The Gammy Arm of the Law?

Sitting at the large table in the opulently decorated dining room of Vocalswood Manor, I felt uncomfortable. Though the food was edible, I have had more comfortable meals at Her Majesty's Pleasure. I know people were looking at my arm. They always did. Even when they tried to pretend otherwise, their eyes would wander to the lifeless limb that was still attached to my healthy body.

"Army training exercise gone wrong", I would say to murmurs that quickly became silent. The silence was punctuated by Giles, yes, he was actually called Giles, piping up with some ridiculous comment, "That's why I got into investment banking like daddy, old chap!" What a dick. Fortunately, the scantily-clad maid who had been serving us drinks and meals throughout our time there was a welcome interruption. Even if she was clearly hired by our host, Max, for more than just waiting on guests hand and foot, I could see the allure. Attractive would be too simple a word to offer as an appropriate descriptor. She had a certain, je ne sais quo. Bloody French - can make not knowing something sound so romantic and poetic.

I was a gentleman, unlike Giles and Cedric, a lawyer, yes, really not making this shit up. They had set their male gaze firmly on the maid's attire and shapely, feminine curves. I was not the only one to take Umbridge with their approach to the poor girl; as a woman, I think she was a journalist of some description called Jemima Bottom, who tried to quiet their crudeness. You can only imagine how the upper-class twists responded to her chiding.

By all accounts, if the aim of our host Max by inviting us all here was to remind me that the most monied of society were arseholes, then he had excelled himself. Whoever he was. We exchanged quiet glances and nods across the table.

A couple of other people were dining, but they didn't really stand out. I am generally a great reader of others and very observant, but they still haven't registered firmly in my mind. You know the kind of people I mean, I'm sure. They helped make up the numbers but were redundant. At least they weren't like Giles and Cedric. Small mercies and all that.

I had planned to meet my friend, who I thought had invited me to this dusty old show of wealth, make small talk and find out what he wanted before making a hasty getaway.

However, his failure to show up and Max's unceremonious death put a real spanner in those works. Nothing like an unexplainable death to inconvenience me.

Just another Saturday night for Colonel Algernon Mustard. Yes, that's my actual name. Yes, it is a little like the pot calling the kettle black, making fun of the other guests' ridiculous names. Finished laughing? Good. Then, I will continue. The Colonel part always got the strangest of looks from people – my baby face convinces people I am too young for such a ranking; back to my point. Since my dishonourable discharge from military duties. The fact that high-profile deaths follow me around like a bad smell after a curry or can of beans has made that somewhat difficult.

As the one man with combat experience and uniform background, I had to deflect the attentions and suspicions of the other guests and become the ipso-facto leader of this disparate group of individuals. The storm that had begun as I arrived at Vocalswood Manor had ensured that we were all stuck in the Manor for more than just dinner, and the telephone was not working, so we had no means of contacting the relevant authorities. Bugger.

After poor Max met his maker, we all stood as the lights came back on. We looked at the body and then at one another. There was that all-too-familiar tension I remembered from days of old: distrust and suspicion mixed with panic and paranoia.

I asked the butler and maid if I could speak privately with them. Giles and Cedric, as expected, didn't like that, but as a man of rank, I was dutybound to bring a sense of order and calmness in light of the evening's shocking event. At a quiet corner of the room, I explained to the maid, Yvette White, and the butler, Wadsworth, that some ground rules needed to be established and that all guests should be kept in the dining room for the time being. Unless some unknown individual had managed to sneak into the Manor without anyone's knowledge, it is most likely that one of the guests is the killer.

Keeping Wadsworth and the voluptuous and saucy Yvette on the side was crucial. Yvette, bless her, seemed shaken up by the events. Even in her other life, I assumed, as a lady of the night, death was still enough to set her nerves alight with concern. To help ease her, I found some 20-year-old scotch from a drink cabinet and told her to knock a generous measure back. Pouring my own measure in the same glass and pressing the lipstick-stained rim to my lips, I winked at her as I knocked back the amber elixir.

Wadsworth had wandered over to the other guests, and Yvette whispered, "I know your secret, sir." I was a little surprised, but she was really playing into my well-laid plans—my arm. She had correctly deduced that there was nothing wrong with my arm when I had poured the Scotch. I smirked a little and commended her observational skills.

I put my gammy arm on her own and stroked her exposed flesh warmly. I asked if she could keep a secret and that it would be in her best interest. I told her I had been sent undercover to Vocalswood from Scotland Yard as my superiors had received intel that The Great Gambini, an Italian jewel thief, was looking to steal a priceless diamond necklace from the Manor.

