Head Scratcher

by Tobiash Novak

The last words that my dear friend and arch-detective Raymond Doyle said to me were as lengthy as his intellect. “Now Christe, I’m going to survey the grounds once more to observe any changes that might have occurred since our arrival. You can continue interrogating our clients for now, and especially investigating the missing comedy mask and report to me once I return shortly.” 

Mere minutes later a thunderous death-knell reverberated throughout the manor grounds and settled within my bones. At that moment I knew that a terrible thing had happened to my dear companion. I excused myself and set out to track his location immediately. 

My mind spun with worries about Doyle. I knew of course that he was a smart man, capable of various awe-inducing leaps of logical reasoning, but that gunshot unnerved me more than I liked to admit at the time. My scouring of the castle grounds brought me to one of the impressively drawn-out hallways that the builders seemed to enjoy so much. Five towering portraits hung on the wall. One of the late Baronet, whose death Doyle and I were called over to investigate, and one of each of his sons. The eldest son, a sickly looking man with a sallow, high cheeked face evocative of a used tissue. Apparently he was more excited to tinker with weapons than politics. This, in my mind, would make him an obvious suspect, although the date indicating his passing three years prior assuaged me of that opinion. The second son, adorned in golden jewelry with his squat nose, cleft chin, and disinterest in most things other than wealth, felt too lazy for such a horrific act. The third son, a lanky, thin-nosed man, looked too meek for murder. This was further supported by his dainty appreciation of theatre. The fourth and youngest son looked almost child-like, with rounded cheeks and eyes. I believed him to be the one closest to the Baronet, especially as he was the one who called for our aid. Still, Doyle had urged me to not discount anyone yet, so I believed that I had to be suspicious of the three living brothers. 

During my momentary portrait pondering I was taken aback by the calming smell of my companions tobacco pipe. After a moment of searching I found the source; a small pile of ash beneath the second portrait, lightly stamped into the carpet. Looking closer, an ephemeral arrow of ash stained the otherwise pristine wall, pointing upwards and underneath the painting above it. Following its guidance, I stuck my hand underneath the painting and to my surprise felt a button that, once pushed, pulled the painting back with a creak! I peered into the passageway behind, observing the cold stairway down. After a quick stretch of my arms, giving thanks to my companions' helping presence and reciting a prayer for his safety, no matter how unlikely that safety seemed, I entered. 

The stairwell led to a small mess of hallways, each door seemingly having been once locked by some colorful trick of sliding parts incomprehensible to me, but currently opened, surely by no mind less brilliant than that of my companion. The remaining few doors with stuck hinges and flimsily barricades were opened by a swift kick or three from myself. Unfortunately, these rooms held little information on Doyle’s whereabouts, merely holding boxes of rations and utilities. This all changed when I entered a large room, perhaps fifty yards long with three small pillars standing five feet from the back wall. However these details felt inconsequential, as the next sight I saw made me sick to my stomach. Lying behind one of the pillars, sprawled across the floor in a shower of clay shards was my companion! Smartly dressed with slacks and suspenders, a well worn-pipe lying inches away from deft fingers, and a head whose contents had been violently transferred to the adjacent wall. With a roiling mass of emotions I approached, Doyle’s dismissive but somehow comforting voice intoning in my mind.

 “When investigating a body, always look at its circumstances first. The situation that led to their death should be clear enough if the potential causes, victims surroundings, and weapon traces are paramount.” 

With my late companions' words in mind, I reluctantly searched his still body. The shards of clay could come together for a sculpture or pot of some kind, which possibly once resided on one of the pillars. The wall was splattered with viscera at standing height, and appeared to be cracked somewhat. Closer inspection revealed (after much gagging on my end) a deformed lump of metal in a vaguely hexagonal shape. As I inspected this, attempting to match it with any bullets I knew already, I heard the faint but unmistakable click of a rifle cock. 

