Hollingsberry

A dark Gothic murder mystery about a butler who kills his master, and the incompetent policemen who take on the case

His body lay cold and dead on the marble floor of his mansion. He was wearing only a pair of his expensive silk boxers that were imported from Italy or Turkey or some far-off place in Europe. His eyes wide and his skin gaunt, his mouth twisted into a dreadful look of shock, as if his final moments were of him seeing the mutilation of his own family. His green suit was neatly folded on the sofa behind him, as if he took the time to remove his expensive garments before dying. However, the most predominant part of this young man’s circumstance at this precise moment was that out of his exposed chest protruded a shining silver kitchen knife, gleaming with blood, which dripped onto the floor, creating a perfect outline of this dearly deceased.

 

After a few minutes, Hollingsberry entered this large room. He was the butler to this poor soul who recently lost his life. However, Hollingsberry didn’t look like a butler at this moment. Instead of walking in a graceful, elegant manner, he walked with a cocky stride as if he were walking down the aisle at his wedding. His face was contorted into a shocking sardonic smile when he saw the body. “Good evening, Howard” he said in his upper class British accent. He let out a laugh �" he was never allowed to call him Howard. It was always “Dr. Parker” or “Sir”. But now Hollingsberry could call him whatever he wanted. Standing over the body, Hollingsberry admired his work. For a first time murderer, he did a pretty good job. Straight in the heart and with only three efforts! Ha! He contemplated removing the knife from Howard’s chest, but chose to keep it in there for a short while longer �" not many butlers get to see their abusive masters in such a compromising position. He might as well enjoy the sight until the police arrived. Let them do the dirty work, he thought. Noticing the neatly folded suit on the sofa, Hollingsberry remembered his initial plan. Removing his lightly bloodstained coattails, Hollingsberry carefully lifted the bottle-green blazer and put it on. He did the same for the pants and the purple silk cravat. Soon Hollingsberry looked as distinguished and elegant as his poor deceased master. Admiring himself in the mirror of the room, Hollingsberry walked over to the body of “Dr. Parker” and crouched over it. He let one of his gloved hands brush over the static face of his master, and said softly “You always said you were pretty enough to be in pictures”. Letting out a sigh, Hollingsberry ripped the dagger out of Howard’s chest and violently slashed his face, right across the nose. He did so several more times until “Sir” was deeply unrecognizable. “Try being in pictures now, you b*****d!” he let out in a deep bellow. A rapturous laugh left his lips as he stood up, dagger still in his hand. He viciously kicked the body, which was now stiff as a board. He walked over to the window and threw the dagger out, smashing glass along with it. With the same cocky stride, he left the bedroom, walked down the marble stairs and lifted up the receiver of the telephone in the main room of the mansion. Taking a deep breath, he dialed the number and when his call was received, in a false, worried voice, Hollingsberry cried “Police, there has been a murder at Howard Parker’s home!” and with that, he poured himself a glass of whiskey, sat down and waited…

 

 

