They gathered in what had once been the small hall of the castle - now a lavish sitting room. The famous detective, Robert Milton, stood in front of the huge fireplace, waiting for the guests to assemble. They drifted in, in ones and twos, sitting in the massive floral armchairs. All of them seemed at ease, not betraying even the slightest hint that they had anything to hide. Lady Woodhall even called out for brandy, and a few snifters were passed around, as if it were any normal gathering.
"You all know why we're here," the detective started, giving each equal measure with his gaze. "The murder of Lord Blackfield took place in this very room."
"We're aware, old chap. Who didn't hear him scream that night?" Langton grinned at the other guests assembled.
"Yes... and perhaps you heard him best of all Horatio Langton. The rope marks around his neck suggest someone with great strength pulled that noose tight..."
"I didn't like the old fool, but neither did I kill him. I told you before, I was in my bathroom, having a shave when I heard the cry. Why, I'd only just washed off the last of the foam, I came down in my vest to see what had happened!"
"So you say, but who shaves at eleven in the morning?" the detective shrugged dramatically.
"I hadn't long been up and thought I should make myself presentable for dinner." Langton frowned in annoyance. Milton nodded slowly.
"As it happens, Mr Langton here is telling the truth."
"But he's the only one strong enough to have choked the old boar." Miss Quincy protested.
"So the killer wants us to think. But, there is one thing that all of you have agreed on, without a doubt: You all heard Lord Blackfield scream. I ask you, Miss Quincy, how did he scream if he was being choked?"
Miss Quincy shifted uncomfortably.
"And is it not a fact, that you, Miss Quincy, were the female junior weightlifting champion only five years ago?"
"But I haven't lifted weights for two years, due to an injury!"
"So you would have us believe. But I saw you lifting that cast-iron pot yesterday, and I realised that you are only pretending that your injury has prevented you from lifting. You're stronger than you look."
Miss Quincy turned red and looked away.
"However... you were only trying to hide that fact from... Colonel Ryers. You liked him and he had expressed how he liked "pretty little delicate things" and you, in your foolishness had tried to hide who you were to impress him."
Colonel Ryers looked over at Miss Quincy in shock.
"Is this true Nanette?"
"It is," she sighed.
"You can lift? That's damned impressive," the Colonel grinned. "Damned impressive - I should like to see that."
"Really?"
"Really. Oh Nanette - you should have told me! I love you!"
"Oh Antony! I love you too!"
"It is well then, that the Colonel is not the killer, I should hate to have to separate you when you have just found each other," Milton smiled gently.
"Enough of this old boy! Tell us, who killed Lord Blackfield!" Lord Tatham cried.
"I would not have thought you so impatient for the killer to be revealed... Lord Tatham. For it was your very own lady wife!" The detective rounded on Lady Tatham, who had remained quiet until now, and she nearly choked on her brandy.
"Me? You are quite mistaken!"
"No mistake, madam. You are the killer!" The detective started to pace in front of the fire. "You see, the thing that I couldn't understand about Lord Blackfield's death was why he had a theater mask in his hand? He was no actor, or collector of memorabilia such as this. But he was a skilled evaluator - he knew the worth of a range of old pieces. You, Lady Tatham, worked in the theater as a girl, before you married Lord Tatham - and you knew the tricks of the stage!"
"This is absurd!"
"Is it? Think on this - the mask was an exact replica of the Mask of Hiburn, a valuable piece that went missing over thirty years ago. This one was worthless, but to the untrained eye.... well only an expert would be able to tell it wasn't the real thing. An expert like Lord Blackfield. You had hoped to sell the mask to relieve the pressure on your accounts - oh yes, I know of Lord Tatham's financial troubles! However Lord Blackfield saw the mask and recognising it, asked for a closer look. How could you deny him? He was your host and if you had said no, he would have doubted its Genuineness. However, if he looked at the mask he would also know it to be a fake. What to do? You did the only thing you could do - you painted the inside of the mask with a poison, so clever, that when he touched it he would be overcome - you had hoped it would look like a heart attack." He raised a finger, captivating the audience.
"But! You didn't account for the pain - oh yes this poison is deadly - but it takes time to work. Time enough that Lord Blackfield would have been able to cry out. One scream was enough - you knew you had to keep him quiet. You grabbed the curtain rope and put it around his neck to cut off his screams. No doubt you wouldn't have had the strength to choke him if he had been able to fight back, but he was weak from the poison. You were able to hold him there in silence while he died. When you removed the rope you saw the burns to his neck; an unintended effect, but one that you were quite pleased would throw everyone off your trail."
"Margret!" Lord Tatham gasped, "Is this true?"
"Yes it is!" Lady Tatham stood, the meek veil removed to reveal her in her unrepentant glory. "I did it for us William! Can't you see? We would have lost everything."
"Oh Margret..." Lord Tatham shook his head sadly.
"Sargent." Milton nodded to the bobby lurking in the back of the room, and he stepped forward to escort Lady Tatham away.
"Bravo, Mr. Milton," Lady Tatham applauded as she retreated from the room. "Another case solved."
Milton bowed.
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