Sun Spots (short story collection)

Who Done It?

 Author's Note - Genre was a 1940s mystery thriller. Key prompts from Cluedo are in bold, plus a choice of quotation - full list is in the Challenge doc.  Word limit three pages.

 

 

 

"Secretary Murders Widowed Mistress in London LoveNest!"

Vivian Sherlock glanced from the screaming headline on her daily newspaper to the pale young man sitting on the other side of her desk. He was perched on the edge of his seat, his clenched hands well on the way to ruining the brim of his hat. His adam's apple bobbed nervously. 

Vivian blew a perfect smoke ring through pursed red lips and frowned. She studied him for a moment before shifting her feet off the heavy desk and stubbing out her cigarette.  

"Say that again?" she asked. 

"Nigel is innocent!" insisted the young man. His voice began to rise. "He's a civilised man, sensitive. He would never hit someone on the head like that, not with a spanner! All that blood!" he shuddered. 

Vivian looked at the paper again. "It says here the police have an eye witness," she said flatly. 

"They can't have, it must be a mistake." The young man swallowed. "Nigel had no motive. Despite what the papers say, he wasn't her lover." 

Vivian raised a sceptical eyebrow. A blush rose in the cheeks of the young man opposite, but he continued to meet her gaze. "Maybe not," she conceded, "But he was caught with a gold snuff box in his pocket. Robbery could be motive enough!" 

"It was a gift!" protested her would-be-client. "My aunt loved to dance. Nigel is an elegant dancer and sometimes he would escort her to dances. She promised it to him, as a token of her thanks." His cheeks were now scarlet. "I am her sole heir, and I say it was a gift." 

Vivian turned her eyes back to the newspaper. Who was the investigating officer? A flicker of interest crossed her face for the first time. It was her old nemesis, Inspector Felix. A picture of his foxhound face and toothbrush moustache, rose into her mind. She remembered the last time they had crossed paths, when he had dared to call her 'love' and told her to go home and stop meddling in police business. She ground her teeth at the memory. The nerve of the man! Which one of them had years of experience, working undercover for the British government during the war, for heaven's sake? 

Until that moment Vivian had been going to regretfully decline. It seemed the case was open and shut and she didn't want to take a punter's money for nothing. She had some standards, after all. 

"Will you take the case?" the young man was asking, a sense of desperation in his voice.  

She changed her mind and smiled at the young man. "Very well, Mr Ainsworth. I'll take the case." 

~~~  

A couple of hours later she stood outside the door of Number 56 Devonshire Place. She was wearing a smart red jacket over stylish grey trousers, so much more practical than a skirt. A red beret sat jauntily atop her dark blond curls. A stately butler opened the door, and looked down his patrician nose at her. He probably disapproved of women in trousers on principle. 

"Good afternoon," said Vivian, confidently. "My name is Vivian Sherlock. I have been engaged by Mrs Peacock's nephew, Mr Ainsworth, to look into the circumstances surrounding his aunt's death." 

The butler's eyes popped. Without waiting for an invitation, Vivian strode passed him and entered the house.  

"You must be Mr Henderson," announced Vivian, smoothly. "Have you been with the family long?"