1.11 The Dark and Dry
Estherbridge
Hewitt and Lowery Law Firm
D. Lowery's Office
4:15pm
Hewitt and Lowery was a surprisingly modest affair; a mere two-floored complex situated next to an equally quaint florist's and a recently closed-down barber's (rumours circulated about the owner's passport scams). The drive hadn't taken long and the relatively open road had given Pry and Chart some well-deserved air and a chance to release some of their mental burdens. They parked next to a rusted out grey van that was supposed to be pearly white. JOHN AND SON'S PLUMBING said the big, bold, blue letters on the door side. Pry read it with curiosity after slamming the car door shut and it reminded him rough city life could be. It was something he'd forgotten whilst down in the tranquil gardens of Milton-on-Hyde. Down the road, he saw two familiar jet-black cars similar to his own as well as a silent ambulance. Chart had been surveying the lawyer's block and awaited for his master's approval to head on in.
The double-doors, made of clear glass, were pulled open and the two entered. Two officers; a sergeant and a constable greeted them in the lavish reception. "Are you the guys from 'Hyde?" asked the constable; a square-faced fellow with a furry brow.
"Yeah, I'm Inspector Pry. This is Constable Chart. What's going on?"
"Just come this way," the sergeant said; a middle-aged man awfully reminiscent of a raccoon.
The pair willingly followed them down a thin hall and opened one of the oak doors into an office.
Men in white suits were bent taking pictures, whilst others stood around taking notes and scanning the surroundings. A tall, gallant battleaxe walked over to Pry and Chart with an expressionless face. The man looked under at Pry and towered over poor Chart. He had a big, bushy ginger moustache and thinning hair hid under a beige fedora hat. Chart was convinced he wore the same coat as Pry.
"I'm Browning - we spoke over the phone." Chart found his voice unbearably deep.
"Right. I'm Pry, this is Chart. You called us here. Where's this body?"
"Where the cameras are," he winked at Pry. A wink that reeked of patronisation.
A cloth had been thrown over the spreaded slump that lay not too far away.
"This is the fellow," instructed Browning with a tutorial tone. He lifted the cloth, only revealing the lawyer's head; the back of his head which was a bloody, crimson pulp. "Vicious blow to the back of the head."
Pry was about to ask --
"And no, we don't have a weapon," Browning continued.
Constable Chart twisted his head round to see a trashed deep-brown desk. Three sets of metallic filing cabinets stood nearby - all of them ripped open and smashed in. Scraps of paper were randomly scattered everywhere.
"Most likely robbery," Browning furthered, "we're just making sure. Desk and files all barred open. I have some of my men checking the various documents etc. But it seems rather futile. Whatever it was, the killer will have certainly took it."
"You said he died two days? Before the weekend?" Inspector Pry wanted to confirm.
"That's right - at least, that's what Morrisey told me."
"Good old Morrisey," chuckled Chart.
"Well who was here Friday? Any other lawyers? This is a firm so they must be other's."
"We've deciphered it was done after hours, so to speak. Friday's is an early finish - at one or two in the afternoon depending. His secretary's said he wanted to stay late that day. Apparantly he had other work to catch up on. He dismissed her. He must've been alone. His secretary found him this morning when she came in to work as usual."
"This man was Perkins' lawyer? That's what you said," Pry commented.
"Indeed he was. That's why I've called you in."
"You are aware that Mr. Perkins edited his will slightly a few days before he died?"
"And now his lawyer's dead as well, hm? Very fishy, eh Pry?" Browning winked again.
"Hm. Very."
"Come, let's get out of here. We can talk more back at the station."
Marlena Hotel
Room 109
4:30pm
Penelope Perkins had experienced a sudden realisation that she'd been sat on her suite bed almost all day, staring longingly at a fading picture of her father. He was slightly younger in it. His hair had more flair to it, his smile seemed much more genuine and easy. She felt the tears well up in her exhausted eyes once more but she fought. She closed her eyes tightly, bit her lip. She got up from the bed and decided to take a good, long look in the mirror behind the headboard.
