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A Worthwhile Investigation

Detective Maurice Ron missed the good old days. There he was, stood over a robed

corpse in the library of a grand mansion, bloody candlestick already packed away into an

evidence bag, yet he was at an utter loss. It should have been an open and shut case, but nothing

was ever that simple anymore. Due to changing fashions and tighter pursestrings amongst

society’s upper-crust, his prime suspect pool had gone practically extinct. Nobody kept butlers

anymore. This poor chap didn’t even have a valet. It was a grievous crime, to be sure.

When Ron first arrived, the house had bustled with all the chaos of a modern murder

scene—the medical examiners, the forensic what-have-yous, and so on. They were enough to

drive a competent investigator to distraction, with all of their picture taking and evidence

gathering. Ron had dismissed them at once, knowing full well that he did his best work when he

had room to think without interruption. It had been fraught, at first, with the usual threats of

calling in supervisors and such nonsense, but Ron had been able to defuse the situation by

suggesting that they simply think of the cessation as an extended lunch break.

But, even once he secured the site for his own usage, Ron was beside himself as to who

could have killed the fellow. He planned to spend the afternoon in interviews with the family

without much hope. The family was never behind it, in cases like this. Such aristocratic stock

didn’t have the stomach for bloodshed; there just wasn’t any murderousness in them.

Bartleby Worth had a wife, three daughters, and six granddaughters. They were all of

upstanding character, each a pillar of the community in their own way. Only a few had

responded to the detective’s summons when the body was discovered, but Ron wasn’t worried.

He was sure he would be able to get whatever information he needed from those present. It
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wasn’t as though he wanted to pester the family. Having only just lost their esteemed patriarch,

they were surely upset enough without his intrusion.

He had encountered the Worth ladies upon entering the house, a fashionable collection of

women clustered in the sitting room looking, as one might expect, rather bleak. Gwendolyn

Worth had been graciously attempting to console her morose niece Apple, poring over the glossy

pages of a Martha Stewart magazine for brides. Dr. Harriet Worth was speaking sharply into her

phone, pacing in the center of the room. Rachel Worth, the youngest of the family, had

established herself at a front-facing window, watching the retreat of those Ron had sent away.

The ladies had been so kind as to support him in this request, eager, he assumed, to have as few

interlopers among them as possible and recognizing himself and his partner as a far better

alternative to the horde.

Ron’s partner, if one could call him that—the chap was rather fresh from the academy to

compare to Ron’s decades of exemplary service—was as stodgy a young man as one could hope

to meet. Ron had been under the impression that young people nowadays were of a more genial

sort, but Detective Colburn proved him wrong. A rare occurrence, that.

Despite Colburn’s disposition, he was useful enough, so Ron kept him around the scene

of the crime. While Ron examined the room, Colburn crouched over Mr. Worth. The library was

done up in burgundy and brass, dark wood paneling covered the walls and thick rugs were

strewn across the floor. The shelves were empty of books, lined instead with pictures of Mr.

Worth next to an assortment of former presidents and professional golfers. Ron, in peeking over

at the windows, discovered that the glass panes were intact. A break in seemed unlikely, then. He

looked over the chair behind Mr. Worth’s desk.

“Very fine upholstery,” he reported to Colburn. “Anything of note on your end?”

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“Skull’s been bashed in,” the younger man observed.

“Excellent. Jot that down.” Colburn dutifully pulled out his notepad. Ron never bothered

with such things. He was well known amongst his colleagues for the quality of his memory.

When it seemed that there was nothing further to be gleaned from the crime scene—no

signs of forced entry meant it was definitively an inside job, despite the lack of a butler, and no

sign of a pulse from Mr. Worth meant he was well and truly dead—Ron moved on to the family.

“Maybe we’ll get lucky and they’ll have just fired a live-in nurse,” he said to his partner.

The interviews would be held in the study, Ron decided, having taken a liking to the neat

and comfortable room adjacent to the library. Their first interviewee was to be Rachel Worth.

Ron sent Colburn to retrieve the self-possessed thirteen-year-old in pigtails and a boy’s suit. He

let the girl’s odd dress pass without comment. Ron had learned to be tolerant of the eccentricities

of the wealthy, though of course he’d let no daughter of his own carry on in such a manner.

“From the mouth of babes, and whatnot, eh Colburn?” he observed to his partner before

beginning. “Miss Worth—”

“Just Rach,” the girl interrupted.

“Certainly, Miss Worth. Detective Mo Ron at your service. Terribly sorry for your loss.

You haven't noticed anyone skulking about lately, have you? A disgruntled chauffeur, perhaps?”

“Nana did it,” the child said, clearly out of sorts with grief. “She always said she was

going to kill him if Papa didn’t stop leaving his socks on the floor.”

“I’m afraid the murderer could not have been your grandmother,” Ron informed her,

“seeing as she is not present.”

“Yes,” she said. “She flew to Eritrea this morning, after the body was found.”
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“A lovely place to visit. I hope she intends to spend some time at the coast? That would

be a grand way to get this ghastly business out of her head,” Ron said. “Colburn, if you don’t

mind, please escort Miss Worth back to her mother and find Miss Apple Worth.” He hadn’t

really expected to learn anything of consequence from one so young.

