The Queer Case of Amelia Marsh
Who, are you?
You bend down to pick up the post and find amongst it a letter, your name and address scrawled in handwriting you don’t recognise. Taking it to the kitchen table you eagerly slit the envelope open. Could this be the case you’ve been waiting for? Or is it just another letter from Jim at the neighbourhood watch about the height of hedges?
The letter itself is on thick beige paper, addressed from an Amelia Marsh, in rural Yorkshire, not far from your home town of Sheffield.
It reads:
Dear ,
I hope this letter finds you in good health.
If you have received this letter then I am dead, and it has been posted to you by my trusted maidservant and housekeeper, as instructed. I instructed her to post this to you if she believed that there was any possibility of foul play. That, unfortunately, means that it is likely that I was murdered. You may not remember me, but I watched you grow up as a friend of your mother, and I have since followed your career as a detective on occasion. I know that if anyone can work out the circumstances of my death it is you. I know that you do not work for free, but I was not without wealth in life, so provision has been made in the will for your payment. If I was indeed murdered, I hope you can bring the killer to justice. I’m sure the police will appreciate your assistance.
Yours, even in death,
A. Marsh
Memories of your childhood come flooding back, and you can remember Miss Marsh, when you were growing up. You remember your mother talking about Miss Marsh in less favourable terms at dinner times, when she wasn’t around of course, always talking about this trouble or other that she had got herself into. Your mother never thought much of Miss Marsh’s friends, “a bunch of queer types, artists and layabouts – you steer clear of that lot” she would say. Getting up from the kitchen table, you walk upstairs to your office, and sift through the other cases on your desk. Mr Brown’s missing cat can wait, and that case about the blackmail of some prince of Bohemia or other didn’t sound that interesting anyway...
Dear ,
I hope this letter finds you in good health.
If you have received this letter then I am dead, and it has been posted to you by my trusted maidservant and housekeeper, as instructed. I instructed her to post this to you if she believed that there was any possibility of foul play. That, unfortunately, means that it is likely that I was murdered. You may not remember me, but I watched you grow up as a friend of your mother, and I have since followed your career as a detective on occasion. I know that if anyone can work out the circumstances of my death it is you. I know that you do not work for free, but I was not without wealth in life, so provision has been made in the will for your payment. If I was indeed murdered, I hope you can bring the killer to justice. I’m sure the police will appreciate your assistance.
Yours, even in death,
A. Marsh
You arrive at the house early in the morning. It is an impressive looking house from the road, with a long drive passing between two ornate gateposts adorned with limestone lion statues. The house is built of limestone blocks, the roof done in an ornate neoclassical style. The front of the house has two columns flanking the grand wooden doors, and two sets of large windows on the ground floor. The upper floors also have quite large windows. In general, while the house is not very ostentatious, barring gold leaf and gargoyles it couldn’t be much more expensive looking. You had known Miss Marsh was rich, but not this rich.
As you drive up to the house, you can’t help but notice the number of police cars and officers parked on the gravel in front of the house, past the immaculately kept lawns. You pull to a stop and get out of the car, and a duo of suited, bowler hatted almost identical individuals approach you.
“Ah, you must be the detective, ”, says the first.
“We are the police detectives in charge here. I am Inspector Smith, and this is my second in command, Inspector Easton” Says the second, in almost the same tone of voice, twirling the curled ends of his well kept moustache.
“You should have a letter from the deceased if I’m not mistaken” says Smith.
You hand over the letter, and they both read it intently for a few moments, before handing it back.
“Well that all seems satisfactory, although I believe you may be disappointed. It is our opinion that Miss Marsh committed suicide, you see. Let us show you the scene. We have the house on lockdown, so that none of Miss Marsh’s friends can leave before we have crossed our ts and dotted our is, so to speak.” When Smith says “friends”, he makes air quotes with his hands, and Easton scoffs a little.
“Anyway, follow us.”
The two detectives lead you around the back of the house, down the slopes, past the greenhouse, to a small sunken bit of ground, barely visible from the house.
“This is where the body was found, she was killed on the 5th August, two days ago.” Smith says.
“And here are some photos of the scene. As you can see, the body of the victim has mysteriously disappeared!
“Just a jest, we removed the body, do you think we’d just keep everything frozen in time for days while we waited for you to get here?
Easton puts a hand into his jacket, and removes a small manila folder, and passes it to you
Inside are several photos of the crime scene.
In the photos Amelia lies with her arm outstretched, a revolver a metre from her arm, as if thrown. Her other arm is tucked into her side. The gunshot wound is to the right temple, the blood from the wound matting her dark brown hair. Her pale face and sightless green eyes staring towards the gun. She is wearing a light blue nightgown. There is a small pool of blood behind her head.
