Gregory looked around the room with an appraising look at each one of the room’s occupants. Elaine Russell, a tall, dark-haired woman, sat with rather dark rings around her eyes, and cupped in her hands a cup of tea. A man stood in a corner of the room, with an expression of irritation as if he would rather have been elsewhere, and frequently checked his watch. Gregory guessed he was Edward Lowell. A gruff, large, bearish man was heartily eating the pastries set out by the maid, and Gregory decided that that was the explorer, Jason Backworth, Jr. Molly and Baddleton, the maid and the butler, stood in their customary position, almost blending into the dark wooden walls, by the doorway.

“I’ve seen the scene of the murder and it seems, at first sight, that the Lord Graine was murdered in the night, less than twelve hours ago, by a sword taken from one of the two suits of armour that are along the corridor outside the library. The sword was, of course, ornamental, and it was used as a blunt weapon rather than what someone more melodramatically inclined might think.”

Gregory paused for a moment here as a mild draught worked its way around the room, lending an air of uncertainty to the already very uncertain circumstances.

“So,” he continued, looking around disconcertedly, “no Shakespeare here.”

Baddleton, in the slight pause that had shown itself into the room, spoke, “the sword was taken in the night, just as the murderer was about to do his dastardly deed. I dust those suits regularly, and I clearly remember seeing the swords at their rightful places. And incidentally, those suits have been in the family for over a century now, and -”

The detective shot down the rest of his speech with a rather sharp glare, as he recalled the thick coat of dust that the suits had gathered. He made a mental note, quite unprofessionally, that although noisy and pretentious, the butler was plainly harmless.

“And I’m not sure if any of you here know that another crime has been committed. The reason why you all are here in Graine Manor in the first place is the auction that was supposed to be held today, to sell off the Backworth Opal.”

The draught that had seemed to settle itself down worked itself up again, but this time the detective was determined to carry on talking.

“The vault was broken into in the night, and the opal stolen, the details of which you will know in time. All I can say now is that Graine was very likely murdered because he knew who the thief was.”

The draught that was winding around the room abruptly stilled, and a profound, inexplicable sense of sadness settled on the room’s more sensitive inhabitants.




work-in-progress~Copyright2006TTH~work-in-progress

After Molly left the library, with far less grace than she normally possessed, I followed suit, and decided to haunt the hallowed halls of my manor. Detecting was a rather faint prospect in my mind, and I was more preoccupied with exploring my home in that new state of being. There was a dull crash at the end of the darkened hallway, and a streak of pity immediately ran through me, for Molly was always such a swan, skimming around the manor, and I have to admit that I was rather fond of the girl and her mild, quiet ways.

Floating around the manor, I found myself perusing objects that in my previous days held far less a portion of my attention. Strewn all around the (sprawling, I used to boast, but it really was rather modest) mansion were all the marks of my being, my life; my unanswered letters, still-open books, tables yet to be cleared and half-finished wine all reminded me of the life that I had, quite literally, left behind. For the first time in my short-lived, ethereal, experience I felt a real sense of loss, one that I thought anyone who really cared for me would feel too. Death, up to that point in time, had not bothered me much, as I was still very much able to experience the world, albeit far more restricted in my interactions with it, but looking at those effects of my life left unsettled, I was suddenly clearly aware that I was taken, while not at my prime, close enough after it that I still had plenty to live for.

Wandering as such, the night snuck its silent way onwards and I soon found Baddleton, looking thoroughly displaced at the prospect of having to manage the house through a murder and having no employer to rely on, heading out of the main doors onto the lawn awaiting some arrival. I followed him out, carrying onto the lawn the same sense of wasted worth that I had slowly gathered in the dark depths of the night.

A black car finally drove up and out came a man, a detective, from what I could hear passing between them. From what I could hear passing between them, however, I also decided to place myself in the parlour to wait for the meeting to begin. As sudden as morning dew evaporating, my mood had lightened considerably at the prospect of seeing the various guests of my household all assembled, and beginning to find (for the purposes of justice, not revenge, I reminded myself, as the vague promises that had stood in my mind suddenly recalled themselves) my murderer.



