A Dinner to Die For

The inspector stepped out onto the glistening cobbles as the flashing lights on the authorities’ cars around him lit up the street in pulsing colours of blue and red. Glancing at the decrepit mansion he took in a deep breath and sighed with conte

mpt at human crime. Here, he was… again. Stepping into who knows what foul crime had been committed by the riffraff of the city. To make matters worse, the delinquents had decided to do it in some sagging and abandoned building. Life isn’t a Christie novel for crying out loud.

            The floorboards creaked under his feet he stepped through into the decrepit mansion. The stark illumination from search lights created an eerie contrasting brilliance within the usually darkened house, causing termites and cobwebs alike to shine. Broken windows and rotted walls allowed beams from the outside lights to steal into the central hall and consume the confronting scene.

Stopping short before walking into the main hall, the inspector spied an old ornate wooden table spanning the room under a dust-ridden and broken chandelier. Cups, knives and baskets of swollen food lay spilled across the table as the guests around it slumped with lifeless eyes staring beyond the table into the afterlife. It certainly was a meal to die for.

            ‘ ‘Scuse me Inspector Black but it seems we have a murder on our hands,’ piped a stout man in uniform beside the inspector who awoke from his musings about the scene with a start.

            ‘Well of course we do! What else would we have?’ he angrily retorted.

            With a grin spreading across his face, the little officer replied, ‘We ‘aven’t found the corpses yet but I ‘ave my suspicions… very unusual circumstances it being ‘ere and all.’

            ‘What do you mean haven’t found the corpses? They’re slumped at the table for crying out loud!’

            ‘Oh no sir, I do believe you’re mistaken. No corpses ‘round ‘ere. No tables either.’ With a wink he strode off in the opposite direction.

            I swear that man is as blind as a post! thought Inspector Black as he watched the little officer waddle away. Shaking his head, he strode into the darkened room that had begun to smell of rot with a cover of sickly sweet cold meat. Each guest was finely dressed as if ready for a dinner party with pearls gleaming from the women’s ears and ties hanging from the men’s necks like nooses. It was obvious that they were all wealthy and had all gathered here by choice as each one of them were impeccably dressed. But the question was why? Why gather in a place like this? Leaning down to sniff the food, the inspector began to go through the motions of considering what had happened. It was then that he noticed a corpse sitting at the head of the table with its head firmly planted in the plate of food before him. Immediately Black knew that poison had been at work and that this very man was the host of the party for corpses.

            ‘Inspector, Inspector!’ cried the officer from the upper landing of the main hall, interrupting the thoughts of the inspector. ‘We’ve found the corpses. It’s all very peculiar. They’re seated around a table like some strange party.’

            Struggling to maintain a grip on his temper, the inspector turned to the officer and shouted up to him, ‘yes, I know! I’m bloody well standing in front of them!’

            ‘So you are! What a strange coincidence. You know what? I bet they’re not even dead, they’re probably some strange red-herring to throw us off the scent of the real crime!’ And with that he strode off once more to investigate throughout the house.

            With shocking disbelief at the incredulity of his co-worker, the inspector once more began to walk around the table and study the faces of the dead. Each corpse had something peculiar about them. One man with hair oiled to perfection had two crushed plums that had been forcefully pressed into his face, one in each eye. The man next to him had a smear of greasy mustard all over his face covering the beginnings of a beard while a woman who sat opposite him had had her face vandalised with streaks of bright scarlet lipstick. As he attempted to connect the mysterious appearances of the people lying around him, the officer suddenly appeared next to him, brandishing a bright red letter.

            ‘I do believe I’ve found a clue inspector!’ Rolling his eyes, Black took the envelope and read the letter inside.

You are cordially invited to a Murder Mystery this Friday evening in the abandoned house at 6 Stumpin Street. Please arrive at 6:00pm sharp and be in your best attire that suits your character.

Your character is: Mr Boddy.

            ‘A murder mystery? What kind of sadistic joke is this killer trying to make?’ inquired Black with eyes raised in disapproval. Strangely as the Inspector glanced at his watch, he noticed it was only just six o’clock now.

            ‘Oh it’s a game, Inspector! Such a fun game, I’ve been to a few good ‘uns in my time,’ replied the rotund man.

            ‘Oh? And who is this Mr Boddy?’

            ‘Why sir, don’t you get it? It’s a game of Cluedo!’ cried the officer.

            With a jolt the Inspector looked over the corpses again in muted shock. Professor Plum, Miss Scarlet, Cornel Mustard and all the rest stared back at him with gaping eyes. ‘But who on Earth is Mr Boddy?’ the Inspector mumbled to himself.

            ‘Why they were Red Herrings all along sir,’ the officer grinned happily and rubbed his belly.

            ‘I don’t understand – what are the red herrings?’

            ‘Oh you really are daft aren’t you Inspector Black? They’re the Red Herrings,’ he said as he waved to the guests sitting at the table, ‘and you sir, are Mr Boddy, the dead body in a great game of Cluedo!’

