Athica
Crispy - Death by Cradle-light!
DRAFT FOR COMMENT - STORY UNDER CONSTRUCTION
“Inspector
Pilchard sir, we have just received a telephone call from Lyle Hall of
a suspicious death.”
“A
suspicious death, aye, Constable, at Lyle Hall? That’s the estate of
Sir Crispin Blaze-Lyle, isn’t it? Out at Little Breythorpe?”
“Yes
sir, apparently Sir Crispin was holding a literary
soiree
for writer types over the weekend. It’s A famously haunted house,
is the hall. People come from miles around just to spend a night
there, sir; they never come back, though! I’m told that Lady Athica
Crispy is there giving a talk on…”
“Do
stick to the point, Perkins; just who has
died and why
it is suspicious? Yes, yes, man fetch a car, and bring the new Woolsey
14 round to the front of the station; an inspector, such as I,
cannot be seen arriving in an old dented Standard 9. Quickly now, man!”
“No,
no, you drive Perkins. Oh, Perkins, must we bring Constable Bright? She hardly makes the right impression of modern policing. He then mumbled
something about suffragettes and the King’s horse. “I, will sit
in the back, thank you; it is only proper to my rank. And, on the way, you had better fill in the details, Perkins.”
“Details, sir?” He was thinking about the young PC Clara Bright in the seat
next to him.
“Of
the case, man, do try to keep up!”
The
police constable had to crane his neck to speak to the inspector who
had spread himself luxuriantly across the back seat. The smell of new
leather and the walnut panelling made him feel right at home among
people of quality, so different from the average ‘back street’
murderer ‘one normally has to deal with.’ He lit his pipe, closed
his eyes with his head against the upholstery.
“Please
proceed, Constable.”
“Well, it’s like this, sir. It's the son and heir, just a nipper by all
accounts, under a year old. The old boy didn’t ‘av any children
on account of ‘is misses being well, lacking in that department.
‘Fand blue, he was, as a ripe blueberry ‘dis morning, he was, if
ya takes my meaning sir."
“Came
as a nasty shock I spect to the family what was about to inherit when
the old boy, Sir Crispin, pops ‘is cloggs. They say he’s about 85,
the old boy I mean, but he must ‘av got some ‘go’ still in ‘im,
to get the maid in the family way and all. Big scandal it was; family
couldn’t ‘ush it up, they couldn’t. But the old boy didn’t
blush one bit, delighted ‘e was, changed ‘is will immediately
leaving the nipper, the ‘ol blinkin lot, if you will ‘xcuse me French miss.”
The
tyres of the Woolsey crunched along a long gravel drive lined with
old lime trees. The honey coloured sandstone of the house glowed in
the morning sun. Windows sparkled as the car approached the front
entrance. A maroon Lagonda Rapier and a Railton 8 Special, along with
an assortment of Rolls-Royces and Bentleys, were parked nearby. A
groundsman tending the shrubbery doffed his cap as the car
approached. The inspector drank it all in. ‘Oh yes, this is more
like it,’ he thought.
“I
think you should remain silent whilst I interview Sir Crispin and his
guests. You gather statements from staff, below stairs, and take
young miss err, thingamy with you.” A butler came down the front
steps to greet them as the car pulled up.
“Perhaps
you will be more comfortable coming in through the trade
entrance
sir, It is around the back, through that archway there, if you please, sir.” But as he was speaking, an old man bustled past him, trotting
as best he could on thin, bandy legs. He was dressed in pyjamas, a
burgundy dressing gown, and had obviously only just risen.
“Inspector,
inspector at last, come quickly, this way.” The wheezing old man
took the officer by the arm and pulled him into the large entrance
hall. Between gasps in his breath he said, “My son - my son is dead -
this morning – when, when - nurse went to wake him - come quickly,
please officer.”
The
inspector rather enjoyed striding through the large entrance hall with
his black raincoat, bat-like flapping behind him; distinguished guests looked on. He might have said, “Step
aside, professional Police inspector coming through,” but this, he
thought, might sound a little pompous.
