Murder in Marwick (standard:mystery, 3051 words)
Author: James C. Bernthal	Added: Mar 13 2004	Views/Reads: 3691/2491	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
A traditional English village whodunnit, feturing eight unnatural deaths.

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story

“Oh, Sir.  We're not allowed to say that before a formal identification
of the body.  No, Miss Wilkins was a spinster.  She was an only child 
and her parents have been dead for years.” 

“Well, I'd better see Miss Eileen Jarrod.” 

“I think that would be best, Sir.”  WPC Gowning battered her eyelashes.
Tree gave up and went to see the distressed Miss Jarrod with Sergeant 
Fish. 

“Join me in some tea, Inspector?” 

“I'm sorry?” 

“Your constable here makes PG Tips to die for!” 

“That's very nice, Miss Jarrod, but I'm afraid I'll have to ask you some
questions.” 

“Oh?  Really?  Fire away.” 

“Now I understand this must be very distressing for you” - The
distressed lady didn't look that distressed.  She seemed more content 
with cramming custard creams into her mouth, and playing with her 
platinum blonde wig – “But these questions must be asked.  When did you 
discover the body, and how?” 

“If you insist, Inspector.  She – That is, Mrs. Wilkins – normally does
some work.  She's my part-time housekeeper, y'know.” 

“A housekeeper?” 

“Yep.  She does everyone's house, really.  As far as I recall, she would
have just done Larry's house.” 

“Larry?” 

“Yep.  Lawrence Wrench.  Anyway, she was twenty minutes late, so I went
round her house and...  You know the rest.” 

“Did you tough anything?” 

“Of course not.” 

“Miss Jarrod, if you'll forgive my saying so, you sounded quite
hysterical on the ph- telephone.” 

“I suppose I did.  But that nice police lady gave me some of those blue
aspirins and I feel really light and carefree now.” 

“Blue?” 

“That's what I said.” 

Tree yelled, “Gowning!” in a voice that merely sounded comical.  He was,
however, interrupted by the ring of his mobile ph- telephone. 

“How long has he been like this?” 

“You mean how long has he been dead?  Let me see...” 

As the elderly gentleman with tortoise-shelled spectacles pondered, Tree
turned to a young woman, who seemed less clueless. 

“Excuse me, you are-?” 

“Julia Feltney.  I was his wife.” 

“Whose wife?” 

“Brian's.” 

“Who...  Oh, the Vicar.  Dead guy.” 

“As you say, Mr. Tree-” 

“Inspector Tree.” 

“As you say, Inspector, ‘dead guy'.” 

“I'm very sorry.  Can you positively identify the body?” 

“Oh yes.  It's hardly difficult.” 

Tree agreed, and looked down again at the tortured expression on the
clergyman's pale face, and then the screwdriver firmly implanted in his 
chest, and the small amount of blood. 

“Of course, you'll need to do that officially, but I-” 

“Well, Inspector...” 

“Yes, sir?” 

The man in spectacles became animated again. 

“I was having coffee with Arthur and Trish until half past ten.  Then I
came here.  I needed to ask the Vicar for some advice, my cat Lilly has 
gone of his food.  That would have been about ten minutes later.  I 
came in, saw him lying there, ascertained that life was extinct, and 
rushed out to fetch the woman.  Then we got her modern contraption. 
It's like a wireless but one can talk to people through it.” 

“My phone, Horace.” 

“Yes, Chief Inspector.  Julia's phone.” 

“I see.”  Said Tree.  “Who are Arthur and Trish?” 

“Arthur is Arthur MacSwede, Sir Reginald's son, and Trish is his wife.
No, dear me, that's wrong.  Trish is my wife.  No, wrong again.  Trish 
was the Vicar's wife.  No of course, Inspector, you were the Vicar's 
wife.  Ah, yes.  Trish is the barmaid.  But she gets on quite well with 
Arthur.” 

“I see.”  Said Tree. 

At Marwick police station, Tree said: 

“We need help, Gowning, Fish.  Where are all the police?” 

“Drugs op.” 

“Can't we get backup?” 

“Nothing doing, Sir.  It's National No Police week.” 

