A Machiavellian plot to kill my wife.

                              A Machiavellian plot to kill my wife

Poker: a sacred meeting every Tuesday night at my club. But tonight, my concentration on the game was troubled. I planned to kill my wife. I had tried four weeks ago, but the pieces on the chessboard were not aligned for a swift move to checkmate.

I should explain this desire to eliminate my wife. I was considerably older than her—the gap was some twenty-eight years, and I was in my late fifties. I was now tired of having a younger wife who spent most of her time at social functions being complimented on her youth and beauty. We had been married about seven years. Before our marriage, I was infatuated with her youth, her charm, and the seductive way she treated me. My body craved to give her children. I asked her to marry me. To my surprise, she agreed on the condition that I allow her to be a free spirit, not subjected to bouts of jealousy. As for my desire to have a child with her, she considered it would be a pleasure.

Our childbearing did not happen. After many meetings with doctors and specialists, we still had not found the cause of why we could not have children. The doctors suggested she cease her social life for a period and spend time at home relaxing. She took no notice. For me, her desire to be a free spirit soon turned sour. I saw her as an empty vessel covered by a glittering exterior.

Life without the possibility of children was making me feel miserable. I suggested divorce, but she would not hear of it. She said she felt comfortable and safe with me. Our relationship reminded her of those teenage years when her father looked after her after her mother died early of cancer. The present situation destroyed any fond memories I had from when we first got married. I was convinced she was having affairs with various younger men. I consoled myself by regularly seeing a single mum with a child.

In this situation, I had come to the conclusion, after much thought, that the answer was to have her killed. Both her parents were dead. She was an only child, and they had left her a small fortune, which I would inherit on her death. I was not very proud of myself for having these thoughts, but this solution solved many complicated problems. The only difficulty on the horizon was whether I could kill her—or have her killed—without it being traced back to me. Hit men, no. Accidents, complicated. Poison, no. Slowly, a plan formed in my mind.

Tuesday was my poker night at my club with a few friends. My wife, after her night out, always picked me up at about one o'clock. She parked the car at the back of the club and waited for me to come out the back way. A tramp locally known as Old Charlie spent most of his nights sleeping in a drunken state on an iron grate that let out the hot air from the club’s kitchens. I often found my wife trying to talk to him and giving him some money.

I was ready to try again tonight. I had a pair of gloves in my back pocket and a balaclava attached to my belt behind my back, concealed under my jacket. At five to one, I said to the group:

“Let’s make it the last hand. George, I will drive you home. Start dealing. I will be back in a minute. I have to go and piss.”

I hurried down the passageway to the toilet at the back of the building, pulling my gloves on as I went. Before I searched for the knife that I had hidden in the toilet area several weeks ago, I had a quick look out of the back window to make sure my car was there. To my surprise, I saw somebody sitting in the driver's seat, starting the car, and driving away.

I rushed to the back door leading into the street. With my gloved hands, I pushed it open, making sure I left it ajar so I could re-enter.

There was my wife next to Charlie, lying in a pool of blood… dead. She had been stabbed several times. The bloody knife was in Old Charlie's hand. He was staring at her as though she were some kind of ghost.

I rushed back to my poker group and told them with bated breath that there had been a terrible incident at the back of the building—my wife had been murdered. While one member called the police, we all rushed out to the scene.

Five minutes later, the police and ambulance arrived. The constable in charge interviewed me, asking numerous questions and taking copious notes. Shortly after, a very senior police officer arrived. I saw him conferring with the constable, and then they both walked over to where I was standing. The constable introduced me.

The senior officer was a middle-aged man with a pale face and dark eyes that seemed to penetrate your thoughts when he spoke.

“My condolences on the loss of your wife. It appears to be a carjacking gone wrong. We are in the process of trying to locate your vehicle. Just a few questions: When you left the poker game to use the lavatory, you looked out of the back window to see if your wife had arrived to pick you up. To your surprise, you saw somebody in your car about to drive away. By any chance, did you see his or her face?”

“No, his face was obscured by a large hat. Given the silhouette, I believe it was a man, but I can't be sure; it was the dead of night with very dim street lighting.”

“Once the car started to move, you rushed out of the back door using the crash bar. You left the door open. There, to your horror, you found your wife dead in a pool of blood.”

“Yes, I could not believe the scene. Old Charlie was sitting upright against my wife with a knife in his hand. I noticed all her visible jewelry had been stolen. I immediately ran back to tell my friends what had happened and asked one of them to call the police.”

Our conversation was interrupted by a policeman emerging from the toilet area, stating he had found a concealed kitchen knife. Moments later, the senior officer received a radio message reporting that my car had been found ten streets away, but with no trace of the driver.

“We will take the car into custody and, after a thorough forensic examination, have it returned to your residence. As for the kitchen knife found hidden in the toilets, Constable, I suggest you question the club’s staff first thing in the morning. In the case of Old Charlie, see that he is taken to shelter for the remainder of the night, and question him to see if he can give us any description of the person who attacked the woman. I doubt whether he will be of much help; if I understand correctly, he was heavily intoxicated. Gentlemen, I think that is all for tonight. Monsieur Mellon, your wife will be taken to South Kennington Hospital. You can contact them regarding formal arrangements. My sympathies for your loss. We will keep you informed.”

We all returned inside, and I insisted on playing the final hand, remarking that my dear wife would have wished it. I recovered my night’s losses and finished the evening up a few pounds. Harold drove George and me home after hearty embraces of commiseration.

Once home, I sat in the library in a bewildered state. Had I simply dreamed the night? I had been on the verge of killing my wife when somebody did it for me, almost precisely as I had planned. The only lingering question was whether the law would accept that Old Charlie might have killed her, or that a passing robber had seized an easy opportunity. I fell asleep struggling to absorb the reality.

I was awakened by the telephone ringing. It was the hospital. I told them I would be there in two hours to attend to the arrangements.

The funeral was a somber, exhausting affair. I shook hands with dozens of people I did not know. There were several good-looking young men unattended, as well as an entourage of both younger and older women. Plainclothes police attended, watching the crowd for any sign of the killer.

Two weeks later, I received a call from the investigating officer asking me to come in. I complied, soon finding myself seated opposite him in his office.

“Mister Mellon, I asked you in because I want to clear up a few loose ends concerning your wife's murder. First, we have not identified the killer, and based on my experience, the odds are slim. The car yielded no usable clues; anything of value was taken without leaving behind identifiable fingerprints. He did, however, leave your wife’s handbag, which contained two rather intimate letters from male admirers. Were you experiencing marital difficulties?”

“No. Only that she was much younger than I, and devoted far too much time to socializing.”

“I see. Incidentally, your car will be released to you next week. The other curiosity in this case remains that knife hidden in the club toilets. Questioning the staff produced no plausible explanation. But what troubles me most is the total absence of latent prints on the inside push-bar of the rear exit door. As you recounted, upon seeing your car pull away, you rushed out that door. Surely, in opening it, your hands made contact with the bar. It is designed to be pushed open using both hands.”

“You are correct, of course. But in my panic, I must have thrown my shoulder or torso against it to burst outside.”

“Opening that style of heavy fire door using only one's body rarely works,” he said, his lips tightening into a thin, knowing smile. “No doubt you miss your young wife terribly. These are difficult times. We will notify you if there is any break in the case.”

Three years later, I was remarried and expecting my first child. There was never any news regarding my late wife’s killer.

A pity, really—I always wanted to discreetly thank him.

David Nutt                            September 2026