Nimbly, Minerva hopped down from her airship onto the uneven avenue and, inhaling deeply, she shakily walked up to the front door of number one-seven-two.
Timidly, Dupine tapped on the solid oak door. Following a few second wait the door was flung open by a young man, of average height and with a four day old stubble clinging to his chin. Balanced, dangerously on his hip was a six month old baby dressed merely in a nappy and striped shirt. Awkwardly the man stroked his chin. “Come on in” he mumbled as he caught sight of her detective badge.
The detective stepped through the doorway and into the hallway, the walls were deep red and the floorboards creaked as she was lead to the living room. Battered, leather sofas and armchairs, with faded cushions strewn across them , were placed, at odd angles, around the room. Against one wall, an old bookcase ,barely containing any books, stood and on a cold, iron table sat a candlestick telephone and a scrappy notebook, with numbers scrawled on it. The newly widowed man, gestured to a chair, “Take a seat, detective” he muttered, nervously.
Dupine perched upon a roughly cut, wooden stool topped with a tatty cushion: took a deep breath and swallowed, “Mr Storm, I hate to be the bearer of bad news, so it is with regret that I inform you, your wife was a victim of a tragic event” She drew in another breath and carried on, “I am afraid, she will not be coming back, her body has been taken to the morgue on 25th Street” By now, she had created a breathing pattern, and thus: took another breath before continuing, “As a favour to you, I can look after your child if you wish to visit the morgue this afternoon?”
Storm’s husband sat with his head in his hands, tears spilling from his weary eyes. The baby had been placed on the floor, where it sat, looking up at Minerva with a manner of intrigue. “Mr Storm,” Minerva began, “As I mentioned, I hate to be the bearer of bad news and I will do all in my power to find out what happened, but first I need to know. Do you have any reason to suspect that this may have been murder?”
He began, his voice quavering. “A couple of weeks ago, she did mention she was suspicious of someone, the man from the automobile garage, Mr Philander Packer, I believe” He inhaled deeply before continuing, “She went to the police about him, I haven’t seen her since then.” His grip on the chair arms tightened as a lone tear trickled down his face. Dupine stood up and silently dropped a business card on the side table, “If you need anything just call” She told him, before turning on her heel and letting herself out the house.
As her brown, lace-up boots clip clopped along the cobbled street: she graced her way towards the dirigible. Ascending the ladder, she climbed aboard, taking in one last breath of fresh air before her journey towards the morgue. When the airship stopped, twas not at the morgue, yet at a run down looking shop. The bell above the door jingled as she entered the shop, and she walked up to a large display of camera films. Carefully scanning the shelves she picked up a box of films and placed them down on the wooden counter.
“Can I also have a bag of herbal drops please?” She asked the old cashier, he mumbled an almost silent “Yes”, before shakily climbing an unstable ladder, to retrieve her purchase. Using a pair of well aged bronze scales, he weighed the sweets, before tipping them into a paper bag and handing them to her. “That will be 5 new coins please” He smiled, bagging the camera films. She produced the coins and dropped them into his open palm, running the items through the till, he placed the money inside and paid her a cheery goodbye.
