The Murder Mystery Problem

I was woken early one morning by a hammering on my back door. Concerned, I quickly dressed and rushed downstairs, to find Alun in an agitated state.

 

“There’s going to be a murder, Jed,” he said.

 

“Murder?” I said. “Are you sure?” It seemed highly unlikely.

 

“Yes Jed,” he held out a magazine, “It’s here in the Off-Mainlander.”

 

I read the advert he was pointing to: “A Murder is announced. A murder will take place at 17.03 on Friday 6th October in the Murder Room of the Empty House on Happy Island.”

 

“What nonsense is this?” I said. “Is this some kind of joke?”

 

“No, Jed. It’s deadly serious.”

 

“Murderers don’t announce the time and location of the murder in advance,” I said. “Besides, who could the victim possibly be? We’re the only people on the island and nobody wants to murder either of us.”

 

“More importantly Jed, who’s the killer?”

 

“It must be a mainlander,” I said. “Unless you’ve placed an ad announcing your intention to kill me.”

 

“Or you’ve placed an ad announcing your intention to kill me.”

 

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

 

Our argument was interrupted by the arrival of the morning boat. We quickly made our way to the dockside, to see whether the boatman knew any more about the alleged murder.

 

However, we were too slow, and the boat was pulling out by the time we arrived, though we were in time to see the passenger who had disembarked on our island.

 

“A mainlander, Jed,” Alun said. “It must be the murderer.”

 

“Or the murder victim. We should say ‘hello’, we might find out more about the murder plot. At the moment it’s paper thin.”

 

“As we approached we could see that the passenger was an elderly woman, with grey hair and wearing an implausible number of cardigans, who looked uncannily like Geraldine McEwan.

 

“That’s not a murderer, Jed,” Alun said. “It’s Miss Marple, the old lady who goes around solving murders in small villages and isolated islands.”

 

“She must have seen the ad and has come to investigate.”

 

“Mrs Marple,” Alun said, “I’m a great fan of your work. Would you mind signing a few of your books?” So saying, he opened his rucksack and took out a large pile of Miss Marple stories.

 

Miss Marple seemed unsurprised that Alun would be carrying 50 Miss Marple novels around with him, and kindly took the time to sign them all.

 

“Are you here to solve the murder?” I asked.

 

“Murder, yes, I wonder,” she said. “I suppose there must be a murder, as that’s what the advert says.” She then paused and looked wistful. “It rather reminds me of what happened to Mrs Tibbins of Touchcoat Island when her cat went missing.”

 

“Surely it reminds you of ‘A Murder is announced’,” I said, pointing to the 47th book in Alun’s pile.

 

“Yes, it there are some similarities,” she’d admitted, “but there are significant differences. I wonder.”

 

She never said what she wondered, I guess she was saving that for the final ‘reveal’.

 

“Are you staying on the island?” I asked.

 

“I’m staying at the vicarage,” she said.

 

“Vicarage?” I said. “There isn’t a vicarage on the island”.

 

“I had one built last night dear. I always stay in a vicarage, it’s written into my contract.”

 

Miss Marple started to walk away, then turned around.

 

“Excuse me dear, could you direct me to the vicarage.”

 

“I’ve no idea,” I said. “It was you who had it built.”

 

“Oh dear,” she said. “I hope I’ve not lost another vicarage. It’s so hard to find them these days.”

 

“This is exciting Jed,” Alun said after she’d gone. “A professional little old lady amateur sleuth here on our little island.”

 

“Yes, let’s hope she solves the mystery of the missing vicarage. We still haven’t seen anyone who could be a murderer or victim.”

 

“We’ll come back for the afternoon boat, Jed, perhaps they’ll disembark then.”

 

Later that day we returned to the afternoon boat. A man got off the boat. He was tall, not wearing a deerstalker and bore an uncanny resemblance to Jeremy Brett.

 

“That’s not a murderer,” I said, “It’s Sherlock Holmes. He must be here to solve the mystery.”

 

Holmes approached us at a stride, “Helloa,” he said, “You must be Jed, and you,” he turned to Alun, “are a medic, with a very limited practice, who hasn’t left this island since, shall we say 1999. Your hobbies include coalmining, spaceship building, heffalump finding and Coldplay avoidance.”

 

“How could you possibly know?” I said. “Is it the state of his cuffs, the way he wears his shirt?”

 

“No, no, I simply read some of your stories en route here.”

 

““Mr Holmes,” Alun said, “I’m a great fan of your work. Would you mind signing a few of your books?” So saying, he opened his rucksack and took out a pile of Sherlock Holmes novels and ‘I’ve been to 221B Baker Street but there was nothing there’ T-shirts.

 

Holmes seemed unsurprised that Alun was carrying Sherlock Holmes novels and T-shirts around with him, and kindly took the time to sign them all.

