A murder at the manor

THE SILVER SLAYER

"Hey chief, take a peek at this!" exclaimed Burden

Tuesday's daily telegraph was sprawled over the dilapidated table top
decorated with intricate designs of prehistoric coffee and tea stains
amongst ancient potholes, created through years of wear and tear. It
wobbled uneasily, its three tired legs still mourning the loss of their
fourth friend, which decades before had snapped, its spindly soft wood,
shattered with abuse from the unfeeling constabulary. Inspector Wexford
waddled over, middle age was catching him up. He had consumed numerous
amounts of pies and turkey over the Christmas holidays. Combined with
his lack of exercise, this had assisted him to become a little on the
plump side, to say the least. He peered over Burden's shoulder and his
jaw plummeted to the unnatural tortoiseshell carpet tiles, which once
were beige. He stared in disbelief. He could not believe his eyes, yet
there it was directly in front of him, there was no mistake. He gaped
at it again as he read the headline:

"SILVER SLAYER STRIKES AGAIN." Underneath were the details. Wexford
skimmed the article, absorbing each word and yet un-absorbing each word
too. He shook his head unable to comprehend the information, which had
been rammed into him. He stared at Burden who returned his gaze with
raised eyebrows.

"Do you remember the 'Silver Slayer' Burden?"

"Not really chief. I heard about it at the time but I was only a boy
when it happened. How long ago exactly was it?"

"Fifteen years to this day!"

"I was more interested in 'The Petshop Boys' than a mysterious
murderer.

"In my day we didn't have?" Wexford began to reminisce but was
interrupted by Burden.

"I know chief. In your days every thing was different and no doubt
better too" coaxed Burden

"Got it in one. My daughter," he scowled as he thought about the
rebellious teenager, whom he had many a nights lost sleep over. "She
worships far too many of these boy bands 'Blue,' 'Backstreet Boys?' She
seems to have a new boy on her arm every week. Honestly, it's like
watching a female praying mantis. You know how they trick their mate
and then they? well decapitate it shall we say. She's like that. She
picks her 'mate', squeezes every little bit of soul he has in him and
then moves on. Actually she's more like a python. Squeezing her prey
until they suffocate. Only she's not content with just one 'mate,' oh
no. In my day we courted one girl and one girl only. We were faithful.
We knew what a relationship was." Wexford and Burden both smirked.
Burden knew only too well what type of antics Wexford's daughter got up
to. Wexford too, knew only too well what antics his darling dabbled
in.
Burden began to read through the article once more. He was a fairly
young man, just recently promoted to detective sergeant. He was in his
late twenties, early thirties and had a large crop of well-managed
chocolate coloured tresses.

"Why did they call him the 'Silver Slayer,' I never understood that? I
mean?' Wexford interrupted him, shaking his head, frowning as if he was
the schoolmaster-scolding Burden for getting his lesson wrong.

"You've just made one of the biggest mistakes, possible, you've
assumed. Never assume. You assumed that the murderer or murderers were
only men. What about women? Women can murder too. Often women commit
the coldest murders. Hormones generally!" He laughed at his joke, a
deep throaty laugh. Burden joined in. He knew Wexford and his ways. His
opinions, especially about women were not always complimenting or
kind.

"Anyway, to answer your question. They called the murderer the 'Silver
Slayer' because the murder was committed at Silver Birch manor. It's
that majestic place, slightly haughty looking but nevertheless a
spectacular piece of architecture, Victorian I think. It was built for
Lord Condicote. He wanted to demonstrate his wealth, so, he had the
house commissioned by an architect, and I forget his name. Anyway the
house was built?" Wexford happened to glance over at Burden who was
evidently doing his utmost best to try and feign interest but tedium
was being to sweep over him, like a suffocating sheet. Wexford realised
this. He tailed of his sentence and apologised.

"Sorry, became a little bit sidetracked. You know how it is." Burden
once again knew only too well 'how it was.' "The murderer seemed to be
like a ghost. They left no clues, nothing. He or she had stealthilyy
entered the house, crept up behind the victims and murdered them. The
autopsy, which was conducted, then, didn't reveal anything. Although
there was blood, it was like a ghost had killed them supernaturally. It
was incredibly disturbing, at the time. Of course we opened an
extensive case of the incident but it was left unsolved. It still
remains unsolved today."

