A Complex Affair

“They say he can solve a case without evidence,” whispered one maid of the Landcastle Manor to her fellow worker. “They say that even if every witness tells the same lie, and all the evidence supports it, he’ll somehow discover the truth!”

Despite the incredible reports that had been circulating the community around him these past few weeks, Mr. Lacey did not particularly look the part as he strolled into the manor with his handsome cane, a couple of investigators scurrying behind him, trying to match the pace of his long stride.

“Mr. Lacey, please! Enlighten us as to why we are here without invitation!” exclaimed Detective March, huffing and puffing behind the tall Mr. Lacey.

“Because, my dear investigator,” Mr. Lacey replied lazily, “Generally it is not the practice of investigators to wait for the murderer to hide the evidence merely to be proper. Besides that, if you inform a murderer that you are coming to arrest a murderer, surely they will try to run away.” The trio was nearing the parlor where they knew Madame Devonshire would be waiting as had been requested.

“Ah, so you’ve figured it out! But, my good man, why did you not tell us?” wheedled Detective Bloome.

“I think I have made it rather clear how little I enjoy hearing your voice, Detective Bloome,” Mr. Laney said very frankly. Detective Bloome frowned, but said nothing. Detective March, however, could not hold his tongue.

“Well, Mr. Laney. Who is it, then?” he asked in excited anticipation.

“It would do you well to listen very carefully as I explain things to Madame Devonshire, detectives,” was all Mr. Laney said as the butler, Mr. Honey, opened the parlor doors for them.

“I require the household’s presence, Mr. Honey,” commanded Mr. Laney compellingly. “Except for Mrs. Brown and that helpful daughter of hers, as I need them to make tea. Perhaps you might request she add those delicious little tarts I’m so fond of, too?” Mr. Honey bowed and complied with a rather sour expression behind his monocled features.

When everyone was gathered, Mr. Laney began addressing M. Devonshire, wife of the deceased Mr. Devonshire.

“As we all very well know, this was a case involving the murder of Mr. Devonshire. He was a rich, upstanding member of society with a lovely wife, loyal household, and extensive property—thank you, Mrs. Brown.” Mr. Laney paused to accept tea. “The unfortunate deaths of his secretary, Ms. DuBois, and M. Devonshire’s personal maid, Katherine, were also tragic, since both members were well-liked and pleasant creatures.

“We shall start with the murder of Katherine, the maid. It was strange, M. Devonshire, that someone would kill Katherine with none other than sewing scissors. A very gruesome death, obviously not premeditated, since the scissors were merely grabbed from M. Devonshire’s sewing basket not far away. At this point, the killer seemed to be getting either very sloppy or very desperate, neither a quality of the killer who murdered Mr. Devonshire.” There was a long pause during which several people shifted uncomfortably.

“No,” Mr. Laney continued after another sip of tea, “this was a different killer.”

“Not the same killer?” asked Detective March. Mr. Laney gave him a withering stare.

“Please refrain from asking questions unless you are a suspect, Detective,” he drawled, annoyed. “No, they are not the same killer. This murder was an unfortunate accident committed by none other than Ms. DuBois.”

A general gasp circled the room. “What?” Madame Devonshire asked incredulously. “Why, Mr. Laney, would Ms. DuBois kill Katherine She didn’t even know the girl! ? It’s preposterous.”

“Ah, you would think so, wouldn’t you?” Mr. Laney said, his dark eyes twinkling in the light of the mystery. Pacing the room, he continued. “Ms. DuBois spotted Katherine with a very important piece of evidence. You see, Katherine had the gun which killed Mr. Devonshire. Ms. DuBois, in a moment of irrational judgment, decided to take matters into her own neatly gloved hands and threaten Katherin into telling the truth. In doing so, she grabbed the sewing scissors, intending only to intimidate. Put simply, she tripped, and learnt why one ought never to run with scissors in hand. Horrified, Ms. DuBois left Katherine in M. Devonshire’s room, threw the gun into the river ten miles from Landcastle Manor, and burned her clothes. What she neglected were the pearls she wore every day. It wasn’t noticeable, but paired with her paranoid attitude and sudden aversion to sharp things, it fit.

“What Ms. DuBois hadn’t realized was that the gun had been found by Katherine in M. Devonshire’s room, buried in her armoire. It was M. Devonshire’s personal handgun that we pulled from the river ten miles from Landcastle Manor.

“Six days later, Ms. DuBois was murdered.”

Another gasp circulated the room. Mr. Honey looked astounded. The maids wept freely in terror. “Ms. DuBois committed suicide!” M. Devonshire said in alarm. “Do you mean to say that the same person who killed my husband killed his secretary as well?”

Mr. Laney chuckled what seemed to be a very ominous chuckle, gazing at M. Devonshire’s lovely features. “It does look that way, doesn’t it? But you did not murder your husband,” he said carefully. M. Devonshire caught her sigh of relief, realizing precisely what he was implying. “You did, however, murder Ms. DuBois.”

