As he charged down the road the
rapid beats of his heals clicked sonorously against the cold dark bricks that
lined the street. The curing twisting metal of the streetlights barely discernable
in the dense fog of the evening which held all light in small neat orbs above his
head. It was almost inevitable for such a day, one in which a murder would
actually supply an intellectual challenge rather than an ignorant truth. The
incompetence at Paddington Green was insufferable but at least it gave him a
decently good chance at taking over the casework. Young Mrs. Chadwick had
fallen ill, and her maid had discovered her unconscious on her bed, but when
she returned she reported slight changes in her room, changes aside from the
detail that she was now deceased, he thought to himself as he leaped up the
steps to the entrance of the estate knocking on the door.
“Paddington Green Yard” he said mustering
up a friendly voice for it was only a half lie, but no-one of a sane mind would
allow a seemingly erratic vigilante barge onto their private estate to examine
a corpse. Luckily a frail young maid opened the door to allow him entrance, her
eyes rimmed pink, her hair distraught and a small barely noticeable shake in
her left hand. “You are the one that found her.” He asked without truly asking,
his voice resonating like more of a statement. He took a second to look around
at the lavish and gaudy surroundings. Everything was lined with a vibrant gold,
marble was displayed in nearly every chance it could be and a sweet distant song
dancing along the keys of a pianoforte flowed into his head. However it was
rather unclear if that was simply his imagination and snapping back his
attention he looked at the maid whom looked down with a soft nod confirming his
hypothesis.
She lead him up the winding and
impressively stately staircase. She explained to him he was the first to ask
what she had noticed changed in the room. “Because, Miss I am the only one to
think this is a murder.” He said watching her smile once again fade to a grave
distortion of emotionless shock. “R-right.” She stuttered at his blunt
accusation that her lady had been murdered. “The glass on her nightstand was
full but empty upon my return, and the fruit from the bowl on her armoire was
also gone.” She explained as she signaled him to the door of a room on the
right.
Mr. Chadwick stood overly pensive at
the window as if deliberately pointing the attention of anyone who entered to
the area in which he stood. The blatant and distasteful aroma of coal gas
flooded the room, the initial inspection by the yard had been that the gas had poisoned
her in her sleep but yet the force found inconsistencies in such a theory that
they called upon me. Turning to face away from the evidently proud man at the
window who was clearly peacocking the fact he did it in such an arrogant
manner, yet his over acting and mask of tragedy was clearly enough to baffle
the investigators before me otherwise he would have been arrested long ago. He focused
on the pallid, grimacing corpse of Mrs. Chadwick, a small amount of a foam-like
substance had begun secreting out of her mouth that was tinged orange from the
iron in her blood, her lips and fingertips had faded all color and began taking
up a tint of blue, two strikes as it seemed one more and his guess could be
established, he lifted one eyelid to look at her eye. There staring back at him
was a feeble and scarred green eye whose pupil was so contracted a head of a
pin was deemed larger. Everything pointed to an overdose of a narcotic drug of
some type, but he wouldn’t be able to tell without an autopsy. He looked around
the room one more time before taking her pillow, which subsequently had a small
amount of dried emesis. He walked down the steps telling the maid to call the
Yard and bring her in for autopsy at once, nodding she ran off.
They needed more evidence before he
could make a claim as absurd as the ones running through his head. He removed
the emesis from the pillow, testing it for any narcotic he was able, finally
one hit and showed up with an absurdly high amount, opium. He ran over as
quickly as he found he was able to the room where they kept Mrs. Chadwick. She
had already been officially autopsied by the yard but he had to clarify his
suspicion, for opiates act as a depressant for the central nervous system, this
in turn slows the respiration and pulmonary system’s ability to function. The
result of this slowing causes fluid to gather in the lungs meaning then she
would have signs of drowning and profuse amounts of fluid in her lungs.
With his suspicions confirmed he
once again charged down the road, only now the fog had cleared. His rapid
footsteps resonated in his mind and synched to the beats of his heart. Upon entry
Mr. Chadwick protested it was coal gas once again without any accusation
leaving his lips. He simply smiled at him without any further wording and
watched as the Paddington Green seized him and took him away. He bowed to the
maid who had offered so much help, “Thank you for letting me find the real
cause of your lady’s death.” And with that he walked once more onto the brick
streets, only now he sat watching the sunrise from the window of a quaint and handsome
cab.
[This story was based upon the coal-gas case of 1801. Despite that being said this is in fact a creative interpretation and not 100% factual and was liquidated down to meet the limitations of a short story contest in which I proudly took first.] -TH