My arm was part of my cover story, as I tended to go full Daniel Day-Lewis method actor when undercover. We then had a small discussion about his best roles. I said There Will Be Blood was, by and large, the pinnacle of his career, whereas she said she was particular to My Left Foot. "The things I'd do to that man naked with him painting with his big toe!" was a statement she made without blinking, blushing, or any hint of sarcasm.

I pressed my index finger to my lips. I asked if she had noted anything suspicious about the other guests before old Max kicked his diamond-encrusted bucket. Apparently, Giles was very interested in taking a thorough tour of the Manor when everyone else was curious about why we were all there.

Excellent work, honorary officer for Scotland Yard, I told her with a whisper and a wink. I thought I had detected a slight Milano accent in Gile's annoying Received Pronunciation-butchering of the English language. As we returned to the throng of people, I called attention to everyone. I told them to remain calm and then asked to speak privately with Giles. I led the pompous git into the study. Yes, that's right, the Manor even had a stereotypical study, with many walls of books that were probably never read. As I closed the door behind us, he started to speak, complaining about "what the big deal was taking him aside, of all people", before I used my gummy arm to smack him across his face, taking him by surprise. Another swift hit to the face had him on his arse. It's fair to say I had been looking forward to giving this man a piece of my mind and that I did in the form of precisely aimed kicks to his abdomen.

"Where is the bloody diamond necklace?" I shouted loudly so that any eavesdropper, for instance, Ms Bottom, would hear. He didn't respond. So, I called him a cad because when in posh stately home England, act as the locals and told him he was under arrest for the murder of Max Vocalswood and the attempted theft of priceless diamonds.

As I suspected, Jemima had heard the whole thing. I grabbed her gently and told her if she wanted the exclusive story, she should follow my lead and keep quiet until I had done the official police work.

There was a mini uproar when we returned to the dining room. Cedric, the poncey twat was making a fuss. I told him he should relax as the ordeal was almost over.

There was a hushed silence and lots of shocked faces explaining that it was Giles who distracted us all and killed Max to give him a chance to steal the diamond necklace. Until Cedric said, "Never did trust that chap – I mean, who trusts an investment banker these days?" This coming from a lawyer? Anyway, I told everyone that we would need to wait until the storm had cleared and my colleagues had arrived in the morning.

Yvette reached for my gammy arm, which was playing its part nicely again, and I told the guests they could go to the rooms that Wadsworth had kindly sorted for them to sleep in until the night. Yvette, well… she joined me for more Scotch in my room.

After a thrilling nightcap of Scotch and sexual congress, Yvette was putting her splendid pair of breasts back in hiding. (Don't you just hate it when you miss the best bits in a story? When they happen off-screen or off-page?) She asked me for some honesty as she didn't believe my story.

I laughed and paused momentarily before lauding the woman with more praise for her keen detective skills. "You killed Max, didn't you?" she asked as she leaned her bra-covered chest over me for a little kiss.

-

That would be impossible… wouldn't it?

Unless my arm was somehow easily dislocated on demand and reset just as quickly. The army training exercise gone wrong was not quite a lie.

During the drive up to Vocalswood Manor, I dislocated my shoulder to convince the others I was crippled. Then, after dinner, when Wadsworth, who was entirely in on the whole thing as you may have guessed if you have ever read a murder mystery before, cut the lights to catch a distraction, I reset my shoulder and quickly snuck over to Max. How did I kill him? I injected him with a specially-formulated toxin into his butt cheeks through his expensive slacks. It would be a while before anyone would even think to look there. I then dislocated my shoulder again and returned to my seat before the lights came on.

Why would I admit to all this? Well, ask yourself, Who is going to believe that story? For all you know, it's Giles, the snotty banker's word against mine, a war hero.

*

Thanks for reading!

Author's Notes: Finally does it - this is a response to the rather excellent Alexander McEvoy' You Are Cordially Invited murder-mystery-Clue challenge thing. I hope you enjoy it, Alex and anyone else reading. There are some references, that are not exactly hidden. This was a bit out my comfort zone tbh. So, it is what it is.

For reference:

"Gammy" is an informal British term that refers to a body part, usually a limb, that is injured, disabled, or lame. For example, you might describe a knee as "gammy" or in this case, arm. Though it was his shoulder, but you know what I was getting at.

Here: