A Brief Play Entitled "All Them Murders You Done"

I quickly realized that the horrible circumstances of Mr. Frank's death might have a severe psychological impact on the children, namely the Girl Guides, traveling with us. Therefore, I approached the Girl Guides leader, Miss Hasty and requested permission to engage her charges with a fantasical tale of adventure and suspense!

I was certain this story, based on a play I was currently working on with the assistance of my niece the Marchioness Maria Maximilliane von Schmutzmacher (age 12 and part-time nanny to young Captain Turnip), would take their minds from the troubles at hand.

Thus I gathered the Girl Guide troop around and invited our other passengers to attend as I relayed the following tale!

Lord Wiffle proudly surveyed his guests. They were all such wonderful people. Except for Smellings, who had not written back to him in three days. He insisted he was busy hunting vampires, but Wiffle knew that this was a hoax. No one hunted vampires until October. Or it was witches. He had trouble remembering.

Everyone sat in the parlor, chatting away. Smellings was telling stories of hunting vampires. “And then he swooped down at me! His eyes bulged in excitement when he saw the veins running through my left hand! I raised my crucifix and…”

"Ah yes,” interrupted Lord Wiffle. “I’m sure your stories are interesting but I heard there was a witch at the end of your county. Did you burn her?” Smellings shook his head. “She was merely an old woman Wiffle.”

Suddenly, every candle went out and there was a scream.

When the lights returned to normal, Lt. Fraught was lying face down on the rug with a silver knife in his throat. “Good Lord!” cried Wiffle. “That was my good butter knife!”

“I propose,” announced Lord Phineas Wiffle. “That we move the body to the mudroom. It’s staining my rug.” There was a muttering of agreement. Burton the Beergutted (A Viking) was looking around. Smellings pulled Lt. Fraught towards the doorway. Lady Fraught was sobbing. She pulled her husband’s wallet out of his back pocket and slipped it into her purse; probably for evidence. Ms. Warpool, the timid library keeper, was pale white.

There was a brief silence before Smellings said “We must hunt for whoever killed him! They are still in this house by the looks of things.”

Lord Wiffle was outraged. “No crooks enter this house on Tuesdays!”

He then started arguing with Smellings. In a minute, the room was in full uproar. Finally, though, Burton the Beergutted, bellowed “Enough!”

He was fingering his axe lovingly and added. “I can say that we will get nowhere with this petty squabbling!”

Wiffle understood that if they didn’t start something productive soon, everyone would be in the mood for another killing. “Well, he said to the many pairs of eyes on him, “I suggest we look for clues.”

Everyone cheered in agreement.

Mrs. Warpool went with Burton the Beergutted and Lady Fraught and Mort, the old stable hand who looked like he was made of wood and spoke in a deep voice. Lord Wiffle had to find clues with Smellings. As they searched the parlor a storm was breaking outside. That was good. Wyverns could not take flight in such a storm.

Suddenly, Smellings cried out with glee “look Phineas! I have found a smashing piece of evidence!”

Wiffle lumbered over to have a look. On the floor in the corner, hidden behind the umbrella stand, were a pair of leather gloves covered in blood.

“There’s a little label on them” said Wiffle, “If found please return to Mort Avery, stablehand.”

Smelling lept to his feet “Lady Fraught and Mort are on the second floor right now!” he exclaimed.

Smellings and Wiffle raced upstairs to find Lady Fraught lying on the ground, strangled by a curtain cord.

“This is dreadfully exciting” thought Lord Wiffle, “If only the murderer would not use my things.”

Smellings pointed at the carpet. Footprints, Aha! Mort could not hide forever.

Smellings and Wiffle made their way down the hall. Smellings swung open a door and yelped. Inside, the lifeless body of Burton the Beergutted lay impaled by his own axe. This murderer was very neat. Mort’s footprints led to the open window. Lord Wiffle peered out.

“Oh dear” he said, “There goes my stablehand as well.”

For tied to a tower was the corpse of Mort. The storm had stopped and the wyverns had picked his bones clean.

Smellings paced the room. Who could it be now? Mort was clearly not the murderer. Lord Wiffle was getting suspicious.

“If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were the murderer Smellings” Lord Wiffle declared.

Smellings then accused him. There would have been a jolly good fight if it weren’t for Mrs. Warpool.

“I found a clue” she cried. She pointed frantically down the hall. Smellings and Wiffle raced down the hall. It was a dead end. There was an eerily familiar sound, similar to the sound of a gun being cocked. Smellings turned to see Mrs. Warpool holding a gun. Wiffle turned slowly, “Uh-oh.”

“So” Smellings said, “It was you all along.”

Mrs. Warpool smiled.

“Aren’t you going to monologue?” implored Lord Wiffle.

Mrs. Warpool shook her head. There was a bang and Smellings was dead. Next she shot Lord Wiffle.

"The End" I cried aloud as I finished - I'm sure my niece would have been proud of the reaction this story would receive shortly.