C. Banion & The Case Of The Black Delilah

My story begins within a small apartment in Merchants Row, Boston, Massachusetts, 1882. At the end of the entertainment district’s block there stood a building of yellow painted bricks and a blackened interior. This was the cluttered and musty abode of one C. Banion; the only son of the world renowned archeologist, Sir Altan Banion II and beneficiary to the Banion Family Legacy. This legacy, which included a never-ending sea of government checks and the fortune to never have to work a day in his life, was granted upon my master’s head when his father, Altan, met his demise at the hands of an unknown illness while away on a humanitarian mission in Africa. I myself, being of a studious and home-bodied upbringing, had followed down the tradition of my family line and took up the career of a butler. And one who was tasked to stay beside the Banion Family’s side.

When Sir Altan first hired my father it wasn’t long before I was integrated into the servant’s lifestyle. Sir Altan was a knight of hope and good will. It was a pleasure to have met the man in my lifetime. My father and I were always treated more as family, rather than servants. We knew what was expected of us and we operated without flaw or worry. I’d first met Altan when he came to London, more towards the countryside which I had always called home. My father looked after an old mansion, the Bainbridge Manor. This was a prestigious rentable estate which the kind archeologist would frequent with his young son; a boy whom I would grow up alongside, and one day serve, as well. I was about Altan’s boy’s age when I’d first met the man himself. Sir Banion was a pillar of nobility, and in many ways he was my idol.

After my father’s death I stayed on as the Banion Family butler, and on my dear father’s deathbed I vowed to never leave the Banion’s side, staying on as their butler until the last member of their line would fall. Or, at least, until I passed away. Unfortunately death had one more mission to complete before leaving Banion’s boy and myself fatherless. Sir Altan passed away many years later, at the age of fifty two. After that his son retired back to America, and after two years of awaiting his improbable return had passed, I tracked the young master down; back to a place called Boston. There I found him rotting away, living off the riches of his family line and wasting away within the shadowy stomach of a dark room at the end of a busy street. I pleaded with the young Banion, telling him of my father’s will and playing on the memories of our childhood.

It was there that my good friend, C. Banion, took me on as his new butler and I was once again integrated into a familiar post. For the days ahead I could rest easy, but I knew the years had taken optimism from my friend. So, as my father requested, I have remained by Banion’s side and most likely will until the day I die. Fifteen years have passed and Banion has left the misfortunes of his youth well behind him. He operates as somewhat of a poet and crime solver, wasting a bored existence away amidst Boston, all while I tend to the upkeep of our shared apartment. In my opinion trouble seems to find him at almost every turn, and it could be considered dumb luck that his involvement in the murders and mysteries that seem to find us are usually solved by his lacking wit and nonexistent detective skills. Such as the case we came to know many years back involving a boxer and the Boston Commons. ‘The Case of the Black Deliliah’ I believe I called it. And it unfolded as follows:

1882 saw the death of a young twenty-two year old woman by the name of Amelia Long. She was  beautiful woman, as anyone who knew her would say; and it was upon the soil of the Boston Common where Miss Long was found sliced to high heaven and drained of all blood, in a peculiar medical-esque fashion. Like the handy work of a surgeon from hell. The press over popularized the slaying and an obvious proof of medical experience having played a role within the case made every doctor within the area a suspect. Banion doubted any foul play on the part of a doctor. he always said it was “…just dumb luck that the cuts came out that way.” I’ll never get what he meant by that. 

Three months had passed us by since that day, and Banion was getting quite tired of hearing about it. To him crime consisted of a murder a week, a theft every two days and daily assaults, with major or minor vulgar activities sprinkled all in between. Even those three months after the case had finally fallen out of the minds of the law, Banion still found his way to complaining about it, reading small newspaper articles and inquiries which carried the speculations about the homicide even further. Eventually to the point of blaming demons, ghosts and entities not of this world. Banion just sat back in his chair, smoked his pipe excessively an scoffed viciously at all of it.

“This sort of riffraff is beneath us all.”

“How so?”

Banion handed me the news paper as I stood, cleaning off the coffee table in front of him. I set aside the rag and took the paper, looking down at a small selection at the bottom of the page. I glanced over the first few sentences before Banion chimed in.

