Bob Jones [CC-BY-SA-2.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/2.0)], via Wikimedia Commons
Wiltshire, 1854;
Inspector Drood examined
the corpse in the lock up, the small stone hut perched on the bridge above the Avon. The man’s face was blue like the twilight sky.
“I
only put him in last night. Drunk as a fart, he was,” said PC Downs.
“Drowned,”
said Drood. He was known for his pinpoint diagnoses, and his economical turn of
phrase.
“But
we’s twenty feet above the river. Should I alert the courts?”
Drood
paced awhile. He removed his top hat, and reached his leather-gloved hand down
to the man’s face, tenderly closing his eyes.
“No.
Thankfully no murder has occurred,” he said revelling in his own dramatic
revelation. “The victim has suffered kidney failure, causing the lungs to fill
with fluid.”
Drood
departed, his cloak spinning around him, returning to his awaiting carriage,
ready to take him back to his club, and a long-overdue brandy.
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