“Not–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…

“Not–Murder!”

Dr. Camphor examined the body and sealed the room. “I’m sorry,” he said, to the family gathered in the morning room, “there is nothing to be done. The police have got to be called in now—and it’s going to be horrid. Murder is horrid, you know.”

“Murder? Nonsense! Who would want to murder Jack? He obviously committed suicide,” said Gertrude. She was sitting on the ornate velvet sofa that was one of the signature pieces of the room, next to Reggie.

Dr. Camphor looked at Gertrude with a mixture of exasperation and pity. “Suicide is quite impossible,” he said simply.

“Men can stab themselves, surely,” said Gertrude.

“Not typically in that spot, though. And there are—other indications which I am unwilling to discuss with you at this time. They also rule out suicide.”

“Unwilling to discuss?” Gertrude’s voice was shrill. “How dare you? How dare you take it upon yourself to call in the police without even presenting us with all of the so-called ‘facts’ you base this decision upon? Why, it’s almost as if—”

“Yes, my dear aunt,” said Nigel, who seemed to be recovering some of his usual tone, “it is—isn’t it? Almost as if the dear old friend of the family suspects that one of us murdered Uncle Jack. Now, I wonder why?”

“Shut up, Nigel,” said Reggie.

“He’s right, though,” said Penny in a quiet voice. She was sitting huddled up in an armchair by the fire. “My father was murdered. By someone in this house.”

“Of course—you would agree with Dr. Camphor,” said Gertrude with a sniff.

“What was that crack?” Penny eyed Gertrude. “Are you really suggesting that I’m agreeing with Dr. Camphor—oh, never mind. I don’t care what you think. Suggest what you damn well like. It doesn’t matter. The police have to be brought in—and you damn well know it.”

“I don’t see that you have any right to swear at me,” said Gertrude.

Penny shrugged. “Call the police, Rupert,” she said, looking at Dr. Camphor, and rather deliberately not at Gertrude. Dr. Camphor nodded and left the room.

“How dare you? How dare—”

“I was his daughter!” Penny exploded. “How dare you?”

“If you are—“ began Gertrude—but Reggie took her hand and squeezed it. Gertrude took a deep breath and seemed to come to herself. “I’m sorry, my dear—of course you’re upset—and I think I must be rather upset myself.” She laughed, rather shakily. “Forgive me.”

Penny shrugged again. “Oh sure,” she said indifferently. “Funny thing—my father was murdered—and I can’t seem to get excited about anything else right now.”

But Gertrude seemed, after a moment of obvious struggle, to be unable to let the topic drop—like someone who keeps probing an aching tooth to see how much it hurts. “I’m so sorry,” she said, “but I still think—I think you should be prepared to find out that it was suicide. I know Dr. Camphor says—but he’s only a local GP after all. Very clever, of course, but he couldn’t have much experience in this sort of thing—and really—it seems so improbable that someone in this house—a member, perhaps, of Jack’s own family, would…”

“Jack wouldn’t have committed suicide, though,” said Frank, who was standing at the window, gloomily surveying the rolling green lawns of his estate. Stephen, gloomily surveying the rolling green lawns next to his father, nodded his agreement.

“Not the type,” he said. “That shot’s not on the board, Aunt Gert.”

“Oh well—I suppose I’m wrong! It seems like all of you would rather suspect your own family than imagine that something perhaps a little improbable had happened.” Gertrude looked deeply affronted—but then brightened. “Of course—perhaps one of the servants—”

Nigel straightened up at this. “If you don’t want to hear swearing,” he said quietly, “you’ll drop that at once.”

“I only meant—”

“I know what you meant,” said Nigel.

“Constable Briggs has arrived,” said Sneakfork from the doorway. “I have put him in the study.”

“I shall speak to him,” said Gertrude, glaring at her family as if daring anyone to question the propriety of this.

“It’s not going to do any good, Gertie,” said Frank. “But if you want the first word—go ahead.”

“Thank you very much,” said Gertrude, and stalked out of the room in Sneakfork’s wake.

In the study, Gertrude was startled to find Constable Briggs, whom she had been accustomed to view almost as a servant of the family, sitting behind Frank’s big desk, wearing an air of authority.

“Morning, Miss Gertrude, ma’am,” said Briggs.

“Ah, Briggs,” said Gertrude, collecting herself with a visible effort. “This is a tragic event.”

“Yes ma’am.”

“We’re all terribly upset. Poor Jack!”

“Yes ma’am.”

“Some secret sadness, I imagine, caused him to take his own life—leaving us to carry on as best we may.”

“Ma’am,” said Briggs, “that isn’t a view I feel able to take.”

“But my dear Briggs—”

 “No ma’am, I’m sorry. I’m the last person to wish to see the Grimsby name dragged through the mud, but there’s no way round it. It’s murder, ma’am, and that’s flat. And I’d better tell you my suspicions are pretty firmly fixed in a certain quarter already.” He took a deep breath. “Young Kate—she’s a housemaid here—”

“Yes. I am quite aware of Kate,” said Gertrude icily.

“Well, ma’am, Kate’s my little sister. She’s a bit simple, ma’am, but not dumb. Her instincts are generally reliable. I always say, Kate knows people. Well, this morning, Kate showed up at my door. Told me all of the goings-on in this house.”

“Oh?” Now Miss Gertrude was freezing. “And what, pray, did she tell you?”

 “She told me as there’d been a murder, and she knew who done it. She said she’d heard young Nigel threaten to kill Mr. Jack Grimsby only a day or so ago—and now here’s Mr. Jack Grimsby dead, and Nigel behaving in a distressing manner in the room of death. Kate said she had to fend him off with a chair—he was on her in an instant, soon as he realized she Knew All.”

Gertrude made as if to speak, but Briggs silenced her with a gesture. “I understand that you have natural feelings in the matter—being the boy’s aunt—but we all know he came back from the war a bit funny. I expect the judge will take that into account in sentencing. But for now, I’ve got my duty to do, and I don’t see any good in delaying what’s got to be done.” He rose to his feet. “Where is the boy?”

So Nigel was arrested.