“Strangely, we’ve not managed to find any prints on the revolver. It’s a service weapon, a Webley.”
You notice that the grass has been disturbed, possibly when the body was moved – but surely the forensics team would have been more careful? The grass is flattened down the hill, in two lines.
“Oh we thought that perhaps she tripped after she shot herself, her feet dragging could have created the grass disturbance.”
“Hey wait! Don’t just wander off! You know sometimes I feel like a minor character in a murder mystery.”
You can see the flattened grass lines lead, fairly uninterrupted, back towards the house, but they stop near the greenhouse, where the surface becomes gravel. There are some large doors opening onto the garden at the back of the house, directly opposite, and also the door of the greenhouse to your right.
"Well at least join us back at the front of the house when you've finished wandering off!"
As you enter the greenhouse you are awestruck by its beauty. It is a sizeable space, stretching back at least ten metres and five metres wide. Light filters down through the glass roof, dappling the floor in droplets of golden sunshine as it drips through the exotic leaves of the plants in the central raised beds. The walls are lined by beds of plants and trays of plant pots, on wooden pallets and supports. There is another door to the greenhouse, on the left hand side in the middle, towards the house. The path round the central bed is partly blocked by some split soil bags.
Pushing aside the soil bags, you notice blood stains on the slabs under the bags – someone has used the soil to conceal the stains!
The doors nearest the house are unlocked, with a simple wooden frame and glass panes.
The doors you entered through are similar, but at the bottom of one of the frames, a small thread of light blue fabric is caught on a wooden splinter. Could this be a piece of Amelia’s nightgown? Why would it be here?
The plant beds contain a variety of exotic and mundane plants, but, barring a few gardening tools, nothing seems untoward.
As you enter the greenhouse you are awestruck by its beauty. It is a sizeable space, stretching back at least ten metres and five metres wide. Light filters down through the glass roof, dappling the floor in droplets of golden sunshine as it drips through the exotic leaves of the plants in the central raised beds. The walls are lined by beds of plants and trays of plant pots, on wooden pallets and supports. There is another door to the greenhouse, on the left hand side in the middle, towards the house. The path round the central bed is partly blocked by some split soil bags.
As you round the house, you spot Smith and Easton leaning on the columns of the porch, smoking cigarettes. As you appear, Smith exclaims,
“Ah, there’s our budding Sherlock Holmes, cracked it yet?”
“I thought not.” He interrupts, before you have time to respond.
“Anyway, no time to dawdle, come with us and we’ll show you the ground floor and introduce you to a few of the suspects.” Says Easton, bundling you towards the front doors of the house.
“You mean occupants of the house don’t you, Smith?” Interjects Easton.
“Of course I do Easton, of course” He says with a wry chuckle.
The detectives usher you through the doors and into a marbled hallway, lined with paintings of long dead people, and busts of even longer dead people, dwarfed by an imposing staircase, into the dining room. The dining room is no less impressive, the carpets and most of the fittings a deep scarlet. Anything not scarlet is a dark wooden colour. The room is well lit from the front and side windows. Around the other side of the dining table that dominates the room sit a variety of people. Smith gestures to a handsome, youngish man with short cropped brown hair, an aquiline nose and piercing green eyes standing by the window on the far left of the group. He wears a shabby looking brown shirt with suspenders and some fairly old, darker brown trousers.
“This is Major George Boyd, ex-army officer, fought in the war, says he was just staying for a few days.”
“Yes that’s right, damn mess this whole business.” Interjects Boyd, his voice raised a little.
Smith’s hand moves to gesturing at a much sharper dressed man, sitting at the table, reading the newspaper. He wears a dog collar, and an ironed beige shirt. His hair is curly and mostly brown but tinged a little ginger. He looks a bit older than Boyd, though not by much. He has blue eyes, and a somewhat dour, unimpressed expression.
“This is the local vicar, Edward Samson, he’s been staying here while the vicarage is being repaired.”
“Yes, I knew Amelia very well, her being a frequent church-goer herself. God bless her soul.” Samson adds with a straight face, putting his newspaper down to clasp his hands together.
Smith’s hand moves again to the right, to a woman leaning against the back wall of the room. She is wearing tweed trousers and a simple white shirt, her blonde hair tied up in a bun. She has her hands in her pockets, her freckled face somewhere between sadness and boredom.
“This is Bridgid Fitzgerald, friend of Miss Marsh’s, been visiting Miss Marsh for a few weeks before she was killed.”
“And you have the gall to call all these folk her friends – it’s one of you that killed her, or one of you pigs!” Fitzgerald shouts, gesturing first at the rest of the room and then at the police officers.
