Murder At Midnight

by John Ukah

  The day she died, I had barely seen her. She had had a worried frown on her face and seemed to want to be alone.

  “What’s wrong Maria?” I asked her, as we sat on the wooden chairs in the grounds of the Lodge.

  “Nothing, Nagoth,” she replied. “Just let me sort out myself, okay?” Earlier, I had seen her talking with Philip, then Willie.

  “What were you discussing with Willie?” I asked her.

  “Oh, he was preaching as usual.”

  “I saw you with Philip, too,” I said.

  She looked angry. “I’m not your property, you know,” she said. “I can see and talk to whomever I please.”

  “Oh, I know that,” I said. “I was just asking.” But the truth is that I did feel a kind of proprietary air over her, which was quite unreasonable, since she was not my wife. So, I decided to let her be.

  At about 10:00pm that night, I was in my room when I heard her footsteps in the corridor. I had walked with her so often, that I had no doubt it was her. She knocked on a door and it opened. Before I could open my own door, she had gone in and the door closed. I poked out my head to look down the corridor at the same time that Philip brought out his own head. We glanced at each other, then both shut our doors. I was curious to know whom she had come to see. It certainly was not Philip.

  After quite some time, a door opened again and I heard her footsteps going away after the door slammed shut. I opened my door. That was when you opened your door. I had no time to lose! I shut my door and went after her. I managed to catch up with her, near the bottom of the stairs.

  Even then, she did not bother to check who was behind her.

  “Maria!” I panted, as I reached her. “Didn’t you hear me behind you?”

  “Oh, Nagoth! Can’t you leave me alone?” she asked. I noticed that she still had that worried look on her face. She was not herself.

  “What is wrong, Maria?” I asked her. “Who did you come upstairs to see?”

  “None of your business, Nagoth,” she replied. “You are not my husband!”

  “Yeah, I know,” I said. “But I’m just concerned about you. Was it Willie you went to see?”

  She suddenly looked like she hated me. “Let go of me this minute,” she said, through clenched teeth.

  “No, Maria. I won’t let go,” I replied stubbornly, holding on to her. “What’s happening? Talk to me.”

  She tried to struggle free, but I was far stronger. But she fought me like a wild cat. That was when she used her long nails on both hands to scratch my arms. I was wearing a short-sleeved shirt and I felt the stinging sensation so badly, that I quickly let go of her. As she ran off to her room, I looked at my arms. Her nails had traced some ugly paths and taken off the skin. I cursed aloud and climbed back upstairs.

  On the landing, I passed John. He was going downstairs. As usual, he was moving like a ghost; he gave me quite a scare.

  CHAPTER NINE

  MORE COMPLICATIONS

  I stared steadily at Nagoth, when he finished his story.

  “So, that was how she scratched you?” I asked him.

  “Yes,” replied Nagoth, still looking downcast. “I’ve a rare blood type, Mr. Simpson. When that lab test result comes out, I’ll be sunk, finished!”

  “But when the DPO asked if you had any quarrel recently with her, why didn’t you use that opportunity to explain about your hands?” I asked.

  “I knew he would never believe that story, Mr. Simpson. He is already convinced that the killer is the person who got scratched. I had made up my mind there and then, to run away.”

  “That will not help the situation; it may actually be seen as an admission of guilt. I believe that the truth will come out eventually, if you are innocent.”

  “But how?”

  “I’m working on an idea which may help,” I said.

  “What’s the idea?” he asked and I could see a small ray of hope lighting up his eyes.

  “I can’t give you the details now, but I’m working on it,” I replied.

  “Is it that you suspect someone else?” he probed.

  “Just leave it at that for now,” I said.

  “Okay, Mr. Simpson,” he said. “I’ve got to go now, thanks.”

  “Just be calm and don’t lose your head, because you will need it. Don’t panic, or run away or do any other foolish thing,” I advised. “You understand?”

  He nodded as he got up.

  “I’ve a confession to make,” he said suddenly as he put his hand on the doorknob.

  “What is it?” I asked.

  “I was the one who pushed you down the staircase the other night. I’m sorry about it. I feel ashamed when I think of it now,” he said.

  “Oh, I knew you were the one and I hold no grudges against you since you say that you are sorry.”

  “I am sorry, Mr. Simpson, but how did you know it was me?” he asked. He looked puzzled. I went to the wardrobe and took out the shirt I had been wearing on the night I'd gone tumbling down the stirs. I had not washed it since and it still had milk stains all over it.

  “When I passed your room that night, something fell like the crash of thunder inside. I know now that it was a can of the paint that you use for your work. I heard you curse. You probably tried to clean it up and got your hands stained with the paint. You then decided to come downstairs to get something to mop it up. That was when you saw me hesitating at the top of the stairs. It was too good an opportunity for you to resist; you wanted to pay me back for what I had done to you. You came up quickly behind me and gave me a shove with both of your hands, but your fingers left paint marks on the back of my shirt.”

