Fiction - Three Men
Three men sat in the drawing room under the fog of tobacco smoke, lascivious beverages gone warm in their hands as they stared through prescription lenses and down their age-grown noses at the body of the now late Mr. Alexander Crumble. It had been quite a sight when, among talks of politics and business, the gentleman had gone white as sugar, spewed froth from his lips, and fell to the floor in a seizing fit that left him, as it still did, face down on the Persian rug he’d procured for less than a hundred pounds just the year prior. It was doubtful his estate would make much of a profit off it in his wake but the three men who sat cozy in their high-backed, leather arm chairs seemed to have more than just financial practicalities on their minds.
Still, it was odd when Mr. Davies, notable banker and--noteworthy enough to mention-executor of Mr. Crumble’s last will and testament signed not a fortnight past, took from his lips the dark wood pipe and in a slightly higher pitch that normal inquired, “Foul play?”
The other two men, shocked from their stupor, nodded in silent agreement.
Dr. Webb put his brandy down on the tall oak side table and crossed his hands in his lap. His wrinkled knuckles buckled together like compact caterpillars, the tufts of hair and spots on both making for a not too unlike comparison. He sat upright in his chair, clearing his throat for an inordinate amount of time, sounding more like a warning of an oncoming cold than a warning of oncoming comment from the most boring man in the room. “It would seem he died of some kind of poison,” the doctor surmised; not a real doctor, of course, but a dentist. He eyed the body through spectacles thick as crumpets but did not so much as lean forward to get a better look.
It wasn’t until Mr. Fry reached out with the toe of his left loafer and gently nudged the body that anyone interacted with it since Mr. Crumble had taken his leave and left it on the rug. The body groaned and Mr. Fry pulled his foot back quickly, sitting straight against the brown leather of his chair with his usually dull eyes bright with fright.
“They do that sometimes,” Dr. Webb explained. “Don’t worry; he’s quite dead.”
“Well, that’s the problem, isn’t it?” Mr. Fry proclaimed. Mysophobic by reputation and Mr. Crumble’s son-in-law by marriage to his only daughter, Mr. Fry was the youngest of the three but only just. Living off a stipend from his great aunt, the gentleman had never worked a day in his life thus had time to procure odd ways about cleanliness and disease. He took the handkerchief from his jacket pocket and wiped at the toe on his shoe to clean away the touch of death. “You know what this means, don’t you?”
“I should say so. I believe all of us are quite aware of exactly what this means. Aren’t we, Dr. Webb.” Mr. Davies asked, gesturing with his pipe as his fat, red lips let out a puff of grey smoke.
The doctor nodded solemnly, choosing to look at neither for the moment.
“It means,” and here Mr. Davies paused as no doubt he’d seen many an orator or thespian do, “that someone in this room killed him.”
There was a small domed clock on the mantle, arms stretched to eight and three ticks past the four though the roman numerals read "IV" rather than the traditional "IIII". Next to it were the the portraits of Mr. Crumble, Mrs. Crumble, and Ms. Crumble before her marriage. They were not an attractive family. Mr. Crumble had been white of hair since his late teens, cheeks potholed by terrible acne from the same years and possessed a weak chin that sagged into his neck like the tuck of a duvet. Mrs. Crumble was of the sort that was remembered as frail and dainty by those who knew her in her youth and as a rotund woman of 15 stone to those unfortunate enough to have seen her in her greying years--misfortune coming from the taste of her perfume that one could chew from the air. For three weeks, not even a ceder coffin and six feet of soil above her could absorb the floral scent fully. Adding wreaths of flowers along her plot seemed overkill.
Ms. Crumble-now-Fry was a near perfect mixture of the two: fat anckled and grey templed with the overpowering smell of brandy in accompaniment. With her father's thin lips and potholes of acne scars along her breasts, no one could deny it was Mr. Crumble who sired her--though such doubts would be absurd against Mrs. Crumble's good character; it was not the Missus of the household who was sinful in adultery. Some of the house staff still swore that on the night that Mrs. Crumble died, it was the sound of her husband's moans in chorus with that of the chamber maid's behind the locked doors of the billiard room that sent her heart into a panic. The table did always sag a bit on the one end.
Having heard the not-so-subtle suspicion in Mr. Davies's words, Mr. Fry sputtered wildly like a gasping fish, planting his feet firmly on the floor with a muffled thud against the worthless rug. "Surely you don't mean you suspect me!"
"And why shouldn't I?" the banker asked. He puffed his pipe. "It's a well known fact that you've come into some money troubles; gambling, was it? As executor of Mr. Crumble's will, I'll make damned sure a murderer like yourself never sees a penny of his estate; you or your wife."
"That's absurd!" The gentleman turned to Dr. Webb. "That's utterly absurd! Tell the man that he's completely gone mental!"
"Too right. Mr. Davies, you can't withhold inheritance to the poor girl on account of her husband's misdeeds."
"It was her crime to marry a murderer in the first place."
"Too right."
"No! I'd never kill my father-in-law!" Mr. Fry stood, hands shaking at his sides as he looked to the doctor for understanding. "How can you believe him, Dr. Webb, when you've only just now heard straight from his own lips his motive for committing this atrocity? I tell you, it was Mr. Davies who killed him!"
"What's this now?" Mr. Davies inquired.
"Yes, I mean it just as you heard! You've given yourself away for you are as clumsy of words as you are greedy for worth. You planned to frame me for this murder as reason to withhold all rights on Mr. Crumble's estate! I'm sure you would have gone forward with the facade of diligently selling off his possessions to clear his debts while pocketing the lot for your own gain!"
