for the elusive smoking room. Luckily Mrs Genning’s directions were wholly comprehensive and so, after only a few minor missteps, I easily found the door I was hunting for.

The room was expensively gracious, with leather and mahogany dotting the floor while velvet and oil decorated the walls. There was an old world charm which existed in the very naming of it as a ‘Smoking Room’ and persisted through the selection of furniture.

“Peter! At last, how nice to see you again,” Professor Blakshaw had seemed to bolt from his chair and race toward me with blinding ferocity, his arm outstretched in a predatory motion as it sought my own.  “I didn’t think that they ran trains this late out this far. I thought we would have seen you much earlier!”

“I-I um, had a few problems with the train service, but I think that there is still one more to come,” I recalled that this had been my contingency plan the last time I had mistakenly exited the train I had been a passenger of. “How are you, Professor Blakshaw? Well, I hope.”

“Jake! Jake. Call me Jake, all of my friends do – and you’re the man who pays me, which makes you a friend of mine.” Throughout this whole interaction he had been drawing me over to a tea table in the corner of the room, at this point he broke his grasp of my hand. “Can I get you a drink?” he opened the cabinet to display an array of bottles.

“Scotch, please” I moved away across the expanse of the room, examining the pieces of period design as he poured.

“It’s all getting very exciting, isn’t it Pete?”

The glass in his hand was thrust to hover before me, “What is?” I took it and absentmindedly placed it on the table beside me.

“Everything! This whole set-up. We’ve been able to build up a program of international recognition and we’ve got a reputable museum looking at finally giving one of our students a shot at an exhibition – even before they’ve completed the course one of them has hit the big time! We’ve done it.”

“It’s very exciting,” I looked around for my glass.

“And it wouldn’t have been possible without you” he held up his glass in salute.

“Oh – that’s um... very nice thank you. I’m – um – sure something would have come along,” I eventually found my glass, which, extraordinarily, had been perched on the corner of a table and held it up in anticipation of that annoying little clinking sound. As the glass tolled, the door burst open with the ferocity of determination.

“Gentlemen,” click, click, click her heels racketed across the floor as she entered the room’s domain. “My name is Ivory Thorn and I’m looking for a Mr Peter Wright.” She stood before us then, I had a moment to realise the impression of enchantment which emanated from the statuesque woman. She had a mat of closely cropped curls, sleek and black, nestled atop finely proportioned features covered with skin of almost exactly the same colour. Her temple exploded in contrast, a birthmark of silvery white blazed in a chaotic star, one tendril dripping down to disappear beneath her jaw, another gliding across the disappear at the foundation of her finely arched eyebrow and three others feeling their way, tentatively through to the curls that crested her. I am still unsure as to whether it was intoxication or repulsion which made me continue to stare.

“I’m Professor Jacob Blakshaw,” the words from beside me were joined with yet another, more tentative, outstretched hand. A panic seemed to streak through his body, bolting his hand before it could fully reach across the room, his eyes had dropped and widened in horror. Ivory Thorn had made no move in response. With a jerky, stilted motion, his hand sheepishly crept its way back to his side.

“Ah,” it was one of those ‘Ah’s’. It seemed to say, watch out for me, I know all of your secrets and I’m watching you. “That must mean that you” I realise that she turned to me at this point, “are Mr Peter Wright, am I correct?”

“Yes,” I think I eventually stammered. The pair of fine, lace rose patterned gloves that cradled the visible length of her arms made no move in response. I looked at them warily for a moment, fearing the inevitable which never arose. Something about the complete motionless of her arms made me linger in wonder, they appeared ethereal and inhuman the way they almost virulently failed to conform to the extended motions of her sinuous body.

“As I said, my name is Ivory Thorn. I am the newly appointed curator of the ‘Johannas Dawes Museum’-“

“What happened to Jerry?” Professor Blakshaw interrupted her; this did not appear to be the correct thing to do.

Ivory Thorn opened her mouth, stretching her jaw from side to side the muscles tensing throughout her mouth. Her gaze sifted to stare out in the distance. Suddenly her mouth close, her jaws clenched and her face seemed to tense slightly in contortion. I thought that the poor woman was going to explode as her tongue shot out between her teeth and ran their length before a deep and belaboured breath burst into the atmosphere. Her head jerked suddenly and Professor Blakshow was immediately engulfed in a searing gaze.

After a moment of its passion, Ivory Thorn blinked away the ferocity of her eyes and it was replaced by a pleasant, almost girlish coyness. A smile graced her face, she smiled beautifully. “Dr Gerard Grouse has been replaced. The Museum became aware that he was...shall we say, acting more to his own gain than that of the museum? Unfortunately, his replacement came too late to save certain people,” she turned back to me with this statement, compassion in her eyes, “a lot of unnecessary time, money and effort. I apologise,” she bowed her head slightly as if before a guillotine. Her arms rocked lightly with this movement, but failed to bend or brace in response.

