Elsinore
Manor was a foreboding building at the best of times, but tonight, as we grew
closer to where it loomed in the gloom of gathering clouds, while the dark ivy
writhed in the wind and tapped at the tall gothic windows from which a faint
glow of sickly light was peering into the dim valley, I felt a sense of growing
dread. My school friend, Hamlet, had sent me an unexpected telegram and asked
that I come as soon as possible. I had not spoken to Hamlet in some time, so I
felt certain that this summons was more a matter of business than of catching
up between friends. Hamlet knew of my thriving practice as a private consulting
detective. Now, as the hired trap pulled up to the manor and the butler swung
open the massive wooden doors with an ominous creak, I found myself wishing I
had requested more information before coming.
“Good
evening, Mr. Choric,” the butler intoned disinterestedly. “Young Mr. DeMarco is
waiting in the drawing room.”
Hamlet
DeMarco had his back to me when I entered. He was leaning on the ornate mantel
with one lean arm and staring down into the flickering fire. His shoulders were
tense and he was deathly still. I cleared my throat, and he started and turned
in one motion, pale as if he had seen a ghost. Then his face cleared with
relief upon seeing me. “Horatio!” he exclaimed, “My old friend. I’m so pleased
you could make it.” As he said this he moved past me and peered out into the
hall. Evidently satisfied, he shut the drawing room door firmly and turned the
lock.
“Come,”
he said, “sit near the fire. The weather is beginning to turn nasty.” It was
not until we were seated that I noticed his appearance. He fell into staring at
the fire again when we sat down, and his long thin fingers tapped against the
side of the chair nervously. He was pale, with ghastly dark circles under his
eyes as though he hadn’t slept for days. His suit was wrinkled, and all black,
down to the shirt, which made his face look even paler. His hair was unkempt
and hastily swept to one side, and he had patches of stubble on his chin from a
careless shave.
“Hamlet,”
I said with great concern, “what has happened? Why have you called me to
Elsinore?”
“Something
is rotten, Horatio,” he said in a low voice, “Something is rotten in the estate
of DeMarco.” He looked up from the fire with a strange gleam in his eye. “My
father is dead.”
I
had not known. I immediately expressed my deepest regrets, which he
acknowledged impatiently. When we fell again into silence, he pulled from his jacket
pocket a folded piece of paper, which he handed to me. I looked it over
curiously. It was covered on one side in writing and appeared to be addressed
to the local police. “What’s this?” I asked.
“This,”
he leaned toward me and lowered his voice even further, “is a letter written by
my father just before his death. It expresses his deep suspicions of a plot
against him by my uncle, his brother. A plot to murder him.” Hamlet’s jaw
clenched and he gripped the arm of the chair, knuckles white. “He died before
he could post the letter.” He released the arm of the chair and ran both hands
through his hair, making him look quite wild with it sticking up in odd
directions. “Mother inherited everything, of course. And now, just a few months
after father’s death, Claudius has asked her to marry him. Is that not
suspicious? I know now that they must have been having an affair while father
was alive. I never suspected…” He trailed off and rubbed his eyes wearily.
“Have
you gone to the police yet, Hamlet?” I asked.
“No,
no, and that is where you come in,” he said. “I don’t want Claudius to know
that I suspect that my father was murdered. If I go to the police, Claudius is
warned; he has time to get rid of evidence and construct an alibi before any
kind of investigation can be made. To find this letter was to know my father’s
will for me from beyond the grave, and I must obey. I want to be sure of his
guilt, Horatio. I need to be able to prove it. Then we can take all the
evidence we have to the police, and he—and my mother—will get what they
deserve.”
His
tone of voice as he pronounced this judgment against his mother frightened me.
All the time I had known him, Hamlet had always been unwilling to condemn
people; or, at least, unwilling to say his opinion of them. But I could see
where he was coming from, and I knew he had a valid point about the benefits of
a secret investigation, so I decided to give it a day or two and see if I could
help him. I told him as much and he nodded at me gratefully. I stood. “But, Hamlet,”
I said, “Realize that this is a dangerous game we are playing. If your uncle
Claudius is a murderer, he may be a danger to you as well.”
He
looked up at me, head tilted, that curious gleam in his eyes. He smiled a slow,
dangerous smile. “I’ve always been good at games,” he said.
I
did not sleep well that night. A dream chased me; Hamlet was rushing toward a
terrible danger, and turned on me when I tried to stop him.
I
was up early, and headed down for breakfast. I was not the first; someone was
piling a plate high with breakfast meats when I slid open the door. He turned
and raised his eyebrows. The surprise was mutual. It was Hamlet’s school
roommate, Reggie Stern. Reggie was a thin, hunched man with an oily slick of
thin hair. He was the type to participate in poker night, then go to the dean
the next morning and rat out his schoolmates.
“Horatio,”
he said in false cheer. “Good to see you.”
“Likewise,”
I lied. “What brings you to Elsinore?”
He
took a huge bite of food and chewed slowly, rolling it around in his mouth as
he rolled around possible answers in his mind. He swallowed. “I was invited.”
“Oh,
by Hamlet?”
Another
long pause. “No,” he said finally, “by Uncle Claudius.” Reggie lowered his
voice then and leaned in, dramatically cupping a hand around his mouth to tell
me a secret. “Hamlet is not well,
y’know?” He pointed circles around his ear and bugged his eyes out for a
moment. “Claudius thought it’d be good for him to see his best schoolmate.” He
gestured to himself and tucked into his plate of food, quite self-satisfied.
I
managed to keep the disdain from my face until I was at the buffet table and my
back was to him. A few minutes later, the doors opened again and a family of
three joined me at the buffet table. There was a ponderous old man in an old
fashioned three piece suit, pontificating on the value of breakfast to a lithe
young man in a sweater. The young man nodded in the right places and ignored
everything except his breakfast plate. A young lady followed the pair silently.
She was tall and graceful, with short dark hair in a modern style. Her dress
was modest without being dowdy, and her face was lively. She acknowledged
Reggie and me with a condescending nod and a smile, respectively.
When
I sat down at the opposite end of the table from Reggie, she followed and sat
across from me. “You must be Horatio,” she said, holding out her hand. I shook
it and acknowledged that I was. “When Hamlet let it drop at dinner last night
that you were coming, I thought Reggie was going to have a conniption. So I
knew I would like you. Are you any good at charades? Hamlet has got a plan for
this evening involving charades.” She smiled at me. I began to reply, but then
the door slid open once again and Hamlet wafted in like a ghost, wearing the
same black suit as the night before. He passed by the buffet table and came
immediately to my side at the table.
“Good
morning, Mr. DeMarco,” the girl beamed at him.
“Ophelia,”
he nodded vaguely in her direction. His eyes wandered the room.
When
the doors slid open the final time, Hamlet turned in his chair and stared as
Gertrude and Claudius entered the room together. A thick silence fell over the
room. The pair took their places at the table as quickly as they could.
Claudius
cleared his throat. “Laertes, tell me about your plans to go back to school.”
Laertes
sighed, put down his fork and began telling everyone about his school. Ophelia
tried to catch Hamlet’s attention and whisper something conspiratorially; he
caught her eye and deliberately looked away. She seemed surprised.
“And
now Hamlet, my favorite nephew,” Claudius said with a raised eyebrow and an
ambiguous level of sincerity. “You are not looking well, son. Black does not do
you any favors. Gertrude,” He rubbed his hand on her back possessively, “you
agree with me, don’t you?” Gertrude nodded, her brow furrowed with concern.
Hamlet’s glare darkened and his hand curled into a fist at his side.
Yet
he held his tongue.
