The inspector wasn’t looking forward to attending the crime scene.
He wasn’t surprised by his own lack of enthusiasm. He read the notes made by the duty sergeant, details taken down when the call came in. He went over them as soon as he arrived at the station. It seemed to him that there were far too many cases like this one. Large manor house, big, sweeping driveway, lord and lady, two children, two guests invited for dinner, a butler, a cook; someone gets murdered, probably the lord, nobody really liked him…anyone standing close to him when he read it would have heard him moan, “Oh! No! Please, not this old chestnut,” but nobody did.
When he arrived at the property, it had a big sweeping driveway, of course, he thought. His knock was answered by the butler, who said, “Good evening, inspector. I’m the butler.” It was all the inspector could do to stop himself saying, “of course you are.” He was ushered into the main hall, where the family and guests were waiting.
He questions everybody. Usual thing; their all at dinner, the lord of the manor leaves the table and goes to his study, a fuse blows and the lights go out, a shot is heard. The lights come back on. In the study, the lord is dead, gun lying on the desk. Everyone is devastated by the events of the evening.
Here we go again, he thought. Eight people in the house, one dead, seven suspects. After questioning them all again, separately, it was evident that they all had motives to bump the old guy off. There wasn’t one decent alibi between the lot of them. It was pretty obvious that they all hated him, except for the butler, who seemed to be quite fond of his master. In that case, it was most likely the butler who did it, the inspector thought.
When he had finished, he wished them all goodnight and returned to the station. Nasty old sod, he thought, probably had it coming.
He wrote the thing up as a suicide.