The Cock and The Bull

“I beg your pah-don, Mr. Larua-”

“That’s Detective Larua to you, Mrs. Grimshaw,” Detective Ian Larua replied curtly as he brushed off his lapels, “And I’ll ask that you keep your gross disbelief to yourself, much as I’m sure it will be a difficulty for you.”

Mrs. Grimshaw crossed her arms indignantly, though obeyed nevertheless.

“As I was saying,” Ian began again, “It would appear that Monsieur Lafayette was murdered in this very room. I dare say with an item still in here.”

“But who would want to murder him?” a small, elderly woman by the name of Viviane Pembleton spoke up.

“Ah, but that is part of the mystery,” grinned Ian.

He hopped up and walked over to the fireplace, proceeding to make several grand gesticulations, “Let’s recap, shall we? There we were, the six of us, enjoying a delicious entrée of perfectly cooked quail, when Monsieur Lafayette excused himself from the table.”

“Hang on a minute,” interjected a larger man with a buzzcut, “I don’t remember you being at the table either.”

“Excellent memory, Mr. Bains,” Ian smiled appreciatively, “I was in one of the numerous bathrooms at the time, experiencing the rather ignominious exit of our cocktail hors d’oeuvres.”

All members present twisted their features into some form of disgust as Ian continued, “So Lafayette leaves the room, as stated by all of you-”

“Except Kirby,” Mrs. Grimshaw narrowed her eyes at the last of the six people present, a slender academic wearing thick glasses, his hair swept back into a ponytail.

“I-I was distracted by some of the artifacts in the library on returning from my room,” he said sheepishly.

“And what, precisely, were you doing in your room halfway through the main course?” Ian arched an eyebrow.

“I…” Kirby quailed under the suspicious gazes of the group, “I was sneaking photographs of the house. It’s an absolute marvel, historically speaking.”

“So you say,” Ian tapped his chin.

“I didn’t think the host would appreciate me doing so,” Kirby blushed, toe kicking at the floor.

“Ah yes, our ever-so-gracious host,” Ian gestured magnanimously, “Who has yet to make an appearance.”

“Maybe it was the host!” cried Viviane.

“It is odd, isn’t it?” Ian began pacing a circle around the room, “Some mysterious yet generous benefactor none of us have ever met before, invites the six of us, all previously strangers to one another, to this mansion out of town for dinner. With no indication as to the why of it.”

“Maybe they’re lonely,” suggested Kirby.

“Or some kind of weirdo,” sneered Mr. Bains.

“Or perhaps…” Ian paused for dramatic effect, “Our culprit.”

“Why would some stranger bring us all here just to kill us?” asked Mrs. Grimshaw skeptically.

“That is the question,” Ian held up his index finger, “What do we all have in common? Kirby, you start. Tell us about yourself.”

“W-well, I moved to London from Canada to work as a history p-professor among some of the greatest architectural masterpieces of all time,” his voice grew steadier as he spoke, “And I teach at Imperial College London.”

“That’s quite prestigious,” nodded Ian, a note of respect in his tone, “Congratulations my good sir.”

“Th-thanks,” smiled Kirby, “I also specialize in languages. And your last name, detective, is familiar… Latin, I’m sure of it. Yet I can’t quite remember the translat-”

“And what of you, Mrs. Grimshaw?” Ian spun on his heel toward the stoic woman wearing her usual pinched expression.

“My husband owned half of London,” she turned her nose upward.

“Owned?” prompted Ian.

Mrs. Grimshaw scowled, but answered nevertheless, “He went bankrupt because of his gambling addictions and had to sell everything off to pay for it.”

“And where is he now?” Ian inquired.

“Six feet underground.”

“Ah, I see. Loan sharks?”

“Hanged himself,” Mrs. Grimshaw took on an air of boredom, “He couldn’t take the shame of it. Left me behind with nothing but debt.”

“How unfortunate,” Ian nodded sympathetically, then turned to the next person, “Mr. Bains!”

“I was discharged from the Army due to physical injury,” he raised his trouser cuff, exposing a false leg, “Been in retirement ever since.”

“Family?” asked Ian.

“None. Had neither the time nor the desire.”

“Fair enough,” Ian clapped his hands together, “Viviane?”

“I outlived my fifth husband,” she replied with a smirk, “No kids either, can’t stand the little bastards.”

“Right,” Ian raised an eyebrow, “I, myself, am a Private Investigator running my own business in London, a lone wolf.” He then waved a dismissive hand at a sheet-draped form on the floor, “And we know Lafayette was an unmarried factory worker in town. So now begs the question, what is the common thread?”

Everyone was quiet, each pondering, though Ian was waiting to see if someone else would come to the same conclusion he had. When the silence persisted, he said, “None of us would be missed if we were to disappear.”

A tension settled over the room, all present eyeing one another, the fear almost palpable.

“S-so you’re saying that we were chosen strictly because it meant less of a trail?” Kirby asked, wide-eyed.

“Precisely, Professor,” replied Ian.

He strode back over to Lafayette’s body and flipped up the sheet, eliciting several gasps from present company.

“As I’ve said before,” he reached beneath the sheet to turn the corpse’s head, “It appears that Lafayette was bludgeoned to death with some type of odd-shaped, heavy object, based on the indents left behind and the way the skull is bashed right in.”

Kirby gagged, his hand over his mouth preventing him from all-out vomiting. Mrs. Grimshaw fainted dramatically, somehow landing on the floor in a ridiculously gentle fashion, hand draped perfectly over her eyes.

“Mr. Bains, could you…?” Ian directed his gaze toward the ‘fallen’ woman.