You are you, she thought to herself. You can't be Daddy's little girl, anymore. You have to be strong. You have to be independant. You have to -- You have -- You have to get through this without losing your sanity. You will come out on top in this. You will find who did this awful thing; not just to your father, but to you and the entire Perkins family name.
She closed her eyes again. She was indeed very tired. She took strong breaths up through her nostrils. The room swirled slightly when she fluttered open her eyelids. She yelped when the stark white telephone beside her bed buzzed into a fierce ring. She took breaths again to calm down and gingerly picked up the reciever.
"...Hello?" the voice on the other end same. Female.
"Uh...yes...hello," Penelope replied, frowning at her own stupidity. "I'm sorry. Who is this?"
"It's Jacqueline, dear. I've been trying to contact you for ages. I couldn't find where you were!"
"Well, you've found me now. I'm afraid I'm a little confused. I really don't see why you're --"
"There's something I have to talk to you about. Something I feel you ought to know." Miss Scarlet's voice oozed dilligence. It was delicate, comforting.
"Well what is it?"
Bell House
Front Garden/Hall
4:40pm
Mrs. Peacock had scurried out of her study and answered the doorbell with such a pace that she'd almost fallen over twice. She withdrew the bolt and swung it back. A man in a sergeant's uniform stood before her, his hands closed behind his back.
"You?" she cawed.
"Mrs. Peacock, may I come in?" Sergeant Grey asked as politely as he knew how.
"Why?" her eagle eyes checked him over sceptically.
"I noticed something -- about last night."
"And?"
"I thought I needed to tell someone. I've been trying to ring that damn Inspector but he's not answering."
"Well is it important?"
"I'm not sure."
A flimsy rose bush rustled nearby and it quite startled them both. Grey swished his head back to Peacock and smiled pleadingly.
"It was something I saw whilst in the Trophy Room. Somebody skimmered past. They obviously didn't know I was in there. I think I foiled a bit of their plan or something."
"Well you probably did, yes. I certainly didn't know you were in there. I don't think anybody did."
"Exactly. I feel on edge, Mrs. Peacock. What do I do?"
She sighed. "I suppose you'd better to come in." She allowed him inside, shadily made sure no one was looking, and after being satisfied that nobody was, she shut the door behind her.
The rose bush, however, had seen her. It rustled and twitched ferociously once it was clear to do so. A pair of black leather gloved hands pulled back some of the vinery and peered desperately through the small whole they had created.
Estherbridge
Police Station
DCI Browning's Office
4:45pm
DCI Browning had seated himself in his large leather chair, hands rested on the studious desk in front of him, fingertips touching. Inspector Pry and Constable Chart took the two available seats at the opposite end.
They had been talking for sometime about Archibald Perkins' will and how it had been changed to benefit a certain Miss Scarlet. Browning seemed unmoved about the whole business between the two and merely nodded when it was appropriate to do so.
"Still," he said, "I really don't see what that has to do with the killings."
"Neither do I," Pry concurred, "it does seem rather fruitless once you think about it."
"I have a suggestion, if you don't listening," Chart meekly raised a hand.
"Yes?" Browning's mane of a brow went up.
"Well, lawyers are technically confidants as well as will-keepers. We've found that Perkins was worried about something the night he died. He even said himself that he was going to be killed which must be why he changed his will. Would it be uncanny if he'd decided to tell all to his lawyer? A man not from the village. One who he could trust and so on?"
"Excellent idea," acclaimed the great DCI with a smile.
Chart smiled too. He wasn't often praised.
"Just one problem," interjected Pry with his usual grunt, "if Lowery was killed because he knew why Perkins died - how did the killer know about Lowery? How did they know that Perkins had spilled the beans on it all? And if so, we also have to consider the fact that Lowery was killed two whole days before Perkins was."
"In two completely different ways too," sighed Chart. "Perkins was carefully drugged and silently strangled. Lowery got a simple crack on the head."
"Do we have any leads on a weapon yet?" Pry asked Browning.
"Forensics say it was something long and thin but with a bulky head. Something that had a handle, plenty of swinging power. It was one tremendous bash."
