Dr Black is dead, again

The prompt for January was Cluedo. Here is Maria Coles take on it.

Away from the kitchen, Mrs White found herself sat upright in an over-stuffed chair in the corner of the manor house library. The chair with its curved wings offered little comfort to the scene around her. It was too quiet here, she missed the sounds of the kitchen, the oven doors being slammed shut, even the pans being scrubbed. But here she was alone, except for Dr. Black, and he was dead.


The library walls were covered with oak panels. Dark as if stained in treacle. They framed shelves packed with books and apart from the lead window and the ornate door that opened in to the hall, every vertical space had been filled with centuries old pages. Some wrapped in cloth with embossed details. Others were covered in dyed vellum. 


In front of Mrs White’s chair was a faded oriental rug, at one time the geometric patterns would have been vibrant in ochre and orange tones but now the brightest colours were red. Mrs White pulled herself up from the chair and careful not to disturb the scene, tip toed over Dr. Black’s body and headed over to the books on the shelves. As she moved along the rows her fingers bumped over the spines. Given the recurrent circumstances it was no surprise that she had been given the opportunity to read most of them. After fifty years residing in the manor house it was unlikely she had missed any. She breathed in the scent of beeswax and almond oil. It was a welcome contrast to the bone and hide glue needed to keep pages of printed plates together and while she kept moving along the shelves, thick blood had begun to pool around Dr. Black’s body. She felt the book tops with their slanted spines and occasional chipped bindings, they were a reminder of how she could cover a pie with the shortest pastry without it cracking.


Sunlight peeped through the window and shot an accusing look across the library. It caught her arm, toned from years of kneading dough, pressing cheese and killing Dr. Black. She noticed her nails, usually covered in flour and butter but now blood dried in the wrinkles and nail folds while light filled the air with rebellious dust. Then she wiped her hands on her starched apron and carried on along the shelves. Row upon row were delicate slices of facts, fiction and art. Uniform with their gold gilt edges and foxed pages. The shadows left some of the titles unreadable, hieroglyphs on the library’s walls. Others had faded from the sun’s slow movement across the window.


After going along the length of one wall she went along the next until she stopped at a shelf adjacent to the wrought iron and faux marble fireplace and reached up to a heavy folio. Carefully she eased it out from its snug and clutched it with both hands in case she might drop it. Dust ash lifted off like sifted icing sugar and hung in the air. She took it over to a rosewood bureau and opened up the pages. The cover had an embossed title. ‘Who killed Dr. Black?’ Inside were three columns, one for Who, one for Where, and finally, one for Weapon. Each column had been filled with various names, rooms and weapons. Mrs White picked up an ink pen and filled in the bottom row, Mrs White, Library, Dagger. She closed the folio, went over to Dr. Black’s twisted body and pulled the knife from under him. Then she noticed it still had some cake mix on it, trapped beneath a jus of blood. Mrs White sighed, she missed her kitchen.