  I showed him the back of my shirt. “If you look closely, you'll see that there are only eight fingerprints showing. Three fingers from the right hand and five from the left one. So, it wasn't difficult for me to know who pushed me.” He stared silently at his fingerprints.

  “And you kept quiet?” he asked.

  “I only saw it the next day, when I took out the shirt for washing. But I also noticed that you had started asking after my health. You seemed concerned and friendlier towards me. I had no doubt in my mind that you were sorry,” I said.

  “Thank you, Mr. Simpson,” he said. “For being able to forgive me. It was a bad thing I did. You could have broken your limbs, or fractured your neck or spinal cord.”

  And he left, looking quite sorry.

  As I got up to go downstairs, still burning with the desire to check those drawers in Maria’s room, I heard the second knock. I opened the door to find Tonye Briggs standing with his hands, deep in his pockets and his big head cocked to one side. He stared at me in a foolish way, as if I had three ears or something.

  “Yes?” I said, without a trace of a smile on my face.

  He looked at me from my head to my feet as if weighing my worth as a person on a scale. Then, he smiled and nodded his head several times. “Can I come in?” he asked.

  “Well, if you must,” I replied, hesitantly. He sat down on one of the armchairs with a lot of ceremony, his inquisitive eyes giving the entire room a serious appraisal.

  “Well, what is it?” I asked him, as he seemed in no hurry to state his business. Instead, he was now looking down at my trousers as if he found the colour, fabric or even the style, wanting. He suddenly slapped his thighs, like someone who had just made up his mind about something, before noisily clearing his throat.

  “I believe I know who killed Maria Marshall,” he said looking steadily into my eyes.

  “You do?” I asked quite unmoved by the pronouncement. I knew that anything he had to say, would eventually amount to foolishness.

  “Yes, I do,” he said. “It was her mother who killed her!” And he sat back with a self-satisfied grin to watch my reaction.

  “Well,” I began, quite unmoved. “Why do you think so?”

  “I heard her the day before the murder, telling Maria during an argument that she was going to kill her,” he said.

  “
But that is not enough reason to conclude that she did it. People say a lot of things that they don’t mean when they are angry,” I replied. I also knew that Tonye had not forgiven Mrs. Marshall for announcing the circumstances of his birth to the other guests and robbing him of the pride he took in his complexion.

  “Ah,” he smiled triumphantly. “But that is not all. I actually saw her going into her daughter’s room on the night she was killed, at about 10:00pm!”

  My eyes grew wide. Now, that was news to me. Mrs. Marshall had never said anything to anyone, including the police, about visiting her daughter the night she was killed. The loose button came to my mind, again.

  I could just imagine a violent struggle between mother and daughter, the mother holding a knife and wearing a sweater with white square buttons in front. Then, one of the buttons coming off in the fierce struggle, without the mother noticing, because she was intent on her mission. And her finally overpowering the daughter before striking the fatal blow, driving the knife relentlessly and mercilessly down to the hilt.

  Yet, my mind rejected this picture.

  It refused to believe it.

  “And where were you going to or coming from, at that time?” I asked.

  He seemed thrown off balance by the question. He kept readjusting his sitting position on the chair.

  “I believe I was coming from the lounge,” he said finally.

  “I see,” I said, wondering why it took him so long to answer. “But why didn’t you tell the police, this? Why are you telling me?”

  “But can’t you see Mr. Simpson, that I was simply giving her an opportunity to own up? It is obvious that she won’t.”

  “Own up to what?” I asked.

  “To killing her daughter, of course,” he replied.

  “Even if you saw her going to her daughter’s room, it does not necessarily follow that she killed her,” I observed.

  “It seems to me that you have made up your mind to defend her,” he said, narrowing his eyes.

  “No, not at all,” I said. “But all what you are saying is just circumstantial. You still have no evidence, that she actually committed the murder.”

  “Then, why didn’t she tell the police of her visit?” he asked.

  I had no satisfactory answer to that question, if she had visited her daughter that night.

  “What was she wearing when you saw her?” I asked.

  “I can’t quite remember,” he replied. “But it was something dark, I think.”

  “Did you actually see her going into the room?” I asked.

  He seemed to think it over. “No, but she was going towards the door,” he said.

  “Somebody going towards a door, and someone going into a room are two different things, Mr. Briggs,” I said, with some annoyance.

  “She was going towards the door and I have no doubt that her intention was to go into the room. In fact, her hand was raised to turn the door knob, when I saw her and passed,” he said. From the look on his face, he seemed sure of what he was saying.

  “Did she see you?”

  “No, she didn’t see me.”

  “Much as I feel that this information may be vital to solving this case, Mr. Briggs,” I began, choosing my words carefully. “Can you leave it only in my hands … for now at least, until the laboratory results come out? But in the meantime, I will be working on my own, to get to the truth.” And I stood up.

  He had no choice but to stand up.

  “Alright,” he said and left.

