The Manservant

1889, England

        You may have read about my death in the newspapers. They made a big deal of it, or so I heard. I didn't read the stories myself, of course. I was out of town at the time.

        I had been working as a manservant for a cantankerous, mean old man in Teddington. A very rich, cantankerous, mean old man. I had been foolish enough to sign a contract, vowing to remain in his employ for a period of three years, and soon came to rue that decision. He did pay well, I can't deny that, but his temper and constant unreasonable demands had me pining for the day when my services would no longer be legally bound to him.

        One spring morning, as I was laying out the suit of clothes for my employer, Mr. Tavert, I was surprised by the arrival of a telegram. The arrival itself was no surprise, as Mr. Tavert regularly received telegrams in his varied business dealings. What I hadn't anticipated was that this particular one was addressed to me.

        It was from a gentleman by the name of Richard Nodding. He claimed to be my brother, a twin no less, and asked if he could drop by for a visit on the following Saturday. I was quite taken aback by this news, as I'd no idea I had siblings of any sort. My parents had both passed on when I was an infant, and I had grown up in an orphanage, escaping that place only when I was apprenticed to a printer in my sixteenth year.

        Needless to say, I was intrigued by this dispatch, and at the first opportunity I went to the telegraph office to respond. I wired him that Saturday would be ideal, as Mr. Tavert was expected to be away the weekend, leaving us that entire day to become acquainted.

        The rest of the week went by slowly as I pondered the incredible news that I had a living relative. I didn't see how it could be possible, and I was anxious more for curiosity's sake than for any familial reasons. Mr. Tavert seemed particularly nasty and unbearable that week also, adding to my eagerness for the week to come to an end.

        On Friday, Mr. Tavert had me busy as could be, getting his things in order and packed for his trip to London. It was a great relief to finally see him on his way that evening, and after making sure the house was in order for my guest, I was able to relax.

        I woke early Saturday morning and was ready and waiting when the carriage came rattling up the long cobbled driveway. The driver hopped down from his perch, opened the door to the passenger compartment, and I stepped out.

        I jest, of course. It wasn't I who stepped from the carriage, but Mr. Richard Nodding, my brother. He couldn't be anything but my twin brother, as he was identical to me in all ways of appearance, comportment and mannerism. Even the carriage driver was quite taken aback.

        My brother dismissed the carriage, instructing the driver to return that evening, and the two of us made our way into the dining hall to feast on the repast I had prepared prior to his arrival. As we dined, he told me his story of how he came to discover I was his twin brother.

        His father, or the man he had known as his father, died in the service of the military when Richard was only four years of age. His mother, or again, the woman he had known as his mother, passed away just six months previous to the current date. As she lay dying, she confessed to him that he had been adopted, and following her death he set out to learn of his past. After a lengthy search, he discovered which orphanage he had been adopted from, and questioned a long-time employee of the establishment. She had a vague recollection of him upon hearing his adopted name, and after poring through the old records was able to locate a document that detailed his adoption information, his deceased parents names, his own Christian name, and to his surprise, his twin brother's name. No mention was given as to why he alone had been adopted, and not the both of us together.

        We spent much of the remainder of the day regaling each other with our life stories; what we had done thus far, had planned for our respective futures, the places we had visited, people we had seen. Among other things, he told me he had been recently engaged, but several months earlier his fiancée had a change of mind and broke the engagement off. He was as alone in this world as was I. Later in the evening we spent some time riding horses along the bluffs above the River Thames beyond the far edge of Mr. Tavert's property line. We arrived back at the house just as his carriage returned.

        We said our goodbyes as he climbed into the carriage, and almost as an afterthought I invited him to return the following weekend for another visit. He accepted my impromptu invitation and waved as the driver pulled away, down the driveway and onto the road.

        That night, before I retired to bed, I happened to walk by Mr. Tavert's trophy room, and a sinister idea formed in my mind, one that could free me from Mr. Tavert's tyrannical rule and make me an incredibly rich man in the bargain. This idea festered in my mind for a few days, growing in intensity until finally I decided to act on it.

        Late that next Friday evening, while Mr. Tavert was busy in his study, I stole my way into his trophy room. Breaking one of the glass panels on a display case along the wall, I took one of the antique dueling pistols from inside, then loaded it with ball, cap and powder that I had made sure to acquire the previous day.

