Take No Prisoners by John Grant

in such a heinous crime? Surely you can't believe they murdered him?"
    "If I were to credit the evidence of my senses," said Romford, "then that is exactly what I would believe. And that is exactly what the murderer – who is a very clever person, let me tell you – meant me, all of us, to believe." He took a deep breath. "It is for precisely that reason that I dismiss them immediately from any form of suspicion."
    "But how could the deed have been done?" said the Reverend Harcourt-Fruitcake. "Did the murderer use mirrors? What magnificent feat of conjuring—?"
    Romford silenced him with a raised hand. "These are police matters, Mr. Harcourt-Fruitcake, and I must ask you not to try to pry into them. All shall be revealed in due course. In the meantime, Dr. Smithee, I should be grateful if you could take the body of this unfortunate young man to the Cottage Hospital. I, for my part, must telephone the police forces of several neighboring counties to put out a general alert for our man, whoever he might be."
    "But tell us how it was done!" pleaded the vicar.
    For answer Romford stood and beckoned over the nearest of the huddled conspirators. It was Brutus, Donald Glover.
    "Donald," said Romford, "am I mistaken in thinking that the short swords with which you were supposed to stab Caesar were trick ones, specially designed for use on the stage?"
    "Yes."
    "I imagine they had spring-loaded wooden blades that retracted easily into hollow handles, is that not so?"
    "Precisely, sir." Glover appeared to wish he had a cap to worry between his hands. "And very convincing they looked too, sir, Mr. Romford, sir, even if I do say so as the one who was given the responsibility of painting they blades all silver-like. Bit of a muck-up we had at the first night, mind, seeing as how the paint wasn't properly dry – Casca, Arthur, couldn't get his out of its scabbard until the interval, so Decius Brutus, Sam, had to strike the first blow instead, oh, we all had a good laugh about that, but—"
    "I think you have explained matters comprehensively enough," concluded Romford, gesturing to the man to leave them alone once again. "You see," he said to Dr. Smithee, still kneeling by the corpse, "it was all a simple matter of substitution. At an appropriate moment, when he knew he could not be observed, our cunning murderer merely exchanged the harmless theatrical swords for genuine edged weapons, bitterly sharp and ... lethal ! It must have been easy enough to find swords that matched the originals, right down to their weight in the hand – although I doubt if any of our budding Oliviers, tense already from stage-fright, would have noticed the difference."
    "Ah," said Smithee and Harcourt-Fruitcake together. Smithee shook his head as if in wonderment.
    "And you see the beauty of the plot?" Romford carried on. "Once the trap was set – once the substitution had been made – our murderer was scot-free! He had no need to be anywhere near the scene of the crime when that young fellow was almost simultaneously spitted by men who believed they were wielding nothing more deadly than painted wood. The murderer could have been – must have been – miles away when it happened. All he had to do was wait for the slow, inexorable advance of the Bard's relentless meters to bring his victim second by second closer to his inevitable doom!"
    The echoes of that last word took a moment to die away in the wings. Romford became aware that everyone was looking at him.
    "Enough of this." He coughed embarrassedly. "I must go about my official duties now, and so must you, Dr. Smithee. The rest of you had better disperse to your homes. This has been a sorry night, a sorry night indeed."
    ~
    Back in Blossom Cottage, Mrs. Romford hung up her best coat carefully and watched like a martinet as Romford himself followed suit. He also removed his jacket and the red velvet tie he had bought for his father-in-law's funeral; then he kicked off his shoes, ignoring his wife's