The Deceased Murderer

The Deceased Murderer

“You killed him while you were dead. It’s the only thing that makes sense.”

 That phrase had pounded Jasper’s brain as soon as he woke that morning. Was it part of a bizarre and now forgotten dream? He couldn’t be sure. But as he stood in the drawing room of the stately mansion, facing Sir Allan, the phrase tumbled out of his mouth.

Sir Allan Beaumont leaned forward in his wingback chair, his deep voice thundered around the room. “How dare you! How dare you march back into my home and level such an accusation!” He reclined in the chair and stretched out his legs. “Convincing you that I’d been killed was a part of tonight’s entertainment. But as tragic as that young man’s death is, you have no proof I killed him.”

Jasper warmed his hands over the open fire that crackled under a side mantle. “This entire evening was the culmination of much planning on your part. You orchestrated tonight to conceal the real crime, where you’d murder that young man right under our noses. And by convincing us that you were already dead, you eliminated yourself as a suspect.”

Sir Allan remained calm. “Interesting premise. So where’s your proof?”

Jasper looked past Sir Allan and through the glass doors that led out to the courtyard, now shrouded in darkness. His three new friends had assured him of their support before he entered the drawing room. They’d appear when necessary. The wind howled outside, but Jasper removed his jacket having been sufficiently warmed by the open fire.

Jasper straightened, breathed deeply, and continued. “I found it interesting when I arrived tonight that except for myself and the young man who was murdered, your other four dinner guests had been invited to come dressed as their favorite, albeit fictional, sleuth.”

“As I said when you arrived, I knew your passion for mystery would motivate you to accept my kind offer to be involved,” Sir Allan said. “As for the victim, he was invited to attend as his favorite detective. Why he chose not to, I don’t know. But again, you have no proof I killed him.”

“I found it unusual when you firstly dismissed all your staff after dinner and secondly dimmed the lights once we migrated to the drawing room. Of course, you wanted to create an atmosphere of mystery.” A wry smile crept across Jasper’s face. “And a darkened room would help conceal the murder of that young man.”

“Fascinating,” Sir Allan said with sarcasm.

Jasper’s smile disappeared. “As you were about to introduce the mystery that we were to solve, three loud knocks that sounded like wood echoed around the room. We all turned to the source of the interruption, only to find ourselves staring at the glass doors that led out to the courtyard.”

Footsteps approached Jasper from behind, and the guest who had dressed as Miss Jane Marple settled onto a couch adjacent to Sir Allan. He peered at her with a look of shock, possibly believing that she had left earlier with the other guests.

“This reminds me of Marjorie,” Miss Marple said. “She was an acquaintance in St. Mary Mead. She loved painting landscapes and entered a local amateur contest every six months for many years. She gained quite a reputation after winning at least once a year. That was until it was discovered that she painted with numbers.” Miss Marple shook her head. “Disgraceful.”

Sir Allan narrowed his eyes. “What on earth are you talking about, you old—?”

“Marjorie forged an elaborate deception just so she could win.” She looked at Sir Allan. “You deceived us into thinking glass can sound like wood, for the purpose of focusing our attention on the doors.” She pulled knitting from her handbag. "Why would you do that? Firstly, let's consider how knocking on glass produces a wood-like sound."

The comments from this elderly, grey-haired woman were consistent with what Jasper would have expected from the real Jane Marple. And yet, she was correct. The host had deceived everyone.

Another set of footsteps, heavier than Miss Marple's, approached, and Jasper smiled when the man dressed as Sherlock Holmes stood next to him and dipped his deerstalker at Sir Allan.

Holmes moved to the glass doors and with his back to the others, knocked on the panes, which produced a wood-like sound. He turned and smiled. “It’s quite elementary. Glass vibrates with a sharp, high-pitched ring when hit, while wood absorbs energy to produce a dull, low-pitched thud. So, I opened the door, placed the palm of my hand on the outside to stop any vibration, and struck the inside with my other palm. Your aide did the same thing but from the courtyard. He then hurried away into the darkness without being detected.”

“My aide?” Sir Allan said.

“Your accomplice who has been a part of this all along,” Holmes said. “After you dismissed your staff, he remained behind undetected.”

Jasper smiled when Sir Allan shifted uncomfortably in his chair.

“The rest was really quite simple,” Jasper said. “You had the guest dressed as Joe Hardy head over to the glass doors and investigate the unusual noise and asked him to ensure we all joined him. While we peered into the darkness outside trying to detect anything out of the ordinary, you quickly applied fake blood to your mouth and the back of your dinner jacket. You slumped forward, giving the appearance of being deceased. It was Hardy who first rushed to your slumped form. He also pronounced you dead, stabbed in the back. The poor man probably felt chuffed to be a part of your scheme, but little did he know he was being set up.”

