Urgent Search

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…

Urgent Search

 

Dr. Camphor had also heard Hettie’s scream—but from quite far away, and through a black cloud of melancholy reflection.

“Was that a scream? Yes, I believe it was.” He turned, trying to pinpoint the direction. “Not from the Manor house—that’s out of it,” he thought as he strode forwards. “Maybe the Dower House—rented by old Madge Harman now—better check there first.”

But Madge responded to his knock whole, intact, and full of mild wonder at his appearance.

“Scream? No, young man, I heard no scream. Come in and have some tea—or perhaps a sherry—and—no? Well! Yes, I suppose it might be an emergency.”

Without bringing his conversation with Madge to any formal conclusion, he turned and sprinted away.

Hettie’s cottage was next. The door opened at his knock—and there was Hettie’s corpse. He did what he could, but she was obviously beyond all medical aid.

“She’s not been dead long, though,” said the doctor. “So she was probably the one who screamed.” He took a deep breath—and smelled, mixed in with the heavy scent of blood, a whiff of Penny’s perfume.

Frantically, he searched the place, but no-one was there. He even unlocked the cellar door and peered down the stairs—but he was alone in the cottage. He stumbled outside once more, leaving the cellar door open behind him. The blood was thrumming in his ears. Penny had been in the cottage. Penny had discovered the body. And then Penny had gone—where?

Old Sneakfork’s place was the next cottage along the lane. Maybe she’d gone there for help. He sprinted up to the door and knocked. The dignified head of the retired butler appeared in an upstairs window.

“Doctor? Is that you? Not time for my next visit, surely? And isn’t it a bit late for a call? I was near as anything asleep…and you know how difficult that is for me.”

“It’s an emergency,” shouted the doctor. “Hettie’s been killed.”

“What?”

“Hettie’s…”

“I heard you! I heard you! But I don’t know what you expect me to do about it. I’m not on the telephone here, you know.”

“Has a young lady come here?”

“What young lady?”

“Any young lady!”

“Oh! No. No young ladies have ever visited me here, except your daughter. Charming girl, Geraldine. But she’s my only young visitor.”

“No-one has knocked at your door tonight?”

“No-one.”

And the doctor, swearing under his breath, ran up the lane once more. The next building he came to was the old stables—converted to a garage now. As he was about to run past it, he heard a clatter from within. He charged inside—just in time to find Nigel, standing over a limp and crumpled Penny, a wrench raised over his head.

Dr. Camphor did not hesitate. He struck Nigel a terrific blow to the face. The young man tumbled back, came to rest against the body of a partially-dissected Rolls Royce. Growling, Dr. Camphor stalked towards him.

“What the—” and Nigel said something very rude indeed, expressing, in the crudest possible terms, complete and utter bafflement.

“You were going to hit her,” said Dr. Camphor. “With a wrench.”

“Well, she hit me with a great big plank.”

“A likely story,” scoffed Camphor.

“It’s true,” croaked Penny, clutching her injured throat.

“Oh.” Dr. Camphor felt deflated.

“Why’d you hit me, anyway?” asked Nigel, of Penny.

Penny bit her lip. “I found Hettie—like—like that—all dead, and bleeding, and awful—and then someone hit me and locked me in a cellar, and I’ve been kind of off-balance ever since. Sorry.”

Nigel blinked. “Hettie’s dead?”

“Yeah. Someone stabbed her.”

“Oh.” Nigel stared.

“And what were you doing, lurking here with a wrench in your hand, young man?” demanded Dr. Camphor.

Rather wearily, Nigel gestured at himself—at his overalls, his grease-covered face—and then at the partially-dismembered automobile in the middle of the room. “I happen to like messing about with cars,” he said. “Got rather good at engines in the War; now, it’s just a rich man’s hobby.” His voice was bitter.

“Oh,” said Dr. Camphor, taking in the scene with new eyes. “Yes. Looks like maybe you’re out of it, after all. Well. Sorry if I—but—sorry. We’d better all get to the house now. The police will want to know things.”

As Penny got shakily to her feet, she looked at Dr. Camphor. “He-man,” she whispered.

He winced. “Apparently totally unnecessarily so. Mortifying, really. Here, you look a bit unsteady. You’d better lean on me—for support, you know.”

And Penny did.

 

…And An Ultimatum

 

As soon as he reached the house, Nigel sought out his brother Reggie. He tracked him down, at last, in the library. Reggie had a glass of whiskey in one hand, the decanter in the other. His eye was wild, and he looked like he’d been through some trying spiritual experience. But he waved the decanter at Nigel in a chummy way.

“What ho, young Nigel!” said Reggie. “Been fightin’?”

“Yes,” said Nigel, in a strange, detached voice. “The doctor punched me in the face.” He dismissed this with a wave of the hand. “And I have news for you, older brother. Hettie’s dead. Someone murdered her.”

Reggie met Nigel’s eyes—and shrank back. “Why tell me, specifically?” Reggie muttered.

Nigel shook his head. “It’s no good. I saw you. That morning—in Uncle Jack’s room. You bent down and picked something up—and slipped it into your pocket, looking round as you did to see if anyone noticed what you were doing. Well, I noticed.”

“You don’t know what you saw! You were having one of your turns!”

“I was having one of my turns. And I know exactly what I saw. I knew what you were doing. Trying to tidy something away—like the officers in the War. Well, you’re not going to tidy me away into a nice little prison-yard grave.”

“You were having an episode, and you don’t know what you’re talking about.” Reggie tried to clap Nigel on the shoulder, but Nigel dodged his hand. “It’s all right, dear boy. We all know you’ve been through it.”

Nigel just shook his head again, his face utterly serious. “No. Sorry, that won’t wash. I haven’t said anything so far, but I’m getting tired of everyone thinking I’m the killer. Leads to the most extraordinary behavior in middle-aged doctors, for one thing. No, you’re going to tell me what it was you picked up—now—or I go straight to Crowner, tell him all about it, and he can ask you for explanations himself.”

And so Reggie showed him the thing that was in his pocket.

Nigel looked startled. “I see. And do you think that means…”

Reggie gestured impatiently. “No, I don’t. Of course not! Absolutely impossible. But if Crowner finds out, it will mean a lot of fuss and trouble.”

“I see. Well, I won’t tell Crowner yet, but if he tries to arrest me, out it comes!” And he turned to go.

“Cad!” said Reggie, with terrible venom.

Nigel laughed bitterly. “I’m not going to hang for you or anyone else—get that quite clear, older brother.” And he stalked out of the room.