  I sat down for some seconds, trying to consider the complications created by this new information and that was when I heard the third knock.

  “Come in.”

  The door handle turned and Philip came in. He looked like life had lost meaning for him. His shoulders sagged, he looked worn out and his eyes were dull.

  “What is the problem, Philip?” I asked him.

  He stared at me, then shifted away his eyes for some time, as if he was trying to make up his mind about something. “I don’t know if I am the one who killed Maria, Mr. Simpson,” he said.

  “You what?” I asked, as my jaw dropped and my eyebrows shot up.

  “I said that I don’t know if I killed Maria,” he repeated.

  Had the fellow gone crazy?

  “You mean that you are not sure if you killed her?” I had to be certain that I had heard correctly.

  “That’s exactly what I mean, Mr. Simpson,” he replied.

  I asked him to sit down. Then, I opened the glass cabinet and took out a bottle of whisky. I poured some of it into two glasses and handed him one, but he refused. So, I took the drink myself; I needed it even if he said he did not. But he looked like he did, to me. Outside, the trees in the lush garden waved their branches as the dry and dust-laden harmattan wind shook them. Dead, brown leaves tore free and swirled in the dust.

  “Tell me all about it, Philip,” I said settling down comfortably in my chair, with the second glass in my hand. I had tossed down the first one in two swallows and had steeled myself to hear just about anything. A lot of self-incrimination and serious complications were cropping up in this murder case. The DPO may well have been on the right path, when he said that there could be more to the murder case than met the eye.

  Philip began his story.

  CHAPTER TEN

  PHILIP TELLS HIS STORY

  It was a noisy afternoon at the Stayfit Rehabilitation Centre. I was sitting on my bed staring at the white walls, inhaling the strong smell of disinfectant in the air. Some visitors who had come to see one of the other patients, were making noise. I was listening to Dr. Oluwatoyin Owolabi; it was the last time I would see him, as an in-patient. I was to be discharged that day.

  “You have done great harm to yourself, young man,” Dr. Owolabi told me me. “Only time will tell the long-term damage that the Megamix drug may have done to your body.”

  He was a tall, elderly man who peered at me from behind a pair of heavy-rimmed glasses delicately placed on the bridge of his nose. He had been very caring and kind to me during my two-year stay at the drug rehab centre. And my recovery, which he termed a miracle, was largely due to his specialist care.

  “I’m grateful to you, Dr. Owolabi,” I said, as I put the last of my personal items in my duffel bag. “You’ve been very kind to me and I pray that I don’t have to come back here, sir.”

  “That depends largely on you, Philip. If you relapse, you may find yourself back here in an even worse state. And that's if you're lucky.”

  I promised him that I would not return to the drugs and said goodbye to him, the nurses and some of the other patients. There was no friend or relation waiting for me. I was not expecting any. To my family, I was an outcast. My father had disowned me. To my friends, I was a disgrace and an embarrassment.

  “You have ruined your life!” my father had shouted at me, after Morgan died. He had trembled with anger and his hand had been shaking, even as he pointed his finger at me. “You’re no longer my son!” His anger had not come as a surprise. The fact that he had not shot me with his gun or cut me down with a machete, had surprised me. I didn't deserve any better.

  I had killed Morgan and Stephen. I hated myself for that, even more than my father hated me. This was the same father who had proudly embraced me, when I came back from the last Olympics Games with a silver medal in freestyle wrestling.

  “Welcome back, my son!” he had said, his face glowing with pride. Everyone had been proud of me. I was a worthy ambassador of the country. My victory been celebrated at the State House Pavilion. I had shaken hands with the President. I was a national hero. To Morgan, I was his personal hero. He wanted to be like me. But I disappointed everyone. The depth to which I had sunk, was painfully obvious.

  Morgan was my immediate younger brother. Though I was about five years older than he was, we were about the same size and build. He also looked like me facially. People often mistook us for each other. They said that we were like identical twins.

  St
ephen had been my best friend since childhood. We were more than friends. Our relationship had grown from mere friendship to the strong bond of brotherhood.

  In retrospect, it was not surprising that Morgan was the first to notice that I was taking drugs. He was shocked at first, but had no real position on the issue because I was his role model; if I did something, that meant it was right.

  Then, more noticeable, negative changes began to manifest. I was often stoned, drunk and irritable.

  “People are saying that these drugs are not good for the body,” said Morgan, one day. He had always found it difficult to directly criticise me. He waved his hand at the table where I kept my drugs.

  “I don’t care what people say,” I replied. I was already high.

  “But do you really need it?” asked Morgan, looking into my eyes.

  “I need it just like you need air. Now, mind your business,” I said, taking my time to prepare a joint. As I started sniffing it, Morgan left the room.

  I was also starting to look unkempt. I was no longer frequent or punctual at the Sports Complex for my training sessions. Even when I went, I was not particularly serious; I managed to get one everyone's nerves. One day, my Head Coach reached the limits of his patience.