stonepicnicking_okapi

Title: Green
Fandoms: Sherlock Holmes & Miss Marple - Agatha Christie
Characters: Sherlock Holmes, Miss Marple, Raymond West (Miss Marple's nephew)
Rating: Gen
Prompt:

Length: 750
Warning: Discussion of murder methods. Deus ex machina. Breaking the fourth wall.
Summary: Raymond West wants to murder his fiancée.

“What have we here?” asked Raymond West.

The public house was the same. West’s companion was the same: the most well-known detective in Western literature. There was, as in the beginning, nothing but bread and butter on the little table. The window above was the same, and there was the familiar parade of wheels and footwear.

But the tea! The tea had changed again and for the, Raymond counted on his fingers and reached the thumb, fifth time.

Sherlock Holmes checked the pot. “Nipponese green.” He replaced the lid.

“You pour,” said Raymond West dejectedly. “I’d just slop it about.” He lit a moody cigarette. “My books are clever, Mister Holmes. And they sell very well. The fact that I can’t seem to work out this problem, my fiancée Joyce and my future wife Joan, it bothers me.” He had twisted to the side, giving Holmes the benefit of his profile, but suddenly he twisted back to face Holmes.

“How about…?”

Sherlock Holmes listened, then shook his head. “It’s not trout season.”

“Or maybe…?”

“The distance of the body from the building would prohibit any verdict of ‘accident’ or ‘misadventure.’”

“But dash it all, man, what about…?”

“Condensation on the outside of the bottle would’ve evaporated by then.”

“Argh!” Raymond West thumped his elbows on the table and hung his head in his hands.

Sherlock Holmes sipped the green tea, thought of a crumbling monastery forgotten by time, and wondered just when his services would no longer be required.

As it turned out, the answer was ‘immediately.’

“Raymond.”

“Aunt Jane!”

“There you are.”

Raymond West sat up, then looked up.

In the window was a pair of china blue eyes set in a crinkled face and topped by a tuft of fuzzy white hair. Then the eyes were gone and the slow progress of elderly feet on stairs could be heard.

The men got to their feet as the old lady entered.

“Ah, yes, just as I imagined, my dear Raymond, you are so very kind, taking care of me the way you do, sending me on that trip to the Caribbean—where there was a murder; giving me that holiday at Bertram’s Hotel—where there was another murder; really, so generous and thoughtful. But people, and by people, my dear Raymond, I mean, ‘you,’ are not as unpleasant as you make yourself out to be, neither good nor bad, just rather silly.”

“Aunt Jane!”

“Your fiancée Joyce has been pretending to be a slightly less uninhibited version of herself named Joan and, um, let’s see, how shall I put it, wooing you in both roles, as it were.

“She’s been what?!”

“I think the campaign was inspired by an unhelpful comment by a critic on her latest show that she was ‘not as modern as her maiden aunt thought she was.’”

“Are you telling me that Joyce and Joan are the same person, my dear Aunt Jane?”

“Yes, that’ s precisely what I am telling you. She is calling it ‘performance art.’ It should be patently obvious. The signs are there, and you would recognize the signs, my dear boy, if you had lived in a village as long as I have or if you had been paying attention to that delightful anecdote I recounted to you about Jimmy Cloves-Whitsnippy and the church warden’s granddaughter instead of trying to calculate your darts’ handicap.” She turned to Sherlock Holmes. “My apologies on behalf of my nephew for commandeering so much of your valuable time.”

“Not at all, my dear lady,” said Sherlock Holmes with a chivalrous bow. “But I think it’s time for my exit.” He gave Raymond a thump on the back. “If only Watson’s solution was as straightforward as yours!”

As Sherlock Holmes took his leave, he overheard their conversation.

“But Aunt Jane! I don’t believe it.”

“About Joyce.”

“No, that I believe. Artists are capable of anything. But the other.”

“My dear Raymond, what conclusion can we draw, you have been in an unnamed, un-patronised public house with Sherlock Holmes about the possible methods of murdering Joyce while consuming no fewer than five cups of tea.”

“One was a tisane,” grumbled Raymond petulantly.

“Very well. Four cups of tea and a tisane. An entire year of seasons have transpired, you have eaten, you have drunk, you have chatted, you have argued, you have smoked, and you have not paid a penny.”

“But I am a clever novelist, Aunt Jane, I don’t resort to such hackneyed conventions—”

“Raymond, wake up.”