Scallaway's End

The Letter

Detective Richard Sturling sat in a first class train carriage, a letter in his pocket and murder on his mind. To be sure, there had been no murder yet. But from the sound of the letter, there was one being plotted, and a nasty one at that.

Sturling reached into his pocket and pulled out the letter, written on a sheet of hot pressed paper in flowing script.

November 13th 1928

Sir -

Though we have never met, I am well acquainted with your name, as my sister in law once hired you to look into a case of some missing jewels. She later recommended you to me most highly, and her description of you was very favourable. I have of course seen your name occasionally in the papers, however your professional manner and high recommendations is what has led me to pen this letter to you.

I am an elderly widow left with a large sum of money from my late husband. To break the monotony of living alone with no one else but my maid and her beloved cat, I occasionally have guests around to stay. Recently, I invited around an old friend of mine for company, and an old friend of my late husbands. My nephew turned up on my doorstep of his own accord and seems set on staying, and my lawyer has also dropped by to stay as he looks into some of my financial and legal matters.

You must understand, my dear detective, that I do not much like company, and prefer living alone with only the occasional guest. However my discomfort at such a house full has been turned to real concern after several events which have happened in the past few days.

The day before yesterday I awoke, and lent over to take a sip of water from a glass by my bed. Before drinking however, I saw that there was something in the bottom of the glass. On fishing it out, I found that it was a half dissolved pill, which I found, on taking it to a chemist, was in fact a deadly poison. Throughout the night any one of my guests could have slipped into my room and dropped it into my glass, as I am a deep sleeper.

That very day, as I was napping in my chair beside the fire, I awoke to find my skirts ablaze. Luckily I had the presence of mind to pour a pitcher of water down my front to quell the blaze, but I was deeply shaken, especially after realizing that I had been two feet from the fire and the maid had only just swept the hearth, making it impossible for my skirts to have set fire of their own accord. On further inspection, I found a cone of paper which was partially burnt lying beside my chair. I came to the conclusion that the only possible way for my skirts to have caught ablaze was if someone had purposely set them alight as I napped.

Nothing else happened that day which came to my notice, and I went to bed that night shaken but alive, planning to tell the police the next morning.

On coming down to breakfast yesterday, I was passing through the hallway when I stopped to check the tray where the maid puts any mail I have, which sits below a large oil painting. There was a letter in the tray, which I paused to pick up and read the address. As I did, I saw that the oil painting before me was beginning to move. Springing aside, I watched in horror as the heavy painting crashed to the floor. Had I not moved, I would have been crushed beneath it. All of the guests came running out of the drawing room to stare in shock at the painting. The lawyer and my nephew inspected the picture to find that an ingenious contraption had been devised whereupon picking up the letter would result in a small string being pulled, causing one of the links in the chain holding the picture to the wall to loosen and bend which would result in the painting falling on whomever was below.

My suspicions confirmed, I telephoned the police and detailed the events which I am now telling to you. The police seemed ready to help, however explained that they could not lay charges until there was more evidence. In other words, my dear Sturling, until I am dead. These are the mysterious events which have led me to contact you and beg for your help in ending this unsettling business. I know three things, Mr Sturling. The first is that someone is trying to kill me. The second is that it is a person living under my roof who wants my money. And the third is that I have very little time left.

If this case has caught your attention, Mr Sturling, then please do come as soon as possible. My address is on the back of the envelope. It is a big house called Scallaway’s End in an isolated part of the country, you can’t miss it. I am willing to pay you handsomely should you solve the case, and will also cover the cost of a first class train ticket.

Yours sincerely;

M Minkwater

There was really no need for this last part, thought Sturling, folding the letter and tucking it away in the pocket of his suit jacket. He had been paid very well after solving his latest case, which had involved the kidnapping of the beloved daughter of a very rich couple who had paid him so well that Sturling could have taken the first class train ride ten times over, if he had chose to. As it was, he settled back in the plush seat and looked out the window, at the rain drenched countryside under a leaden grey sky rolling past the window. There was a storm coming, as there always was at this time of the year. Watching the country amble past a train window always helped Sturling think.

Sturling was a very normal looking man. He wore the sort of plain suit and cheap but comfortable shoes which most men wore, and had the salt and pepper hair greying at the temples which every man his age had. His face was the sort which you could look at, then see again a week later without recognizing. He sat in a corner of the large and grandly upholstered carriage with a small brown suitcase tucked under his seat.

Though his expression was mild and vague, Sturling’s mind was a whir of activity. Mrs Minkwater’s case was the sort which every detective longed for. Five suspects, all of them wanting money, one of which was plotting the murder of their host. Sturling’s mind roamed over the wording of the letter.

‘The interesting part,’ he murmured to himself, ‘is that Mrs Minkwater sees them all as suspects.’ He drew out the letter again. … Someone is trying to kill me... it is a person living under my roof who wants my money. Living under her roof… an interesting wording. So the old woman thought that all of her guests including her maid were suspects.

Sturling had heard of Mrs Minkwater before. She was a rich, crotchety old widow who lived in an isolated house in the country. No wonder someone was trying to kill her. Sturling remembered Mrs Minkwater’s sister in law’s case, involving a large amount of missing jewels stolen by, as Sturling had found on investigation, the plumber, who had been stealing the jewels overtime and had been hiding them in the pipes of his own home.

The first thing to do of course would be to interview all of the guests and the maid to find out why each of them would want to kill their host or employer. Looking for clues would be a close second. Sturling’s mind began to move fast. Was anything written on the cone of paper which had been used to set fire to the lady’s skirts? Who had been up and roaming the house the night the pill was dropped in the glass of water? Who was the letter from, the letter that was in the tray below the oil painting?

The train chugged on, relentless and slow, weaving its way through the fields towards Scallaway’s End.