Na-NOT-WriMo Submission 2
Client - kt_peasant
Theme - 1920s thriller
Sentence - 'Jamieson cursed silently, but it was too little, too late. He'd broken the most important rule - keep the monologue internal.'
Death of a Scientist
“Why, Inspector Sullivan, ah do declare that ah have nevah been so insulted in mah whole sweet life!”
The Southern Belle accent was as fake as my teeth... and my teeth were made from a Chinaman's shinbones. I ground them together for a moment then took a swig from my hip flask. No-one begrudged me. I'd been in the Trenches, years before. They knew what I'd seen.
“Madam, I only enquired to your wherabouts on the evening of the fourth. Nothing more. However, your response does betray something of a guilty conscience...”
Her eyes flickered over to the clergyman for a moment. But a moment was all it took for a man like me; who'd learned how to keep a straight face sat playing poker with Canadians while the Bosche rained down shells on us day and night.
Time for me to bring this to a close.
I walked over and locked the door to the study, making a show of pocketing the key. A tricked I'd learned from the smug little Belgian before he'd gotten himself shot by that fat Bulgarian chambermaid.
Five faces looked at me expectantly. Professor Greene, botanist and relative of the deceased. The Rt Honourable James Jamieson Esq, Member of Parliament for Sutton-on-the-Wold and part of the Home Office. Doctor Schmidt, German immigrant, veteran of the Great War, village medical practitioner.
The last were Ms Fotheringham, the fake Southern Belle whom I knew was actually a governess from Stoke-on-Trent and tied up in a nice little jewel pilfering racket. Then Reverend Mulligan, purported newly appointed vicar to the Parish, but just now given away as Fotheringham's accomplice in the village.
“It's clear now, what we're looking at. The murder of Reginald Wallace was motivated by profit. He was tied up in some... could you clarify his work for me, Professor?”
The thin man coughed. “My cousin was working with exotic plants, Inspector, from the Dark Continent, South America and Far Asia.”
“Quite,” I said, “Exotic plants that made it simple for him to be poisoned and have it look like an accident. And you, Ms Fotheringham, as the fiancee of the deceased would be set to inherit the not insubstanial fortune he had accrued through his previous work. Reverend Mulligan could supply you with an indisputable alibi, and both of your parts could easily be covered up.”
The woman looked ready to burst into tears. The Reverend looked frustrated.
“But what of the theft of the dossiers and vials the day after the murder?” I mused aloud, having already devised the answer.
“Ah,” said the Professor in his nasal whine, “I can clear that up for you now, Inspector. My cousin's work was quite... dangerous, and I did not wish it to fall into the wrong hands in this troubled time, and I was unsure who to trust. Now that you seem to have fingered our culprit, I feel safe in revealing that to you.”
The Rt Honourable James Jamieson spoke up. “Well, that's just excellent, what? We shall have these two clapped in irons and off to prison in no time, eh? I think all that remains is for me to take custody of Mr Wallace's work and then I can be off back to London.”
“For you to take custody of it, sir?” I asked.
“Why yes. If it's as dangerous as the Professor implies, then it's best kept away from prying eyes and studied by our finest scientific minds... as it should have been all along, if I might add!” He shot a sidelong glance at Professor Greene. It wasn't a comradely look.
“That would never have been his wish!” said the Professor. His voice had risen almost to a shout. “He wrote to me of his work and...”
“You know of the details of his work?” Jamieson interrupted. “Then I think that you ought to come back to London with me, in order to... hmm, oversee our boys, eh?”
I turned to face the man. “Mr Jamieson, you've said previously that you came from London to speak to the deceased. Might I ask if those discussions were focused on Mr Wallace returning with you to London to carry on his work under your auspices?”
“I don't see how that's relevant, Inspector. Now, let's proceed with the business locking these criminals away, hmm?”
I sighed. “Please, Mr Jamieson, would you answer my question?”
“Work such as this should only have been carried out with the proper supervision, care and... purpose.” He paused for a moment. “Ah, if only we had had Wallace's knowledge in the Great War, we could have turned the tide and mopped up the Hun long before we all got tired of it. We could blunt a few more noses and remind our subjects in the Empire who they owe their fealty to. Well, soon, soon. The Hun will get what's coming and the rest of Europe will learn who's in charge.”
Jamieson looked up and saw me staring at him. He cursed silently, but it was too little, too late. He'd broken the most important rule - keep the monologue internal.
A little pistol was in his hand in a flash, pointed at me.
“Surrounded by men of such little vision. It's always the way, but you shan't stop progress, Inspector, you shan't stop Britain. She shall...”
A confused look spread across his face before he crumpled slackly to the floor. Behind him stood Doctor Schmidt, a syringe in his hand and a dark look on his face.
“There must never be another Great War, Thomas,” he said.