“National No Police Week?” 

“We're just experimenting, Sir.”  Said Gowning. 

Tree swept on.  “We're getting a new body every ten minutes, and we've
only spoken to three people.” 

“That's not literal at all, Sir.”  Fish interjected.  “There have only
been two bodies, and you haven't taken anyone's statement.”  Tree 
scowled at him, and he gingerly added “Sir.” 

“So who are the victims?” 

“Mrs. Theresa Wilkins, an elderly housekeeper, and The Vicar, Brian
Felton.” 

“Good, Fish.  We've spoken to Miss Eileen Jarrod, Mrs. Julia Felton, and
Mr. Horace Trevelyan.” 

“Yes, Sir.” 

“And we've still got to speak to Mr. Lawrence Wrench, Mr. Arthur
MacSwede, and Sir Reginald MacSwede.” 

“Do easy there, Sir.  The MacSwedes' name is an old and honoured one.” 

“Anything from the post-mortem?” 

“Yes, Sir.”  WPC Gowning sat smiling for a few seconds, until Tree
prompted her and she continued.  “Mrs. Wilkins was probably rendered 
unconscious, then attacked.” 

“Surely that was an attack, rendering her unconscious?” 

WPC Gowning smiled.  “Yes, Sir.   Anyway, there are lots of bruises on
her body consistent of her being chucked down the stairs.  She'd been 
killed at about twenty past twelve.” 

“And the Vicar?” 

“He died about half past two.  And I've got a surprise for you there,
Sir.” 

“Don't tell me, he was poisoned then stabbed.” 

“Yes, Sir.  How did you know?” 

“Use your eyes.  Not enough blood.  At least we can clear one person.” 

“Who's that, Sir?” 

“Eileen Jarrod.  At two-thirty, you were giving her those blue aspirin.”


“Blue aspirin, Sir?  I just gave her some of the dope from the drugs op.
to hold while I rummaged in my pocket for a pen.” 

“Gowning, you-” As before, DCI Tree was cut short by the ring of the
telephone. 

“Yes?” 

“Is that you, Inspector?  It's MacSwede.   Arthur MacSwede.  You'd
better come quick. It's Larry.  I mean Lawrence Wrench.  He's dead. 
He's been murdered.” 

Wrench's head was a frenzy of blood and splintered bone.  It had been
rammed into a dishwasher.  The victim, identified by his long hair, lay 
in his kitchen.  A shattered coffee-sup carpeted the tiled floor. 

Arthur MacSwede was with a young redheaded woman in the hallway.  He
seemed shocked, and as soon as he saw the authorities, he plunged into 
a narrative: 

“I came in to see Larry about the turnips.” 

“Turnips?” 

“Yes.   He had a secret recipe for turnip soup, and he'd promised to
lend it to me.” 

“Go on.” 

“I'm trying.” 

“Not as trying as half the others here.” 

“Well, he wasn't in.  I mean, he didn't answer the door, so I opened it
and came in.” 

“The door wasn't locked?” 

“For God's sake, Inspector.  This is a village.  One doesn't expect such
things.  Then I went into the kitchen and found him.” 

Tree tried further interrogation, but the man remained obstinate as the
Devil.  For the first time, the young woman spoke.  Tree judged her to 
be about twenty-three, roughly the same age as her companion. 

“Inspector.  Arthur comes from a long line of MacSwedes.  They are not
used to jeopardy.”  She smiled at Arthur.  He didn't smile back, but 
just looked into space. 

“And you are-?” 

“Trish Stilton.  I'm barmaid at the Three Eyes.  That's our pub.”  She
smiled again at Arthur. 

And he scowled. 

“I see.”  Said Tree.  He saw a lot... 

“What do we know about the victim, WPC Gowning?  It definitely is him?” 

“Oh, yes, Sir.  Dental records tell us that much.  His name was Lawrence
Robert Wrench, known locally as Larry.  The man was a practising 
homosexual.” 

“A what?” 

“Gay.  Abnormal.” 

“Oh.  Who was his partner?” 

