A Most Disruptive Slaying

written by Lord Reginald Sneden, Esq.
transcribed by one Dennis B. Hooper

EDITOR’S NOTE: It should be known that I came across Lord Sneden’s personal papers quite by accident, at an estate sale, where I was attempting to acquire what had been described to me as a “demonic book.” Assuming that such a thing would be either a harmless curiosity (or an exciting portal to another realm), I made an offer, only to learn (after brushing away several layers of mold and dust) that it was, in fact, a misprinted hardcover of The Catcher in the Rye.

Depressed, I absentmindedly inquired about a stack of neglected papers in the corner of the room, and was informed by the family’s attorney that no one was quite sure where they had come from, or indeed, to whom they had previously belonged. They had simply been discovered in a trunk earlier that week, and seemed at first to consist mostly of scone recipes, along with some alarmingly lurid descriptions of erotic encounters from the unknown author’s many trips to Singapore.

But imagine my surprise… when I realized who the author WAS.

Though he wasn’t as popular in the United States as, say, Hamish Haberdash, or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Reginald Sneden was a WILDLY celebrated man of letters in the United Kingdom in the first half of the twentieth century. In fact, for a time, the success of his The Bumbling Detective stories arguably eclipsed that of Sherlock Holmes. Though his star faded as the years went on, there was a renewed public interest in Lord Sneden shortly before the end of his life, when it was revealed by a tabloid that, as a younger man, he had actually assisted Scotland Yard in the solving of dozens of crimes!

As I stood there that day, thumbing through his papers, I realized what I had found: the long-rumored (but never located) memoirs of one of England’s most beloved authors. Feigning disinterest, I acquired them for a song, transported them back to the cottage I was renting in the Pond District, and set about transcribing them. It is my pleasure to present to you one of the early chapters, the story of one of his first attempts at solving a crime, while in his final year at boarding school.

CLANG! CLANG! CLANG! CLANG!

The peals of the waking bell rang out, and ricocheted down the hall. I groaned, my head still thick with slumber, and not a little pained from our merriment the night before. I told myself that I would have to remember to go easy on the sherry next time, but feared that the lesson might not stick.

CLANG! CLANG! CLANG! CLANG!

“Time to rise, mi’lords! Breakfast to be served soon in the breakfast hall!” The waking lad thundered past my door a second time, ringing the waking bell, no doubt with the intention of repeating the endeavor until all of the upperclassmen had stirred. I had sympathy for the lad, of course, and remembered my own torturous years of waking duty… but this was not the morning for that. I cracked my door open.

“I say!” I said. “That’s about enough of that.”

“But Mr. Sneden!” he exclaimed. “I’m to ring the bell until all have woke!”

“Well supposing,” I replied, “that instead of that selfsame bell, I gave that HEAD of yours a ringing?” I watched the blood run out of his face, and the bell in his hand come to rest, no doubt as he imagined a most unpleasant bout of fisticuff’ry befalling him.

“B-b-b-b-but…” he began.

I let him stammer a moment, but then allowed my face to relax into a grin, and suddenly he recognized my jape. We both erupted into laughter.

“Well done, sir! A most excellent jest. I thought you were to bludgeon me for sure!”

“Nonsense, nonsense,” I said. “I well remember the miseries of waking duty, during my own first years as a boarder. But it’s not so frightfully long from now that you’ll be an upperclassman yourself. Wouldn’t want to haze you too much, or you might not have a fond memory of these years at all!”

“That may be so, sir,” he said with a chuckle, “but I’ve a few terms ahead of me before I’m in your shoes. Remember, I’m only six!”

I smiled and allowed myself a moment’s reflection on my own happy introduction to this, our beloved boarding school, only twelve years prior. Being dropped off with naught but the trunk on my back by my family’s governess, crying myself to sleep for the first two years, but gradually coming to adore the place. I wished the same for this little chap.

“Well, I think I’ll continue in my duties, then,” he said.

“I say,” I said, sayingly, “have you considered, instead of that confounded bell, perhaps a light knuckly rap upon the doors? You know, your duties only include the act of waking, not the vector by which you wake.” His eyes became as large as saucers.

“An ingenious solution!” he exclaimed. “Oh thank you sir! Then I can meet my duties, but without sending into a blind fury one of the many…”

Before he could finish, however, one of the other upperclassman on my hall appeared, and knocked him out cold with a single smack.

“Enough with that bell!” he thundered. It was Lord Dalton, a boy of my same eighteen years, and captain of the fencing team. He turned and noticed me. “Ah! Morning, Sneden!”

“And to you!” I said cheerily. We gave each other a friendly nod, and he turned and headed back towards his room. A shame about the waking lad, but such are the trials of schooling. I was about to call after old Dalton, to ask if he’d heard any gossipy sayings about the manner of pastry awaiting us in the breakfast hall, but just then a different kind of pealing rang out.

CLANGGGG… CLANGGGG… CLANGGGG… CLANGGGG…

It was a mournful type of clanging, and in fact a semitone lower than the waking bell. Lord Dalton stopped in his tracks. So did I, in a manner of speaking, as I was about to light a second cigarette, but arrested my motions as well, allowing the match to fizzle out. Lord Dalton turned and looked at me, and I at him.

“The bell of portent,” he said.

“The bell of portent,” I returned.

“Portentous things about!” yelled the warning lad, whose duty it was to travel the halls with the bell of portent, and warn us of all matters portentous. “Trouble afoot, down by the boathouse!”

Lord Dalton and I locked eyes. “Perhaps we’d do well to get down there,” I said.

“Perhaps we should,” said Lord Dalton. “Cigarettes first, though.”

“A most hearty agree,” said I, resuming the ignition of the one still clenched twixt my teeth.

“Uggggggggghhhhhh I’ve forgotten all my latin,” groaned the waking lad, still lying on the floor, but beginning his slow return to the land of the conscious.

“Quiet!” said Lord Dalton, kicking him firmly in the chest. The waking lad quickly held his tongue. “Portentous things about, you know.”

I locked eyes with the waking lad and furrowed my brow, in agreement with Lord Dalton. However bewildered or concussed, it was hardly a time for underclassmen to speak.

We arrived at the boathouse a quarter-hour hence, after first dressing and shining our shoes. I recognized several of our fellow upperclassmen gathered around already, as well as quite a few underclassmen, middleclassmen, demiclassmen, and omniclassmen.

“I say,” I said, “what on earth IS the commotion?”

“There,” said an underclassman whose name I did not know, pointing in the direction of a vague corporeal form. I adjusted my gaze in the direction of his pointing, and then I saw. It was the young Lord Moore.

“A dreadful thing, that,” said Thomas Whyckenham, a fellow upperclassman, and a lad I’d known for years. And I couldn’t help but concur. Lying in the gravel, by the water, was a rather deconstructed Lord Moore, an upperclassman from the county of Highgarden, and a champion rower. I’d never previously seen anyone — fellow student or otherwise — in such a state, behanded and befooted as he was, and split end to end with some sort of vulgar slicing implement. He seemed also to have some form of message inscribed upon him, also delivered with some sort of cutting tool or blade. B… D… B… is what it appeared to say, crudely scrawled into the flesh of his chest. What could it mean?

“Gutt’d like a fish,” said the groundsman, with a strange gleam in his eye, his pipe between his teeth and his hat in his hands. A few years earlier, I might not have understood him through the morass of his grotesque Caledonian accent, but I found that my study of ancient tongues had leant me new tools, if you will, in the solving of such modern linguistic puzzles.

“Yes,” I said. “Like a fish indeed. A frightful shame.” The groundsman locked eyes with me, and I with him, and we shared a somber nod.

“What a bloody mess,” whimpered an underclassman. I immediately broke my gaze with the groundsman and looked in the underclassman’s direction. So did Lord Dalton. The sentiment was apt, of course, but the vulgar choice of adjective was alarmingly inappropriate. Lord Dalton went into a frenzy, and I could hardly blame him.

“You there! You watch your tongue!” thundered Lord Dalton, smacking the underclassman dizzy. Composing himself, he continued, “it’s hardly the place for such informal speech. We’re not in a dockyard. Show some respect.”

“Of course, sir,” said the underclassman, swaying slightly. “I did not mean to cause offense. I feel that perhaps I’ve been misunderstood, however, as I only meant to observe… in my deployment of the term ‘bloody…’ that on the ground before us… is a lot of blood.”

“Oh!” said Lord Dalton, with a sudden look of surprise and concern, recognizing in full the error on his part. His posture stiffened. “And so there is. Well observed, young man!” he said, giving the underclassman a hearty slap on the back, a gesture understood by all to convey the fullness of his apology.

“Thank you sir,” said the underclassman, still a bit dazed. He endeavored to walk away, but instead walked in a tight circle a few times before stopping. Thomas Whyckenham, standing beside us, returned the discussion to the matter at hand.

