WARNING!
This story does not have a happy ending. I thought I should warn you so that there would be time to get out a box of Kleenex before you begin. It is(to be blunt)a tale of fear, tragedy, love and blood. Or if you prefer the story of an old man who loved dogs. Whichever description you choose to follow, the reader must know that there is a risk. You might be one of those people who stuff a book in a laundry basket before going to sleep, in fear something will ooze from the pages. To be on the safe side, I propose you read this book in the morning over your cereal. Otherwise, curious things could happen, after all, it is a mystery.
Chapter One: Beginning
Written by Avila M. Dauvin
It happened in London in the pub of The Three-Legged Dog. The members of the Society of Prevention to Cruelty of Yorkshire Terriers(SPCYT)were gathered around a long table, gazing at an old man with piggy eyes, know as Professor Plumpfront, who was about to make the opening speech.
“As you know,” he started hesitantly. He was interrupted by the passing of his Vintage '48 port by an overly dressed waitress. The drink bubbled merrily and several whispered on the unusual color of the Port. The Waitress blushed rosily and made her exit and the Professor began again.
“As you know, I am the owner of a Yorkshire Terrier. Bubbles, I call him. He certainly made my life brighter. Or makes my life brighter!” He guffawed awkwardly over his mistake.
“I do know! That several of these splendid pets are not taken care of...properly. A Yorkshire needs all the attention one can endeavor to bestow upon the dog. Daily walks, baths, grooming. This all depletes ones income considerably. I have found a way to keep ones budget and maintain a Yorkshire Terrier!” He stopped an looked proudly round the room, upon the surprised countenances of his associates. He was about to launch into the explanation of his movement when Mrs. Potter-Hamstreet clutched her throat and fell over her glass. Her husband gave a cry and jumped up to help her. “She's...She's...DEAD!” he cried. “Emily! Emily, wake up!”
All the members leapt to their feet and leaned across the table to scrutiny the spectacle. “It can't be!” gasped Mrs. Grues innocently.
“But it is!” bellowed Ms. Green emotionally. To revive himself, Mr. Hamstreet imbibed the last of his port and started to choke. “Not him!” screamed Ms. Green and she fainted.
“Not him what? Someone, hit his back!” hollered Mr. Bogart. Mr. Hamstreet collapsed on the floor dead. “Its been poisoned!
“Of course it has ninny! Call the police!” cried the organizer desperately. “And no one touch the port!”
Professor Plumpfront looked on in disbelief. It seemed so fake and yet so real. The Waitress sauntered in and seeing the mess of shattered glass and dead bodies, she flung up her hands and started to scream. The Professor slowly came to his senses and and looked at his glass thoughtfully. It had a peculiar taste to it. Like a grapefruit rind. Perhaps it had aged too long in his cellar. He took another sip and rolled his tongue around his mouth.
“Nothing wrong with my port,” said the Professor to Ms. Gardiner.
“Its not, is it?” queried Ms. Gardiner, sneering. “Why then have we three bodies on our hands?”
“Three!”
“Yup. Mr. Blake's dead as a doornail in the lounge.”
“No! It can't be. He was just talking not a ten minutes ago!”
“Yup! And there's the Policeman going over near the offended spot. Aye! Its unlucky!”
“I've nothing to do with it! It must have disagreed with their stomachs.”
“And kilt them?” said Ms. Gardiner skeptically. “Ah, no. Just as well. It was getting a bit boring.”
“My talk getting dead some?” sputtered the Professor. “I thought it was going rather well.”
“For you, it was. Looks as if someone's going to court on trial for poisoning and murdering three civilized...eh...civilians.”
The Professor put his face in his hands and started to weep, drunkenly. His reputation was ruined and he would most likely end at the death row with a bullet in his head. A cry arose from the lounge and Ms. Gardiner, after stepping out announced with gravity that the Reverend Mr. Cotter from the Calvinist Church of Christ was dead. Professor Plumpfront sat down like a man in a dream. Ms. Gardiner took the flowers from the table, muttering something about waste, and left the room. Nothing moved save the port, wavering in the shining glasses and the heavy breathing of Professor Plumpfront.
