The Murder at Bennet Manor

Miss Lanie Randall looked down at her shaking hands. They did not tremble lightly. Her pristine white sleeves were now splotched with dark red, quickly oxidizing into a rusted brown, and her satin gloves, a favorite of Miss Randall’s for their delicate trim, now found themselves crumpled deep in Captain Archie Weston’s bleeding thigh.

“Must be arterial…” Miss Randall muttered under her breath, putting more pressure onto the hemorrhaging wound beneath her. The silk scarf that had been hastily tied below Captain Weston’s hip was beginning to loosen, and Miss Randall glanced around frantically in search of another cloth or binding. Her gaze came to rest once more upon the injured man in front of her, landing on a leather belt she promptly began to unclasp.

“Right here, now? Oh, Miss Randall,” the Army man teased, flashing a weak smile at the young nurse before grimacing once more from the pain of the bullet lodged in his leg.

“You are incorrigible! Brutes, the whole lot of you!” Miss Randall continued to berate the man through huffs of effort from tightening the belt above the scarf. “Lady Bennet, have you any luck on the phones?” she called out.

“None at all, dear!” the elderly lady squawked from the butler’s closet, popping her head through the swinging door. “I’ll keep ringing, though!”

A deep voice rang out from the hallway and the young Mr. John Bennet stumbled into the foyer. Growling as he made his way past Lady Bennet, he slurred, “Drat! Don’t bother, Mother. Best call the Thompsons next; they ought to send their man over quick,” before handing Miss Randall the bottle of scotch he had just retrieved from the study.

“Drank some more yourself on the way back, did you?” Miss Randall mumbled, glancing up from her work in disapproval as the son of Lord and Lady Bennet struggled to stay upright, patting himself as if he had misplaced something.

Exhaling sharply, Mr. Bennet did not answer her but turned to the timid maid frozen on the stairs. “Make yourself useful, Miss Whittaker! Go make up a room upstairs for Captain Weston.”

“O-Of course! Right away.” Miss Whittaker bowed her head in apology, rushing up the rest of the grand winding staircase to the living quarters.

Captain Weston sat up, sucking through his teeth. “I’ve got it from here, doll,” he murmured, gently moving Miss Randall’s trembling hands away and pouring the liquor onto his wound before taking a swig, then another.

“Oh, the poor Captain,” Lady Bennet moaned, reaching down and caressing Captain Weston’s cheek. “The Thompsons sent out their physician,” she continued, clasping her fingers together in prayer. “Oh, dear God, please have mercy, for we have—” Lady Bennet whispered, casting her gaze upward to the ceiling.

“For Christ’s sake, Mother, he’s not dead!” Mr. Bennet yelled, pulling his mother back a few paces and quelling the spout of scripture from the old woman. “And where is Father? It’s been—” he was interrupted by a shriek from down the hall, followed by rapidly approaching footsteps. Miss Whittaker burst back in, hiccupping uncontrollably with tears streaming down her face.

“By God woman, what is it?” Mr. Bennet shouted, barely managing to catch the collapsing Miss Whittaker in his arms.

“I—I was—” she trailed off into another sob. Lady Bennet rushed over to the fallen woman, caressing her face and looking for any signs of injury. “Miss Whittaker! Are you hurt? Whatever happened?”

Miss Whittaker fell further into Mr. Bennet’s rapidly loosening grip, becoming a sobbing heap on the ground while Lady Bennet paced around her, fretting and moaning over the woman as incessantly as a ruffled bird.

Miss Randall continued to watch the shaky rise and fall of Captain Weston’s chest. His bleeding had slowed, but the risk of infection was still pressing. “Lady Bennet, did the Thompsons say when the Doctor might arrive? Miss Whittaker could probably use some attention as well…” Miss Randall trailed off, glancing at the woman still wailing on the ground.

At that moment, Miss Whittaker gasped. Everyone turned to look at the maid, her eyes wide with shock, as she eked out through quivering lips, “Lord Bennet…upstairs…dead.”

—

Half an hour after the call was made, a knock sounded at the front door. A few moments later, John Bennet opened the door and greeted the man standing there, shaking his hand vigorously.

