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

By Martin Smith
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Surprised that Holmes knew the mansion had such a room, I followed him as we walked upstairs and along the hall and into the conservatory, where a raven-haired beauty dressed in a flowing crimson gown sat.

‘Good evening,’ Holmes said. ‘I am Sherlock Holmes.’ He clicked his heels and bowed his head.

‘Good evening,’ the woman in red said, extending her hand towards Holmes. ‘I am Miss Scarlett.’

Holmes leant forward and kissed the back of her hand and said, ‘Enchantée, Mademoiselle. May I ask you some questions about tonight’s tragic occurrence?’

‘Certainly.’ She returned her hand to her lap.

‘What was your relationship with Doctor Black?’

‘His lover and confidante.’ She dabbed the corner of her right eye with a crimson lace handkerchief and sniffled.

‘But not your first or only?’

‘A lady would never reveal such matters.’

‘And your reason for being here this evening?’

‘I asked the doctor to meet me before dinner in this very room as I had a little surprise for him, but he never arrived.’

‘And what was the little surprise?’

‘A lady would never reveal such matters.’

‘Have you and Doctor Black met often in this room?’

‘Yes, we’ve had many trysts in here.’

‘And tiffs?’

Miss Scarlett’s face reddened. ‘A few.’

‘And did you share secrets? His and yours?’

Miss Scarlett’s reddening deepened.

‘Secrets,’ Holmes continued, ‘that, if revealed to others, would cause embarrassment or even ruin a life?’

‘A … A … A lady would never reveal such matters.’

‘Ah, a lady, indeed.’ Holmes rubbed his chin and studied the downcast face of the woman in red. ‘Tell me, Miss Scarlett, what trade does your father ply?’

‘My father? How did you know he was a tradesman?’

‘The way you enunciate your vowels, Mademoiselle. Your father? He lives and works in Cheapside?’

‘Why, yes. He repairs hansom cabs.’

‘Did you ever spend time in his workshop?’

‘Yes, as a girl, after school.’

‘So you would be familiar with your father’s tools—tongs and hammers and wrenches.’

‘Certainly.’

‘And did you visit your father today?’

‘Yes, I did. It’s Thursday. I always visit him on Thursdays.’

Again Holmes rubbed his chin and studied her face. ‘Thank you, Mademoiselle. 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 flame-red femme fatale sashayed from the room, I whispered to Holmes, ‘By Jove, Holmes, the motive for Dr Cluedo’s murder must be concealment, the suppression of the revelation of a sordid secret. Surely that rubescent, reticent, wrench-wielding, wanton, working-class wench must be our killer. Come, Holmes, voice your suspicion: Miss Scarlett, in the conservatory, with the wrench.’

‘Patience, Watson. Let us adjourn to the doctor’s study.’

When we walked into the study, a tall, lean man wearing a sage suit and with buck teeth, a stiff stoop and an even stiffer collar greeted Holmes with a handshake and said, ‘Good evening, I’m the Reverend Green.’

‘Good evening, Reverend,’ Holmes said. ‘I am Sherlock Holmes, and this is Doctor Watson. You’ve not always been a man of the cloth, have you?’

‘No. How did you know?’

‘Your hands. They are far too rough and calloused for a person who’s spent their adult life preaching God’s Word.’

‘Indeed, Mr Holmes, I have undertaken an assortment of occupations. Slaughtering in a shambles, bread-making in a boulangerie when I lived on the Continent and tinkering whilst roaming the English countryside. That’s where I found my faith: in a rural church, repairing a tabernacle.’

‘And what of candlesticks?’

‘I’ve handled a few in my time.’

Holmes made a note in his pocketbook. ‘Vicaring can be a poor, lonely, peripatetic existence, can it not, Reverend?’

‘True, I’ve moved about a lot, yet I’m fortunate that the Lord doth provide and my flock provide companionship.’

‘No envy towards any of your flock, particularly those who have wealth, position and the alluring devotion of a black-haired beauty?’

‘N … N … Never. Envy is the devil’s work. I am rich in God’s words and work.’