"Something like a poker or a walking stick?" Chart suggested.
"Precisely."
"I would've said crowbar. Use it to dispatch Lowery and then use it to crank open all the drawers," said Pry.
"It's all just contemplation at the minute," said a truthful Browning. "We need to concentrate more on who entered the building on Friday. We should interview the florist next door to see if she saw anybody."
"Good idea," wooed Chart, "we could also show them pictures of our suspects to see if she recognises any of them."
"Sounds like a plan," Browning smirked.
"But what if it doesn't work?" cynical Pry strikes again. "We could be getting excited for nothing. She mayn't have seen anyone."
After an awkward pause, Browning replied: "You know, Pry, there's a certain pill for what you're experiencing..."
Marlena Hotel
Room 109
7:00pm
Darkness had loomed early and Penelope had been sitting on her suite baclony, enjoying a cup of hot cocoa. The moon was only half-full, looking like a particularly twisted grin. It was laughing at her. Cheshire Cat. She went back inside and placed the cream-coloured cup on the left drawer side to her bed. She eyed the telephone and recalled the conversation she'd had a few hours ago. A horrible, horrible conversation. Nothing but lies. All of it false. That silly Jacqueline Scarlet always wanting to make things up to torment people! Menancing bitch!
She wandered into the bathroom and gazed into the cabinet mirror. That same pale face. How she wanted to pick up that nearby plunger and smash it to pieces. She refrained and pulled on the handle. She touched the cool tub of sleeping pills affectionately, eventually bringing them out and staring at them with forlorn eyes. She went back to the bedroom, pills in hand.
Arlington Point
Studio
7:15pm
Joseph Boddy had found himself scribbling innacurate interpretations of Archibald Perkins' face. He tore off the large sheet of paper from the canvas, screwed it up violently and threw it into the bin in the corner. Goal. He tried to smile but couldn't do it. He longed at the empty seat that his beau usually sat in. He sighed, slotting the pencil into the metal tray attatched to his canvas. Time to find her.
He stormed out of the studio and in the hall, calling, his hands wrapped over his mouth like a foghorn: "Jacqueline! Where are you?" He walked down the hall towards the grand staircase that led upstairs. He put a foot on the first step. "I thought we might continue our painting. Whadda ya say?"
He ran upstairs and burst into their bedroom. Nothing. The silk curtains hadn't been drawn, however. He cautiously proceeded forward. Just about to pull them shut, he noticed his car had gone out of the stone driveway.
Bell House
Front Garden
7:45pm
The air had grown bitterly cold. The figure had emerged from the rose bush and had shielded themself beside the porch of the house. They had circulated round the house over a dozen times, peeking in windows under shadow covers. They were thankful for the early night-time. They gasped as the front door finally cranked open, the bright, sensory porch light mantled just above it suddenly blurting onto power. The killer receded further into the shadows, their back pressed harshly against the stony exterior of the house.
"Thank you, Mrs. Peacock," Grey's voice said. "I'm going to try and contact the police right away."
"Yes. Be careful, Malcolm. And goodnight."
"Goodnight, Mrs. Peacock."
The door closed. Grey descended down the stone steps and ventured down the drive. The porch light had gone out. The figure heaved themselves up and followed. The Sergeant was halfway to the gate when mushy footsteps from behind alerted him to turn. He didn't have a chance. What greeted him was the sharp yet blunt countenance of a wrench head. It collided against the side of his head as he yelled in anguish. He toppled to the ground. The wrench was raised again. The porch light flashed on. The door swung open in a moment and Mrs. Peacock ran onto the porch with a small pistol in her hand.
"Who's there?!" she shrieked. "I heard yells!"
She scanned the right-side of the garden before her beady eyes fell upon the slumped figure that was Sergeant Grey. Gasping, she raced down the steps, gun poised and ready. She ran up to the Sergeant and bent over him, examing the bloody blow to his head. Her eyes darting round, she saw no-one. "Sergeant!" she shook him. "Sergeant! Sergeant! Can you her me? Sergeant!"
