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Writing Contest #4 - Murder the Wrote - Entries!
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ButcheryIt was Lizzy who had found the body. Lizzy the cook, so different from the plump stereotype, was a thin girl and even a week afterwards, her eyes remained moist and her pinched nose red. She sat on an upright chair in the best parlour alongside Mrs Amesbury, her employer, a well-to-do widow and Miss Jones, Mrs Amesbury’s companion. Miss Jones was a bookish, stylish and elegant lady of middle years. Inspector Duffy had called the group together because he had some information for them. They were waiting for Bradley, the Hall’s handyman and gardener, to join them. He was the only other person on the site when Mr Evans, the village butcher, had been found on the pantry floor, stabbed through the heart with his own boning knife.
“Who’d a dunnit though?” wailed Lizzy. Mr Evans was a popular chap in the village, kindly and patient with the elderly who might only want a few ounces of mince or a couple of chipolatas.
“Bradley, you and Mr Evans didn’t get on, did you?” asked the Inspector as Bradley entered the room.
“Never liked the bloke,” agreed Bradley. “Thought a lot of himself,” he continued. “He looked down on a gardener and handyman like butcherin’ were one of the professions.”
“But everyone else had both respect and affection for Mr Evans,” said Mrs Amesbury. “I still can’t believe it happened, especially here in my husband’s ancestral home!”
“Lizzy could have done it!” stated Miss Jones in a cut-and-dried manner, patting her elegantly French-pleated hair. “She allegedly ‘found’ him after all.” This accusation set Lizzy off in fresh gushes.
“There were no prints on the knife, not even his own,” said the Inspector. “Planned or not, someone took great care to cover up afterwards. It was thoroughly wiped.”
“They musta got the knife from his van and there’s no shortage o’ cloths in a kitchen,” nodded Bradley sagely.
“Ah, but we have DNA evidence which puts someone at the scene,” said Inspector Duffy. “Tucked under Mr Evans’ apron string was a hair-pin. Trapped in that pin was a hair, complete with its root.” He looked at Miss Jones meaningfully as she patted her rolled hair and blushed deeply.
“But … but I wasn’t missing any pins afterwards …” Her composure cracked and shattered as she became as tearful as Lizzy, admitting to the crime with a stifled sob.
“Eh up!” said Bradley. “How come you had her DNA on file to compare it with?”
“I didn’t,” said the Inspector. “I was following a hunch. Now I have a confession.” He raised his eyes quizzically at the distraught Miss Jones.
“He was a butcher!” she sobbed. “I’m a lifelong vegetarian. Meat is murder. Murder is meet!”
“Meet?” queried Inspector Duffy.
“Look it up!” she snapped as he led her away.
Midwinter MurdersInspector Quick paced the floor of his office at Midwinter Police HQ.
“It’s been a complicated business, Peter,” he said, turning towards his sergeant, “but as the great man once said ‘when every possibility has been thingymybobbed whatever’s left must be the whatsit’, or somesuch.” He poked the end of his pipe at nothing in particular, in order to emphasise the point.
“As every man, women and child in the village”, he continued “is either murdered or already in the clink for something or other; the culprit, Peter, must be either you or me!”
“Ah”, said Sergeant Plodder in a grave yet undeniably charming tone of voice, with a hint of astuteness commonly lacking in a man of his rank.
“And, Peter, as we all know, on the relevant dates in question you were having your regular howsyerfather with my dear wife. So get on with it Plodder whip out the handcuffs and read me my doodahs.”
A Timely Denouement“And I put it to you sir that you were the murderer!” the inspector declared, whirling around to point at the accused man, his sideburns shaking and his moustache all a-quiver.
The others in the room gasped with shock, disbelief and, in the case of young Lucy (who wasn’t the sharpest chisel in the woodworker’s shed), confusion.
The man to whom the inspector was indubitably indicating paused briefly in the task of wiping his spectacles with a handkerchief of spotless white. He looked at the policeman and raised his eyebrows in mild query.
“Me, Inspector?” he asked, folding up said handkerchief fastidiously before replacing it into the inner breast pocket of his jacket. “I must admit that I do not follow your logic in this. Did you not say that the house was locked at every door and from the inside?”