“What on earth could be the meaning of this savagery?” said he.

“I’d be right curious to know, myself,” I said, narrowing my eyes. “What a frightfully unlucky thing.” I was about to step in for a closer look, but just then I felt a tap upon my arm. I turned around to see the summoning lad.

“The headmaster wishes to see you, sir,” said the summoning lad, whose task it was to summon us.

“Oh my,” I said. “Is there time for breakfast first, or would he prefer to see me right away?”

“Right away sir,” said the summoning lad, summoningly.

“Well then,” I said, beneath my breath. “That makes two unlucky chaps this morning…”

I arrived at the headmaster’s study roughly a quarter-hour hence, after a quick change of the clothes and a second shine of the shoes. After about a half-an-hour, I was permitted to enter his study, but knew to stand in the doorway in silence, and wait until spoken to. The headmaster was consumed with something he was reading. It appeared to be the morning paper, which would have been delivered to him earlier by the paperboy, whose job it was to collect copies of the newspaper from the town’s paper-man, and deliver them to the headmaster, the various midmasters, and the undermasters.

I could already tell he was in a foul mood, but who could blame him? Though the year was 1919, and dozens of recent school alumni had perished in the Gallipoli campaign alone (chasing cowardly Australians onto the battlefield, you understand), it was considerably rarer to have such an act of violence take place on the tranquil grounds of our very campus.

“Rubbish… vulgarity… salaciousness…” he muttered, as he looked over the page. “What next, do we give the vote to cats? To llamas? Preposterous, all of it.”

I could briefly make out the word “suffragette” on the paper in his hand, but I must confess that I wasn’t sure what he was on about. I was a bit out of touch with the most recent news, occupied as I was with the upperclassman’s usual mix of studying, sporting, and the oral consumption of alcohol. Rather than trying and failing to comment on matters political, I decided that, when the time came, I would stay focused on the matter at hand. Although, I asked myself, what WAS said matter? Had he called me to his study because he thought I knew the chap? Because he thought me to be one of the better students, and could perhaps lend a hand in unraveling the mystery? Or… did he perhaps suspect me of some involvement, as absurd as such a thing would be? It was hard to say why he wanted to see me, especially given that, though I couldn’t prove it, I’d always harbored a private suspicion that the man didn’t quite like me. Just then, he looked up.

“Now let’s get one thing clear,” said the headmaster, snapping his newspaper shut. “I don’t like you.”

“My goodness…” I said, englishly, “I had no idea.”

“Quiet!” he continued. “I don’t like you, and I never have. You’re an ill-behaved, poorly dressed, underperforming swine. A detriment to our school in all respects. Nevertheless, you did show… a certain kind of initiative, in the previous term, when you solved The Case of the Missing Billfold.” (EDITOR’S NOTE: See Chapter 17 of this volume).

“Ah, thank you sir.”

“Quiet!” he said. “I feel… that we might benefit from that kind of initiative now. Though we will be permitting a representative of The Scotland Yard to visit the campus, and conduct the necessary inquiries, I’d like you to poke around yourself, and see what you can find. After all, having spent the better part of your life here, you’ll likely have known whomever turns out to have been responsible. The Yardsman won’t, of course, and will find himself a stranger in a strange land.”

“I see, sir,” I said, seeingly. “Very good.”

“Quiet!” he said. “You shouldn’t be thinking of this as some kind of reward, or adventure. You should simply find the student responsible, as quickly as possible, so that he can be dealt with.”

“Very well, sir,” I said. “I will.”

“Good,” he said. “Now leave.” I nodded politely and exited the room.

“Thank you sir,” I said, as I shut the door.

“Quiet!” I believe I heard him say, muffled as it was through the oak.

I left the administrative hall and found myself perambulating the quadrangle. To my left were the classroom halls, the recreational halls, the eating halls. To my right were the dormitories. Ahead of me was the chapel. Ordinarily I’d have made a line-o’-the-bee for the breakfast hall, but unfortunately I’d already missed my opportunity to eat, given that my meeting with the headmaster had run long. My fellow coursemates would already be in their lessons by now, so there was no point in returning to the dormitories. So I decided to go to the chapel for a bit. It was a good place to sit and think, and I most assuredly had some thinking to do.

I entered the sacred space, and beseated myself in the first pew. I recited, silently to myself, the Lord’s Prayer, the Nicene Creed, and the secret prayer taught only to the landowning aristocracy. I then sat in quiet contemplation, and formulated my plan. In the previous term (“semester” for my American readers), I had brilliantly solved The Case of the Missing Billfold. I had not, however, done so by myself. In point of fact, I had assembled a team of my fellow students to help me. We had called ourselves ‘The Detecting Club,’ and had met every evening, in the time between study hour and aperitifs, in a disused classroom in the attic of Edmondson Hall. Over the space of a week, we’d developed theories, gathered evidence, and collected testimonies (and then determined which ones to disregard, according to the social standing of the individuals who’d provided them). And then, when all was said and done, we’d provided the school with our findings as to who had taken the billfold (he is currently six months into his twenty-and-one-year sentence, but I am told that he is appealing his case, as is his right under English law). We were feted as conquering heroes, and I must confess, it was one of my better experiences in my time here. I was just the tiniest bit excited to reconvene our group and, perchance, to duplicate that same success.

I stood up, and buttoned my coat, knowing exactly what to do next. I exited the chapel and walked directly to the campus postal office, where I paid the inscription lad twelve pence to inscribe four formal invitations to my four trusted colleagues, inviting them to join me that evening in Edmondson Hall. I did not describe the nature of our meeting, but trusted that they would be quick enough to guess my intent (a student, you’ll recall, had been brutally slain and vivisected that very morning).

I paid four pence for each to be delivered, and smiled as I imagined our congress that evening.

Edmondson Hall was a queer place, with a queer history. There had only been three significant fires in the school’s history, but all three had taken place in Edmondson Hall, which had fully burned down on each occasion. Each time, the building had been lovingly restored as closely as possible to its former glory, and then its wooden surfaces had been subjected to an artificial aging process, which involved turpentine, ethyl alcohol, and fire (the dangerous and combustible nature of this aging process was, in fact, the cause of the second of these three fires, an irony which had elicited great amusement from the student body, after the requisite mourning period for those lost in the blaze).

I arrived a few minutes before the others were due, and arranged the tables in a rectangulan formation as I waited. I was excited to study the circumstances of a crime with my old compatriots again. I found myself wondering if a wallet-theft and a slaying were incompatibly different in their complexity, but persuaded myself that they were likely not. Regardless, I had some of the school’s finest minds joining me: the afore-mentioned Thomas Whyckenham, of the prestigious Whyckenham family, whose ancestors had attended this school as far back as the previous century; Cornelius Bellingbrim, of the even more prestigious Bellingbrim family, whose ancestors had attended this school as far back as four centuries prior; Royston Rumplesriffle, of the celebrated Rumplesriffle family, whose ancestors had attended this school as far back as the Norman conquest; and David Ford, an American, whose father owned a series of shops.

Just then I heard a sound, and the door was flung open.

“I say, old Reggie,” said Thomas, as he entered the room, “you are a man of pleasant surprises.”

“Indeed I am,” I said, pleasant-surprisingly, embracing him in the English fashion with a clap on the shoulder and a stiff shake of the hands. “It’s good to reconvene! This will be fun. Even if the circumstances are… less that apt.”

“Indeed,” said Thomas, exhaling laboredly, and furrowing his brow.

“Indeed indeed…” said I, mirroring his expression and somber tone. We stood in respectful silence for a moment, until the door beopen’d itself again.

“What, ho!” exclaimed Cornelius, as he, too, entered the room. “What a marvelous surprise. The Detecting Club is at it again!”

“Indeed we are,” I said, dispensing the same warm greeting I’d given Whyckenham not a moment before. “What a rioutous romp we’ll have dissecting this foul crime!”

“Indeed indeed, indubitably indeed!” exclaimed he, as he clapped me on the shoulder and I returned the gesture. But then his joy turned cold, and he let out a long breath. “I should only hope… with the Lord’s blessing… that we will shine the light of truth upon this vile, beastial act.”

We bowed our heads in quiet agreement. But yet again, the door opened.

“Detecting Club! Good eve!” ejaculated Royston, as he, too, made ingress into the space.

“Marvelous to see you!” said I, as Thomas and Cornelius bombarded him with facsimilous salutations. “We’re enraptured at the opportunity to ply our trade again!”

“Indeed!” said he, “I’m simply overjoyed!”

“Truly!” said I.

“But also quite sad,” he said, allowing his face to fall. We reciprocated, somberly, and another moment of solemn silence befell the room. But just then, David Ford entered.

“Reginald, Thomas, Royston, Cornelius, I’m glad to see you,” he said.