Smith and Easton shift nervously. Smith coughs, and then gestures at the final person in the room, herself trying to blend into the furniture. She wears a simple black uniform dress and has her dark brown hair tied back. She has brown eyes and a face wrinkled with years of experience.
“Finally, this is Miss Edith Crosby, Miss Marsh’s housekeeper and maidservant.”
Miss Crosby curtsies, and says nothing.
The library’s walls are coated in books, arranged in dark wood shelves, encased in towering bookcases. The back wall is mostly the glass doors opening on to the garden, and the front third closest to the door is similarly dominated by windows. Between the bookshelves are several ornate oak tables, with matching chairs, as well as an assortment of comfier, green upholstered chairs. Books are littered throughout the room, this room was clearly well used.
The library is organised into categories:
This section is full of a variety of biographies, including:
- Goodbye Jojo: A Biography of Jonathan Joestar, by B. Slinger, published by The Speedwagon Foundation
This section is full of a variety of books on world history, including:
- How To Fight The British Without Fleeing West: A Guide by A. Burr
- The English Aren’t Really That Great: A Perspective On Irish History, by Michael Collins
This section is full of a variety of books on world geography, including:
- Palestine, just where is it? A Guide to the Middle East, by Mark Sykes
This section is full of a variety of books on science, including:
- 101 Uses for Hydrogen Fluoride by R. Munroe
This section is full of a variety of novels, including:
- Silence In The Library by S. Moffat
- The Unicorn And The Wasp by A. Christie
- Hound of the Baskervilles by Arthur Conan Doyle
This section is full of a variety of instructional books, including:
- How To Write Like You’re Running Out Of Time by A. Hamilton
- Learn Irish in 30 Minutes!
- Monoalphabetic Ciphers And Their Usage by Friedrich Kasiski
- Deutsche Sprache, schwere Sprache: A Guide to German, by E. Ludendorff
This appears to be a book on ciphers:
A monoalphabetic cipher is one in which the regular alphabet is replaced with a cipherbet, that is, every letter is replaced with another letter. For instance, a Caesar shift cipher, which involves taking each letter of the plaintext and changing it for the letter n places right in the alphabet, where n is a number picked by the person using the cipher.
In the margins, there are three right arrows scribbled next to each other.
This appears to be a book on the Irish language for beginners.
This is the room of a man who does not care for tidiness, but certainly cares for his work. The bed is unmade, his clothes are scattered all over the room, and the curtains are half open, scattering rays of light across the desk. The desk is full of plates, mugs, scattered papers, and opened books.
The first thing that draws your eye is a rather official looking report, it's written in some kind of code.
Uhsruw iru N dw PL5, 07/08/1920
Xujhqw: Ilwcjhudog kdv pryhg. Pduvk kdv ehhq nloohg. Srvlwlrq lv frpsurplvhg. Pduvk pdb kdyh glvfryhuhg ghwdlov ri Ihqldq sorw. Vwroh pb uhyroyhu wr gr lw. Pb plvwdnh, glg qrw hashfw Ilwcjhudog wr pryh iru vrph wlph, kdg ehhq zrunlqj rq wkh ylfdu, Vdpvrq.
On another scrap of paper:
Wkh frgh iru Vdpvrq’v orfnera: Gholodk
And another:
L krsh brx irujlyh ph zkhq brx glvfryhu zkdw L dp, Hgzdug. L gr oryh brx, hyhq li L lqwhqghg iluvw wr xvh brx. Brx glg qrw oljkw ph, L zdv d pdg frphw ehiruh L phw brx, exw brx ilahg ph lq brxu ruelw.
Boyd has several books on his desk:
- A History of Ireland
- A copy of the Bible, opened to Leviticus 20
- The Thirty Nine Steps by John Buchan
Along with a swiss army knife, you find a cyanide pill, and a small cardboard box mostly full of 9mm bullets, stamped with “Standard Issue: British Army”
Amongst the clothes, you find a leather holster for a revolver.
Samson’s room is very austere. The bed is made, he has a few books on theology and a copy of the bible on the nightstand. His desk is organised, but full of books and papers. The curtains are pulled back fully and the room seems light. He has a single, simple, wooden chair, with some clothes folded on it. There is a wardrobe against one wall, which is closed.
In the bottom of the wardrobe you find a smooth wooden box, about a foot wide, 6 inches deep and a few inches thick. It has a simple lock on the outside.
In the desk you find a battered copper key. The papers on the desk are mostly theological, or concerning parish business.
Turning the key in the box, you find you are able to push up the front panel, but no further. This reveals several dials, each allowing you to enter a letter. It’s some kind of combination lock, but what could the key be? Could he have left it lying around, or given it to someone else?
