Friday, June 30, 2017

Writing prompt story

Prompts:
-Central London, 1850s
-Lady Gaga
-Fake Blood
-Pair of broken glasses

The clouds billowed, angry and boding on a chilly day, either from the smokestacks or from impending rain; no one was sure which was which anymore. It lent a darkened lens to the carriage ride across Westminster Bridge, where the detective sat, listening to the clock’s tick of the horse’s hooves. The file resting on her lap, carefully purloined from the new Metropolitan Police for half a schilling, contained nothing more than a cursory inspection of the murder scene: blood, a pair of broken glasses, and just a finger to be found of the body.
The victim was believed to be Archibald Smith, a baker whose shop was placed right off Trafalgar Square. There was no sign of forced entry, and all windows were locked from the inside. There was only one way in or out of the room in which Mr. Smith was murdered, or so the report said; the detective would have to see for herself. She snorted, and her associate, John Radcliffe, broke his waking slumber.
“Something tickling you?” he sat back and pet his mustache.
“Only the continuous incompetencies of what we are supposed to believe is a ‘police force’, Radcliffe,” responded the detective, rolling her eyes at the folder. She held it out to Radcliffe. He took it. “Read the last sentence.”
He pushed up his glasses and sat straight.
“From the positioning of the finger on the floor of the crime scene, it is plain to see that whatever interloper made off with Mr. Smith was in an eastward direction towards Holborn-”
The Detective uttered a sudden cackle.
“Sorry Radcliffe, continue.”
“-as indicated by the positioning of the bifocals nearby, which were assuredly dislodged from Mr. Smith’s face in a struggle.”
Radcliffe pursed his lips and eyed the detective from over his glasses.
“I see your doubts as to the direction of flight, but for speculation based on little evidence, it is not incredulous.”
The detective smirked, conveying the usual sense of knowing far more than Radcliffe could. Radcliffe knew the smirk all too well, and he rolled his eyes.
“What do you know?”
She couldn’t hide behind a humble veneer, no matter how much she tried.
“Patience, Radcliffe. I’m sure the constable will be delighted to hear my take on the matter.”
The carriage rolled to bustling Trafalgar Square, filled with music, laughter, and the day’s toils of those wishing they had a pastry, and pulled in front of the bakery, where a bobby was stationed outside the building.
“That’s five schill, love,” said the driver.
“Thank you Radcliffe,” the detective said, leaving before Radcliffe could protest. He pulled out the money and paid the driver, and left the cab just in time to spot the detective power past the flummoxed officer.
“Wait, ma’am! You can’t-”
Radcliffe tapped the officer on the shoulder.
“She usually does. I think she was born this way,” and he strolled into the white brick building as well. Confection immediately filled Radcliffe up to the brim, and his stomach reminded him that he had to watch the baked goodies. The detective was dipping her finger into several of the treats left out and tasting each, though she took time to inspect the various tools left around the counter.
“Radcliffe, come, these are delectable. Beautiful, though slightly dirty given the time they’ve been out, for, 2 days? Still rich, however.”
“I will refrain, for the time being. Shall we proceed?”
The detective sighed.
“If you insist, Radcliffe, though I am in no hurry.”
They proceeded into the back room and up a set of stairs to the loft. A curious mixture of rancid meat and sugar stung the nostrils, and both the detective and Radcliffe covered their noses before entering the room.
“What the- what in the world is this? Who is this woman?” yelled Constable Twickens, bristling at the sight of two interlopers in his crime scene. The two other officers at his side were too shocked to speak.
“Not woman, Constable. Lady. Lady Gaga.”
Constable Twickens’ eyes went wide, and his beard turned a whiter shade of gray.
“Dear Lady, my apologies! I had no idea-”
“No apology is necessary in my honor, Constable, though I recommend you submit your apology to whomever appointed you as Constable. Excuse me.” She walked past Constable Twickens to the middle of the wood-paneled room. A pool of ruby spread out on the floor; a severed finger, grayed and cut finely from the hand, lay closer to the door, and a pair of bifocals lay even closer. Lady Gaga knelt down and bade Radcliffe to her side. He knelt beside her.
“What do you notice, Radcliffe, as a doctor?”
Radcliffe’s dark, shimmering eyes went from the finger to the blood.
“The blood’s still red.”
“Indeed.”
She went to her hands and knees and poked her nose as close to the pool as possible. Constable Twickens recoiled in disgust.
“What in the world are you on about, Lady?”
Lady Gaga dragged her finger through the pool and stood, holding the dripping finger out to Constable Twickens, who appeared ready to forgo meals for a week.
“What in the world!”
“It’s not blood, which you would know, Constable, if you had any notion of logic. In fact, it’s jam.” She shoved the finger in her mouth. “Mm. Strawberry. Convincing, yes, due to the relatively low viscosity. And Radcliffe, how does the severed finger look at its bone?”
Radcliffe pushed up his glasses and leaned towards the finger, holding his nose.
“Smooth cut, very few indentations. Cut directly in the joint between the intermediate phalange and the proximal phalange, from the looks of it. Also, it looks to be several days old, Lady.”
Twickens scoffed and pushed away from Lady Gaga.
“And so what, Lady? There are many knives here-“
“Serrated, yes.”
“-or the suspect could have brought his own!
Lady Gaga shrugged.
“That’s entirely possible. Not probable, mind you, but possible. But, what is truly disconcerting about your utter lack of awareness at this supposed ‘crime scene’ is the pair of glasses, my dear Constable.” She bent over and picked them up while pulling a magnifying glass from a pocket in her dress. “Not a single scuff or dent indicative of the glasses falling on this-” she stomped her foot, “hard floor. The thin metal wiring should have some sort of indenture, but there is nothing.”
She held out the glasses to him. The Constable crossed his arms over his belly and took a few steps towards her, grunting and fighting himself all the way. He took the glasses and peered at them.
“So what, Lady?” he grumbled. “This isn’t a murder scene?”
“No, Constable, this is not. I believe that Mr. Smith is very much alive, and I intend to find him.”
“So you believe he faked his own death? Why?”

“The fame. Perhaps,” she said, “but I believe there’s much more to this case than meets the eye. Come Radcliffe! The game is afoot.”

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