The Story of the Dead

It has been eight years since my best friend passed away. Leaving the world at the mere age of twenty-two was indeed a bitter pill to swallow. But I guess it's always like this in our profession. I am Jasy Williams, and this is *The Story of the Dead.*

"What are you writing in your diary, Mommy?"

"Nothing, dear, just some fragments of my memories."

"Look at the clouds beneath us, Mommy; they are very dark."

"It seems it's going to rain soon."

"What if the lightning hits us?"

"No, dear, that's not going to happen. We are far above the clouds. If you’re scared, you may take a nap for a while. It will help you finish the journey with ease."

This grim day inexorably summons memories of another such day with my long-gone friend—a day quite similar in its nature.

As Harley and I approached our sixteenth year, our journey into the world of mysteries continued to shape our skills as budding detectives. We had spent years honing our deductive abilities and observing the intricate workings of criminal investigations. Harley was a man of contradictions. In moments of introspection, he wore silence like a cloak, his thoughts a private theater playing only for him. But the instant his mind found freedom from its own depths, he became a burst of boundless energy, diving headfirst into situations with a carefree, almost childlike enthusiasm that often led to chaos.

"Stop eating like a wild animal! Not here, at least," I said to Harley in an angry tone.

"Sorry for the trouble, but you know I can’t resist delicious food, especially from this restaurant."

"Honestly, where does all that food go? It’s like you have a black hole for a stomach!"

Before Harley could respond, our conversation was interrupted by a police constable who came running toward us, completely out of breath. It looked as though he had searched the entire city on foot before finally tracking us down.

"There you are! It wasn’t easy spotting two red-headed people in such a big city like London," said the constable, catching his breath.

"What’s the matter, officer?" I asked in a concerned yet curious way.

"Inspector Henderson sent me—there’s been a murder at a grand manor in the Hampstead area."

"What? Are you serious? Finally, a case this week!" Harley exclaimed with unimaginable excitement as he jumped up from the table, sending dishes clattering and food spilling everywhere.

"Excuse me, ma’am, but why does he seem so excited about a murder?" the constable asked, clearly puzzled.

"Don’t worry about it," I replied with a sigh. "He’s... a rare breed."

With the constable’s puzzled expression lingering, we made our way to the crime scene. The excitement that had taken hold of Harley now seemed to blend with a focused determination as we arrived at the grand manor in Hampstead. The situation, though grim, had already started to spark our curiosity.

"Ah! There you are!" said Inspector Henderson, clearly delighted.

"Long time no see, sir!" Harley exclaimed with his usual enthusiasm.

"But we just met about a week ago," replied Inspector Henderson, confused.

"Exactly! Can you believe it? Almost a week without a case! Phew, life really knows how to test your patience," Harley said, completely missing the inspector’s point.

Inspector Henderson blinked, realizing Harley had taken his words entirely the wrong way. "Strange kid," he muttered under his breath as Harley walked past him, blissfully unaware.

"Anyway," Henderson continued, shaking his head with a puzzled smile, "let me brief you about the case."

The victim was an aristocrat named Lord Oswald Fairbairn, with no family, who met his untimely demise in the confines of the manor’s kitchen. The victim was very tall, almost 6 feet 4 inches. The estimated time of death was 4:00 PM. The house was usually occupied by four people—the cook, the maid, the gardener, and the butler—all of whom had been assembled at the crime scene.

As the inspector enlightened us about the case, our eagerness grew.

"So, who shall do the honors?" Harley asked with a smile on his face.

"This time, I’ll let you start," I said, knowing all too well that he would have proceeded regardless of my permission.

The victim was in a red gown, wearing gray boots, with broken spectacles beside him. The police had deduced that the killer was a tall man, standing at 6 feet 4 inches. This conclusion was drawn from the angle of the cut on the victim’s neck and the size of the footprints discovered near the crime scene. The body was discovered by Inspector Henderson himself at 4:05 PM, as the victim was a friend of his and he had come to meet him while patrolling.

Harley’s calm demeanor reflected the growth and development he had undergone over the years. He possessed an unwavering resolve, a fiery determination to find the culprit—a clear sign of how much he valued justice and the kind of person he was. Harley began his investigation by carefully examining the lifeless body of the aristocrat. He observed the deep cut on the victim’s neck, analyzing the angle and depth of the wound.

"What’s the point of this? We’ve already determined that the murder weapon was a sharp knife. You’re just wasting time," sneered Sub-Inspector Jeremiah, his tone sharp and filled with jealousy.

"Stop it, Jeremiah!" snapped Inspector Henderson, his voice stern. Turning to us, he added, "I’m sorry about that. He’s still new and has a lot to learn. Please, carry on as you see fit."

