A body is lying peacefully on a long, narrow wooden table, which has four large wheels at the base of its legs. Except for the right foot, which is bare and protrudes slightly over the edge of the table, the person is completely covered by an overly starched, white-linen sheet. Attached to his big toe by a thin strand of string is a small rectangular piece of white paper with rounded corners stating: Sir Rodney Broderick Charlesworth. He is lying dead in the local morgue as an inspector from Scotland Yard and the coroner discuss his perilous demise; a murderous thief appears to be the villainous culprit.
Three hours earlier, Sir Rodney Broderick Charlesworth was a virile living man and one of the richest men in London. That is, until he stepped out the door, under the well-lit protective awning of a rather lavish establishment called the Remington Hotel. After adjusting his tall, black top hat, cocking it at the correct angle, he then carefully and meticulously turned up his coat collar to protect him from the heavy mist that lay like a lead blanket across the city. It was late at night and it would be close to midnight before he arrived home – but not tonight – he had a date with a murderer and a coroner.
As Sir Charlesworth made his way towards a horse drawn Hansom cab standing under a gas-lit street lamp about a block away; crossing over a cobblestone narrow roadway leading down a very dark alley, a figure clothed in a long black cape emerged out of the gloom and grabbed him by the neck. Before he could yell for help, he saw a glint of metal just before it ripped across his throat. As he lay on the cold wet stones, his red blood gushing out each time his heart beat, his assailant bent over him. When the black silken scarf, which had been partially masking the killer’s identity was lowered, Sir Rodney Broderick Charlesworth, his life’s blood gurgling and pooling about his body, red rivulets flowing between the cobblestones, looked into his killer’s eyes and managed to gasp, “You! But why…?”
The killer, unseen by the cab driver, and now too, Sir Rodney Broderick Charlesworth, bent even closer over the dead man until it appeared their heads were touching. Like a last farewell, the murderer, lingered in the misty air, before quickly searching through the dead man’s clothes. His breast pocket revealed a large thick wallet with the initials RBC inscribed into the rich brown leather; the money removed; the wallet was tossed aside like the dregs of a warm glass of ale. A diamond ring was removed from his right index finger as well as a gold wedding band on the third finger of his left hand. After removing a gold and diamond-studded pocket watch attached to a gold chain, the killer then carefully unbuttoned the dead man’s white satin shirt and gently removed a gold necklace, which had a large gold medallion attached to it. Then, like a demonic wraith, the murderer took one last look at Mr. Rodney Broderick Charlesworth, wiped the blood off the weapon and vanished into the murky mist of the alley.
Inspector Alexander (Sandy) Addison asked the coroner if he could identify the type of weapon used to kill Sir Charlesworth, to which he replied, “The blade was quite slim, long and very sharp but not as sharp as a razor; if I had to harbour a guess, I would say it was some type of stiletto; not a heavy knife by any means.”
“Did you come up with any other clues, which may be helpful,” asked the inspector.
“I’m not sure,” said the corner, “But take a look at this.” Lifting the white sheet off the dead man’s head and carefully arranging it around his neck so the ghastly gash wasn’t visible, he pointed at Sir Rodney Broderick Charlesworth’s lips and said, "See there – that’s lipstick. He was with a woman tonight. There's also a slight smear near his penis but it’s a brighter shade of red. It appears Mr. Rodney Charlesworth had a lively night before his demise.”
The inspector bent over very closely to the dead man’s face and asked as he extracted a white hanky from his suit pocket, “May I take a sample of the two lipstick smears from the deceased?”
“Go ahead,” said the coroner, “But I suspect London is full of women wearing those identical shades of lipstick.”
“Quite right,” said the inspector, “But not all of them are murderesses; if indeed our killer is a woman. However, it’s highly unusual for a woman to slice a man’s throat; usually I’ve discovered, a well-aimed revolver or a deadly poison is more their style.
“And, when I arrived at the scene of the crime, I could see that whoever killed Sir Rodney Charlesworth was a very tidy person. I believe a common thief would have just ripped his shirt open and left his pockets hanging inside out.” Shaking his head, while he was tidying the white sheet over the stif cadaver he continued, “No – this was a tidy thief; some one who either respected their dead victim or perhaps knew him – that’s my theory.”
There were no eye witnesses to the murderer; the person who found the body was just an innocent passerby; had one too many drinks before closing time at the local pub, if you know what I mean? Tomorrow, I shall visit the mourning widow; I hear she took the news rather badly; she was really in despair regarding her husband’s murder.”
The next morning, after arriving at the widow’s residence, Inspector Sandy Addison rapped smartly on the door, which was opened by a polite younger than usual, yet stately looking butler named Hobson who asked the nature of his business. After ushering the inspector into the spacious parlor; its furnishings, intricately carved and luxuriously upholstered, the décor, extravagant and somewhat Draconian, the butler asked if he could take the inspector’s hat and coat.
The inspector declined and while waiting for the lady of the house to arrive, he carefully looked at everything in the room and casually searched through some drawers and cupboards. Unlike the other Scotland Yard inspectors, Inspector Sandy Addison had one extremely rare and valuable talent. He could casually observe a whole room and later, at his beckoning, could recall everything he saw once again – Inspector Sandy Addison had a photographic memory. To be continued...
CONTEST RULES: Participant must subscribe to my Newsletter, which can be located at the top of this Blog in order to enter the contest. It's very easy to do and you can take yourself off the mailing list whenever you choose. Participant must determine who killed Sir Rodney Broderick Charlesworth - only one answer per person to be emailed to lenwsherman@gmail.com before the last episode is posted. Should there be more than one correct answer there will be a random draw for the final winner! GOOD LUCK!
However, I'd still appreciate MORE READERS so please share this Blog with your Internet and email friends.
No comments:
Post a Comment