The Bloodied Knife
Jackson
Kerr
Mr.
Pierce Richam had been sitting for several minutes now, waiting. It had been a
busy day with much running about town. His patience was already growing thin as
his appetite increased. He had shouted for Mrs. Dribblewitz several times, with
no audible response. Getting up to investigate the matter was not an option. Of
all the things he had learned as the master of his home, it was this; if you
wanted any respect from servants you could not be a man adept to change.
The
grandfather clock against the wall to his left ticked away the seconds. The
table was small, decorated simply, but with taste. A small vase with freshly-cut
flowers acted as a centerpiece. Candles were lit, and the light through the
windows faded hesitantly, drawing attention to the vase and to shadows cast
about the room. It was a reverse prism, the shadows forming shapes like
constellations, having any meaning that was put to them.
Dinner
was five minutes late; then ten. Mr. Richam was just about to give in when Mrs.
Judy Dribblewitz entered from the kitchen, pushing through the swinging door.
The man scarcely knew what to think. Due to the poor design of the house, any
rubbish to be disposed of would have to be taken through the dining room out to
the back door. Most of the time, the hired help would do this either before or
after meals, knowing not to interrupt. But rubbish was not the subject of the
matter now.
When
Mrs. Dribblewitz came in she was in obvious distress. Shocked at the sight, Mr.
Richam asked her what she held in her hand. Pierce knew what it was, but he
needed to hear her say it, as though to confirm what he saw. Flustered, she
responded.
“It’s
a knife!”
“But what has it been used for?”
“To heavens if I know! What would a
bloodied knife be doing in MY kitchen?” That,
madam- Mr. Richam thought to himself- is
the question. He tried to broach the matter in a different way.
“Do you mean to
tell me you have absolutely no idea what it was doing there?” The red in her
face spread to her neck.
“Of course I don’t!”
(Mrs. Dribblewitz was no woman to be questioned if you expected silence or
submission in return.) “What would I be doing with such a thing?” Mr. Richam
knew exactly what someone with a bloodied knife could have done.
Mr. Welter was
unhappy. A disorderly house was no house to be in. As he had been known by Mr.
Richam’s family for many years, he naturally kept his position as head butler
of the house when Pierce’s parents passed away. Pierce fondly referred to Mr.
Welter, his trusted servant, as “Alfred”. But his name was Horace.
Horace ignored
this continuality and persevered in his duties, making sure that the house was
in good order. When all the displays were spotless, all the books in order, and
the various other servants busy about the work to be done, Mr. Welter was a
happy man.
Mr. Horace Welter
was a faithful servant of the Richam family for years. The man often towered
over the family at dinner, heeding the master’s every beck and call. Due to a
long series of deaths and accidents, however, the family line was reduced to
this closely-knit group of the senior Mr. and Mrs. Richam and Pierce, their
only son and heir. Horace had been there at both of the parents’ deaths. He
assured the mother, the second to pass, that he would take good care of their
son and heir.
Order. The
universe certainly didn’t provide enough of it, so Mr. Welter had to work
harder. But it was just as well, being a sentinel of the house. All was well until disorder crept into his realm.
After years of experience, Horace had found never to say “unless”. It was rampant; when you were finally rid of disorder, it
crept in by other means. In any form it was always an attack, an affront on
what was right and good in a well-ordered house. Disorder was not to be
tolerated in any sense of the word.
“Of all the indignities,
being questioned as a common criminal-” The maid stopped short at the sudden
appearance of Mr. Welter stepping into the room. The man’s large frame filled
the doorway. All action halted. Mr. Richam and Mrs. Dribblewitz stared at him.
He cleared his throat.
“Is there a
problem, sir?” Suddenly Pierce was nervous. Confused, his eyes went to the
woman in front of him before returning to the towering butler.
“No, Alfred, there
is nothing wrong.” The butler stood hesitating for a moment. It was apparent,
though, that he was determined to do something.
“Is the knife
troubling you?” His voice was calm and firm, as always. But there seemed to be
something else in an undertone of his voice, something beneath the surface. Mr.
Richam shook his head, suddenly feeling surrounded by enemies.
“No, but thank you
Alfred. I was just waiting for dinner to be served.” Mr. Richam lowered himself into his seat with
dignity, remaining in charge of the situation. “Now Mrs. Dribblewitz, tell me
exactly what happened before you… found the knife.” She stood stiffly, glancing
occasionally at Mr. Richam. But her attention was directed at Mr. Welter.