        Making my way down the hall and into the study, I tried to be stealthy as I sneaked behind him, but a creaking floorboard alerted him to my presence. He spun around in his chair and saw me several paces behind him.

        "What are you doing in here?" he barked at me. "I didn't call for you. Get out!"

        I pulled the pistol from my pocket and raised it. The look of panicked realization on his face was precious. I pulled the trigger, delivering a lethal dose of lead directly between his beady eyes, and he slumped over on his right side, quite dead.

        He had the combination to his safe changed at the beginning of each month, but I knew he always kept the current one taped to the under-side of his right-hand desk drawer, a secret I had accidentally discovered some months back while helping him look for a particular letter. I pulled the drawer from the desk and upended it, dumping its contents on the floor. Pulling the paper with the needed numbers from the drawer's bottom, I turned and walked over to the west wall where the safe was located, hidden behind a rather grotesque painting. Mr. Tavert had always been quite distrustful of banks, keeping only enough money in them to satisfy pending business transactions. The rest of his vast wealth he preferred to keep in his own safe, which I relieved of its contents, placing the money in a leather valise. I then took one of my handkerchiefs, with my own monogram and laundry mark, and kicked it under the desk for the constables to find later. I wanted them to know it was I who had performed the crime.

        I locked the study door on my way out, then retired to my bedroom to wait the morrow, when I could complete my murderous scheme.

        My brother arrived on schedule Saturday morning and again instructed the carriage driver to return that evening to take him back home. Like the week before, we made our way to the dining hall for lunch. When we had finished, I suggested a leisurely stroll through the gardens.

        Mr. Tavert had always been very meticulous with the care of his gardens and the results were spectacular. Flowers and shrubs of all varieties flourished under his care. Richard and I walked up and down the pathways a couple times, admiring the flora and making conversation. There was a marble bench where the gardens met the back of the house, and when we reached it I suggested we sit for a while. I had secreted the poker from the sitting room's fireplace behind the bench, and while we sat and talked I waited for my opportunity. After some time, Richard glanced away in the direction of the front of the house, his attention caught by a bird. That was all I was waiting for. While his attention was diverted, I swung the poker from behind and brought it down on the back of his skull as hard as I could. He went limp immediately.

        I caught him before he could fall to the ground then dragged him to the front of the house. Leaving him by the driveway, I walked to the carriage house and hitched a pair of horses to Mr. Tavert's private carriage, then drove back to where I had left Richard's body. I tossed him into the carriage and drove down the driveway, turning left onto the road and continuing for about a half mile, where I brought the horses sharply to the right, off the road and headed to the bluffs overlooking the Thames. I stopped them at the edge and unhitched them. A smack on the rump with the whip sent them running back toward the house.

        I propped Richard up in the carriage seat and put an open valise next to him. This wasn't the same one I had loaded full of money, of course, but I did make the necessary sacrifice of putting some money inside it. With that done, I got behind the carriage and, putting all my weight into the job, slowly and methodically pushed it until it toppled over the edge of the bluff. With a loud clatter it tumbled end over end, smashing to pieces on the wet rocks at the river's edge. Pieces of the carriage swept downstream, and I could see Richard's fractured body in the water, pinned under a wheel with half an axle still attached.

        I ambled back to the house, keeping as far from the road as I could, out of sight from any passers-by. Fortunately the road was empty of carriage or pedestrian my whole trek back, so there was no chance that anyone could see me still alive and in the neighborhood. At the house I cleaned up the small amounts of blood left in the gardens and driveway, remnants left over from Richard's head wound, then waited the several hours for Richard's driver to return.

        I tossed my valise in the carriage and climbed aboard. The driver didn't question my waiting alone, sans twin, for which I was grateful, though I'm sure I could have concocted a passable excuse if called to do so.

        At the end of the driveway I instructed the driver to take me to London instead of home. By way of explanation, I told him I desired to visit an acquaintance for the night. In London I dismissed him, then took a taxi to the waterfront where I purchased passage on a ship heading to the Bahamas.

        Some months later, a tourist from my old hometown on holiday in the Bahamas told me the tale of a young servant who had murdered his elderly employer as a means to robbery. During his flight from the house, he apparently lost control of the carriage when the horses became unhitched, and plunged to his death into the Thames. Some of the money was recovered, but unfortunately most of it appeared to have been swept down stream. Such a pity.