Leonard Malitch sat looking over the morning paper in his Victorian-style study. “Boy goes missing,” he mumbled to himself, “one or more responsible not found,” without looking, he reached over on his oak-wood desk and brought his cup of Earl Grey tea to his lips and sipped as does a siphon does to a tank of gas.
The door flew open.
“Morning Malitch,” said the master’s partner, “have you seen the morning paper?”
Malitch put down his tea, shook the paper lightly, and said, “Quite so, young Bradson.”
“Well,” started Bradson, “have you read the article about the--”
“The boy going missing--yes I have.”
“No,” returned the young Bradson, “the one about the murder of Sir Orkshire?”
“Of course,” Malitch flipped the page to the front, stood up and showed Bradson the article. Bradson walked over to him.
“You know they will be calling you,” said Bradson.
“Hmm. . . yes they shall.”
Later that day, a letter found its way into the mailbox of L. Malitch and S. Bradson, it reading that their immediate arrival to the Orkshire Hall, for the investigation of the Sir’s murder.
A carriage was called and the two disciples of knowledge boarded it with conversed words on the matter, like a pair of howling dogs left alone in the allies.
The carriage turned the gravel road on the moor, where a great mansion of majesty and might stood overlooking the surrounding swamps.
The butler let the two in, and they were offered tea and a nice chair in the meeting room.
A friend of Sir Orkshire came out of a hidden door in the wall, taking off his spectacles and putting a pamphlet into his suit. “Good morning,” he said to the two visitors.
They both stood up, shook his hand, and said the same.
“I am Berkeley, the Sir’s closest friend,” said the man with the swirling white hair and the wispy beard. “I am completely delighted that you could make such a visit on such short notice.”
“That is but our duty,” replied Malitch.
Over the next few hours, as the clouds of grey in the sky swirled and blew at the crisp wind, the three conversed over the grave matter at hand. It was decided that the two should stay at the Hall, and go about the city looking for the murderer and for evidence of such a death.
“So the Sir was murdered with a poison,” said Malitch while looking over a laboratory in the nearby city.
“Yes, a kind that stops the flow of blood.” replied the other.
“Hmm. . . it seems to me that the poison had to have been synthesized by a master of such liquids--a chemist! Bradson, onto our next destination, we are!”
Such a statement was music to Bradson’s ears, he knew where they would be going.
They called a carriage and headed for the university.
Once arrived, Malitch called for a Dr. Unters, the chemistry professor at the college.
Malitch had previous dealings with such a man, when he was young, Unters and himself were complete rivals in all the sense. But, they had still remained a friendship, until Malitch had found the other. . . rather insane.
Screaming, screaming, screaming, Malitch remembered him doing, all the day locked in his study, synthesizing new concoctions of chemicals. Malitch also remembered that Unters and Orkshire had been old boxing mates--Unters almost always losing to him, and this fueled Malitch’s assumption of him.
The doctor met them in the chemistry theater filled with flasks and tubes of different colored concoctions and chemicals.
“For the murder of Sir Orkshire, you have now been prosecuted!” screamed Malitch.
Somewhere, in the darkness, a man woke up. “Good morning, Sir Orkshire,” said a happy voice.
Somewhere, in the darkness, a man said, “Stop! Stop! Stop! I am dead! Why do you trouble me?”
“Oh. . . “ a sadder voice said, and shut the open door of the room that the Sir was in, straight jacketed and sitting in a chair.
“Poor fellow, is he,” said a doctor, “after the death of his wife, he has driven himself into a rut of insanity.”
“Yes, what a mind he has,” replied the doctor’s assistant.
“Screaming all the day that a Leonard Malitch and a Stephen Bradson found his murderer.”
Somewhere, in the darkness, a man screamed in the bowels of Emerson Mental Facility.