Our Greatest, Most Fictitious Condolences

A middle aged woman watched the fire sprang to life, making a satisfying crackling sound as the flames enlarged. It never got old. Although the rest of Morgan Hall had long been installed with electric fireplaces, the one in her private study was original. Her glacier-blue eyes searched the dim room as she settled into a comfortable chair. Nothing amiss. She picked up a book and began to read. To any who didn’t know her nature, it looked as if she was totally engrossed in the book, oblivious to her surroundings. But she was not a Viscardi-Morgan for nothing. The two most intelligent families in northern England rolled into one, and she may have been the most essential part. At least to his plan. For her, that was a comforting thought, even though it meant imminent danger.

That was one reason Freida Viscardi smiled as she read, but not completely. If she failed, all was lost. But somehow, the circumstances didn’t phase her at all. She was used to pressure.

The room seemed to tense up, but if Freida felt it, she didn’t show any outward sign. Inwardly, she relaxed. ‘Right on time, Emiliano,’ she thought.

A hiss sounded from the fire; and as if on cue, Freida stood and walked to her desk. While one hand rifled through papers, the other crept to the corner, like she might grab a pencil. Instead, she subtly depressed a small circle in the wood. There was a soft click, like something shifting, then back to silence. All immediate danger was averted for the moment.

‘Well, here it goes,’ she thought with a wry smile. ‘I sure hope someone is watching.’

The man who stood near a secretly placed listening device waited eagerly. Although not watching, someone was certainly listening. And in just a few seconds, he would hear exactly what he was waiting for.

Freida’s once steady breathing became deeper and more frantic; her movements more fumbling. She stood up and began to pace, and finally collapsed in a display of unconsciousness. It was quite a realistic performance of chemical asphyxiation, if I may say so myself. Freida, at least, was satisfied.

In mere moments, Freida’s husband would enter, feign astonished horror, and call in the family doctors. They would pronounce her as dead, administer heavy sedatives, and voila!— a death act orchestrated so convincingly it could fool the very person that tried to murder Freida Viscardi in the first place. And that same person would be furious to find out that his plan had failed completely.

~~~

The next morning, surprising news flew through the English countryside. Freida Viscardi was dead! Indeed, having died from a heart attack the previous night. Neighbors were astounded. The Viscardi-Morgan family had reputably perfect health. Well, no matter. They were a secretive family anyway. Nevertheless, a throng of curious onlookers arrived at Morgan Hall for Freida’s ‘visitation.’

In the flurry of condolences and people crowding the refreshments, no one paid much attention to a man who introduced himself as Harleigh Nuttall—they were too busy thinking about getting a glimpse into Morgan Hall. Conrad Morgan, though, knew better and reported the presence of Emiliano Volpe to his accomplices. Conrad was directing aunt’s mastermind plan—as her appearance would create quite a stir.

Across the room, seven-year-old Alvera Morgan was contemplating how nice Uncle Elridge’s name sounded—especially if one rolled the ‘r’—and didn’t it have the same flavour as that wonderful elf Elrond? Her mind wandered to poor Great-Auntie Freida. What a pity. Well, at least she still had Aunt Alfwynn. Those old blatherskites! They had no right calling her a Viscardi when every one knew she was a Morgan!

And that was a problem. The ‘old blatherskites’ should have held their tongues, for the family name was a major dispute. And there could be no disputes today.

Emiliano, under the guise of Mr Nuttall, traversed the room boldly, speaking to various people. He seemed pleased with himself, and no one had an explanation for his little triumphant smile. The Viscardis, though, knew he was feeling very proud—proud because he thought he had ridded himself of a very annoying person. But he was too elated to notice that his every move was carefully noted.

Conrada Swasey sat on the edge of the room, watching Emiliano carefully, under her brother’s strict orders. Grey Finch walked over with the singular purpose of regaining his reputation. If this conversation went well, his social standing would be forever restored—in his perspective at least.

‘Hello, Mrs Morgan. How are you today?’ Grey said politely. ‘I’m so sorry about your aunt Morgan. It was all very sudden, wasn’t it?’

‘Yes,’ Conrada said shortly, her face a curious mixture of resentment and rage.

‘As I said, I offer you my greatest condolences. And to you too, Mr Viscardi.’

After a moment of totally one-sided conversation, he moved on, bolstered by his apparent success. Circling around the room, he spoke to every person related to the Viscardis. He did not notice that each person’s face adopted a look between indignation and pure fury. Grey had not got one last name right; he said Viscardi when it should have been Morgan, Morgan instead of Viscardi; he called Swaseys Morgan and Morgans by Swasey. Left and right the all important plan was flying straight out of their heads. And the plan could not be forgotten.

Conrad saw the impending doom and quickly gathered the few unoffended allies, instructing them to avoid Grey at all costs. Emiliano was inching towards the closed casket, no doubt to see final proof of his success. Conrad stepped in front of him, a polite—but condescending—smile on his face. They stood, each eyeing his opponent evenly.

Emiliano spoke first. ‘I suppose I must offer my greatest condolences,’ he said finally.

‘Yes, I suppose you must,’ replied Conrad.

‘But, I must confess, they are entirely fictitious—as you most likely know.’

Conrad raised an eyebrow. ‘Yes, as all consolations today must be. You are aware, then, that she is not actually dead as you had hoped?’

Emiliano looked surprised, but he quickly melted back into calmness. Conrad must be joking, toying with him. His plan had been airtight—was airtight. ‘Ah, is she? Let us see for ourselves.’ He opened the casket and started. It was empty. ‘This is a trick!’ he growled, his fist clenched at his side, ‘Do you really think she escaped from my plan!’ All eyes were on Emiliano as he raged, ‘Your family is nothing. Just because you have doctors and geniuses! You couldn’t even prevent the murder of your favourite aunt!’

‘That is where you are getting it wrong,’ came a calm but imperious voice. Freida Morgan stood in the doorway, her silvery-white hair glinting in the light. Emiliano stared, dumbfounded.

‘Your plan was a good plan, but you didn’t consider it being heard of beforehand. I am surprised you fell for my act, although all you could manage was sending an accomplice to listen. It was as easy as redirecting the air duct with the press of a button.’

The whole room was silent and staring at the supposedly dead woman. Was she a ghost, or was it all just a mean trick?

Freida was not daunted by the silence. ‘I do believe, Mr Volpe, that I told you, a number of years ago, to stay off this property or I would call the police—which I have already done. And didn’t you try to murder just three days ago? Well, I offer you my greatest condolences—but I assure you that they are most fictitious.’