Questions

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…

Questions

Crowner and Mug stepped off the train at Little Grimmton. After waving a cheerful farewell to Effie and the children, they hastened to the police station, where they politely liberated Nigel from Constable Briggs.  They then proceeded, under Nigel’s sullen guidance, to the Manor itself, where they were received by Sneakfork and shown into the morning room.

“Mr. Nigel, with Chief Inspector Crowner and Sergeant Mug,” said Sneakfork, and left them to it.

“Nigel,” said an old man with a hearty manner and side whiskers. “Good to see you home again, m’boy.”

“Is it really?” Nigel asked, seemingly genuinely curious. “I should have thought things here were mostly better off without me.”

The old man ignored this. “I’m Frank Grimsby,” he said to Crowner. “Brother of the dead man. Poor old Jack.”

“Sir Frank Grimsby, I believe,” said Crowner.

“Oh, we don’t bother with that here,” protested Frank. “Frightful lot of rubbish, titles.”

The old woman sitting beside him sniffed disapprovingly. The very old woman who was the other occupant of the room (who sat in a corner, almost lost under an untidy pile of mending) cackled.

“Well, Gertie, you know I don’t particularly care for my title.”

“It was your title, which you so despise, that got these men up from London—and you know it,” said sour-faced Gertrude Sterling. Nigel laughed and flung himself into an armchair by the fireplace.

“I think she has you there, father,” he said. “If I were a commoner’s son, I’d be halfway to hanged by now.”

“Yes yes yes,” said Crowner. “I personally hang commoners all day long—it is my usual occupation. I only suspend operations—”

“Ha ha,” said Nigel.

“—when it’s a question of a titled man’s convenience. Then, and only then, do I actually investigate. Yes.” Catching sight of a mirror, Crowner studied his reflection with every appearance of pleasure. “The face—deceptively mild—of legally-sanctioned oppression.”

“I’m sure we’re obliged to you for coming,” said Gertrude, “but I doubt an investigation is really called for.”

Nigel, who had watched Crowner’s antics with a kind of savage enjoyment, now turned a smiling face to his aunt. “Think Constable Briggs got it right the first time, do you?” he asked.

Gertrude shrugged. “If it was murder—”

Frank groaned. “Don’t start that again, Gertie,” he begged. “I know you mean well, but it’s no good.”

“Very well, Sir Frank,” said Gertrude. “As no-one cares to hear what I’ve got to say, I shan’t say any more.”

“But I do care what you have to say,” said Crowner. “I care what everyone here has to say. I’ll need a room, Sir Frank.” Sir Frank looked pained. “—Frank,” corrected Crowner, with slight distaste. Facts were facts, and Baronets were Baronets, and it was no good shirking. “One with a good-sized desk, and a door I can lock if I need to.”

“The study,” said Frank. “Sneakfork—”

The butler materialized. “The study, sir? Very good. Excellent choice.” He turned to Crowner. “If you’ll follow me, sir, I’ll see that you are settled.”

“I’d better come along with you, Mr. Inspector,” said the very old woman in the corner, shoving her mending into an overflowing bag at her feet as she stood up. “I’ve got important information to reveal, I do.” She looked round maliciously at the family, and followed Crowner out of the room. They seemed to walk a long way. Finally, they came to a door off the grand entrance hall. “The study, sir,” said Sneakfork, and flung it open.

Crowner sighed with relief. The room was perfect. Nicely paneled, humanly worn, large but usable desk, lots of books, and convenient ash-trays, obviously in use. Nothing grand, just a decently-sized gentleman’s working quarters, very soothing to the nerves. He sat behind the big desk, enjoying the yielding feel of the chair beneath him, and gestured the very old woman to a fraying velvet chair. She ignored the gesture. Crowner smiled at her. “Well, now! What was it you wanted to tell me? But first—who are you?”

“Name’s Hettie. I been looking after poor Lady Grimsby ever since she were a slip of a girl, though with a bit of a rest, like, when I were retired into my nice little cottage. But when my poor girl went queer in the head, I came back. I show up t’ house every morning, and no-one’s got the nerve to do owt about it. When you’re old as I am, you go where you want.”

“Was that why you were sitting in the morning room just now? Because no-one had the nerve to eject you?”

Hettie nodded. “I like a bit of company,” she said. “Today I chose the nobs.”

“I see. Well, what did you want to tell me?”

Hettie seemed to hesitate. “Tell you?” She said, peering at him slyly from under her bonnet (worn, Crowner suspected, to hide her thinning hair). “Well, now.” She thought a moment more. “It were about Mrs. Lottie’s medicine,” she said at last. “Someone’d been at it that day.”

“What day?”

“The day of the murder. The day before the day we woke up to all that fuss,” said Hettie.

“I thought you had a cottage on the estate. Surely you go there to sleep?”

Hettie smiled. “Sometimes I do. That night, I didn’t.”

“Where did you sleep?”

“I got a couple of little nests about the place,” said Hettie.

“Right. Which nest were you sleeping in that night?”

“I were in the upper parlor, they call it. Right next to my Lottie’s bedroom suite.”

