Various Emilys

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…

Various Emilys

Inspector Crowner was having a final pint at the Green Child when Mug brought the news of the second murder.

“That old woman—Hettie—done to death in her cottage,” Mug gasped out. They hastened to the crime scene.

Dr. Camphor was there, doing the initial examination, and Constable Briggs was in a corner, watching the doctor work, muttering darkly that if certain high-handed people from London—naming no names, that would be insubordinate—hadn’t released young Nigel from custody, the poor old lady would still be alive right now.

“You didn’t have the kind of evidence you’d need for a jury, and you know it,” said Mug, placing himself directly in the constable’s face. Constable Briggs grunted, and was silent.

Meanwhile, Dr. Camphor was spouting details as they occurred to him, and Crowner was listening intently.

“And according to Miss Grimsby, Hettie’s last words were ‘poor Emily, she never had a chance’–is that right?” asked Crowner, his eye kindling with interest.

“Yes. Odd, isn’t it? Oh, and speaking of odd things, look at this.” Dr. Camphor reached into a pocket sewn into the inside of Hettie’s old-fashioned skirts. When he pulled his hand out again, it was full of bank notes. “Don’t know if this is the old girl’s savings or what,” he said. “But there’s a good wad of it in here.”

Crowner took the notes and looked at them. Various denominations, but adding up to nearly three hundred pounds—quite a nest egg for a woman of Hettie’s class. And then he noticed that all of the notes were of relatively recent issue, and his mind began to race.

Leaving Constable Briggs in charge of the crime scene, Crowner and Mug returned to the Manor. This time, there was only one question in Crowner’s mind.

*

Crowner saw Stephen Grimsby first. “Tell me,” said Crowner, “who Emily is.”

“Emily?” said Stephen. “You asked about Emily before. Can’t think of any relevant Emilys.”

“Irrelevant ones will do,” said Crowner. “I’m collecting them.”

“I was engaged to an Emily—Emily Harcourt—for about a minute and a half two years ago. She jilted me for a more dynamic chap.”

*

“Emily?” Sir Frank Grimsby smiled nostalgically. “If Lottie and I had ever had a daughter, we were going to call her Emily. That was something we discussed a lot, back when we were courting.”

*

“I had a retriever bitch called Emily when I was a young man,” said Reggie. “Good dog, that. Still miss her.”

*

“There was a maid here called Emily,” said Mrs. Dobson. “I dismissed her for dishonesty. Before the war, that was. Was Hettie fond of her? I don’t think so, especially. Hettie was not very involved in household affairs ten years ago. And then there’s my sister Emily—but she ran off with the milkman when we were girls. I haven’t heard from her since.”

*

Nigel laughed his unpleasant laugh. “Any Emily at all? Well, I suppose I’ve known one or two. A nurse during the war—but I think she was blown up. And I believe that the postmistress here is called Emily. No, I don’t believe she and Hettie were close.”

*

“There was a maid here called Emily, sir—but that was long ago. And my mother was an Emily, and my sister’s girl is called Emily after her. Born the day after mother died, she did, and my sister thought it fitting,” said Sneakfork.

*

“Emily?” asked Gertrude. “Poor old Hettie was talking nonsense, I’m afraid. But of course I’ve known Emilys, Inspector! There was a time when every other girl was called Emily, or so it seemed. Let me think—there was Emily Cantrip—or was she Emilia?—who came out the same year I did. Dead these thirty years—tuberculosis. And there is the postmistress, I believe her first name is Emily. And Emily Masterson, our cook perhaps twenty years ago. And Reggie insisted on calling his dog Emily when he was just down from Oxford—over my strong objections! A most unsuitable name for a dog.” And she looked really upset. “And Lottie had a doll called Emily when we were young.”

*

“Emily? Well, Inspector, I know plenty of Emilys back home. But anyone who could matter here? No, I’m afraid not. No, Pa never mentioned an Emily to me,” said Penny. “But I’ll tell you this—I know what I heard—and Hettie meant what she was saying. She felt real bad about this Emily. And, as she must’ve been feeling real bad herself just then, this Emily must’ve been a big deal to her.”

*

“The postmistress is called Emily, Inspector,” said Dotty. “But I can’t imagine why Hettie would talk about her like that. Not a woman anyone’d ever dare take advantage of, to my mind.”

*

“Emily? Well, ree-ally, Inspector, I don’t know, I’m sure. The postmistress—oh, you know about her? Well, she’s the only Emily I can think of,” said Kate.

*

“Emily? No, I don’t know any Emilys. Never known any Emilys. I don’t want to answer any more questions, now. Where’s Hettie? Send Hettie to me. No, I don’t want Gertrude,” said Lottie, rather agitatedly. She seized hold of Crowner’s arm and held it in a grip of iron. “I don’t know any Emilys,” she said, wildly.

*

“Emily was my wife’s name,” said Dr. Camphor. It was late, late that night, and both the doctor and the detective were tired and eager for bed. “She died ten years ago. A fall from a horse. She was dead as soon as she struck the ground, I think—certainly dead by the time I reached her.”

“You said—everyone said—that they knew no-one named Emily,” said Crowner, gently complaining. “I thought it odd, but I accepted it. And now the place is lousy with Emilys.”

“Well, you didn’t ask for irrelevant Emilys last time,” said Dr. Camphor.

“I suppose I didn’t,” sighed Crowner.