Murder in Ravenbrough

When a famous author of best-selling novels inspired by real-life crimes comes to a small town to sign copies of her latest book, you immediately check a map to see if it’s far from where you live. But when it turns out that she’s not just any author, but your favorite, Jane Blackbird, and on top of that, she’ll be signing books in the delightfully spooky town of Ravenbrough, you drop everything in a heartbeat and just head right over there. No matter how far away it might be. Just like I did—a reporter for the tiny newspaper Your Captivating News. Especially since we’d had to wait an unexpectedly long time for her latest novel.

And then you get there and find out that Jane Blackbird is dead. And she didn’t die under just any circumstances—her death was straight out of her own novels. The writer’s body was found in a locked hotel room on an upper floor of The Moor House. The thing is, the room was locked from the inside, and the key was found in her pocket. On the windowsill lay a piece of paper with a sentence spelled out using letters cut from newspapers: “The truth will come to light.” She was last seen at the hotel late in the evening with her assistant.

Of course, I felt incredibly sorry for Mrs. Blackbird, but I have to admit that part of me was incredibly excited that I’d be able to write an article about a case I’ve been involved in almost from the very beginning! Especially since the famous Chief Inspector Clutterbuck had stepped in (he was the one who solved that famous Emily Black murder!). I tried to curry favor with Clutterbuck by paying him a few little compliments, but with little success. Who am I kidding? I have no talent for compliments, nor for solving criminal mysteries. Still, I managed to establish the following facts:

Clutterbuck narrowed the list of suspects down to four people:

- Elizabeth Cook—the widow of a famous surgeon who had died under mysterious circumstances a few years earlier. Since then, Mrs. Cook has been a regular at art auctions and poetry readings. The deceased reportedly planned to describe the circumstances of Mrs. Cook’s husband’s death in her new book.

- The victim’s husband, Peter Blackbird—handsome and composed. Considered a great catch. Was he a devoted husband? This raises serious doubts—he did not show up at the hotel with Jane, claiming he was feeling unwell—yet witnesses say his car was seen near the guesthouse that night.

- Susannah Blight—the author’s assistant. A red-haired beauty full of spirit. Witnesses heard an argument in which Susannah accused Jane of being the real author of her books (is that possible?). She was seen at the guesthouse on the night of the murder, furious. She claimed she had returned to retrieve a notebook in which she jotted down tasks from Ms. Blackbird.

- Jack Brown – a successful local journalist and the writer’s former partner (well, well), who, as it turns out, was vying for the assignment to interview Mrs. Blackbird. He was allegedly working on an article about her past. On the day of the murder, he wanted to meet with the victim. It strikes me as creepy behavior, especially since he himself had no shortage of attention from the opposite sex, yet he was clearly obsessed with Mrs. Blackbird. He is known for being immature. He’s around thirty years old.

I tried to follow the Chief Inspector everywhere he went, but he sent me away with a hint of amusement on his face. I even tried to conduct my own investigation, but aside from finding a cigarette butt near the hotel, I didn’t get very far. Well, apparently detective work isn’t my strong suit. Still, I tried eavesdropping on the Chief Inspector through the window. I don’t know if he saw through my plan, but he was talking about a muffin recipe and winning writing contests, which struck me as odd since Jane Blackbird hadn’t won any contest. In fact, she hailed from a poor family and had had to work as a maid, barely finding time for writing. She was simply a natural.

Finally, the moment arrived. A powerful wave of excited whispers swept through the residents of Westborough when Chief Inspector Clutterbuck, at long last, after many hours of pondering the evidence he’d gathered, stepped out of his room on the ground floor of the same guesthouse where Jane Blackbird’s body had been found and announced that while the murder itself had been committed by a single person, a total of three people were involved in the case.

“It can't be!” someone shouted from the crowd.

“It must be the writer's assistant—everyone heard them arguing! A jealous girl!” someone else said indignantly.