To be continued...
Hewitt and Lowery Law Firm
D. Lowery's Office
4:15pm
Hewitt and Lowery was a surprisingly modest affair; a mere two-floored complex situated next to an equally quaint florist's and a recently closed-down barber's (rumours circulated about the owner's passport scams). The drive hadn't taken long and the relatively open road had given Pry and Chart some well-deserved air and a chance to release some of their mental burdens. They parked next to a rusted out grey van that was supposed to be pearly white. JOHN AND SON'S PLUMBING said the big, bold, blue letters on the door side. Pry read it with curiosity after slamming the car door shut and it reminded him rough city life could be. It was something he'd forgotten whilst down in the tranquil gardens of Milton-on-Hyde. Down the road, he saw two familiar jet-black cars similar to his own as well as a silent ambulance. Chart had been surveying the lawyer's block and awaited for his master's approval to head on in.
The double-doors, made of clear glass, were pulled open and the two entered. Two officers; a sergeant and a constable greeted them in the lavish reception. "Are you the guys from 'Hyde?" asked the constable; a square-faced fellow with a furry brow.
"Yeah, I'm Inspector Pry. This is Constable Chart. What's going on?"
"Just come this way," the sergeant said; a middle-aged man awfully reminiscent of a raccoon.
The pair willingly followed them down a thin hall and opened one of the oak doors into an office.
Men in white suits were bent taking pictures, whilst others stood around taking notes and scanning the surroundings. A tall, gallant battleaxe walked over to Pry and Chart with an expressionless face. The man looked under at Pry and towered over poor Chart. He had a big, bushy ginger moustache and thinning hair hid under a beige fedora hat. Chart was convinced he wore the same coat as Pry.
"I'm Browning - we spoke over the phone." Chart found his voice unbearably deep.
"Right. I'm Pry, this is Chart. You called us here. Where's this body?"
"Where the cameras are," he winked at Pry. A wink that reeked of patronisation.
A cloth had been thrown over the spreaded slump that lay not too far away.
"This is the fellow," instructed Browning with a tutorial tone. He lifted the cloth, only revealing the lawyer's head; the back of his head which was a bloody, crimson pulp. "Vicious blow to the back of the head."
Pry was about to ask --
"And no, we don't have a weapon," Browning continued.
Constable Chart twisted his head round to see a trashed deep-brown desk. Three sets of metallic filing cabinets stood nearby - all of them ripped open and smashed in. Scraps of paper were randomly scattered everywhere.
"Most likely robbery," Browning furthered, "we're just making sure. Desk and files all barred open. I have some of my men checking the various documents etc. But it seems rather futile. Whatever it was, the killer will have certainly took it."
"You said he died two days? Before the weekend?" Inspector Pry wanted to confirm.
"That's right - at least, that's what Morrisey told me."
"Good old Morrisey," chuckled Chart.
"Well who was here Friday? Any other lawyers? This is a firm so they must be other's."
"We've deciphered it was done after hours, so to speak. Friday's is an early finish - at one or two in the afternoon depending. His secretary's said he wanted to stay late that day. Apparantly he had other work to catch up on. He dismissed her. He must've been alone. His secretary found him this morning when she came in to work as usual."
"This man was Perkins' lawyer? That's what you said," Pry commented.
"Indeed he was. That's why I've called you in."
"You are aware that Mr. Perkins edited his will slightly a few days before he died?"
"And now his lawyer's dead as well, hm? Very fishy, eh Pry?" Browning winked again.
"Hm. Very."
"Come, let's get out of here. We can talk more back at the station."
Marlena Hotel
Room 109
4:30pm
Penelope Perkins had experienced a sudden realisation that she'd been sat on her suite bed almost all day, staring longingly at a fading picture of her father. He was slightly younger in it. His hair had more flair to it, his smile seemed much more genuine and easy. She felt the tears well up in her exhausted eyes once more but she fought. She closed her eyes tightly, bit her lip. She got up from the bed and decided to take a good, long look in the mirror behind the headboard.
