On top of the World (standard:mystery, 4081 words)
Author: James C. Bernthal	Added: Aug 10 2004	Views/Reads: 3740/2476	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
Someone is murdering the family of the prime contender for Downing Street in a gruesome fashion. Please leave feedback. I need it.

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evening meal.  I have just come from there myself.” 

Lawrence thanked him, told him not to allow any person in without
permission and hurried into the kitchen. 

“Good afternoon, Theodore.” 

“Good afternoon, Sir Julian.  Why, we weren't expecting you back
before-” 

“Where is my son?” 

“Here, Sir Julian.” 

Lawrence greeted his ten-year-old son in an affectionate manner.  “Have
you seen your mother, Jonathan?” 

“No.” 

“I'm sure she'll turn up somewhere, Sir Julian.”  Theodore, the cook,
did not sound very sure. 

The master of the house thanked him.  He went up to the stairs and
straight to his wife's room.  He did not need to open the door to 
notice the pool of dark red fluid that seeped through it.  He reached 
for the handle with shaking white hands, and pushed the door open. 

He cried out. 

Sheila Lawrence, dressed in her best blue evening dress, lay on her
back, having fallen off her chair.  Her head was attached to her neck 
only by a thin thread of skin.  The blood still seeped through the 
dress, making it a shade of rich purple.  Her blonde hairs had been 
ripped from her head and scattered about the room.  The knife that had 
been used had been stuffed carelessly behind an oil painting on the 
wall. 

Lawrence shouted at the top of his voice for Benson.  The elderly butler
seemed to take an eternity to calmly totter up the staircase. 

“What is it, Sir Julian?” 

“‘What is it?'  ‘What is it?'  Look!”  He pointed down to the remains of
his wife with an arm that shook more vehemently than one would believe 
possible. 

The butler cried, “My God!” before he resumed his formal manner. 
“Should I telephone for the police, Sir Julian?” 

“Yes, yes.  Th-the police.  Get the police.” 

*** 

The police arrived within the hour and promptly cleared away the corpse.
 The press arrived shortly after and photographed both the ambulance 
and the shaking candidate for Downing Street. 

Benson answered the questions put to him by the police as well as he
could.  He stated simply that he had not seen Mrs. Lawrence all day, 
but had been outside preparing for the garden-party that had been 
planned for the night before Election Day for some time, so he would 
not have noticed if someone had crept quietly in and up the stairs. 

“What about the meals?” asked the Inspector. 

“Why, they do not concern me.  The cook sees to all that.” 

The Inspector took down the cook's name, Theodore Collins, and went to
see him, giving Benson instructions not to leave the building until 
further notice. 

The cook explained that Mrs. Lawrence had sent down word that she did
not want to be disturbed. 

Sir Julian Lawrence was a less difficult interviewee than one might
suppose.  He remained whiter than a sheet and still shook violently.  
He stammered heavily as he gave details that he had left early in the 
morning, speaking very briefly to his wife.  When he had arrived at his 
office, he had found on his desk two envelopes.  One contained 
statistics he was planning to use in his speech.  The other was a brown 
A5 envelope, which had been taped shut and addressed in print.  It 
contained an unsigned letter, which had been typed with a typewriter.  
The letter read: 

“Dear Sir Julian, “You think you are clever, don't you, with your famous
‘Little speeches'?  You think you care about the world?  About each 
suffering individual?  I think not. “Let's put you to the test, Sir 
Clever Julian.  Let's hope nothing happens to the ‘Little woman'. “*Or 
left in very excessive, really cruel, heartbreaking, rather ingenious, 
cold-blooded, terrifying, orderly nothingness.” 

There had been no signature.  Lawrence had not known what to make of the
letter, and he still did not understand the last sentence. 

The inspector looked at the document, dumbfounded.  He put it into a
plastic bag and removed a second similar container.  It contained the 
bloody knife that had been used to slaughter Sheila Lawrence. 