“Utter bullshit. Ghosts? Demons? Wraiths and phantoms… I swear. If the news spent as much time studying the facts and realities of life as they do making up stories to shock the masses, people might actually rise up and riot at the realization of their positions in this… disgusting world.”

“Quite biter this morning, are we not Mister Banion?”

“Oh, shut up Theo. Drop the butler-talk and get me another cup of coffee.”

“Four cups not enough today, sir?”

“Stop calling me sir, and no. I won’t be satisfied till this pipe stenches of french vanilla. That way I’ll be so sure that you aren’t taking puffs while I’m away.”

“You already know, sir, I appall smoking.”

“And you hate french vanilla, so you say, but I’ve been noticing a decrease in my tobacco stash. And at an alarming rate as of late, as well.”

“That is because you’ve been smoking it down. Quite more so… and at a much more alarming rate than usual. Need I inquire why, sir? Nerves?”

“My nerves are fine. It’s my temper that’s up.”

“Might I suggest setting the news papers aside for a time?”

“It’d do no good. I enjoy the layout of those pages and the micro-miles of words upon words. I’d have no trouble reading, that is if the damned subject matter was any good.”

I handed Banion back the paper and resumed cleaning he table. Perhaps it was curiosity to hear the comedic absurdity in his ramblings, but I continued the subject, rather than attempting to change it.

“So… the slaying of Amelia Long… you believe it to be solvable?”

“Absolutely. It’s merely the incompetence of the police that has brought her case to a halt.”

“So you say.”

Banion began to sink back cockily in his chair, boasting.

“I bet I could do a hundred times what those pigs think they could do.” He announced.

“That so?” I remarked.

He answered in a quick and stubborn tone. “No doubt.”

It wasn’t long before, in a fit of a morning rage, Banion forced himself up from his chair and demanded we make our way to to the Boston Commons; to track the elusive trail of the murderer of Miss Amelia Long. To be honest, I believed this venture to be a great waste of time and energy. Once my friend arrived on the scene and realized he actually held no detective capabilities whatsoever, I assumed we would retire back to a long drawn-out evening back at our apartment; with him sitting in his chair for the remainder of the day, quietly scolding himself for having wasted money on an ill faded attempt to prove me wrong. It wasn’t until arriving on the scene and noticing a woman in a black dress standing upon the site that Banion turned to me with a mischievous curiosity, and the look that a possible case could, indeed, unfold before us. Strange as it seemed, I pressed on.

“Good evening ma’am.” Banion called out to the lady in black.

“Excellent weather, is it not?”

The woman was quiet and looked at us for a brief second, turning back to a memorial on the side of the pathway through the Common’s cemetery. The memorial marked the spot where Amelia Long was slain.

“Did you know her?” Banion added.

It was no surprise that the young woman was annoyed at our presence. I grabbed my master’s arm to pull him away, but he swatted me off and insisted on bothering her further.

“Madam… can you hear me?” He insultingly waved his arms in an attempt to mimic sign language.

By this point she had turned from us completely and darted swiftly away, letting no word or remark leave her lips and paying us no mind at all. Not that I blamed her after how rude my master had acted.

“She’s connected.” He said.

“How in the hell could you know that?”

“Gut feeling.”

I stepped back in a furious astonishment.

“A gut feeling? Absurd. All you’ve done is bothered a probable friend of a deceased woman, and to be perfectly frank, managed to offend the mourning and the deaf all in one instance.”

My tone became louder. “How the hell is she involved!?”

Just before I was on the verge of grabbing Banion by the collar, his arm extended, pointing down to a folded paper tucked in-between the grass and a patch of store bought flowers.

“I believe that paper would be of some curious interest.” Banion cockily remarked.

I bent down and grabbed the paper, taking my time to unfold it.

It was a piece of paper with the words “I’m sorry.” scribbled in red pen.

“What does this mean?” I said aloud.

Banion stepped in front of me, took the paper and glanced over it swiftly before answering me.

“Roman, I believe we’ve found the murderer of Miss Amelia Long.”

I was more confused than I had ever been.

“Found the murderer!? So soon!? How? Why? How could you get all that from that little note. Obviously you’re mistaken. Explain what you mean!”

There had always been times when I believed my master to be quite strange in his daily judgments, but this certainly surprised me. I awaited his answer as questions races across my mind with a mad rush.

