Mystery in a box

Rachel loved mysteries.

Had she not been a doctor she probably would have been a detective, but in the end the allure of saving lives was stronger than that of punishing premature deaths. Nevertheless, when she returned home from a long shift in A&E to find a box in her porch with the word “Mystery” inscribed on the top, her interest was piqued.

I don’t remember ordering anything, she mused. The package was slightly larger than a shoebox, neatly wrapped in brown paper, and considerably heavier than it looked.

She briefly contemplated changing out of her filthy scrubs and taking a shower, then decided that could wait. Sitting on the floor, she began tearing open the paper to reveal a sturdy-looking wooden box.

It was dark inside, which was odd given the overhead lighting. Squinting, she could just about make out tiny specs of light amongst the darkness. She leant forwards to try and see them better. Her forehead almost resting against the rim of the box, she was finally able to make out their shape. They looked almost like… streetlights?

Suddenly overwhelmed by vertigo, Rachel tried to sit up, but found she couldn’t. Something was tugging on her shoulders, pulling her down, down…

Rachel landed softly, but a landing is a landing. Groaning, she clambered to her feet and brushed off her coat. Wait, didn’t I take this off? She looked down.

The coat she was wearing wasn’t hers. It was black, for a start - not to mention heavy, which in July would have been mad. But it didn’t feel like July - there was a chill in the air. She patted her pockets. No phone, but… reaching in, she found a pair of surgical gloves. Huh.

Perplexed, Rachel looked around, spotting a large, stately-looking house. With seemingly no other options forthcoming she started towards it, shaking her head.

Her boots crunched against the gravel driveway as she made her way past a pair of gorgeous vintage cars. Shivering, she approached the door and knocked. A chorus of shouting erupted from inside, followed by footsteps. The door swung open to reveal a short, handsome, well-dressed man.

“Inspector! Thank god you’re here. Please, come in.”

Inspector? Rachel frowned, stepping into the house. Past the man, Rachel saw a mahogany walking cane resting against the wall, and beyond that two other men and a woman sitting in what looked like a 1920’s parlour, speaking in hushed tones.

“Sorry, I seem to have gotten lost. Do you have a phone…” Rachel hesitated as she saw the man’s ashen expression. “Is everything all right?”

He looked at her sombrely. “I’m afraid not, ma’am. There’s been a dreadful murder.”

The body’s countenance was surprisingly peaceful, given the brutality of his death. He lay supine in his bed, arms by his sides, seemingly nonplussed by the bullet hole in his forehead or the numerous stab wounds in his chest. A long stiletto rested at the foot of the bed, dark red stains blossoming out around it. Confoundingly, next to the man’s right hand sat a heavy six-shot revolver. A cursory examination of the cylinder revealed five bullets. Talk about a crime of passion.

“There’s not as much blood as I thought there’d be.”

Rachel turned to see the man from before hovering in the doorway.

“No, there isn’t. Mr…”

“Manfred Jones. I had the pleasure of serving Mr Cornthwaite these past twenty years.” His eyes were filled with sorrow, even as he bowed.

“Well, you’re right about the blood - certainly doesn’t seem normal for these kinds of wounds.” Curious, that. What if… Rachel froze. Hang on. What am I doing? She looked around, at the body, at her anachronistic surroundings; at the butler in the doorway.

“Are you all right, Inspector?”

Rachel took a deep breath. Ah, what the hell.

“Would you mind answering a few questions, Manfred?”

“So, Manfred, did you consider Mr. Cornthwaite a good master?”

“Absolutely, ma’am. I couldn’t have asked to serve a better man.”

“And how had you been occupying your evening, up until Mrs. Cornthwaite discovered her husband’s death?”

Manfred scratched his chin.

“Cleaning the study, ma’am.”

“Can anyone vouch for that?”

His eyes went wide, then he scratched his chin again. “Mr. Price asked me to help him with his car. Nothing more than that, I’m afraid.”

“Did Mr. Price remain with you while you worked on the car?”

“Mostly, ma’am. He stepped inside for a moment to fetch a cloth.”

“And how long would you say he was gone?”

“No more than a minute or two, ma’am.”

Rachel sighed. “Very well. Thank you, Manfred. Send Mr. Price up next, would you please?”

Manfred bowed and exited, visibly shaking.

Well, he had the means, Rachel studied the weapons on the bed, and the opportunity. But he does seem genuinely upset. She crossed the room to an armchair in the corner and took a seat.

Let’s see what our next chat turns up.

“Jonathan Price, owner of the Stamford estate across the green. And before you ask me what I was doing here at this hour, I was supposed to meet Edward tomorrow morning for a round of golf but heard he was unwell, so I came to see if he was feeling up to it. Penelop-ahem, Mrs. Cornthwaite asked me to stay for a drink, then my bloody car wouldn’t start.”

“And would you say you were closer with Mr. or Mrs. Cornthwaite?” Rachel asked. Jonathan looked her up and down and snorted.

“Oh come off it, Inspector. I’ve spent the whole evening with either Mrs. Cornthwaite or Manfred. If you’re looking for someone to pin this on, why don’t you talk to Edward’s brat. From what I hear, he had just over ten thousand excellent reasons to want his father out of the picture.” With that, Jonathan stood to leave.

“Send the brat up next, would you please?” Rachel asked. Jonathan grunted.