I stiffened slightly as he approached. David had only come to our school — and indeed, to England itself — at the start of the previous year, and I found myself fearful of yet another vulgar and overly-familiar American greeting. But it proved to be for naught: he had finally, after all this time, learned how to properly deploy the clap-and-shake.

“Very good to see you, David,” I said, as we each took turns with handshakes and shoulderclaps. “Please, let’s be seated, and I’ll tell you what this is all about.”

Everyone took a seat around the table (their order determined, in an unspoken manner, by their place in the line of succession to the crown). I walked to the chalkingboard, and meticulously, calligraphaciously, etched out the word “MURTHER.” Cornelius gasped.

“Indeed,” I said. “It’s not a pretty word, but it’s not a pretty crime. We have been tasked by the headmaster to solve it. A representative of The Scotland Yard will be here tomorrow, making an attempt of his own, and I believe it is the headmaster’s wish that we should, shall we say, beat him to the punch. Thereby restoring honor to the school.”

“I see,” said Thomas.

“I say we do our best to do so,” I said. “Now, without any supplemental ado, let’s begin with the facts. What do we know for certain, at this time? Speak up if you know.” After a pregnant moment, Cornelius spoke up.

“It was almost certainly not an accident,” said he.

“VERY good,” I said, writing his theory upon the chalkingboard.

“It was therefore almost certainly deliberate,” said Royston.

“Brilliant,” I said, adding his theory as well.

“One might even assume someone wished him dead,” said Thomas.

“That’s a cracking good insight,” said I, excitedly, though struggling to keep up with my inscriptions. (I reverted to a less formal script, with the intention of rewriting my notes properly, at a later time, when the conversation reached a lull). “But now here is my question for you…”

“Yes,” said Thomas, as he and the others awaited my further query with bated breath.

“WHY… might someone want to kill the young Lord Moore?” A hush fell over the room, and I saw that I had stumped them. After a moment, Cornelius spoke up.

“Not the most stellar pupil… all respect to the dead, and all.”

“That’s true,” I said, truthily, “though why would another student concern himself with that?”

“He was also a bit of a rambunctious sort. Known for pranks, and occasionally japes,” said Royston.

“I believe that’s true as well,” I said.

“Not of the mean-spirited nature, though,” said Thomas, interjectily. “Not a bully, just a bit of an imp.”

“Perhaps, then, someone… did not care for the pranks or japes,” I said. “Or other such assorted impery.”

“Perhaps not,” said Cornelius.

“Is there anyone,” I said, “who took a particular distaste to the young Lord’s disposition?” My colleagues were quiet for a moment, but then the American spoke up.

“You know, it might be nothing…” said David. “But the breakfast matron positively loathed him.” We all turned and looked at him.

“Is that so?” I said. “What leads you to this conclusion?”

“Not more than two weeks ago, in the breakfast hall,” he said, “she grabbed him by the neck and screamed that she loathed him.”

“My goodness,” I said, letting my chalking hand fall to my side, in a gesture of intellectual contrition.

“But surely the breakfast matron could not be responsible for a slaying?” said Cornelius, with a slight flash of bewilderment, even angerment.

“Goodness no, impossible!” said Thomas, heatedly. “She works night and day to feed us, doing the work herself of butchering hogs, butchering chickens, butchering horses to feed to the cows, which she then also butchers.”

“Yes, exactly!” said Royston, peevishly. “And all she asks in return is flawless etiquette from each of us at every step. It’s a preposterous theory. Not to speak out of turn, but you should relinquish your holdings and take up the cloth.”

“Now wait,” I said. “Let’s game this out for a moment. Just to satisfy our individual and collective curiosities.”

“All right,” said Cornelius, crossing his arms, thereby boldly asserting his discomfort with the proceedings.

“What else do you know of this episode, the other day?”

“Well…” said David, “my understanding is that he had a habit of arriving at the breakfast hall early. TOO early, in fact.”

“Interesting,” said I, nodding my head, with interest.

“And she, for her part, had a habit of yelling at him that breakfast does not begin… what was it… oh right, until the second cluck of the hen.” (EDITOR’S NOTE: “the second cluck of the hen,” while once widely-used, is a now somewhat outdated English expression for “7:45 in the morning.”)

“You know… I do believe I bore witness to that, one time,” said Cornelius, seemingly conceding, however slightly, the possibility that the breakfast matron might have harbored a grudge. But then, his pallor turned to ash. He put his hand over his mouth.

“Cornelius, are you all right?” I inquired.

“B… D… B…” he said, looking straight at me. I realized at once what he meant.

“B… D… B…” I said. “You saw it too.”

“Yes,” he said. We stared at each other for a long moment.

“I’m sorry, what on earth does that mean?” said Thomas, notknowingly.

“B… D… B…,” I said, turning to look at Thomas. “Breakfast… doesn’t… begin…”

“There were a series of letters bescrawled upon him,” said Cornelius. “I thought nothing of it at the time, but those letters COULD stand for that oft-spoken phrase of hers. Breakfast doesn’t begin.”

“Vulgar… preposterous… I can’t believe it,” said Royston.

But I began to pace about the room.

“So Lord Moore…” I mused aloud, “was often offensively early to breakfast… arriving there on his FEET… in the hopes of putting food in his HANDS… I’m sorry, what was the other thing the breakfast matron often said, when she found herself in a state of peevery?”

“Um…” said Cornelius.

“Hmmm…” said Thomas.

“Oh!” said David. “I think I know.”

“Very well,” I said, “what is it?”

“I’ll split you in twain, you filthy swine.”

“Ah!” I said, “yes, that sounds familiar.”

“Such a colorful way of speaking she has,” said Thomas, chuckling. “I’ll miss this funny place.”

“Indeed, I as well,” I said, smiling. “But if we’re to follow this theory… Lord Moore showed up early one time too many… and she deprived him of his offending feet, and offending hands.”

“All right,” said Cornelius, with a certain amount of skepticism.

“And made good on her frequent colorful and, clearly, jesting threat to split him in half,” I said. “And inscrawled upon his person the first half of her other well-known saying…”

“Before, perhaps, being startled, and running off,” said David.

“Frightful to imagine,” I said. “But there might be truth to this yet.” I nodded in acknowledgement of his contribution. We sat in silence for a moment.

“Well, I’m sorry, I’m just not seeing it,” said Cornelius.

“Nor I,” said Thomas.

“I, for one, am leaving myself undecided,” said Royston, like King Solomon himself.

“Well that,” I said, “is how we ought all approach this puzzle. Let’s visit the breakfast hall tomorrow, with an open mind, and see what we can uncover. Shall we say… 7:45?”

“That sounds agreeable,” said Cornelius.

“Yes,” said Thomas.

“But not a moment before,” said David, with a grin. We stared at him, bewildered, until one by one, we recognized his jest. And descended into a calamitous spell of laughing.

David and I arrived at the breakfast hall at precisely 7:45. The others had not turned up yet, so we decided to make an attempt at locating the breakfast matron. Yet when we looked, she was nowhere to be found.

“Well that’s peculiar,” said I.

“That it is,” said David, agreeingly. “And neither is her scone sabre.” I looked up and saw that he was right! Her giant scone-blade, used in the preparation of her celebrated scones, was missing from its usual hanging-place on the wall above the hearth.

“Perhaps she absconded with it, in the aftermath of the crime,” I whispered, surprised at how persuasive David’s silly theory had become. Mortified as I was at the possibility of our very breakfast matron having killed one of us, I was even more animated at the idea of solving this perplexing riddle!

“Perhaps so,” he said. “And hid it somewhere, to give herself time to clean it.” I was about to agree with him, but just then, the shape of a man darkened the door. We turned to see an unfamiliar fellow, but one whose identity was nevertheless entirely clear: by his telltale hat, cape, monocle, and riding crop, we recognized him immediately as a representative of The Scotland Yard.

“Reginald Sneden, I presume.”

“Why yes,” I said, approaching him and offering a handshake. “You must be The Yardsman.”

“Indeed I am,” he said, as we shook hands, forgoing the shoulderclap’ry that might otherwise have accompanied a less formal, and less somber, introduction. “I see you’re investigating the possibility of breakfast-matronly involvement as well.”

“Well,” I said, reluctant to give too much away, “we could just as easily have gotten lost on the way to the breakfast area, and found ourselves by accident in her pantry. Who’s to say we don’t suspect someone else entirely?”

I saw a competitive flash in The Yardsman’s eye as I spoke, and the slightest of grins expand across his lips, and recognized, perhaps, a worthy adversary to be had in this fellow.

“Well isn’t that interesting,” he said. “But you seem like a clever young man. Are you certain you aren’t intrigued by the possibility?”

“Well…” I said, swaying along with his rhetorical dance, “I suppose that’s an interesting idea. That an individual with ready access to cartoonishly enormous knives, with a known and bombastic distaste for the beslain student in question, might in fact be the one responsible?”

