AN: I apologise for not getting this up faster. No sooner had I been declared winner for figuring out that who had murdered Murdoch Foyle in our Cluedo game before realising I had a mammoth task ahead - I found myself really struggling to find a plausible way in which one of our gentlest characters could commit murder and I hope I have finally managed to do credit to it. I was starting to think I'd have to create a slap-stick comedy.

A Massive thank you to GameMaster19, LemmingDancer and FiBeeN for organising our Cluedo game, it's been so much fun. To Frienze, Ethelfreda & PinkFairy23 - it's been an incredible opportunity and challenge to play against you and I'm so impressed and inspired by everything you have written both in this game and in general. I owe massive thanks to Seldarius for putting up with my moaning to the tune of 'mission impossible' and for her input on the final piece.

Disclaimer: Copyright still held by the ABC, Kerry Greenwood & the makers of cluedo (whoever they maybe).

Murder Most Foyle

"Dorothy Williams you have nothing to worry about!" Dot said aloud as she descended the cellar stairs.

But she couldn't shake the feeling that there was evil lurking in every shadow.

Ever since they'd heard Murdoch Foyle had managed to escape again, this time with the noose literally around his neck, she'd been looking over her shoulder. Hugh and the Inspector were doing everything they could to ensure Miss Phryne and Jane's safety, knowing he would target them given a chance. But after a three-week manhunt across the state had failed to turn up so much as a hint of his whereabouts they'd been forced to scale back their protective measures. There were after all, plenty of other criminals to apprehend in Melbourne and they had pledged their service to Queen and Country long before the Fisher family became known to either of them. But in the weeks since the escape several changes to their ordinary routine had been adopted by all members of the household: Cec & Bert were on protective service duty, entrusted with driving Jane to and from school each day and accompanying her on any errands she needed to run; Mr Butler kept his pistol holstered under his dinner jacket at all times so as to be ready at a moment's notice to defend the household; Miss Fisher had made a pact not to venture off alone without either the Inspector or Cec & Bert as back up and Dot, being the most flexible and possibly the most reasonable of the ladies of the Fisher household, had simply agreed not to go out or stay in the house alone. The fact that Hugh and the Inspector still took turns staying at the house overnight whenever they were not required elsewhere and that when they weren't able to be there Cec, Bert and Mr Butler took turns being on guard throughout the night was testament to the fact that none of them had really relaxed since the news had come 22 days ago of Murdoch Foyle's Houdini style escape.

Dot didn't have to return the pair of ornate silver candlesticks to the cellar today but she knew the only reason she hadn't already done so was because she had become unnerved at the thought of the gloom which the poorly lit cellar was so well known for. The candlesticks were some of the ugliest and most ostentatious Dot had ever seen, standing almost two-foot high before you put a candle in and cast of solid silver they were rather like very heavy rounders bats. The only time they ever came out of storage was when Mrs Stanley was due for dinner at which time they were hurriedly polished and set on the dining room table as though they were the crown jewels of the establishment. Whenever Mrs Stanley happened to drop in unexpectedly Miss Phryne was always quick to say that they were far too precious to have them out for 'common' or 'everyday' occasions, a sentiment which was received with equal amounts of righteous approval as it was delivered with biting sarcasm.

But Aunt Prudence's visit had been over a week ago and Mr Butler, with an extra gentleman to attend to each morning, had yet to find time to return the wretched things to the cellar and today, Dot had decided, was to be their last day in public view. The Inspector, having previously been told the story of Phryne being the most unwillingly recipient of them one Christmas, had used them as an example at dinner the night before of the distinction between those with both a lot of money and taste, and those who merely had a lot of money. It was a great compliment to Miss Phryne that he thought she was an example of the former but knowing how much entertaining her Mistress did had galvanised Dot into action this morning as not all of those guests could be counted upon to have such positive -

There was a soft thud below her and to the right.

Dot froze halfway down the stairs, stifling a cry of alarm. Her thoughts shifting instantly from domestic to paranoid: 'Could it be Foyle? Was he hiding out, ready to murder them in their beds?'

Barely breathing she waited, expecting something to appear from the darkness. She wished fervently she'd chosen to take two trips so that she could have held the torch in one hand, could have turned that light to the right corner. Then again, it had taken over an hour to work up the nerve to go once and to have one of a pair remain alone in the dining room would be unthinkable, so here she was, one heavy candlestick gripped tightly in each hand, praying the shadows remained unoccupied at least until her errand was done.

But the seconds ticked by and nothing moved and Dot forced herself to relax; 'it was probably just a mouse,' she thought bravely.

"Nothing to worry about," Dot said aloud, this time with less conviction, as she moved swiftly, suddenly wanting to get to the bottom of the stairs as quickly as possible. The sooner that was done, the sooner she could be back in the bright sunshine of the kitchen laughing with Mr Butler about her fear of the dark over a hot cuppa.

But as she put her left foot flat on the cold cellar floor something shifted in the dark, rustling and scraping ever so quietly as though the cuff of work pants had been left unhemmed to drag on the floor.

The shadows moved again, closer now and this time something materialised from dark, advancing towards her.

Her panicked thoughts turned instantly to one man: MurdochFoyle!

This time she couldn't stifle the scream that rose in her throat, terror taking over.

Acting on instinct Dot swung the candlestick high over her head and brought it down in a punishing blow, seeking to banish the evil thoughts her mind was creating by proving she was alone. Proving that there was nothing to be afraid of.

And yet, it was not thin air that the heavy candlestick connected with. The sickening crunch was not in her mind alone and neither was the body which slumped at her feet, into the pool of dim light which illuminated the stairs and the shelves before her.

A man lay crumpled on the cellar floor facedown, the back of his head a bloody mess where something heavy had left a significant impression.

Dot knew she should go to the man: turn him over, provide aid, do something - but the terror of what seemed like a nightmare come true made her turn tail and run, screaming out for help as she rushed up the stairs.

Before Dot was halfway up the stairs the door flew open, thundering footsteps and dancing spots of light announcing the cavalry's arrival.

"Miss Williams?"

"Dot! Are you alright?"

"Dorothy?"

Blinded by the sudden light and rush of voices, all talking over one another as Mr Butler, Miss Fisher and Inspector Robinson all rushed down the stairs to meet her, Dot couldn't find words to explain – she wasn't even sure herself exactly what had happened. She gestured to the bottom of the stairs mutely as Miss Fisher wrapped her arms around her; murmuring calming words in her ear as Dot buried her face in her shoulder. Dot felt more than saw the two men pass her, heading for the cellar floor where the body lay.

.

"It's Foyle." The Inspector said grimly.

As the breath rushed out of Phryne's lungs, Dot forced herself to look at the face no longer turned to the ground, praying it wasn't true.

As she watched, the Inspector's experienced fingers felt for a pulse in the pale throat.

"He'd dead." The Inspector said, rising from his position on the floor to face them, his expression grim. "Murdoch Foyle is dead."

"I k-killed Murdoch F-Foyle?" Dot whispered, as the world spun and her knees went weak. Her last thought before the blackness swallowed her was that 'murderers couldn't marry policemen.'