The sleek, shiny rifle was held by a figure wearing a professionally made, snidely smiling theatre mask. The man wore the uniform of one of the low-grade cleaners working in the manor, though its upkeep was rather shoddy. A gruff, forcibly strained voice leaked out from behind the mask. “You are the detective's subordinate, are you not? You will come with me if you don’t want to end up like him.” 

With my emotions further in flux, I left Doyle’s body to grow cold, and allowed myself to be directed at gunpoint. The masked man forced me further into the labyrinth of corridors until we came upon a door that seemed to suit him. The room behind it was much smaller than, but still evocative of, my companions' new mortuary. Three small pillars supported three artistic pieces. A large, bejewelled vase, a striking portrait of the Baronet, and the most elaborately carved violin I had ever seen. A table further right held various scraps of paper and metal, including a military helmet on a stand. I assumed that these were the masked man's devious weapons and contraptions. “As you can see, detective lackey,” the masked man gloated, “each pedestal holds something eternally valuable to one of your suspects. You will stand behind one, and I will shoot the others. Now decide, which one do you think I’ll spare?” 

It was clear he intended for me to play the same game that had murdered Doyle. Determined to not repeat his last mistake, I stood behind the violin. I suppose that each one represented one of the brothers, although at that moment I was more interested in the man’s rifle. Clearly well kept, and either new or rarely used, seeing the lack of scuff marks. And if the hexagonal bullet was to be attributed to it, it must have been the newly made Whitworth. Unfortunately, the masked man interrupted my musings. He placed the rifle to his shoulder, and fired, letting the familiar death knell ring out, mixing with a shuddering shatter as the ornate vase fractured apart. The sound settled in my bones once more, sealing my fears that this man killed Raymond Doyle. Instantly my churning fears, worries, and doubts settled, and gave way to pure, scalding rage. 

“As you can clearly tell, the vase was the incorrect choice. Congratulations are in order for you avoiding a disappointingly quick end” The masked man began pouring gunpowder into the rifle. 

I took my first step towards him. 

“Now, I shall allow you a second chance.” 

The patch and bullet were placed as I accelerated.

 “Do you wish to choose another suspect?” The ramrod packed the bullet. “Or do you trust your original-"

In that instant my fist squarely connected with the masked man's jaw, silencing his aggravating monologue. The rifle clattered to the floor, skidding away. The man reached out and my boot landed, shattering his wrist in an instant. I admit that the following few minutes were unprofessional of me. However, I was blinded by rage and grief over my companion’s death, and too busy breaking the man's extremities to think rationally. After my rage and his screams of agony died down, I tore the mask from the man's face in order to identify him. The face, which had fortunately avoided most of the blows, was alarmingly familiar. A sallow, high cheeked face evocative of a lightly used tissue, this time with a swelling welt upon the brow, revealed the man to be the Baron’s eldest son. The supposedly dead one. 

After further interrogation alongside the chief of police and a long think about the likely cause for murder, I came to the following conclusions; the eldest son must have disliked the idea of inheriting his fathers responsibilities, and faked his death to tinker in solitude. However, once the expenses of his hobbies caught up to him, he realised that the Baronet’s wealth would be of use. So he returned, acting as a servant when needed, and utilising the mask stolen from the third brother as a disguise. He assassinated his father and planned on reappearing during the squabble for inheritance to “assuage” his brothers of their fathers burdons (and thereby belongings). However, the appearance of Doyle and myself caused him to panic, and desperately attempt to outmanoeuvre my companion. The killer ultimately succeeded, as he had set up a riddle for which there was no correct answer. 

Despite this victory, I bear a deep sadness in my heart. Even though this evil has been put to rest, my lifelong companion has as well. 

The world will be a much more illogical place without you, dear Doyle. Rest well. 

--Formal Corporal Conan Christie's recount of the murder of Baronet Dunham and manslaughter of Detective Raymond Doyle.