You hear a click, and the small handle in the front of the box lets you pull the front out. Inside is a small notebook. It looks like a diary!
8th January 1920
It’s good of Amelia to let me stay while the refurbishments take place at the vicarage. She understands the nature of my condition and I think it will be good to spend time here for my health. I pray that this will be the end of my troubles.
4th February 1920
Amelia introduced me to an army major today, Boyd is his name I think, he is also to be staying here for a while. It is very generous of Amelia to offer her home up to friends of hers like this. He is a handsome fellow, I couldn’t help but notice his very piercing eyes, but he has a sadness to him. I should like to talk to him some more.
18th February 1920
I have been having many conversations with Boyd, he’s quite a fascinating fellow, though he doesn’t let on much about himself. Lots of the fellows who came back from the war are like that though. Something about him makes me nervous. I had Miss Crosby sneak me a hipflask, she does not know of my condition clearly. I drank myself into a stupor that night. When I sobered in the morning I hid myself away in the greenhouse to pray, and to hide the hangover from Amelia. God is clearly trying me, he knows how the two parts of my condition are tied together. Why does he bring this Delilah into my life to try me?
Entering this combination doesn’t seem to change anything. You don’t hear anything and no part of the box will budge.
8th January 1920
It’s good of Amelia to let me stay while the refurbishments take place at the vicarage. She understands the nature of my condition and I think it will be good to spend time here for my health. I pray that this will be the end of my troubles.
4th February 1920
Amelia introduced me to an army major today, Boyd is his name I think, he is also to be staying here for a while. It is very generous of Amelia to offer her home up to friends of hers like this. He is a handsome fellow, I couldn’t help but notice his very piercing eyes, but he has a sadness to him. I should like to talk to him some more.
18th February 1920
I have been having many conversations with Boyd, he’s quite a fascinating fellow, though he doesn’t let on much about himself. Lots of the fellows who came back from the war are like that though. Something about him makes me nervous. I had Miss Crosby sneak me a hipflask, she does not know of my condition clearly. I drank myself into a stupor that night. When I sobered in the morning I hid myself away in the greenhouse to pray, and to hide the hangover from Amelia. God is clearly trying me, he knows how the two parts of my condition are tied together. Why does he bring this Delilah into my life to try me?
It seems somebody has already been busy in Fitzgerald’s room. Clothes and papers are scattered everywhere, the room has been upended. The fire is long out in the fireplace, but someone has been burning paper in it, and some fragments still survive.
The fragments seem to be in Irish, if only I had some way of translating it...
First fragment:
...is féidir linn maitheas a dhéanamh gan foréigean, is féidir linn tacú leis na ranganna oibre le maoiniú do na rudaí a bhfuil siad ag brath orthu, más féidir linn a chur ina luí ar na daoine cearta cabhrú linn go airgeadais, mar atáim ag iarraidh anseo. Ní dhéanfaidh na hionsaithe ar spriocanna Shasana ach ranganna oibre Shasana inár gcoinne
...we can do good without violence, we can support the working classes with funding for the things they rely on, if we can convince the right people to aid us financially, like I am trying to here. The attacks on English targets will just turn the English working classes against us...
Second fragment:
...Tá fear agam ag eireaball orm anseo, creideann sé gur cineál éigin plotaire buama buile is dóigh liom. Déanann siad go léir, a luaithe a deir tú nár mhaith leat gach Éireannach a thacaíonn leis an smaoineamh go mbeadh Éire saor marbh. Is cosúil gur fear réasúnta é, tá súil agam gur féidir liom é a chasadh leis an am...
...I have a man tailing me here, he believes me to be some kind of mad bomb plotter I suppose. They all do, once you say that you don’t wish every Irish man who supports the idea of a free Ireland dead. He seems like a reasonable man, I hope that with time perhaps I can turn him...
Crosby’s room is relatively small and spartan. She has a small window, a bed, a bedside table and a wardrobe.
The bedside table has a few coins in one draw, and in the bottom of another, bunches and bunches of paper bills and betting slips. You remember what Smith and Easton had said after you left the dining room, they were talking about the will. In it, apparently, Marsh had left a sum of money to Crosby – perhaps this was why?
The wardrobe has a few simple dresses in, very well worn, and another uniform.
Marsh’s room is completely bare. The police must have already removed all her belongings as evidence. It makes a sombre scene, seeing a room of someone you once knew empty like this.
Leading you back into the dining room, Smith and Easton in unison gesture at the gathered house guests and say, "So then, who killed Amelia Marsh?"
Your accusation leads to the arrest of an innocent.
GAME OVER
Samson is rightfully led away in cuffs. He casts one last mournful glance over his shoulder at Boyd as he leaves the room.