On top of the World (standard:mystery, 4081 words)
Author: James C. Bernthal	Added: Aug 10 2004	Views/Reads: 3989/2657	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
Someone is murdering the family of the prime contender for Downing Street in a gruesome fashion. Please leave feedback. I need it.

ON TOP OF THE WORLD by James C. Bernthal 

“The world is drowning in blood,” declared Sir Julian Lawrence, banging
down his fist on the desk that stood before him.  “If we don't do 
something about it, and do it quickly, the violence will build up and 
up and up, finally resulting in a fate far worse than global warming.”  
He place down his cue cards, knowing what he was going to say next.  “I 
can change this.  Vote Sir Julian Lawrence as Prime-Minister, and I can 
change not only England, but the world.” 

There was the customary mixed response from the audience.  There were
those that welcomed the fresh approach to parliament – a politician who 
believed in what he was doing, as Lawrence clearly did.  There were 
also those who doubted him – they remained sceptical about a man who 
seemed to want to conquer the world.  Murmurs of “A second Hitler!” 
were not uncustomary. 

After answering a few of the journalists' questions and posing for a few
photographs, Lawrence left the room, surrounded by cries of: “Well 
done, Sir Julian!  This one's in the bag!” 

It was with one such remark that his personal secretary, Nicola
Spearman, greeted him after the formal occasion. 

“Really, Sir Julian, you were most excellent today.” 

“Thank you, Miss Spearman.  This is something I believe in.  There is
far too much violence and suffering in the world.”  He sat down and lit 
a cigar.  As he puffed on it, contentedly, Sir Julian Lawrence was 
struck by a thought. 

“My wife!” he shouted, as he jumped up.  “I must tell my wife.” 

Nicola Spearman enquired of her employer: “Tell her what, Sir Julian?” 

“About that note.” 

“Oh.”  Miss Spearman looked suitably solemn.  She walked slowly towards
the telephone, dialled the number and handed the receiver to her 
superior. 

The drone of the telephone continued, indicating that there was no one
at home.  But Lawrence knew that his wife was in.  She never left the 
house. 

Quickly, he extinguished his cigar and ran into the car, ignoring the
persistent reporters, and without waiting for his chauffer to 
re-emerge, he drove back to his big house. 

Benson, the butler, opened the door slowly.  He looked at his employer
with some surprise. 

“Why, Sir Julian!  This is a surprise!  Why, we were not expecting to
see you back for several hours.” 

“Did the telephone ring?”  Lawrence panted. 

Benson stroked his moustache thoughtfully.  “Yes, sir, but you gave
orders this morning that no servants were to answer it.” 

“Of course I did, Benson, but why didn't my wife answer it?” 

“I could not possibly say, sir.  It is possible that she was sitting in
the garden or the conservatory, in which case she would not have heard 
it, or she might not have answered it for fear that it was the press.” 

This did not satisfy the politician; he had given his wife express
instructions to answer the telephone, if it should ring, for he was 
expecting an important call from a prominent member of the American 
parliament.  As for the suggestion that she was in the conservatory or 
outside, it seemed unlikely in the extreme. 

“Where is my son?” he asked sharply. 

“Why, young Jonathan is in the kitchen with the cook, choosing his


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