The Curious Case of Cluedo Black: Episode Three – Will be broadcast on the Pulse 94.7 FM today between 10-11am!

By Martin Smith
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Entering the library, we came upon a portly gentleman standing before a bookcase. He had a mop of wiry, white hair sprouting from his head and wore a mulberry-coloured three-piece suit, a fob chain and a pair of thick, round, purple spectacles.

‘Professor Plum, I presume,’ Holmes said.

‘Indeed, I am,’ the gentleman said.

‘Good evening, sir. I am Holmes. Sherlock Holmes. I’ve read many of your research papers. I particularly enjoyed the one on How to Commit the Unsolvable Murder. Watson, may I introduce Professor Plum, a legendary don at Oxford and one of Britain’s leading criminologists?’

The professor and I acknowledged each other with nods.

‘Professor,’ Holmes said, ‘may I ask what brought you to this house tonight?’

‘Doctor Black asked me to meet him in this room.’

‘Indeed. To discuss what?’

‘A matter of a most peculiar nature, apparently, but I am none the wiser as he did not come.’

I saw Holmes run his eyes up and down the plump don. ‘May I compliment you on your necktie, Professor?’

‘Thank you. It’s bespoke.’

‘And do you prefer a particular knot?’

‘I like to think myself a Victoria Knot man although, on occasions, I’ll go for a Full or Half Windsor. Having said that, I’m not impartial to a Four In Hand Knot, and I have at times favoured a Trinity Knot or a Kelvin Knot. But what I cannot abide are Pratt Knots.’

‘You certainly know your knots, Professor. Tell me, did you and the doctor discuss matters of a professional nature?’

‘Indeed, we did. Many a time in this very room.’

‘And did he concur with your opinions? And you, his?’

‘Mostly, though sometimes our discussions got a little heated. The doctor could certainly be obdurate. Honestly, I could have throttled him at times, such was his obstinacy. Mind you, that’d be most unethical.’

‘I admired your propriety. Thank you for your patience. I have no further questions. If you could wait in the lounge room, I will be with you and the other guests in due course.’

As the purple, pudgy pedagogue paced from the library, I whispered to Holmes, ‘By Jove, Holmes, the motive for Dr Cluedo’s murder must be a clash of convictions. Surely that natty, near-sighted, nefarious, know-all of a knotter must be our killer. Come, Holmes, voice your suspicion: Professor Plum, in the study, with the rope.’

‘Patience, Watson. To the billiard room, I say.’

As we entered the billiard room, a squat, sallow-faced man marched towards us, wielding a swagger stick. He wore a khaki military uniform, a monocle and a flaxen-coloured walrus moustache.

‘It’s about bloody time, you laggards,’ he said. ‘What the devil do you mean by keeping me here? There’s none of this nonsense under Her Majesty’s service.’

‘My apologies … Major?’ Holmes said.

‘Mustard. That’s Colonel Mustard to you, laddie.’

‘Again, I apologise for keeping you, Colonel.’

‘I should bloody well think so.’

‘Tell me, Colonel, how did you know the doctor?’

‘Go way back. Shared dormitories and hijinks at school. Served together in the 5th. Under Tabby Tomkins. Blackie left to take up his doctoring. Damn shame to lose him to you civilians. Would have made a fine officer.’

‘But you maintained your friendship after he left?’

‘You’re damn right we did. Sampling single malts at the club, playing billiards in this very room and shooting duck at Farlington Park. There’s nothing like the thrill of hitting a moving target, nothing quite like the smoke of gunfire filling your nostrils upon the misty moors at dawn. I say, is this going to take much longer?’

‘I’ve almost finished. Shooting, you say?’

‘Yes. Blackie and I were crack shots. In fact, that’s why I arrived here early this evening. I wanted to show him my new revolver. He said he’d meet me here in this room, but the blighter never showed. Poor form, I say, poor form.’

‘May I see this new revolver of yours?’

The colonel’s eyes watered as he shuffled from foot to foot. ‘I’m afraid I seem to have misplaced it. Gave myself a good dressing down when I realised so.’

‘Poor form, I’d say.’ Holmes hinted at a smile.

‘Touché, laddie. Now, have we finished?’

‘Yes, Colonel Mustard, and thank you. But I’ll need you to wait in the lounge room, and I will be with you and the other guests in due course.’

‘Wouldn’t happen if I was running the show.’