‘And was Doctor Black a benefactor to your parish?’

‘Yes, he was most generous, although his support waned in recent months. I asked him to meet me in his study tonight, before dinner, so I could discuss financial aid to repair the rectory roof, but he never arrived.’

‘Did you meet the doctor in this room often?’

‘Yes.’

‘And did you ever disagree about matters of the Church?’

‘We had our little spats over faith and dogma. Indeed, he infuriated me at times. Sometimes I felt the urge to crack him over the head with whatever was close at hand and knock some blessed sense into him. I speak figuratively, of course. One mustn’t break the fifth commandment.’

Holmes jotted in his notebook. ‘Thank you, Reverend, you’ve been most helpful. If you could wait in the lounge room, I will be with you and the other guests in due course.’

As the hunched clergyman hurried from the study, I whispered to Holmes, ‘By Jove, Holmes, the motive for Dr Cluedo’s murder must be envy, a coveting of thy neighbour’s goods. Be he butcher, baker or candlestick remaker, surely that avaricious, viridescent, vapid, vagabond vicar must be our killer. Come, Holmes, voice your suspicion: Reverend Green, in the study, with the candlestick.’

‘Patience, Watson. Let us make our way to the dining room.’

We entered the dining room, and at the dining table sat a thin woman dressed in an elegant blue gown. Her aloof head perched upon a long neck, and her black, beady eyes presided over a beaked nose. A feathered fascinator, a mix of royal blue and vivid cerulean, nested upon her grey hair.

‘Good evening, madam,’ Holmes said. ‘My name is Sherlock Holmes, and this is Doctor Watson.’

‘Good evening,’ the woman said. ‘You may call me Mrs Peacock.’

‘Tell me, Mrs Peacock, how did you come to be invited to Doctor Black’s house tonight?’

‘Doctor Black is—I should say—was my brother-in-law. I married his stepbrother, Alchester Peacock. Sadly, a rogue horse knocked down and trampled my Chess when he was in trivial pursuit of a hansom cab. Had he not died, I would be Lady Peacock.’

‘My condolences, madam, for your loss. How long have you been a widow?’

‘Fifteen years.’

‘And how long have you loved Doctor Black?’

Mrs Peacock blued in the face. ‘Pardon? I … I … I … How did you know?’

‘That heart you wear on your sleeve. It bears the engraved initials C.B. How long?’

‘Twenty years.’

‘And did you ever declare your love to him?’

‘I have—sorry, had been waiting for the right moment.’

‘And the good doctor? Did he reciprocate your feelings?’

‘Well, not yet, but I believe he was—as the common folk say—“coming around”. A woman knows these things. I asked him to meet me here in this room tonight as I planned to declare my affections for him and then have him announce our engagement over dinner. But he never came, and now he is … he is … dead! And … and …’

Mrs Peacock buried her face in her handkerchief and howled.

‘There, there, madam.’

Mrs Peacock wiped her tears and blew her nose.

‘Madam, I have just two more questions. Did Doctor Black ever provide you money?’

‘Why, yes. Although Alchester left me the house and an annuity, I’ll admit I’ve struggled to get by. It’s not cheap to maintain a plumage like mine.’ She stroked her feathered fascinator. ‘Let alone entertain in high society. So, yes, Cluedo was kind enough to deposit a small sum into my bank account each month.’

‘And finally, Mrs Peacock, may I ask what occupation your Alchester pursued?’

‘He, sir, was a gentleman.’

‘No, before he acquired his fortune.’

She looked past us and toward the doorway. She raised the back of her hand to her mouth and whispered, ‘He … he … he was … a plumber.’

‘Thank you, Mrs Peacock. 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 snobby socialite swanned out the dining room, I whispered to Holmes, ‘By Jove, Holmes, the motive for Dr Cluedo’s murder must be personal gain. Surely that plummy, plumaged, pipe-plying plumber’s widow must be our killer. Come, Holmes, voice your suspicion: Mrs Peacock, in the dining room, with the lead pipe.’