The various personalities that occupied Graine Manor on the boring night of my murder slowly made their way to the parlour, where Molly, despite her having to deal with the shock of seeing my dead body not too few hours ago, had somehow managed to set a few light pastries in the room for the detective and the inhabitants of the manor to enjoy over the meeting. Looking at the assortment of my favourites that she had gathered, I was thrown into confusion not knowing whether to feel jealousy and irritation or gratitude over the fact that she had prepared such a spread of my personal favourites.

Shamefully, I decided that the latter response was a far fairer one, the decision greatly hastened by some vague memory of pettiness being ill-tolerated in heaven surfacing in my mind.

The occupants of my manor had, during the course of my inner turmoil over breakfast pastries, gathered in the parlour, and I saw each one of them absorbed in their own little spheres of thought the way people do when they encounter great shock. (Or when, as I remarked to myself remembering that some assembled there might not have been too shocked to see me dead, when they just get out of bed.)

Baddleton entered the parlour at last, followed closely by the detective, and I theatrically settled myself down on a wooden chair, and thought to myself, allowing some of my vanity to return, that the investigation was about to start.




work-in-progress~Copyright2006TTH~work-in-progress

Gregory James Miller was jolted out of his sleep by a ringing telephone that lay by his bed, but to him, the sudden displacement might just have been brought about by a curtain-shaking scream as much as the jarring buzz of the telephone at his side.

He picked up the phone with a mumble of acknowledgement that, at that hour, was the most he could muster.

“Well err… Good evening, Detective. We have a situation at Graine Manor and -”

“Yes, yes,” he interrupted irritably, “I understand. Get the car over in a quarter of an hour and I’ll be ready then.”

“Very good sir. Now this time it seems to be a murder; Lord Graine, owner of Graine Manor has been found dead, apparently -”

“Take the docket, get your rump off the operator’s chair, go to the machine, and I will expect a copy of it on the front seat of the car that will undoubtedly be disturbing my evening in -” he paused here, struggling to remember, “fifteen minutes.”

A car drove off into the night with a tongue-clicking driver at the wheel, and a red-faced detective in the back seat, approximately three quarters of an hour later.



Detective Miller was welcomed to the once-stately Graine Manor by the portly butler, Baddleton. At first sight, the manor could be dismissed as another house falling into disrepair, almost in a state of neglect. As he left the car and walked across the modest lawn into the building, however, minor details impressed themselves into him, like the tended garden and the well-trod paths across the lawn that led to the garden shed and the garage. A sense of shame crept over him, a guiltless shame almost like pity, as if he had seen a man abruptly robbed of his prime and sentenced to a state of forgotten half-existence.

“Detective Miller,” Baddleton paused here for effect as much as for emphasis. If any of the other inhabitants of the house were there to hear his emphatic exclamation of the detective’s surname they would have thought he paused expecting Miller to immediately warm to him and offer his first name. “Are you quite sure you’re feeling fine today? You look under the weather!”

“Yes thank you.” Gregory replied with a slight shake of his head as if to clear his thoughts. “We’ll head in now, thank you. And please gather everyone somewhere convenient where I can speak to them.”

Baddleton, perhaps peeved at the detective, offered as dignified a grunt as he could muster in response.

Stepping into the main hall, Baddleton began his patter that, although he had memorised by heart and gave hundreds of times, still sounded fresh in all his enthusiasm. While the butler was expounding the history of the manor and the most noble house of Graine, Gregory had already begun to mildly dislike the man. Plump, but thankfully not unhealthily so, Baddleton had the affected mannerism of an over-zealous servant, but not one that shied away from subtly expressing his displeasure at his master. It was as if he believed that he was doing the best job he could if he, under his upturned nose, stealthily shuffled his master in whatever direction his undoubtedly sharp butler-mind thought most prudent.

Gregory, by the fourth sentence about knights in the fourteenth century and modern reinforcements that, while hidden, still preserved the classic façade of the building, had unfortunately lost patience with the butler.

“I’m not looking to buy the house, you know.”