“And did you hear anyone moving around that night?”

“No, Mr. Inspector. I heard nowt. Our wing were quiet—the ladies’ wing, so to speak.”

“But surely you slept?”

“Aye, I expect I did. But I sleep light, being so old. Wake whenever my Lottie girl needs me in the night.”

“And this medicine—where was it kept?”

“In a little basket in my lady’s boudoir.”

“Is that room generally kept locked?”

“I’m not over sure that door can be locked,” said Hettie, “and I’m certain sure it never is.”

“And when did you notice about the medicine?”

“It was in the late afternoon—more like early evening. When I was getting my girl ready to go downstairs and join the family for a bit of dinner.”

“Does she join the family every night?”

“Yes. She likes the company. And she’s not so bad that she can’t get around.”

“How’s her arm strength?” asked Crowner, casually.

Hettie glared at him. “She didn’t do for that Jack Grimsby, Mr. Policeman,” she growled. “Though I say good riddance.”

“You didn’t like the deceased?”

“Caused a lot of trouble between my girls,” muttered Hettie.

“Trouble?”

“Ancient history now.” Hettie shut her mouth firmly.

“So you noticed that the medicine basket had been tampered with right before dinner,” said Crowner. “What was different about it?”

“It’d been moved, for one thing. Someone’d taken it over to the windowsill and left it there. And they’d been into one of the bottles. My girl’s sleep medicine, it was, for when the pain keeps her up.”

“Was any medicine missing?”

“I think so. It looked like there was less in the bottle than what there should have been. Maybe someone else don’t sleep so good either.”

“What was the medicine?”

“Tis Veronal.” Hettie shuffled to the door. “And that’s all I know, mister,” she said. “And all I’m going to say.”

Crowner rose too. “I’ll walk you back.” And he offered her an arm.

When he and Hettie entered the morning room, the company had increased by two. A young man and a middle-aged man with an aura of youthful innocence still hanging about him. Nigel’s two brothers, Crowner decided.

“I told him all about it,” said Hettie, her tone at once triumphant and sly. “I told him all about my Lottie’s missing medicine. And I told him I didn’t hear anyone stirring in the night.” And she grabbed up her bag of mending. “And now I’m going up to see to my girl,” she said.

“I’ll come with you,” said Gertrude, rising. “Poor Lottie, all of this is frightful for her.” She looked reproachfully at Crowner. “I had to tell her that Nigel was arrested—and now just as she’s getting over the shock of that, I’ll have to tell her that apparently the whole thing is still to settle.” And she stalked out of the room in Hettie’s wake.

*

After that, Crowner settled down to a good, thorough grilling of all the members of the household and other relevant parties. But here, we will have to take a shortcut, or else this chapter, already overlong, will grow to an impossible size. Assume, therefore, that Crowner has, through masterly policemanship, extracted all the information from his interviews that the reader now knows. He also learned some new facts, which are as follows:

From SNEAKFORK, that the Sneakfork at Cadblister Hall was this Sneakfork’s uncle, that he was keeping well, and that he spoke highly of Crowner’s skill in clearing up the murder of Lord Cadblister.

From PENNY, that her father used Veronal so regularly that the dose found in his corpse, though more than enough to send a normal man into a coma, wouldn’t have done much to him—except make him act goofy if he’d combined the dose with drink. Goofy how? “Well, now that I think about it, goofy like he was acting at the cocktail party. And he knows it makes him goofy, so he wouldn’t have taken it with alcohol. Someone must’ve slipped it to him.” When asked who’d had the opportunity to do this, Penny said everyone, people had been moving around so much at the time. Asked what she suspected the motive was for the murder, she said it was obviously about money.

From KATE, that she expected Mr. Nigel to kill her, now he’d been released—and also that Dotty’d been crying herself to sleep every night lately. He also learned, along with all that Kate had overheard on the day of Jack’s death, several wild theories about what those conversations might mean. According to Kate, Emily was probably a girl Nigel had wronged; possibly, he had then murdered her. Jack, on learning of this, told Nigel he wouldn’t get any money from him. And what of the sinister Scumble? Kate wanted to know what the police were doing about him.  

From STEPHEN, that he’d left the party almost as soon as Jack had; he and his father left together. Then he’d gone directly to his own room, where he’d spent a sleepless night. He often didn’t sleep; he couldn’t think why. Yes, everyone knew about his insomnia. It was a family joke. Funny thing about the murder. His hearing was jolly good, and he was quite positive that no-one had passed his door all night. Yes, he was sure he’d know if someone had. He always did know when someone passed his door when he was having one of his wakeful nights. Yes, the family knew about that, too. They used to test him sometimes–try to sneak by without him hearing–but they never managed it, and now they didn’t bother. He didn’t understand why Jack had been killed at all. Money? Oh, but the money was going to be fine—Jack had told Stephen and Frank all about that. Of course, the money would, he supposed, be even better now Jack had died without changing his will. Poor kid—Penny, he meant. Asked if he’d shared the reassuring news about the will with the rest of his family, Stephen said he hadn’t—and looked disturbed, as if only now realizing that perhaps much tragedy could have been avoided if only he had.

