Funny story... I hope

Who Dunnit?

"I'm telling you, Mr Bones, it was the blue lady who done it," insisted the cook, Miss Basted.

"She's right, you know," added Mr Hoe the gardener. "She roams these halls in search of vengeance.

"I refuse to believe in such mumbo jumbo," stated the detective, fingering the pipe hanging from his mouth. "I have not made it this far in my career by chasing ghosts and ghouls."

"Then how do you explain the trail of other-worldly juices?" Lord Stickleweather pointed at the liquid covering the floor below the swinging body.

"All will be explained, my dear chap, as soon as we are all here." As he spoke he allowed the pungent pipe smoke to drift from between his lips.

Shylock Bones was sure he had all the answers, years of hard work and practice had honed his skills as a detective. He would not allow himself to be caught up in talk of the supernatural. He was a firm believer in that which he could touch, see and smell. His world had no room for such wayward thinking.

"And just who are we waiting for, Mr Bones?" Stickleweather asked with a snort of derision.

"Two important players in the game." Bones removed the pipe and pointed at them all with the tip.

"It's the blue lady, I tell ya, she's coming for us all." Miss Basted began to cry, her shoulders shaking uncontrollably.

"Someone get that woman under control," Bones snapped. "I'm trying to think.

Mr Hoe obliged, standing up and crossing the room. He grabbed Miss Basted by the shoulders and shook her from side to side, pausing to slap her around the face. Finally the woman snapped out of her frantic state and, without any warning, her knee came up and stole the wind from Mr Hoe's sails with a firm blow to his tender area.

"Why you little bit…" Mr Hoe gasped as he doubled over and cupped the agonized area.

"Please, people, some decorum," Bones yelled in impatience.

He glanced around the study and pointed at the maid, a shy young thing who had spent the evening standing off to one side.

"You, girl, I think tea is in order."

The maid nodded silently and scuttled from the room.

"And bring the custard creams," Stickleweather shouted after her and then turned back to the detective. "You still haven't answered my question. Who are we waiting for?"

Bones sucked deeply on his pipe, pausing to savour the taste and apparently thinking over whether he should answer the Lord or not. As he thought he paced the floor, finally stopping and turning to face the man who had hired him.

"We're waiting for your wife, Lord Stickleweather," Bones shouted.

"Are you mad?" Stickleweather jumped up, his face flushing deep red. "My Angelique has been dead these last five years."

"Some say she is the blue lady," whispered Miss Basted.

Before another argument could arise the maid returned with the tray of fine china. She stood in the doorway and looked around blindly, her eyes rolling in her head. The tray fell from her fingers, hitting the hardwood floor seconds before she followed.

Miss Basted began her screaming anew, but Mr Hoe stayed clear of the woman with the deadly knees, his testicles only just returning to a state of normality.

Reverend Fiddler ran over to the fallen maid, his hand outstretched towards the knife protruding from her back.

"Don't touch that," yelled Bones as lightning flashed outside.

The lights flickered out.

Yet once more Miss Basted screamed; the sound akin to that of nails on a chalkboard. As her new fit of hysterics died away the lights flickered back to life and revealed a fresh scene of death.

The knife was no longer sticking from the maid like a grave marker; it was now lying on the floor at Stickleweather's feet. But not before it had been used for yet more nefarious means. Stickleweather was dead, a bright red gash running from ear to ear. The Reverend Fiddler was laid across his lap, his stomach open from ribcage to pubis.

"I need the toilet," cried Miss Basted, running from the room.

"Go with her, man," Bones, pointed at Mr Hoe.

The gardener hobbled after the cook, his genitals complaining at the sudden movement. This left Bones on his own to contemplate the situation. He looked at the bodies' one at a time, finally taking in the body hanging from the ceiling and the watery spillage below the corpse. Bones crouched down and ran a finger through the residue before rubbing it around his gums and smacking his lips together.

"Urine and ejaculate," he mused. "I deduct that this man committed suicide, expelling his life fluids on the point of death."

The case was interrupted by the sound of yet another scream from the direction of the water closet.

"The game is afoot," Bones exclaimed, taking off at a quick trot that made him appear extremely camp.

Outside the storm reached its zenith, thunder shaking the windows and lightning turning the interior into a zoetrope of light and dark. Bones came to a sliding stop at the open door of the water closet and his stomach knotted at the carnage laid out before him.

Miss Basted sat on the Royal Dalton toilet, her face covered in thick red that still poured from the wound in her head. The murder weapon – the cistern lid – had been discarded to one side.

Mr Hoe was sprawled at her feet, his trousers around his ankles and clearly something was missing. Not that the gardener would ever need that tool again.

Bones turned at the sound of footsteps and was met with the sensation of cold steel plunging into his gut. He fell to the floor and stared at the highly polished shoes in front of his face. As he died he looked up at the impeccably dressed figure and rolled his eyes.

"I should have known," he cursed. "The bloody butler did it."