Ichthyology

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…

Ichthyology

At breakfast the next morning, Frank, feeling vaguely troubled in his mind for no reason he could name to any high degree of exactness, but which he characterized generally as “everyone being riled up by Jack’s visit,” proposed “a bit of fishing, what?” Fishing was, he found, soothing to the nerves. As he expected, Stephen (whose company Frank preferred to that of his other sons, because he wasn’t clever and didn’t talk a fellow’s ear off) immediately responded with enthusiasm.

“Nigel?” Frank asked, looking warily at his youngest. The boy was looking especially himself today—not a good sign.

Nigel seemed to have to fight his way through deep gloom to answer the question. But his response was in his usual style, though his voice was utterly flat. “I can think of several things I’d rather do than fish. Shall I list them?” And he began to do so under his breath.

Frank turned to his heir. “Reggie, m’boy?”

“…experience the manifold horrors of the tortures of the Inquisition, which are…” Nigel muttered.

“I say, Nigel, cut that out, you cad! There are ladies present!” objected Reggie, with an apologetic look at Penny.

“…the thumbscrews, the wooden horse…” muttered Nigel.

Penny giggled.

“Fishing, father?” said Reggie distractedly. “I’d rather thought of calling on Geraldine this morning. See if she’d like a bit of a stroll.”

“Penelope, how about you? Do you fish?” asked Frank, now starting to feel like things were really going to work out. He wanted to fish with Stephen and no-one but Stephen, and it looked like he was going to get his wish.

“…Strappado, the rack…”

“Fishing? No thanks, Uncle Frank,” said Penny.

“…Crushing, the application of hot coals…”

“I’ll come,” said Jack. “Sounds fine! If you have extra kit for me, that is.”

Inwardly groaning—Jack was the very person he’d hoped to get away from and have a bit of a quiet think about—Frank managed an appropriately hearty response. “Jack! Good. Three of us, then. I’ll tell Cook to make up some sandwiches.” And he ambled out of the room.

“…and finally, burning at the stake,” Nigel called after his father.

Later, on the little stretch of stream that cut through the estate, the three men fished. For a time, they fished in silence—but finally Jack spoke.

“I wish,” he said, seeming to speak to the water more than to either of the men, “someone would just ask me about the damn will.”

Frank froze. At his side, he felt more than saw Stephen, also freezing.

“I know you’re worried about it,” Jack continued. “A place like this costs a lot to run. And I know it must have scared you, Frank, when I asked you to get old Jacobson down here to see me.”

“My dear old chap,” Frank protested. “Your money is yours to do with as you like—of course. And it isn’t in the least—”

“I know, I know,” said Jack. “But we’re gonna talk about it anyway. Lookit. As my will stands now, Penny gets ten thousand and control of the jam business, and you’re the residuary legatee, and scoop everything else. Which when I wrote it meant you got practically nothing, because ten thousand and the business was pretty much all I had. But now I’ve got so much money—where are you going, young man?”

Stephen muttered something about not wanting to intrude. “Thought I’d move a bit upsteam, what?”

“You stay put! Don’t you want to know what your financial position is? Aren’t you interested?”

“Well, naturally, I suppose, only…” Stephen squirmed, looking deeply unhappy.

“It’ll only hurt for a moment,” said Jack. “I’m not bragging when I say I’ve got the stuff—that’s just the straight dope, and useful for you to know.” And he named a sum that made both Frank and Stephen gasp. “As I’ve said, under my current will, Penny only gets ten thousand—which seems like a decent dollop until you consider the size of the pile, when you see it’s chicken feed. So I want to fix that. Make her into a proper heiress, with all the trimmings. But that’ll leave plenty in the pot for you.” Jack let out a breath. “There—now I’ve had my say, and I sure hope it’s cleared the air some.”

And Frank felt a weight lift from him, and the rest of the fishing trip was spent in amicable small talk and still more amicable silence.

It was only when Frank was alone in the library later that afternoon that his doubts came creeping back. Because, he meant to say, how much money did it take to turn a girl into an heiress? And what kind of sum did Jack think would be sufficient to run a place like this?

“I suppose I could have asked him,” thought Frank ruefully.