Chief Inspector Clutterback smiled mysteriously and adjusted the sleeves of his brown tweed coat.

“Miss Blight certainly contributed to the murder,” he said, “but her only crime was unwittingly drawing everyone’s attention to herself, while the real murderer skillfully took advantage of that.”

“So who killed her?” someone in the crowd snorted skeptically.

Chief Inspector Clutterback didn’t answer; he simply made his way to a spacious room on the ground floor of the hotel, where the four suspects were waiting, flanked by police officers. Elizabeth Cook and Peter Blackbird sat calmly on a red velvet-upholstered sofa, while Jack Brown settled into the armchair next to them with a roguish smirk. Susannah Blight stood by the fireplace, clutching her purse in one hand and nervously biting the nails on her other hand.

“Mr. Clutterbuck, I didn't kill Jane!” Susannah cried out as soon as she saw the chief inspector. “Yes, I argued with her, but I didn't... didn't... do anything to her!” Her chin began to tremble nervously, and tears streamed down her cheeks.

Jack Brown snorted defiantly.

Chief Inspector Clutterbuck sat down calmly in an armchair and removed his brown bowler hat, revealing his bald spot.

“Of course not, please calm down,” he declared. “The murder was committed by Mrs. Jane’s husband, Mr. Peter Blackbird.”

Peter Blackbird didn’t even blink; he simply regarded the chief inspector with a cool, haughty gaze. “That’s interesting,” he replied contemptuously. “I wasn’t even there.”

“That’s right, you weren’t there until your brother, Jack Brown, called you.”

“That journalist? My brother?” This time, Peter Blackbird looked amused. “You must be out of your mind!”

Chief Inspector Clutterbuck thoughtfully scratched his chin. “It’s interesting how the human mind works. Even though we don’t want to admit it, we’re attracted to people who look alike. When Jane Blackbird got tired of the eternal boy, Jack, she very quickly became fascinated by Peter, who was so serious and mature, yet just as handsome as Jack. No wonder—after all, they’re brothers.”

“Brothers?” Jack snorted with laughter. “We don’t even have the same last names.”

“But you have the same sharply defined jawline and almost identical long, straight noses. I’m convinced that in his youth, Peter looked almost exactly like his younger brother, Jack. And you both resemble none other than your mother… Elizabeth Cook.”

Elizabeth Cook fixed the chief inspector with a haughty gaze and lifted her chin slightly.

“I think you’re forgetting yourself, Chief Inspector Clutterback,” she said coldly.

“On the contrary,” replied the Chief Inspector. “It took me only a few phone calls to confirm this theory. You were undoubtedly a very attractive woman in your youth, one who caught the attention of the opposite sex… and you take the surname Cook from your third husband. A husband who disappeared under mysterious circumstances years ago, and who, before his death, had been on very friendly terms with his maid—a very young girl whom everyone called “J,” but whose real name was Jane.

Elizabeth Cook’s expression remained unchanged, but a smoldering rage was visible in her eyes.

“There was one detective who suspected you of helping Mr. Cook make his journey to the afterlife, but that detective unfortunately died of a heart attack.”

“Unfortunately,” Mrs. Cook remarked. “He was already an old man, just like you, I dare add.”

Chief Inspector Clutterback merely raised an eyebrow and continued, this time addressing Jack Brown:

“I’ve heard you’re a well-read journalist. Apparently, your articles are exceptionally well written.”

Jack greeted the comment with a mischievous smirk.

“Shall I give you a few lessons?”

“No need. Outstanding writing talent runs in your family, doesn’t it? You inherited it from your mother, just like your brother, Peter.”

Peter Blackbird snorted:

“I have no writing talent whatsoever.”

- That’s interesting that you say that, because in almost all the photos in which you’re posing, there’s a typewriter behind you, and from conversations with former staff at your family home, I learned that you spent hours of your free time writing, just like your mother, the real author of the Jane Blackbird books.

“What?” Susannah stared wide-eyed at the chief inspector and dropped her purse.