It was plain to
Horace that Mr. Richam was upset about something. The knife in Mrs.
Dribblewitz’s hand was of interest. He pitied the woman, both for her situation
and her name. The fact that the blade was tainted a deep red had not escaped
his attention; it simply was not a priority. Restoring peace was always a
priority.
Seeing that
whatever argument happening at the moment would not lead anywhere productive,
Mr. Richam nodded at the knife in Judy’s possession, begging an explanation. Mr.
Welter made a slight yet unexpected movement toward the woman.
“Mrs. Dribblewitz,
I would suggest you continue with your duties.” Glancing between the two men,
the cook-maid began to retreat from the room, muttering to herself.
“Wait a minute!”
Mr. Richam was on his feet. “Whatever happened to explaining what the thing is
about?” he said, gesturing at the woman holding the knife. “We can’t let the
matter alone; we don’t know how it came to be this way.” He motioned to a
chair. “Have a seat, if you please.”
It would be a
terrible waste of words and space to say that the tension could be cut with a
knife. Mrs. Dribblewitz shifted uncomfortably, apparently unsure whether to keep
her eye on her employer or the butler.
“Sir, I honestly
don’t see what this has to do with anything!” Horace’s voice rose in pitch and
volume. Both Pierce and the maid were taken aback by this. “Finding out how she
found the knife will not help with restoring order to this place. Now Mrs.
Dribblewitz, just run along and take care of things! Mr. Richam still has not
had his supper yet, as you well know!” Both turned to stare at the butler’s
outburst.
“What do you mean
Alfred?” The butler regained his nerve and continued.
“I simply mean,
sir, that I know you’ve had a long day. I didn’t want any more trouble for
you.” After this inexcusable outburst, Mr. Richam watched the man retreat back
into a sense of calm. “There should have been nothing to trouble you tonight. Now,
m’am if you will please see to dinner, and be sure that the knife is taken care
of.” Pierce looked at the man carefully.
“Why does it
matter to you so much what is done with the thing? If it is of no consequence,
then why do you insist that is should be disposed of?” Mr. Richam’s eyes
shifted back to the maid. “Unless he knows that you have murdered someone.” Now all of his attention was on Mrs.
Dribblewitz. The woman’s eyes began darting back and forth more quickly now.
“Well, who would I
murder? And why?”
“Yes, what motive would she have to
commit such a crime? And who would it be against?” The butler’s questioning
caught Mr. Richam by surprise. What startled him more were his thoughts; the
idea of being surrounded by those who were out to harm him. It was ridiculous,
he knew, but he could not control the rampaging emotions and thoughts in his
head.
“Enough!” Pierce wasn’t sure whether he was commanding
his thoughts or the butler. “I will hear all that she has to say about the
matter. Let nothing further interrupt her.” The butler’s hands flew up.
“But she has nothing to say!”
“She does!” Mr. Richam turned
abruptly to the maid. “Let us hear it, ma’m; your account of this evening’s
activities, from the start.”
She sighed
(whether out of exhaust or defeat, it could not be told) and put her head in
her hand for a moment, before beginning.
“I went as I always
do to prepare dinner. I had finished a salad, and was ready to take care of the
Foie Gras, when I discovered the
knife lying on the counter.”
“Did you find anything lying on the
counter near it?” She shook her head.
“No, the knife was the only thing
out of place.”
“Do you have any thoughts as to
where it came from?” The questions came quickly, as a reflex.
“If you’re asking whether it came
from here, it’s quite possible.” The knife in her hand was suddenly being
handled by an expert at of a craft rather than a victim of accusations. “I use
only the best knives in the business. This one is just the same quality as…”
She stopped, before she could continue digging her own grave. Mr. Richam
studied her, judging her words. She was eyeing him now, as a trapped hare might
eye the hounds that have cornered him.
He finished the
sentence for her. “…the same as any of the knives in this house.” Pale and
suddenly trembling, the maid nodded at his response. “Mrs. Dribblewitz, I’m
afraid I don’t know what to say. I’ve trusted you all of these years- to go and
do something like this is unthinkable. Who was the victim?” The woman let out
what may have been either a squeal or a small shriek.
“What? You can’t
still possibly think that I- that I killed
someone?” It seemed the idea had never occurred to her.
“But what else can
I assume? Unless, of course, you have evidence to the contrary?” Mr. Richam’s
face showed no signs of jesting. A movement to his right stopped any further
conversation. Another servant stood in the doorway. The servants were trained
to have poise and elegance. This was the closest thing to awkwardness Mr.