“For what?” I could feel my eyes as big as saucers as comprehension of some important fact had seemingly passed me by as I had been staring without gaining meaning.

“Mr Wright,” she looked from my face for a second almost confusedly, “it was never the intention of the museum to extort money from either you or this program in exchange for the possibility of an exhibition. The artist of an exhibition could easily have been decided by a walkthrough at the university campus. Why I’m really here is to ascertain whether it is possible that you could get your money back for this extraordinary overindulgence,” she looked meaningfully to the decadence of the room, “and we could attempt to clear up this matter as quickly and quietly as possible.”

“What?”

“Mr Wight,” with a pained grimace, she let out an exasperated little breath.

“The hotel and all provisions were paid for in advance. There is no way that I can get the money back, if that is what you are asking. But I feel that offering these talented people this opportunity is well worth the expense.”

“Young woman, who exactly do you think you are?” she was in her mid-thirties and I don’t know that I would have exactly spoken to her in that condescending tone, although to Professor Blackshaw she was considerably younger and so perhaps he had felt that he knew best. His bulbous nose seemed peaked with a quiver and the gauntness had grown to full flourish in his face during the conversation with Ms Thorn. “How dare you!” had the veneer covering a desperate need for self-preservation not been so transparent, his little outburst would almost have been humorous. As it was, it was not.

Professor Jacob Blakshaw contained himself once more, with a sneer in her direction and a nod in mine, he left. There was silence in his absence.

“Does this mean that the exhibition is off?”



“Hello, my name is Ivory Thorn. I’m the newly appointed curator of the ‘Johannas Dawes Museum’. I don’t know how many of you know this, but,” her gaze shot across the large oaken table to encompass Professor Blakshaw, “considering the implications, I doubt that it is very many of you.” We had all been drawn into the large dining room. Everyone involved was seated on the plush cushioning of the chairs and gazing up at the compelling woman in query, which quickly muted to ardent expectation as she announced her position.

“What do you mean, ‘considering the implications’?” John Princeton Rochcliffe Junior was a dashing young man with a deep cloying baritone, he seemed almost as one of those figures seen on the front of trashy romance novels as he lazed into his complete assurance in the chair furthest from the door. He was the kind of man women would swoon over and his interruption did not quite seem to perturb Ms Thorn as did Professor Blakshaw’s.

Ivory Thorn rose from her position, her arms had not once moved in the entire time that the group had been assembled and I was beginning to become suspicious as she quickly righted herself from a moment’s consideration of leaning across the back of her chair. “Certain information has come to light which, unfortunately, could have implications which stretch far beyond today, for both my museum and your university.”

“What information?” I had only met Tracey Left on one occasion, during a trip I had taken in relation to some charity we had spoken across coffee. She was a small, mouse like creature, with a reddish fop of curls and huge glasses, who was a ball of extremes of emotion, she seemed to inhabit herself more than the world around her.

“That’s not really important. What is important is that I have had some discussions with the University and with Mr Wright – whom I’m sure you all know – and we’ve come to the conclusion that it would only cause further damage if we did not go ahead with this...experiment. So, at this point in time we have all decided to go ahead with the itinerary as planned. Does anyone see an issue with that?”

There was a general expression of dissent.

“Is this going to affect the exhibition?” Tracey Left seemed almost phenomenal at containing the emotion trying to erupt through her skin.

“The museum is continuing to offer an exhibition to the program. The problem.... An exhibition can be an entire lifetime’s work, no one could realistically expect that it would be completed in a week. What I’m saying is that we are going to continue with the itinerary as is, but that you shouldn’t feel as if this is all that there is – the weight of expectation over this week should really not be too huge,” a limpid smile accompanied this assurance. “Enjoy yourselves more than desperately trying to impress anybody.”

“Now,” she spoke again, drawing all attention once more to herself, “I know I haven’t met very many of you, but I’ll make the effort to introduce myself personally to each of you tomorrow. For right now, though, the gracious Mrs Genning is desperately trying to capture my attention so that she can lay out dinner – I would imagine...”Ivory Thorn had raised her face to the keeper of the house and graced her solely with that beautiful smile. In an odd gesture, Mrs Genning nodded demurely in a manner that I doubt she had ever before known she possessed. “I’m going to go upstairs and change and then, perhaps, Mrs Genning, you would be so kind as to give me a tour of the grounds?”

