Cuthbert King sat in his study contemplating the letter in front of him. Some sixty years of age, his mind was as sharp as ever, and as he pushed his mass of white hair from his eyes, he turned to Mr Sprat.
‘I don’t think I can resist this one,’ he said.
Mr Sprat, a small, wiry man with wire-rimmed glasses, smirked. ‘You never can, Cuthbert,’ he said. ‘You never can.’
Cuthbert sighed. ‘The letter is from a Mr Johnson, who’s son was recently murdered. He was found one early morning on the pavement by his house, his head caved in. The police, it seems, have drawn a complete blank.’
‘They must have a prime suspect,’ said Mr Sprat.
‘For a time,’ Cuthbert replied. ‘His fiancé was in the frame – a girl of twenty one named Kylie Mortimer. But her mother gave her an alibi.’
‘Mothers do,’ said Mr Sprat, sardonically.
Later that afternoon, Cuthbert King and Mr Sprat sat in Mr Johnson’s lounge. They refused a cup of tea.
‘So tell me about Kylie Mortimer,’ Cuthbert said.
Mr Johnson, a rotund man of fifty, looked deeply depressed. ‘She’s a beautiful woman,’ he said. ‘But more than that, she is pleasant – a charming girl. I can’t believe the police could ever think she had anything to do with it. She was so dedicated to my son.’
The detectives left shortly afterwards. Throughout the interview, Cuthbert had stared intently at Mr Sprat’s nose. His main weapon in detection, it had a habit of twitching whenever his ears heard a lie. Mr Sprat denied this, of course. No one else had ever noticed such a twitch, but then again he didn’t have any other friends to test it on. However, on the occasion he stood in front of the mirror while Cuthbert lied and lied again, his nose never moved; which led Mr Sprat to a simple deduction. It didn’t. Rather, it was Cuthbert’s own intuitive abilities, represented by his seeing the nose move.
The Mortimer household was a hive of activity and intrigue. ‘Come in Mr King,’ said Angela Mortimer, Kylie’s mother, as they arrived. ‘You must excuse me, my daughter is being tiresome again.’
Kylie was, indeed, beautiful, and flitted in and out of the room as she prepared for a date. Cuthbert couldn’t help but notice the strangeness of this. After all, surely she should have been grieving.
‘He is not acceptable, dear,’ said Angela. ‘You are far too good for him.’
‘Excuse my mother, Mr King,’ said Kylie. ‘I know she only wants the best for me, but she can be such a bore.’
‘And who is the lucky man?’ asked Cuthbert.
‘A sore point,’ said Angela. ‘My daughter is dating her dead fiance’s best friend. And like him, she is not good enough for my daughter.’
Finally, Cuthbert grasped hold of the conversation. ‘You were with your mother when your fiancé was killed,’ he said, directing the question at Kylie.
Kylie replied in the affirmative; whilst at the same time, her mother said: ‘You need to be speaking to his father. They never got on, and I’m quite convinced he killed him.
Mr Sprat’s nose was twitching.
‘One of them is lying,’ said Cuthbert, back in his study. But as both ladies were speaking at the same time, it was impossible to decide which. But regardless, the facts were coming together, and as Cuthbert King knew only too well, you could usually gain all the information you needed in the first few hours of an investigation. The remainder of the case was simply a process of putting the information in the correct place.
‘So whodunit?’ asked Mr Sprat, presently.
Cuthbert sat back and thought deeply. ‘We know that Mr Johnson did not lie to us, yet it is clear that he was deceived by Kylie Mortimer’s behaviour. How could she be so dedicated to his son, as he thought, when she is clearly not grieving and is having a relationship with his best friend?
‘I can see why the police had her as prime suspect. And we can, of course, doubt her alibi. A mother will go to the most extraordinary lengths to protect a daughter, so she could well be lying.’
‘So we need to break the alibi,’ said Mr Sprat.
‘It would seem so, but …’
The conversation was interrupted by a phone call. Cuthbert King picked up the receiver, listened and replaced it. ‘The case has moved forward,’ he said. ‘Kylie Mortimer seems exceptionally clumsy. Two of her boyfriends have been murdered within a week.’
The crime scene was like any other. The physical facts may differ, but to Cuthbert King there was always the smell. Yet it was not a physical smell, but the sense of human decay; yet not the decay of the body, but the decay of the perpetrator’s mind.
Police and forensics had done their work, but to Cuthbert this was when he began his.
‘The body was laid here,’ he said, pointing to the road. ‘The man had been walking when someone came from behind and struck him on the back of the head with a heavy object. Not satisfied with a single blow, the perpetrator then finished him off with four others.’
Mr Sprat said: ‘That’s identical to the previous murder, so we’re dealing with the same person.’
‘We are indeed. But we must look further afield to discover who it is.’
Cuthbert walked to the end of the road. ‘The problem I have is that, if Kylie Mortimer killed them, why did she do it in public?’
Mr Sprat seemed confused.
‘She could have done it at a time of her choosing, when no one could possibly see her. Doing it on the street is just too clumsy. Our killer simply has to be an opportunist, unable to gain intimate access to the victim.’
‘That makes sense,’ said Mr Sprat.
‘And look here,’ continued Cuthbert, scrutinizing the bush close by. Branches were broken and leaves lay on the pavement. ‘There’s been a recent struggle here.’
Mr Sprat said: ‘But it could have been anybody. And anyway, what’s the relevance?’
Cuthbert smiled. ‘Imagine the scene – an opportunist kills, but was the person seen? And if so, would a struggle take place close by?’
‘Possible,’ said Mr Sprat.
‘And look at this,’ said Cuthbert, reaching into the bush. He brought out a piece of torn cloth and smelt it. Suddenly, as he recognized the perfume, he froze. ‘Of course,’ he finally said. ‘Come on Mr Sprat, we haven’t much time!’
For a small, wiry man, Mr Sprat had an unusual strength. Hence, it took him just a few seconds to batter down the locked door to the Mortimer residence. However, his excitement waned into sadness as he saw the battered body of Kylie Mortimer on the floor by the stairs.
Cuthbert King stared at the body also, recriminating himself that he had not been in time. From a closed door, they heard a muffled voice. Slowly, Cuthbert walked over and opened it. Within the room sat Angela Mortimer, covered in blood. In her hand she held a phone to her ear.
‘That was the problem,’ said Cuthbert King, later that day. ‘Mrs Mortimer could only accept the best for her daughter, and that is why no man could ever meet her expectations.’
‘But to murder them,’ said Mr Sprat, ‘is going a bit too far.’
‘Not at all,’ Cuthbert advised. ‘Not when it becomes an obsession.’
‘But that hardly explains why she killed her daughter.’
‘Angela Mortimer had mis-calculated her attack, and her daughter was a witness to the murder.’
‘But to kill her seems absurd.’
Cuthbert offered a grim smile. ‘When a parent wants only the best for their child it can often mean they want to live their life through them. And when that happens, the child becomes just another aspect of their own obsession.’
Mr Sprat was beginning to understand. He recalled Angela Mortimer’s words on the phone:
‘Yes, that’s right,’ she had said to the undertaker. ‘I want the most expensive coffin. I’ll only have the best for my daughter.’
© Anthony North, August 2006
For more short stories see Fiction Page
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