Lawrence could not bear to look at it at first, but when he had gathered
his wits, he scrutinised the handle and the coat of arms that it 
boasted. 

He breathed a name: 

“Oliver...” 

“Oliver?”  The police-representative repeated.  “What do you mean, Sir
Julian?” 

There came no answer.  Sir Julian Lawrence had fainted. 

*** 

“Well done, Mr. Chricton!  This one's in the bag!” 

“That was the most moving speech I've ever head.  It almost made me...
well, care!” 

“Perfect, Mr. Chricton!  You've got nothing to worry about!” 

Sir Julian Lawrence's only contender for prime minister of Great Britain
was a tall, balding man who was almost allergic to having his very 
plain face photographed, yet he made powerful speeches about subjects 
he did not know or care about. 

Chricton walked into the smoking-room, while he waited for the
journalists to leave.  He lit a cigar and picked up the newspaper. 

It was all about Sir Julian Lawrence: 

The Times sported the headline: BRAVE JULIAN LAWRENCE WILL NOT RESIGN. 

The Daily Telegraph sported the headline: SIR JULIAN LAWRENCE'S PRIVATE
TRAGEDY. 

The Daily Mail sported the headline: EXCLUSIVE! – SIR JULIAN LOSES HIS
COOLIAN!!! 

Sir Julian's rival scanned the pages, which were fortunately free of his
name, and turned to the previous day's papers, which were all about the 
Chricton-Lawrence political war, each wanting world peace, starting 
with Great Britain.  Of course, that was what it boiled down to.  Just 
about.  It was a pity for Sir Julian Lawrence that he had such an 
outstanding actor to contend with. 

First Great Britain...  Then the world... 

Poor Julian; he doesn't stand a chance... 

*** 

For more years than he cared to remember, the Inspector had been
fighting crimes to pass the time, but he had never seen such a 
ferocious – or significant - killing as that of Sheila Lawrence. 

He studied the knife that he had shown Sir Julian the day before.  What
was it about the coat of arms that could possibly have caused the 
utterance of “Oliver” and one of the world's foremost politicians to 
drop down in a dead faint? 

It did not look very detailed.  The coat of arms looked hardly real, as
if a child had drawn it.  However, it had clearly been very expensive 
to reproduce in solid silver and affixed to the handle of the ornate 
dagger.  The dagger was, in fact, a letter-opener. 

Trying to find the killer was difficult.  Looking through the newspapers
in the week leading up to the crime, he could find no person who had 
any reason to wish Mrs. Lawrence dead.  Had it been Sir Julian Lawrence 
who had died, the obvious suspect would be his competition, but Oliver 
Chricton could hardly wish Lawrence dead.  After all, he wanted world 
peace. 

Oliver Chricton.  Oliver Chricton.   Could this be the Oliver to which
Sir Julian Lawrence referred?  All those wasted hours perusing through 
the musical scores of Lionel Bart were in vain, but now he was getting 
somewhere.  Surely, Oliver Chricton had not murdered Sheila Lawrence?  
While it was true that he and Lawrence were.  Each one had announced an 
absurd notion of ruling the world, while drunk.  Absurd, of course.  
Surely they'd not really meant it. 

There was no solid evidence pointing to Chricton.  Besides, someone
would have noticed him. 

*** 

A week had passed since the tragic even.  Sir Julian had made a pathetic
speech.  Election night was in three days. 

The house was under constant police-supervision: one man on each side of
each door, who changed at six-hour intervals.  Sir Julian Lawrence and 
his son were well protected.  When either of them left the house, it 
was with police protection. 

It was a beautiful morning.  The sun was shining radiantly and the birds
were singing merrily.  Lawrence was awakened by a gentle tap on the 
door. 

“Come in, Benson.” 

“Yes, sir.”  The butler walked slowly into the room and handed his
master an envelope on a silver platter. 

“Excuse me, sir, but this letter arrived for you by hand.” 