“Yes ma’am,” again I was almost positive that this particular phraseology had never before passed that thin lips and ruddy complexion of our good Mrs Genning, but I also knew that she had instinctively got it right. Ivory Thorn was a ‘Ma’am’. With one limpid bat of and eyelid, Ivory Thorn had transformed from a divisive outsider to the welcoming and commanding hostess.

With the disappearance of our hostess all were invariably released from her command. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught the flitter of movement in my direction and my stomach welled with the strangest feeling of being stalked.

“Pete! Pete!” my shoulder was clutched in a ferocious claw as Professor Blakshaw hissed through my ear. “I need to-“

“Mr Wright,” her voice, though neither loud nor impertinent, shocked us all back from the freedom we had so ubiquitously felt when she had initially left us, “perhaps you would care to join me on the tour. I would appreciate the company,”

Her smile was glorious as I stammered my assent. Then, Ivory Thorn was gone once more.

“Pete!” the hiss in my ear was urgent and demanding once more. “I need to speak with you.”

“About what?”

His head jerked mightily toward the door, “Alone!” Professor Blakshaw rose and began a sibilant movement toward the door.

“I’m sorry,” he froze, “I really can’t.” There was a seeming desperation in his eyes as he wheeled around toward me, “I have to wait for Ms Thorn to arrive, I have agreed to take a tour with her,” I have always found it occasionally necessary to repeat things in simple words for some people. My shoulders shrugged in defeat, the smile that broadened my face at the thought of how that young woman had saved me from an unwelcome prospect was less intentional.

Professor Blakshaw stormed from the room.

A bell of laughter chuckled from the woman beside me and broke the uncomfortable silence of Professor Blakshaw’s passing.  Tranquility Smith was it. She wasn’t the most attractive woman, with nothing to set her mediocrity apart from the mundane, but nobody else in the room could have gotten away so eloquently with that mirthful display. She clapped me lightly on the shoulder as her large curls draped over the fall of her face and laughter continued to grow within her.

“Shut up Tranquility!” on the other hand, Pricilla Trantor was the most attractive woman in the room and possibly the most attractive that I had ever seen. Unfortunately, her perfect paleness, offset brilliantly by deep purple eyes, was contained in a package of nothing else discerning. I had always been startled by how attractive she was, mainly because I had to be looking directly at her to notice.

“Oh, don’t get your knickers in a twist, Prissy – or aren’t you wearing any?” you could taste the venom.

Pricilla’s mouth screwed up into a childish little pout and her purple eyes darkened even further. With some dignity she stood, tossed her hair and sauntered over to where the buffet style dinner was being outlaid. Tranquillity snapped alight a cigarette and chuckled almost silently and to herself once more.

There was, unfortunately, one member of the little troupe whom I had yet to meet. I felt this rather remiss of me and decided to remedy the situation while there was nothing I could further do to waylay the catfight arising before me. Mary Greysco remained seated beside where Pricilla Trantor had just vacated, I moved into the empty seat.

“My name is Peter Wright, it’s so nice to finally meet you.”

“Mary Greysco,” she smiled at me encouragingly. Ms Greysco’s hands, gripping firmly her oversized bag which weighed down her lap, did not move to make my acquaintance of which I ultimately approved.

She was an older woman, far older than any of the other children of the program and could easily have been any one of their mother’s. She was delicately put together, in a prim-Sunday-dress-Christian-worship sort of manner and held about her a poise and rectitude no longer apparent to the younger generation.

“I’m told your work is extraordinary. Welcome.”

“Yes, I’ve always thought so...,” she caught herself as this passed her lips, a look of bewilderment and self-abashment crossing her well-developed features. It must be so hard for some artists to accept praise....

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that. What I meant to say was, thank you. Truly thank you, it’s never easy, you know, to know when anyone else will appreciate your work and so I just have to create work that I love – that’s what I think is really important.”

“Yes, I understand that it must be so hard sometimes.”

“I’ve always told my children that if you just put in the hard work and do what you love, you can’t go wrong.”

I saw just a flittering glimpse of the woman hidden beneath the uncomfortable and out-of-place exterior, “You have children?”

Mrs Greysco came to life as she talked of her family. Two sons and a daughter, each who displayed talents and skills beyond the vocabulary of any normal person – but, not their mother.

“And where are they now?”

“Michael has just started his I.T. (I think its called) thing – a business he is running from home. His wife, Julia, is pregnant and we are expecting my first grandchild in the Spring. Marcus has completed his initial training for the police force, he has just started seeing a very nice young man – his father didn’t approve at all (may he rest in peace) and I have to admit that I personally don’t really understand, but Marcus is happy and what more could a mother ask for?” there was a moment of defiant hesitation as she waited for my challenge of her sentiment, one that would never come. “Louisa...passed away – a car accident. The driver...she was a very gracious and gentle creature – I always felt sorry for her.... It wasn’t her fault at all, malfunctioning brakes that hadn’t been serviced, or some such – such a tragedy.”