"Sit down, Mr. Fry." Dr. Webb instructed. "There's no need to get excited."
"No need? I'm being accused of murder by the very man who did it!"
The body on the floor made an intestinal grumble, perhaps a death rattle caught too low in the bowels. One could hear it snaking through his guts like soda water through a straw, full of bubbles and hisses that made Mr. Fry apply his handkerchief to his own face should an unpleasant odor soon accompany the racket.
"Don't worry, that's quite normal." the doctor assured them.
They waited until the rumbling gut stilled before continuing their disagreement.
"Come now, Mr. Fry. Pointing the finger at me when I know for a fact that I am an innocent man will convince me of nothing." Mr. Davies noted with audible amusement at the very idea.
The gentleman's fists clenched tight. "Well, I too know that I am innocent!"
"Well then," Dr. Webb injected, "If you are both innocent men then perhaps he poisoned himself? He was the one who poured the drinks after all. Perhaps he had intended to kill rather than be killed."
"Are you alluding to some fact that we are unaware of that would give our host cause to murder? Or is it more that he had reason to want you dead."
"Ah, yes!" Mr. Fry stood again, a smile on his face as he rounded the coffee table to stand apart from the doctor. "Now I recall! Mr. Crumble complained regularly of a tooth ache that would not subside. A testament to your practice, I should think, as he claimed it started with your meddling and since then had never subsided. Did he not once accuse you of extortion for causing wealthy men pain just to wring them of their cash for a cure?"
The doctor seemed flustered and shifted in his seat, heavy glasses slipping down to the bulb of his nose. "Now, then. That was ages past. Mr. Crumble and I have been on good terms for months. Why else would he accept me in his company on this night?"
The three men gave pause at that.
It had been a surprise to the household when Mr. Crumble had returned home from the races with company. A hasty dinner had to be made while the three spoke of luck and predetermination, exchanging tips and stories of victories and losses over meat pies and gravy. Mr. Crumble had been in an extraordinarily good mood despite the miserable performance of his horse. In truth, it had been ages since there had been company to sit in the parlor and converse endlessly as the quartet seemed keen on doing--something unseen in years since Mrs. Crumble's death. Mr. Crumble had no taste for the company of men when he was affluent enough to afford attractive female staff to idle away his widower years with, willing towards his advances or not. It was not unheard of in the household for young and stupid girls to be found crying in the cinders by the kitchen fire with moans of ruin. Enough money could make almost anyone shut up and do what they were told, though. Almost.
"Perhaps you plotted ahead of yourself." Mr. Davies surmised as he looked over the well dressed dentist. "A bit of liquor is a well known cure for toothache. Perhaps, while you were messing about in his mouth, you put something in that would react with liquor and kill him immediately. Then you would not have even had to have been present to have him murdered."
Dr. Webb's hands gripped the armrests, leather creaking in his grasp. "Sir, that is utterly preposterous! I have no idea what sort of witchcraft you are accusing me of in that lie. Furthermore, if I had done such a thing, why would I have then followed him home on invitation knowing what would come of it?"
"To gloat, perhaps. Or to be sure you succeeded."
"Surely looking through the morning papers would have given enough support to his death." Dr. Webb scoffed, standing up and crossing to the mantel and the odd clock sitting upon it. "I tell you, I would have nothing to do with such a plot! Mr. Crumble's death is outside my influence!"
"Well, we can't all three be innocent."
The banker puffed his pipe. "Then perhaps Dr. Webb was right in the beginning when he said it was Mr. Crumble himself who mistakenly cause his own murder."
"Ah, but there you are wrong!" Mr. Fry sounded triumphant in his knowledge of things familiar. "Mr. Crumble always drank from the same glass; it was his favorite. He said the shape and heft of it felt right in his hand like no other, despite the fact that I have seen that same glass many times and it is no more unique than a twenty pound note. He would never mistake his own glass for someone else's or vice versa. If there was something in his drink, he couldn't have put it there."
"Perhaps suicide?"
"From a happy, god fearing man?"
"Maybe the butler. It's always the butler!"
"The butler was called away to the kitchen, remember? Long before the drinks were served."
"We should call the police."
"And tell them what?" Mr. Davies asked. "I'm still not certain either of you won't try to point the finger at me with some sort of profiteering nonsense."
Mr. Fry wrung his handkerchief in his hands. "As though you've given us any reason not to suppose you'd try and convince them it was me and my gambling debts?"
"Or me, with that nonsense from earlier. Such scandal would ruin me!" Dr. Webb exclaimed.
"Now, now, we'll soon sort this all out." Mr. Davies said, rubbing at the wrinkled flesh of his brow. "You, there. Bring us something to drink. I think we may be here a while still."
I crossed my ankles a gave a short curtsy of compliance. "Yes, sir. Would you perhaps care to be moved to the library to continue without Mr. Crumble's interruptions?"
"I think that's a splendid idea," Mr. Fry noted.
The three men carried themselves to the door with Mr. Fry to lead as he knew best the house's layout.
"Don't you worry your pretty little head; we'll soon get to the bottom of this." Dr. Webb called back.
I smiled slightly, gave a polite curtsy one last time, then took the tray from the table with which to collect the still half full glasses. I made sure to step on, not over, the hand that lay palm down on the rug as I traveled to the end tables and filled my tray, careful of where I touched the poison rimmed glass that had fallen on the floor.