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