“We are so glad you’re here, Doctor—?”

“Kingston. Where is the patient?”

Doctor Kingston walked in briskly, removing his rain-soaked cap and handing it off to Mr. Bennet without ceremony. He strode into the foyer, gliding forward as his coattails swished behind him, Gladstone bag swinging at his side. Mr. Bennet trailed behind him, struggling to keep pace while simultaneously discarding the doctor’s cap, affronted at being made coat-check.

“Upstairs at the moment, but, you see, we also have a…” Mr. Bennet whispered, attempting discretion. “My father, you see, has passed. He’s upstairs as well.”

“Best treat the one still breathing, then, don’t you think?” said Doctor Kingston, casting a backwards glance at Mr. Bennet without breaking stride. “Bring boiled water in three steel bowls and some clean towels.” His long legs began climbing the stairs, clad in impeccably ironed gray trousers. Narrowing his eyes ever so slightly in indignation, Mr. Bennet offered a tight-lipped smile before acquiescing and heading to the kitchen.

Upon reaching the upper level, the doctor surveyed the hallway. The corridor was lined with intricate crown molding, the floral wallpaper reflecting low lamplight from iron sconces. He approached an open door on the left and entered, taking in the scene. Inside stood a trembling woman crying softly into the arms of a well-dressed lady who was stroking the former’s golden hair, opposite a four-poster bed in which a man with a sturdy build and bandaged thigh lay, another fuller woman leaning over him fussing with the bindings. The room was sparsely inhabited, only a water glass on the bedside table and melted candle wax to speak of. A dead man lay face-down in a pool of blood across the room.

Doctor Kingston approached the injured man and began unwrapping his bandages gently, assessing the damage before extracting select metal tools from his bag. Mr. Bennet returned with the requested supplies, taking a place astride the doctor opposite Miss Randall.

“What happened this evening?” Doctor Kingston asked, without looking up from his work.

“We had gathered for a—” Mr. Bennet began.

“No, not you. Her,” Doctor Kingston said, pointing at Miss Randall. “Regarding the state of the patient. You are a nurse, aren’t you?” He looked pointedly at the bloodied tourniquet of what had once been her silk scarf around Captain Weston’s thigh before shifting his eyes to her bloodied sleeves.

Taken aback, Miss Randall simply replied, “I was.”

“Once and always, or what have you. Give me your report.”

After blinking wordlessly for a few beats, Miss Randall shook her head, took a deep breath, and began detailing the events of the evening.

“Lord and Lady Bennet, the owners of this estate, hosted a dinner party for us three guests–their son, Captain Weston, and myself. Longtime friends of the family and business partners, generally. After dinner service, the men gathered in the study while Lady Bennet and myself retired for the evening. Some time later, though I could not say for certain when, I heard shouts. Captain Weston and Lord Bennet had gotten into a…skirmish, of sorts, in the foyer.” Miss Randall paused, glancing down at Captain Weston before continuing.

“I watched from atop the stairs, and saw Lord Bennet point his revolver at the Captain. Before I could even shout, Lord Bennet shot him in the leg and stormed past me as I rushed downstairs to begin administering aid. Upon hearing the shot, Lady Bennet and Miss Whittaker ran down as well, followed soon after by Mr. Bennet. I had Lady Bennet phone the physician and sent Mr. Bennet to retrieve some scotch, then Miss Whittaker went to make up this guest room. That was when she came across…” She trailed off, glancing at the awkward angle of Lord Bennet’s crumpled limbs across the room.

Doctor Kingston muttered incomprehensibly to himself, casting a sidelong glance at the corpse across the room before fishing the bullet out of Captain Weston’s leg. The Captain groaned, wincing with each dousing of cold carbolic acid into the gaping wound. Doctor Kingston held the retrieved bullet up between the tips of his tweezers, turning it to inspect the scuffed surface before dropping it with a plunk into one of the metal bowls.

“Any staff on site?” the doctor asked brusquely.

