Skip to main content

Story A Day--- Cross and Martin, part 6--- "Information", 750 words.....


                “Ah, quite so.”  A soft chuckle left Cross’s lips. “I do apologize for the little deception, but, you see, it was necessary.”

                Poised on the edge of the lounger, her hands still adjusting the dressing on my knee, Miss Adell’s tone hardened. “Why was it necessary? And how could you call such a lie, little?”

                Cross, who had been standing just behind my head, moved toward Miss Adell. He took himself to one knee and met Miss Adell’s gaze. “It was necessary because you would never have spoken to us otherwise.”

So sincere was Cross’s own tone that the merest of trembles seemed to overtake Miss Adell. “And, I called the deceit little, for it was just that. True we may never have known Corbet Adams on any intimate level, save the occasional greeting as we passed on campus, but, we do, in earnest, seek answers to his untimely end as any friend would most likely do.”  

“I see,” Miss Adell's trembles grew steadily as she fought to hold her composure.

“We thought, perhaps, that you might tell us about Corbet, how you knew him, or anything that you might think of to help us learn the truth.”

“But, why? Why do you wish to delve deeper into a tragedy that isn’t your own?” Miss Mary stood from the couch and moved away to the far side of the sitting room, her back, now turned to us.

“Because, we wish to see justice done.” Cross stood, but made no move to follow her. “We know he did not commit suicide by shooting himself, that much is clear. And, I am almost certain that the poisoning, which did take his life, was no accident, nor was it a suicidal attempt. For, no one carries a loaded pistol with them if they plan on committing suicide by poison”

Miss Adell swung around, an inscrutable look on her face. Cross took two steps toward her. “That, my dear lady, is the truth.” The fierceness of Cross’s eyes returned. “And, anything you might be able to tell us about Corbet Adams would be greatly appreciated.”

With no change in her position and no change in the expression on her face, Miss Mary Adell began:

“I’d known Corbet Adams for some years. He was one of those dear friends who always seemed to be near whenever he was most needed, for support, for company. When he did me the honor of asking for my hand, I was, of course, overjoyed. Though, I was also surprised, as we had never entertained the idea of marriage before.”

“And, the prospect was well received by both families?” Cross focused intensely on Mary Adell.

“Yes, we had been children together, becoming husband and wife didn’t seem so far-fetched.”

“Then why, when things seemed to be set so perfectly for you and for your future, did you call the engagement to an end, a mere week before the marriage?” Cross didn’t move and from what I could tell, he didn’t even breathe as he watched for Miss Adell’s response.

“My father, who is a formidable financial figure now, was not always a wealthy man. He spent the greater part of his youth, with my mother, trying to put together a sort of future they could be proud of. But it was a struggle that cost my mother her life, just a few months after my birth.” Miss Adell moved to the window and pulled aside the sheer curtain.
“Corbet Adams, though a wonderfully warm person, had aspirations of a life on stage. Hardly the kind of life that would have provided any sort of secure future.”

“So, it was your father who insisted the engagement end?” Mary Adell spun around to meet Cross’s gaze. And, in the few seconds they held each other’s gaze, no sound within the room could be heard until Cross spoke, finally. “Thank you, Miss Adell. I believe we have imposed upon your time long enough.”


Outside, once more, we made our way through the estate grounds as quickly as my leg would allow. “What a remarkable woman!” Cross observed as we passed out the gate, his mind, clearly wrapped in the words she had offered about Corbet Adams.

“Hmm.” My own mind wrapped in the effort of remembering the sound of those words as they left her lips.

“Come, Martin,” Cross began propelling me forward. “We must have time to think, this case grows more obscure instead of clearer!”


Popular posts from this blog

Y is for Yeth Hound.....

Yeth Hound--- one of the incarnations of the "Black Dog" myth, this one located specifically, in Devon, England.

"Black Dogs" appear in myths across the world, most are associated with death and bad omens... i.e. Hell Hounds.

The Yeth Hound is said to be the spirit of an unbaptised child that takes the form of a headless black dog. The Hound wanders the woods at night making pitiful wailing sounds (though, I'm unclear as to how it makes wailing sounds without having a head).

The Black Dogs were possibly one inspiration from Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's ghost dog in The Hound of the Baskervilles-- "an enormous coal-black hound, but not such a hound as mortal eyes have ever seen."

Heed Not, the Lonesome Cry
Heed not, the lonesome cry, the baleful wail echoing through the woods. Seek not, the black hound's sigh, look not where the headless creature stood.
One sound, your limbs will shake, your heart filled with the deepest dread. One glimpse, your sou…

I is for...

... Iron Maiden

The boundaries which divide Life from Death are at best shadowy and vague. Who shall say where the one ends, and where the other begins? ---Edgar Allan Poe

---and not the English heavy metal band from East London...

Day 2 in the realm of morbid/macabre torture devices finds us back in the Middle Ages (there was definitely a fashionable trend of imaginative torture devices during this time). Though, the Middle Ages isn't really when we should be turning our attention when we discuss the Iron Maiden. In fact, there has been some debate as to the exact appearance of this monstrous creation.

It's probably easiest to relocate such a torturous thing back to a time when it seemed everyone was as skilled at exacting a confession as they were at creating the tools to exact those confessions. It's easier to blame ancestors from several hundred years ago than to accept that anyone of civilized disposition would be capable of doing such horrible things with such terrif…

Mudbloods and Muggles and Magic Folk, stand and unite....

Today was the first-ever, To Write Mudblood On Her Arm, day.

Worldwide, Harry Potter lovers and equality seekers sought solidarity by writing (in every possible variation) the word, Mudblood on their arms, their legs, their wrists, their hands...

Some 35,000 confirmed participants and probably thousands more that were pulled along in the wake of those eager to support Magical/Muggle equality, all decorated themselves and held the love of Harry Potter and the love of their fellow Mudblood/Muggles in their heart and on their arm, leg, wrist, etc. 

The obvious play on the inspiring movement, To Write Love On Her Arm, is intentional, but in no way meant to be disrespectful. TWLOHA's mission is to inspire hope in those who suffer from depression, addiction and who might suffer from self-destructive tendencies and/or suicidal thoughts.

TWMOHA takes its cue from Hermione's mistreatment in the book series as a result of her Muggle(non-magical) birth. She is viewed as something less th…