“You see…” He began.

“That woman in black has been spotted here every second day of the month since Miss Long’s death. She dresses the same, she stands here for the same amount of time and she always leaves a new note in place of the old ones. Usually they are blown away or washed out by rain. I know this because my rare outings have led me the Commons these past few months and I have noticed here presence multiple times. Now… judging by the paper… this particular brand of sheet, though currently just a cut corner, was part of a bigger sheet that had the brand label inked on the back of it. I know this because I took the original paper with that mark the first day I had spotted here standing here. The mark says “Gallo Printers.” A local paper supplying company two blocks from the Commons here. Nearby there is a series of apartments and after following the woman in black I was able to conclude that she, in fact, resides in a first story apartment on Lepton Street, one block from Gallo Printers. I even went through the trash in her back alley and discovered some red pens, obviously used by her to write these notes. Now, what many people don’t know, thanks to the ignorance of the press, was that a note was discovered beside the mutilated Amelia. A note which matched the writings of those on the papers found at the grave. The letter must have been dropped by the killer, the woman in black. The letter found beside Amelia mentions a person named ‘Sam’. The police believed this to be in reference to a fiend of Amelia’s, Sam Trotter. All the while I scoured the local surrounding Commons for Sams and Samuels, just in case the letter was addressed to a man. Now… the answer to solving this murder lies in the information I have obtained about the letter found by Miss Amelia. Roman, we shall return here, same day, same time, next month, and it is before the eyes of the woman in black and the police where I will conclude this mystery homicide.”

I went silent for a minute, as I’m sure Banion was expecting me to complement his skills in the matter of the murder. But there was only one thing on my mind.

“You were studying this case all along!?” I screamed.

“I swear to god, I have half a mind to thrash you right here!!”

He asked me to calm myself and assured me his intentions were imply playful in nature. I was still angry by the time we had made it back to the apartment. All that was left to do was to wait until the following month, when the woman would return and Banion would conclude his final comments on the case.

That day did eventually come and we arrived at the Commons, on the spot, shortly after the woman in black. Banion had taken the liberty of alerting a small unit of officers to pose undercover and nearby when the supposed arrest was to be made.

Once again, just like before, Banion approached the woman, but instead of speaking my master had previously told me to keep to ourselves, speaking simply as if only he and myself were standing there, yet close enough so the woman could hear exactly what we were saying. Banion had always had a flare for the dramatic, but I think he was getting worse with age. We stood neatly beside the woman, set our eyes forward at the memorial and began to speak loud and clear.

“So, you believe the girlfriend of the boxer, Samuel, to be the killer of Amelia Long, eh?” I began.

The woman in black looked up for a moment, obviously shocked by what we had said. I must say, the sudden silence that followed intrigued me. I awaited Banion’s reply.

“Indeed.” He began. 

“My friend, I had previously told you as to how I came to this conclusion, and now, here, upon the plot of the young Amelia’s death, I will reveal the nature of her demise.

The woman was silent as my master continued.

“Now then… the letter apologizes to someone named same and references missing some important event. My attention turned to a local boxer, Samuel “Tight Fist” Baker. After a few nights of stalking I found him with a young woman who happened to live in the same exact apartment as our mysterious woman in black. The woman in black in the girlfriend of Samuel, the boxer, and what I assumed was that Amelia’s death was the result of a crime-of-passion sort of incident. See… I believe the woman in black, real name: Emily Hart, found out about an affair Samuel had with Amelia, and so she killed Miss Long and greatly regretted it afterward. Hence why she comes every month to the scene of her crime to pay her respects.”

The woman in black, sobbing through a black hat she had pulled from a belt on her side, turned to Banion and myself as my master concluded.

“The police have the note found at the scene and the notes left behind by Emily Hart. Notes that will place Miss Emily here, at the scene of the crime, on the day of Miss Amelia’s murder.”

Banion tore the hat from the woman’s head and concluded.

“Anything you have the say for yourself!?” Banion yelled.

He spoke angrily, looking directly inter her eyes as I stepped backward. Banion tore a small piece of paper out of her hands. Another small note with the words ‘I’m sorry.’ written in red ink. Without taking his eyes off of the woman, Miss Emily, Banion signaled the police.

From behind us the undercover officers took the note Banion was holding up to them and placed it in an envelope with the note found at the scene of the crime. The evidence was secured.