Got a call this morning. Must have been 3AM. It was old George at the station. The one word that described me at that moment was without a doubt irritated. He told me there was a murder. Not spectacular news. His voice sounded worried, as if it was an incredibly important person who had been killed. When he told me it was Dr. Howard Parker, I knew why they had called me that early. Quietly leaping out of bed, I put my trench coat over my pajamas and as I left, threw on my fedora. George was already waiting in the paddy wagon outside. He was a fast one, George. George was driving and I sat in the passenger seat, smoking my morning cigarette. “So, Howard Parker is dead…” I said with the distant hope that it was not the Howard Parker. George looked at me and said “Yes, Max. Howard Parker died. Apparently it was late last night. I don’t know who called, but I definitely know it was too late for him to be saved. The Boss said I must call you to help figure this whole mess out.” Howard Parker �" the man who was probably the most famous and beloved in this town. No one knew exactly what he was anymore �" Mayor, governor, senator �" he was always something high up there. And only 33 or 34 years old. The drive was slow and dark. The street lamps were scarcely working. Soon we approached a large sign with the words “PARKER MANOR” and below it was an enormous iron gate, locked. George blasted the horn and an elderly man came scurrying out of a small structure. Before we were allowed to enter though, he approached the driver’s window and in a creaky, frail voice said “What?” His irritated tone annoyed me.  George looked at him and said “Detective George Riley and Captain Max Anderson, Police”. A look of shock overcame the old man’s face. He waved his apologies and unlocked the gate. He drove up the monumental mountain that’s peak was the home of Howard Parker. The drive must have taken at least fifteen minutes from the bottom to the peak. As we approached the house, we saw the lights flaming like a myriad of tiny candles. The front door was open. We entered and we were shocked to find a man sitting on the steps, cradling his head in his hands and weeping like an infant. George rudely coughed, which brought the man’s head up with a startle. He wore a plain white button up shirt and black pants. He was very young. Maybe 27 or 28. Standing up, he greeted us with a fragile “Good evening, officers. Thank you for coming”. He offered both of us his shaking hand, which we both shook with reluctance. “Who are you?” I asked, trying to be as sensitive as a policeman can possibly be. After all, this kid probably just lost someone very close to him. “My name is Scott. Scott Hollingsberry.” I wrote this down. “And what business do you have with Dr. Parker” asked George in a more callous fashion than I would have dared. “Ummm…I was his butler for the last four years”. Somehow, I found myself being very surprised at this. In almost 40 years of service to the police, I had never encountered a butler younger than say 50 years old. But then again, they have to start somewhere. He led us up the marble steps, wiping his tears away as he told us how he discovered the body.

 

 

These policemen are too easy, Hollingsberry thought to himself. He knew after he made the call, they would take at least an hour to arrive. So he managed to erase all involvement in the murder before they arrived. He hid the expensive clothing in the pool pump structure a mile down the mountain. He put on plain clothes and incinerated his old butler uniform. He managed to call upon his supreme acting abilities to make him cry genuinely, and as he took his position of fabricated mourning, the cops showed up. It was the perfect plan. Leading them up the steps, he told them a magnificent story of how he discovered the body. He arrived late at home after visiting his parents (the police love stories of parents. What they didn’t know is that Hollingsberry’s parents have been dead for years) and how he heard a commotion in his master’s room. Thinking it was a quarrel with one of his mistresses, Hollingsberry quietly read in his room until the noise died down. An hour later, he decided to check on his master, who he found nearly naked with a dagger protruding out of his chest. In shock, he called the police. He figured that his jealous mistress killed him after a quarrel and took off with his expensive suit, leaving the dagger on the lawn behind.

 

The police ate this story up. There is no greater pleasure than a dumb policeman investigating a murder. Their horror at seeing the mutilated corpse of their beloved Dr. Parker was almost a perfect moment. The older policeman (a man Hollingsberry learned to be was Captain Anderson) let out a growl �" “whoever did this is going to pay!” while the younger policeman, who apparently went by the name of George Riley, shook his head. Hollingsberry approached them silently and said “Gentlemen, I am sure you have read all the old murder mystery stories. So let us cut this case time in half and you can arrest me right now. You know how it always ends in the butler being found to be the killer”. Hollingsberry held out his hands, awaiting the handcuffs. Instead of cold metallic shackles, Hollingsberry felt a warm hand pat him on the shoulder. The older policeman said “Don’t be a fool, Mr. Hollingsberry. That’s an old cliché. Butler’s don’t really kill their masters. That’s just thrilling fiction”

 

Hollingsberry smiled… 

Author's Note

Any advice and comments are welcome. The pace is deliberate

Reviews

[Gisette Rodriguez]

I enjoyed very much reading this piece, it was excellently written. This for a minute reminded me of the book Crime and Punishment and how the main character as well was able to escape justice.