“Yes, a cook and Miss Whittaker here, but we had dismissed them to the servants’ quarters by then,” Lady Bennet clucked, dismissing the question and continuing to murmur soft assurances to the woman beside her, who had since ceased crying and now reclined weakly on an upholstered armchair.

Finishing up the stitching, Doctor Kingston shifted his attention to the body of Lord Bennet. He approached slowly and deliberately, his eyes darting up and down methodically with each step. Lord Bennet lay sprawled at an unnatural angle, one arm twisted beneath his torso while the other reached outward, its hand curled and index finger askance. He was still dressed in his evening waistcoat, darkened and stiff with dried blood on his back. His face, turned slightly to the side, was slack and vacant.

“We have a single shot to the heart from behind at close range,” the doctor began. “I’d wager a .22 caliber from the width of the entry wound, fired from no more than two feet away given the circumference of the burns on his jacket. He sustained ocular trauma from the fall, as well as facial trauma consistent with Miss Randall’s account of a recent scuffle. The amount of blood around the body and direction of the spray suggests he was killed in this spot.”

Doctor Kingston leaned in closer, smelling the man’s breath. He pried one eyelid open, studying the dilated pupil before letting it fall shut again. Taking one of the man’s hands, he stretched the fingers flat, inspecting the knuckles before placing it back down.

“His breath smells of alcohol—single malt if I had to guess. Rigor mortis hasn’t yet set in; I’d estimate time of death to be roughly quarter ‘til two. Moderate swelling in the ankles, along with traces of light powder on his knuckles.”

At this comment, he glanced up at Lady Bennet. “If you are going to use cosmetics to conceal bruising, Lady Bennet, you ought to apply the layers evenly across your face.” He stared over at her through lidded eyes. “That sloppy patchwork is a dead giveaway.”

Thoroughly stunned and rapidly reddening across her face and neck, Lady Bennet scoffed for a long moment, collecting herself before retorting, “How dare you, you—you insolent man! The affairs of this house are none of your—”

“Would you like me to treat it?” Doctor Kingston interjected, the edge in his voice gone now, replaced with a softer tone.

Letting out a final huff, Lady Bennet held her head high and turned back to Miss Whittaker, rejecting his offer without another word.

Walking over to Captain Weston, Doctor Kingston levied the same proposition. “And you, Captain? This bout hardly left you unscathed,” he said, looking pointedly at Captain Weston’s raw, red knuckles. “Deal gone bad?” he probed, reaching out to pluck at the frayed strands of the captain’s collar.

Captain Weston gave a sharp, humorless laugh, shifting uncomfortably. “You’ve quite the imagination, Doctor. I’ve had a run of poor luck, that’s all.” His jaw tightened as he cast an indecipherable look at Mr. Bennet and added, “Some investments went sour.”

“I believe we have no further need for your services, Doctor,” Mr. Bennet interjected coldly. “And I do not appreciate your insinuations. I will not stand for the sullying of my family’s good name. This is obviously the work of some intruder or madman.”

“Is it?” Doctor Kingston fired back, eyes narrowing on Mr. Bennet, his lip upturned in disgust. “You have already tampered with this body—a fact I don’t particularly appreciate as a medical practitioner.”

Gaping but unable to respond, Mr. Bennet took an unintentional step back, leaning away from the doctor’s sudden intensity.

“Look around, damnit. It’s pouring, but there isn’t a trace of mud or moisture in this room. Nay, your killer is not an intruder. He is amongst you. You each have time unaccounted for in the aftermath of the shooting, save for Captain Weston here,” the doctor continued.

“And Miss Randall,” the captain piped up, nodding in her direction. “She was with me the whole time.”

Chuckling, Doctor Kingston said, “If you think I believe that for a second, Captain, you are sorely mistaken. Or that I buy her sorry story of how you got that nasty wound. No matter—all will come to light soon enough. Come along now."

“Where?” Miss Randall asked, her voice rising with sudden urgency.

“To the scene of the crime,” Doctor Kingston said plainly, moving towards the door.

“I don’t know if you noticed, Doc, but the dead man’s right here!” Mr. Bennet yelled after him, gesturing vaguely toward his father on the floor.