It took Colburn several minutes to search out Miss Apple Worth, second youngest and

next in line to be questioned. Ron used the time to reflect on the facts of the case. Mr. Worth was

believed to have been killed sometime between dinner and breakfast, given his presence at the

former and his absence from the latter. He employed neither a butler nor a valet. None of the

windows had been broken. His family was clearly torn apart with grief. There was no evident

direction in which to progress, yet Ron felt himself required by duty to press on.

Miss Worth and Colburn entered and Ron put aside his speculations. Miss Worth was a

student at the nearby college. It was right smart of the family to keep her close to home. One

heard about such horrible going-ons in the world, and college students were prone to fall in with

the worst of them. She wore a long black dress, which Ron found to be very appropriate for a

young lady in mourning. People hardly kept to proper etiquette anymore, but those in the

Worths’ set could be counted on to hold to the right way of doing things.

“Abysmally sorry for your loss, Miss Worth. Detective M. Ron at your service. May I ask

what you’re studying?” He expected that, like her mother, she intended to go into medicine.

“Russian literature,” was her very somber, and surprising, response. Ron could not help

but dislike the answer. Surely such interest in so dastardly a nation couldn’t indicate anything but

dark things about the young woman.

“Jot that down, please, Colburn,” he said. “And you’ve not seen anything suspicious have

you, Miss Worth? Missing silver, something of that sort?”

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“Aunt Ruth did it,” she said. “I don’t know about the silver, but Aunt Ruth told me that if

Papa didn’t give her a loan to start her new business, she would kill him.”

“He couldn’t very well give her a loan if he were dead,” Ron protested.

“I believe she intended to use her inheritance. She’s gone to the bank this morning, and

brought Papa’s lawyers with her.”

Of course the dour young Soviet would be resentful of her aunt’s entrepreneurial spirit.

Miss Ruth Worth had begun several enterprises and though none had quite worked out to her

expectations, the city had great hopes for her. Ron would have to keep a close eye on this

malcontent niece.

“I see,” he said. “Thank you for your time Miss Worth.” He let her show herself out,

holding Colburn back to confer on the case.

“Has your suspicion yet been roused?” he queried the younger man.

“No.”

“I’m loath to say it, but I don’t like the look of Miss Apple Worth at all. How many other

family members can we expect to speak with today?”

“Dr. Harriet Worth was here, but she left. Miss Priscilla and Miss Penelope Worth

weren’t here, but they arrived while you were speaking to Miss Rachel Worth. Ms. Gwendolyn

Worth has been here all morning,” Colburn reported after consulting his notepad. Ron didn’t

blame him; his own head was positively swimming with Worth women. Didn’t any of them ever

marry? None of them had any sons?

“We’d best grab Miss Priscilla and Miss Penelope while they’re here then,” he decided.

While Colburn went to grab their next interviewees, Ron stretched his legs. There was a
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taxidermied coyote in the hallway, placed on a narrow shelf so its beady black eyes looked

directly into Ron’s own.

Ron examined it, mimicking its menacing snarl with a rather less fearsome grimace. His

study of the creature was soon halted by Colburn’s heavy trod down the hall, Miss Priscilla and

Miss Penelope Worth on his heels. Ron directed the two ladies into the study and closed the

door. Two more of Mr. Worth’s granddaughters, Priscilla and Penelope were twins, older than

Miss Apple Worth, but not by much. They were tall and blonde, active-looking but not

unfeminine. Ron knew they were greatly admired throughout the city, and their business as

wellness gurus was wonderfully successful, despite their having to combat the occasional

lawsuit.

“Detective Ron,” Miss Priscilla greeted him with an extended hand. “It’s a pleasure to

meet you.”

“Despite the circumstances,” Miss Penelope added.

“Yes, you have my condolences, of course,” Ron responded genially, if not obsequiously.

“I don’t suppose you ladies know about anything I ought to look into?”

“Oh, detectives,” Miss Priscilla said. “If only we didn’t have anything to tell you.”

“But, as it is, we are burdened with very dark knowledge indeed,” Miss Penelope said.

“Flora is your culprit.”

“Surely not,” Ron protested.

“But she must have done it,” Miss Priscilla insisted. “Our cousin has always been jealous

of how very close we are—were, I mean—to Papa.”

“And since we were traveling at the time of the murder—which we can prove with train

tickets, you know,” Penelope said, “she must have taken her anger out on poor Papa.”
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“Indeed,” Ron said. “Thank you for your time, ladies.”

Once Priscilla and Penelope left the study, the two detectives were met by Ms.

Gwendolyn Worth, the last family member that they expected to interview. She was twice

widowed but had kept her maiden name throughout both marriages. Like her two eldest

daughters, she was blonde and trim.

“Detective Maurice Ron at your service, ma’am. Mo, if you like.” He gave a shallow

bow, the picture of sophistication, he thought.

“Detectives,” her voice was warm and smooth. Very matronly, Ron noted approvingly.