“Thank you, Benson.”  He dismissed the servant and tore open the letter
immediately, recognising the way in which it was addressed. 

The typed page read as follows: 

“My very dear Sir Julian, “Tut tut.  I'm sorry.  Poor Sheiley, what a
tragedy.  Was there lots of blood?  Ha!  I already know!  Brave Sir 
Julian. “‘The world is drowning in blood'?  So are you, Sir Julian.  
Why, I almost feel sorry for you.  Like mother like son. “*Oh, let's 
inexplicably vanish, even rather clumsily, helping really innocent 
citizens to override nostalgia.” 

Lawrence dropped the note and immediately ran to the kitchen.  He did
not know why.  He asked of Theodore: 

“Where's Jonathan?” 

“Master Jonathan is still in his room, as far as I know, Sir Julian.” 

“Thank you.”  He ran up the stairs, two at a time.  He hammered at the
door of his son's room.  There came no answer, except the slush of Sir 
Julian Lawrence's boots, as he stood in the puddle of blood that leaked 
through the door. 

The door was locked.  He did not have time to call Benson, so he broke
it open himself. 

As he tried to get the hinges to give way, he pictured all the gruesome
scenarios he could.  When the door opened, the view that greeted him 
was worse than he could have imagined. 

The twelve year-old Jonathan Lawrence had been cut into three main
parts, and several organs had been ripped out.  Although the murder 
weapon was missing this time, there was a drawing on the wall in what 
must have been the child's blood.  It was a very artistic reproduction 
of the coat of arms that had been on the handle. 

Again, Sir Julian cried out for Benson.  This time, the butler hurried
up the stairs.  The police were summoned faster than before and the 
body was removed quicker than before. 

*** 

On his way to Sir Julian Lawrence's house, in his own car with the
sergeant, the Inspector noticed a huddled figure in a dark alley.  He 
demanded his colleague to stop the car, and when that had been done, he 
got out and made his way towards the figure. 

He started to speak, before he noticed the face.  Or what was left of
it.  The man was a police constable who had been on duty the previous 
evening.  He had been strangled, which had killed him, but the murderer 
had tried to hack his head off, just to make sure.  What was even more 
significant was that the policeman was dressed not in uniform, but in 
an expensive suit. 

While some colleagues took care of the dead colleague, the Inspector
made his way with a few others to Sir Julian Lawrence's house, where he 
wrestled with the press, who – amazingly – already knew what was going 
on. 

Sir Julian was easier to interview.  He told a very simple story.  The
inspector tried to conclude the interview with the question: “Who is 
Oliver?” 

“What?” 

“When you saw the weapon that had killed your wife, you said just one
thing - ‘Oliver'.  Is Oliver a person, a place, an institution, a state 
of mind?” 

“The coat of arms...  On the wall...  Oliver did it...” 

“Oliver killed your wife and your son?” 

“Y-yes...” 

“Who is Oliver, Sir Julian?”  No answer.  “Are you referring to Oliver
Chricton?”  Sir Julian shook his head.  “Who, then?” 

“Morron.  Oliver Morron.  Morron the Moron, we used to say.  Of course,
we didn't mean it.  He was clever, very clever.  Not as clever as me, 
but very clever.  H-he wanted ultimate power.  We both dreamed of being 
prime minister.  I'm starting to make a success of it.  Oliver was 
never heard of again.” 

“When did you last see each other?” 

“Back in 1966, when we left school for different colleges.  I've no idea
where he is now.” 

The Inspector still did not understand.  “What has this to do with the
coat of arms?  Is that the Morron family coat of arms?” 

“No, no, no.”  Sir Julian's voice held regret, confusion and impatience.
 “It was like our logo.  There were three of us, we drew this coat of 
arms, because everyone in the films had one, and we wanted something to 
identify us by.  It was almost a secret code.” 

“Who was the third member of your party?” 

“Say ‘group', Inspector, ‘party' sounds ambiguous.  The third was my
brother, Henry.  As you will know from the papers, he died jumping from 
an aeroplane when he was fifteen, trying to break the world record.” 

