Death at the Dinner Table

It had been a last minute invitation. Northrop’s dining companion, Lindsey, had cancelled unexpectedly and Sherlock seemed like the most suitable replacement.

“It’s awfully nice of you,” said Northrop as the two made their way up the path to the front of the house. “Jeannie always throws the best dinner parties. There’s always a delicious spread of food, nice wine and amiable company. It should be most entertaining.”

“Yes, I’m sure,” smiled Sherlock politely as they reached the door. The door opened almost immediately after Northrop gave it a sharp rap.

“Oh, Daniel!” exclaimed Jeannie Goodwin, “You’ve arrived. And who’s this?” She eyed Sherlock thoroughly through a pair of stylish glasses. Northrop introduced his friend and pleasantries were exchanged between Sherlock and the host.

“Please, come in,” said Jeannie excitedly, “Everyone’s sitting in the lounge room. Dinner’s almost ready.”

Northrop and Sherlock made their way down the short hallway, passing the kitchen on their left and the dining room on their right. Sherlock glanced approvingly at the round dining table neatly set for six, complete with polished silverware, sparkling wine glasses and printed name cards. The hallway opened up into a large lounge room dressed with modern, stylish furniture. Three other guests had dispersed themselves amongst the settee.

“Everyone, this is my cousin Daniel and his friend – er – Sherlock,” announced Jeannie, “Please look after them. I’ve just got to check on the roast.” Jeannie smiled and headed back to the kitchen.

“Care for a drink?” asked a small, bald man in a turtleneck sweater. Northrop and Sherlock politely accepted the glasses of wine that were handed to them. “The name’s Cedric Monrose,” said the man, “I’m an old friend of Jeannie’s, and also her hairdresser.”

“Cedric, darling, you must tell me what the latest look is for this summer. I’ve heard delightful things are happening in Paris,” interrupted the prim voice of a woman.

“Oh, I don’t think your patients would be pleased with those Parisian dos. They are very risqué,” replied Cedric with a smile.

“Natasha Patel,” said the woman as she extended a hand to Northrop then to Sherlock. She was dressed modestly in black; her only jewellery was a small, silver cross that hung delicately around her neck.

“Patients?” queried Northrop.

“Yes, I’m a doctor – a psychiatrist,” answered Natasha, “I have a private practice in town.”

“You must meet some interesting people,” smiled Northrop.

“Well, I’m sure not as interesting as Father Bishop,” said Natasha as she turned to the elderly gentleman seated next to her. Northrop and Sherlock exchanged introductions and pleasantries with the man. “Father Bishop’s been around the world apparently, doing missionary work and what not.”

“Yes, that’s right,” said the priest. “Not for some time now though. I actually met Jeannie during a stint in Cambodia. She was an English teacher there and helped with some relief work too. But that was years ago. I lead a much slower life now – I’m head of the local parish.”

After some general small talk and sipping of wine, Jeannie entered the room. “Dinner is served!”

The guests made their way to the dining room. “Father Bishop, you take a seat here next to Dr Patel – I’m sure she would like to hear about your missionary work in India,” directed Jeannie to her guests, “and Cedric dear, you must sit next to me and tell me all about the latest scandals.”

“Us hairdressers do tend to hear about the latest gossip,” explained Cedric as he took his seat between Northrop and Jeannie. Sherlock positioned himself next to Northrop and Father Bishop. “I’m sorry about that name card – I thought Lindsey was coming,” apologised Jeannie as Sherlock took his seat and inspected the folded card in front of him. He smiled politely.

As promised by Northrop, the spread of food was delicious, the wine nice and the company amiable. Father Bishop recollected his adventures overseas, Dr Patel shared some interesting cases she had come across during her time in practice, Jeannie disclosed her students’ recent classroom antics, and Cedric informed everyone of the latest rumours.

Then dessert was served. Jeannie emerged from the kitchen with a large cake. “Flourless almond cake,” she announced. The cake was divided into slices, the slices placed on plates and the plates dispersed amongst the guests. 

“Oh, none for me – I’m allergic to nuts. Here, Father, you can have my share,” said the doctor as she passed him her dessert plate.

“Oh, I do like a nice slice of home-made almond cake,” he said as he retrieved the plate.

“Oh, I’m so sorry, Natasha,” exclaimed Jeannie. I completely forgot about your allergy. How about I fix you a bowl of ice-cream? Or some fruit salad?”

“No thanks, Jeannie,” said the doctor, “I’m rather full from the dinner. It was lovely and more than enough.”

As the guests were about to commence eating their dessert, Jeannie cried, “I’ve forgotten the cream! I’ll just go get it.” She rose and left the dining room.

“I don’t need cream to enjoy this,” laughed Father Bishop as he spooned a large spoonful of cake into his mouth and swallowed it happily. “Neither do I,” agreed Northrop as he too ate a mouthful of cake and smiled at the priest.

But Northrop’s smile vanished when he saw the look of distress on the priest’s face.

“He’s choking!” screamed Cedric as the priest’s face flushed pink and he struggled for breath. Dr Patel tried to calm the priest down and was about to perform the Heimlich manoeuvre when he gave one final gasp and collapsed into his half eaten dessert.

Jeannie re-entered the room, gave a shrill scream and dropped the jug of pouring cream onto the floor.

“He’s dead,” announced Dr Patel as she attempted to feel for a pulse but found none, “And it wasn’t by asphyxiation – he was poisoned with cyanide.”

---

The police were called and the four remaining guests and their host adjourned to the lounge to wait for them.

“I can’t believe it,” sighed Jeannie heavily.

“Well,” said Cedric, “Father Bishop wasn’t exactly the most liked man in town.” The others turned to face him.

“What do you mean?” asked Sherlock.

“Rumour has it,” began Cedric, leaning in closer, “that Father Bishop was rather friendly with the altar boys if you know what I mean.”

“Oh, stop it, Cedric,” groaned Jeannie with disgust.

“Well, that’s what I heard anyway,” retorted the hairdresser, “but there was no evidence and the authorities couldn’t do anything.”

“The poor man,” sighed Natasha, “a man of God treated like this. Why would anyone want to murder him?” She looked at the others and her eyebrows furrowed slightly. “I wonder – he must have heard quite a lot of dark secrets when he took confession.”

“I’m sure nothing as juicy as what your patients must tell you. Wasn’t Father Bishop one of your clients?” questioned Cedric. The doctor glared sharply in response.

“That’s none of your business,” she retorted, “There is such a thing as doctor-patient confidentiality.”

“Not when murder is involved,” said Northrop drily.

There was a sudden knock at the front door.

“Ah, the police have arrived,” said Sherlock, and turning to Northrop he whispered, “And I believe I know who they will arrest.”

From the author:

Guys! My second mini-mystery. I hope it makes sense! Ask for clues or interrogate the suspects in the comments section below. Happy sleuthing!