no apparent reason

Too Many Cooks: Chapter 4 and Epilogue

The End

IV. The End Game (and I don’t mean cricket)

The Detective-Inspector had passed on interviewing Major Crag and young St. George-Fotheringale simply because he felt that he couldn’t take much more of this. I’m not sure what he was doing during the fifteen minutes which elapsed between his conversation with Smythe and his appearance in the library; but a detective can’t just blurt out his accusation, or make an immediate arrest; suspense has to be built up somehow. That is also the purpose of this paragraph. Perhaps he was waiting to see if someone would sneak into the library while he was there alone, and make an attempt on his life, thus sealing that person’s guilt; however, the few minutes passed without incident.

When the Detective-Inspector arrived in the library (which took him rather longer than fifteen minutes, because he did not know where it was, and it took him a while to find it), the house party was assembled there, apprehensively fidgeting their teacups about. For a moment, the Detective-Inspector stood and surveyed the group.

Finally, he spoke. “I have heard your statements,” he began. Major Crag and St. George-Fotheringale looked slightly petulant at this, but the Detective-Inspector ignored them. “It was clear to me from the first that there is more to this case than meets the eye. The very forthrightness with which you offered me the details of your associations with Sir Stout, and your possible motives for his murder, told me that the obvious had nothing to do with this case. No, the circumstances surrounding Sir Stout’s death were much more subtle than they first appeared. And I soon became convinced that each one of you had something to hide.”

Mrs. Vanderhoeven gasped. Lady Stout’s attempt to comfort her by refilling her teacup was stymied by the fact that she had dropped it, with a loud crash, onto the floor.

All eyes turned to her. “Yes,” said the Detective-Inspector. “The Vanderhoevens. Mrs. Vanderhoeven had had a romance with Sir Stout long ago, before she met her current husband…”

“Well, there’s no need to let the whole world know,” muttered Mrs. Vanderhoeven.

“But perhaps it wasn’t so long ago as one might think. Perhaps, that romance never really ended. Or, perhaps it ended not so long ago, upon Sir Stout’s marriage to Lady Stout. Perhaps Mrs. Vanderhoeven was jealous. Perhaps jealous enough to kill. Or, perhaps Mr. Vanderhoeven sensed her jealousy, and was enraged to think his wife had been nurturing these feelings all these years. But maybe…just maybe…none of this…has anything to do with what the Vanderhoevens are hiding…”

Smythe whispered to Artemis, “Oh, yes, I’ve seen this done. At seances. He’s just talking away until something strikes a chord with the audience; then whoever he is talking to tells the whole story and the medium pretends she knew the whole thing all along…he’s really quite good…”

But Mrs. Vanderhoeven had suddenly begun crying, her face in her hands. “Yes,” she said. “I’m sorry, Julius, I meant to keep your secret. But after Lady Stout let on that she knew everything, I felt that I just couldn’t hold it all inside any more.”

Lady Stout looked rather astonished at being accused of knowing anything, but Mr. Vanderhoeven was soothing his wife. “There, there, dear, it’s all right. It was bound to come out sooner or later.” His speech patterns sounded slightly different, and he continued, “You’re right, Inspector Noble. It’s true. I’m not really an American at all.” Everyone gasped, and Mrs. Vanderhoeven’s tears began anew. “I was born in England, as a matter of fact. But I was never very good at the whole British thing. I couldn’t get the accent quite right, I could never for the life of me understand the rules of cricket, and I don’t even really like tea…or sherry,” he added, noticing Major Crag about to say something. “When I went to America, I found that I fit right in. My wife promised to keep my secret, and Sir Stout was the only one left in England who knew. But I certainly didn’t kill him…you have to believe that, Inspector!”

The Detective-Inspector gazed at him for a moment, evaluating him. “No, you didn’t,” he said. “Nor did Mrs. Vanderhoeven. Each of you, as I said, has a secret. The Vanderhoevens’ secret has turned out to be rather silly. But some of them…are more sinister…” And he turned his gaze to the butler, John Porter.

Porter was unruffled and impassive, as always. “Yes, sir?” he murmured.

“Porter, from the moment I first saw you, you were the perfect butler. Silent and nondescript, practically invisible, just as a butler should be. But perhaps, I thought to myself, you seemed a little too perfect.”

Porter continued with the impassivity. The Detective-Inspector continued, “No one ever notices the butler. None of these people ever noticed you. Which made this a perfect disguise because…you are not really the butler at all, are you, Porter?”

Porter inclined his head. “No, sir,” he said. Then he grinned, and everyone was shocked to see a human being appear where seconds before the butler had stood. “It’s a fair cop. No, I’m not the butler, never have been a butler. I’ve been here for well-nigh a year now, and no one in the house has ever noticed that I’m not their butler! In fact, I’m a burglar…well, I was. Don’t have to do much burgling when you’re already in the house.

