Woodcock Jones is the first and best consulting detective in the entire world. He can say that with a straight face, because it's true. Ask anyone. They will agree with him.

Some have done it since him, though not nearly as well nor as impressively. A few have claimed to have come before, though they are twisting the truth, at best.

Woodcock Jones is the best of the best. When Scotland Yard runs into a case that they can't crack, they come to him for help. He is willing to provide his assistance, for a price. One that they're always willing to pay.

"Oh, boy, sir!" the energetic boy at his side exclaimed as they climbed the steps of a tall narrow row house.

John Flotsam was twelve years and (supposedly) a boy detective. Woodcock had yet to be impressed by the boy's intellect even once. Yet, still somehow he found himself saddled with the child, like a leaden weight around his neck he must drag with him from crime scene to crime scene.

There was no need to ring the doorbell once they reached their destination, as the front door was hanging wide open. Police officers and crime scene technicians hustled up and down the steps going to and from a line of police vans blocking the street.

"This is so exciting! Another thrilling mystery for us to solve!" John enthused.

"For me to solve, you mean," Woodcock Jones replied. He didn't roll his eyes, because he was an adult, but he was sorely tempted to.

"You never know, sir! Maybe I'll beat you to it, this time!" the boy beside him said with a wide infectious grin.

Woodcock looked down into his insipid little face and thought, 'No, I rather think you won't.' 

Inside the richly furnished brownstone was a warren of activity. Police officials and technicians swarmed over every surface, taking photographs, dusting for fingerprints, or just standing in corners drinking weak tea and chatting. Woodcock floated past all of it, striding confidently on his long legs down the hall and up the narrow creaking stairs to the study on the second floor.

The study was small, but richly appointed. A heavy oak desk was pushed against the far wall underneath a large window that allowed midday sunlight to stream into the room. Motes of dust floated through yellow sunbeams, disturbed and sent dancing by the various officers in the room. The walls were lined with bookshelves and cabinets full of books and knickknacks. The glossy wooden floorboards were covered in a thick Turkish carpet, now completely ruined with muddy footprints from the coming and going of the police.

There, just where he had been informed he would find it, was the victim's body. Slumped over the antique typewriter was a dead man, once known as Mortimer Torpid now just an inanimate lump of flesh. His sightless eyes stared out at the room, his cheek pressed into the keys of the typewriter and holding a number of letters against the ink ribbon and single piece of paper still stuck in the platen. Written on the paper were the words:

> To me, the thing that is worse than death is betrayal.

As for the man himself, the manner of death seemed rather straight forward, as the back of his head was noticeably folded in.

"Oh jeez!" the boy gasped, turning away with a hand over his eyes. Woodcock permitted himself to roll his eyes this time, as he carefully leaned over the dead body to get a closer look at the paper still loaded into the typewriter.

This novel is published on a different platform. Support the original author by finding the official source.

"Steady on there, John," a boisterous voice said from the open doorway.

Woodcock turned to see the ever rosy cheeked Detective Peg Begnawed with her wide strong hand on the boy's shoulder, rubbing hard enough to send the boy swaying side to side. "Not your first dead body, after all!" she said with a chuckle.

"No," the boy said in a wavering voice, his face still hidden by his hands and small spiral bound notebook.

"'allo there, Woodcock. Good of you to come," Peg said, still entirely too loudly for the small room. She stepped around John and slapped her calloused palm against Woodcock's own, despite him not offering it. "Quite a doozy this one is."

"Yes, it does seem so," Woodcock says.

"Are you familiar with the victim?" she asked, letting go of Woodcock's hand only after squeezing hard enough to rub his knucklebones against each other uncomfortably.

"Yes," Woodcock answered again. "Mortimer Torpid. Age thirty-five, bachelor. Noted satirist. And, now, murder victim."

Peg nodded along, frowning down at the dead body slumped over the desk like it was a naughty puppy that had peed on her rug rather than the remains of a dead man.

"Quite the pickle it's put us in. A big name like this will cause quite a stir, once the papers pick it up. I'd like to have a suspect in custody before my boss has me by the balls." At Woodcock's raised eyebrow, she grinned at him with too many teeth and added, "So to speak."

"So, you called me," Woodcock said slowly.

"Quite so," she said with a nod.

"What do you have so far?" he asked brusquely, turning to take a look around the office for anything that looked likely to give him a clue as to the identity of the murderer.

"The victim was likely murdered some time last night between midnight and three AM. None of the neighbors saw anyone come or go, nor did the traffic cameras pick up any unusual cars parked on the street. No sign of forced entry. His cleaning lady found him this morning," Peg rattled off.

"And in the alley?" Woodcock asked, pulling a pair of tweezers from his pocket so that he could pick a cigarette butt from the ashtray on the desk and examine it closer.

"No cameras in the alley. Could be the perp came through the back door, though if they did nobody saw them," Peg said with a shrug.

"What about the murder weapon?" John peeped up from where he was still hanging back near the doorway.

Woodcock shot the boy a glare. He certainly didn't need any assistance gathering information. But, Peg was smiling at the boy, so he held his tongue.

"No sign of the murder weapon yet," she said apologetically. "Could be that our lovely criminal took it with them and disposed of it elsewhere. Looks like a relatively small heavy object, based on the shape of the killing blow."

"Perhaps a paper weight," Woodcock said speculatively, tapping at a small circle on a nearby bookshelf that was conspicuously missing the thin layer of dust that covered the rest of the shelves.

Peg tilted her head, looking at the back of Mortimer Torpid's head thoughtfully. "Yeah, could be," she said.

"What do you think, Mr. Jones?" John asked excitedly. He still looked a bit green around the edges, but his wide eyes shone with excitement in his round face. Wooodcock didn't bother to suppress his satisfied grin.

"Obviously, our murderer is a friend of Mr. Torpid," Woodcock explained. He gestured at the piece of paper still stuck in the typewriter. "One cannot betray a stranger, after all. No, this was personal."

"Our perpetrator was a friend of the victim. So, they were welcomed into his home and his study. They likely followed him up to his study, perhaps to discuss his current work of satire. Perhaps even exchanging a few words with Mr. Torpid as he sat at his desk. Regardless, Mr. Torpid felt comfortable enough to show them his back. Which was to be his undoing," Woodcock explained.

Striding over to the bookshelf, Woodcock gestured pointedly at the little circle of missing dust. "Our murderer, taking advantage of a perfect opportunity, grabbed the closest weapon at hand and quickly and violently doused the life of Mr. Torpid!"

Both John and Peg were rapt at his performance. Even a few technicians were leaning into the doorway with big fascinated eyes as he expounded on his theory.

"We are now tasked with finding who had the opportunity and motive to commit such a crime," Woodcock finished with impressive gravitas, if he did say so himself.

John started clapping, which got the others going. Woodcock turned away in an impressive swirl of his overcoat to hide the smile pulling at the corners of his mouth.

Yes, this was going to turn out to be splendid mystery. He could feel it.