I’ve always felt that it is the saddest occurrence in the world for a parent to lose their child, especially for a good woman like Mrs Greysco. I could see in the way her existence lit up and could feel in the volumes of her voice when her children were mentioned that Mrs Greysco was born to be a mother. The passing of a child, for this woman, would be the greatest torment imaginable.

“And you, Mr Wright, do you have children?”

“No, Ms Greysco, we were never that lucky. If you’ll excuse me,” I began, upon noticing Ms Thorn’s approach to the door, “I must take my leave. I really have enjoyed the experience and hopefully we will talk again soon,” I waited for her indication of acquiescence before moving toward my companion.



The outlay of the house just worked to convolute the situation as I was attempting to later unearth the truth and so I thought I would just provide a brief description of the premises here.

Due to the fact that the house was built backing onto a mountain, all of the rooms were placed toward the front so as to have sweeping views available, when the weather allowed. Each floor had a corridor that ran the length of the house at the back, on the ground floor this was not really necessary, however, as each room (and the foyer) was joined and able to be accessed through those beside it by intervening doors.

Looking at the building from the front, the room on the ground floor and farthest to the left was the library, attached from this room but not to the rest of the house was an enclosed walkway that led to a little cottage inhabited by the good Mrs Genning. To the right of the library was a room generally reserved as the sitting room, but which had been transformed for the purpose of our visit to the pseudo-dining room. Again to the right was the smoking room where I had first made the acquaintance of Ivory Thorn. The foyer was next with its grand staircase and then a small room, known as the billiards room. The billiards room, it was decided by Ms Thorn and me, would be perfect if used as the room to display the art created as part of this journey. What would generally have been the dining room was next, it was really ostentatiously large. The dining suite and all other accoutrements had been stripped from this room prior to our arrival, at the request of Professor Blakshaw, and the room had been partitioned off with curtaining and demountable walls, to offer students space where they could each individually create undisturbed if that was what they desired. The large, galley style kitchen was the last room of the ground floor.

The upstairs is a little easier to describe. There are ten rooms, each of a similar size. Each room had a balcony and a private ensuite. Each room only accessed the rest of the house through its entrance to the corridor that ran the length.

Again, if looking at the house from the front, Ivory Thorn had the room most to the right with next Mary Greysco and Tranquility Smith beside her. The next room was left vacant. John Rochcliffe had the last room before the grand stair made its presence known. There was another vacant room and then the next four were taken by Pricilla Trantor, Professor Blakshaw, Tracey Left and I respectively.

The design of the house was relatively simple. Even though I continued to get lost, I was soon going to wish it was far more elaborate as that would have made what was coming harder to conceal.



Only one other thing, which I could only later identify as important, happened that night. We had just completed our tour at the kitchen and I was preparing to go upstairs to rest when Mr John Rochcliffe junior stepped from the one-time-dining-room-turned-studio to join us in the corridor. His eyes lit up when he saw us.

Deftly he sidestepped me and extended a gracious hand to Ms Thorn, “Finally, we meet. My name is John Rochcliffe.”

“Mr Rochcliffe, how are you?” there was a moment that stretched on uncomfortably, before she finally went on, “I wish I could shake your hand, but I’m not going to.” Ms Thorn had changed her gloves, almost the entirety of her arms were covered in a delicate, peach velvet, which had not moved to intercept his invitation. Finally, I had found a woman who understood my aversion to the grotesque groping of strangers.

John Rochcliffe stood stock, his face betraying that he did not know fully how to recover his composure from rejection of even this, most minor of kind. Then, realisation and personal horror began o dawn upon him, Ivory Thorn smiled broadly as his face accommodated this new emotional state (for which, at this point, I could still find no compelling reason)

“Does the studio meet your expectations?” Ms Thorn seemed to eventually decide to step in and find his dignity for him.

“Y-yes. V-very adequately provided for.”

“Have you finished for the night?”

“No, I um.... No. I lay out my paints after every meal. I like to let everything settle in my mind for an hour and then set to it, it’s kind of a ritual I have.” John Rochcliffe was John Rochcliffe once more. The dazzling smile he gave Ms Thorn betrayed this fact and was repaid a gracious one in return.

“Enjoy your art, Mr Rochcliffe,” we moved off.

“Call me John!”

“Good night, John.”

And, with that, sleep had called me.