Diary Of A Murderess [Completed]

Section Five - Melody

Ding Dong! The doorbell rang out loud in the isolated silence of the street, of which we were the only inhabitants. Once again, as I stared at the peeling paint on the front of the houses, I wholeheartedly wished that John had not dragged me into this mess.

“Are you sure this is a good idea?” I nervously questioned  for what must’ve been the sixth time. The sixth answer rang out, echoing around the cobwebbed porch: “Positive.”

My heart leapt into my throat as the blood red door creaked open and I thought that, had I lived there, I would have chosen a less sinister colour. A face appeared, quite young and a remarkable contrast to the gloomy surroundings. John stepped forward, boldly. “Excuse me, madam, is this the residency of a Mrs. Stefan Holden?” The face had its eyes narrowed in a suspicious manner. It had a point. Why should she trust us?

When she spoke, it was in English, tinted with a Norwegian accent and sorrow. “Ja, until recently, Missus Holden liffed here, ja. But no more.” The woman looked ready to cry. John took the courageous approach, placing his hand on her back and ushering her into her own home. Had it been left to me, I would’ve done what I do in most unmanageable situations - run away.

“So,” said John gently, seating the young lady at the dining room table. “Why don’t you talk us through what’s happened here?” I reached behind me into the solid oak drinks cabinet, pulling out and pouring a whisky for the Norwegian girl. John stared at me. “How did you know what was in there Mel, have you been here before?”

I shook my head vigorously. “No… it was… it was just a guess.” Suspicious, John stared at me, his eyes narrowed as he often did when analyzing or deducing something. My throat performed the biggest gulp in history as he turned his attention away from me back to the housemaid. I slid the bottle of Scotch whisky back into the cabinet before my sweaty palms could drop it.

“My name is Helen Fiske and my mother is from Norway. I came to work here when I was fourteen. Mrs. Holden was always very kind to me, effen though…” she stopped abruptly, as if she had said too much, before skipping ahead to the subject. “Then, Stephan committed suicide. I don’t know why because he had a wife and a daughter and he loffed them very much.” John and I exchanged glances before he asked Helen to excuse him for a moment and dragged me into the kitchen.

As soon as we were out of earshot I asked him, “Did Stephan Holden have a daughter we didn’t know about?”

        “Yes, but there’s something else. I believe that Helen is the daughter that she speaks of.” I stared at the man opposite me. How had he come to such a conclusion? My confused face asked the question that I was thinking. “It makes sense; the amount of grief she feels for him, how she told us about her mother but not her father, how she came to work and live here so young, how she talked about Mrs. Holden being kind to her even though. Even though what? Even though her husband had had an affair and she was the product of it? She even inherited the house! I couldn’t be more certain.”

His argument was so spot on that I was stuck speechless. We reentered the kitchen to where Helen stood.  “Is eveythink okay?” we nodded and she continued her story. “Mrs. Holden and me, we were griefing together for…”

        “For your father, yes,” completed John. Helen inclined her head to show his deductions were correct.

        “And then after a while, just as she was finally moving on… she committed suicide as well.” John sat up straighter as I slouched further. So much killing… I mean dying. I tried not to believe all of this stupid guff that John was attempting to put into my head. “It doesn’t make any sense.” Said Helen, nervously. “I think that someone’s killing them off and leavink a note. Also, Mrs. Hubble next-door says she heard some people shouting just before the death.”

        “Yes,” said John, thoughtfully, “a note to distract away unwanted attention.” He jumped up, a new light shining from within him. “Thank you so much, Helen, for your time.”

        “My pleasure,” she responded although her heart wasn’t in the reply. Following us into the porch, just as we were leaving, she called out: “But, please, if you find the murderer… make them pay for killing my parents.”