“It's difficult to say, Sir.  Whenever anybody asked him he used to just
giggle and say ‘Mr. X'.  But the chances are ‘Mr. X' doesn't exist.” 

“Time of death?” 

“About twenty to two.” 

“So an hour before he was discovered?” 

“That's right, Sir.” 

“Now to speak to Sir Reginald MacSwede.” 

Sir Reginald answered the door to his large country house.   “I know
you.”  He said.  “Of course, I only got a glimpse of you for less than 
a second, because you were driving faster than lighting, but I'm sure 
it was you.  Be out of here, or I'll summon the local constabulary.” 

“I am the local constabulary, Sir Reginald.” 

“Good Lord!  What is the world coming to?  I suppose you'd better come
in.” 

“Are you alone in the house, Sir?” 

“What?  No, no.  My son Clive is here.  He's in the drawing room.” 

But Clive wasn't in the drawing room.  The drawing room was empty. 

The elderly man went to fetch some tea, leaving Tree to focus on his
surroundings.  He had not long, however, for a few seconds later, a 
young man entered the room.  He did not look unlike Arthur or Reginald 
MacSwede, but was darker in complexion.  He was out of breath as if he 
had been running. 

“Oh.  Hello.  I don't think I know you.  My name is Clive MacSwede.” The
name MacSwede was uttered with the utmost pride. 

“I see.  I am Detective Chief Inspector Tree.” 

“What do you want with Father?” 

“I need to question everybody about the murders of Theresa Wilkins,
Brian Felton and Lawrence Wrench.” 

“Larry?!  He's not dead?!” 

“I'm afraid so.  Mr. Wrench was killed.  I believe a relation of yours
found him.  Arthur MacSwede.” 

“Yes.  Arthur's my brother.  You don't want to speak to him, do you?
He'd be in the pub with Trish, I suppose.” 

Sir Reginald entered with the tea tray.  He spoke bitterly to his son,
reminded Tree that he was eighty, and begged the latter to interrogate 
him. 

“Thank you.  Where were you both at twenty past two yesterday
afternoon?” 

“Let me see...”  Sir Reginald consulted his diary.  “I was at my
luncheon.” 

“Who with?” 

“My two sons.”  He turned to Clive.  “Isn't that right, Son?” 

“Oh.  Yes, yes.  Perfectly true.” 

Tree had no further questions. 

As he was being shown out, Arthur MacSwede entered.  He was red in the
face. 

“Is my father in, Inspector?” 

“Yes, Mr. MacSwede.  I believe he is.” 

“Damn it!”  Arthur ran into the murky streets of Marwick.  It was eight
o'clock. 

It was an hour later that Sergeant Fish answered the telephone at
Marwick HQ. 

“Where are they?” 

“Arthur and Clive MacSwede, Trish Stilton and her friend and colleague
Julia Gibbs are in Arthur's bedroom.  Arthur and Trish are in the bed, 
and Clive and Julia are on the floor.  All four have been stabbed in 
the back.  But...” 

“But they were poisoned, Sergeant?” 

“Yes, Sir.  Potassium cyanide.” 

“Do you know what this means?”  WPC Gowning was emphatic.  “The name
MacSwede is-” 

“-An old and honoured one.”  Finished DCI Tree.  “Yes, I know.  And the
old man won't be able to handle it.  And the MacSwedes will die out. 
He's the last in the line and very elderly.”  Tree suddenly became 
angry.  He banged his fist down on the table.  “I want every living 
villager without an alibi in Marwick in the church in an hour.” 

“Except Sir Reginald, of course?” 

“Of course.  Under the circumstances...” 

Elizabeth Snoot, the librarian and Wilfred Cheesley, the doctor, sat
together in the pew.  Eileen Jarrod rushed down the isle, hysterically 
cramming chocolate digestives into her mouth.  She apologised for her 
lateness.  The new Vicar, Albert Fanthorpe, sat with Fish and Gowning 
in the alter, and Detective Chief Inspector took the stand. 