Without skipping a beat, Baddleton delivered his next line, “the guests have been called and will be in the parlour, ready to meet you, in,” he paused with a glance at his wrist and a flare of his nostrils, “fifteen minutes.”




work-in-progress~Copyright2006TTH~work-in-progress

ello...

i went for surgery yesterday to remove long-ago-mentioned lump in lip...

now i have 2 stitches on my lip that the doctor promises will dissolve in a few days... no matter actually... preliminary tongue explorations indicate that sutures have texture similar to uncooked spaghetti and thus will become part of my lunch if in a few days the sutures still haven't dissolved...

mwahahahaha....

and in these 3 days i have at home i will be writing madly (am currently juggling two screens) to get the mystery going... haha...
currently it seems that my notes run into more pages than the prose proper...

but since i'm at it...

the surgery was quite.. well.. boring.

it comprised an hour and forty minutes of waiting and about 15 minutes with the scapels and needles stuck in me..
probably the most interesting thing was having a nursing student in my theatre learning the ropes of handling surgery and being mildly alarmed at the fact that the nurses were talking to him like he was a 5 year old (don't touch! those sheets are sterilised!)...

second most interesting thing was realising that when surgery starts you stop being a whole being to the doctors and surgeons as their attention narrows in onto the involved parts of your body ie my lip...
after being covered with the aforementioned sterile sheets my torso became a handy place to put basically anything from unused to used operating instruments and as the surgeon was stitching up my lip she used my nose as an armrest while manoeuvring the undoubtedly complicated stitching up of my lip...

i responded with a vehement snort.

I wish, right now, that I could at least say “’twas a dark and stormy night,” but when one is dead, and sitting around on a rather ethereal rump waiting for that vague promise of salvation to fulfil itself (and of course half-dreading that equally promised damnation), keeping up images and telling lies seem far less important. So I shall be truthful, and say that the night I was murdered was, well, a quiet, uneventful night; it was a boring night. Sometimes (not that I’ve had plenty of time to think it over) I almost wish that I had left the mortal plane with at least a scream or even a hoarse shout to stir the night, but all it took was a thump and a rather ungainly gargle at the back of my throat, and I was left there, floating about and staring at my own bloody neck.

When I thought about my last memories as a living, breathing, human being all I could remember was being desperately thirsty for a drink and fumbling into the library where I thought I had left my unfinished glass. The next moment there was a thump and a terrific pain surfaced at the back of my neck. When the dizziness cleared and I looked up, all I saw was what a dastardly job the labourers had done with my cornices, and reminding myself to tell Baddleton to get it fixed first thing in the morning. Then there were hasty steps and I saw a silhouette leaving the room and slamming the door, and looking around, right there below me, was, well, my own bloody neck.

Now, I know that most would think that I would have pursued my murderer relentlessly, moaning, flinging sheets about or perhaps rattling windows in their frames. Truthfully, however, (in consideration of my current circumstance favouring quite more virtue in my character) I was rather content sitting there and waiting for some pinprick to appear so I could see the light, or perhaps there would be some angel to behold and I would float gloriously through that ill-decorated ceiling. But none of that occurred, and so I parked the abovementioned rump in a rather plush chair (and this I know through memory rather than real sensation), and just waited.

I’ve always thought ghosts were beings accustomed to waiting, (and I do believe in ghosts – it comes with a fear of the dark and all things unknown that, in keeping with telling the truth, all shallow, self-centred people have in them) but to me the prospect of simply sitting and waiting for something, if anything at all, to happen was simply unbearable. Finally, I gave the chair up and tried to leave the room, and the most frustrating thing happened - I simply could not open the door. My hands grasped the knob and just lamely slid around the globe like dead jellyfish sliding off a rowing boat’s paddle.

“Good lord,” I said aloud, “I’m stuck in the library with the broken bottle of wine that killed me and I can’t leave!” And with a huge sigh that (I hoped) stirred the curtains a trifle bit, I said, “I must be in Hell!”

At which time the door promptly opened and in came Molly, who, with a determined expression, looked as though she was headed straight for the bookshelf. Undoubtedly, she was diverted, in course and in thought, by a rather bloody scene. Then she screamed, and this time, without a doubt, the curtains shook.




work-in-progress~Copyright2006TTH~work-in-progress

Birds

I wrote some words but the sheet was consumed
by the wind, a paper bird caught in a gale.
But I have the words, the thousand nestlings
that now silently gape, bereft of their mother.

Those are words that bear meaning too heavy
for their stroked bodies. So now they will buckle and die,
hungry and gaping, but their spirits will remain,
resting in my memories, and haunting my words.

These ghosts trail like phantom ducklings behind me,
but I will lose them one by one, the pain of loss expected and sharp,
and slowly, carefully, I will set them to forgetfulness,
birds born in the palm of my human hand learning to fly into the clouds.