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No Scarfing Matter! – Snifty Clue Post 22/08/18
Ms Cooper returned to her Kitchen. The kitchen smelled of herring and another lighter aroma of bergamot, slightly citrussy. Her cup of tea was still waiting for her, undrunk except for one sip. It had almost gone completely cold. Not only that, but it tasted funny, more bitter than usual, but never the less she drained the cup and walked to the sink to wash the cup and saucer up ready for the morning.
She washed her hands with carbolic soap for the third time to try to remove the fishy smell from them. She had prepared herrings for breakfast but she had forgotten that there were now only four people left to eat them. Not everyone liked soused herrings, especially for breakfast, but they were her favourite and it no one else ate them, she would enjoy them for lunch after everyone had gone.
This weekend had been a trial for her, coming face to face with the past. Well, now this ordeal was through, she’d got her final cheque for keeping her mouth shut all these years and now she could sell this place and move somewhere much more exciting, like the Isle of Wight.
Yawning, she sat back at her table. She was used to working until late, running the hotel on her own had meant long hours, up at 5am and not usually getting to bed before midnight. It was only ten o’clock but she could barely keep her eyes open.
Then a thought suddenly struck her, she tried to stand up but her legs struggled to carry her weight. She walked over to the sideboard and pulled open the drawer. The Cheque had gone! She knew now why the tea was so bitter, but it was too late. She was too tired. Lifeless she collapsed to the floor. Each breath got gradually weaker until she finally breathed no more.
Lady Van Schlumph sat in the winged arm chair of the Library next to a lamp. She had been reading Agatha Christie’s Body in the Library, a rather thrilling read. She had always enjoyed reading Agatha Christie. She actually met her once, in Baghdad, a surprising shy woman, not at all what she expected. Her writing was much more exciting than her company had been. She felt tired and yawned placing a black laced gloved hand over her mouth.
She nodded off and soon she was dreaming of her younger days. Staying with her Sister not long after they were married. She’d never liked Charles, he had never been faithful to his wife. She’d forgotten all about that business with the cook. He’d gotten her pregnant, the old lecher. Abigail had wanted to bring the child up as her own. She couldn’t have any, but she’d convinced her of the lunacy of that idea. She had spoken to the cook herself, told her that if she didn’t give the child up for adoption she would lose her job and starve and the babe would probably die anyway. The cook? Oh yes, it was her, wasn’t it? She’d forgotten all about that. The smell of fish, that’s what reminded her. Then another smell, like lemons. That goes with fish.
Suddenly she was awakened by the feel of something silky being passed under her chin. A scarf?
Then it was pulled tight around her throat. She couldn’t breathe, she couldn’t even scream. Black spots appeared before her eyes. She realised the truth now. She knew who the killer was, but it was too late.
Who Are The Victims?
Where Were They Found?
But Who Is Guilty?
How Did They Do It?
What Was Their Motive?
What Are The Murder Weapons?