“Quite right, Dieter, quite right,” I replied to my oldest friend.
Theme - 1920s thriller
Sentence - 'Jamieson cursed silently, but it was too little, too late. He'd broken the most important rule - keep the monologue internal.'
Death of a Scientist
“Why, Inspector Sullivan, ah do declare that ah have nevah been so insulted in mah whole sweet life!”
The Southern Belle accent was as fake as my teeth... and my teeth were made from a Chinaman's shinbones. I ground them together for a moment then took a swig from my hip flask. No-one begrudged me. I'd been in the Trenches, years before. They knew what I'd seen.
“Madam, I only enquired to your wherabouts on the evening of the fourth. Nothing more. However, your response does betray something of a guilty conscience...”
Her eyes flickered over to the clergyman for a moment. But a moment was all it took for a man like me; who'd learned how to keep a straight face sat playing poker with Canadians while the Bosche rained down shells on us day and night.
Time for me to bring this to a close.
I walked over and locked the door to the study, making a show of pocketing the key. A tricked I'd learned from the smug little Belgian before he'd gotten himself shot by that fat Bulgarian chambermaid.
Five faces looked at me expectantly. Professor Greene, botanist and relative of the deceased. The Rt Honourable James Jamieson Esq, Member of Parliament for Sutton-on-the-Wold and part of the Home Office. Doctor Schmidt, German immigrant, veteran of the Great War, village medical practitioner.
The last were Ms Fotheringham, the fake Southern Belle whom I knew was actually a governess from Stoke-on-Trent and tied up in a nice little jewel pilfering racket. Then Reverend Mulligan, purported newly appointed vicar to the Parish, but just now given away as Fotheringham's accomplice in the village.
“It's clear now, what we're looking at. The murder of Reginald Wallace was motivated by profit. He was tied up in some... could you clarify his work for me, Professor?”
The thin man coughed. “My cousin was working with exotic plants, Inspector, from the Dark Continent, South America and Far Asia.”
“Quite,” I said, “Exotic plants that made it simple for him to be poisoned and have it look like an accident. And you, Ms Fotheringham, as the fiancee of the deceased would be set to inherit the not insubstanial fortune he had accrued through his previous work. Reverend Mulligan could supply you with an indisputable alibi, and both of your parts could easily be covered up.”
The woman looked ready to burst into tears. The Reverend looked frustrated.
“But what of the theft of the dossiers and vials the day after the murder?” I mused aloud, having already devised the answer.
“Ah,” said the Professor in his nasal whine, “I can clear that up for you now, Inspector. My cousin's work was quite... dangerous, and I did not wish it to fall into the wrong hands in this troubled time, and I was unsure who to trust. Now that you seem to have fingered our culprit, I feel safe in revealing that to you.”
The Rt Honourable James Jamieson spoke up. “Well, that's just excellent, what? We shall have these two clapped in irons and off to prison in no time, eh? I think all that remains is for me to take custody of Mr Wallace's work and then I can be off back to London.”
“For you to take custody of it, sir?” I asked.
“Why yes. If it's as dangerous as the Professor implies, then it's best kept away from prying eyes and studied by our finest scientific minds... as it should have been all along, if I might add!” He shot a sidelong glance at Professor Greene. It wasn't a comradely look.
“That would never have been his wish!” said the Professor. His voice had risen almost to a shout. “He wrote to me of his work and...”
“You know of the details of his work?” Jamieson interrupted. “Then I think that you ought to come back to London with me, in order to... hmm, oversee our boys, eh?”
I turned to face the man. “Mr Jamieson, you've said previously that you came from London to speak to the deceased. Might I ask if those discussions were focused on Mr Wallace returning with you to London to carry on his work under your auspices?”
“I don't see how that's relevant, Inspector. Now, let's proceed with the business locking these criminals away, hmm?”
I sighed. “Please, Mr Jamieson, would you answer my question?”
“Work such as this should only have been carried out with the proper supervision, care and... purpose.” He paused for a moment. “Ah, if only we had had Wallace's knowledge in the Great War, we could have turned the tide and mopped up the Hun long before we all got tired of it. We could blunt a few more noses and remind our subjects in the Empire who they owe their fealty to. Well, soon, soon. The Hun will get what's coming and the rest of Europe will learn who's in charge.”
Jamieson looked up and saw me staring at him. He cursed silently, but it was too little, too late. He'd broken the most important rule - keep the monologue internal.
A little pistol was in his hand in a flash, pointed at me.
“Surrounded by men of such little vision. It's always the way, but you shan't stop progress, Inspector, you shan't stop Britain. She shall...”
A confused look spread across his face before he crumpled slackly to the floor. Behind him stood Doctor Schmidt, a syringe in his hand and a dark look on his face.
“There must never be another Great War, Thomas,” he said.
“Quite right, Dieter, quite right,” I replied to my oldest friend.