"Have you ever loved someone so much, you would kill?"
The diary entry was a single line. A precursor promising much more but, regrettably, left alone on the page. What would have followed? What confession? What truth?
But truth is in the eye of the beholder, more so than the famed beauty. Or, truth is in the eye of the teller, and the author of this lonely line was remiss in completing the page. It's unfortunate the dead cannot wield a pen or, with it being mightier than a sword or the bullet that caused that small, blackened hole in her forehead, dear Linett might finish her tale. Identify her murderer.
As we travel along the Nile, past the mighty Valley of the Kings, it falls to me, Poirot, to walk where she could not. I must bring this woeful tale to a close, lest the fears of the other passengers turn to mania. Thanks to my friend Carter's unearthing of Tutankhamun's tomb so recently, they whisper of the supposed curse that followed its opening. They wonder if Anubis, Jackal headed god of the dead, is about our boat gathering souls.
Superstitions in these modern 1930s are foolish. Curses are nothing but words aimed at deceiving the weak minded. Ravenous doubts are cast that devour reason, leaving only the bones of malaise to rot in sense's twilight. I am not so easily duped. My moustache is my shield, and my words are my sword, able to cut deeper than any blade. And my grey cells, little though they are, are my army.
The diary is small. Dainty. Purple with gold embossing. One might class it as pretty, but those colour combinations are not to my liking. I prefer the natural colours of woods. Walnut. Oak. They offer a sense of stoic resilience to match my own. One I must use if I am to banish the fantastical Egyptian god and his imaginations.
Two deaths, so close together, are frightening to those not of a robust constitution. Without the lovely Linett's entry, a clear confession, we could have cause to turn back. That would be disappointing. This cruise is for my benefit as for theirs. My constant sleuthing tires me so. Tranquillity is hard to find and harder to embrace.
Mr Doyle's stabbing yesterday was unavoidable. He was a brash man to whom respect was a requirement, earned or not. He demanded it and, in doing so, stripping it to a carcass. Linett did her best to resist his advances, but the protests of a woman often go unheard to such a man. So, he was stabbed and the weapon, a long, serrated knife left on the table from our earlier banquet, disposed of.
Then the fracas began. Screams are so much louder when there is no escape, and a river boat allows none.
Our romance was brief and intense and consuming, but had to end. The gunshot silenced her guilt at my actions, and the diary disguised my own.
And now, I can relax.
The Nile is truly beautiful at night.
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Shadows of Anubis was written for the Death on the Nile contest. The challenge was to write a 500 word story with "Have you ever loved someone so much, you would kill?" as the starter. It also had to be only 2000 characters, so I had to shorten it significantly. The resulting piece is posted in the comments of the challenge.
I do hope you enjoyed stepping into Poirot's shoes!
I'm dedicating this to my good friend who gave me the nudge about the contest. Thanks!