 

“Are you here to solve the murder?” I asked.

 

“Let us stick to the facts,” he said. “There is as yet no murder, merely the announcement of a murder.”

 

“But have you worked out who the ‘not a murderer yet’ is?” I asked.

 

“It bears an uncanny resemblance to a case I helped Lestrade with a few years’ ago,” he said.

 

“Oh, was that the Mrs Tibbins mystery?” I asked.

 

“My god, yes,” Holmes ejaculated. “How did you know that.”

 

“Elementary my dear Holmes,” I said. I’ve been waiting all my life to say that.

 

Once Holmes had finished signing the books and T-shirts he set off, at a pacy stride.

 

“I’m staying in one of the old stone huts on the moors,” he said.

 

“Oh, you could stay with me if you like, I have a spare room. We tend to steer clear of the moor, there's a big dog loose on it.”

 

“Oh, I don’t care, I always stay in old stone huts on the moors, it allows me to spy on people.”

 

Holmes strode off, towards the moors, but turned around. “You shouldn’t call it a ‘big dog’,” he said to me, “It’s not dramatic enough. Call it an ‘enormous hound’, it sounds much more frightening.”

 

xxx

 

In no time at all it was Friday and it was 5.00 pm. Alun and I had gone to the Murder Room in the empty house to wait for the murder, though there was no sign of either murderer or victim, just Miss Marple and Sherlock Holmes.

 

“I’ve got 5.00 exactly,” I said tapping my watch.

 

“Actually it’s 17.01,” Holmes corrected me. You’re slow.”

 

I adjusted my watch and waited. There was no still no sign of any murder.

 

17.03 passed without incident. As did 17.04. 17.05 was a minute without any merit and 17.06 might as well not have happened.

 

At 17.07 I spoke. “There hasn’t been a murder yet,” I said.

 

“I don’t think there will be a murder dear,” Miss Marple said.

 

“No murder? But the announcement… The entire plot of this story…

 

“It reminds me of my friend Mrs Tilperry of Speckled Island,” Miss Marple continued.

 

She got no further with her Tilperry tale, as she suddenly collapsed on the floor.

 

“Oh my god, Miss Marple’s been murdered.”

 

Holmes sprang to his feet. He felt Miss Marple’s pulse and smelt her breath. Then he picked up the glass she’d been drinking out of.  He took a testube and some powder from his pocket and tested the remnants within the glass. “Aha,” he said, “It’s as I thought.”

 

“What is it, arsenic?” I asked. It seemed the obvious poison to use on Miss Marple.

 

“Not arsenic. It’s sherry.”

 

“Sherry?”

 

“Yes, I’m afraid your Miss Marple has developed an overfondness for the drink.”

 

“You mean she’s not dead?”

 

“No remotely. Just sleeping it off.”  Even as he spoke I could hear Miss Marple starting to snore very softly.

 

“But if Miss Marple’s not dead, who’s the murder victim?”

 

“Clearly there is no murder victim. No victim, no murder, no murderer.”

 

“But if there isn’t a murder, who placed the ad?”

 

“All the facts point to one possible conclusion. The announcement was intended to attract the finest criminal investigators in the country to Happy Island, there never was going to be an actual murder.”

 

“You mean that while you’ve been here waiting for a murder to happen some dastardly criminal has been busy elsewhere.”

 

“No, there has been no other crime, my extensive network of running children (for which he received lottery sports funding) would have informed me. No, the real purpose was this.” He held up one of the ‘I went to 221B Baker Street and it didn’t exist’ T shirts.

 

“I don’t understand.”

 

“The whole business was done in order to attract famous sleuths, in order to get their autographs on numerous books, T shirts and similar items, and flog the lot on e-bay for a substantial profit.”

 

“Who on earth would think up such a dastardly scheme?” I said.

 

“It would have to be someone in this very room, someone who knew of the existence of the Murder Room, most likely someone who regularly advertises in the Off-Mainlander magazine and would be able to get a discount, and most certainly someone who has been busy collecting autographs ever since myself and Miss Marple arrived.

 

Alun, I noticed, had been strangely silent throughout my conversation, like a third character in a story by a writer overly used to writing just two characters.

 

“Alun!” I said. “You set this whole thing up just to make a few mainland pounds.”

 

“It’s true,” he said. “But no crime has been committed.”

 

“He’s right,” I said. “Falsely advertising murders isn’t a crime, neither is collecting autographs. There hasn’t been a crime.”

 

“Oh yes there has,” said Holmes. “The Miss Marple and Sherlock Holmes stories are protected by copyright. You’re guilty of plagiarism and copyright breach.”

 

“So I was the criminal all along,” I said. “I didn’t even know.”

 

Holmes shook his head sadly. “This story has to be one of the worst crimes I’ve ever encountered,” he said.