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- Story Listed as: Fiction For Adults
- Theme: Mystery
- Subject: Horror / Scary
- Published: 09/03/2015
“So you see inspector, the footprints in the mud, found outside the victims bedroom window, were made by two left footed shoes”
Of the six people in the room it was only Inspector Jamison that had the cast iron alibi, and he was also fairly sure that Mrs Morgan hadn’t murdered the fabulously wealthy, and extraordinarily beautiful supermodel, known to the world simply as ‘Allure’, due to the fact that it was she who had conducted the investigation. The same she that was now about to reveal the murderer to the room, and indeed - the world.
Mrs Jacqueline Morgan had taken part in many cases such as this, and was considered the foremost authority in this field. Whenever there was a murder in a place that was out of the way, say a nice tropical island or a fast moving luxury train for example, Mrs. Morgan would be there. Armed only with her keen intellect and dogged tenacity to find the killer, she would track the guilty party down. Having amassed the evidence she would then have them all gather in one place in order to explain her reasoning, only to finish with the grand exposure, at which point the killer would then be taken away by the authorities.
This was the position that Inspector Jamison now found himself in.
He listened with baited breath as Mrs. Morgan continued with her summing up, all the time looking from suspect to suspect in an attempt to work the solution out for himself - before she gave the game away.
He had been wrong at every turn.
“This means we are looking for someone who can fit two left shoes comfortably – to which, a man who put on a larger pair, in order to hide his identity, but in his haste didn’t notice that he had odd shoes on”
Of course – it was so obvious when you thought about it.
It blew his theory right out of the water.
He had been waiting for two one-legged twins to turn up.
“And so, Inspector, it could only have been - Mr. Lewis”.
At this Mrs. Morgan pointed to a very surprised Mr. Jonathan Lewis.
“As the shoe prints”, she continued, “were a small size seven and Mr. Lewis has unusually small feet - so small in fact that he could put a left shoe on his right foot, and not even notice”
Mr. Lewis looked around widely.
“Do you deny that the only reason you came to this island was to see Ms. Allure?”
“Of course it was”, he said. “It was her book signing, that’s what we are all here for – isn’t it?”
“Indeed it is, but only one of us came here to murder her. Do you also deny that you were driven to despair and madness by her refusal to marry you?”
“Yes I bloody well do – I’m already married”
“Then shame on you further young man – take him away inspector”
And with that, Mrs. Morgan turned on her heel and swept out of the room with an air of dramatic triumph.
Mr. Lewis stood up.
“Now come on,” he protested.
The inspector stepped forward. He had his handcuffs at the ready and a squad car waiting outside with the engine running.
“Don’t make it hard on yourself sonny” he said.
“But I didn’t do it” he cried.
“The evidence suggests that you did”
An incredulous look came over the face of the now, panic-stricken Mr. Lewis.
“Evidence’ he hooted, “two left shoes? – Is that all you have?”
Inspector Jamison turned his prisoner around and placed the handcuff on his wrists.
“Do you know who that is?” he said as he pointed towards the retreating figure of Mrs. Morgan. “That’s Jacqueline Morgan, that is – the worlds number one amateur detective. Fifteen books, four films and a television series – all dedicated to her success in exposing killers like you”
“But I didn’t do it”
The halfhearted struggle against the restraints was met with nose-to-nose rebuttal from the Inspector.
“If Mrs. Morgan had said that I was the murderer, I would be handing myself in right now. I would even have cuffed myself in case I was a danger to the public – that’s how sure I am that she is right”
“But two left shoes” said Mr. Lewis imploringly.
“I know – clever eh?’
As Mr. Lewis was being taken away, Mrs. Morgan made her way back to her room only to be met in the foyer by the concierge of the hotel.
“Madam Morgan – I am so sorry that this tragedy at our little resort has spoilt your holiday”
Mrs. Morgan smiled, and at the same time patted him on his arm. Her motherly ways at reassurance were well known to all that knew her. It was just something else that endeared her to the public, and caused the guilty to underestimate her.
“My dear Mr. Williams” she said in her soft, but commanding voice. Her French accent had not faded over the years, despite rarely visiting her homeland anymore, something she regretted and something she meant to rectify one day, “think nothing of it. It seems that I was in the wrong place at the right time”
She winked at him and continued on her way.