Suddenly, a deep voice broke the silence.

“What the hell are you doing!?”

We all turned to see the boxer, Samuel Baker himself, running towards us. When the large man finally caught his breath he looked directly at Emily, cuffed and sobbing, then looked at the head officer.

“What are you doing to her!?” Samuel barked.

Banion replied. “This woman is under arrest for the murder of Amelia Long.”

Samuel stepped back, almost hesitant to reply. Finally he spoke.

“No, that’s impossible.” Samuel murmured.

“Darling, no!” Emily yelled.

Samuel stood tall and announced. “Emily couldn’t have killed Amelia, because it was me!”

I nearly fell over, not missing a chance to look over at the shock upon my master’s face. truly a comedic sight. 

“Explain yourself!” Banion snapped.

Samuel took a moment and began.

“The night Amelia died… she, Emily and myself had met here. Emily had discovered the affair between Amelia and myself, but she wasn’t mad. I separately asked each of them to meet me here for a private talk. I wanted us all to air ourselves out. When they both arrived we all began arguing. Amelia took out a knife and threatened Emily. I snapped and took it away from here, taking the blade to her while Emily fled. I guess the note she dropped that night next to Amelia was for me. Yeah, I know about it. I inquired down at the station a few months back, when I was trying to make sure my tracks were covered. I figured after a month or so that Emily never went to the police. Whether it was out of fear or protection over me. Either way I killed Amelia. Emily had nothing to do with it. I knew if she was suspected she might get taken in, and I can’t stand by while my first love serves time for a crime I committed.”

“But why keep returning to the grave and leaving those notes.” I asked.

“Look at this woman’s tears. Surely she felt responsible for all this. In some twisted way.” Banion replied.

Now, we understood. With more tears and much confusion the cuffs were taken off of Emily and put on Samuel.

The undercover leader had Sam and Emily taken aside.

“Both of you lovers come with us. We’d like to ask you some questions down at the station. Can’t tell you know if or when any charges will be pressed. We just wanna talk for now.” The cop said.

Banion and myself saluted the officers and made our way back to the street, to a carriage, back home. Along the way I inquired.

“Why do you suppose Samuel confessed so… flawlessly? Couldn’t have Emily truly ben the killer, yet Samuel could just be covering for her. Or perhaps it was both of them? Or maybe some underlining circumstances of unexplainable phenomenon killed Miss Amelia, and Samuel has no choice but to take the blame which should exist on a third party, or risk freedom at the cost of Emily taking a fall for him… or… or…”

He interrupted me.

“You’re overthinking it. Love wins out, Roman. Love wins out every time.” He said.

“It didn’t matter if Samuel did it, or Emily did it, if it was both of them of if it was none of them. A conclusion which I find highly doubtful. The underlining factor here is that, despite who may have done it, both individuals involved are plagued by guilt, apparent when they had been apprehended. If their story is true then perhaps Miss Amelia was not the perfect little angel the press had made her out to be.”

“That is only if Samuel’s story is true.” I added.

“Exactly.” 

Our conversation continued even after stepping through our apartment door and settling down in our chairs. Banion began.

“Justice will work itself out and even if either of them is responsible, the guilt alone will drive them insane. And we should rest easy in that knowledge. Despite who is convicted or not.”

“You have the strangest reasoning.” I remarked.

“Eh, it keeps things interesting. I just find it funny.” Banion said.

“What’s that?” I asked.

He lit up his pipe and we sunk back into our seats, tired from the long day. bunion laughed for a moment and remarked upon the irony of the case.

“It’s just this one thing…” He continued.

“It was Emily’s note that ended up placing here there at the scene of the murder. The note that connected her to Samuel and Amelia. The note that will most likely lead to the conviction of Samuel. This reminds me of a story. Well… sort of. It was this old Hebrew story, from the Book of Judges. It was about this temptress, Delilah, who ended up becoming the downfall of this fellow, Samson. It was over money or something that her actions screwed him over. Kind of like how Emily indirectly ended up becoming the downfall of Samuel. Notes and whatnot. So in a way… Emily, our woman in black, is like Samuel’s own little Delilah… A Black Delilah! If you will.”

I laughed and scolded Banion for smoking, bringing the case and this day to a clam and complete close.