            With a triumphant cry the officer removed a gun from the front of his trousers and shot the rusted chord holding the chandelier upright. With an almighty crash the ringed metalwork fell down on top of Inspector Black crushing him through the rotted floor next to the table. All that was left was the gaping black shape of a figure of a man in the old and mouldy floorboards just like the shape of a dead body on a Cluedo board.

A Murderous Talent

The water sounded almost as if it was whispering to itself. The way it gushed around the bloated body and encouraged crimson swirls of blood to spiral out from the figure was almost calming. Tendrils of the mixture snaked around nearby rocks and stained the overhanging grass from a pure green to a sickly red. Bruising on the temples with a leaching wound reaching from a stubbled left cheek down the neck and under the collar. It was evident that the shoes were missing as a single blue and white striped sock bobbed its way downstream at a pace a snail could beat. No murder weapon was to be seen nearby...yet. This just made things more like a game of Cluedo. Was it Professor Green in the garden with a candlestick? Or perhaps Madam Peacock in the neighbor's hedge with a revolver? It was my job to sort things out - it was always my job to sort things out.

 Detectives, policeman, dogs; they were always useless, always bumbling around and tripping over the evidence from one another and constantly jibing with the Judge over the most fickle details while skipping the most important part of an investigation. Finding the culprit and the history of the victim. That's what I did, no matter how many times I've been told to "keep my bloody nose out of it". I've always hunted, sniffed, tracked and traced the culprit down to the very last nose hair found at the scene of the crime AND I've always come out with results. Let's just say some love me and some hate me - it all depends upon your perspective.

However no matter how many past investigations I've solved or uncovered, as I look down upon the body floating in front of me, having little to no long-term memory - I know that this time things will be different. To say this case is a near impossibility is an understatement. For you see, this time - I am the victim; the body is mine.

Deserved Fate

Rosanne Lemick unfortunately passed away on the night of a full moon. Copper poisoning was to blame as the large mansion she lived in was old enough to be filled with enough legal breaches to startle the most esteemed high court official. She was an old woman who kept to herself and barely left the house. Many people just assumed she spent her whole day dusting the skeletons of the visitors she never seemed to have. So when she passed on, her Last Will and Testament stated that the morbid mansion was to be passed on to a distant family member of a sister’s daughter’s cousin, Thomas Hamlington. 

Thomas was a man of 25 who was obsessed with riches. He wanted to be big famous and rolling in the green, purple and yellows of money. He and his girlfriend, Penelope Tate, were the picture of health. Young, free, careless and striving for their lives, they received the summons with shock to learn that they had inherited a massive mansion from a distant deceased relative. So setting out some days later, they made the long winded journey to the house.

The door creaked open with a moan that sent shudders through the rotting floorboards. Shuffling through the layer of dust as thick as thirteen sheets of thawing ice the house pressed against them on all sides. A musty smell of mildew made its meandering march through the noses of both Thomas and Penelope as they stepped further into the house. The large room to their right contained cobwebs and creepy carcasses of spiders long dead while the room to their left provided more interesting objects.

Penelope was the first to set foot into the room, a room which moaned and creaked along with the rest of the old timbers of the house. As Thomas moved in beside her, the entire world froze. A chill that seeped to their bones began to bore into them. A soft silky whispering began to slide through the silvery webs between the furniture to meet the ears of both Thomas and Penelope. As a slight breeze wafted the musty smell of the house into the room, Penelope suddenly screamed and became paralysed with one finger pointing towards the wall on the opposite of side of the room. Her eyes crazed like a mad-man, she began to tremble with fear.

Dumbstruck with the reaction of Penelope, Thomas turned his terrified gaze with trepidations towards the object she was pointing at. A shiny silver frame around a softly glowing slate of glass illuminated what looked like a gilded mirror. Within the mirror was the horror. A woman of about 84 years was glaring out from behind the looking glass at the two intruders into the house. The whites of her eyes were glazed with absolute hatred as wrinkles around her mouth were pulled into a snarl that accompanied her vicious dentures.

“AAAARGH, HOW DARE YOU COME HERE? AFTER WHAT YOU DID, HOW DARE YOU,” the apparition cried, “SO THEY THOUGHT IT WAS COPPER POISONING? WELL NO BODY BELIEVED ME. THEY SAID I WAS CRAZY. THEY SAID I WAS MAD. THEN THEY LOCKED ME IN THIS HOUSE BECAUSE OF YOU! YOU! YOU!”

Thomas trembled as a violent wind began to roar through the room to whip the cobwebs in the house into a frenzy. 

“YOU THOUGHT YOU’D GET AWAY WITH IT!” she screeched at the top of her lungs as the dirty, dusty dungeon they were now in erupted into a pandemonium. The mirror on the wall shook violently as it crashed to floor sending shard of glass around the room. Two sharp shards pierced the hearts of both Penelope and Thomas before they could run for their lives. As their lifeless bodies began to descend to the floor to join the surrounding morbidity of the house, several sharp knives fell out of their pockets coated in the old woman’s blood. Forged signatures and Will paper came out alongside the knives as they spiralled together through the air. When they landed, the knives pierced both the names of Penelope Tate and Thomas Hamlington.  As they did, two drops of blood leaked from the pages.