“So I faked my own death?” Sir Allan said. “As I said earlier, it was simply a part of the fun.”

Jasper placed his hands behind his back and paced around the drawing room. “Hardy then called the real police, whom he assumed were already aware that any murder was make-believe for the benefit of your guests. Little did he know that by calling them, he had sealed his own fate. He then suggested we all adjourn to the library to ensure everything in this room would remain undisturbed until the police arrived. That included asking the young fellow to check that the glass doors were locked. Hardy waited for him, and once the rest of us had exited, you snuck up behind Hardy, hit the back of his head, rendering him unconscious, then shot that young fellow at point-blank range using a silencer.”

Jasper stopped pacing and looked directly at Sir Allan. “You dashed back into the dining room, soaked the knife Joe Hardy had used during dinner in your blood—blood you probably saved from an earlier injury—and hid it and the gun in the lining of his coat which was hanging on the side wall. You hurried back here without being detected and returned to your position, slumped forward. When Joe Hardy came to and found the young man dead, his scream was heard throughout the mansion.”

A smirk crept across Sir Allan’s face.

“You find this amusing?”

Sir Allan’s smile disappeared, and he snarled. “I find this sad. This is all—”

“One thing that is as powerful as a mother’s love for her children is a father’s love for his son,” Miss Marple said. “Where a mother’s love is nurturing and gentle, a father’s love encourages and challenges. But where there is no mother, the father assumes both roles.”

“We knew the victim was Joe Hardy’s real son,” Holmes said.

“When the police arrived,” Jasper said, “they found the knife and gun in the lining of Joe Hardy’s coat and arrested him for the murder of his son, and of course for Sir Allan Beaumont. Joe Hardy screamed his innocence as he was led out to a squad car, while the bodies of his son and you, Sir Allan, were taken to waiting ambulances.”

Sir Allan shook his head and raised his voice. “This is absurd. All I did was organize a dinner party.”

Jasper ignored the interruption. “I was in my car outside when one of the ambulances returned. It did not surprise me when you exited the vehicle and entered your home. Did you pay the paramedics to be a part of this?”

Sir Allan gritted his teeth. “Why would I kill anyone and frame their father for the crime?”

“Very simple,” a soothing voice said from the door. “Revenge!”

Jasper broke into a grin when none other than Hercule Poirot entered, the last of his three colleagues. Whoever this person was, they were impeccably dressed as one would expect the real Poirot to be.

Poirot stepped next to Jasper and looked at Sir Allan with eyes of steel. “Joe Hardy was a private detective many years ago. Along with his younger brother, they solved a heinous murder case where the killer was tried and sentenced to prison for the remainder of their life. That person was Charles Goodwin.” Poirot stepped closer to Sir Allan. “Your father, Sir Allan. You adopted your mother’s maiden name before you were knighted.”

“This is absurd,” Sir Allan said.

Poirot continued, unflinching. “You have been obsessed with Joe Hardy and his now deceased brother ever since. You concocted this Murder Mystery dinner, lured Joe Hardy here, plotted to kill his son and frame him for the murder!”

Sir Allan bolted from his chair, knocked Jasper to the floor and fled the drawing room. After a scuffle could be heard outside, Sir Allan returned, escorted by two uniformed police officers. A detective and third officer holding the arm of a smaller man in handcuffs followed.

“You have nothing on me,” Sir Allan said as he squirmed.

“You did try to run, Sir Allan,” the detective said. He addressed his officers. “Take them away. The detective thanked Jasper and his colleagues for their help and left the room.

Jasper looked at his three companions, his mind in a whirl. Poirot had joined Miss Marple on the sofa, and Holmes seemed quite comfortable in a wingback chair. “Poirot?”

“Yes, mon ami?”

“Your comments just now suggest that I have been interacting with the real Joe Hardy tonight.”

“You doubt that you were?” Poirot said with a smile.

Jasper made a face. “But he’s fictional. He was simply dressed as Joe Hardy, the private detective.”

Poirot returned Jasper’s comment with a smile.

“Then who was that in the handcuffs?” Jasper said.

“His aide,” Poirot said. “Maybe his private secretary, perhaps.”

“And the young man? Was he?”

“He was just as real as you and me?” Holmes said.

“The poor lad,” Miss Marple said. “His death was most unfair.”

Jasper had been impressed by the astuteness of these three characters as the evening drew on. But he needed to be clear. “At least you three came dressed as your favorite characters, didn’t you?”

No response.

Miss Marple continued with her knitting. Holmes lit his pipe, and Poirot smiled and ran a finger along his thick moustache.