"Maybe not for much longer," Burden said, eager eyed. "If this is the
so-called ghost slayer, he may be rusty on his old technique and leave
us some indication of his motive or whereabouts."

***********************************************************************************
"Fleur, be a darling and tootle off to find your Papa, sweetie, there's
a good girl.

Fleur did as she was bid. She was sick of being 'a sweetie' a 'good
girl,' a cherub and the like. She was sixteen for goodness sake, not
five. Why did her parents not understand this? Fleur Pennington-Bell
had a delicate complexion, like an English rose. She was of petite
stature and build with graceful features, complimented exceedingly well
by her ebony tresses, which reached just passed her slender shoulders.
She harrumphed as she stormed off down the spacious corridor. It was
soft underfoot. However hard Fleur tried to stomp, the scarlet carpet
swallowed her every footstep, leaving the corridor with an unnatural
silence. Still frowning Fleur continued on until she reached her papa's
study. She knocked on the door with her knuckles, a loud angry knock.
No reply. That was unusual. Her papa always replied. She knocked again;
maybe he was just engrossed in his work. Sir Roderick Pennington Bell
was an infamous professor of Ornithology. He travelled the world and
was seldom ever home. When he did return, he shut himself away in his
study or the library. Still no reply.

"Papa are you okay," inquired Fleur anxiously. Still no reply?Fleur
stared down at her knees they were shaking uncontrollably. Cautiously,
Fleur turned the rustic doorknob. The door creaked, unnerving Fleur if
even more. She opened the door carefully. Her father's desk was
directly in front of her but he wasn't in his luxurious leather
armchair. She took a tentative step into the room. The sound echoed all
throughout the room.

Unlike most of the other rooms within the manor, this one had been
spared the torture of modernisation and art deco. It still had an
authentic charm. She took another anxious step. Although the room was
deemed a study it was extensive in size and resembled a library more
than anything else. The room was octagonal in shape. It had views
across the landscaped gardens and the woodland. The professor favoured
this room because often when he stared out he may catch a glimpse of a
roe deer or a sparrow hawk and on one memorable occasion, in a
particularly harsh winter, a waxwing had graced the professor with his
presence. Fleur never understood what all the commotion was about, or
when her papa had ranted and raved about the red kites that had been
skimming the thermals. To Fleur, once you'd seen one bird, you'd seen
all of them. Fleur edged herself further into the room. Her blood
curdled, as she looked out the window. There in front of her outside
was a body. It was lying sprawled out on the immaculate grass just next
to the herb gardens. She screamed hysterically. Up until now, the body
had been still but she suddenly saw a movement. Fleur edged closer to
the window, she forgot all about her father. She peered out to get a
closer look. From what she could make out, the girl looked as though,
she had long blonde hair but it was difficult to tell.

********************************************************************

"Burden, I've found it. Right now, let me see. Ah that's it. Silver
Birch Manor. Now let me see?mmmmn. Oh, here it is. The victims were two
women, Eliza Radcliff, a wealthy heiress and Petunia Pennington. They
were both quite young only about thirty at the time. They were staying
with their aunt Lady Condicote when it happened. There were suspicions
about the old lady herself murdering the two women but she had no
motive. She died six months after the incident, supposedly due to
grief. The rest of the details are vague but I remember one of
statements, the sergeant had to make when he found the two bodies. It
was almost poetic. He tried to make it so descriptive, he was
reprimanded afterwards. I forget his name. Anyway where's his
statement."

Wexford fumbled through a jumble of yellowy papers, discoloured with
age until he found the piece of paper he had been looking for. The
handwriting on the page was scruffy and lopsided.

Wexford read the statement aloud "I entered the room. It looked as
though there had been a dinner party going on. But no one was there
now, dead or alive; just the two bodies and scarlet spread between
them." Burden stared at Wexford.

"You weren't joking when you said it was poetic. "

"There is more but that is the most poignant part. Lancaster. That's it
Lancaster. That was his name. Aaron Lancaster. Nice lad. I liked him,
hadn't the stomach for the job though. He left just after he was
reprimanded. Haven't heard from him since."

"This Silver whatitsname?" enquired Burden.

"Slayer," corrected Wexford

"Yeah, him?or her," he said correcting himself quickly. "Well if they
were the same person they would be quite old by now. Say forty, perhaps
even fifty. I don't think the person would be capable of a murder to be
perfectly honest."

"Mmmmn. You have a point Burden. But who is to say it is the same
person."

"I don't understand, chief."

