Playing Detective

By Elizaveta Heinonen

This book contains 64 adventure stories, each based around a criminal mystery that is up to the reader to solve.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Elizaveta Heinonen
• Release date: Jan 7, 2015
• ISBN: 9781311497772

Elizaveta Heinonen

Elizaveta Heinonen writes poems, stories and textbooks for students learning English as a foreign language. Her most popular books include It makes all the difference, English as they speak it, English Idioms for Everyday Use, In the World of Phrasal Verbs. Елизавета Хейнонен – автор более десятка учебных и развивающих пособий и книг, в том числе бестселлеров «Английская грамматика в вопросах и ответах» и «Как это сказать по-английски», "Эти незнакомые знакомые английсике слова", а также бесплатного периодического журнала «Английская мозаика».

Book preview

PLAYING DETECTIVE

By

Elizaveta Heinonen

SMASHWORDS EDITION

* * * * *

PUBLISHED BY:

Elizaveta Heinonen on Smashwords

Playing detective

Copyright © 2014 by Elizaveta Heinonen

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PLAYING DETECTIVE

The Witch Trial

The courtroom buzzed like a beehive. The citizens of Paris, having put aside their superstitious fears, had gathered to watch the witch trial. Many of them were attracted by the rumour that the judges were going to demand that the witch demonstrate her skills, for which reason the hearing had been set for 9 p.m. on the night of the full moon. In those far-away days of the year 1730, people believed that witches chose to exercise their magical powers at night, especially when there was a full moon.

As if by magic, the buzzing died down as the sound of the gong announced the beginning of the trial.

The People of Paris vs. Marie Colbert, a witch, announced the courtroom clerk.

Marie Colbert was indicted on several counts: consorting with the devil, having bewitched her husband with the help of magic ointments and balms, and having finally killed the unsuspecting man by way of witchcraft – that is, with the help of same magic balms and ointments.

The prosecution can present several witnesses to prove the charges, said the prosecutor. Apart from that, we are in possession of a piece of evidence that leaves no doubt as to the guilt of the accused woman.

Are you ready to produce this piece of evidence to the Court? asked the Chief Justice.

Certainly, Your Honour. It is a recipe for a magic ointment found in the house of the accused. With the Court’s permission, I shall read it aloud.

We are all ears, Counsel, said the Chief Justice.

The prosecutor picked up a piece of paper from the table, and read out the recipe which cannot be repeated here word for word; all we can say is that it contained the blood of the black snake, the fat of the back cat, and the eggs of an owl found at midnight.

The accused denies having seen this recipe, the prosecutor continued, but we know from a reliable source that she not only knew about its existence, but used it to make a magic flying ointment.

Has anyone seen her fly?

Yes, Your Honour. I have a witness who saw her rise into the air.

The prosecutor gestured to one of the spectators in the first row. A short man resembling a beer barrel rose from his seat and stumped into the witness box. As it soon turned out, his inner world was very much in harmony with this physical appearance.

What is your name? the Chief Justice addressed the witness.

My name is Bonfils, said the beer barrel, bowing slightly in the direction of the judges.

Tell us, Monsieur Bonfils, do you know the accused woman?

Of course I do! I know her very well. We are neighbours.

Where, exactly, do you live?

Right in front of the house of the late Monsieur Colbert, God rest his soul. With him, I have lost my best booze companion.

Does it mean you can see the front side of your late neighbour’s house? the Chief Justice asked, ignoring the second remark.

Yes, Your Honour.

Would you, please, tell the Court what you did two weeks ago, on Saturday, at around midnight?

On Saturday?

Yes.

Two weeks ago?

Yes. Where were you on that night?

At home, of course. I’m always home by midnight. Most bars close at eleven.

Do you remember what you were doing?

What I was doing? What can a single man do at midnight?

Weren’t you sitting by the open window? prompted the prosecutor.

That’s right! I was sitting by the window.

What did you see?

"Well, like I said, I was sitting by the window and admiring the full moon. Suddenly, the head of my neighbour, Madame Colbert, peered up. Right out of the chimney. And then – believe it or not – Madame Colbert herself, absolutely naked. In her birthday suit, as they say. All she had with her was a broom.

At these words, the defense lawyer began to fidget in his seat, but no one seemed to notice. All eyes were fixed on the witness, who continued:

"She climbed out onto the roof, straddled her broom, and flew away.

In what direction did she go? asked the prosecutor.

In the direction of the cemetery, of course. Then I noticed a second witch joining her.

You must have seen double after the three bottles of cheap wine, a voice from the audience cut in.

The Chief Justice raised his gavel and banged it on the table.

One more remark like that, and I will have the courtroom cleared, he said angrily.

The defense lawyer took the opportunity and rose from his chair. This time, the Chief Justice condescended to notice him.

You want to say something, Counsel?

Yes, Your Honour. I daresay that this witness is lying.

Lying?

Yes. His whole testimony is nothing but a lie, and the Defense can prove it.

How was the defense lawyer going to prove that the witness was lying? What did he notice no one else did?

The Mistake

Monsieur Francis Perec, a multimillionaire and a known collector of curiosities, was slowly turning over the pages of his famous album of stamps, when a gentle knock on the door interrupted this most pleasing activity.

Come in, Mortimer, said Monsieur Perec, without taking his eyes off the album.

The butler came into the room.

I’m very sorry to disturb you, Monsieur, but there is a gentleman at the door, asking for you. I thought you might want to speak with him.

What is so special about him?

His name, Monsieur. He said it was Paul Gauguin.

The millionaire glanced at the self-portrait of the great artist that adorned one of the walls of his study.

In that case, let him in, he said, as he shut the album and put it away in the desk drawer.

Monsieur Paul Gauguin, the butler announced the late visitor.

It was a young man of about 35, dressed with great taste. The