That poor asshole, Beebee. So many avoidable accidents happening these days, when people have their noses buried in their phones, preening into their cameras instead of looking where they are damn well going.
This was the easiest one yet… I didn’t even need to get out of bed. I had been watching them, night after night getting stoned or drunk, one night they’d even consumed some sleeping pills they’d found in the cabinet.
I pre-screwed a little hook at the top of the stairs, and once everyone else had gone to bed, I tied a piece of wire around the banister to the hook. I vaguely remember seeing it in a Poirot episode once… The one with the dog. Thankfully, Gloria didn’t see me, and even if she had, she would have been as glad as I am to be rid of the nasty little brat.
It was risky I know… But no one even bothered getting out of bed when they heard a noise. Everyone knew those two clowns were up all night, dancing, gyrating and generally whoring themselves out to old men on the internet. And once she was on her own, I knew I had to strike. I did her a favour.
I didn’t even see it happen, but I imagine it went something like trip, smack-smack smack-smack—CRACK.
It was Christmas Eve and no one knew what to do with themselves. We alternated between locking our bedroom doors and sitting at the dining table and staring at each other, sick of the confinement, a fierce determination driving us to want to face each other and say, ‘Bring it on.’
We could no longer trust each other, that was a given. But we had to eat, and we all agreed that we would watch as Mrs Harlow prepared our meals– because God knows none of us knew how to cook. Not well, anyway. Madge looked more than offended at the suggestion that we might not trust her after her thirty-five years of service, but we were all under suspicion, so she’d just have to deal with it.
We ate lunch in silence, staring into the middle distance, trying not to catch each other’s gaze. Mrs Harlow moved to the drinks cabinet, reached inside and retrieved a bottle of red wine.
‘Behold!’ she announced. ‘Here, see?’ She turned the bottle upside down. ‘Unopened! I shall now retrieve this corkscrew from my pinafore…’ With a flourish, she wielded it in the air. ‘I am now going to open the bottle.’
I almost snorted at Mrs Harlow’s performance. It was one I had never seen before and seemed so incongruous with her usual subservient, jolly personality. I loved it.
‘Really, Madge?’ Jeannie said, going red.
‘Shall I open the bottle or is it too risky?’ she said, a sarcastic bite to her tone.
Fergus piped up. ‘Not for me, thank you, Mrs Harlow.’
Aghast, we slowly turned our heads towards him.
He looked back at us, mouth downturned with a shrug. ‘I need to keep my wits about me.’ He tapped his knife to his temple.
‘Whatever wits you once possessed were eroded a long time ago, Fergus,’ Jeannie bit out. ‘If I were you, I should enjoy yourself whilst you still can.’
‘Mother,’ Miles warned.
‘Well, he’s a bloody buffoon. At least there’s one person we can strike off the potential murderer list with immediate effect!’
Fergus looked offended. ‘I might like a drink or two, but that doesn’t mean I don’t know what I’m doing,’ he said stoutly.
Callum smirked. ‘So,areyou the murderer, then, Uncle Fergus?’
Martha sat ramrod straight. ‘It’s not funny!’ she burst out. ‘You all think this is some kind of joke?’ She stood up, scraping her chair and storming out.
‘I can assure you, I donotfind any of this funny,’ said Jeannie in a clipped voice. I couldn’t help but laugh at the role reversal; this was almost the same conversation the two of them had had about the gingerbread Toots.
‘Martha,’ I called after her. ‘Please, come and finish your food.’
‘I’m not hungry!’ her receding voice replied as she made her way back to her room.
‘Lock your door, then, please!’ I called out as her thundering footsteps ascended the stairs.
We sat, eyes darting from one to another, before resuming slurping at our soup. Mrs Harlow grunted as she twisted the corkscrew into the cork. She popped it out and looked around at us, a slightly crazed look in her eye.
‘Anyone?’ she dared. ‘No? Well, more for me, then, I suppose.’ And with that she filled her wine glass to the brim, picked it up and took three huge gulps as if she were consuming water and was thoroughly dehydrated.
Jeannie looked at her, bemused. Eventually she tore her eyes away from Mrs Harlow’s out-of-character behaviour and said, ‘Well, anyway … that detective asked me a very strange question.’ She set her spoon down carefully into the bowl. ‘He asked me if Beebee had a history of drug use. Can you believe the absolute gall of him?’
I saw Callum imperceptibly tense.
‘I can believe it,’ said Miles. ‘Can’t you?’
