An Objection

Hello, and welcome to my 2025 Blogging From A To Z April Challenge! This year, I’ve written you a complete murder mystery novelette. The setting is rural England, a few years after WWI. The extra challenge that I set myself for this story is that the first murder will not take place until the letter “M”–halfway through! And the second murder will happen at “S.” There may be murders after “S,” of course, but they are less structural or foundational or something.

And now, without further ado…

An Objection

That afternoon, Dotty slipped quietly out of Grimsby Manor.

Some minutes later, she knocked on the door of the police station (which was also the constable’s cottage; it was understood, however, that if you were visiting on police business, you came to the front door; if you were visiting the family, you went to the back).

“And what would you be wanting here, Dorothy Fletcher?” said Constable Briggs, glowering sternly.

“Well, first thing, I want in. I don’t want to say my say standing here, Archie Briggs.”

Briggs grunted. “I don’t know as I care overmuch to hear your say, Miss Fletcher. And I’m a married man now, and whatever trouble you’ve got yourself into, I’m in no position—”

“Stop babbling and let me in.”

Briggs met Dotty’s eyes and stepped back hastily. Dotty walked into the cramped single room that represented the majesty of the law in Little Grimmton. One overflowing desk, one filing cabinet, one chair, and a single cell, usually reserved for drunks. Nigel was in the cell at the moment. His eyes, which had been staring vacantly, widened when he saw Dotty.

“Dotty,” he said, sounding incredulous. “I thought you were done with me. Have you come to visit?”

Dotty was startled. She knew Nigel had been arrested, of course, but she’d assumed it was a tea-with-Mrs.-Briggs sort of arrest. Like that nice Mr. Stokely, whom they’d had to take into custody last year after London wired to say he was wanted for fraud. But here he was, practically nose-to-nose with her in this little room. Dotty didn’t think she could bear it, seeing him locked up and looking so doomed-like, so she fixed her eyes on the constable’s desk.

“I’ve come to tell you, Archie Briggs, that you’re a fool to listen to young Kate like you’re doing. Mr. Grimsby—”

“Oh,” said Nigel, deflated. “It’s Mr. Grimsby now, is it? Damn.”

“—Mr. Grimsby,” repeated Dotty, “did not do this thing.”

Constable Briggs looked at her sternly. “Do you deny that he said he would murder the man who is now deceased? And said it, moreover, while you two was havin’ an intimate conversation of the kind that no Fletcher—raised decent as your mother raised you—should be havin’ with the gentry?”

“Never you mind my morals, Archie Briggs—they’re no concern of yours, anyway. And what Kate heard was just idle talk. Nigel wouldn’t really kill anyone.”

“He killed people in the war,” said Constable Briggs. “Quite a lot of ‘em, so they say.”

“Thirteen. A baker’s dozen. And there were a few that may have died—I don’t know,” said Nigel.

“He wouldn’t kill an old man for his money,” said Dotty.

“He said he would,” said Briggs, “and then the old man died. Was murdered. And look at the thing squarely, Dorothy Fletcher. Who else in that house has what I’d call the killer’s mentality? Thirteen, now. I know that’s what he was there to do, but that’s a powerful lot of dead men. And—begging your pardon, Mr. Nigel—but we all know the war changed him. Made him go a bit funny-like.”

“Made me go a bit funny-like,” repeated Nigel. “Yes.” He tried to choke back the laughter, but it came anyway. That high, disturbing laugh sounded worse, somehow, in the little room. “Just a bit. Oh, Constable Briggs, you’ve nailed it. You’ve—” Nigel, on the point of having one of his fits, caught Dotty’s eye—and slumped against the bars. “He’s right, you know—the war did change me.” And he looked at her with an odd intensity. “I thought you should know.”

Briggs wheeled on him. “If that’s a confession, sir—”

Nigel sighed wearily. “It wasn’t. I didn’t do it. I have no idea which of my relations killed Uncle Jack, but one of them must have.”

“Stephen Grimsby was also in the war,” said Dotty. “Maybe—”

“Oh no,” said Nigel. “Not Stephen. The war didn’t change him. I have no idea how, but it didn’t. He’s the same upright young gentleman he’s always been.” And he smiled sadly at Dotty. “Thanks and all that, Dot, but I don’t want Stephen to swap places with me.”

Dotty blushed, annoyed. “All I am suggesting, Mr. Grimsby,” she said severely, “is that Constable Briggs has quite a lot of investigating to do, and that the sooner he starts doing it, the better. And now—I have my work to be getting on with, and I’d best be getting back.” And she spun on her heels and left the station.

 

Official Notice Is Taken

Scotland Yard. The next morning.

 

“Crowner!” bellowed Assistant Commissioner Farquhar.

“Sir?” Inspector Crowner’s long face poked cautiously into the room.

“Come in, come in. Case for you. Murder. In the country. Far away,” said Farquhar with pleasure, “from me.”

“Who is the victim?”

“Jack Grimsby. American millionaire. Jack’s Jams. That chap. Dead. My wife’s worried. Big jam eater. Loves the stuff. Not, I suppose, that that’s relevant.”

“No sir, I can’t see how it could be. But I saw in the paper that they’d made an arrest. His nephew or someone, wasn’t it?”

“Local man may have acted hastily. Not saying he did, mind! But it sounds like he doesn’t have a watertight case to lay before a judge and jury. He’s holding on to young Nigel Grimsby for now—but it’s looking like he’ll have to let him go. Boy may be a flight risk, if that happens. Keep an eye on that. But the dead man’s brother—Sir Frank Grimsby—is making a bit of a fuss. Doesn’t think his boy did it.”

“Who does?” said Crowner.

“Yes. Funny. Always someone else’s boy. Of course. Philosophical reflections, however—rather beside the point. Which is: the 1:15 from Paddington. Be on it.” Farquhar chucked a folder across his desk. “Here’s the coroner’s report and various other notes. By “coroner’s report,” looks like I mean the local GP with the local bobby looking on. Man’s been buried now, so if this doctor turns out to be some sort of moron, digging him up again might prove difficult. You know how sticky people are about exhumation orders.”

“Yes sir,” said Crowner, with deep feeling.

“Well—get going, man, get going! Shoo! Scat! Get!”

“I’m taking Sergeant Mug with me,” said Crowner, and rapidly left the room.