NC2 Death at The Grange. (standard:mystery, 1980 words)
Author: red1hols	Added: Jul 01 2005	Views/Reads: 3619/2488	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
Ernest Potts, the owner of 'The Grange', is dead in the garden. Ernest himself believes his death was unique and will remain unexplained. (1650 Words + blurb)

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story


Elsie came over and tried to stem the flow, but Ernest proved
unstoppable. 

Elsie, Persopolis and the interloping tortoise were treated to a potted
history of Ernest's war service. How he got his bullet in the leg at 
Anzio. How while he was convalescing he noticed that the barnacles on 
Persopolis's shell had started to take on geometric shapes. 

Ernest spoke at great length about those barnacles. He described how
they seemed to coalesce into lumps, which grew taller and taller. There 
was an in-depth analysis as how strange furrows appeared that connected 
the various lumps. With a great gusto, Ernest revealed that in later 
years he noticed that the lumps glowed in the dark. 

It was the arrival of two detectives arrived that halted him. Curiosity
overcame him and he wandered over. 

The older of the two stepped greeted the forensic team by name, while
the younger, scruffier, one loitered nervously by the magnolia tree. 

“Bit of a conundrum, I'm afraid, Inspector.” One of the forensic team
addressed the older man. “The old man seems to have been killed by 
shrapnel. Probably bits like this. There were dozens spread over the 
garden.” 

The forensic man held up a plastic bag containing a small rectangular
disc. 

“Funny looking grenade fragment.” The inspector rubbed his chin. “Is
that the victim's blood on it?” 

The mention of blood seemed to buck up the younger man who took the bag
and announced that it was a piece of tortoise shell. 

“Ah, that comes from turtles you know.” The Inspector tried to regain
the intellectual high ground. 

“No, Sir.” The younger policeman looked doe-eyed at his boss. “This is a
piece of shell from a tortoise.” 

The Inspector pulled a face and drew the forensic team aside. “You'll
have to forgive him. He's one of the ACC's pet projects. Thinks he's 
the next Sherlock Holmes!” 

The three off them laughed raucously. 

Meanwhile, the young Sherlock was picking up the various bags containing
the shell fragments looking closely at each and then sorting them into 
two piles. 

Having checked each pile twice, the young officer started open bags from
each pile and sniff. 

“Hey! Stop that!” One of the forensic team shouted. “You'll contaminate
the evidence.” 

The Inspector held him back. “Best to let him alone. If word gets back
to the ACC that we didn't let him work it'll be traffic duty for me and 
you'll be testing urine until you draw your pension.” 

The youngster continued sniffing bits of shell and ignored the
commotion. Once satisfied, he pulled on a latex glove and withdrew a 
piece of shell from a bag and a huge magnifying glass from his pocket. 

The young man's tongue poked out from between clenched lips. He nodded a
few times and let out a breath through his nose with a whistle. He 
repeated the routine with another shell fragment before replacing the 
magnifying glass and removing the latex glove. 

“So then, Sherlock.” The forensic man gave a leer. “Are you going to
tell us how the murder was committed?” 

“Oh, It wasn't murder. No, no.” The young policeman oozed innocence.
“They'll need to be a few more tests, of course, but certainly this was 
no murder.” 

“Really?” The forensic man gave a sarcastic laugh. “Care to explain
that?” 

The young man went over to the Inspector and whispered in his ear. 

“You want to do what?” The Inspector was incredulous. “I've been in the
force for over 20 years and I've never got to do that!” 

“Please?” The young detective pleaded. “It's why I joined the force.
I've always dreamed of doing this.” 

The Inspector relented and herded everyone in the garden into the
drawing room of ‘The Grange'. Elsie made a grab for Ernest, missed and 
trudged inside, grumbling profusely. 

There was a delay while the housekeeper made tea and brought in extra
chairs. The young detective waited until everyone to take their seats 
before making a theatrical cough. 

“Are there any biscuits?” The sarcastic forensic man asked. 

