A late September sun cast lengthy shadows through the study window. Lord Blevin Rumford rubbed his weary eyes. The light was no longer sufficient for reading, especially for a man of his advanced age. As he leant forward and pushed the switch on a brass lamp that stood on his desk there was a sudden burst of blue-white light and a small pop. The bulb had blown.
Lord Blevin sighed. He thought for a moment of ringing for Simmons, but if a man couldn’t obtain and change his own light bulbs then, damn it, what good was a man? He pushed himself away from his desk and arose slowly and stretched his bones playing counter point to the fire that cracked and snapped in the hearth. Alas, further disappointment greeted him as he opened the study closet. The spare light bulb box was empty. He’d have to go to the hall.
He made his away across the room to the door leading to the hall and grasped the knob, but the knob refused to turn. It was locked. Some blasted fool had locked him in his study! He pounded the door with his fist and shouted for the butler Simmons. He paused for a moment and listened. Finally he heard soft footsteps and a muffled voice through the door.
“Is something wrong, Your Grace?” asked the voice.
“Yes there bloody well is Simmons. Did you lock my study?”
“No, Your Grace”
“Well, find the key and let me out before I go out the window. Then question the staff. I want to know who locked this door.”
“Very good, milord.” The footsteps receded.
Sir Blevin paced the rug that lay by the door until the butler returned with the key.
“Thank you, Simmons,” he said as he stepped into the hall. “Any word on who locked me in?”
“I’m afraid not, milord,” the butler replied.
There was a silent second.
“Perhaps we should call for Agatha Christie, milord. I understand she excels at locked room mysteries,” said Simmons with the faintest of smiles.
“Very funny Simmons,” answered Lord Blevin with the faintest of praiseI'm Karl Fogsen, thanks for reading.
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