Here is a short story I wrote meant to be a bit of a farce a la Brian Rix (if you remember him). Hope you enjoy it.
Achille’s reflections
Achille Pierot (pronounced as Pea-row) cast his rueful eye over the people sat in front of him. They were a motley bunch if ever he’d seen one. The finest in English country gentry was the first impression. But it was only when you spoke to each and every one of them about the others that you learned all their dirty little secrets. He shook his head in silent disgust at them.
‘Well come on Pie-rot, out with it!’ called out Sir Eustace. Pierot thought of him as ‘useless, rather than Eustace.’
‘Please be patient with me Sir Use.. Eustace. I am but a humble Frenchman trying to put his thoughts into the English for you.’
‘I thought you told me you were from Belgum. Oh well never mind that. Do get on with it.’ This from Mrs Walter Bellamy. Mrs Bellamy was a divorcee who had made a fortune from marrying into the right family and then deciding it was the wrong one for her. If her ex husband had been dead, as she would have preferred, he would have turned over in his grave at some of the things she said and did.
There were various other people gathered here: Sir Eustace’s secretary and live-in lover, Gaynor Barley; his ward, Emma Forsett-Browne; her fiancée, Thomas Wilmington, Conservative Member of Parliament for the area; a distant cousin of Sir Eustace’s wife, Phillip Marlow and then various servants, hangers-on and interested parties. Pierot’s companion and friend (though many wondered how friendly they were!) Brighton hung about watching and admiring his every move.
The missing and dead numbered amongst them Sir Eustace’s wife, Mildred; the family cook (murdered by ramming apple chutney down her throat – not a nice way to go; or at least not one to relish – there are better ways to be pickled), and a few odds and sods (with the emphasis on this last word).
‘Thank you all for gathering here to listen to me. (Didn’t know there was any choice in the matter said one of the assembled audience in a loud stage whisper) I will try to get to the point quickly. (There were a few of those gathered who detected that his accent had changed noticeably but none brave enough to mention it to him).
‘I have brought you all here to tell you exactly who killed Mrs Doughnut, the cook; Ramrod, the butler, Maisie, the chambermaid and all the others. I can tell you it was the same person. I know because...’ ‘Because you’re the great Achille Pierot,’ interrupted Brighton.
‘Well not exactly for that reason.’ He turned round to look at himself in the rather grand mirror. His favourite occupation, apart from showing how clever he was, was to admire himself in mirrors. ‘I know because it was ...,’ he paused for dramatic effect, ‘ I.’
‘What do you mean Pie-Rot? Who’s ‘Eye?’ cried out Sir Use...Eustace.
‘No it was me.Oh now I’ve murdered grammar,’ Pierot ejaculated (but that’s another story).
‘Whose grandma?’ asked Sir Use... well no it seems he really is useless.
‘Not grandma, GRAMMAR YOU IDIOT!’ yelled Pierot. ‘I am the murderer. I have attended so many of these tiresome, tedious stately hall events. At every one of them I have been faced with a murder or murders. I have solved them all. I thought it was about time that I was the architect of the mayhem and murders taking place.’
Inspector Chinaman rushed forwards and quickly had Pierot handcuffed. He led him out of the room reading him his rights ‘and anything you say may be taken down in evidence...’
‘Oh knickers,’ roared Pierot.
‘Whose knickers?’ asked Sir Eustace.
‘Sir Useless!’ roared the rest of the cast.
The curtain fell, unfortunately catching Brighton on the temple. The stage manager rushed onto the stage and, after checking the injured party, opened the curtain.
‘Is there a doctor in the house? A vet? Anybody with any sort of first aid training?’ he asked.
An old lady in her nineties stood. ‘I’m not a doctor but I did work in a hospital pharmacy in the war. Perhaps I can help.’ Reaching the stage, she introduced herself as Nurse Agatha, a very keen fan of murder mysteries and amateur theatre. Pierot sang ‘There is nothing like a Dame.’ The End
Here is a short story I wrote meant to be a bit of a farce a la Brian Rix (if you remember him). Hope you enjoy it.