Harley ignored Sub-Inspector Jeremiah and continued his investigation. His mind raced with thoughts and deductions, but he kept his findings to himself for the time being. Next, he turned to the footprints left at the crime scene. He carefully examined the prints through a magnifying glass, studying their size and shape. His gaze, like a relentless pendulum, swung back and forth along the length of the footprints.

After careful examination, the footprints too lost his interest. He got up and turned his head around as though he was in search of something.

"There it is!" he uttered and made his way to the dining area in the kitchen. There, he meticulously examined the chairs surrounding the table. One particular chair caught his attention—it was slightly damp.

"Ah, the final piece in the puzzle," he said, a satisfied smile spreading across his face.

Each time Harley finished investigating a particular area, I would quietly review it myself, piecing together the same trail of evidence. When Harley was ready to name the culprit, he asked, "Have you figured it out?"

"Indeed!" I replied with a smile.

"Are you ready then?"

"Absolutely!"

Both of us simultaneously declared the name of the killer: the maid.

"What? You think this meek girl could have killed Lord Oswald Fairbairn? Ridiculous!" shouted Sub-Inspector Jeremiah, his voice full of disbelief.

"Please go ahead and explain," Inspector Henderson said, intrigued.

"Of course, that’s why we’re here," Harley said with a calm smile. "But I’ll admit, I thought this case would give us a hard time, but it turned out to be quite straightforward. I’m surprised you couldn’t figure it out on your own."

Sub-Inspector Jeremiah clenched his fists in frustration. "You think it’s that simple?" he snapped, his voice tinged with irritation. "You really mock us like this?"

Harley looked at him innocently. "Not at all," he replied. "I didn’t mean to do that."

"You think I am a fool! This is intolerable!"

"That’s enough! Exercise caution with your words, for this young fellow here bears the lineage of one of the world’s most powerful and successful businessmen—Sir James Hartwell," said Inspector Henderson to the sub-inspector. "Please go on, Harley."

"Hey! You didn’t need to bring that up all of a sudden," said Harley with a modest smile. "Anyway, let’s begin! First, I examined the dead body. As I was examining it, I sensed the presence of a faint scent of ladies' perfume, leading to the conclusion that the killer might be a woman. That alone wasn’t enough to convince me; I needed to be sure, so I looked at the footprints carefully. I noticed that the print was faint in the region of the toe compared to the rear part, which means the pressure of the foot was concentrated in the center and the heel of the shoe. This shows that the foot was smaller in length than the shoe. I was sure now that the culprit was a woman.

"I also noticed that the footprints were not as muddy as they should have been, considering it had been raining all day. This must mean that the killer did not come from outside but rather was an insider. The only woman in the house is the maid."

"How did the maid manage to cut the neck in a straight line despite the fact that she is that short?" Inspector Henderson asked impatiently.

"Have patience, sir. I believe that the maid most likely stood on a chair, murdered the aristocrat, and then wiped off the footprints from the chair. I looked for lightweight chairs in the manor, as those would be easier to move, and could only find them in the dining area. I went to check the dining chairs in the kitchen, hoping the maid might have left some evidence behind. One of the chairs caught my attention—it was slightly wet. Fortunately, it hadn’t dried completely, revealing that the maid had used water to wipe away the footprints."

"Why didn’t she take the trouble to wipe off the footprints from the floor?" the inspector asked.

Harley answered, "She wanted to make us believe that the murderer was a man. She had to leave some clues that would lead us to this conclusion."

As Harley explained, I realized that his deductions and my deductions were completely alike.

"What’s the proof?" the maid asked.

"Seriously? You will still resist?" I said wearily. "Okay, if you want it this way. Sorry, Harley, but I am taking over from here!"

"That’s cheating!" said Harley, clearly agitated by me.

"I can’t hold myself back anymore!" I replied.

"Okay! Go ahead, but next time, I get to present the proof."

"Sure! Now then, the body was discovered soon after the murder, luckily by the inspector himself, as he was on patrol. He immediately assembled everyone in the kitchen. Due to this, there was no time to hide the evidence. As the boots, handkerchief, and knife used by the maid cannot be seen out here, she must have hidden them inside the cabinets or drawers of the kitchen during the little time she had. As the police didn’t find them there either, it must mean one thing: she still has the knife and the handkerchief with her, in her pockets. As for the boots, she made the dead body wear them. No one would suspect that those were the boots used by the culprit. It’s common sense! Why would a person wear such boots inside his manor?"

The maid was astonished to see this conclusion, as it was perfectly right. The police searched her pockets and found the knife and the handkerchief. Seeing this, she broke down and confessed to the crime. She admitted that she had killed him because he was a greedy man who had refused to provide her with money to treat her ailing mother, leading to her mother’s death. Consumed by grief and anger, she found enough motive to take his life. Following her confession, the police promptly arrested her and escorted her to the station.

With every word I spoke, Harley’s smile grew wider, for my deductions had aligned perfectly with his own.