TEA AT TOFFHAM HOUSE

I wrote a little opening to a murder mystery story. You know, just for fun. I think I'm calling it Tea at Toffham House. I doubt I'll write any more - I certainly haven't plotted it out, but perhaps one day. If you're itching to find out what happens next, then maybe. Anyway, enjoy.

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Tea at Toffham House

"Oh Toffy darling, are you ready?" she called up the stairs.

"Yes, my love."

"Come on down then. Mister Poivre is dying to see you!"

'Toffy', Charlie Toffham, straightened his cravat and checked his reflection. He was neat, tall, handsome: the kind of man who never let himself be seen with a hair out of place, especially when taking tea with renowned company such as Monsieur Poivre! He smiled at himself carefully, checked his cufflinks, and clipped smartly down the wooden staircase.

-

Angela was rearranging the flowers in the hall when he trotted down. She looked up at him from the vase as she heard his footsteps. He stopped and looked at her for a moment. Then, wordlessly he continued, brushing past her as he went.

-

"Well, I'll be, Reverend, if this isn't the most splendid tea! Monsieur Poivre, you must try some, I insist!" cried Lord Toffham.

The three men stood around the fireplace while an elegant figure was spilling over the chaise-longue. The Reverend, a tall but jolly man with red face and round spectacles, was beaming at Lord Toffham. Lord Toffham was gesturing a cup and a saucer toward Monsieur Poivre, who still stood pensively with his hands behind his back.

"Ah, your Lordship," said the detective. "I regret I am not familiar with your English taste for the tea."

"If he doesn't want tea, Daddy, you can't force Mister Poivre," said the lady from the chaise-longue.

"Nevertheless," interjected the clergyman, raising a finger, "There are always new experiences to try, even for a man of great distinction."

Poivre smiled politely and bounced on the balls of his feet. Somewhat awkwardly he moved towards the fireplace.

"Where is Toffy?" drawled the lady. She swung her legs to the floor and stood up, placing a small pink glass on the coffee table beside her. And with that she swept through the room and into the hall. The men ignored her.

-

"Angela dear," said Lydia, "Have you seen Mr Toffham?"

Angela reddened slightly. "I think he went to the kitchens, Mam."

Lydia continued, leaving Angela with the flowers. 

-

Charlie, with a spring in his step, bounded into the drawing room. The effect was instantly arresting - like pulling back the drapes on a sunny morning, or suddenly scratching a gramophone record. His father stopped mid-sentence at his arrival, the detective looked at him politely, cup in hand, and the Reverend peered through his spectacles.

"I say," said young Mr Toffham, almost at once, "Monsieur Poivre, you're well I presume. The name's Toffham, Charlie Toffham. But you can call me Toffy. Everyone else does. Ah! Good! I see you're taking tea. Marvellous!"

"Ah monsieur Toffham. The tea? Oui, I was persuaded. But a pleasure nonetheless."

"Very good, very good."

"Charlie," interrupted his father sternly. "Lydia is searching positively the entire house for you. Where the devil have you been?"

"None of your damn business," said the young man lightly. "Apologies, Reverend, Monsieur Poivre; My father seems to have a rather specific determination to know my affairs, but not it seems, the grace to reveal his own."

The Reverend stared. Poivre lifted his teacup, and Lord Toffham turned his face toward the fire, which was crackling in the grate. Then he snapped back.

"Everything in this house is my business." His face was pink between his starched collars, whether from fury or his proximity to the fireplace. His son, oblivious, continued towards the couch and flopped somewhat artistically into it.

"Toffy!" said a more melodious voice from the doorway. Lydia had returned from the kitchens.

"Sorry old bean. Had to make a detour."

Lydia nodded and quietly returned to the chaise-longue.

"You were saying I think, Monsieur Poivre," continued the Reverend, "that the motives for most murders are in essence, the same?”

"Indeed. The crime is so often the crime of the passion, n'est pas? And if not of the passion then the power. That one thing man craves so much, to be the, how do you say, king of the castles."

The Reverend chuckled.

"Castle," he corrected, "King of the castle. There's only one castle. And certainly in this part of the world.”

Lord Toffham raised an eyebrow, while Charlie looked at Lydia with a withering glare. Then, rather reluctantly they laughed together.

A tinkling sound came from the hall, as though something had been knocked over.

Then, suddenly, Monsieur Poivre looked down at his teacup in shock. His eyes widened. His face turned red. He spluttered.

"Poivre! Are you alright?" cried Lord Toffham.

But the detective couldn't speak. The teacup clattered to the floor and he staggered backwards.

"Mon Dieu," he said weakly, sweat beading on his temples.

"My God!" cried Charlie leaping to his feet, “Monsieur Poivre!"

The Reverend lurched forwards as Monsieur Poivre fell. Within moments the famous detective lay still on the floor of the drawing room, stone dead.