“Here’s what happened, in my opinion: Mrs. Cook’s husband was not only a talented surgeon, but also a possessive and arrogant man. He didn’t like that you, Mrs. Cook, were writing, so you were forced to hide all your manuscripts in the proverbial drawer. But when he hired an aspiring writer, the very young Jane, he quickly became infatuated with her, and to win her favor, he pretended to be an unfulfilled writer in front of her. I suspect he had no imagination of his own, so to back up his story with evidence, he used your manuscripts to win Jane’s heart. But how could he have known that the girl would quickly disappear with the manuscripts?

Elizabeth Cook’s face twitched, but she said nothing, merely continuing to bore into the chief inspector with furious eyes.

The Chief Inspector continued:

“I think that when you found out about the theft of the manuscripts, Mr. Cook fell victim to your anger.”

“How dare you!” Elizabeth hissed.

The chief inspector raised his hand—a gesture that brooked no objection—and continued: “I’m sure you were looking for the runaway girl, but to no avail.” However, when, some time later, you heard about the extremely popular books by a writer named Jane, all it took was a glance at the books for you to recognize your own stories signed under someone else’s name. You knew, however, that you had no proof that you were the real author, so you devised a completely different plan for revenge. And what wouldn’t sons do for their mother? I presume you wanted one of your sons to win a girl’s affection in order to obtain evidence of the theft of the manuscripts. But when such evidence proved impossible to obtain, there was only one option left: Jane’s marriage and death, so you could inherit the rights to the books and full control over them. When the handsome but immature Jack failed, his brother, Peter, stepped in and succeeded this time. All that remained was to wait for the right moment. I’ve heard that it was you, Mr. Blackbird, who recommended Miss Susannah Blight to your wife for the position of assistant—even though you knew of her obsessive and hysterical tendencies. I dare say she was the perfect candidate for you.

The Chief Inspector looked at Susannah, who was now standing there with a flushed face, her eyes fixed on the ground.

“I think, Miss Susannah, that you realized quite quickly that Jane Blackbird couldn’t have been the author of the previous eight novels. You’d been watching her struggle long enough to write her ninth novel—this time, her own. Unfortunately, Mrs. Jane had no talent for imitation and was unable to copy Mrs. Cook’s style to create her own bestseller. And the publisher was waiting… You, on the other hand, from what I’ve learned, demonstrated an outstanding ability to imitate the styles of various writers during your education. You even won several contests. That’s why you decided to blackmail Jane and start arguments wherever you could. Once the seed of doubt is sown, it can yield a bountiful harvest. But on that fateful day yesterday, when you were with Jane, Jack overheard your argument—as did plenty of other people, for that matter. And that was the death knell for Jane Blackbird.” The Chief Inspector gave Peter and the still-amused Jack a long look.

“You made a quick phone call to your brother, and then you watched Jane’s room,” the chief inspector continued. “Peter arrived in a hurry; in fact, several witnesses saw his car near the guesthouse. As soon as Susannah left, you, Mr. Blackbird, entered your wife’s room, where an angry and aggrieved Jane presumably showed you the threatening note from Susannah. Perfect. A hard blow to the back of the head, and that was that. Jane fell lifeless to the floor. Then you slipped out quietly and locked the door… Yes, Mr. Blackbird, I spoke with the receptionist, and I know that you helped your wife check into the room and that you were given two keys, not one.

The remaining minutes were spent with Mr. Blackbird hurling furious threats and struggling with the police officers. Mrs. Elizabeth Cook walked proudly and gracefully to the police station, while Jack merely winked at the now-pale Susannah, then allowed himself to be led out of the guesthouse without much resistance.

Chief Inspector Clutterbuck calmly observed the entire scene, then asked the guesthouse staff for hot tea with brandy. The inspector went into the locked room where the murder had taken place and reflected sadly on how a single theft had forever turned three innocent people into criminals. Then he remembered the recipe for muffins. He'll have to try it out.