“I did say so Sir,” the inspector admitted, taken aback by the supposed perpetrator’s lack of concern, “for that was the case.”
“And did you not further announce to all here that the windows were shuttered from the inside and showed no sign of being interfered with?” the accused man continued his questioning politely, pausing only to take a sip from the glass of brandy he had poured earlier from the decanter on the occasional table in the corner of the room, for it was in his house that the officer of the law had determined to reveal his case.
“That was a troubling aspect of the situation,” the inspector admitted.
“And you say that nothing in the grounds of the house, meagre though you declare them to be, was in any way disturbed and yet inside every single piece of furniture was turned upside down, papers were scattered and the man himself was dead. Is that what you would have us believe?” the suspect turned interlocutor continued unperturbed.
“That would be a good summary of the situation,” the inspector allowed.
“And a shorter one than your own,” the supposed assassin said lightly, but without a smile. “How is it then, Inspector, that you brand me as the killer and pray tell how was it that I accomplished such a task for I am not Father Christmas to climb down a chimney, even were we in that season.”
A few of the other people in the room repressed smiles and giggles at the man’s witticism, but the inspector of police, an investigator of many years’ experience remained stoic in the face of such goading.
“That I will tell you Sir,” the officer proposed, not without a touch of officiousness because he considered that such proceedings were worthy of a small amount of dignity. “On the night in question, and long after all decent-minded folk were long abed, you went to the address in question with a machine of your own devising. I don’t claim to know how it operates as I am but a simple policeman, but with this machine you transferred the entire house forward, or backward for it matters not the direction, in time by a single day.”
“To what end?” the supposed killer enquired.
“I said in time sir, but not in space. The house reappeared in the exact same spot, but the Earth had moved one full day’s distance in its orbit of the sun and was no longer there. It is my belief that the force of the air being dragged out of the house as would be the case in any vacuum or void, caused the disarray within the house and caused our victim to suffocate. You then switched off your machine and the house returned to its correct position in time, the crime committed by the immutable laws of physics.”
“A quite delightful flight of fancy for an after dinner anecdote,” the seated man congratulated his standing opposite.
“No matter the fashion of the killing, the hand behind it was yours,” the inspector insisted.
“And even were such a thing possible you would have evidence that I was capable of carrying out this remarkable act?” the calm bespectacled man demanded.
“I would indeed, Sir, and in your own hand,” the inspector revealed with a wholly innate dramatic flair that the other man would not have credited him with.
“That would be quite impossible,” the previously composed façade of the seated man was shaken momentarily by the words.
“Not at all Sir,” the inspector denied. “It is quite possible, though you made great attempts to hide it from us. Fortunately, your publisher had a copy of your manuscript at his offices. It is, if memory serves me, entitled The Time Machine. Sergeant.”
A burly uniformed officer placed a large and strong hand on the shoulder of the accused before he could make any effort to move, “Now be a good boy and come quietly. We don’t want any trouble Mr Wells.”
Who killed the doc?The Butler paced up and down. An annoying rattle disturbed the silence every time he put his left foot to the floor. Things were not looking good for him really. Everyone thought he did it and history tended to confirm the assembled groups suspicions.
The Captain sat at the head of the table, along with the first officer and chief engineer. The canteen manager wandered over with a tray of coffee and biscuits and was promptly ordered to sit. Reluctantly she joined the group of suspects.
Detective 47824 GoogleSmith waited. Finally, the main door slid open and the last of the suspects glided in with an air or grace and joined the party. Felicity Facebookjones smiled alarmingly at the captain and took a seat.
47824 began :
“As you know, under regulation 274 of the galactic Federation Code I am empowered to accuse, judge and punish without further appeal in cases of murder on this craft. I am now ready to reveal the murderer of the Chief Medical Officer”
“Captain GoodreadsBrown, you were having an affair with the Doctors wife were you not? Yes, you were. In fact everyone knew you were, because everyone knows what everyone else is doing here don’t they. But you wanted Felicity for yourself… so you could be the murderer. It would be easy for you to arrange for the malfunction in the Doctors Twittertron unit……”
“Felicity. Beautiful, seductive, treacherous Felicity….. I’m not sure if you are in love with the captain, but you do need him to help you get your latest 3D holobook published. While the doctor was around your career was never going to take off. Did you send the fatal message to your husband that contained the viral code that transported his component parts across the known universe?”
