Out on a Limb

Two for Tea

"Whatever it is that's running through your head, Ferguson, I suggest you wrap it up.  Constance is expecting me for a late dinner, and if I'm going to kill you and be home in time for the salad course we should really move this along."

Ferguson shook himself free of his contemplation, and an unexpectedly pleasant smile overtook his features. It wasn't exactly what Donald expected, but given the man's exceptional status as a devious sonofabitch it didn't exactly surprise him either.

"You're actually serious, aren't you?" When Donald gave him a quick nod in the affirmative his wiry brows cocked high.  "All these years I've been trying to figure you out, and that's the missing piece?"

He didn't wait for an answer, but started to laugh at the rhetorical question, and was overwhelmed by one of his coughing fits and reached for the silk handkerchief lying carelessly on his desk. He wheezed and coughed profusely into the silken, double-folded square of cloth, inhaling and exhaling as deeply as his withered lungs would allow. The fit doubled in ferocity for a moment until he finally collected himself and pulled away the material, leaving a thick string of spittle to draw a glistening, spider-like strand between his monogrammed initials and ancient, cracked lips.

He glanced down at the handkerchief for a moment and scowled, then seemingly dismissed his thoughts and carelessly kneaded at the item, turning his focus back to Donald.

"You killed Evelyn?"

Another rhetorical question, Donald assumed, but this one he answered.  "I did."

"Prove it."

He inclined his head with curiosity.

Ferguson mirrored his movement with the tip of his own head and cleared his throat passed the remnants of the lingering tickle.

"Have you ever heard the sound of a neck breaking? It's very satisfying. Like snapping twigs over your knee."

The words were said with such simplicity they could only be true, and Ferguson felt the tickle in his throat morph from a slight itch into a full lump. He reached for his tea sitting on its warming plate and took a deep sip from the oddly dainty floral cup. The lump passed for a moment but quickly resettled in place.

"How do I know you aren't lying?" His words were slightly raspy now and he sipped again from his cup.

Donald smiled and watched the old man's hand tremble, knowing full well it was a combination of old age, fear, rage, and something else, too. He reached into the small, zippered pocket of his pants and withdrew the item he had tucked in it just before going out the window, set it down directly between them and smiled.

"I thought you'd never ask."

Ferguson looked down at the item in question and a tiny surge of bile rose inside of him.

"You do recognize that, don't you?"

One might argue it could have been anyone's severed and cauterized finger they were looking at, but the large bauble ring and decorative rhinestone set into the acrylic nail (unconvincingly meant to persuade onlookers into thinking it was a diamond) guaranteed it belonged to none other than the missing (and now presumed dead) Evelyn Blair.

"You really killed her," he whispered, suddenly unable to take more than the shallowest of breaths.

"I really did," Donald said with his own agreement. He deftly plucked the finger off the desk and put it back in his pocket. "Sorry, this one is mine. I didn't think to take one for you."

The putrefied appendage was distasteful to be sure, but it wasn't so gross that it should have turned Ferguson's constitution so thoroughly the way it now did. His stomach clenched and cramped and threatened to push its meagre contents up and onto his desk. His rectum simultaneously toyed with the idea of ejecting other liquids out the sides of his adult diaper and onto his hundred-thousand-dollar ostrich-skinned chair. He used his handkerchief to wipe his perspiring forehead and downed the last of his tea, but it did nothing to soothe his throat, instead burning its way down and leaving the acrid flavour of blood behind.

Proof provided and now safely tucked away for deposit back into his box of mementos at home, Donald stood up from the desk and withdrew another item from his pocket. Ferguson's physical discomfort took momentary pause as he stared at this new item with confusion, and then renewed anger.

"Since when did you start carrying a handkerchief?"

Donald's smile widened a fraction or two and he held up the silken cloth that was identical to the one the old man clutched in his hand.

"Actually, this is your handkerchief. The one you're holding belongs to me."

Ferguson looked to the foreign cloth in his own hand and dropped it as if the thing were on fire.

"What have you done to me?" he asked, and as if on cue his chest tightened, and he broke into another fit of coughing and wheezing.

Donald didn't respond, but quietly knelt down, folded the dropped cloth using the one in his hand and carefully picked up both items, then pushed the folded square into the empty tea cup and without so much as a word took everything and left the room for the large ensuite off to the right.

Ferguson knew he was neither strong enough nor quick enough to pull himself out of his chair in time to see what was going on, so he could only wait, a true sense of panic welling inside of him. He was full of contradictory emotions and sensations, and like the way his stomach behaved with its up and down paradox, he felt like his eighty-two year old testicles fell another inch towards the floor while his penis pulled in the opposite direction and tried to retract into his body the way a turtle pulled its neck back and tucked its exposed head safely within its shell.

Pulled from his inward turmoil by the faint rustling of Donald's movements and the sound of running water, Ferguson took another deep breath (this one by far the most shallow and accompanied by an increasing constriction in his chest) and tried to compose himself for his companion's return.

Donald stood before him in short order and set the teacup back in its original location, then put a handkerchief on the desk next to it.

"Wh— wh— what did... did you..."

"Did I do to you?" Donald finished helpfully. "I poisoned you, Ferguson. C'mon, now. Try to keep up."

Ferguson's wheeze came with a single word, but took three tries to convey before he finally eked out, "How?"

Donald sighed. "Does it matter?" Ferguson gasped for air and clutched at his chest, giving up on words and simply nodding forcibly which triggered another round of spasms inside of him.

"While you were embarrassing yourself in the bathroom I replaced your handkerchief with a different one. It's been laced in arsenic, of course, but I did save just enough for—"

"T—tea.." Ferguson gasped.

Ferguson felt his strength dwindle and Donald leaned in as if to assist, even though both men knew no such help would be forthcoming.

"Did you know arsenic was once called 'inheritors powder' because it was so widely used to help heirs speed along claims to their fortunes? Not that I'm worried about my inheritance — we both know everything will go to Constance and Alexander... and therefore me."

Donald had little interest in Ferguson's vast sums of money, but he always made it a priority to know his victim's pain points, and money was Ferguson's biggest by far; as a skilled practitioner of his craft he provided just enough push to send the tipping point into full motion.

The vile words stirred the tiny creature inside of Ferguson and clawed at the walls of his mind, then tried to tunnel around the foulest corners of his over-stressed heart, but it was no use. Determination had no footing, and sharpness of mind stood no chance against his tainted heart (albeit chemically so on this special occasion).  His next breath was his last, and the final image he carried with him on his way towards Hell was the damnably charming smile and brightly lit blue eyes of Donald Alexander Fancy.