“Now see here, Mr. Laney. Ms. DuBois committed suicide, and doctors confirmed it! It all fits, you see—“ Detective Bloome contradicted in his whiney voice. Mr. Laney, in a flash of irritation, grabbed a tart while Detective Bloome spoke, and before the man had finished his sentence, crammed the thing into Detective Bloome’s mouth.

“If you haven’t anything useful to say, I recommend that you find your mouth something to keep it busy,” Mr. Laney said scathingly. “Ms. DuBois was involved in a romantic relationship with Mr. Devonshire. Mrs. Devonshire was already aware of this. What bothered her, however, was not the affair, but rather that Mr. Devonshire had written Ms. DuBois into his will, thus splitting his worth between them. She did not like Ms. DuBois very much. This, however, was not the reason for the murder.

“Ms. DuBois, unsure of what to do or whom to speak with, confided in a friend of hers via letter. The note was intercepted by M. Devonshire, having been sent from this very estate. It only contained six words: ‘I know who murdered Mr. Devonshire.’

“M. Devonshire took action. When Ms. DuBois left for the day, M. Devonshire went for a horseback ride, making sure to leave from a direction opposite of Ms. DuBois. Six miles away from the estate are a series of cliffs that Ms. DuBois often visited. M. Devonshire often heard her comment on how beautiful it was there, how it soothed her soul. M. Devonshire doubled around her estate and caught up with Ms. DuBois. She invited the secretary to take her to the cliffs. Ms. DuBois, who respected and feared M. Devonshire, did not refuse. The two women stood at the cliffside, horses tied up nearby, making small talk about the cliffs. M. Devonshire simply had to push dear Ms. DuBois to her death below. She and her horse returned from the same direction, opposite where Ms. DuBois had left. She was as smiling and carefree as ever.”

“But Mr. Laney, if you don’t mind me asking,” piped up one of the maids.

“As long as your name does not begin with the title ‘Detective,’ you may ask as many questions as you please,” Mr. Laney responded. Detectives March and Bloome were not amused.

“Mr. Laney, if M. Devonshire didn’t kill her husband, why would she kill Ms. DuBois for knowing? What was she afraid of?”

“I didn’t kill Ms. DuBois, Martha, she committed suicide” M. Devonshire said coldly. Mr. Laney ignored her.

“That is a very good question, Martha,” he said cheerily, “for which there is a very simple answer: M. Devonshire was also having an affair.”

“Now this really is becoming ridiculous,” laughed M. Devonshire. “Why in the world would I be unfaithful?”

“An eye for an eye, M. Devonshire,” Laney replied. “And yours was much simpler to maintain. Mr. Devonshire had to worry about appearances. You simply had to stay at home during long nights when your husband went on business trips to work, or play, with Ms. DuBois.

“You see, M. Devonshire was having an affair with the killer, and she thought Ms. DuBois now knew who the killer was. In order to protect her lover, she killed Ms. DuBois.”

“Then who killed Mr. Devonshire, if it wasn’t M. Devonshire?” Martha asked.

“Clever girl, Martha,” Mr. Laney winked. “Who was M. Devonshire having an affair with? Who,” Mr. Laney said, reaching slowly into his pocket, “who would murder Mr. Devonshire after his lover told him her husband had written her out of his will? Who, in a jealous fit of rage after listening to his lover cry, would steal M. Devonshire’s personal handgun, seek out Mr. Devonshire at his workplace, and kill him?”

Mr. Laney stopped his pacing directly in front of Mr. Honey, staring into the blue eye that was covered by a gold-rimmed monocle. The lanky detective pulled his hand out of his pocket to reveal an identical gold-rimmed monocle. “Who, Mr. Honey, would keep a spare monocle in his lover’s room to ensure that he remembered one in the morning?”

Everyone’s mouths gaped. Mr. Honey? Even the detectives were aghast.

“I—I,” Mr. Honey began, but seemed unable to think of a proper defense.

“Preposterous!” cried M. Devonshire. “Mr. Honey was with me the night of the murder! Mr. Devonshire had to work late, so we had a little time—“

“Do not tell us any more lies, M. Devonshire!” Martha cried, wide-eyed and tearful. “Mr. Honey rode home with me that night to ensure my safety due to how late and dark it was. And, when I aksed if he might come in for refreshment before he too returned home, he declined and said he had business in town!”

“Good girl, Martha,” muttered Mr. Laney.

“Insolent girl!” screamed M. Devonshire. “You may expect not to have work when this case is over, not in my household, you—“ her screaming cut off abruptly as Mr. Laney once again put a tart to good use as a silencer.

“Very good. Well, detectives, I leave the rest in your capable hands. I trust the police will be here shortly—ah! There they are now!” he said as policemen began filing into the crowded parlor. Saluting his fellow detectives and winking once more at Martha, Mr. Laney swept outside, using his cane to amuse himself rather than to support himself. Swinging himself onto his gently gray horse, he batted the beast’s neck and murmured, “Fine day for solving mysteries, isn’t it, Sterling?”

The horse snorted in agreement, and the duo trotted down the lane, leaving another case in the dust behind them.