“My father was a creature of habit. Every morning he walked the back fields before breakfast, worked through the day, and retired early so he could rise and do it all again the following day.” Rufus Cornthwaite stared at Rachel through heavy-lidded eyes, his lazy drawl thick with boredom. “He was an insufferable bore, but I didn’t hate him. And I certainly didn’t kill him.”

“Mr. Price suggested you might have had reason to.” Rachel replied. Rufus laughed.

“Jonathan doesn’t do much thinking with anything above the waist, I’m afraid. Yes, my father has left me almost all of his money, but if anything that gave my mother far more reason to want him dead. Talk about adding insult to injury.”

Rachel raised an eyebrow.

“Your son tells me you’d been having… marital issues?” Rachel asked.

Penelope Cornthwaite glared at her.

“I shouldn’t think that’s any of your business.”

“And your relationship with Jonathan Price?”

Penelope’s glare intensified. “I don’t see what that has to do with anything either,” she huffed. “But if you must know, he started helping us while Manfred was away.”

“Away?”

“Three months’ holiday in Shropshire, would you believe? I would have sacked him for so much as suggesting it, but Edward always had a soft spot for the man. He’s only been back a week.”

Interesting. Rachel rose from her chair.

“Do you know where Manfred is now, Penelope?”

Edward’s study was a masterpiece of finely-balanced chaos, with precariously stacked ledgers on every surface. On a wooden rack hung a wide-brimmed hat and a suspiciously empty leather holster. In the centre of the room was a broad mahogany desk which Manfred stood behind, hands folded behind his back.

“Inspector! Can I, er, help you?”

“What did you take from that desk, Manfred?”

Slowly, reluctantly, Manfred relinquished his contraband.

Letters. Rachel flicked one open and began to read. Love letters. She looked at Manfred, who winced.

“You asked him to leave his wife.” Manfred nodded, slowly. Rachel read on, “and he refused. So you left. Eventually, he gave in and you returned,” she looked up. “But he didn’t keep his promise, did he?”

A tear rolled down Manfred’s cheek. “His routines made him dependable. It was one of the things I loved about him. Yet he was frightened of the unknown. He wouldn’t risk his comfort. But I couldn’t leave him again...”

“...So you murdered him.” Rufus finished from the doorway, rushing forward to strike the protesting man. Manfred sank to the ground, unconscious. “Bastard.”

“The police are on their way.” Rufus said as they gathered in the hallway. Penelope was visibly fuming, despite Jonathan’s comforting hand on her shoulder. Jonathan himself was wearing a thin smile; Rufus a lazy smirk.

Something isn’t right. Absent-mindedly, Rachel ran a thumb over the handle of the cane she’d noticed earlier, then froze as she felt a subtle depression.

Rachel’s mind raced. I need to see the body again. She started up the stairs. “Nobody move!”

There. Beneath her fingers, Rachel felt a crack in the side of Edward’s skull, far from the bullet holes.

“Are you quite finished, Inspector?” Rufus’ voice echoed up.

“No.” Rachel called, her boots thumping against carpeted stairs. She eyed her suspects. Bored, satisfied, enraged... and morose.

“Edward was a creature of habit.” She began. “So it seemed strange that he’d leave his walking cane by the front door, if everyday he walked in the back fields before breakfast. Unless he didn’t leave it there.”

She turned slowly, her gaze finally falling on Jonathan. “You did. Right after you bludgeoned him with it after going upstairs under the guise of checking on his health.”

Jonathan blustered. “I did no such thing! Ask Penelope; she saw me go up empty-handed-”

“Penelope conspired with you.” Rachel interrupted. Penelope gasped, and Rachel stared her down. “He scorned you, both romantically and financially, and you were furious. You planned for Jonathan to knock him unconscious, then kill him with his own gun and make it look like suicide.”

“But you forgot to collect the gun first, so you tucked him into bed and came down to get it, only to find Manfred cleaning the study where it was stored. You fabricated an issue with your car to distract him, but when you returned the weapon was gone. You panicked, knowing that Edward could awaken at any moment, and told Mrs. Cornthwaite - who took matters into her own hands and stabbed him to death. In her rage, she didn’t realise he’d already been dead for almost half an hour.”

“What are you talking about?” demanded Rufus.

“Because you ruined their plans by murdering your father before they could. You took the revolver as soon as Manfred was outside, and the noise of the engine masked the gunshot. That’s why there wasn’t much blood; livor mortis had already begun when Penelope started venting her frustrations. You might not have wanted him dead, but you certainly wanted the money.”

Rachel looked around the hallway.

“Every one of you is guilty… except for Manfred.”

The four stared at her, expressionless, for a long moment. Then, one by one, they started smiling. A deep, silky voice rolled down the stairs.

“Bravo! Bravo.” Rachel watched dumbfounded as the man she’d autopsied not ten minutes earlier strolled down the stairs, applauding. “Well done indeed, Inspector.” Edward smiled.

Rachel shook the fuzz from her brain and sat up, her familiar 21st-century bedroom greeting her like an old friend. What the bloody hell was that? She pondered as she rolled groggily out of bed, almost tripping over something as she stumbled towards the bathroom. Looking down, she saw a box, slightly larger than a shoebox, with the word “Mystery" engraved on the top.

Rubbing her eyes, she knelt down and, tentatively, lifted the lid. Inside, she made out tiny seats and tables, arranged in narrow columns on either side of an aisle. Light flickered in from tiny windows, as if filtering past trees which were rushing by.

Smiling, Rachel leaned in.