Jonathan Creek- The Problems at Gallows Gate

Chapter 7

The black velvet box was slowly opened, revealing a sparkling diamond ring in all its radiant glory to the shining eyes of the half-crying, half-laughing woman.

  “Oh, Neville…” the raven-haired, Oriental beauty whispered through joyful tears, as he slipped the shining bauble on one of her slim, white fingers, “I don’t know what to say…”

  “One word will do it, Kiko,” he murmured, tilting her head upwards and looking into her overflowing brown eyes. “Yes.”

  She smiled and leaned in for a kiss…

  “Evening,” rang out a cheerful woman’s voice. They sprang apart and looked up in some confusion. The owner of this voice, a red-haired woman in a crisp blue blouse and long black trousers, sat down at the newly-engaged couple’s table. After seating herself comfortably, she smiled at Neville, who stared back, too shocked at her audacity to be angry. “Neville Bruce, is it?” she asked, “we haven’t met. Madeline Magellan,” she introduced herself, shaking the hand he placed in her outstretched one. “I rang your secretary at work- she was incredibly helpful.” She stopped to thank the waiter who, mistaking the well-dressed lady for a customer, poured out some wine for her. Taking a sip of the drink, she rambled on. “Very nice telephone manner, too. I’d hang on to her if I were you.”

  It was only then that she seemed to notice the open velvet box, the sparkling ring on the woman’s finger, and indeed the noticeably stunned woman herself. She set down the wineglass. “Do tell me if I’m interrupting anything,” Madeline said. As neither of the astonished pair answered, Madeline made free to continue. “I just need to have a quick word,” she said, addressing Neville, “about one Felicity Vale, whom I understand you were quite… heavily involved with before… um…” she broke of and smiled merrily at Kiko, who tightened her lips at the mention of her former rival and assailant, whose name brought back bad memories of having been flown at with a pair of huge gleaming scissors which chopped off half of her black mane.

  “You know, obviously, that she was found strangled to death last night at her cottage,” continued Madeline, despite repeated attempts on Neville’s side to remonstrate with his mysterious, self-invited tablemate. “I was wondering- oh, the roast salmon mousse and the artichoke hearts, please-” she handed the menu back to the waiter. “Well, I was wondering if you could tell me when you last saw Miss Vale alive,” – drawing out her notebook.

  “Well…” said Neville, looking uneasily at his fiancée, “um… it was a couple of days ago- who are you exactly?” he said, suddenly getting angry. “What right have you to question-”

  Unfazed, Madeline replied on the spot. “I’m a… professional investigator, acting on behalf of the deceased’s life insurance company. Any information you can give us could help speed up the processing of her family’s claim.” She smiled angelically as she told the brazen lie.

  “Well…” resumed Neville uncertainly, “as I was saying, it was a couple of days ago when she came ‘round my house. She was rather… hysterical, and… I had to be blunt with her, let her know how matters stood.”

  “I don’t know if they told you,” said Madeline, scribbling quickly, “there was a witness, who actually saw the murder take place. She’s identified the killer as-”

  “As Duncan Proctor,” scoffed Neville, “which speaks volumes for the accuracy of her testimony. I was in the room! I saw him on the ground-”

    “She could be mistaken, Mr. Bruce, but how do we explain the fingerprints?” Asked Madeline, looking up to observe his reaction. It was one of utter shock and surprise.

  Satisfied that her prey was innocent, she resumed. “Now, not to be too indelicate,” said Madeline, “but during the period you were having sex with Miss. Vale,” totally disregarding the feelings of Neville’s new fiancée, “did she ever, at a crucial moment in bed, for instance, scream out the wrong name?-”

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  The loud sound of a typewriter echoed through Jonathan’s cottage. Madeline’s inexperienced fingers worked laboriously at the heavy brass keys as she wrote out her report of the mysterious problems at Gallows Gate.

  Jonathan was stretched out on his old couch, which sagged under his weight. As he had done so many times in the past few hours, he fiddled with the black stocking procured from Felicity Vale’s wastepaper basket, wrapped in his own thoughts, a bemused expression plastered across his face. He was frequently interrupted in his train of thoughts by Madeline’s outbursts of irritation at having to use his ancient typewriter.

  “I can’t help it if I’m a traditionalist; there’s just something about computers that make me uncomf-”

  “This is the pits, Jonathan! Why do you even own one of these ancient relics? It doesn’t even have an ‘S’!” and she illustrated her statement by banging hard on the “S” key, producing no noticeable results.

  “Try not to use it, then,” replied Jonathan abstractedly.

  “Try not to- it’s the most common letter in the English alphabet!”

  “No, it’s not,” he spoke in his calmest, most coldly logical tone that always served to infuriate Madeline, as it only reminded her how inferior her intellect was to her genius of a friend. “‘E’ is most common.”

  Madeline threw her hands in the air. “You’d just have to know that, wouldn’t you?” She sneered, and went back to typing. “That useless piece of information… totally useless...” she mumbled under her breath as she pecked away at the keys.

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  A few hours later, Madeline held up a mangled piece of paper for inspection. “Well, Jonathan, I think my editors will be very pleased to hear about the murder committed by a dead man in a house he couldn’t have gotten out of involving,” here she started to read out loud from her paper. “A woman found horribly “trangled” with her “hoe” and “tocking” removed in the down-“tair” cloakroom!” her voice grew louder and louder with every word she spat out.

  Jonathan rolled his eyes. “Have you ever heard of silence? I’m trying to achieve a level of abstract thought here!” He brandished the black stocking as he spoke. “…trying to prise this… feeling, memory, whatever it is, out of my memory! It’s just… the image of her hose and stockingbeing removed...” and he lapsed into his former meditative state once again.

  Just than, the phone rang, finally snapping the frail fabric of Madeline’s considerably frayed patience.

   “What?” She answered curtly, before realising the caller’s identity. “Clare! How- wha- yes, mm-hmm- oh, dear…” She slammed down the phone and grabbed her car keys and tossed Jonathan his heavy overcoat, which landed squarely on his face.

  “What-”

  “Move it, lazybones,” said Madeline, flinging open the door. “We’re going to Gallows Gate.”