You are you, she thought to herself. You can't be Daddy's little girl, anymore. You have to be strong. You have to be independant. You have to -- You have -- You have to get through this without losing your sanity. You will come out on top in this. You will find who did this awful thing; not just to your father, but to you and the entire Perkins family name.
She closed her eyes again. She was indeed very tired. She took strong breaths up through her nostrils. The room swirled slightly when she fluttered open her eyelids. She yelped when the stark white telephone beside her bed buzzed into a fierce ring. She took breaths again to calm down and gingerly picked up the reciever.
"...Hello?" the voice on the other end same. Female.
"Uh...yes...hello," Penelope replied, frowning at her own stupidity. "I'm sorry. Who is this?"
"It's Jacqueline, dear. I've been trying to contact you for ages. I couldn't find where you were!"
"Well, you've found me now. I'm afraid I'm a little confused. I really don't see why you're --"
"There's something I have to talk to you about. Something I feel you ought to know." Miss Scarlet's voice oozed dilligence. It was delicate, comforting.
"Well what is it?"
Bell House
Front Garden/Hall
4:40pm
Mrs. Peacock had scurried out of her study and answered the doorbell with such a pace that she'd almost fallen over twice. She withdrew the bolt and swung it back. A man in a sergeant's uniform stood before her, his hands closed behind his back.
"You?" she cawed.
"Mrs. Peacock, may I come in?" Sergeant Grey asked as politely as he knew how.
"Why?" her eagle eyes checked him over sceptically.
"I noticed something -- about last night."
"And?"
"I thought I needed to tell someone. I've been trying to ring that damn Inspector but he's not answering."
"Well is it important?"
"I'm not sure."
A flimsy rose bush rustled nearby and it quite startled them both. Grey swished his head back to Peacock and smiled pleadingly.
"It was something I saw whilst in the Trophy Room. Somebody skimmered past. They obviously didn't know I was in there. I think I foiled a bit of their plan or something."
"Well you probably did, yes. I certainly didn't know you were in there. I don't think anybody did."
"Exactly. I feel on edge, Mrs. Peacock. What do I do?"
She sighed. "I suppose you'd better to come in." She allowed him inside, shadily made sure no one was looking, and after being satisfied that nobody was, she shut the door behind her.
The rose bush, however, had seen her. It rustled and twitched ferociously once it was clear to do so. A pair of black leather gloved hands pulled back some of the vinery and peered desperately through the small whole they had created.
Estherbridge
Police Station
DCI Browning's Office
4:45pm
DCI Browning had seated himself in his large leather chair, hands rested on the studious desk in front of him, fingertips touching. Inspector Pry and Constable Chart took the two available seats at the opposite end.
They had been talking for sometime about Archibald Perkins' will and how it had been changed to benefit a certain Miss Scarlet. Browning seemed unmoved about the whole business between the two and merely nodded when it was appropriate to do so.
"Still," he said, "I really don't see what that has to do with the killings."
"Neither do I," Pry concurred, "it does seem rather fruitless once you think about it."
"I have a suggestion, if you don't listening," Chart meekly raised a hand.
"Yes?" Browning's mane of a brow went up.
"Well, lawyers are technically confidants as well as will-keepers. We've found that Perkins was worried about something the night he died. He even said himself that he was going to be killed which must be why he changed his will. Would it be uncanny if he'd decided to tell all to his lawyer? A man not from the village. One who he could trust and so on?"
"Excellent idea," acclaimed the great DCI with a smile.
Chart smiled too. He wasn't often praised.
"Just one problem," interjected Pry with his usual grunt, "if Lowery was killed because he knew why Perkins died - how did the killer know about Lowery? How did they know that Perkins had spilled the beans on it all? And if so, we also have to consider the fact that Lowery was killed two whole days before Perkins was."
"In two completely different ways too," sighed Chart. "Perkins was carefully drugged and silently strangled. Lowery got a simple crack on the head."
"Do we have any leads on a weapon yet?" Pry asked Browning.
"Forensics say it was something long and thin but with a bulky head. Something that had a handle, plenty of swinging power. It was one tremendous bash."