Richam had ever seen in one of them before.
“Well?
What is it?” His sharp tone caught the man off guard. There was a flash, the
slightest hint of a flinch that could be read on his face.
“A guest, sir.”
“Well, what are you standing around
here for, then? Bring him in!” The man bowed silently, turning away. He
scurried, more than anything, out of the room. He returned in a moment with
slightly more composure, letting pass-
“Why Archibald!” Mr. Dribblewitz
was greeted by his wife with both joy and uncertainty. “What on earth are you
doing here?” The plump man shrugged.
“Is there a reason not to be here?”
His jovial face showed no signs of knowing the current social atmosphere of the
room.
“But I’m working! I’ve told you
about this several times now-”
“Oh dear, don’t make a fuss about
it!” She continued blathering about how this was not acceptable, and how he
would have to leave, but Pierce had another idea. He offered the man a seat,
and the man obliged. His girth adjusted itself as he sat. Sitting, for him,
seemed more a release than an action. In any case it was obviously something
that he was very used to.
“Mr. Dribblewitz,
do you have any idea what your wife would be doing with a large knife, roaming
about my house?” The woman looked shocked at the audacity to ask such a direct
question. She sat across the table from her husband, staring, silently
pleading. Mr. Dribblewitz, his joviality unchanged, turned to his wife.
“Dear, don’t you
remember? You asked me to get that favorite knife of yours back from Bromley,
the butcher.”
Pierce blinked, as
the unexpected idea hit his mind.
“You mean to say
you took this knife directly from the butcher’s shop?”
“Well, not exactly. He called up,
asking whether it would be all right to borrow it. He has a new young man
working for him, you know. He says that the lad is supposed to bring his knife
with him or leave it at the shop. Unfortunately he didn’t do either, and
Bromley called up asking if he might borrow a butcher’s knife from my wife. I
pitied him, as he said they were expecting a rush, and sent it to him. When he
was finished he must have sent it here, knowing as you work here. So you see, I
was not the one to drop the knife off here. It was probably the butcher’s
apprentice.”
“But how would it get here without
my noticing, unless…” Pierce then remembered the busy day that he had been
through and getting back for dinner less than half an hour ago. With that
question out of the way there was just one left. “Mr. Dribblewitz, do you have
any idea why, exactly, your wife would roam about the house with a butcher
knife in the first place?”
“Well,” he said, “no, I don’t. I do
know, though, that she has a habit of roaming about, especially when thinking
hard or when upset over something.” Judy nodded as did Pierce, seeing that it
was a fair assessment.
“The question,
then, is why would she be roaming about with this knife rather than working?”
There was surprise on Mr. Dribblewitz’s face at the young man’s lack of
consideration of the matter.
“Well, what would
you do? Decide that you were some sort of detective and track down the murderer
that weren’t there?” The stupidity of Mr. Richam’s question was suddenly a slap
in his own face. Apparently no one else could argue with that, either, as there
was silence for half a minute. Suddenly he broke it all off with a “thank you,
that will be all” and sat down to wait for his dinner. Nobody needed to be told
to leave.
“That
was close.” Mrs. Dribblewitz now sat in her own quarters. The room was tidy,
though had a feeling of being unlived in. There was dust here and there,
attesting to little time to herself the woman had. Mr. Welter sat in a chair
beside her. Both chairs faced a small fireplace, their backs to the bed and
bureau. Horace sighed, leaving his head in his hand as it had been for the last
several minutes.
“How could you let that happen?”
Looking up, his face glowered with resentment. Her defenses went up.
“How was I to know it would
happen?”
“But walking about the house with a
knife?” He threw his hands up in frustration. Here and now all sense of
professionalism was lost. “And a bloodied one, at that.”
“In any case, there’s no way he
could know.”
“But after something like this,
don’t you think that it would occur to him?”
“He thinks it was an honest mistake,
which it was. Besides, he wouldn’t even think about the inheritance.”
“Well, it shouldn’t occur to him to
tell himself the obvious, having no heirs. He could change his will, though,
and then where would we be?” There was a lull in the conversation. She crossed
to him, and put her hand on his shoulder reassuringly.
“Well, I suppose that we will have
to move quickly then.” She stood behind him as he sat and they both remained,
staring into the candlelight. They were not preparing, as much as waiting for
what was to come. The inevitable would hopefully be in their favor the next
time.
© Jackson Kerr, 2012
