Another day, another note. It had become a regular occurrence over the last few weeks, but that didn't help the fear they felt staring at that typed note.
'You looked lovely in that trench coat yesterday. I dreamt I bent you over the dining room table while you were polishing, hitched it up to your beautiful hips and had my way with you. You wouldn't need to say 'no', I'd take you anyway. That lip-gloss makes me think of slick, shiny rings around my...'
Martin sighed and pressed the heel of their hands into their eyes, the note fluttering to the floor.
They thought of the other notes.
'You're so... exotic...'
'You should cook more often. When you're in the kitchen, in nothing but your petticoat, sweating...'
'I saw you in the bath, all steamy and wet...'
'You belong to ME, don't forget that. If you do I'll teach you a lesson, and that man-whore too!'
'IF I CAN'T HAVE YOU, NO ONE CAN!'
Martin felt sick as tears stained their rouged cheeks and made their eye makeup run.
Their tearful gaze caught the skirt and blouse that hung on the dark mahogany wardrobe, waiting to be worn, but they didn't feel safe anymore.
On shaking legs, they walked to the small basin of water in the corner of the room, in front of the mirror and scrubbed at their face with their dingy grey flannel.
As the taxi trundled up the gravel driveway, Douglas stared at the manor house; unfazed by it's size.
Shappey House was like any other manor house you could imagine; cream walls and marble pillars, large windows, gravel paths and climbing flowers; how cliché. Mind, he was rather cliché himself.
As the taxi stopped, he got out and paid the driver before walking up to the house, hopping up the steps. He was in a good mood; decent food was beckoning. Sure, someone was dead but life was for the living and the mighty Douglas Richardson was getting his luck back.
He rang the doorbell and only had to wait a few seconds before the door was opened by the butler.
The butler was a man of average height, a few inches shorter than Douglas, with well-slicked blond hair and a neat moustache. His blue eyes narrowed slightly at Douglas' dusty, slightly faded, formal suit and waistcoat.
"Douglas Richardson, Private Investigator," He introduced himself.
"Oh," The butler seemed to relax at this, "Of course sir; we've been expecting you, do come in," The butler stepped aside to allow Douglas to cautiously enter the house. The interior was the typical marble, gold and rich reds - the standard specs. "M'lady and Arthur are in the drawing room, sir; follow me."
As the butler lead him through the house, Douglas couldn't help but ask with a raised eyebrow, "Does Master Shappey know you address him by his first name?"
"He insists on it, sir," The butler answered curtly, opening a door. The hallway was suddenly flooded with obnoxious jazz music and Douglas made a face of distaste, thoughts being tossed back to the by-gone days of liberal girls and gin and hot piano. The butler's announcement brought him back to the present, "Mr Douglas Richardson."
As Douglas entered the room, he could see it was the drawing room. The master of the house lay on his stomach in front of the radio, staring up at it with large, bright, brown eyes. He was fairly young and wore a fashionable grey suit with a white shirt and vibrant red tie, his hair was brown and gelled in a wavy side-parting.
Lady Knapp-Shappey was a short woman with grey hair scrapped into a bun and a hard as diamonds expression; she was painting a series of picket signs, the current read 'give women the vote'.
"Suffragette?" Douglas inquired, only earning half attention from the lady, but full from the young man.
"Are you not?" She asked, as if it were the most ridiculous thing she'd ever heard.
"Mostly, in private," He shrugged.
"We need more men on the street," she sniffed. "But no time for a discussion of politics. Mr Richardson, I believe you were visited by my house keeper, Martin Crieff."
"Indeed." Douglas had thought of little other than Martin since the meeting, he had to admit the interest he had in the young person.
"They told you it was a murder, did they not?"
"They did, but not of whom," Douglas remarked.
"Oh, Martin," Lady Knapp-Shappey rolled her eyes, "The victim was my husband, Gordon."
Douglas trailed his eyes over Lady Knapp-Shappey's purple dress. "Not in mourning?"
"One learns to move on quickly from unpleasant things, the older they get," Lady Knapp-Shappey remarked coldly.
"Surly not the death of a husband?" Douglas' eyebrows shot towards his hairline.
"My father was a mortician, Mr Richardson; death has been part of my life since I was very young," Lady Knapp-Shappey informed, "Arthur, turn off the radio; I don't think the music of Billy Meyers is quite suited for this conversation."
"Sorry, mummy," Arthur apologised, turning off the radio.
"Thank you," Lady Knapp-Shappey nodded, "My husband was found, throat slit, on his back on the kitchen floor yesterday by Martin. Poor thing was rather shaken."
"Yes, I did think that they weren't at ease," Douglas commented, "I must admit that I've been rather looking forward to seeing them more relaxed..."
"You won't have much luck with Martin, they're rather neurotic," Lady Knapp-Shappey commented.
"Mummy, I think we should have some tea; it'll help keep us calm," Arthur requested.
"Very well, give Martin a ding-dong," Lady Knapp-Shappey nodded and Arthur rang the bell.
"How old are you, Master Shappey?" Douglas asked.
"Twenty eight and a half," Arthur smiled proudly, "And call me Arthur, please."
"You seem younger, if you don't mind me saying Arthur," Douglas commented, still able to conduct himself with decorum around the upper class.
"My son does have a youthful vigour," Lady Knapp-Shappey chuckled.
"I don't mind seeming younger at all," Arthur smiled, "I actually quite like it."
The door opened and the housekeeper came rushing in, "Your tea, m'lady." Douglas noticed the change in their clothes; rather than the feminine clothes they were wearing yesterday, they were now wearing a man's suit.
"Ah, that was quick Martin," Carolyn congratulated, taking a sip of, what Douglas could tell from the smell was, rather expensive tea.
"The kettle was already boiled, ma'am," Martin explained. They turned to leave, but noticed Douglas, "Oh, Mr Richardson, here I see."
Douglas could now see their eyes were red-rimmed and their cheeks blotchy. He forced his mouth to work, "Hello again, Martin..."
"Oh, I see, you're confused about the clothes -"
"Martin, you don't have to explain yourself," Lady Knapp-Shappey defended.
"I'm fine, ma'am," Martin soothed, "Well, Mr Richardson; you know how some people are boys, some people are girls?"
"Yes?"
"Well, some people don't necessarily fit in those boxes; I am one of those people..." Martin explained, blush colouring their cheeks.
"Interesting," Douglas smiled reassuringly and Martin let go of the breath they were holding.
"Alright, I think I shall take my leave..." And with that, Martin left.
"Mr Richardson, do you plan to take the case?" Lady Knapp-Shappey inquired.
"Of course, I shall begin my interrogations as soon as possible."
"Brilliant!" Arthur beamed.
"Arthur!" Carolyn chided.
"Sorry, mummy."
Author's note:
A beautiful sketch of Martin can be found here: post/112617574308/i-hope-this-is-alright by justaholmesboy on Tumblr :D (So lovely!)
If I get anything wrong (I know I called Martin a man before, but it was POV Douglas, so I kept the mis-gender to a minimum), just tell me and I'll change it :)