Back in her room, Jacqueline Morgan sat on the edge of her bed and smiled at what had proved to be a very productive week.
The senseless death of one of nature’s flowers had been vindicated by the imprisonment of the guilty party.
Although guilty was a strong word – but what other word could she use?
She tilted her head in thought.
Innocent seem to fit him better.
Mr. Lewis had in fact had nothing to do with the death of Allure, what he was guilty of, and again the word ‘guilty’ was an over statement, was to fit the part in another chapter of the ever growing story that was the life of Mrs. Morgan.
How many cases had she solved now?
The media would tell you that it was around nineteen, but in truth it was one – just one. That first time was almost thirty years ago when she had taken a holiday alone after her husband had left her for her editor – slut that she was. The small island retreat of San Marcos was the perfect place to write her new book, and to be alone with her thoughts and her muse.
A muse that, she later discovered, had not joined her, appearing as it were to have taken its vacation somewhere else in the world, inspiring others in that traitorous way that muses seem to do on occasion.
She had spent most of her time wandering the hot sandy beaches, and frequenting the hot sandy bars, in search of an idea – something that would kick-start the first lines in a potential bestseller.
What luck was it then when, after a drunken walk back to her hotel room, she had witnessed a murder?
The actual taking of someone’s life - right in front of her.
She should have gone to the police of course, but the lack of anything inspiring to write about was replaced by the potential of an honest to goodness detective story, with her as the main character.
Besides which, who would believe the drunken ranting of a woman whose very life revolved around making up stories?
It had gone down well – very well.
The story she built around the truth served to set her up as one of the worlds great crime writers, and an eventual authority on criminal investigations involving the seemingly unsolvable. But the first time was just plain luck and not something that was ever likely to repeat itself – not without a little help anyway.
So poisoning the hostess of the American embassy ball seemed the obvious way in which to help the second murder that she had ‘solved’ along quite nicely.
From then it just snowballed.
At intermittent stages of her life, Mrs. Morgan would find herself on an island, train or remote country retreat, having been exposed to yet another murder, the solving of which fed her readers with the next chapter in the long series of,
‘Mrs Morgan Investigates’ novels.
Her real coup de gras was the murder that inspired the book,
‘Mrs. Morgan Investigates: The case of the locked room’.
Three men. One dead, with two suspects – and Mrs. Morgan, all of them alone in the library of sir Charles Bankright. A person, or persons unknown, had locked the room from the outside, at which time sir Charles had been dispatched with the aid of a letter opener inserted at the base of his spine when the lights had unexpectedly gone out during a storm.
A huge and elaborate tale had been regaled to both of the survivors, each of them knowing that the other was the killer due to the fact that they knew that they didn’t do it, all the time never suspecting that the psychotic killer in the room was their very accuser.
In an act of sheer desperation, and fear that he would be the next victim, sir Charles’ son (one of the said suspects), removed the weapon embedded in the back of his father and plunged it into the chest of his potential attacker. When the police eventually knocked the door down Victor Bankright, son of the late sir Charles Bankright, stood accused of murdering his father in cold blood in order to gain his inheritance early. This, it was later recounted, was because he had fallen foul of the local underworld and had run up a sizable (and yet untraceable), gambling debt. His hitherto unknown gay lover had met his end in the same way as sir Charles as Victor had suspected he was about to tell the world of their affair – something that would have ruined the career of this young, and upcoming politician.
All this was worked out by the keen mind of Mrs. Morgan when young Victor had been overheard having an argument with his father regarding his addiction, and his choice of lovers. The maid that had reported this was later found dead in her room having become yet another victim in this sad tale of perverse greed.
As to who had locked the door from the outside was never known, and went largely unsolved, leaving the readers of these popular crime thrillers to speculate as to who this mystery man was.
This was the birth of her mysterious character known only as ‘The Third Man’
He was someone who would appear from time to time in other stories as filler for the plot holes that this sort of genre creates.
Mrs. Morgan had been on the trail of the third man for many a novel, never wanting and never needing to find him.
But that was then, and this was now.
This last case would set the scene for her next book.
‘If the shoe fits’ she would call it – excellent.
After that she would disappear for a while.
This was a well-known practice and something her fans enjoyed, for it was all part of her mystique.
The show that always went on.
No one knew where she went or what she did with her free time.