“About a year ago, I broke into this house, and for the first time in my career, I was caught. Sir Stout came down the stairs and caught me in the act, you might say. Fortunately for me, though, he was a bit near-sighted, and said to me, ‘Porter, is that you? Thought I heard someone down here.’ I thought fast, and in a cultivated tone, I said, “Yes, sir, it is I.” ‘That’s all right then,’ he answered. ‘Go on back to bed, Porter.’ Well, what was I to do? I was afraid I might wake him up again if I tried to leave the house. I never did know what happened to the real butler, but I slept in his room that night and the next day dressed in his clothes, thinking I could slip out without anyone seeing me. To my surprise, though, Sir Stout found me in the hallway and started discussing household matters with me, never noticing the difference! Well, I carried on as butler that day and the next, and the Stouts never noticed. The other servants did, of course, but it is as much as a servants’ place is worth to contradict the butler, of course; so if I said I was the butler, then the butler I was! Gradually, I let the servants go—with hefty severance pay so they wouldn’t talk—and replaced them with my gang, and the Stouts never noticed a single substitution. We’ve been skimming plenty off the top of the household budget ever since, in addition to drawing our pay. Getting caught was the best thing that ever happened to me—until now, I suppose.”

The Detective-Inspector looked at Lady Stout. “Shall I arrest him, madam?”

Lady Stout stirred her tea consideringly. “Well, I suppose I should say yes, Detective-Inspector. But the staff seems to be doing a fine job—and I simply can’t face finding replacements for all of those people. I don’t see why anything need change.”

The Detective-Inspector shrugged. “Shall we move on then?” he asked.

St. George-Fotheringale raised his hand playfully. “How about me next, Detective-Inspector?” he said. “Why don’t you tell me my life story?”

The Detective-Inspector nodded. “At first I wondered how you could possibly have anything to hide. You are well-known in society, after all, and your whole demeanor is reminiscent of the proverbial open book. But then I realized how little is really known of your origins. Though seemingly your whole career is well-known to all; no student named St. George-Fotheringale was known at Oxford in your year; and furthermore there is no record of you anywhere up to about a year ago. So why don’t you tell us a bit about yourself, Frothy, beginning with your real name and just what you are doing here?”

St. George-Fotheringale smiled. “The last part is very simple. I’m here for revenge.”

He gazed sadly at his empty teacup, then continued: “St. George-Fotheringale is my middle name…it was my mother’s maiden name, you see. As a matter of fact, Artemis here is my half-sister. Our father left my mother to marry Lady Stout…though she was the widow Grimsby then, of course…”

Artemis gazed thunderstruck at St. George-Fotheringale. “You mean your real name is…”

“Winfield St. George-Fotheringale Penhallow-Pengallon. The man with five last names, that’s me,” smiled the young man formerly known as Frothy. “As I was saying, I came for revenge against the cad who left my mother and me high and dry in the wilds of Kenya; but after a little investigation I discovered nature had done my work for me, and the widow Penhallow-Pengallon was the new Lady Stout. Well, I had nothing in particular to do, and the company was good, so I decided to stay for a while.” He grinned foolishly and fumbled with his cigarette case. “But I certainly didn’t murder Stout, had nothing against the man.”

Suddenly, the room was plunged into darkness. A shot rang out; a woman screamed. Someone pushed past the Detective-Inspector and made for the door. Then, as suddenly as they had been extinguished, the lights came back on, and the Detective-Inspector saw…

V. Epilogue

St. George Fotheringale was stooping to pick up his cigarette case. “Sorry about the bang…butterfingers…” he murmured.
Smythe had swooned, and her cousin was attempting to bring her around by patting lashings of tea around her temples and wrists. “It was too much for her, she screamed and was down for the count,” said Artemis.

“What happened to the lights?” grunted Crag.

“Oh, they flicker on and off every once in a while, on a dark and stormy night like this,” said Artemis, as Smythe begin to blink and murmur dreamily.
Porter paused in his progression towards the door. “I’ll just check on the fuses, sirs and madams,” he said.

The Detective-Inspector put his teacup back in his saucer with an air of finality, and grasped his hat. “All right, then,” he said. “That wraps that up. I’ll be going back to the station, you may be called upon for further information at a future time.”

“But, you said we all had something to hide,” said Smythe, disappointed. “You never got to me.”

“And what about the murderer?” demanded Mrs. Vanderhoeven.

“That was for dramatic effect, ma’am,” said the Detective-Inspector, bowing to Smythe. “And as for the murderer, I’d say years of smoking, eating fatty foods, and perpetually acting hearty finally caught up with the old gentleman. I doubt he needed any help from any of you.”

The Detective-Inspector bowed to the room at large, planted his hat firmly onto his head, and strode manfully out of the room.

Artemis caught him up in the entryway. “So you’re going? Just like that?”
The Detective-Inspector caught her in his arms. “Ah, Artemis. Ever since the day I first saw you…”

“You mean today, dearest?”

“Yes, Artemis. I mean…today.”