As the crusty colonel with his swagger stick marched out the room, I whispered to Holmes, ‘By Jove, Holmes, the motive for Dr Cluedo’s murder must be hedonism. A thrill kill. Surely that obtuse, outspoken, ornery oaf of an officer must be our killer. Come, Holmes, voice your suspicion: Colonel Mustard, in the billiard room, with the revolver.’

‘Patience, Watson. One last witness. The good doctor’s employee. To the kitchen, my good fellow.’

We arrived in the kitchen to a cloud of white dust. Holmes cleared his throat and called out, ‘Good evening?’ The dust settled, revealing a short, pallid woman with many chins and pudgy, pale forearms. A white knotted headscarf covered most of her snow-white hair, and behind her white apron she was all derrière and décolletage. A large sack of flour rested at her feet as she bent to lift it.

I stepped forward and said, ‘Madam, allow me to assist you.’ The woman in white stepped aside.

‘Good evening, madam,’ Holmes said as I bent my knees and gathered the sack in my arms.

‘No madam here,’ she said. ‘I’m Mrs White, the cook.’

‘Where to, Mrs White?’ I said as I strained to lift.

‘There, in the larder,’ she said, pointing a fleshy finger.

My attempt to lift the sack resulted in no movement of it and a considerable loss of breath on my part. Good God, I thought, what’s in there? Bricks? Ballast? A body?

‘My apologies, Mrs White,’ Holmes said. ‘I understand you were the one who found the good doctor in the cellar.’

‘Oh, yes, my poor master—’ And she burst into tears and covered her face with her apron.

Eager to lighten her mood and burden, I again held my breath and gritted my teeth and strained. Again the sack remained immovable.

Mrs White released the sodden apron and said, ‘Oh, for goodness’ sake, let me do that.’ She shoved me aside, picked up and slung the sack over her shoulder and disappeared into the larder. Following a thud and a groan, she returned bearing an enormous leg of pork. She slammed the meat onto the kitchen bench and whipped out a huge knife from under her apron. She scored the fatty flesh with precise sweeps of the knife and a steely gaze.

‘My word, Mrs White,’ Holmes said, ‘you’re quite adept at using that knife.’

‘Been slicing and dicing meat since I began cooking.’

‘How long have you been employed by Doctor Black?’

‘Been with the family for forty-three years.’

‘Have you always been a cook?’

‘Yes, I started as a girl. Although he has called upon me to perform other duties from time to time.’

‘What sort of duties?’

‘Womanly duties.’

‘You were the doctor’s lover?’

Mrs White blanched. ‘No! Other duties like cleaning and caring and counselling him when he seemed a bit low. And, of course, keeping all those doe-eyed beauties away from him. Plenty of times I’ve wielded this very knife in this very room to dissuade them from their silly ideas about marrying my Clue—master. Even that Miss Scarlett. I’d love to see her sacked and thrown in a river. And don’t get me started on that gold-digging, blue bowerbird!’

‘Indeed?’ Holmes said. ‘And what of Mr White?’

‘He disappeared long ago. No one’s seen or heard from him since. But, my word, if I got my hands on him, I’d waste no time skinning him alive.’

‘Indeed?’ Holmes jotted a note in his notebook. ‘And do you have any children, Mrs White?’

‘No, but I’ve done some nursing.’

‘Any other men in your life since your husband?’

‘No, I’ve only loved one man, and he wasn’t my husband.’

‘The good doctor?’

Mrs White blanched. ‘Y … Y … Yes. And now he, my Clue—master, is gone and I have no one.’

She lifted her apron over her head and burst into tears.

‘There, there, Mrs White.’

When Mrs White ceased crying, she released the apron and salted the scored pig flesh.

‘Finally, did the doctor ever question your service?’

‘Never! He loved my cooking. Why, this afternoon he even met with me to discuss his new dietary requirements. Can’t say I approved. It’s that crimson woman and her fancy ideas. A man needs his meat, I say. Oh, and now I’ll never cook for my Clue—master again.’ And Mrs White lost her head again to the white apron.

‘Thank you, Mrs White. I have no further questions. Once you have panned your pork, could you please join the guests in the lounge room.’

As we left the crying cook under her cloth, I whispered to Holmes, ‘By Jove, Holmes, the motive for Dr Cluedo’s murder must be passion, an enduring yet unrequited love. Surely that corpulent, carving, cutting, cunning, conniving culinarian must be our killer. Come, Holmes, voice your suspicion: Mrs White, in the kitchen, with the dagger.’

‘Patience, Watson. Let us adjourn to the lounge room. It is time to reveal our murderer.’