"Well the murderer could be someone completely different using the
Slayer's methods. Say a person wanted to commit a murder but wanted to
make it look like someone else had done it."

" Oh I never thought of it like that," admitted Burden.

"Inspector Wexford," the voice came from a timid young constable who
had just started. "The Superintendent wishes to see you. It's
urgent."

"Oh all right," Wexford sighed, "tell him I'll be along in a
minute."

"Yes, sir," replied the constable. He scuttled off out of the room to
deliver the message.

"I wonder why 'He' wants to see me?" Wexford moaned rolling his
eyes.

"May be it's to do with the murder which is in the papers," Burden
suggested helpfully. "Or maybe they've already found some leads and he
wishes for us to check them out."

Wexford mumbled as he put the files back in the drawer, in an even more
jumbled mess than before. He strode-come-waddled out of the room,
turned and winked at Burden just before he closed the door behind
himself. Wexford's patented leather shoes squeaked as they clumped
along the icy cold tiled floor. He pushed open the glass-panelled door,
which led into another corridor. He pondered as he waddled along about
the Superintendent's urgency. He pushed open yet another wooden door
with glass panelling. This door led to the stairs. In his normal
condition, Wexford would have alighted the stairs as though he was an
ibex, but in his present state, this was out of the question. Finally
Wexford reached the Superintendent's floor. He walked along the
brightly lit corridor until he reached the Super's office. He rapped
sharply on the door.

"Come in," a deep voice replied. Wexford entered.

"Ah Wexford. Take a seat." Wexford sat down rigidly. He felt
uncomfortable in the Super's office. "Some important leads have come
about the " new silver slayer" case. I would like you to follow them up
but it must be done discreetly as one of the victim's friends was found
to be in a very influential person's house. If word got out about this,
then it would put this person's occupation in tremendous jeopardy. You
understand the seriousness of this, yes?"

"Yes sir, replied Wexford. Who is this person sir?

"Do you know the famous ornithologist Professor Pennington Bell?"
enquired the Super. Wexford recognised the name. Of course he knew
Professor Bell. He was the most knowledgeable person about birds and
their behaviour, in the whole world. "At about ten o'clock this
morning, the professor's daughter Fleur, found a girl. She was laid
sprawled out in the garden. The girl died about few minutes later, but
in her last breaths he explained as well as she could what had
happened. Apparently her and her friend had been strolling home from a
nightclub yesterday and they were both attacked. The streets are a
dangerous place for two girls. That's all she remembers. When she woke
up she found herself in a wood, we believe to be the Pennington Bells'
woodland. Her friend had been raped and was dead. She found that she
was bleeding. She tried to stumble out of the wood to find help and
then she must have collapsed on the lawn. I would like you to go to
Silver Birch Manor and talk to the professor and his family. They are
very distressed and anxious to know what happened to the girl."

"Yes, sir, I'll go right away," replied Wexford.
*********************************************************************
Mrs Pennington Bell was in hysterics perched on the edge of the unusual
art deco settee. She was dabbing her eyes with a crisp white
handkerchief. Fleur was trying her hardest to calm her down. Her papa
had just awoken from his nap. He had been lying down, as he had
suddenly felt very ill. Fleur had spoken with the girl and found that
her name was Ashley. Her friend was called Jenna. Ashley's clothes were
torn. She still had her clubbing clothes on, an electric blue slash
neck top and a short black skirt, which just came past her thighs. Her
thin frail legs were covered in bruises and cuts and her face was
distorted by blood and bruising. But worst of all was her hair. Her
golden locks were smeared in dry blood and the blonde shade had been
turned to a livid yellow with brown splashes of mud, here and
there.

The loud clang of the rustic bell from the front porch echoed through
to the drawing room.

"I'll go, offered Fleur

Mrs Pennington Bell continued to wail "heavens to mercy what kind of
individual could do such a thing to two little cherubs."

Fleur returned. Behind her were Wexford and Burden.

"This is Detective Inspector Wexford and DS Burden," Fleur announced in
her most mature tone.

"I'm sorry to have to speak to you at such an awful time," Wexford
soothed, "but it is important that we obtain your statements
now."

"I understand completely," replied Professor Pennington Bell
calmly.

