Murder

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…

Murder

Kate found the body the next morning. She went into Mr. Jack’s room with his early-morning tea and a rack of toast on a tray—and “as soon as I seen him, I knew he was dead—those eyes—staring—and blood—blood everywhere!”

Somehow, whenever she told the story later, it was always the eyes that she said struck her first. But this wasn’t true. The real first intimation she’d had of the tragedy was the stink of blood in the air—and she’d smelled that as soon as she’d opened the bedroom door. It was the smell that had caused her to drop the tray. But it was the staring eyes that made her scream. And scream and scream.

Nigel was first on the scene. This was, from the point of view of Kate’s nerves, rather unfortunate.

“What the—why are you making that abominable row?” asked Nigel, in his amiable way.

“Get away from me! Help help! Murder murder!” screamed Kate, backing into a corner, a chair held aggressively in front of her, like a lion-tamer at the circus.

“Shut up!” Nigel advanced on her—and noticed, finally, the gruesome state of the bed. He stopped, staring foolishly at the bloody carnage of twisted limbs and sheets and blankets—and the knife sticking straight up out of the whole horrible heap, like a flag atop a bloody mountain. “Wha—”

Kate, seizing the opportunity afforded her by his distraction, screamed and charged. She struck him a rather feeble blow in the back, immediately regretted this, and retreated again to the corner, chair at the ready.

And then Reggie and Stephen tumbled into the room.

“Hallo—what’s the row?” asked Stephen, staring at the screaming maid.

Reggie, with a numb and vacant expression, had dropped to his knees by the bed, and appeared to be trying to clean up the spilled contents of the tray.

“Help! Oh, Mr. Stephen, help! He’s murdered Mr. Jack, and now he’ll kill me! He’ll kill me! He’ll—”

Nigel struck the chair out of Kate’s hands. “I told you to shut up,” he said. Kate, huddling more deeply into the corner than ever, met his glaring eyes—and moaned in animal terror.

“Cut that out,” said Stephen, grabbing Nigel’s arm as he was about to take another step towards the quivering girl. “Do you think you’re helping? Huh?”

“She called me a murderer,” said Nigel. His eyes weren’t quite focused.

“Can’t you see she’s hysterical?” said Stephen, giving his brother a shake.

“I’m feeling a little hysterical myself,” said Nigel, in a strange voice. “It’s the smell of blood—it—oh God.” And he began to shake all over.

“What on Earth?” Reggie, still kneeling by the bed, picking feebly at buttered toast, looked up at his brothers. “Nigel—get ahold of yourself, man!” he snapped, sounding utterly disgusted.

Nigel looked at his brother with eyes that were utterly blank of expression. “Officer material,” he said. “Oh God. Just tidying up.” And he started to laugh. The laughter was hollow and mechanical, the noise of a clockwork man clicking through his gears.

“Come on, now, old man,” said Stephen, quite gently. “War’s all over and all that. No more nasty trenches.”

“Why does it smell like blood if it’s all over?” Nigel whispered, the distance in his eyes growing. “Why does it—”

Kate, in her corner, started whimpering. “Oh God oh God he’s mad he’s mad—mad mad! Keep him away keep him away keep him—” she went on and on, her words tumbling out without her seeming to notice them. She was rocking back and forth now, passing her apron through restless hands like a rosary.

Frank stumbled into the room. “Really, this is—oh.” And he stared blankly at the bloody bed. “Is that Jack?” He gripped the doorway blindly. “I don’t—a doctor? We need a doctor?” And he stumbled back out of the room.

“Don’t go in, Gertie,” they heard him say. “It’s horrible.”

“But Frank—” came Gertie’s voice, firm and determined.

“No. Come with me. I need your help.”

“Let go! Oh, very well, if you insist…”

And then a new voice broke in, old and cracked. Hettie had met Frank and Gertie in the hall. Now she stood, bestriding the way, glaring at them. “What’s all this noise, now, Mr. Frank? I won’t have my girl worried.”

 “It’s Jack,” said Frank. “He’s dead.  I’m going to call Dr. Camphor. Maybe he can—but I think he must be dead.”

“Dead? How’d he get dead? Tell me that, Mr. Frank. Big, healthy man like that. Dead?” Hettie sounded at once bewildered and belligerent.

“Dead? Who’s dead?” came a new voice. Penny, coming down the hall at a halting run. “Not—”

“I’m afraid so,” said Frank. “Don’t go in there, my dear.” And he tried, quite gently, to hold the girl back. She disentangled herself and rushed into her father’s room. For a moment, she stared—wildly, like a child in a bad dream—then she cried out—not in grief, but in rage.

“But—it’s murder! Someone murdered him!” She glared round at the circle of faces, which seemed to swim in the blood-heavy air around her. “Which one of you did it?”