Dead Man's Bells

The Inspector & The Governess

The Inspector

Detective Inspector Grey, had been working on murder cases for 30 years. He was highly respected in the local community and the force. One valuable lesson he had learned, which he repeated incessantly to his co-worker and understudy Sergeant Mort, was that people were rarely what they appeared or said to be and that anyone under the right influences (anger, alcohol or betrayal) could be a murderer. Inspector Grey, was having a delightful dinner with his wife when the phone bell trilled through their little cottage. As soon as he turned up to the house, the silent stillness of death had already swallowed it whole. He knew this imprint well and new it was there to stay for a long time, as he had visited houses like this far too many times. When he entered the solemn house, the weeping cook greeted him, and from what he could decipher from her words repressed by tearful sobs, she had been the one to find the victim. Her red eyes were clouded in disbelief, and she recounted her story to the detective; Mrs Craig-Hart had noticed Mr Craig-Hart's absence and sent her to find him. She checked his study first, finding him slumped in his chair, eyes fixated on the ceiling, his pallid face beaded in cold sweat. She suppressed a rising scream in her throat and rushed towards him, and shook his shoulders when his body fell forwards; he was not responding. Panicked she checked his pulse, but the absence of the soft beating on his wrist sent the cook running downstairs, shrieking out the news of his death. Inspected Grey nodded in thanks, and sent away the distressed woman. To confirm her story he would have to visit Mrs Craig-Hart next.

Mrs Craig-Hart played the perfect role of the distraught wife, thought Sergeant Mort. She mastered the distant, vacant gaze and the glossy, but clouded eyes which were spiraling in incredulity. The most common occurrence was that the jealous wife or husband did it, but the Inspector reminded himself when he mentioned this; everyone is innocent until proven guilty. Mrs Craig-Hart was finishing her version of events, nervously wringing her hands, "...and that's when she burst in and screamed "murder!" So I went—",
"So she came in saying murder?" Interrupted the Inspector.
"Yes, that's what she said." Repeated Mrs Craig-Hart accusingly, and only the Inspector's furious scribbling in his note pad, filled the following uneasy silence. When they finished interviewing the residences, they went up to the crime scene, where Miss Polly Mable was studying the body and noting down the crime scene checking for signs of a struggle or a murder weapon. As soon as the inspectors stepped in the room, Miss Mable began reciting her notes. "No sign of forced entry or struggle,'' she stated as Sargent Mort scanned the scene. The square study was infestered with Death's presence, an endless void of silence in the fire lit house. Mr Craig-Hart's eyes had been respectfully closed and his body sat, as if frozen in a picture. His skin as pale as the moon's surface, was drowning in a sheen of grease and sweat.
The inspectors went to each and every house of the guests, who were invited to the party. Most had confirmed what had been said in previous statements, some even suggested it was the wife, Mrs Craig-Hart who had killed her husband in cold blood.

The Governess

The next couple of days were quiet and reserved, the children were grieving and even poor Agatha could sense something was amiss; no laughter from the children echoed the haul ways, no smiling tickles came to her when she cried, only the cold lonely abandonment gently cradled her back to sleep. Miss Peridot had come to her rescue at first, but Mrs Craig-Hart simply sent her away saying firmly, "It is time she learned self discipline." Now, only Agatha's long-full wails could be heard throughout the house. Mrs Craig-Hart had become more distant and resentful. The inspectors came a couple of times, and insisted to speak to her. Miss Peridot had found her one evening, when the inspectors had just left, on the floor cradling herself arms wrapped so tightly around her knees her knuckles had turned white. She didn't hear Miss Peridot approach, as she rocked herself gently. Miss Peridot cautiously called her name, but she did not answer. She gathered her skirts and strode to her side, crouching and took her weak shaking hand. Miss Peridot gazed deep in the eyes of Mrs Craig-Hart, cascading out came tears of remorse. "They won't believe me." She whispered, "I tell them over and over that it was not me. But I know they won't believe me." She muttered a little louder this time. Miss Peridot squeezed her feeble hands and whipped a tear away from her cheek. "You'll be alright." She replied firmly, "even if we have to figure it out ourselves who killed him." Mrs Craig-Hart stared at her in disbelief. "You... you believe me?" She suddenly wrapped her in a warm swaddling embrace. A bubbling laugh, rose in Mrs Craig-Hart's throat, as she looked at her new friend. Even the word felt foreign on her lips, like a baby's first word, it had been so long since she had anyone to confide in. Eventually, she met Miss Peridot's eyes and smiled a genuine smile, "you can call me Mary." Miss Peridot returned her smile, but did not offer her name.
"Now," said Miss Peridot, "let's get ready for dinner." She offered her hand, and Mary clung onto it like a little child dependent on the bond of their touching hands. You might wonder why Miss Peridot had forgiven Mrs Craig-Hart so easily, and in truth it is simple; as Mrs Craig-Hart tore her soul open to her,  many thoughts penetrated Miss Peridot's head and persistently corrupted her in guilt. She deserved to be loved and to feel that excitement in the pit of her stomach every time she saw them. Therefore, Miss Peridot decided to visit the officers and re-evaluate her statement, to note that she did in fact remember who was arguing.
The dinner was one of the best they'd had in a long time, even before the murder, and once again warm voices filled the empty void of the house.