From FRANK, he obtained a map of the house and grounds. No, Frank hadn’t passed on what Jack told him about his actual plans for his new will. No, he hadn’t looked in on Jack after the cocktail party. He’d left the party with Stephen; they’d gone upstairs together. He’d slept soundly the night of the murder.

From REGGIE, he got some information about Jack’s trip upstairs to bed after the cocktail party. “He kept apologizin’, but he didn’t come straight out and say for what. Said I’d understand soon, and he was beastly sorry for me. Of course, I knew what he was talking about, really. He was going to disinherit the family in favor of Penny— and as heir, this would have hit me especially hard.” Upon Crowner informing Reggie that Jack had specifically said he wasn’t disinheriting the family only hours before this conversation, Reggie looked disconcerted and asked Crowner if he was sure of his facts. “Well, I don’t know at all, then—unless he’d changed his mind.”

From NIGEL, he got a certain amount of bitter commentary, none of which added up to very much. Nigel said that he hadn’t known that Jack wasn’t going to disinherit the family, but also that he didn’t care much either way. Yes, he admitted it was nice to have money, but maybe if he didn’t… well, never mind. Didn’t matter anyway. He’d left the cocktail party at around ten-thirty, but hadn’t gone straight up to bed. He’d gone to the library hoping to find something to read, but hadn’t found anything that appealed to him. But he’d been in bed by eleven, and had fallen asleep within the hour. He hadn’t heard anything suspicious in the night, and he’d slept without interruption until he heard Kate screaming in Jack’s room. The lad seemed to be in an exhausted and disheartened state.

From GERTRUDE, he learned that in her opinion, Penny was not Jack’s real daughter. She hinted at what their true relationship might be, and then bristled when asked for evidence. “Everyone defends her! Well, perhaps I’m wrong. I always am, apparently.” When pressed, she said that she didn’t have any reason that she could think of—just a feeling. “And what evidence do we have that she is his daughter? Tell me that!” When asked if she’d heard anyone stirring that night, she said that she wouldn’t be believed anyway, so what was the point? If she said, for example, that she’d heard that Penny pass her door—just an example, mind!—everyone would just tell her she was wrong. As, she supposed, she was.

From LOTTIE, he learned very little that was pertinent to his case, though much that was pertinent to his understanding of death and time. She was floating in and out of the present moment, and, though she said she’d heard nothing on the night of the murder, it was hard to be sure that she wasn’t thinking of some night long ago. One night, indeed, seemed to haunt her specifically—her wedding night. “I’m so happy for me and Frank, and so sorry for Jack. Oh, why did he have to drink so much at the wedding? I’m frightened.” And indeed, she seemed so frightened that Crowner, after soothing her as best he could, terminated the interview.

From DOTTY, he learned that Mr. Nigel—she called him that with rather acid emphasis—did not do it. Was that an opinion merely, or could she back it up with facts? Well, yes, it was just an opinion, but she was quite certain about it.

From MRS. DOBSON, he learned that that Dotty wanted watching. No, she didn’t know why the girl might have killed Mr. Jack Grimsby. Indeed, she was far from suggesting that she had! Shocking how the police put words into your mouth. She just meant that the girl was immoral and a baggage. As far as Mrs. Dobson knew, Dotty hadn’t left her room that night, but Mrs. Dobson was a sound sleeper—having, unlike some, a clear conscience.

From the OTHER SERVANTS, Crowner learned nothing of import.

No-one admitted to quarrelling with Jack on the afternoon of his death. No-one admitted to understanding what that quarrel had been about. And no-one knew who Emily was.

*

At the end of the interviews, Crowner and Mug poured over everything they’d learned. After a time, they looked at each other.

“Unless Stephen’s lying about being awake all night and no-one passing his door—and I don’t think he is—it looks as if it had to be Sir Frank Grimsby who did in his brother. He’s the only one who wouldn’t have to pass Stephen’s door to reach him. Or Reggie could’ve done it when he put Jack to bed, I suppose. Chief—do you think that could be it?” Mug asked.

“An obvious possibility. The medical evidence states that the murder could have happened as early as nine. But I think you’re missing another possibility, you know. Just look at this map again.”

Mug studied the map closely. “Oh! Oh! It could have been that Nigel after all. He could’ve gone through the Blue Bedroom—there’s a door between his sitting room and it—and that way he wouldn’t have had to pass Stephen’s door to get to his victim. Is that what you meant, Chief?”

Crowner smiled. “Perhaps.”

*

Later that night, Crowner and Mug came up with the following list of questions:

• Was Jack in fact planning to disinherit his family?
• If so, what had happened to make him decide this the evening of his death—when his decision as of that very afternoon was not to disinherit his family?
• To whom had he been speaking on the afternoon of his death in his sitting room, and what had the conversation been about?
• Had Reggie really left Jack in his room as described, or what?
• Why was Jack sorry? Was he sorry specifically for Reggie?
• Who was Emily, and how did she come in—if she did?
• Did Stephen’s evidence really narrow down the list of suspects to Sir Frank, Nigel, and Reggie?
• If so, which one of them did it?