Who killed Dr. Black?

WHO KILLED DR. BLACK?

Dr. Black sat alone in the conservatory, musing over mulled wine. The haze of the Indian summer mingled with the thrumming of cicadas, clogging the air like honey. This kind of evening was infectious, and no one was really doing what they were supposed to be doing- but for the cats, who were sunning themselves on the mansion’s front porch. The doctor, himself, should have been attending to his accounts, but the evening was too good to be spent anywhere other than in his conservatory.

There was a knock at the conservatory door. The doctor continued to swill his wine. He yawned. His visitor came in anyway, heavy tramping boots scuffing mud across the polished floor. Dr. Black winced as a bowl of fuchsias was knocked off its pedestal, ricocheting off the tiles with a clatter. The newcomer glanced downwards, shrugged, and grinned apologetically from beneath a lovingly sculpted mustachio. Black sighed and ushered the man towards the wicker chair opposite him.

“Lovely weather we’re having.” The doctor muttered into his wine. Tracking his guest’s stare to the wine glass, the doctor rolled his eyes. He flicked a latch on the cabinet to his left, revealing a well looked after bottle of wine. “A magnificent vintage. I save it for special occasions.” Black watched, an agonised expression plastered on his face, as the man filled his glass, skulled it, then poured a second. “What brings you here, colonel?” Black enquired cautiously. It was a rare occasion that the old war veteran would pay a friendly visit to the doctor. Their relationship could be quite strange at times. Glancing down at the revolver tucked in the colonel’s gun belt, Black hoped it was a friendly visit. The colonel set his empty glass down with a clatter. “Ah, good stuff.” Black whipped the bottle back into the cabinet before his guest could try for a third glass.

The colonel lounged in his chair. “I came to warn you, actually.” He twiddled his moustache. “Your poppies are doing well.” Dr. Black frowned. “Warn me of what?” The colonel sent a meaningful stare towards the expensive candlestick Dr. Black had positioned well out of the path of anyone’s feet, particularly the colonel’s. “Oh no.” The doctor’s voice was suddenly pitch-perfect with the screeching cicadas outside. “Oh no. I thought – hoped – that they had forgotten about us.” He began to inch away from his guest (which proved more difficult than he had expected, as he was still seated). The colonel raised his eyebrows, and then his hands, in submission. “I’m here to warn you, doc, not to kill you.” He stood and started to stroll towards the door, snatching his wine glass off the coffee table and draining the dregs on the way. Br. Black was slumped in his chair. “How long, Mustard?” he mumbled. The colonel turned, his hand on the doorknob. Glancing down at his battered Rolex, he estimated “Scarlet will be about half an hour. Maybe more. You know how she likes to do things well.” With that, he turned and left.

Miss Scarlet arrived an hour later. Pulling on plastic gloves, she quickly checked the room to make sure they were alone. “Dr. Black?” Her voice was businesslike, with a faint hint of sympathy. He raised his head from his knees and glared at her. “Not you again.” She finished adjusting her gloves, and replied. “You know I hate doing this. It’s Miss Peacock’s turn, but she’s busy with her rabbits.” Dr. Black continued to glare at her. “I really don’t see how they can be entertained by murder. It’s so unpleasant.” She stopped talking, strutted over to the candlestick and picked it up. Testing its weight in her gloved hands, she advanced towards the now quivering doctor. She paused for a moment, sighed, then swung at him with her makeshift weapon.

Dr. Black lay on the conservatory floor. Voices drifted down from somewhere above him. “Professor Plum, in the billiard room, with the rope…” Dr. Black closed his eyes and grumbled his last words: “Not again.”