“Wonderful! Then he won’t be going anywhere,” Doctor Kingston called back over his shoulder, continuing to stride down the hall.

—

Called back into the foyer, the guests stood around, nervous and exhausted. Lady Bennet held herself very still, while Miss Whittaker looked as though she might collapse again at any moment. Mr. Bennet’s jaw was tight, his teeth grinding, and Captain Weston shifted uneasily. Miss Randall stood next to Doctor Kingston at the front of the room.

“Lord Bennet did not shoot the Captain,” Doctor Kingston began abruptly. “The angle of the entrance wound indicates he was shot from a distance. What’s more, the bullet I retrieved was depressed on one side. It had ricocheted.” He paused, watching the guests shift uncomfortably.

“The—what did you call it, a skirmish? I do not doubt your sincerity in that, if for no other reason than the wounds I treated corroborate that fact. It must have gotten quite heated indeed for the true assailant to have intervened, and in such a dramatic fashion at that. Wouldn’t you agree, Miss Randall?”

Miss Randall stood frozen in place, her throat bobbing up and down. “He was going to hurt the Captain, so I—I—” she took a shaky breath, looked up and locked eyes with Doctor Kingston. “Yes, I fired the shot. But only to break them apart! I never intended to hurt anyone…” She paused, steadying her voice. “But it hit Captain Weston, and I ran down to help.”

Doctor Kingston let out a sharp, humorless laugh, a bemused smile curling his lips as any trace of pity drained from his green eyes. “Enough lies. I no longer have patience for them. No, the first thing you did after firing that shot was panic. You needed to hide the revolver, to make certain no one discovered it in your possession. The nearest room would have sufficed. The very room in which Lord Bennet was later found dead.”

“You shot at my father?” John Bennet interrupted, outraged.

“I’d hold my tongue if I were you, Mr. Bennet,” Doctor Kingston said sharply. “It was your .22 that had been taken earlier in the evening—likely given the state of your embarrassing intoxication, the effects of which still have yet to wear off—before you found it upstairs, clutched in the hand of your dead father. The imprint is still there, in the rigor mortis. Snatching it was a crude and useless attempt at divesting yourself of suspicion, good sir.”

Mr. Bennet went pale, the color draining so rapidly from his face it seemed to hollow him out.

Turning his attention to Lady Bennet, the doctor continued, “When I entered the room, you were comforting your friend, who was beside herself. Your husband was just shot dead, yet you didn’t seem distraught in the slightest.”

“As you’ve so rudely brought to light, it wasn’t the happiest of marriages,” Lady Bennet said dismissively.

“No, of course not. In fact, I suspect your true affections lie elsewhere.” His gaze lingered on Miss Whittaker, now being held steady in Lady Bennet’s arms. “That room upstairs where your husband lies was not merely a vacant guestroom, was it, Lady Bennet? It showed no signs of permanent occupation, given the lack of personal effects—yet someone had clearly been sleeping there. You would have been the first person to know that Lord Bennet had taken to sleeping separately from you.”

Lady Bennet did not flinch, but something in her expression tightened—an almost imperceptible stillness settling over her features. Her eyes, though steady, carried a quiet resignation.

“Lord Bennet rushed to lock himself where he would be safe, in his room. A room only you knew about. Seeing him holding the gun that had been thrown inside, you seized your opportunity to strike before he could even turn around.” The doctor turned and started strolling towards the front door.

“Do you know who kills with a single bullet to the heart?” Doctor Kingston continued. “Lovers. Always lovers. Who else would be so close to that heart, close enough to know precisely where it beats? A shot to the head would be more intuitive, poison harder to detect. But the heart…" he paused. "The heart, once betrayed, knows of no other place to betray than in kind.”

“Doctor?” Lady Bennet asked, a note of masked desperation hanging in the air. “What will you do now?”

“I am a physician, Lady Bennet. I treat patients—nothing more. And, I daresay, treatment has been administered here today.”

With that, Doctor Kingston put on his cap, picked up his Gladstone bag, and walked out the front door into the early morning sun, newly formed dew drops glistening on the grass around him.