Story: The Death of Mrs. Knight

Detective Hunter crossed the enormous garden full of roses. She entered Mr. and Mrs. Knight’s lavish house and went into the study. The beautiful room had become the scene of a crime. Mrs. Knight was sitting in her leather chair. She looked like she was asleep on the desk. But she was dead.

Mr. Knight, her husband, was sitting by the window, his eyes filled with tears. Many other police officers were searching for clues around the room. They were looking around the desk, on top of the bookcases, and all over the floor.

“Who discovered the body?” asked the detective.

“It was me,” sobbed Mr. Knight. “She asked to be left alone. But I missed her, so I brought her lunch. I made her favourite thing: soft-boiled eggs with buttered toast and asparagus. That’s when – that’s when –” The husband couldn’t continue.

Detective Hunter wrote this down in her little notebook before continuing. “What were you doing before you found your wife?”

“I was in the garden all morning,” he whispered. “I was taking care of our roses.”

“Did you notice anything unusual?” Hunter asked, staring at Mr. Knight. “Any strange sounds?”

He shook his head. “No, nothing. It was a normal day in every way.”

“Could someone have entered or left this study secretly?”

“I don’t think so,” said the husband. “The doors and windows creak loudly. I’d have heard it if anyone went in there. She was alone the whole time.”

“Look at this, Detective,” said a young policeman. It was a knife, covered in blood. “I found it underneath Mrs. Knight’s chair. It looks like she dropped it herself.”

“Let me see.”

The Detective carefully inspected the knife. She held the handle close to her face and turned it around. Then she nodded and made some notes in her little notebook.

“Mr. Knight, you are under arrest,” the detective said loudly.

“What?” he cried, standing up. “That’s ridiculous. I would never have hurt her! I loved her. It’s obvious that she killed herself. I know that her business was doing badly.”

“So you wanted her money, before she lost it all.”

“I will make a complaint about you,” the husband threatened. “How dare you accuse me like this, when I’m grieving. My wife hasn’t been dead for more than thirty minutes.”

“And how do you know her exact time of death?” asked the detective.

The husband hesitated. “You will never find my fingerprints on that knife!” he shouted at last.

“I am certain that’s true,” said the detective calmly. “You used gloves, of course. But you were careless. You used your gardening gloves. I can smell the roses on the knife’s handle.”