“It’s a very good theory,” he said.

“Thank you,” I replied, thankingly.

“There’s just one problem with it,” he said. I felt my face fall just the tiniest tad.

“And what would that be?” I inquired, inquiringly.

“She’s been incapacitated with scarlet rubella for the last ten days. She hasn’t been on campus in over a week.”

“Ah…” I said. And upon further reflection I realized that, often missing breakfast due to oversleepery, I had not actually seen her in more than a month.

“Yes,” he said. He looked at me with a slight smile, and perhaps a touch of mockery.

“Well,” I said, with an imperceptible flash of irritation. “That would be one theory off the table, had we ever even held it.”

“Indeed.”

“And one theory closer to the truth.”

“Of course,” he said. “Well, if you’ll excuse me, I have more interviews to conduct. Best of luck in your own investigation. The Scotland Yard is always delighted to work in parallel with plucky children. I look forward to our meeting again.”

It shouldn’t have, but something in his tone found its way under my skin, and I responded with just a pinch more rhetorical salt than I intended.

“And I as well!” I bellowed. “I look forward to applying my superior education to the task before me, and humiliating you in front of your colleagues, your king, and your god!”

The Yardsman did not respond, but simply smiled, nodded, and exited the room.

“Well that may have been a bit much,” I said.

“Yes… it’s difficult to know,” said David, who eyed me suspiciously, but I suspected that he agreed. Just then, the others arrived.

“What happened?” inquired Cornelius.

“The matron is most likely innocent,” said I. “She’s been out with the ‘bella, and convalescing at home for the last week.”

“Ah, I see,” said Cornelius. “I’m relieved to hear that. I was almost beginning to believe your cockamamie theory, Ford!”

“Well,” said David, humbly, “it was only a theory.” I could see that Cornelius’ words had wounded his American pride, though.

“Okay then,” I said. “Let’s reconvene for a quick session during the lunching hour.”

“Very well,” said Royston. The others seemed to agree as well. We went into the next room for breakfast, and ate separately, in silence, in the English manner, but I caught David on my way out-of-doors, and asked if he’d like to walk with me to our first class (we both had Greek together in Planer Hall). We seemed to both be of a mind to save the detecting work for later, however, and spoke instead of other matters (brisk weather, the strength of our morning tea). But just then we happened upon Lord Dalton, himself making his way to class, but at another corner of the quadrangle, in Ryan Hall.

“I say, Reggie, have you found the killer yet?”

“I’m afraid not, old chap!” I said. “We thought we had a starting point, but it appears we don’t.”

“Buggery,” he said, shaking his head. “Damnable buggery. Well, chin up! You’ll find him for sure!”

“Indeed we shall!” I exclaimed. “Best of luck with your coursework today!”

“And you as well sir!”

“Toodle-oo!”

I could see that David had watched us closely during our exchange, no doubt marveling at our studied English politesse (I can only imagine how revoltingly such an interaction would have unfolded in America).

I arrived at Edmondson Hall as early in the lunching hour as I could. I’d made a quick stop at the lunching hall to grab a basket of sandwiches (it was sandwich day, in honor of our most celebrated alumnus, The Earl of Sandwich), and I worried that I was running late. But as I reached the top floor of Edmondson, I saw with some relief that Cornelius and Thomas were just arriving as well, with Royston but a hall-length behind me. As I entered the classroom however, I realized that David had beaten all of us there, and was already seated, deep in thought. I wondered what about…

“David,” I said, as I laid out the ceremonial sandwiches, “you seem to be lost in thought.”

“Yes,” he replied, thought-lossingly. “I may have another theory.”

“Oh?”

“But I’m reluctant to speak it aloud.”

“Well, why-for-ever would that be?” I inquired, first in seriousness, then in jest. “Would it awaken a curse?” I grinned as I said it, and the others laughed uproariously. Royston, who was just entering the room, had to brace himself against the doorframe, as he waited for the convulsions to pass. But David did not seem deterred.

“No,” he said, with a look of solemnity rarely seen in a man of the colonies. “I’m reluctant because it concerns one of your friends.”

Whatever mirth had visited us in that moment vanished in the air. We stared at him with profound concern.

“Really,” I said, debating for a moment whether to throttle him, but then remembering the seriousness of our charge.

“Yes, really,” said David.

“Well, out with it, then.”

David looked me squarely in the eye.

“Buggery,” he said, measuring every syllable. “Damnable buggery.”

“I’m sorry, what?”

“B… D… B…”

“Oh my holy Lord,” I said, recognizing at once the connection he’d drawn, between the murderer’s hideous flesh-message and Lord Dalton’s favorite colloquial saying.

“By the passion of Christ…” said Cornelius. But Thomas was not entertaining this folly.

“No, impossible, offensive, vomitatious,” said Thomas. “Lord Dalton might have a fiery spirit, but he’s one of the finest individuals at this school. Impeccable character, and he doesn’t hate anyone. Except for the Germans, and homosexuals.”

“Exactly right,” said Royston, agreeingly. But then his face fell. “However…”

“What?” I said.

“About Lord Moore…” he said. “There was a certain degree of scuttlebut last week that he and another student were… fancy.”

“Oh,” I said, with concern.

“And not just lightly or situationally fancy, but… habitually so.”

“Oh,” I said, with a concern somewhat graver. And I realized, upon reflection, that Lord Dalton was unusually contemptuous of fanciness. As was the stated policy of the school, of course, and indeed the kingdom that had sired us. But there always was, shall we say, a bit of a duplicate standard where fanciness was concerned. For two lads to fall in LOVE was sinful, weak, disgusting, continental, all the things that an Englishman strove to avoid. However, at an all-male schooling institution (as with the army, and especially the navy), there was a certain expectation that, during the colder and more distant months, certain episodes of situational fanciness were, if not to be encouraged, then at least expected, and largely ignored. It was fairly common for two individuals to stave off loneliness and boredom with the occasional mutual tug (indeed, I’d made plans for a circular tug that very evening with another upperclassman and Lord Dalton himself). But there was a strict boundary between a fanciness that was situational or spontaneous, and a fanciness that was, let us say, something more. And it was a boundary that all students seemed to understand. Nevertheless, in learning this of Lord Moore, I felt a strange mix of emotions. Revulsion, yes, but also sympathy.

“My goodness,” said Cornelius.

“My gracious,” said Thomas.

“My Guinness,” said I, invoking Saint Guinness, the patron saint of fanciness.

“Well what on earth are we to do with that information?” inquired Royston.

“I’m not sure I fully know,” said I. “Perhaps we should ask around a bit, and determine if Lord Dalton was aware of these rumors.”

So we set out, with plans to reconvene that evening, following our afternoon classes, sporting obligations, supper, and studying. Royston and Cornelius would try to extract some information from Lord Dalton’s closest chums, Thomas would try to uncover the student with whom Lord Moore had had his fanciful (and potentially fateful) entanglement, and David and I would ask around about any disciplinary action that may have been doled out in the previous week by the student disciplinary committee (of which Lord Dalton was the Head Prefect).

I only hoped that The Yardsman wouldn’t beat us to the punch…

The evening bells rang out mournfully, to mourn the expiration of the day. I could see the chapel clocktower from our classroom window, peaking out above the treetops, the lone beheigthed structure in all the surrounding acres, representing in its very being the twin most cherished aspirations of our school: spiritual yearning, and punctuality. Just as the final bell rang, the door behind me opened, and my fellow detectives filed in.

“Good eve, Reggie,” said Royston.

“Good eve, Royston,” said I.

“Happy night, Reginald,” said Cornelius.

“Happy night to you as well,” I said.

“Marvelous eveningtide, old chum,” said Thomas.

“And a finest tide-of-the-evening to you,” said I.

David entered as well, but seemed yet again marooned in the wilds of thought, and said nothing to us as he made his way to his chair. We stood uncomfortably, waiting for him to acknowledge us (and to dispense the customary evening greetings, so that we could begin our meeting), but he seemed not to notice our discomfort. (I had long assumed that this was a trait both peculiar and particular to Americans, but had recently come to believe that this aloof and distracted characteristic might, in fact, be special to David). We stared at him in palpably escalating distress.

“Hrrrmmmph… mrrrrrphhh-rmmmmph-hmmmph!” rumbled Thomas, clearing his throat in a manner rather rude but, in this instance, necessary. David looked up.

“Oh I’m sorry, are you waiting for me?”

“Oh, no, no, no,” said Thomas.

“My goodness no!” exclaimed Cornelius.

“Frightful heavens, never!” erupted Royston.

“My dear David,” I said, “I would die a thousand deaths on a cross of my own limbs before I dreamt of such a thing. We were merely enjoying the calm of the dusk.”

“Oh…” said David. “Well… hello.” Each of us breathed a brontosaurian sigh of relief.

“Well hello to you too, dear David,” I said. “Let’s begin our meeting, shall we?”