It seemed that she just dropped off the grid for a few months whilst her new book enjoyed the rounds. She would return when all the fuss and excitement had died down.
After showering she dressed herself in her favourite eveningwear before making a phone call to her personal assistant.
A lot of thought and organization went into ‘solving’ these mysteries, the logistics of which were an absolute nightmare.
So entered the talents of one Miss. Harbinger.
She had come across Miss Harbinger shortly after her second novel had been published. During a book signing in a small town just outside of Alice Springs, by the name of Doom, Mrs. Morgan had been approached by what she thought was a fan, but Miss Harbinger proved to be much more than that. She seemed to be on the same wavelength as Mrs. Morgan but without knowing anything that went on behind the dark, closed doors of her mind.
Or so it seemed.
Miss Harbinger would take care of things.
For example, she had a talent for getting Mrs. Morgan on flights that would normally be full – like some magical travel agent she would manage to get her to anywhere she chose. She would book hotels and restaurants that she thought would be suitable to the lifestyle of an international novelist and amateur detective, and would make sure that Mrs. Morgan was in those ‘right places’ at those ‘wrong times’. She made sure that; at any given time Mrs. Morgan could walk away from this life of fame as and when the moment dictated. These moments would give her the time to attend to her ‘special project’ – something that she had been working on for some time, and something she felt the world would remember forever.
“Bonjour Madam” came the lilting voice of Miss Harbinger, “how may I help you?
“Bonjour Alexis, could you please reserve my usual table for dinner, and would you be so kind as to make travel arrangements for tomorrow morning – it’s time to go I feel”
“Of course Madam. May I inquire as to your destination?”
Mrs. Morgan thought for a second, and then smiled.
“Whitechapel – London.”
“Oui Madam, what year?”
“1891 - I have some unfinished business to attend to”
“Very good Madam”
This was going to be her best yet.
A whodunit to end them all – it had multiple murders, a seedy location, and to cap it all off, a royal connection.
Marvellous.
She could see it all so clearly in her minds eye.
“I just need to make one stopover Alexis,” she added as an afterthought.
“Of course Madam. Where would you like to go?”
“Oh, not too far – about twenty years ago should do it” she said whilst checking her notes,
“I seem to remember that there is a door that needs locking.”
THE END?
RIPPING YARNS(Iain Cambridge)
“So you see inspector, the footprints in the mud, found outside the victims bedroom window, were made by two left footed shoes”
Of the six people in the room it was only Inspector Jamison that had the cast iron alibi, and he was also fairly sure that Mrs Morgan hadn’t murdered the fabulously wealthy, and extraordinarily beautiful supermodel, known to the world simply as ‘Allure’, due to the fact that it was she who had conducted the investigation. The same she that was now about to reveal the murderer to the room, and indeed - the world.
Mrs Jacqueline Morgan had taken part in many cases such as this, and was considered the foremost authority in this field. Whenever there was a murder in a place that was out of the way, say a nice tropical island or a fast moving luxury train for example, Mrs. Morgan would be there. Armed only with her keen intellect and dogged tenacity to find the killer, she would track the guilty party down. Having amassed the evidence she would then have them all gather in one place in order to explain her reasoning, only to finish with the grand exposure, at which point the killer would then be taken away by the authorities.
This was the position that Inspector Jamison now found himself in.
He listened with baited breath as Mrs. Morgan continued with her summing up, all the time looking from suspect to suspect in an attempt to work the solution out for himself - before she gave the game away.
He had been wrong at every turn.
“This means we are looking for someone who can fit two left shoes comfortably – to which, a man who put on a larger pair, in order to hide his identity, but in his haste didn’t notice that he had odd shoes on”
Of course – it was so obvious when you thought about it.
It blew his theory right out of the water.
He had been waiting for two one-legged twins to turn up.
“And so, Inspector, it could only have been - Mr. Lewis”.
At this Mrs. Morgan pointed to a very surprised Mr. Jonathan Lewis.
“As the shoe prints”, she continued, “were a small size seven and Mr. Lewis has unusually small feet - so small in fact that he could put a left shoe on his right foot, and not even notice”
Mr. Lewis looked around widely.
“Do you deny that the only reason you came to this island was to see Ms. Allure?”
“Of course it was”, he said. “It was her book signing, that’s what we are all here for – isn’t it?”
