chapter three
police matters

The sun rose that morning with a cold cheerfulness, cruelly indifferent to the terrible tragedy of the night before. Inside the ancestral home, the police officers had arrived and were busy roping off the office in which my uncle's body had been found. According to my Uncle Oakes, who had been the unfortunate discoverer of the body upon hearing a sharp cry last night and going downstairs to investigate, Mordred had apparently been attacked with some sort of sharp metal weapon, and his face had been mutilated beyond recognition. However, it was unmistakably my uncle's clothing and body, said Uncle Oakes. My uncle refused to let anyone else see the body, and we were left to imagine Mordred's grotesque passing. My mind felt weak and numb, and I let my eyes wander over the three policemen, who had now returned to the family in the living room.
There were two young policemen in uniform, one blonde, one with brown hair. They moved about the room with stiff, professional movements, talking in low and furtive voices. Their superior officer, a Mr. Waldrop, was in plain clothes, namely a brown leather jacket, shabby corduroy pants, and large, geeky-looking glasses. He was a red-head, complete with sideburns and a straggly goatee. He might have been tall, had he not a sort of humped back that made him appear to be constantly slouching, and he spoke in a marked Southern drawl. He seemed to me a rather unpleasant person, with his languid, sour exp​ression, and when he crossed the room to speak to Jeanette and me, I noticed how dull and spiritless his eyes looked behind his thick glasses.
"I'll need to ask you ladies a few questions," he said professionally, pulling out a small notebook from his jacket pocket. "You are the nieces of the deceased, are you not?"
"Yes," I said, "Shirley Ingham."
"And Jeanette Ingham," murmured my cousin, still staring at the floor. Poor Jeanette, she was still very pale and shaken from the night's shock. I put my arm around her shoulder encouragingly.
"Now your grandparents had three sons, is that right?" continued the policeman.
"Yes," I answered. "Oakes, Mordred, and Roger."
"And Roger is your father?"
"Yes," I said, my throat going tight. "He and my mother died in a car accident in 2006."
"I see," he said, making some kind of note in his little book. "You'll forgive the personal questions, Shirley, but is it true that your late uncle was involved in some sort of university scandal a few years back?"
"Yes, it's true," I said quietly. "We were never given the particulars, but I understand that it was some type of ethics violation. He is a biochemistry professor, and was working on a research experiment with a team of Swiss scientists."
"And what was the outcome of the scandal?"
"Nothing. The university withdrew their charges. I don't know why."
"And when did this happen?"
"In 2006. Big, red-letter year for the Inghams." I stifled a sudden weird urge to laugh out loud. My uncle's death was just so bizarre, and my brain still hadn't completely processed it yet.
"I see," said the policeman. "And did either of you hear anything suspicious last night?"
"No," I answered. Jeanette shook her head.
"Well, the room you two were in is very high up in the building. Have you any reason to believe that your uncle ever renewed his contact with the Swiss scientists?"
"We wouldn't know, I'm sorry. Our uncle was not very…uh, communicative."
"I must ask one more personal question. You will forgive me. Do you strongly regret your uncle's death?"
I glanced uneasily at Jeanette. That was an awkward question indeed. After a moment I answered, knowing that I spoke for both of us. "We were never very close to our uncle, Officer, even before he became, as you might say, the black sheep of the family. Of course we are upset at his death, and it's a great tragedy, but um…" I tried to think of how to explain it. "Well, like I said, we were not very close to him," I finished lamely. I was not about to tell a complete stranger all the things I had thought and feared, in secret, about my late uncle.
"I see. Thank you, ladies," he said, and returned to hold conference with his fellow officers. I saw that Jeanette was slipping quietly out of the room, and I followed her up to our guest bedroom.
She was sitting silently on her bed, with her back to the wall. "Shirley?" she asked upon hearing my footsteps.
"Yeah."
There was a silence.
"It's so…horrible."
"I know." I had opened my suitcase and taken out Jeanette's Christmas present, a special edition of the board game Clue, which had been a childhood favorite of ours. I thought the gift might cheer her up, but, upon reading the inscription on the back, "Who killed Mr. Boddy?" I thought better of it, and shoved the game back into my suitcase.
"Do you want to be alone?" I asked.
"I don't mind."
"Well, I'll be back." For some reason, my mind just couldn't accept the fact that my uncle had really been murdered last night. The strangest ideas were flitting about in my brain, and I couldn't stop thinking about it. Slowly, I walked downstairs and back into the living room. My relatives had all left the room, and there remained only the three policemen, who were carefully inspecting the doors and windows and were oblivious to my presence.
"Um, sir?" I asked awkwardly, breaking the silence. The chief officer, Mr. Waldrop, whirled around, his magnifying glass suspended in mid-air. "Yes?" he said curtly.
"I was wondering if we could…um, talk," I said, realizing how lame that sounded.
"Shirley, we are in the middle of an investigation," said the policeman.
"Yes, but I have some information--some conjectures, anyway, which might be helpful," I responded timidly.
With the manner of a parent yielding to a relentless child, Mr. Waldrop laid down his magnifying glass and turned to me with his arms folded. "You'd better tell me all," he said.
"The thing is," I began, "I don't believe that my uncle is dead."
One of the younger policemen at the window made a snorting sound that was probably supposed to be laughter, but Mr. Waldrop ignored him.
"I know that sounds stupid, Mr. Waldrop--"
"Please, call me Brandon,"
"Uh, Brandon," I said. "I know it sounds stupid, but um…do you give any credence to impressions and feelings? Maybe you would call it women's intuition."
His exp​ression was a bit skeptical and not very encouraging. I took a deep breath and continued.
"I'll be frank with you, Brandon. I have always been unexplainably disturbed in my uncle's presence. Somehow my mind seemed to sense something sinister and undisclosed in those glinting eyes of his. I have never discussed it with Jeanette, but I believe that she shares my convictions. And now he is reportedly dead, yet the feeling of his presence remains with me very strongly."
Mr. Waldrop adjusted his glasses. "You have just had a terrible experience, Shirley. It is understandable that your mind should be anxious and disturbed."
Sympathetic fellow, this, I thought. "I don't expect you to believe what I am saying," I said a bit stiffly. "I'm only saying it because I think it might help you with the investigation."
"That is good of you," he said.
I took a deep breath. "The other thing is, I am currently earning my PhD in British literature. And I consider myself something of an expert on, well, detective fiction. And I cannot ignore the fact that this event reminds me very strongly of a certain story of Sherlock Holmes."
For a moment there was a look in Brandon's face that I could not explain. An instant later it had vanished, and he looked cynical and even a little amused.
"Thank you for your concern, Shirley, but this matter is anything but fictional," he said.
"I'm just telling you how I feel!" I exclaimed. OK, Shirley, way to sound like a complete idiot. I looked around at the time-beaten paneling of the living room, trying to calm myself down. "There is so much history in this room," I said softly. "You can almost feel the past here, separated only by the flimsy veil of time. If only we could tear that veil, how much this room might tell us!" I looked around to see the two younger policemen staring at me with exp​ressions not unlike those of my former student Chad. "Sorry, that was kinda random," I apologized. Where had that thought come from, anyway? "I'll stop taking up your time," I muttered, and fled from the room, flushed with embarrassment.

I knew how foolish I must have sounded to the policemen. But the truth was, I'd meant every word I said.