Everyone seemed to agree. I thought it best to begin with the others, as I felt David and I had probably come across the most pertinent of the day’s informational morsels. So I asked Cornelius if he and Thomas would like to begin.

“Oh absolutely,” said Cornelius, who stood as I took my seat. “Well, we believe we uncovered some VERY enticing clues this afternoon, because our discussions with Lord Dalton’s friends confirmed what we had begun to suspect: that he was aware of the fancy-crimes, and intended to see Lord Moore punished for them.”

“Brilliant,” I said. “Fantastic detecting. Thomas, what were you able to uncover?” Thomas rose as Cornelius beseated himself.

“Well… I didn’t think it wise to ask around directly about Lord Moore and his companion,” said Thomas. “Owing, of course, to the code of nonsnitchery.”

I knew well the code to which Thomas referred. Though the disciplinary system was largely run by upperclassmen, those who were not themselves members of the disciplinary committee generally followed a code of tight-lippedness in regards to the infractions of others, as memorialized in the popular saying, ‘he who snitches be strung up by his breeches.’

“I see,” I said, seeingly. “Were you able to learn anything by other means?”

“Indeed I was,” said Thomas. “I dressed myself up in a costume resembling a boxwood shrub, and stood outside the dormitories, listening for any chatter on the topic of Lord Moore. Then I moved inside, and stood in the corner, as some sort of hallway shrub, I suppose, and listened closer still. Finally, I moved into one of the washrooms, and acted as though I were a washroom shrub, such as it were, and it was there that I heard a MOST interesting bit of gossip.”

“And what is that?” I asked.

“That Lord Moore’s partner-in-fanciness was none other than Lord Craig, who has vanished!”

“Well that is quite a revelation!” I said, revelatorily.

“That it is,” said Thomas.

The remainder of us were stunned, of course, as Lord Craig, a boy of our own age, and also in his final year, hardly seemed a candidate for fanciness. He was the captain of the cricketing team, tall as a Grecian stiltsman, and almost imposingly masculatory in his aspect. However, David and I were not as new to this news as the others suspected.

“Well…” I began, standing as Thomas returned to his seat, “David and I took a trip to the Beatings Hall this very afternoon, and in fact we heard a piece of that very story.”

“Incredible,” said Cornelius.

“However, we were not aware that he’d vanished, but it certainly makes sense,” I said. “Because what we learned was that a punishment HAD in fact taken place three days prior, for both Lord Moore and Lord Craig, and it was Dalton who was responsible for overseeing it.”

“And in further fact,” said David, “It was Dalton himself who swung the beatings bat.”

As the saying goes, the others were as quiet as mice, but as rapt as rats. All were coming to accept that Lords Dalton, Craig, and Moore unquestionably had a connection.

“But this is where accounts began to differ,” said I, taking over the story once again. “According to one member of the disciplinary committee, it was Dalton who raised his voice to Lord Craig. According to another, it was Craig who raised his voice to Dalton.”

“But regardless,” said David, “an argument ensued, and Lord Craig raised his hand, and struck Lord Dalton across the face!”

The other three let out a collective and very emphatic gasp. Cornelius looked for a moment as though he might faint.

“Inconceivable!” he cried.

“And Craig ran from the room,” said I, “as Dalton stood nursing his slapped cheek, and his bequestioned honor.”

“And as far as we know,” said David, “that’s the last anyone saw of Lord Craig.”

“Well there’s no denying it, we need to speak to Lord Dalton at once,” said Royston.

“He has the history with Lord Moore and Lord Craig, he clearly has the motivatious intent…” continued Cornelius.

“And as Head Prefect and Chairman of the Disciplinary Committee,” said Thomas, “he has ready access to all manner of terrifying medieval weaponry.”

“It’s settled then,” I said. “Let’s depart now, and split up, and whomsoever finds him first should bring him back here. We’ll reconvene in one hour, and commence the interrogation.”

“Fantastic,” said Cornelius.

“Momentous,” said Royston.

“Not so fast,” said an unfamiliar-yet-familiar voice.

We turned and looked in the direction of the door, which opened to reveal none other than The Yardsman, with Lord Dalton just beside him.

“One would wager you’re looking for this young man,” said The Yardsman.

“Why yes,” I said, dropping any further pretense of being on some alternate detecting trail from The Yardsman. “That is who we’re looking for. How generous of you to bring him by.”

“Oh it’s my pleasure,” said The Yardsman. “I had a chance to speak with him earlier, and having arrived at the presumption of his innocence, thought I’d do all parties the courtesy of preventing a second interrogation.”

“That is indeed courteous,” I said, clenching my teeth as a mild english rage grew within me. “Would you care to expound on HOW you arrived at this conclusion?”

“Of course,” said The Yardsman. “May I join you?”

“By all means,” I said, allmeaningly. And so we invited him in, and took our seats. As The Yardsman entered the room, and stepped into the light, I saw that he was in fact already dressed for bed, in his customary dark grey Yardsman’s nightshirt, nightcap, and nightcape. He must have been preparing for his evening’s repose as he realized that we would be seeking out Lord Dalton, and thought it best to intercept us. How he’d reached that conclusion, however, was another matter.

“Gentlemen,” said The Yardsman, “it came to my attention, in my investigation today, that the young Lord Dalton had a recent and very unpleasant history with the young Lords Moore and Craig.”

“How frightfully interesting,” I said, expertly masking my intended sarcasm.

The Yardsman seemed not to notice, and went on to tell us several things which we already knew. However, he explained further that Lord Dalton and Lord Craig had NOT left matters unresolved after the slappular events of that day. To the contrary, the following evening, at sundown, they had met for a pistol duel in a field on the edge of the campus grounds. In the interest of preserving their honor but also their lives, they had each fired their pistols straight into the air, as was the custom, repeating the endeavor until each had felled a migratory bird. After roughly forty five minutes of this exercise, they had each returned to campus with their honor, their friendship restored, and with a bird to present to the supper matron, for their supper the following night.

I listened closely to the sequence of events as The Yardsman described them, but found myself curious about one lingering detail.

“I find myself curious about one lingering detail,” I said.

“By all means, allow me to quell that curiosity,” said The Yardsman.

“Lord Craig has not been seen since two nights prior,” I said. “Where might he be found, if not here on campus?”

“Well that’s quite simple,” said The Yardsman. “He left campus that night, from the train depot in town. He was due back at home for a funeral. Having just repaired their friendship, he asked if Lord Dalton would drive him, and Lord Dalton agreed.”

This did seem plausible; upperclassmen were permitted to have motorcars, provided that they were only used for trips into town, and so long as one or more of the student’s ancestors had been granted a knighthood.

“It’s true,” said Lord Dalton. “His train was leaving at midnight, and he needed someone to ferry him to the train depot, so I obliged.”

“Lord Dalton provided me with the telephone code of Lord Craig’s family home, and I spoke with their butler for several minutes just now. That provides an alibi for Lord Craig, as well as Lord Dalton, whose motorcar does not travel nearly fast enough to have traversed the five miles back to campus before dawn.”

“It’s true, Reggie, I’d only been asleep for a few moments before I was awoken by that confounded waking lad,” said Lord Dalton. “Though I certainly understand and forgive your suspicion, as well as The Yardsman’s.”

“Of course,” I said, feeling somewhat sheepish. Just then, however, David spoke up.

“I have one question, Lord Dalton, if you don’t mind.”

“Please,” said Lord Dalton. “Ask away.” David looked him directly in the eye.

“Forgive my American ignorance, but if you had such a distaste for Lord Craig and Lord Moore, on account of the fancy-criminality to which they both had presumably confessed, how did you find yourself sufficiently comfortable with Lord Craig as to spend several hours with him in your ‘car?”

“Well that’s easy,” said Lord Dalton. “They say that time heals all wounds. Well, so do duels, and beatings. The purpose of these savage, corporal traditions is not revenge, or to provide emotionally unstable individuals the opportunity to rain abuse upon the weak under the guise of justice, but rather to cleanse the spirits of all involved. It would simply not be possible for me to still be angered with Lord Craig or Lord Moore, having already banished those ill feelings from our relationship through the vector of beatings. And the duel.”

“So I see,” said David, reclining once again in his chair.

“Well I think that about covers it,” said The Yardsman. “Lord Dalton, I think you had best return to your dormitory, and I to my quarters. Gentleman, you had probably better turn in for the night as well, tomorrow’s duration may well be a long one. I bid you a good evening.”

“And to you, sir,” said Royston.

“Yes, verily,” said Cornelius.

But I didn’t feel entirely satisfied. While the others gathered their belongings, I followed The Yardsman out into the hall.

“Oh, Yardsman,” I called after him. “I just have one further question.”

“Very well,” he said, turning around, his cape billowing in the air as he twirled.

