Murder Most Foul

I thank you all for your patience, and I know the hour is most unseemly, but it was not without great need or grim purpose that I summoned you here to the drawing room tonight. For you see, your dutiful host, Mrs. Pithwick, is dead!

Silence! Silence please good people! And stay seated, Mr. Hart. It is vitally important that none of us leave this room. For Mrs. Pithwick did not merely die. Oh no, she was murdered! And the cruel hand that fell upon her pleasant countenace so darkly belongs to someone in THIS VERY ROOM!

Silence! Esteban, the key! Thank you lad. Have a brandy.

Here you see, ladies and gentleman, the only key to the door. It shall remain upon my person until the matter is put to rest and dear Mrs. Pithwick avenged. Whats that, Ms. Pootle? Ah, a good question. The murderer has to be someone in this room. for you see, there is no murder without motive, and you all have motive. The only one here who stands to lose from Mrs. Pithwick's death is poor Esteban here. I'm afraid without her patronage, it's back to the colonies with him. As for the rest of you, well, where do I begin?

Sir Gregory Fleece, you knew the deceased quite well, did you not? Very well indeed, if one is to believe the scuttlebutt. Please sir, it is common knowledge that you and the late Mrs. Pithwick became close after the death of her husband. What is less common knowledge, however, is that her husband died while riding one of your colts. The spirited Geronimo, I believe. Was it chance then, sir, that the inexperienced Lord Pithwick was saddled upon the most devilish horse in all of London? Or did you have eyes on his wife and, through her, his vast fortune?

What? Oh thank you Esteban. Yes, just a small one.

Where were we? Oh yes, Mr Frederick Hart. Great explorer and hunter of beasts. You must have been disappointed to her Mrs. Pithwick had refused to fund your expedition to the Yukon. But tell me, Mr. Hart, how did you enjoy your time in the congo? I hear you spent considerable time with the Watuzi tribe. A fiendishly clever people. Masters of poison. They say the venom they milk from the beautiful but deadly triple-banded tree viper can, when applied to a blowdart, kill a man in a heartbeat and leave not a trace of wrong doing. Correct me if i'm wrong, but wasn't that a ceremonial Watuzi blowgun mounted on the sitting room mantle? A gift for Mrs. Pithwick, you say. Sometimes it pays to look a gifthorse in the mouth.

Excuse me while I pull up a chair. The night's exertions are proving somewhat taxing.

Now, Ms. Pootle. Such a promising little social butterfly. You and Mrs. Pithwick were very chummy, I believe. Why, a young dilettante such as yourself must have greatly admired such a powerful and avid supporter of the arts. And how deeply it must have stung when she critically lambasted your latest curtain-raiser. "A stunning display of vulgarity and moral vagrancy" quoted the Times. How your stock must have fallen that day! How the fiery passion of youth must have burned in your veins, how strong the lust for revenge must have felt. But revenge, they say, is a dish best served cold. Much like your famous gazpacho soup. I noticed a large bowl of it in the kitchen, by the way. I'm curious to see the recipe.

I say, is it a trifle warm in here? Open up a window, Esteban. There's a good lad.

Aah, the charming Dr. McDougal. You travelled all the way from Scotland at Mrs. Pithwick's request, I believe. Such devotion! I don't know many young doctors who would be willing to give up their own thriving practice in order to play nurse to an aging hypochondriac. But what else could one expect? After all, it was Mrs. Pithwick who plucked you from the mean streets of Glasgow and put you through medical school. But that wasn't all she put you through, was it, Doctor? Your fellow guests may be suprised to learn that...

...excuse me, I feel a little faint. Another draught of brandy should set me right. Ahhh. As I was saying, you may be surprised to learn that our good doctor was...

...Pardon me, im just having a little trouble breathing... I'll just loosen my collar... hem HEM...

...maybe another sip of... Good lord, the brandy! Esteban you devil!


I'll see you rot in hell you... urk!