"I found the girl," blurted out Fleur. She was anxious to show how
responsible she had been in the matter. "She told me that she and her
friend had been abducted and that she woke up in our wood and saw hat
her friend had been raped. The other girl as far as we know is still in
the wood. None of us could bear to go and see her. The girl's name was
Ashley. Tears started to trickle down Fleur's cheek. Errrm?I?" she
tailed off. She wiped her palm of her hand across her cheek and under
her eyes.

"Thank you," replied Wexford uneasily. "I understand how difficult it
must be for you." Burden had been writing down in his notebook every
word that had been uttered. Wexford looked at him and then asked,

"Would it be possible to go and look in your woods?"

"Of course Inspector," replied the professor.

Wexford and Burden tramped across the damp grass. They stopped abruptly
as they entered the woods. There just in front of them was a body of a
girl. She looked like a doll, so pale. Then, Wexford saw the sight that
he prayed his daughter would never suffer. It was true Jenna had been
raped. She too, was covered in blood.

"We'd best get the forensics out here," said Wexford. "This could be
just what we were looking for."

*********************************************************************

A week later, the forensic evidence arrived. It matched Wexford's
suspicions. Wexford handed Burden a pile of files and they began to
scour through them together. Burden picked up file after file, and then
beamed triumphantly.

"Got it chief," he exclaimed joyfully. Wexford stopped his search and
looked up.

"Let's have a look." He flicked through the pages and nodded. Wexford
picked up the file with label 'R.' Normally most files were labelled
according to names but the filing cabinets were so jumbled that the
files had been labelled alphabetically according to the crime. Rape was
under 'R.'

They looked down the alphabet of names, hoping that the name they
needed would be on it. Alfred?Allan?Allard?Ambert?

"Matthew Ambert of 22 Dudley Street. I think we need to pay Mr Ambert a
visit. He has had two convictions already, both connected to rape but
both times he was acquitted. Last conviction was awhile back though,
about six years. This time he won't be, that's for sure," Wexford
muttered sternly.

********************************************************************
Matthew Ambert had just mounted his final trophy. They looked
magnificent on the wall. "And the teachers told me I was a lay about,"
he thought to himself. "I showed them". He stared at his trophies. His
first one he had obtained only a couple of months after his last
conviction, from then on, he had steadily gained one trophy about every
four weeks. He now owned more than two hundred trophies. He wrote the
title above the first one. '7th July -in the park.' '1st August-
outside the bus station.' His trophies were not the conventional type
of trophy, his were human hair. Each time Ambert had raped a woman or a
girl he had cut a lock of their hair. It was this that he framed. If
other people could mount their achievements, their diplomas, then why
shouldn't he mount his achievements? Next to each trophy was the
headline that had appeared in the tabloids and in some cases the
broadsheets as well. Most were only local though. Each time, it was
reported that a woman had been raped. His inspiration had all come from
the mysterious killer called the 'Silver Slayer' and how he had managed
to kill the people in secret. Ambert decided that he would rape in
secret. His first two attempts, which he had been acquitted of, were
merely practices. From the 7th July it had been the real thing. His
ambition was to meet the 'Silver Slayer' or at the very least follow in
his footsteps. Ambert was deep in thought when the doorbell rang
unexpectedly. He carelessly opened it and then wished he hadn't. For
there on the step were two uniformed police officers and about five
patrol cars. His 'career' was over. He would not be obtaining another
trophy for along time, if ever again.

At the exact moment, the 'Silver Slayer' had been pondering too. The
person had been thinking about the murder that she committed all that
time ago. Tears suddenly welled up in the murderer's eyes as she
thought about what she had done. The slayer had been young and foolish.
She had found her partner asleep in the same bed as her sister. Anguish
had overcome her being. The murderer had killed her traitorous sister
in a fit of rage by smothering her with a pillow. She had then dragged
the body downstairs along with the cousin who had been desposed off
through arsonic poison. The murderer had then positioned the bodies at
the table, to feign a dinner party arrangement. She had found some meat
in the fridge and had quick wittingly extracted the blood and mixed it
with some paint. She then smeared the scarlet concoction on everything,
everywhere. The police had of course,been fooled.Their inadequate and
archiac equipment had meant they could not match the blood to any of
the victims.
The guilt ridden murderer took the beloved prized crisp white
handkerchief and dabbed at her tear-stricken eyes. She knew she was the
'Silver Slayer' but Fleur could never find out." She had made a mistake
that could never be rectified? never. It was a secret that only two
people would ever know, the world acclaimed professor who had helped
her and Mrs Pennington Bell herself.