"Something like a poker or a walking stick?" Chart suggested.
"Precisely."
"I would've said crowbar. Use it to dispatch Lowery and then use it to crank open all the drawers," said Pry.
"It's all just contemplation at the minute," said a truthful Browning. "We need to concentrate more on who entered the building on Friday. We should interview the florist next door to see if she saw anybody."
"Good idea," wooed Chart, "we could also show them pictures of our suspects to see if she recognises any of them."
"Sounds like a plan," Browning smirked.
"But what if it doesn't work?" cynical Pry strikes again. "We could be getting excited for nothing. She mayn't have seen anyone."
After an awkward pause, Browning replied: "You know, Pry, there's a certain pill for what you're experiencing..."
Marlena Hotel
Room 109
7:00pm
Darkness had loomed early and Penelope had been sitting on her suite baclony, enjoying a cup of hot cocoa. The moon was only half-full, looking like a particularly twisted grin. It was laughing at her. Cheshire Cat. She went back inside and placed the cream-coloured cup on the left drawer side to her bed. She eyed the telephone and recalled the conversation she'd had a few hours ago. A horrible, horrible conversation. Nothing but lies. All of it false. That silly Jacqueline Scarlet always wanting to make things up to torment people! Menancing bitch!
She wandered into the bathroom and gazed into the cabinet mirror. That same pale face. How she wanted to pick up that nearby plunger and smash it to pieces. She refrained and pulled on the handle. She touched the cool tub of sleeping pills affectionately, eventually bringing them out and staring at them with forlorn eyes. She went back to the bedroom, pills in hand.
Arlington Point
Studio
7:15pm
Joseph Boddy had found himself scribbling innacurate interpretations of Archibald Perkins' face. He tore off the large sheet of paper from the canvas, screwed it up violently and threw it into the bin in the corner. Goal. He tried to smile but couldn't do it. He longed at the empty seat that his beau usually sat in. He sighed, slotting the pencil into the metal tray attatched to his canvas. Time to find her.
He stormed out of the studio and in the hall, calling, his hands wrapped over his mouth like a foghorn: "Jacqueline! Where are you?" He walked down the hall towards the grand staircase that led upstairs. He put a foot on the first step. "I thought we might continue our painting. Whadda ya say?"
He ran upstairs and burst into their bedroom. Nothing. The silk curtains hadn't been drawn, however. He cautiously proceeded forward. Just about to pull them shut, he noticed his car had gone out of the stone driveway.
Bell House
Front Garden
7:45pm
The air had grown bitterly cold. The figure had emerged from the rose bush and had shielded themself beside the porch of the house. They had circulated round the house over a dozen times, peeking in windows under shadow covers. They were thankful for the early night-time. They gasped as the front door finally cranked open, the bright, sensory porch light mantled just above it suddenly blurting onto power. The killer receded further into the shadows, their back pressed harshly against the stony exterior of the house.
"Thank you, Mrs. Peacock," Grey's voice said. "I'm going to try and contact the police right away."
"Yes. Be careful, Malcolm. And goodnight."
"Goodnight, Mrs. Peacock."
The door closed. Grey descended down the stone steps and ventured down the drive. The porch light had gone out. The figure heaved themselves up and followed. The Sergeant was halfway to the gate when mushy footsteps from behind alerted him to turn. He didn't have a chance. What greeted him was the sharp yet blunt countenance of a wrench head. It collided against the side of his head as he yelled in anguish. He toppled to the ground. The wrench was raised again. The porch light flashed on. The door swung open in a moment and Mrs. Peacock ran onto the porch with a small pistol in her hand.
"Who's there?!" she shrieked. "I heard yells!"
She scanned the right-side of the garden before her beady eyes fell upon the slumped figure that was Sergeant Grey. Gasping, she raced down the steps, gun poised and ready. She ran up to the Sergeant and bent over him, examing the bloody blow to his head. Her eyes darting round, she saw no-one. "Sergeant!" she shook him. "Sergeant! Sergeant! Can you her me? Sergeant!"
To be continued...