The next question was about the knife: Had all three had one?  They had
not, and Sir Julian had never seen one before.  Evidently, Morron was 
taking the coat of arms too far.  He had to be wealthy now, to afford 
solid silver engraving. 

For the first time in several years, the Inspector lost sleep over a
case.  He was worried that more police would die, or the police would 
look bad.  He took exact reproductions of the letters.  They were out 
of character, for Morron, or any person who was trying to frame him, 
which seemed unlikely, would undoubtedly have signed the letters, even 
if with that ghastly coat of arms. 

The asterisks were clues.  He tried them as a code.  Could the answer be
in the third letter of each word?  That would not work, since the first 
word in each case was only two letters long.  How about the old code of 
every third word?  That got: in, really rather, terrifying and 
inexplicably, rather, really, to.  That made no sense.  Rather and 
really appeared in each one.  Each pair of words began with the same 
letter: “in” and “inexplicably”, “really” and “rather” and “to” and 
“terrifying”.  Come to think of it, every word after the asterisk began 
with the same letter in the second note as in the first. 

Could it be an acrostic?  That would get: 

O - Or L - Left I - In V - Very E - Excessive R - Really C - Cruel H -
Heart-breaking R - Rather I - Ingenious C - Cold-blooded T - Terrifying 
O - Orderly N – Nothingness 

The other letter read: 

O - Oh L - Let's I - Inexplicably V - Vanish E - Even R - Rather C -
Clumsily H - Helping R - Really I - Innocent C - Citizens T - To O - 
Override N – Nostalgia 

O-L-I-V-E-R-C-H-R-I-C-T-O-N.  It was beyond dispute that each one spelt
out “Oliver Chricton” – a taunting signature.  There wasn't any chance 
that it was another Oliver Chricton, for it is an unusual spelling of 
the surname. 

If Oliver Chricton was, in fact, Oliver Morron, it would make sense that
he never spoke about his past.  Also, he only ever made public 
appearances on Wednesdays and Fridays.  Each murder had occurred on a 
Monday.  With his authority, Oliver Chricton could easily have lured a 
policeman to the street where he could murder him.  That way, he would 
only have to swap clothes, explaining the corpse being dressed in an 
expensive suit, and take up the constable's position by the door.  He 
could go in to speak to the butler or something (perhaps not that, 
since the servants did not stay in over night) and kill the child.  
Time would be on his side.  The chances are that Lawrence would not 
recognise his old friend after forty years, and Chricton was a 
wonderful actor. 

Oliver Chricton had the motive, the opportunity and the disposition to
kill, if this was all being done to destroy Sir Julian Lawrence, either 
out of jealousy (Sir Julian) or simply to get rid of the opposition.  
Then again, it might be an unsettled personal score dating back to the 
‘60s. 

The only problem was proof.  There was no solid evidence, and Oliver
Chricton, however occasionally despised, was a highly respected and 
authoritative figure of the community.  That was why he was running for 
prime minister of Great Britain. 

It wouldn't hold water.  He couldn't just march up to the Chief
Superintendent and say: “Good morning, sir.  The man who will probably 
be prime minister next week is a mad mass murderer.”  It wouldn't work. 


*** 

Three separate newspapers had used the headline: SIR JULIAN LAWRENCE IS
DROWING IN BLOOD.  Oliver Chricton liked that.  He hadn't thought of it 
before.  It was clever.  Sub-headlines tended to be along the lines of: 
 “Sir Julian Lawrence still will not resign from his position in 
parliament.” 

Give it time.  There were two days to go until election night - plenty
of time.  Now, only the butler had to go.  It wouldn't make much 
difference to Sir Julian, with whom he had been for only a year, but it 
was necessary, none the less. 