The housekeeper hurried off and returned with two plates of biscuits.
Once again, the young detective tried to gain order, but everyone was 
too busy discussing the quality of the biscuits to take any notice. In 
the end, the Inspector took pity on him and called everybody to order. 

“Can we have some quiet Ladies and Gentlemen?” 

“And Spirits!” added Ernest 

“My colleague would like to provide the explanation of the puzzling
demise of Mr Ernest Potts.” 

A ripple of applause went around the room accompanied by a loud
“harrumph” from the forensic team. 

“Thank you Inspector.” The detective paced up and down in front of the
fireplace with his hands clasped behind his back. “Poor Mr. Potts was 
simply in the wrong place at the wrong time. A tragic co-incidence 
rather than murder.” 

The forensic team grunted in unison. 

“You see, Mr. Potts was killed when his pet tortoise spontaneously
exploded.” 

The room disintegrated into mass hysterics.  Ernest just stood there
with his eyes and mouth wide open. 

The housekeeper fussed over the spilt tea while the detective waited for
the laughter to subside. 

“Tests will be needed to confirm this, but I am confident in saying that
the pet tortoise was host to a strange form of volatile parasite. The 
shell of the poor creature was absolutely infested with the things.” 

“If you're so clever, tell us why the tortoise suddenly exploded then!”
One of the forensic team resorted to heckling. 

“That truly was unfortunate. My guess is that the tortoise in question
was female. The volatile nature of the crustacean parasites meant she 
had been a walking time bomb for years. The simple fact that tortoises 
are particularly rare in this area saved her up till now.” 

“Unfortunately, today a second tortoise found its way into the gardens
of ‘The Grange'. They met and... err... well, I'm afraid that the shell 
on shell friction set her off. KERBOOM!” 

“My God!” Ernest spluttered. “The boy might look wet behind the ears,
but he's spot on!” 

He might have been right, but he failed to convince the audience. The
meeting became a gentile uproar, much to the obvious amusement of the 
Forensic Team. 

Elsie grabbed Ernest before he started to protest. “There you go, now
that's over. We've got some planning to do. I knew they would explain 
everything.” 

On the mantelpiece, a small group of spirit crustaceans wearing white
coats stood shaking their heads. They knew they weren't volatile; just 
the civilisation they created. 

If Ernest had been listening and the general hubbub of the meeting
breaking up hadn't drowned it out, he would have heard the despairing 
wail “We warned you! We told you this sort of thing would happen!” 

Simon Holder, June 05. 1650 Words. 

Simon Holder writes short stories as the antidote to real life. He
doesn't claim allegiance to any particular genre or style. Nothing is 
too important to be trivialised by his word processor. You might run 
across some of his work in published media. Just remember to be more 
careful next time! Simon dines out on his rather limited publishing 
credentials. However, he gets his real kicks from reading his work to 
captive audiences. 

This author is available to speak at your event for very reasonable
rates plus expenses (receipts not always provided). His debonair good 
looks, ground breaking style and particularly fine eyebrows mean he is 
ideally suited to broadcast media, particularly radio. With wit that is 
often described as thankfully unique and an imagination rarely seen 
outside of institutions, he is guaranteed to bring events to a novel 
climax, probably involving the sudden arrival of many additional, 
uniformed guests. 

The Fotheringhay and Wattleford Enquirer said of him, 'Simon Holder
spoke for an hour and a half on a variety of subjects and on none. To 
my simple question, his reply ranged through an impressive array of 
topics from modern medicinal research, through hamster rearing to the 
future of space exploration. This would be thought of as impressive had 
my leg not been excessively damp and my original question not been, 
'Where's the Gents?' ' 

If you have any comments on his work or rather limited grip on reality,
Simon can be contacted by email at ‘red1hols@excite.com'. Normally 
exceptionally chuffed to have his work reproduced elsewhere, he does go 
into the most incredible sulks if not asked first or doesn't get the 
appropriate credit. So, to avoid unnecessary bruising to the family 
pets and to preserve the best china, please ask before copying any of 
his work. 


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