“All is lost,” he said. “The shelter, Bubbles, and most of all, Bubbles' owner. I never was a smart man.” Mrs. Grues scuttled in and picked up her purse. “I'm dreadfully sorry about all this. I thought the beginning of your speech was very interesting. And oh, I hope you won't get killed. You drank some port but I don't know if that matters now...perhaps you wished you drank the bad port.” Professor Plumpfront looked up angrily but Mrs. Grues had hurried out. The manager of the pub popped his head from behind the door and glared with resentment at the Professor. “I don't know what you mean by this but you ruined my business!” The screams erupted from the crowd of customers, scrambling for the nearest exit. “Get out! Get out! Make way for the police! Out of the way!” A very pompous pouter-pigeon of a man strutted in and shook his head at the Professor. “Nasty business, what? You are under arrest for bringing poisoned liquor to a public pub. Bicky! Take this man to the car and carry away the deceased.”
“Right away, Chief Gefferies. And shall I cuff the man?”
“No. He should be easy. No protest.”
The policeman gingerly took Professor Plumpfront's arm and led him away.
“He's the killer!” spat the bartender crushingly. She flounced her skirts as she sat up on the counter and poured herself a drink.
The ashen Mr. Blake, the red-faced Mr. Hamstreet and his wife, and the Reverend Mr. Cotter were carried out to the horror of on lookers. “Is anyone left in the conference room, Mr. Barkley?” squeaked the attendant nervously. “No one that I know of,” grumbled Mr. Barkley.
“That means yes sine you haven't been in the Conference room.”
“I'll check and thanks, Nurse,” answered the Policeman.
“May I telephone my housekeeper and ask for a spare suit and my toothbrush?” asked Professor Plumpfront meekly.
“That might complicate matters but I shall see to it, old man,” replied the Policeman dabbing a handkerchief over his beaded forehead.
“Much obliged, constable,” murmured the Professor and he sank into a reverie of confusion.
The ambulance squealed and the journalists swarmed. The Professor was far away on an isolated island in the middle of a rough sea.
“Where is the bottle?!” ranted the Chief, red with rage.
“We do not know, sir!” explained the policeman sheepishly.
“It couldn't have flown off, fetch it man or you'll be suspended!”
“But, chief! Its nowhere to be found!” cried the policeman, whose name was Hodge.
“Nowhere! You'll be nowhere to be found if you cannot produce the port bottle!”
“I shall look again sir, but perhaps someone took it away.”
“Ugh!” grunted the Chief.
“I am sorry, I shall look under the table,” said Hodge, shamefacedly.
The Chief nodded and jerked a thumb at the Professor. “I'll take him. Pick you up in forty-five minutes.”
“All right sir. Right ho!” and with that Hodge vanished inside the pub.
“Excuse me, but perhaps you could drop me off at a telephone booth. I need to arrange this matter with my housekeeper. Its rather inconvenient, as its his day-off.”
“He'll learn about it in the papers but I'll oblige you. Theres one on the corner, and I'm afraid I'll have to hear everything you say. Got any spare change?” remarked the Chief impatiently.
“No, I left it all at home. It will have to be fifteen minutes, I'm afraid because all my affairs must be put in order,” said Professor Plumpfront.
“I'll pay and you can put down an IOU. Come one then.”
The Professor punched in the number and grasped the telephone, his knuckles bone-white.
“Sumpter? Sumpter? Its Roger. Can you hear me?”
“Yes sir,” answered a grave and regal voice.
“Listen, I am going to be tried for the murder of four people of my club. I need a pair of pajama's, a pressed suit, a tooth brush, a caruncle, and the Dictionary. You can drop it off at the station. Thank you and take care of Bubbles. He will be dreadfully worried."
To be continued. This is most probably the longest blogpost you will read. This is my performance of the meeting that took place before the Professor was put behind bars awaiting his trial.
This space could used for your story!
Email: amgdauvin@gmail.com to submit what you think will become of the Professor
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