The Foster's Folly

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A peculiar gloom lingered around herring’s bookstore as Cross entered the crime-scene, where scent of old paper and dust masked the stillness of death.

Behind the counter, Mister Herring slumped over his desk—an oddly serene mask against the violence of his end. Though the coroner’s initial report suggested natural causes, Cross knew better: that calm betrayed premeditation.

Cross inspected the surrounding, savoring every detail- Claire—his niece and foster daughter—stood nearby, her lips curled into a frown and her mascara smudged with tears that rolled down in muffled sorrow; a piece of paper on the dead man’s hands- It was from The Count of Monte Cristo. The passage spoke of vengeance.

Cross picked up the blood-speckled paper,

“You say he was your foster father?”

“He was my uncle- the only family I had. He took me in when no-one else did”

"Sorry for your loss miss, I assure you the person behind this would surely be brought to justice” Cross offered his sympathies over her muffled cries.

Cross studied her as she spoke: “Where were you when it happened?”

“In the storeroom, sir, tallying this morning’s shipment. Then I heard a terrible cry and rushed here…” Her voice faltered.

“And the door?”

“Locked from the inside. But Mr. Holloway came by at closing. They argued—again.”

***

Outside, the rain had thinned to a drizzle, water streaking across the pavement as Cross paced beneath a flickering streetlamp.

Jade Holloway.

An old acquaintance of Mr. Herring but also a dealer in antics who desired nothing more than to capitalize on the treasure of antics within the confines of this bookstore. A foe in disguise?

“I suppose there were occasional scuffles between us” he admitted “but I didn’t kill him. Jesus, I’ve known him for years. Yeah, I wanted the store—who didn’t? But murder? That’s not business”

“Depends what kind of business you’re in,” Cross replied, his gaze piercing through Mr. Holloway… scanning him for the faintest give-away- a twitch in his hands, a gaze lingering over his guilt but nothing.

Cross returned to the crime scene faced with a dejection of facing a dead-end. The old bookshop was bereft of any CCTV that could have brought the perpetrator to the forefront.

He glanced at the dead-man’s face again, serene shrouded in the paleness of death albeit turned into a shade of greyish blue, a classic sign of poisoning. Yet there appeared no bruises that could possibly vouch for the injection of any such substance into his body.

All seemed to be lost in this pursuit of truth for Cross until his gaze combed through the piece of paper again and alas, he noticed a stroke of pen- a smidgen, an indentation- barely visible to a naked eye. The poor fellow had foreseen his end and probably had decided to leave a clue against the one responsible for it.

Could the vengeance in the passage point towards mens rea of the act?

He glanced at Claire, strangely enough, her deposition did not show even a smidgen of dread, a hallmark of culprits on the brink of being caught and something told Cross that Claire might not have done it, at least not alone. With brisk steps that echoed through the empty store, he approached the desk at the crime scene and took a sniff of the tea that had turned cold through the hours. A faint scent of almonds re-affirmed his doubts.

A whisper of almonds. Cyanide.

A smile formed upon Cross’ countenance as the pieces of puzzle started to form a whole picture.

“Miss Claire, I suppose you didn’t prepare the tea?”

“No sir, Mister Holloway brought it when he dropped by… despite the frequent fallouts, they continued with this tradition”

“Frequent fallouts you say”

“Yes sir… Mister Holloway wished to transact certain business to which Mister Herring objected. This was the usual scuffle between the two”

“Business you say?”

“Yes sir, trade in antic novels… Mister Herring possessed a large collection of them”

Perhaps that was it- the motive, the modus operandi and the ideal suspect, in conflict with the victim just before his death and the nail in the coffin: in Holloway’s briefcase, police discovered a small leather pouch containing trace cyanide that he vouched did not belong to him, but circumstances ran contrary to his pleas

Claire remained by Cross’s side as the officers hauled Holloway away, his ardent cries pleading innocence echoed through the streets.

“You did good,” Cross told her. “Thank you. For helping this far.”

Claire offered a weak smile, eyes welling again. “I just want justice for him. He was kind to me.”

Cross nodded. "Sometimes kindness leaves the deepest wounds behind."

***

A few hours later:

The store had long gone unbelievably quiet under the seal of investigation. The investigators had left, convinced that justice had been served.

But Claire moved through the dusty aisles of the store with the backdoor key still clung to her waistband. The click of her boots echoed softly through the darkness of her store as she made her way towards the basement. There she stepped behind the counter, knelt down, and opened the hidden compartment beneath the register. From inside, she retrieved a small, glass vial. Empty now—but once, it had carried cyanide. She had to get rid of it tonight…

Her gaze fell on a letter she had in one of her drawers, a letter from her Herring to Holloway… an offer to sell the store. She had managed to lay her hands on it before it could be put to transit. A tear flowed down her cheek as the memories flooded back to her, the countless miseries she had to endure under him- her foster father.

“This place is mine Claire; you are lucky I let a stray like you stay” his indignant, scratchy voice still played in her head. Her expression didn’t flinch. She'd heard it countless times.

Claire closed the drawer, her fingers trembling—but steady with resolve and she whispered, more to herself than to the walls:

“And now, it’s mine.”

She tucked the letter into her coat pocket, turned off the lights, and left the bookstore—for the first time, without looking back.

-The End

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