Murder Most Discreet

tempus fugit 1

I do not own the Beatles, Brian Epstein, Martha, the Supremes, "Baby Love," Monopoly, or anything else specified in a disclaimer. I do, however, own every other character in this story and the plot.

It is often said that all stories are about either love or death.

PART I

tempus fugit

6 August, 1965, 8:30 PM (London time). 7 Cavendish Avenue, London, England.

"Brian!" exclaimed Ringo happily, throwing open the front door. The sheepdog puppy at his feet barked excitedly and reared up, putting its paws on Brian's impeccable suit. Brian pushed the dog off and dusted down his jacket, smiling despite himself at the exuberant canine. The Beatles' manager stepped over the threshold of Paul's house.

"Come on in!" called Paul from the living room.

"Thank you," said Brian as he followed Ringo down the hall. Martha bounded after them, drooling on the carpet.

As Brian and Ringo stepped into the warmly lit living room, the other three Beatles cheered. Motown music was drifting out of a record player in the corner. Paul had a glass of red wine in one hand, and George took a lazy drag from his cigarette. John had a Monopoly box on his lap and was wearing his glasses, for once.

"We were waiting for you," the latter announced, holding up the game for Brian to see.

"Congratulations on releasing yet another hit album, boys," said Brian proudly.

"Why thank you," drawled George. "Such an honour." He stubbed out his cigarette in the glass ashtray in the middle of Paul's coffee table.

Ringo resumed his seat on the couch next to George. Paul gestured to the overstuffed armchair next to his own. "Sit down!" he commanded Brian. Brian nodded to the bassist gratefully and sank into the chair.

Just as Brian began to pour himself some of the Chianti, the black telephone at the far end of the table rang.

"I'll get it," said Paul hastily, getting up and setting down his drink carefully. He picked up the phone. "Hello?"

"Who is it?" asked John. Paul ignored him, instead saying, "Hi, Dad! What's going on? . . . Oh, really? Er, I don't exactly remember her . . . . Oh, I never met her? Then why does it matter? . . . What? She left me a house? But – I didn't even know her! . . . Yeah, I suppose I will . . . . Wait, the thirteenth? I can't go, that's when I'm flying to America! Can't it be rescheduled? . . . Er, hang on, I've got Brian right here."

Paul turned to Brian. "My great-aunt twice removed or something just died, and I have to go to her funeral on the thirteenth. But that's when we're flying to the United States, right?"

Brian nodded. "But you could theoretically fly early on the fourteenth; all you would miss would be the press conference. Do you have to go?"

Paul made a face. "She left me a house."

The other four gaped. "A house?!" exclaimed John.

Paul returned to his phone conversation. "Yeah, Dad, I can go to America on the fourteenth. . . . Great! I'll see you then. Bye."

He hung up and turned to his party. They stared at him.

"This distant relative apparently had some serious money," said Paul. "She left me a drafty old manor house somewhere, and now I have to go to her funeral! Even though I never met her!"

"Oh no, I just got a huge house," said George sarcastically. "It's so terrible!"

"I'd rather be flying to America with the rest of you," complained Paul, strolling back to his armchair and falling into it.

The Supremes' voices floated out of the record player. "Baby love, my baby love, I need you, I need you, but all you do is treat me bad . . . ."

Martha barked frantically at nothing from her seat on the carpet next to John's chair. John whipped around and barked at Martha. Martha whimpered and licked his hand comfortingly.

John raised an eyebrow quizzically. "What was that for?"

Martha looked at him dolefully.

"Don't throw our love away!" sang Diana Ross on the record player.

"Your dog is creepy," said John, eyeing the sheepdog warily.

"She's not creepy!" yelped Paul. "She's the best dog ever!"

"Well, we'll have to keep the change of plans a secret," said Brian, bringing the conversation back to business. "The police won't be able to protect Paul as much on the fourteenth."

"This isn't much of a celebration," mused George, lifting up his right leg casually and resting his right ankle on his left knee.

"Can we play Monopoly now?" asked Ringo.

"Yeah! I'll cream you all!" yelled John gleefully.

I have begun to realize I am not quite as alone in this house as I had feared. Around every curve in these great halls I hear a creak or a whisper that tells me all might not be lost. - Vivian Ravenhurst, November 1897, Corvusheim House, Dartmoor, Devon