Post by Saint on Jun 26, 2024 20:16:27 GMT
From the usual source. As usual, answers by pm, please.
Victor Ivanova had a rather successful funeral, all things considered. The service was appropriately moving, the burial went smoothly, and they even managed to find some people to say kind things about him. His evil temper and ready fists were glossed over as a “passionate nature”. Apparently, getting shot earned one a certain measure of posthumous tolerance.
At the wake afterwards, Miss Miller availed herself of some tea and a small crustless sandwich and set out to circulate. Although the police had yet to rule on whether Victor had committed suicide or been murdered, his supposed mourners seemed to have very little collective doubt. “Of course he was murdered!” At just 20, Kailee Williams was still rather excitable, and seemed to be enjoying herself thoroughly. Her beau, Eugene, was Victor’s son. “It’s wrong to speak ill of the dead, but poor dear Eugene suffered terribly for his father’s moods. But so many others did, too. Men like Victor don’t commit suicide. They don’t have the self-awareness. They just hang around forever, getting older and meaner and older and meaner. I bet it was the gardener. Victor actually whipped him, once. Can you imagine? Whipping a gardener? It chills the blood, I tell you.”
Chance Hoffs was a long-standing friend of the family. “Victor always was a difficult man,” he said. “He got worse as the years ticked by. I don’t think I’ll ever really know what was sticking in his craw, but the frustration and anger seemed to grow. He made it to his forties, which honestly is about as far as most people ever expected. I don’t suppose we’ll ever really know the truth of it. The nearest thing to a witness was his great-aunt in the next room, but she’s as deaf as a stump, and didn’t hear a thing.”
Eventually, Miss Miller tracked down Victor’s great-aunt, Agatha, to a sunny corner of the room. She was a spry-looking octogenarian with bright, lively eyes and a large ear trumpet.
''Hello. I’m Mary Miller,” said Miss Miller, joining Agatha at her table.
The old lady held up a forbidding finger, then laboriously swung the ear trumpet into place, jamming one end into her ear, and pointing the other directly at Miss Miller’s mouth. “What was that, my dear?” Her voice was surprisingly steady.
‘I said hello, and my name is Mary Miller’.
“Agatha Ivanova. Delighted to meet you. Did you know my great-nephew?”
“Socially,” said Miss Miller.
“Ah, by far the best way. Poor man. There were devils inside him, you know.” She paused. “Metaphorical devils, that is, not literal ones. I haven’t lost my mind just yet. Victor could be quite charming when everything was going his way. He never could bear to be thwarted. But then his father, my nephew, was quite the tyrant in his time. It’s so silly, this violence and scorn that men heap on their sons.”
“Eugene seems quite nice,” Miss Miller said.
“Yes, indeed. He was shielded by his mother—literally, often. Victor’s violence was relatively easy to deflect, if one were prepared to pay the cost. There is marble in that woman’s spine, I tell you.”
Recalling Briony Ivanova’s firm, composed appearance at the funeral, Miss Miller could only agree. The widow was toward the middle of the room at the moment, talking with several guests. A bellow of anger erupted from the far side of the room. Agatha and Miss Miller looked round together. A weathered-looking man was being calmed by several other people.
“Victor’s gardener,” Agatha said. “He has a lot to be angry about.”
“Do you think he might be the killer?”
Agatha’s eyebrows raised at that, and she chuckled. “Well, I suppose he might be. No use asking me, my dear.”
“You were in the next room,” said Miss Miller. “Quite so, but I’m afraid I was reading. If anyone walked past my door, I didn’t see them.”
“So you didn’t hear any arguments?”
“I didn’t even hear the gunshot,” Agatha said. “I wouldn’t hear the last trump itself unless I was pointing this beast straight at it.” She patted her ear trumpet with her free hand.
“No, of course,” Miss Miller said. “But you must have some suspicions.”
Agatha nodded. “Honestly, I suspect he died by his own hand. I like to imagine that he had a moment of lucidity, and realized that the only way to stop himself from destroying his son was to end his own life. One concluding moment of actually being a father.” She sighed. “I’m glad that Eugene has that nice Miss Williams to help him through this. She reminds me a little of his mother—kind and bright, with a core of steel. I’m quite sure you know the type, my dear.” She shot Miss Miller a very knowing look.
Miss Miller smiled politely. Oh dear, she thought. Who are you covering up for, Agatha?