Achille’s reflections
Achille Pierot (pronounced as Pea-row) cast his rueful eye over the people sat in front of him. They were a motley bunch if ever he’d seen one. The finest in English country gentry was the first impression. But it was only when you spoke to each and every one of them about the others that you learned all their dirty little secrets. He shook his head in silent disgust at them.
‘Well come on Pie-rot, out with it!’ called out Sir Eustace. Pierot thought of him as ‘useless, rather than Eustace.’
‘Please be patient with me Sir Use.. Eustace. I am but a humble Frenchman trying to put his thoughts into the English for you.’
‘I thought you told me you were from Belgum. Oh well never mind that. Do get on with it.’ This from Mrs Walter Bellamy. Mrs Bellamy was a divorcee who had made a fortune from marrying into the right family and then deciding it was the wrong one for her. If her ex husband had been dead, as she would have preferred, he would have turned over in his grave at some of the things she said and did.
There were various other people gathered here: Sir Eustace’s secretary and live-in lover, Gaynor Barley; his ward, Emma Forsett-Browne; her fiancée, Thomas Wilmington, Conservative Member of Parliament for the area; a distant cousin of Sir Eustace’s wife, Phillip Marlow and then various servants, hangers-on and interested parties. Pierot’s companion and friend (though many wondered how friendly they were!) Brighton hung about watching and admiring his every move.
The missing and dead numbered amongst them Sir Eustace’s wife, Mildred; the family cook (murdered by ramming apple chutney down her throat – not a nice way to go; or at least not one to relish – there are better ways to be pickled), and a few odds and sods (with the emphasis on this last word).
‘Thank you all for gathering here to listen to me. (Didn’t know there was any choice in the matter said one of the assembled audience in a loud stage whisper) I will try to get to the point quickly. (There were a few of those gathered who detected that his accent had changed noticeably but none brave enough to mention it to him).
‘I have brought you all here to tell you exactly who killed Mrs Doughnut, the cook; Ramrod, the butler, Maisie, the chambermaid and all the others. I can tell you it was the same person. I know because...’
‘Because you’re the great Achille Pierot,’ interrupted Brighton.
‘Well not exactly for that reason.’ He turned round to look at himself in the rather grand mirror. His favourite occupation, apart from showing how clever he was, was to admire himself in mirrors. ‘I know because it was ...,’ he paused for dramatic effect, ‘ I.’
‘What do you mean Pie-Rot? Who’s ‘Eye?’ cried out Sir Use...Eustace.
‘No it was me.Oh now I’ve murdered grammar,’ Pierot ejaculated (but that’s another story).
‘Whose grandma?’ asked Sir Use... well no it seems he really is useless.
‘Not grandma, GRAMMAR YOU IDIOT!’ yelled Pierot. ‘I am the murderer. I have attended so many of these tiresome, tedious stately hall events. At every one of them I have been faced with a murder or murders. I have solved them all. I thought it was about time that I was the architect of the mayhem and murders taking place.’
Inspector Chinaman rushed forwards and quickly had Pierot handcuffed. He led him out of the room reading him his rights ‘and anything you say may be taken down in evidence...’
‘Oh knickers,’ roared Pierot.
‘Whose knickers?’ asked Sir Eustace.
‘Sir Useless!’ roared the rest of the cast.
The curtain fell, unfortunately catching Brighton on the temple. The stage manager rushed onto the stage and, after checking the injured party, opened the curtain.
‘Is there a doctor in the house? A vet? Anybody with any sort of first aid training?’ he asked.
An old lady in her nineties stood. ‘I’m not a doctor but I did work in a hospital pharmacy in the war. Perhaps I can help.’ Reaching the stage, she introduced herself as Nurse Agatha, a very keen fan of murder mysteries and amateur theatre. Pierot sang ‘There is nothing like a Dame.’
The End