“Indeed it is, but only one of us came here to murder her. Do you also deny that you were driven to despair and madness by her refusal to marry you?”
“Yes I bloody well do – I’m already married”
“Then shame on you further young man – take him away inspector”
And with that, Mrs. Morgan turned on her heel and swept out of the room with an air of dramatic triumph.
Mr. Lewis stood up.
“Now come on,” he protested.
The inspector stepped forward. He had his handcuffs at the ready and a squad car waiting outside with the engine running.
“Don’t make it hard on yourself sonny” he said.
“But I didn’t do it” he cried.
“The evidence suggests that you did”
An incredulous look came over the face of the now, panic-stricken Mr. Lewis.
“Evidence’ he hooted, “two left shoes? – Is that all you have?”
Inspector Jamison turned his prisoner around and placed the handcuff on his wrists.
“Do you know who that is?” he said as he pointed towards the retreating figure of Mrs. Morgan. “That’s Jacqueline Morgan, that is – the worlds number one amateur detective. Fifteen books, four films and a television series – all dedicated to her success in exposing killers like you”
“But I didn’t do it”
The halfhearted struggle against the restraints was met with nose-to-nose rebuttal from the Inspector.
“If Mrs. Morgan had said that I was the murderer, I would be handing myself in right now. I would even have cuffed myself in case I was a danger to the public – that’s how sure I am that she is right”
“But two left shoes” said Mr. Lewis imploringly.
“I know – clever eh?’
As Mr. Lewis was being taken away, Mrs. Morgan made her way back to her room only to be met in the foyer by the concierge of the hotel.
“Madam Morgan – I am so sorry that this tragedy at our little resort has spoilt your holiday”
Mrs. Morgan smiled, and at the same time patted him on his arm. Her motherly ways at reassurance were well known to all that knew her. It was just something else that endeared her to the public, and caused the guilty to underestimate her.
“My dear Mr. Williams” she said in her soft, but commanding voice. Her French accent had not faded over the years, despite rarely visiting her homeland anymore, something she regretted and something she meant to rectify one day, “think nothing of it. It seems that I was in the wrong place at the right time”
She winked at him and continued on her way.
Back in her room, Jacqueline Morgan sat on the edge of her bed and smiled at what had proved to be a very productive week.
The senseless death of one of nature’s flowers had been vindicated by the imprisonment of the guilty party.
Although guilty was a strong word – but what other word could she use?
She tilted her head in thought.
Innocent seem to fit him better.
Mr. Lewis had in fact had nothing to do with the death of Allure, what he was guilty of, and again the word ‘guilty’ was an over statement, was to fit the part in another chapter of the ever growing story that was the life of Mrs. Morgan.
How many cases had she solved now?
The media would tell you that it was around nineteen, but in truth it was one – just one. That first time was almost thirty years ago when she had taken a holiday alone after her husband had left her for her editor – slut that she was. The small island retreat of San Marcos was the perfect place to write her new book, and to be alone with her thoughts and her muse.
A muse that, she later discovered, had not joined her, appearing as it were to have taken its vacation somewhere else in the world, inspiring others in that traitorous way that muses seem to do on occasion.
She had spent most of her time wandering the hot sandy beaches, and frequenting the hot sandy bars, in search of an idea – something that would kick-start the first lines in a potential bestseller.
What luck was it then when, after a drunken walk back to her hotel room, she had witnessed a murder?
The actual taking of someone’s life - right in front of her.
She should have gone to the police of course, but the lack of anything inspiring to write about was replaced by the potential of an honest to goodness detective story, with her as the main character.
Besides which, who would believe the drunken ranting of a woman whose very life revolved around making up stories?
It had gone down well – very well.
The story she built around the truth served to set her up as one of the worlds great crime writers, and an eventual authority on criminal investigations involving the seemingly unsolvable. But the first time was just plain luck and not something that was ever likely to repeat itself – not without a little help anyway.
So poisoning the hostess of the American embassy ball seemed the obvious way in which to help the second murder that she had ‘solved’ along quite nicely.
From then it just snowballed.
At intermittent stages of her life, Mrs. Morgan would find herself on an island, train or remote country retreat, having been exposed to yet another murder, the solving of which fed her readers with the next chapter in the long series of,
‘Mrs Morgan Investigates’ novels.
Her real coup de gras was the murder that inspired the book,
‘Mrs. Morgan Investigates: The case of the locked room’.
