Plum Distress

The dead body aside, the first thing the Inspector wondered was: How long would it take to fill a library of this size?

Would the owner have bought the lot as a package or would they have accumulated the books over time?

The Inspector wasn’t a collector so he was unsure, unless you counted collecting collars.

Which led him back to the body in the middle of the room.

“Who is our victim?” the Inspector asked.

“Dr Black sir. The owner.”

Well, some mysteries would remain unsolved, he thought.

He approached the body, noting the river of soaked in blood running down the back of the dead man’s beige suit. The source appeared to be the base of his skull.

The Bobby anticipated the next question.

“Blunt force trauma sir.”

“Murder weapon?”

“Nothing recovered yet sir.”

He turned to the Bobby.

“It’s going to be a long night. Be a good man and head to the kitchen and brew us up some coffee. Get one for yourself.”

“Right away sir.”

Left alone, the Inspector took a more scenic tour around the library, the books seeming to hold more life in them than the flesh and bones draped on the parquetry.

Much like the six people detained in the conservatory, all the usual suspects were here: Dickens, Joyce, Tolstoy, Proust. It was a bibliophile’s fever dream. Nothing looked out of place.

Save for the pewter candlestick wedged between two editions of Les Misérables.

The crimson mark at the top of the candlestick was proof enough for the Inspector.

“Time to find our Valjean.”

The music emanating from the conservatory drifted down the hallway. The Inspector thought it was Rachmaninoff but then realised he didn’t know the first thing about classical music. Guilty people were his specialist subject.

When he entered the room, he thought he was in a different mansion entirely. The six detainees were strewn around the conservatory, engaged in lively conversation. Seven if you counted the Bobby serving coffee from a trolley.

“Constable!”

Seven pairs of eyes were looking his way. The Bobby put the pot down.

“Turn that Rachmaninoff off!”

The Bobby complied.

The gentleman in the military regalia spoke up.

“It is Chopin, Inspector.”

The Inspector eyed the gentleman’s epaulettes.

“Colonel, with the greatest of respect, I don’t care.”

The Colonel’s walrus moustache twitched, ready to respond, but he remained silent.

“Everyone up against the wall and place your hands in front, palms facing up.”

The group appeared confused by the request but complied nevertheless.

Once in place, the Inspector started at one end, leaning in close to look at the parade of palms. He got four in before stopping. A white chalky substance that appeared to be paraffin wax lined the hands in front of him.

The Inspector looked up at the man in front of him, the purple coloured neck tie not too dissimilar to the blood on the dead man’s suit.

The game was over.

“Sorry Professor. I guess this isn’t your night.”