by John Ukah
“I thought it was Nagoth,” I said.
“No, it was Willie. I knew he was a fraud from the minute I set eyes on him, and I had a suspicion that she had fallen for him. The day you told me that she was in love with someone else, I thought you knew. That was why I encouraged you to go after her and maybe turn her head away from him. Nagoth meant nothing to her. They were just friends.”
“But did you suspect that Willie had killed her?” I asked.
“I was not too sure. It became confusing. Ayuba had a plaster on his cheek and she had, it seemed, scratched her assailant. I knew she had also humiliated Philip, when she poured the drink in his face. Then, Nagoth turned out to be the one whose blood and skin was under her nails.”
“Thank goodness it’s all over and the right culprit apprehended,” I said.
“You’re right, Mr. Simpson. It’s all over. My husband and daughter are gone. Nothing is left, only emptiness remains inside.” And she stared vacantly at me with her round eyes.
I was not surprised when the Divisional Police Officer, Daniel Atanda, and one of his officers turned up at the Lodge, the following day. His sidekick was a huge man with an enormously large head and a receding hairline. He had a gloomy demeanour and reminded me of an ill-natured horse. They appeared to have an important announcement and we were all summoned to the lounge to hear them out.
The DPO coughed painfully and lit his cigarette, eyeing us suspiciously as if we were responsible for his pains. “Wahimda was not poisoned. We’ve established that now from the lab result obtained from the Health Plus Hospital. She had a condition called Toxic Shock syndrome. There was no rat poison in the hot chocolate. Now, I need to know who started the rumour about rat poison in the chocolate.”
We stared at one another in surprise and I sensed a palpable sense of relief.
“I’m an extremely busy man and do not enjoy such wild goose chases. Why would anyone conclude that the young lady was poisoned, just because she had stomach cramps while sipping chocolate?”
“What is Toxic Shock Syndrome?” I asked the DPO.
He stared at me speculatively, as he would a fly in his coffee. “I’m not a medical doctor, Mr. Simpson.” And that was all he was willing to say about it.
###
Please, take a moment to leave a review where you purchased your copy of MURDER AT MIDNIGHT. Thank you so much!
And click HERE to be the first to know about other books from the same publisher.