Three men. One dead, with two suspects – and Mrs. Morgan, all of them alone in the library of sir Charles Bankright. A person, or persons unknown, had locked the room from the outside, at which time sir Charles had been dispatched with the aid of a letter opener inserted at the base of his spine when the lights had unexpectedly gone out during a storm.
A huge and elaborate tale had been regaled to both of the survivors, each of them knowing that the other was the killer due to the fact that they knew that they didn’t do it, all the time never suspecting that the psychotic killer in the room was their very accuser.
In an act of sheer desperation, and fear that he would be the next victim, sir Charles’ son (one of the said suspects), removed the weapon embedded in the back of his father and plunged it into the chest of his potential attacker. When the police eventually knocked the door down Victor Bankright, son of the late sir Charles Bankright, stood accused of murdering his father in cold blood in order to gain his inheritance early. This, it was later recounted, was because he had fallen foul of the local underworld and had run up a sizable (and yet untraceable), gambling debt. His hitherto unknown gay lover had met his end in the same way as sir Charles as Victor had suspected he was about to tell the world of their affair – something that would have ruined the career of this young, and upcoming politician.
All this was worked out by the keen mind of Mrs. Morgan when young Victor had been overheard having an argument with his father regarding his addiction, and his choice of lovers. The maid that had reported this was later found dead in her room having become yet another victim in this sad tale of perverse greed.
As to who had locked the door from the outside was never known, and went largely unsolved, leaving the readers of these popular crime thrillers to speculate as to who this mystery man was.
This was the birth of her mysterious character known only as ‘The Third Man’
He was someone who would appear from time to time in other stories as filler for the plot holes that this sort of genre creates.
Mrs. Morgan had been on the trail of the third man for many a novel, never wanting and never needing to find him.
But that was then, and this was now.
This last case would set the scene for her next book.
‘If the shoe fits’ she would call it – excellent.
After that she would disappear for a while.
This was a well-known practice and something her fans enjoyed, for it was all part of her mystique.
The show that always went on.
No one knew where she went or what she did with her free time.
It seemed that she just dropped off the grid for a few months whilst her new book enjoyed the rounds. She would return when all the fuss and excitement had died down.
After showering she dressed herself in her favourite eveningwear before making a phone call to her personal assistant.
A lot of thought and organization went into ‘solving’ these mysteries, the logistics of which were an absolute nightmare.
So entered the talents of one Miss. Harbinger.
She had come across Miss Harbinger shortly after her second novel had been published. During a book signing in a small town just outside of Alice Springs, by the name of Doom, Mrs. Morgan had been approached by what she thought was a fan, but Miss Harbinger proved to be much more than that. She seemed to be on the same wavelength as Mrs. Morgan but without knowing anything that went on behind the dark, closed doors of her mind.
Or so it seemed.
Miss Harbinger would take care of things.
For example, she had a talent for getting Mrs. Morgan on flights that would normally be full – like some magical travel agent she would manage to get her to anywhere she chose. She would book hotels and restaurants that she thought would be suitable to the lifestyle of an international novelist and amateur detective, and would make sure that Mrs. Morgan was in those ‘right places’ at those ‘wrong times’. She made sure that; at any given time Mrs. Morgan could walk away from this life of fame as and when the moment dictated. These moments would give her the time to attend to her ‘special project’ – something that she had been working on for some time, and something she felt the world would remember forever.
“Bonjour Madam” came the lilting voice of Miss Harbinger, “how may I help you?
“Bonjour Alexis, could you please reserve my usual table for dinner, and would you be so kind as to make travel arrangements for tomorrow morning – it’s time to go I feel”
“Of course Madam. May I inquire as to your destination?”
Mrs. Morgan thought for a second, and then smiled.
“Whitechapel – London.”
“Oui Madam, what year?”
“1891 - I have some unfinished business to attend to”
“Very good Madam”
This was going to be her best yet.
A whodunit to end them all – it had multiple murders, a seedy location, and to cap it all off, a royal connection.
Marvellous.
She could see it all so clearly in her minds eye.
“I just need to make one stopover Alexis,” she added as an afterthought.
“Of course Madam. Where would you like to go?”
“Oh, not too far – about twenty years ago should do it” she said whilst checking her notes,
“I seem to remember that there is a door that needs locking.”
THE END?
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