Part 2: Murder At Mumford House

“You may be wondering why I’ve gathered you here,” said Percival Flordigan, Detective Extraordinaire, pacing in front of his audience like a man inspecting his troops. Like an army man.

“Is it because of the murder?” asked Lady Ambledaine Mumford.

“It’s probably because of the murder,” said the Maid.

“Perhaps,” said Flordigan, smiling a sly, knowing smile, “Or perhaps, it is because…one of YOU is the murderer!”

The assembled crowd gasped. One of them fainted, but it was only a valet of some sort, not worth the sniff of smelling salts it would take to revive.

 “Oh, yes. One of you,” continued the Detective, “Of course, we all know the means by which the ghastly crime was committed. One does not forget such a grisly scene. And, of course, also, we know who had the opportunity.”

“So, this is about the murder, then,” I said.

“We shall see, my dear Wamsbly,” said Flordigan, continuing, “Alas, every one of you had been alone with Colonel Mumford at some point in the evening, and any one of you could have administered the fatal dose of baking soda and vinegar, that reacted in his stomach like a volcano causing his head to explode.”

“Please,” said Monsignor Crampleton, “Please hurry. We are all getting very tired.”

“And wet,” added Madame Gausconte Du Fromblager, “We’ve been in here for hours.”

A severe look came to the Detective’s face, “Justice must never be rushed, Madame. Now. Knowing the method and opportunity do not tell us the killer. We are left with the motive to the point the way. Which one of you had reason to kill Colonel Mumford? Was it you, Lady Mumford? The long-suffering wife, finally pushed to emancipate herself from her husband’s countless cruelties?”

“Probably,” I said, “that’s a terrific motive.”

“Or was it you, Lady Morkestean?” said Flordigan, ignoring me, as was his custom. Custom or not, it still hurt. He continued, “You were the Colonel’s mistress. Did you finally grow tired of waiting for him to leave his wife?”

“Or was it Father Xauvignstein? Desperately in love with Lady Morkestean and convinced Colonel Mumford was his only obstacle to obtaining her favor, even though he looks like a smushed hobbit?”

“Or was it the Maid? The secret daughter hidden in plain sight, kept away from the world simply because she had the misfortune to be born after the triplets and having four children is just stupid?”

“Or was it the triplets? Rolley, Rolley, and Shasta? Whose father was always ‘too tired’ to acknowledge their individuality, and were instead sewn into a single three person pair of overalls?”

“Or was it the fainting Valet whose constant fainting caused the Colonel to threaten him with dismissal, even though those fainting spells were a direct result of his being another secret child?”

“I venture to say that each one of you had the motive, a festering resentment so powerful that you would end a man’s very life! But, there can be only one killer. Or can there? I don’t know. Wamsbly! The lever!”

I pressed the lever and with a thunderous roar a terrifying vortex formed around the gathered suspects. Their cries were lost amid the watery chaos as they were each one sucked into the bowels of the manor’s plumbing, never to be seen again.

“Jolly good thinking,” I said, “having them all in a giant toilet like that.”

“Yes, it was certainly easier to simply do away with the whole lot of them than to fret over minor details like guilt or innocence. Yet I wonder,” said Flordigan, “wasn’t there a butler around here somewhere? He might have done it now that I think about it. Oh, well. Have someone check on that.”

THE END