*** 

Sir Julian Lawrence had fired Nicola Spearman, his private secretary,
the first sign that he was cracking.  This was, in fact, not the case.  
He had fired Miss Spearman purely because she had tried to hint that 
her employer was happy.  He was not happy. He was now alone in his 
house, excepting Benson and Theodore.  He went down to the kitchen to 
ask Theodore for some lasagne.  Theodore was there, but so was a 
severed finger, which lay in a frying pan. 

“What is this, Theodore?” 

“I swear I don't know, Sir Julian.  I found it there just now.  I'm
particularly anxious, Sir Julian, since I can't find Mr. Benson.  I 
looked in his room and there was just a little pool of blood.  I looked 
in here and found this finger.  Of course, I called the police at once 
and didn't move anything.  Tampering with evidence and all that.” 

“Quite so, Theodore.  You acted quite correctly.  Take the afternoon
off.” 

The cook seemed inclined to linger, but Lawrence didn't want him to be
murdered too. 

The police seemed less interested than the press in the murder of a
politician's butler. 

The next day dragged on for a long time.  The police asked routine
questions and Sir Julian made a routine speech.  The morning of 
Election Day was not a nice one.  The sky was grey. 

“Why, good morning, Sir Julian.” 

The politician jumped awake with a start.  He recognised the voice.  
When the face came into focus, he recognised that, too. 

“Benson!” he explained.  “You're not dead!” 

“Why, of course not, Sir Julian.” 

“Thank you for waking me, then. That will be all.  You're dismissed.” 

“I think not, sir.” 

Sir Julian Lawrence did not understand.  He said “What?” very blankly
before his servant explained. 

“You see, Sir Julian, I have been waiting forty years for this moment.” 
He removed his moustache and wig, drew out a handkerchief, moistened it 
and wiped the make-up from his face.  He stood up to his full height, 
peeled away the false eyelids, withdrew the contact lenses and grinned. 


“Oliver...” 

“Why, yes, Sir Julian.  It was a race.  We were racing for the world. 
It looks like I'm winning.” 

“How did you get in...?” 

“My uniform, Julian.  My uniform.  They say one should reproach one's
self for murder.  I haven't.  Why, if I hadn't killed that policeman, I 
would never have been able to get into this house.  Not even as my 
important self.”  He was now speaking in the voice of Oliver Chricton.  
“You really should have worked out the signature, Mr. Lawrence.  Why, 
it wasn't even remotely worthy of your usual self.  Well, we can blame 
it on the murders, can't we?” 

“Y-you can't get away with this.  The police...” 

He smirked.  “Dead.” 

“Theodore...” 

“Dead.  I've been waiting for forty years...  That's thirty-nine years
of planning and one year of execution.”  He put on his spectacles and 
altered his face.  He was no longer Oliver Morron and no longer Alec 
Benson.  He was Oliver Chricton.  “You really should have noticed my 
word game.  I believe I once said that I'd play with my name were I to 
change it.  Morron, Benson and Chricton. R-O-N, S-O-N and T-O-N.  Tut, 
tut, you're not as sharp as you used to be.  It's the murders, I 
expect.” 

He raised a dagger.  The dagger was a letter-opener.  There was a coat
of arms on the handle. 

“From our club, Julian.  Remember?  Why, I never gave you your knife,
did I?” 

“Stop...  Stop!” 

“No!”  Momentarily forgetting his social status, the man we will call
Oliver plunged the knife down, straight through his rival's neck.  It 
was actually rather amusing watching the man he had despised for so 
long struggling for life, as he wriggled and shook. 

A few more strikes with the letter-opener and Sir Julian Lawrence was
dead. 

*** 

As you have read this narrative, you have doubtless not given the author
a second thought.  You have assumed that this was written by the name 
at the top.  It was not.  He has merely passed it on for me with the 
proposition of publication.  I have placed this manuscript in a vault 
where it will be found.  I suppose someone should know the full story 
when they wake up and find themselves drowning in blood.  Feel 
privileged, you are in your prime minister's confidence. 

First Great Britain...  Then the world! 

THE END


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