“Ms. Worth, do you have any wisdom to impart upon us?” Ron asked.

“Gracious, detective, I’m not sure what you mean about wisdom. Let me think a

moment,” Ms. Worth trailed off. “Oh! Well, I’m soon to be remarried; how’s that for wisdom?”

“You have my congratulations, of course,” Ron said, wondering if solving her father’s

murder would make him worthy of receiving an invitation to what was sure to be a lavish affair.

“But perhaps you know something about the murder? Have any of the help unaccountably asked

for time off?”

“Only the girl that found Father, but I’m sure that is just due to shock.” With a gesture,

Ron directed Colburn to write this down. Ms. Worth was not quite finished, however.

“No, I’m afraid it was Esther who did it,” she said. “It’s horrid to say such a thing about

one’s own niece, but I must speak the truth. You’ll notice none of their family is present, and

neither Flora nor Ruth have half the competency to get the job done. I, you may be sure, haven’t

seen Father in weeks. It’s terribly time consuming to plan a wedding, as my fiancé will tell you

should you feel the need to speak with him.”

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Ron was astonished at the way these women carried on. Of course no one in the family

could have done it. Who had ever heard of such a thing? Mr. Worth ought to have kept trying for

a son, if only so that his murder investigation could have progressed with some degree of sense.

“Thank you, Ms. Worth. I don’t suppose there are any more of your family members we

might be able to speak to?”

“Only if you’d like to meet Great Uncle Eugene,” Ms. Worth tittered. Ron looked darkly

at Colburn. There had been no Eugene Worth on his list of family members.

“That’d be nice ma’am,” Colburn said. “Is he present?” Ms. Worth erupted into hilarity.

“Uncle Eugene has been dead for many years! The only murder in the family, I’m proud

to say, before Father.”

“I see,” Ron said. “We will be out of your hair momentarily, Ms. Worth. If you all could

give Detective Colburn numbers at which you and your family might be reached should we have

any further questions, we’ll leave forthwith.” He left Colburn to the task, though he couldn’t

imagine that he would have need of the family again, and returned to the library to check on the

body once more before his departure.

The old man was still on the floor, still bloody, and still dead. It would have been

miraculously convenient if he could have revived himself, but it appeared there were some things

money couldn’t buy. This case was proving to be a real headache. If only there had been a butler.

Ron moved toward the door, intending to collect Colburn, and was hurried thus by a gasp, loud

enough to reverberate down the hall, and accompanied by a horrendous crash. He found the

Worth women in the foyer, gathered where, when Ron first arrived, there had hung a sparkling

crystal chandelier. Something wet and dark dripped down the paneled wall behind them.
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“What’s happened?” he asked, attempting to peer around Ms. Apple Worth to see what

had so perturbed them. On the ground at the women’s feet was Detective Colburn, though Ron

was scarcely able to recognize him, pierced through with bits of crystal as he was.

“Goodness,” Ms. Gwendolyn Worth said, somewhat breathlessly. “Rach, go upstairs if

you please.”

“We just found him like this, detective,” Miss Priscilla Worth said.

“Honestly,” Miss Penelope Worth said. “We haven’t any clue what might’ve happened.”

Ron surveyed the women standing over his bloodied partner and found himself doubting,

for the first time, whether they were quite as ladylike as he had thought them to be. At that

moment, the front door opened to admit Dr. Harriet Worth. She took in the scene with a glance

and a sneer.

“Apple, get away from that,” she snapped.

“Dr. Worth, perhaps you could do something,” Ron gestured at Colburn.

“That man is dead. You would be better served by calling a coroner than a doctor.”

“Ah. It’s a deuced shame, then. He was a grand detective. He knew straight away that

your father’s skull was bashed in, you know,” he looked at the body. There was quite a lot of

blood. He surveyed the five women around him, watching as they carefully kept their shoes clear

of the mess. He looked to the girl still standing in the stairway, watching the proceedings

solemnly. He remembered the four women as of yet unaccounted for. He wished with every

ounce of his being that the Worth family had had the good sense to employ a butler, so that he

could put all of this behind him.

“Well, ladies. It appears that I shall be staying just a bit longer,” he said, trying for

joviality. He hadn’t the faintest idea what more he could do for this case.
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“Of course we’ll help with your investigation however we can,” Priscilla said.

“I don’t believe we’ll keep you here so very long,” Penelope assured him.

“You all are so hospitable, and your house is so lovely,” Ron said, “it won’t be a hardship

at all. I’ll get back to it at once if you don’t mind.”

Ron hurried back to the library, eager to be safely ensconced with the dead old man. He

left Ms. Gwendolyn Worth to return to indolently perusing her magazines and Dr. Harriet Worth

to send the two youngest Worths to wash off the remains of the late Detective Colburn. Miss

Priscilla and Miss Penelope Worth were bent together, conspiring over Priscilla’s phone.

The Worth women watched the detective’s retreating figure disinterestedly. It wasn’t of

much consequence what he turned up in his piddling investigation. He would never have the

chance to disclose his discoveries.