Jazz Lawless, author of “The Chicken and The Eggs”, is an Irish writer who has been published on two occasions in Mystery Magazine.
“I have brought you both here,” Detective Theodore Gold stroked his beard, “so as to solve not one, but two major crimes: murder and larceny.”
Across the room Sergeant Stanley Smith-all twenty stone of him-harrumphed. Gold, recently dubbed ‘Golden Boy’ by the London press, leaned a sharp elbow on my mantel and cleared his throat.
“As you know, the archaeologist Sir Ridley Tunnicliffe took a cottage here in…”
“Stockbridge,” muttered Sergeant Smith.
“Stockbridge, pardon me!” Gold smiled, unruffled. “He took the cottage beside yours, Mr Cockerill,” he nodded at me, “on this quiet cul-de-sac. You describe him as being polite but reserved during your occasional interactions. So occasional were they, that when the postman…”
“Mr Sparks,” said Smith.
“Mr Sparks–thank you, Sergeant–requests that you accept a parcel addressed to the absent Sir Ridley, you confess to being unaware that he was away. After Sparks directs your attention to the unopened mail spilling from Sir Ridley’s letter box, you both seek to enter the cottage, but the front and rear doors prove inaccessible. You alert the police, who subsequently discover Sir Ridley’s corpse upon his bedroom floor, where it has lain for several days.”
He raised an eyebrow. I nodded.
“The local doctor…”
“Kitchener,” grunted Smith.
“Kitchener–yes!–declares the cause of death to be cardiac arrest. It is known that Sir Ridley took digitalin to treat a heart condition…”
Here he seemed again to be seeking my affirmation. “Yes, Detective, I believe he mentioned that in passing…”
“Undoubtedly. And it is further known that digitalin, if administered in sufficient quantities, can induce cardiac arrest.”
I shrugged. Sergeant Smith sniffed.
“The doctor files the Death Certificate, with arrangements made for Sir Ridley’s effects to be returned to London.”
Smith allowed himself a nod.
“The transportation is arranged–” Gold consulted a notebook, “for Friday; three days’ time.
“And, despite only taking a summer lease, Sir Ridley had spoken of bringing some of his most treasured artefacts here with him.”
I nodded. Smith muttered something unintelligible.
“Of course, you’ve scheduled a police guard until Friday, Sergeant Smith, so those artefacts are safe.
“Unless,” he smiled a dark smile, “the chicken has already flown the coop, so to speak.”
There was a silence.
“Now, happenstance–and a fortnight’s vacation–found me this morning in a neighboring village, where I learned of Sir Ridley’s death in a regional periodical. Certain inconsistencies–or, to be more specific, inaccuracies–struck me as I read the locals’ tributes to the deceased. Firstly, the Ridley Tunnicliffe I met not six months ago (at the coronation of Edward VIII), boasted of being in perfect health, having recently undergone a full medical check-up. He made no reference to any heart complaint requiring medication. I also witnessed Sir Ridley refuse a platter of entrées, citing a distaste of eggs. And yet this morning I read your own wife’s account, Sergeant Smith, of how he purchased a dozen eggs from her every Sunday.
“Something, gentlemen, was awry.”
He stroked his beard once more, then began pacing back and forth as he spoke.
“I called upon you, Sergeant Smith, at lunchtime today. Before that, when I arrived in…”
“Stockbridge.”
“Stockbridge! I visited the mortuary to pay my respects to the deceased.”
He stopped pacing and announced with a flourish: “Except, ‘the deceased’ wasn’t Sir Ridley Tunnicliffe.”
Sergeant Smith gasped. I gasped.
“As luck would have it, the dead man was known to me. It was Colin Dexter, a veteran fraudster and thief.
“Now, we must question why Dexter, before his apparent heart attack, moved here to live as Sir Ridley Tunnicliffe.”
He paused, letting the weight of his words sink in. I was uncomfortably aware that his gaze seemed fixed upon me.
Smith broke the silence. “Perhaps he intended to steal something…”
Gold’s eyes remained upon me. “Perhaps he did, Sergeant. But the local folk can rest easy–if the theft had been committed then Dexter would have undoubtedly left these parts.”
He finally turned to face Smith. “I wonder if I could speak with you in confidence, Sergeant, if Mr. Cockerill grants us the use of his hallway.”
I nodded my assent. As they exited the room, Gold towering over the shuffling sergeant, my mind reeled. Sir Ridley a fraud–how had I overlooked the signs? Little moments flashed in my mind’s eye–the foul oaths uttered by the old man next door, and his regular overindulgence in ales. Was this the behavior of a knight of the realm?
Then the artefacts–the ones he spoke of with such pride–those were also fakes?
Some time later, I became dimly aware of Smith waddling back to his chair. A cough drew my gaze to the doorway: Constable Lewton–Smith’s deputy, who’d been stationed outside the cottage next door–stood with Gold. The detective leaned down to mutter something in Lewton’s ear, then departed. Lewton stood to attention, but I noticed his eyes cast a quick glance towards me.
“Well, Cockerill, I confess that you almost had me,” wheezed Smith.
“Sorry?”
He held up a battered, gold-colored bracelet.
“We discovered this buried in your wardrobe. Gold’s telephoning Scotland Yard right now–they’ll find the rest of your haul.”
“That’s just an old copper bracelet.”
“Indeed! But no doubt you’d thought it a relic of some ancient civilization…”
“I inherited it from my mother, Sergeant.”
“You play the innocent babe well, Cockerill!” He chuckled. “Almost as well as Dexter played the rôle of Sir Ridley Tunnicliffe…”
Everything went blurry and high-pitched.
“I’ll permit Gold to make the formal arrest, once he returns from making use of next door’s telephone…”
Telegrams from New Scotland Yard
TO SERGEANT STANLEY SMITH
COLIN DEXTER SEEN BOARDING TRAIN TO STOCKBRIDGE STOP ARREST ON SIGHT STOP THIRTY BEARDED SIX FOOT
TO SERGEANT STANLEY SMITH
CONFIRM THEODORE GOLD NEVER VISITED STOCKBRIDGE OR MET THE DECEASED
TO SERGEANT WILLIAM LEWTON
NO QUESTION OVER SIR RIDLEY TUNNICLIFFE IDENTITY STOP AUTOPSY CONFIRMED NO PRESENCE OF DIGITALIS STOP DEATH RULED BY NATURAL CAUSES
*****
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