“Take
me to the child’s nursery”, he said, in a commanding voice, which
echoed through that voluminous space. As he began to climb the steps
of the grand staircase, he turned to address the onlookers, “No one
may leave these premises until I give the say-so!” Several voices
protested,
“Now
look here, my man…” and “Do you know who I am, sir! I am…”
But the inspector turned his back on them all and strode on up the
staircase, thoroughly enjoying the drama of it all.
PLOTTING DRAFT
The
nursery
The evidence presented. Exhibit A etc
All
are gathered in the morning room
The
staff set out the events leading up to the discovery
The
botched summation by the inspector
All
the armchair sleuths give their opinion
Athic
makes a blunder
Various
people are falsely accused: the maid, the butler, the nurse
Constable
Perkins solves the case
PLANNING DRAFT
The scene
1930’s - Large country
house – Staff of: butler, cook, two housemaids and an old head
gardener plus his son assistant.
The motive
If Sir Cuthbert had no
children until well into his mid-80s, when he fathers a son by the
maid. This disinherits nephews and nieces who were expecting to
divide up the estate between them. They helped the ‘Old Man’ to
devise a detailed will. On the arrival of an illegitimate son the
will is revised in his favour.
The method:
A bedside candle half, normal, but after burning for an hour it gives
off a toxic vapour then goes back to normal, so if the stub is
examined it is just normal candlewax. By an illegitimate son who
works in the village shop that supplied candles to the house is not
named in the new will. His mother was a maid in the household 35
years ago but was summarily dismissed when she fell pregnant. The
whole thing was hushed up whilst Lady Blaze-Lyle
was alive.
The nursery candles are
scented with lavender, rosemary, chamomile, and lemon; this masks the
scent of cyanide. (Like bitter almonds)
The clues:
A photo of the family and
staff taken 34 years ago where Sir Cuthbert has his hand on the
shoulder of one of the maids (aged about 18 at the time)
The red herrings:
Poison in the baby’s milk - Suspect the nanny – Hates babies because she could never have one. Finger prints
Suffocation by pillows -
Suspect the maid – Mistreated by Sir Cuthbert
Cot death, a natural
tragedy
Gassing from Gas lighting, the butler who sets the gas mantles.
Frightened to death by
seeing the ghost of Lyle
Hall
Intruders.
No, the maid said the windows were locked tight.
The victim: The
baby who would inherit the title and a vast fortune following the death
of Sir Cuthbert ??
The scene of the crime:
The children’s nursery, Lyle
Hall,
the family estate overlooking the sea off Purbeck Island coast.
Because of fear of the dark in the haunted building, a candle was
always placed in the nursery at night.
Quirks of Sir Cuthbert:
didn’t trust electricity, all windows had to be sealed shut at
night, at least one candle had to be lit at night.
The date:
1934: before electricity was installed. Sir Cuthbert did not trust
electricity. Gas lighting was used. The house was said to be haunted;
Sir Cuthbert, who is mortally afraid of the dark, insisted on having a
candle burning in the room of his son.
The list of suspects:
The child's nanny, known to hate children. She lost her own when young and always hated other people’s children.
The distant cousin who came to visit. He would have inherited the fortune but for the birth of this child.
The Butler, who knew Lord Crispin's hidden secrets; there is some suspicion that he was Blackmailing Sir Cuthbert,
The family solicitor who drew up the new will. He also had access to the family fortune.
Sir Cuthbert:
in his early 80s, it's made in dubious circumstances. He married the
maid nine months before the child was born.
The Police
The police inspector:
Pompous, Slow
witted, but highly self-confident
His sergeant: DC Perkins. Often drunk
PC
Clara Bright. The real brains behind the inspector
Lady
Athica Crispy: The well known crime slooth writer, but incompetent.
Staying as a guest of Sir Crispin.
Copyright: Christopher Mathews