“Then of course there is First Office Brian Wwwatson.org.uk, you were in debt to the Doctor were you not? To the tune of 2000 Galacs! You were never going to be able to pay that off before we ended our tour of duty so you may have decided it was time to eliminate the problem….”
“And of course there is the Butler. How long have you been waiting for the doctor to fix the pneumatic pump in your left leg? A long while and of course all Androids on active duty have a bypass on their primary objective circuits, so you CAN commit murder”
“No….. this would all be too easy. Mrs JamieOliverson, you must be wondering why you are sitting here. A humble canteen manager. What could this murder have anything to do with you?”
“But you are not a canteen manager are you? You are not even a member of the crew. When we took on supplies at Amazon 478, you did away with poor Mrs Jamieoliverson so you could join the ship and murder the doctor”
The Butler stopped. The servo in his leg had finally fused and closed down his primary functions.
The Chameleon living in the canteen managers body morphed back to the six eyed freak that it was and zapped the first officer taking half of the retaining wall out with the blast. The captain heroically dragged felicity to the ground as the second photon beam whizzed over head and Inspector 47824 started guilty program B7 and disintegrated the polymorpg to the corners of the universe.
A nagging doubt entered the inspectors memory circuits that all his cases seemed to end with most of the suspects blown to bits, but the thought was interrupted as he hit a bit of old Microsoft code and abruptly blue screened.
Just the 4 this time. If you have any suggestions for improvements to this contest or for increasing participants please let us know!
I would suggest not letting me set the task.
just voted:is the poll really only going til the 23rd ?
Poll added by: Simon (Highwayman)
Voting started on: July 19th
Ends at: July 23rd
Should be 24thSo the next writing contest can start on the Wednesday
I guessed the date.... will change it.
Oh! Choosing only one is gonna be HARD!
Darren wrote: "I would suggest not letting me set the task."Nonsense Darren, this was a great choice.
I had this great idea just as I got home yesterday, brilliant punchline and all. But it was too late to get it all worked out by last night. :(
Gingerlily (or Cyberlily..) wrote: "I had this great idea just as I got home yesterday, brilliant punchline and all. But it was too late to get it all worked out by last night. :("So sort it out in time for Gallimaufrey 2: The Salamander ... no, that's not right.
The Solomon Grundy?
Come on folks. get your votes in. It only takes a few minutes....
Not only are people not writing they aren't voting. We need an apathy thread. If only I could be bothered....
I haff woted
I must admit I didn't write but I did vote, which was hard because all the entries were good.
Enjoyed all 4 stories, close call but finally voted.Thanks everyone who contributed.
There is still time to vote
I can't decide!!!I like them all!
We are not doing all that well as a fledgeling democracy I'm afraid.A Timely Denouement.......5 votes 33.3%
Midwinter Murders .......... 5 votes 33.3%
Who Killed the Doc........... 4 votes 26.7%
Butchery........................... 1 vote 6.7%
I vote Midwinter Murders for picking the next contest.
Jud (Disney Diva) wrote: "I vote Midwinter Murders for picking the next contest."Who were the authors please?
I never did find out who wrote the one I voted for last time.
(and sorry forgot to vote this time but I would have chosen Midwinter Murders)
Well, having gone from winner of the first contest to a resounding last in this one, I'm aiming for a minus number of votes in the forthcoming contest (if there is one!)Evidently my decision not to become an author is a good one and is now backed by thorough research!
All winners IMO! It was really difficult to choose just one.Congratulations all.
Ignite wrote: "I voted for the Time Machine!"So did I.
I voted for Who Killed the Doc. It was the last sentence that won me:the thought was interrupted as he hit a bit of old Microsoft code and abruptly blue screened.
:-D
Ignite wrote: "I voted for the Time Machine!"You might be shocked to know that this was mine.
Then again, you might not.
I might not. Actually I thought that was Simon's and yours was his.
Darrens was too clever to be mine.
I don't know. I thought yours was clever. I kind of thought the science-fictiony thing said Darren. 11th commandment - Thou shalt not assume!
Please read and vote at your own leisure, so long as you have voted by midnight on Tuesday!