He began: “I hardly need remind you of the terrible tragedy that
occurred this evening.  As you can understand, Sir Reginald cannot be 
here.  His heart-” 

“There's nothing wrong with his heart!”  Dr. Cheesely made the outburst.
“Fit as a fiddle.  He'd never be here anyway.  He's too proud to fall 
into the hands of the police” 

“Please, Dr. Ch-” Tree stopped dead in his tracks.  He knew everything.
Seven brutal murders, and it all boiled down to pride.  That man was 
weak, but he was shrewd. 

“Excuse me.” 

Tree got in his car, leaving a bemused Sergeant Fish to cover the
situation, and hurried to the MacSwede residence. 

Sir Reginald MacSwede, CBE, opened the door cautiously.  Tree saw
everything behind his eyes.  Mad eyes. 

“Sir Reginald.  I know everything.” 

“Ah.  Come in, I'll get you some tea.” 

“Thank you”. 

Sir Reginald led the way to the kitchen.  As he prepared the tea, Tree
clarified his visit. 

“I know about your sons, Reginald, and their incest.  I'm sure that such
a scandal associated with the MacSwedes was unthinkable.” 

“Quite right,” Said the senior, smiling sadistically as he seated
himself.  “The kettle is boiling.  Go on.” 

“I will.  You caught them at it.  They were having sexual intercourse.
Am I right?” 

“So far so good.” 

“You were outraged.  Did you say anything?” 

“No.  But I think they knew.” 

“Clive certainly did.  He did four hours ago anyway.  You allowed your
rage to get the better of you, but not in the ordinary way.” 

“No, Chief Inspector.”  MacSwede handed him a mug of tea, and went to
get himself some.  Tree disposed appropriately of the fluid.  MacSwede 
went on: 

“I'm too old for all that.  Did you know I'm eighty?  Generations of
MacSwedes, and not a hint of anything amiss.  And then...  It was 
better for our family to die out with dignity.” 

“So you horrendously murdered seven people.” 

“Miss Wilkins was a terrible gossip.  If she got hold of the news, it
would be all over Marwick in a week.” 

“So you followed her home, pushed her down the stairs, and dropped the
china vase over her head.” 

“Correct.  I learnt to be a good shot in the war.  Well.  I'd always
taught my sons to be upright citizens.  How was I to know they hadn't 
confessed everything to the vicar?  That would never do.” 

“Tell me, Reggi.  Why did you poison him then stab him?” 

“I'm very weak, Mr. Tree.  Did you know I'm eighty?  I had to make it
look like someone stronger had done it; I didn't have a chance stabbing 
a strong man.  I didn't think you'd find me out.  We didn't have all 
these forensic tests in my day.” 

“The same with your sons?” 

“We'll come to that.  Larry now.  What if Arthur was ‘Mr. X'?  Or Clive?
I couldn't stand that...” 

“So you poisoned him and rammed his head into a dishwasher.  Then your
sons, I can understand that.  And the barmaids?” 

“Well, it was easy to get Trish to join us for luncheon.  She'd fallen
head over heals for Arthur.  I asked her to bring along a friend. 
Cyanide in the champagne.  When they were all dead, I put them in the 
bedroom.” 

“You wanted to make your sons appear heterosexual.” 

“A+ for this man.    Thoroughly perceptive, Mr. Tree.  I used the same
trick as with the vicar.  That's about it.” 

“One last thing, Reggi.  Why are you telling me this?  I didn't think I
stood a chance.” 

“Oh, you don't, Mr. Tree.  I put cyanide in your tea.  You should be
dead by now.  I can't have you telling anyone, even if they are dead. 
Besides, I never liked reckless drivers.  It's fun watching them die, 
as they slowly realise...” 

Tree held up a test-tube. 

“I'm sending this down to forensics.” 

“Damn you!” cried the old man.  He reached into his pocket, got out a
sharp-edged razor, tried to plunge it into Tree's heart, and, in 
desperation, dragged it along his throat. 

“Wow, Sir.  You're much better than DCI Hedgeman.” 

“Thank you, WPC Gowning.” 

“Yeah, Sir.  I don't think anyone could wind up seven murders in so many
days.” 

“You know, Sergeant Fish, I think you're right.  My father would be
proud.” 

THE END 


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