Bains nodded and knelt beside her, gently fanning her face as she murmured about brave heroes and vulgar detectives. Ian re-covered the body and shot to his feet, beginning a circle of the drawing room in which they stood.

“Now if I look intently at this blood-red carpet,” he intoned, gaze fixated on the floor, “I can actually make out a small trail of dots indicating a liquid of some form landed in a…” he closed one eye and held out his arm, angling it, “North-Easterly direction from the body.”

“A blood trail?” asked Viviane.

This time, Kirby fainted.

“Bains, would you…?” sighed Ian.

“On it,” nodded the large man, pivoting to lightly slap Kirby’s face.

Amid the sounds of Kirby groaning and mumbling something about brawny saviours and blunt PI’s, Ian continued, “Yes, a blood trail. Quite sloppy work, actually,” he tutted disappointedly, “And it seems to end here.”

He stopped in front of a dark wood bookcase loaded with murder mystery novels of all kinds.

“Could the killer have wiped the blood off?” asked Viviane as she stepped forward, an excited gleam in her eyes.

“I quite think so,” grinned Ian, “And look here.” He reached for a small, ornate bronze sphere sitting on one of the shelves.

“The murder weapon?” gasped Mrs. Grimshaw.

“Not so!” crowed Ian, reaching into a hollow in the bottom of the sphere and extracting a bloodied handkerchief.

“What an eye!” exclaimed Viviane, clapping her hands.

“I thank you, madam,” Ian bowed low, flourishing the red-stained fabric.

“Then what?” asked Kirby, having recovered from his collapse.

Ian took several paces in an exaggerated fashion toward the mahogany desk centered in the room, “Disturbances in the carpet’s surface suggest footsteps leading here,” he began pulling out all the drawers, becoming stuck on one that refused to open, “Locked,” he banged the desktop in frustration.

“I got it,” said Bains as he walked to the desk.

Bains had the drawer open in seconds, proving his muscles weren’t just for show. As Ian leaned forward, he noticed the larger man rubbing his knee above the false leg.

“Alright there, Bains?” he queried.

“Yeah, something feels kinda off,” Bains replied, his mind suddenly reminding him of an unaccounted loss of time they’d noticed during dinner, though he shook it off, “Maybe just from the rain.”

“I see,” replied Ian before he triumphantly pulled something from the drawer, “A key!”

“There must be a safe somewhere!” Viviane cried excitedly, looking around the room.

“Indeed,” nodded Ian as he pressed his fingers together, “What do we know about our host so far? Perhaps that could give some sort of inkling to the location of the safe or lockbox.”

“They’re obviously rich,” sniffed Mrs. Grimshaw, back on her feet.

“They’re not hiding that fact either,” noted Kirby, adjusting his glasses.

“They don’t want to be seen,” mused Bains.

“They love mystery novels,” stated Viviane from her spot in front of one of the towering bookcases.

“They do!” exclaimed Ian, his expression lighting up, “And likely their interest extends to true crime novels, I would think. So perhaps we should be looking at the books, eh?”

The five of them began reading over the spines of the plethora of tomes, starting on opposite corners of the room. Not much time had passed before Viviane called out, “Over here!”

They rushed to join her, eyeing the volumes she was pointing to, “Romance novels,” she said, a look of disgust on her face.

“Well done, Viviane,” said Ian, leaning forward and plucking out one of the books.

He placed it gently on the floor and Viviane followed suit with several more, until a matte black cube the size of a breadbox was exposed.

“The safe!” declared Kirby, getting caught up in the excitement.

Ian pulled the key from his pocket and held it out to Viviane, “Since you found it, would you care to do the honours?”

“Gladly,” she grinned.

She turned the key in the lock and the safe’s door swung open smoothly. All watched with baited breath as Ian reached into the dark interior, his hand finding only empty air until he laid it on the bottom. He pulled out a sheet of paper, holding it up so the others could see.

“It’s a schematic,” said Mrs. Grimshaw.

“Of a false leg!” declared Kirby, directing an accusing glare at Bains.

“May I?” asked Ian, kneeling on the floor beside Bains’ fake appendage.

“Have at it,” the latter man shrugged, just as perplexed as the rest.

Ian examined the wooden contraption, managing to find a small latch in the back. He opened it and reached into what should have been a hollow tube. His fingers wrapped around something odd-shaped. Once he extracted the object out into the light and removed the tea towel encasing it, everyone gasped.

“It’s a solid brass Wapen bull figurine,” exhaled Kirby, “Only twelve of those were ever made.”

“And it’s got blood on its head,” added Viviane, pointing to the red splatters adorning the bull’s horns.

“But, how?” Bains was bewildered.

“J’accuse!” declared Viviane, pointing a finger at the large man.

“Murderer!” cried Mrs. Grimshaw, following Viviane’s lead, “Arrest him, Detective Larua!”

“I swear, I don’t know how that got in there!” insisted Bains, palms up defensively, finding himself unnerved by the expression on the detective’s face.

“Well this has been grand, but playtime is over, I suspect,” Ian drawled wistfully, drawing the others’ attention, “We followed the clues and had our postulations. So it seems, all of the gathered evidence indicates that the murderer is…”

“I’ve got it!” Kirby suddenly snapped his fingers, “Your last name, Larua, it’s Latin for…” he abruptly grew pale, voice barely a whimper, “Bogeyman.”

Ian threw the bull statuette at Kirby, catching him perfectly in the temple, with enough force that the professor was dead before he hit the ground.

“I do so hate being interrupted,” pouted Ian, rounding on the rest of the group, smirking when Bains placed himself in front of the women.

“As I was saying,” Ian grinned wickedly, “The murderer is…” just then the lights went out, and his next word emanated from directly beside Mrs. Grimshaw, “Me.”