How does Miss Miller know that the old lady is lying?
Victor Ivanova had a rather successful funeral, all things considered. The service was appropriately moving, the burial went smoothly, and they even managed to find some people to say kind things about him. His evil temper and ready fists were glossed over as a “passionate nature”. Apparently, getting shot earned one a certain measure of posthumous tolerance.
At the wake afterwards, Miss Miller availed herself of some tea and a small crustless sandwich and set out to circulate. Although the police had yet to rule on whether Victor had committed suicide or been murdered, his supposed mourners seemed to have very little collective doubt. “Of course he was murdered!” At just 20, Kailee Williams was still rather excitable, and seemed to be enjoying herself thoroughly. Her beau, Eugene, was Victor’s son. “It’s wrong to speak ill of the dead, but poor dear Eugene suffered terribly for his father’s moods. But so many others did, too. Men like Victor don’t commit suicide. They don’t have the self-awareness. They just hang around forever, getting older and meaner and older and meaner. I bet it was the gardener. Victor actually whipped him, once. Can you imagine? Whipping a gardener? It chills the blood, I tell you.”
Chance Hoffs was a long-standing friend of the family. “Victor always was a difficult man,” he said. “He got worse as the years ticked by. I don’t think I’ll ever really know what was sticking in his craw, but the frustration and anger seemed to grow. He made it to his forties, which honestly is about as far as most people ever expected. I don’t suppose we’ll ever really know the truth of it. The nearest thing to a witness was his great-aunt in the next room, but she’s as deaf as a stump, and didn’t hear a thing.”
Eventually, Miss Miller tracked down Victor’s great-aunt, Agatha, to a sunny corner of the room. She was a spry-looking octogenarian with bright, lively eyes and a large ear trumpet.
''Hello. I’m Mary Miller,” said Miss Miller, joining Agatha at her table.
The old lady held up a forbidding finger, then laboriously swung the ear trumpet into place, jamming one end into her ear, and pointing the other directly at Miss Miller’s mouth. “What was that, my dear?” Her voice was surprisingly steady.
‘I said hello, and my name is Mary Miller’.
“Agatha Ivanova. Delighted to meet you. Did you know my great-nephew?”
“Socially,” said Miss Miller.
“Ah, by far the best way. Poor man. There were devils inside him, you know.” She paused. “Metaphorical devils, that is, not literal ones. I haven’t lost my mind just yet. Victor could be quite charming when everything was going his way. He never could bear to be thwarted. But then his father, my nephew, was quite the tyrant in his time. It’s so silly, this violence and scorn that men heap on their sons.”
“Eugene seems quite nice,” Miss Miller said.
“Yes, indeed. He was shielded by his mother—literally, often. Victor’s violence was relatively easy to deflect, if one were prepared to pay the cost. There is marble in that woman’s spine, I tell you.”
Recalling Briony Ivanova’s firm, composed appearance at the funeral, Miss Miller could only agree. The widow was toward the middle of the room at the moment, talking with several guests. A bellow of anger erupted from the far side of the room. Agatha and Miss Miller looked round together. A weathered-looking man was being calmed by several other people.
“Victor’s gardener,” Agatha said. “He has a lot to be angry about.”
“Do you think he might be the killer?”
Agatha’s eyebrows raised at that, and she chuckled. “Well, I suppose he might be. No use asking me, my dear.”
“You were in the next room,” said Miss Miller. “Quite so, but I’m afraid I was reading. If anyone walked past my door, I didn’t see them.”
“So you didn’t hear any arguments?”
“I didn’t even hear the gunshot,” Agatha said. “I wouldn’t hear the last trump itself unless I was pointing this beast straight at it.” She patted her ear trumpet with her free hand.
“No, of course,” Miss Miller said. “But you must have some suspicions.”
Agatha nodded. “Honestly, I suspect he died by his own hand. I like to imagine that he had a moment of lucidity, and realized that the only way to stop himself from destroying his son was to end his own life. One concluding moment of actually being a father.” She sighed. “I’m glad that Eugene has that nice Miss Williams to help him through this. She reminds me a little of his mother—kind and bright, with a core of steel. I’m quite sure you know the type, my dear.” She shot Miss Miller a very knowing look.
Miss Miller smiled politely. Oh dear, she thought. Who are you covering up for, Agatha?
How does Miss Miller know that the old lady is lying?