“Despite our best efforts, you’ve been one step ahead of us at every turn,” I said. “Why?”

“Well that’s simple,” he said. “I’ve simply compiled a list of the questions I want answered, and I’ve walked around and I’ve asked. I’ve interviewed probably half the student body at this point. And without the supplemental obligation of attending school while doing so. Detecting isn’t so frightfully difficult, you know, it’s more a matter of persistence than anything else.”

“Ah…” I said.

“I’d say you’ve done rather well, under the circumstances,” he said. “I’m almost impressed.” I bristled as he said the last bit, though I did recognize and appreciate the english half-compliment nestled therein. Nevertheless, as I replied, I may yet again have let my irritation slip out around the edges.

“And I’d say you’ll only serve to humiliate yourself further by continuing down the wretched road of this folly,” I growled, “like an eyeless man in a sightless world stumbling through shit and wailing in the dark!”

“Perhaps so,” replied The Yardsman with a friendly wink, “though that has hardly been the case so far.” And with that, he went down the stairs and disappeared into the night.

We sat in silence, barely touching our breakfast, which I’d brought up to Edmondson in a basket from the breakfast hall. None of us had slumbered with any quality the night before, having been bested so thoroughly by The Yardsman. I could barely look at my own face as I’d shorn it that morn.

“What a wretched thing,” said Royston.

“That it is,” said Thomas. “The Dalton theory seemed so promising, and yet now again do we find ourselves standing at the primary square.”

“Yes,” I said, as I poked with my fork at what remained of my eggs benedict, pushing it hither and yon across my plate.

“Well you know,” said Cornelius, “we have found ourselves in this sort of spot before.”

“How so?” asked I.

“When we were solving The Case of the Missing Billfold,” he said.

“Well I suppose that’s true,” I said. “But there is no analogue here to our miraculous breakthrough there. The young Master Williams stole his own billfold from himself, it was the only explanation, but there’s no way Lord Moore could have committed a self-murder. Such a thing doesn’t exist! At least, not so messily and thoroughly as all that.”

“Well of course not,” said Cornelius, “but the point I’m making is that sometimes we must travel down false avenues of inquiry before the true one reveals itself.”

“That’s a fair point,” I said. “But where on earth does the true path of inquiry lie? If we don’t think of something, The Yardsman will beat us there for sure.” Thomas chuckled.

“Just imagine if the monarchs of old could see us now,” he said, “five lads of our educational caliber, bested by one lone Yardsman.”

“I’d rather prefer not to,” I said, rubbing my eyes. But suddenly David sat forward.

“The monarchs of old…”

“Yes David,” I said, sighing, “it’s an expression, referring to England’s previous kings and queens. We haven’t just had this current one, you know!” Everyone but David laughed.

“Right, yes, I understand,” said David, rolling his eyes in a manner most American. “But that expression, why does it sound so familiar?”

“I’m afraid you’re foxing up the wrong hound,” I replied, to further laughter, but in the hopes of perhaps introducing David to another of our cherished English idioms. David sat quietly for a moment, but then shot up.

“I’ve got it!” said David, darting out of his chair and beginning to pace about.

“Another theory?” I asked, askingly.

“Not necessarily,” he said, “but it could well lead us there. All right… did anything about this crime seem funny to you? Strange, I mean.”

“Well…” I said, “not especially. I mean except in its mildly exaggerated brutality, but ours is not a gentle world, dear David.”

“I agree,” said he, “but it’s not the first peculiar death to take place here, is it?”

“I mean I suppose not,” I replied, “we did lose roughly 5% of the student body to the Spaniard’s Flu last year.” And indeed, the expiration of young life was not terribly uncommon to begin with, as most of us had lost at least one sibling to childhood illnesses, or to suffocation by the family cat.

“Yes, but not that,” said David. “Think back, there HAVE been other unusual, violent deaths in the last couple of years.”

“Have there? I asked. “Could you refresh my memory?”

“The young Master Lazenby, do you remember? Found in the campus warehouse last year, with his head compressed by a fallen safe?”

“Go on…” I said.

“And the young Master Pierce, also last year,” said David. “Found decomposing in one of the hot water tanks.”

“Well I agree that those were unusual occurrences,” said Thomas, “but I’m not sure I see the connection.” David stopped pacing.

“What if those weren’t accidents?” he said, somberly. “What if those individuals did not simply die, but were killed?”

“My god,” said Royston.

“I never,” said Thomas.

David leaned over the table, looking at each of us in turn.

“And I would ask you further: what if those were killings… by one single person?” I heard several of us draw a quick, frightened breath. Royston became angry.

“I’m sorry, are you describing a sequential murderer? Like John the Rippingman? HERE? Do you know how non-sane you sound?”

“Think about it!” said David. “What makes more sense, three suspicious deaths in less than eighteen months, but caused by the same individual? Or three suspicious deaths which took place entirely on their own?”

We all sat in silence until David spoke again.

“And,” said David, “much though it pains me to say it, who was the first to arrive each time?” We sat quietly again, until I spoke.

“The groundsman,” I said.

“The groundsman,” David returned.

And he was right. The groundsman had been the first to arrive each time. Hat in hand, but with an odd gleam in his eye. ‘Gutt’d like a fish,’ he’d said of Lord Moore. ‘Squash’d like a bug,’ he’d said of Master Lazenby. ‘Boil’d like an eel,’ he’d said of Master Pierce. It certainly seemed an odd coincidence at best… and something less coincidental at worst…

“And does anyone remember what was said to be seen on Master Lazenby’s chest?” asked David. “In a manner not dissimilar to the message on Lord Moore’s?”

I had to struggle to remember, as I hadn’t seen it myself. In fact I didn’t imagine any of us had; I’d only heard the scuttlebut around the school. Cornelius spoke up before I could.

“Something about monarchs,” said Cornelius.

“Yes, monarch something,” said Thomas.

“I see now what jogged your memory,” I said, looking at David. David smiled, in a manner most Statesian.

“Indeed,” said David. “Funny how the mind works.”

“Oh!” said Royston. “Too many monarchs! T’was something to that effect!”

“Yes, that does sound right,” said Cornelius. “I didn’t see it myself, but I remember now hearing the gossip.”

“But what could it mean?” quandried Thomas.

“Well that’s where I’m afraid I’m stumped,” said David.

“Too many monarchs, said Thomas. “Is the killer an anti-monarchist?”

“If so, we have to stop him!” cried Royston, who was suddenly quite agitated.

“Well, we need to stop him regardless,” I said. “But I must say, I believe you’re grousing in the wrong glen.” Everyone turned and looked at me.

“Is that so?” asked Cornelius, incredulously.

“I believe so,” I said. “And I think David can help me. David, what is another kind of monarch?” A flash of irritation was visible in David’s eyes.

“Is this… is this a trick question?” asked David.

“No,” I said, “it isn’t.”

“Okay,” said David, sheepishly. “…a president?” We all exploded into paroxysms of laughter.

“No, no, my goodness no,” I said, struggling mightily to keep calm. “Good heavens, no.” David rolled his eyes.

“A pope?” asked David, even more embarrassed. The room erupted afresh. Royston looked like he might fall out of his chair.

“My god, man, no!” I wheezed. But then I did my best to restrain myself. “Think of another type of life, native to your own North America.” I watched his face as the revelation bloomed across it.

“Ohhhhhh,” said David. “I believe I know. The monarch butterfly.”

“Exactly,” I said. “And whom, on all the campus, is most enamored of butterflies?”

I could see at once that everyone knew the answer.

“The groundsman,” said David. And so it was. The groundsman was of course responsible for trimming the lawns, and minding the stables, and shaping the various topiaries in the campus gardens, but also taught a beloved introductory seminar in the field of entomology, required of all middleclassmen.

“But still, what does it mean?” asked Royston.

“Perhaps we’re not meant to know,” I said. “In any case, it’s enough of a lead that I think we ought follow through with it. There’s no need to dwell further. Besides, we’ll be late for our first classes if we tarry here any longer. David, what do you say you and I make a late arrival to our Greek lesson a little later this morning, and see if we can ask the groundsman a few questions?”

“That sounds good to me,” said David, with another American smile.

And so we all departed, with plans to reconvene over lunch, our stomachs to be filled no doubt with hunger, but also excitement for a crime besolved.

EDITOR’S NOTE: For the benefit of those who haven’t read them, The Bumbling Detective stories, in their structure, typically followed a simple series of beats: the crime was presented to The Bumbling Detective, a man of ancient aristocratic origins, and his manservant, Greeves, an industrious but coarsely-mannered member of the upper middle class. But in an unusual inversion of expectations, it was Greeves, as often as not, who had the sharper insights about the crime they were attempting to solve. He typically spotted clues before The Bumbling Detective did, and often made important connections before him as well. In the end, however, it was always The Bumbling Detective whose ruling class connections (and aristocratic insights into the human condition) allowed them to put the final piece into place and solve the crime.

Though his authorial treatment of Greeves is typically viewed by modern readers as patronizing and obnoxiously classist, it was considered quite radical for its time, even leading to the threat of newspaper boycotts when certain stories were published in two parts. Greeves was, simply put, a revolutionary character in English literature and, reading these early chapters of Lord Sneden’s memoir, one can very clearly see the person who inspired him: David Ford.

It sheds a very interesting light on both Lord Sneden’s clear fondness for his most enduring creation, as well as the respect he must have had for his real life friend (who accompanied him on several of the adventures recounted in this book, before perishing of dysentery in the Second World War).

David and I walked at a brisk pace, hoping that we could be in our seats before our Greek instructor had finished writing the day’s translation on the board. As our instructor was 97 years of age, this task often gobbled up the first twenty minutes of the lesson, so we were optimistic that we might succeed. Still, we’d have to have a clear sense of what we’d be asking the groundsman if we were to be there and back in that time. So we began to discuss our plan.

“So Reggie,” said David, “do you imagine we ought ask him directly about the butterflyvian inscription? Or work our way around to it?”

“That’s a good question, David,” I said. “I’m really not sure. How would we even bring it up without implying that we suspected his involvement in a separate, year-old perishing?”

“Ah…”.

“Yes…”

“Well,” said David, “perhaps we could ask him some leading questions about Lord Moore’s inscription. And then act as though we’d just thought of the connection right then.”

“That’s not a bad thought,” I said.

“Though I still wish I had even the first idea what Lord Moore’s inscription was supposed to convey,” said David, with a tone of frustration. “Do you?”

I stopped walking. David did too. I looked at him with a confident smile.

“I’m so very glad you asked.”

“Why Reggie you cheeky fellow,” said David. We began walking again.

“Well, cheekery aside, I do have a theory. Let me ask you, David, as you might have some insight from your own personal history… what is it that the lower classes value most of all?” David sighed and his smile dimmed just a bit.

“Reggie, we’ve been over this…”

“It’s not an insult, it’s an honest question.”

“But I am not — ”

“It’s really not important, you should just answer.”

“We have TWELVE DEPARTMENT STORES, one of them on Fifth Avenue!” yelled my exasperated friend.

“David, please, we’ll be having this conversation until the return of Christ,” I said. “And besides, what am I to make of these numbered streets, you might as well be describing a shop on the surface of the moon. Please, just answer the question. What do the lower classes value most?”

David let out a gigantic sigh.

“I don’t know…” he said. “Security.”

“No.”

“Advancement?”

“Closer…”

“Power?”

“No, that’s farther again, it’s actually quite simple,” I said. “What the lower classes value most of all is the good opinion of their betters. And what is it that so consistently wounds the pride of the groundsman?” David began to nod his head.

“When students misbehave in his class,” he said. “In a way that they never do with the real instructors.”

“Precisely,” I said, looking David square in the eye as we once again arrested our footfalls. “Boys… don’t… behave…”

“He said it a million times if he said it once.”

“B… D… B…” I said.

“B… D… B…” David returned.

We stared at each other for a long moment before reigniting our gait.

We arrived at the groundsman’s shack about ten minutes hence, after first stopping before a mirror to straighten our neckties and comb our hair. We approached the wobbly, ancient structure and turned the corner, expecting to see the groundsman sharpening his beloved lawncutting swords, only to find yet again that most unsurprising of surprises, The Yardsman.

“Ah! Young Sneden!” said The Yardsman.

“By Magdalene’s braids…” I said, beneath my breath.

“You’re just in time,” he said, “I was about to go looking for you. I hope you weren’t planning on questioning the groundsman, as I’m afraid he was tending to his sick child until well past midnight on the day in question. I’ve spoken with his wife and the town doctor as well. It simply could not have been him.”

“Bleeding, blistering hell,” I said, unable to fully contain my frustration. But The Yardsman didn’t even bother to spar with me this time.

“I’m afraid I have some bad news, Reginald,” said The Yardsman.

“Oh?” I said

“I’ve just learned that I have to return to Scotland. The royal kidnapping is taking up all of our resources, as it were, and I’ve been recalled to headquarters to assist.”

I shouldn’t have, but I knew of the investigation to which he referred: the Princess of Wales, Lindsey Buckingham, had either been kidnapped for ransom, or had decamped on her own to avoid having to marry a much older duke. In any case, it made sense that The Scotland Yard would be scrambling to resolve the question. The news was supposed to be kept under wraps, of course, and had so far avoided making its way into the press, but it had very successfully filtered out to the gossip networks of the upper classes, which is how I’d heard of it a few days prior (David had no clue as to what we were discussing, but I made a cerebral note to fill him in later).

“Well, I imagine I’ll be back in a few weeks to wrap things up here,” said The Yardsman. “But in the meantime, who knows, perhaps you’ll solve it yourself.”

“Ah…” I said. “Well wouldn’t that be a jolly surprise.”

“You’ve done good work, young Master Reginald,” said The Yardsman. “I’m glad to have met you. I do hope we’ll meet again.”

“And I as well,” I said, reaching to shake his hand and, to my astonishment, afford him a rather collegial shoulderclap.

“I was wondering…” said The Yardsman, “it’s come to my attention that there is a weekday chapel service tonight. Do you imagine I’d be welcome to attend?”

“But of course,” I said. “You need only secure the endorsement of a member of the school community. And as we are no longer adversaries, I would gladly provide you with mine.”

“That would be splendid,” said The Yardsman with a smile. I unrolled the roll of parchment I always kept in my breast pocket, and began inscribing a note of endorsement. David watched, most assuredly in awe of the splendor of our traditions.

The lunching bells came to rest outside our window, as Royston, Cornelius, Thomas and David filed in. I had purloined lunches from the lunching hall (pheasant), and laid them out for my compatriots on the table, but I could see from the looks on everyone’s faces that they were not hungry just yet.

“So where do we stand?” asked Cornelius.

“Well,” I said, “I’m sure you’ve surmised from the fact that he’s not wearing hand-bracelets that the groundsman is innocent. Or, rather, that no information establishing his guilt could be found. So we’ve once again looped around to the beginning of our detecting trajectory.”

“Oh, balls,” said Royston, with some annoyance.

“Furthermore,” I said, “The Yardsman is taking his leave of us, having been called back to his headquarters on account of another case. But he’s going to be here one more night… and this is what I’d like to propose: Between now and his departure, I would like to solve the crime. Do all of you feel the same way?” Cornelius was the first to answer.

“Absolutely,” said Cornelius.

“Positively,” said Thomas.

“Indubitably,” said Royston.

“Yes,” said David.

“Fantastic,” I said. “Let’s solve this mystery for once and for all. Who has a new theory? There must be something we’ve overlooked.” We sat in popelike silence for a moment, until Cornelius spoke up.

“There’s something that’s always troubled me,” he said. “Lord Dalton, on more than one occasion, has bragged about his motorcar’s terminal speed.”

“Has he now…” I said.

“And with regards to his trip to and from the train depot, I’m not sure The Yardsman’s maths quite work.”

“Interesting,” said Thomas.

“In fact,” said Cornelius, who then stood up and began walking out of the room. “Wait one moment!”

We sat and patiently waited for him to return, which he did presently, holding a large map, which he must have taken from the cartography classroom next door.

“Look at this cartograph, and then look at the distance between the depot and the school,” he said. “It’s five miles between the campus and the town, yes, but to the train depot it’s only three.”

“You’re right!” yelled Royston.

“And while motorcars of Lord Dalton’s vintage model only travel at one mile per hour,” said Cornelius, “I’ve heard Lord Dalton boast that his travels up to two-and-one-half miles.”

“Which would easily return him to campus by two of the clock!” said Thomas.

“You know,” said Royston, “I didn’t give it any mind at the time, but as I was out for a walk this morning, I saw a shorn segment of bedsheet hanging from the window of Lord Dalton’s bedchamber.”

“Incredible,” I said.

“Supposing that that might have once belonged to a longer bedsheet,” said Royston, “perhaps as one would use to escape a dormitory, in a sneaking manner?”

“I think that’s entirely likely,” I said. The group of us each adopted our own excited grin.

“Well do you know who I saw on campus today?” asked Thomas.

“No,” I said, “do tell.”

“The breakfast matron,” said Thomas. “Looking sprightly and healthy and not at all like someone who’d just been at the devil’s door with the ‘bella.”

“How vivaciously perspicacious!” yelled Cornelius.

“Yes, that is quite a thing to note,” said I. “I wonder if perhaps her scarlet rubella was nothing more than a ruse, by which to sneak onto campus and murder the young Lord Moore!”

“Perhaps we aren’t without suspects after all,” said Cornelius, as he smiled at me, smilingly.

“Perhaps not,” I said. “As it happens, I have one further thought about the groundsman, as well, but I’ll keep that to myself for the moment. I want to make sure I’m sure of it first.”

“Very well,” said Cornelius.

“Very well indeed,” said I.

And so we worked, industrious as the beaver, compiling all the supplemental clues we could, as the hours of the day began to wane, and ultimately expire.

On the way back from dinner, I stopped by my dormitory chamber, before preparing for the chapel service. I briefly looked at two telegrams (one substantive, the other not), and changed into my chapel attire, shaved, and combed my hair for the ninth time that day. I was about to walk in the direction of the chapel, but on a whim, I decided to make one further stop: the campus morgue.

I arrived, and found the two mortuary attendants making the final preparations for the young Lord Moore’s remains to be transported back to his ancestral village, Mooreston. I strode in and asked the head mortuary attendant (having read of detectives occasionally doing so in an American detective story) if I might have a quick look at the body.

“I’m sorry, young Master Sneden, that simply won’t be possible,” he said. “It’s entirely without precedent.”

“I know,” I said, “but it might aid the investigation into what caused his demise.”

“I understand that,” he said, “but it is against English law to disturb a body lying in state! The king himself decrees it!”

“I know,” I said, “but it’s terribly import — ”

“I simply cannot.” he said, growing frustrated.

“Yes but it — ” I returned, growing frustrated myself.

“It cannot be done!” he said, with increasing agitation.

“But it must be done!” I said, agitated myself.

“Please, young Master Sneden, do not ask agai — ”

“I INVOKE MY DIVINE RIGHT!” I bellowed, causing several doves to take flight. “Mortuary attendant, I ask that you stand aside, I hereby invoke my divine right as a member of the ruling class, and demand to examine the corpse!” He stared at me for a long moment.

“Very well,” he said, “I see that I have no choice. May god have mercy on my soul.”

“I will see that He does,” I said. “Now step aside please.” The mortuary attendant removed his own body from my path, and I leaned in to examine the young lord’s cropped and beslitted remains. And within moments, saw a heretofore undiscovered clue that immediately made clear to me which of our three suspects were innocent.

From my vantage point in the chapel, I could see everyone to whom I hoped to communicate my detecting theory: the groundsman, Lord Dalton, the breakfast matron, Royston, Cornelius, Thomas, and David. I could also see The Yardsman sitting near the rear of the chapel, and the Headmaster and Headmastress near the front, sitting in the thrones reserved for the king and queen, but usually occupied by heads of school. The priest was drawing the service to a close, and reached the part of his remarks for which I had waited that whole time.

“I now move to draw this churching service to a close,” he said. “If anyone has any reason that I should not, speak now, or forever hold your peace.”

“I SPEAK!” I roared. “And I demand a community trial, for the foul crime of murder. And I hereby accuse… the groundsman!”

Everyone gasped, but knew from English tradition that a trial demanded in church must be granted. Everyone shifted in their seats anxiously, as the priest removed his frock and cloaked himself in the vetements of a judge. The groundsman made his way nervously to the questioning box, and I walked up to meet him.

“Mr. Groundsman,” I began, using his formal title both as a sign of implied respect and also because I did not know his name. “Do you remember where you were at four of the clock, the morning Lord Moore’s body was discovered?”

“I do not, young Master Sneden,” he said. “For I was beslumbered.”

“And is that where you always are, at that hour?”

“Of course, Master Sneden, I ordinarily retire to bed quite early.”

“Well then tell me,” I said, “is this not an etching, of your own self, standing in the quadrangle, at the hour of the wolf?” I held up an etching which one of the more artistic students had created, many weeks prior, of the groundsman standing confused and half-asleep late one night on the campus grounds. He stared at it a long moment.

“Well… well it’s difficult for me to say,” he said.

“But do you deny being… a sleepwalker!” I yelled it at the top of my lungs. Everyone in the room gasped.

“I do not,” said the groundsman, with a look of terrible fright on his face, “though if this picture be accurate, I was not aware that I’d ever traveled so far from my home.”

“Then allow me to ask you sir, and let me remind you that you are being watched by your community, your god, and the soul of every departed English king… have you ever… gone to your pantry, in a state of sleepwalk’ry… for a snack?” Again, the groundsman seemed to harbor a terrible fright.

“I have,” said the groundsman, his voice quivering.

“And what is the most forbidden snack known to man?”

“I don’t know,” he said.

“Yes you do,” I said, my voice rising in both pitch and urgency.

“I swear that I do not.”

“Yes you do.”

“I do not!” he cried.

“You do!” I cried back.

“It can’t be so!”

“Can it be the flesh of a man?”

“It can’t be!” he yelled. But I yelled back just as yellingly.

“Mr. Groundsman! Answer me this moment, did you or did you not escape your home, in the intoxication of a sleepwalker’s haze, and travel to the campus grounds to slay Lord Moore and feast on his flesh?” The groundsman burst into tears.

“It’s true, it’s true, it has to be true!” he wailed. “I’ve no memory of it, but if the young master says I did it than it must be so!” He dissolved into a heap of writhing sobs. The assembled students and instructors clapped. I waited a moment before I continued to speak.

“Yes, that was what I thought as well,” I said, turning around to face the crowd. “Until! I invoked my divine right… to disobey English law in the service of truth… and disturbed the very corpse of the slain Lord Moore! And in doing so, came across the final clue, the clue that allows me to say that the murderer is not the groundsman at all, but is none other than…”

I waited a pregnant moment, purely for dramatic effect.

“The headmaster!” I screamed.

“What in Satan’s blazes!” the headmaster roared.

“Yes, I thought it unlikely at first too,” I said. “But the inscription on Lord Moore had a striking resemblance to the inscription on Lord Lazenby, who also fell prey to a death accident on these very grounds. I couldn’t precisely remember the wording of Lord Lazenby’s message. But it turned out that the mortuary attendant could. And contrary to what the students of this institution distorted it into, with a communal game of telegram, the message was not ‘the monarch butterflies are too plentiful,’ but rather, ‘there are entirely too many b’s.’ Referring not to the insects of the same name, but to scholastic marks.”

The entire student body let out a gigantic, cacophonous, polite English murmur.

“Which pairs very nicely with the message found on Lord Moore,” I said. “‘B… D… B…,’ it said on the front of the young departed Lord, and ‘these grades are entirely unsatisfactory’ on his back. A phrase spoke most often by the head of this very school!” Everyone turned and looked at the headmaster.

“Yes, that’s correct,” he said, sighing deeply and composing himself. “As with Lazenby and Pierce, I had grown weary of the young Lord Moore’s scholastic ineptitude, and resolved to remove him from the institutional bloodstream. I simply never dreamed that someone would spit in the face of god by looking for clues on the flesh of his person. It is clear that this was my mistake.”

He stood, and folded his coat, and spoke again in a booming voice.

“I bid you all good evening,” he said. “Yardsman, I would like to retire to my residence for the night, I will turn myself in to you first thing in the morning.”

“Very good sir,” said The Yardsman, rising as he did so, and bowing his head as the headmaster passed.

The students filed out quietly, with my compatriots of The Detecting Club excitedly patting me on the shoulder as they passed. I knew I’d be meeting them for champagne later, but I had more pressing matters to attend to just then. I saw The Yardsman waiting for me by the door, and walked over to speak to him.

“Superlative work,” he said. “It saves me the trouble of returning, but also gave me a chance to witness a sharp young detecting mind at work. Our kind always learns from the endeavors of others, you know. I’m grateful.”

“And I to you,” I said, shaking his hand and clapping his shoulder yet again. “I don’t imagine I could have solved it without the competitive quality of your parallel investigation.” The Yardsman smiled.

“Well, it’s a shame about the groundsman,” he said. “But unfortunately he did confess.” Behind him I could see the groundsman being led away by the policing lad, in hand-bracelets.

“Yes,” I said. “It is. But surely the recommendation of someone in high social standing could help him clear his name.”

“Oh of course,” he said, “it’s always worth a try. He should appeal to the headmaster, in fact. For his help in the matter.”

“That’s a capital idea,” I said.

“Confessed sequential murderer or no, he’s still a very important man.”

“Oh indeed,” I said.

“Well, I’d better be going,” said The Yardsman. “I bid you good night, and thank you. I do hope our paths cross again one day, Master Sneden.”

“Lord Sneden,” I said.

“I beg your pardon?” he said, a confusory look on his face.

“Lord Sneden,” I said, with a curl to my lip, and a renewed competitive energy rising within me. “I received a telegram just before coming to the chapel that my father suffered a stroke this morning.”

“Oh my,” he said.

“Making me Lord of Sneden Hall, and unquestionably your social better.”

“My goodness,” he said, his face falling. “That is terribly tragic.”

“It is.”

“What dour news.”

“It is certainly that.”

“I am very sorry,” he said.

“Yes,” I said, smiling.

THE END