[Ed: This short story was submitted for publication, and while it doesn’t directly concern the issues we are highlighting in York, we feel it is important to be inclusive of people’s artistic expressions which may be helping them in their journey. We hope you enjoy something a bit different.]

1. Lingering outside the black peeling painted outside door, Dryden Littlewood hesitated twice. Then, eyeing a small, embossed brass sign on the door that trumpeted ‘Francis Berskwell Willmott…Private, and very confidential, Detective.’
   
   Entering, tentatively, he grabbed hold of the part detached banister and plodded up the wooden flight of stairs spiralling left to right, with slow, deliberate steps, pausing every so often to catch his breath. The mucky brown coloured stair carpet gave way to a fast-peeling lino of an unfathomable colour.
   
   At every step, the wonky wooden treads protested with a whiney squawk.
   The broken balustrade disappeared upon reaching the first floor. From here, the broken lino gave way to bare wooden boards, and stark damp-stained walls lit up by a single low volt Joseph Swann bulb.
   
   At the top, an open door, the visitor hesitated, wondering whether to enter or not. He cupped a hand over his eyes, accosted fiercely by the bright flames of the nearby satanic steel mill furnace. Then, with an inward sigh, he scanned the room. The office was in no way lovely. Its furniture looked, well, old, unloved. A battle-scarred double desk, age knotted, burn marked, and candle wax stained. Upon the desk were an inkwell, blotter, and ashtray. Along with a railway directory and a jumble of newspapers – all askew. A smoking pipe nestled in a cracked ashtray.
   
   Behind the desk was a faded leather chair and, in the chair, slumped Francis Willmott. His breathing was deep and steady. Eyes closed, head slightly forward, his face amplified by fulsome grey whiskers hair upon heavy jowls. At every inhalation, his grey fulsome whiskers shivered. Puffy clouds of tobacco smoke seemed to hover above the sleeping man. Upon the wall, hung a faded sepia photograph of a happy couple and a young bonnie child. In the far corner, a coat rack held a black overcoat beside a white Belfast sink, wicker bathroom chair and, underneath a rolled-up camp bed.

2. Dryden Littlewood stared at the man slumped back in his chair. He made a face as he sat on a chair opposite the slumbering Private Eye. Rat-tat-tat, Dryden tapped the desk and Willmott suddenly awoke, letting his senses register slowly,
   “Good,” Dryden chortled, “You’re awake.” Francis spread his arms.
   
   Without pausing, Littlewood continued, “Mister Willmott…Mister Francis Willmott. I presume,” Littlewood asked.
   Sitting down, he leant ahead until his eyes looked straight into Willmott’s; he spoke with deliberate emphasis. ”A City colleague of mine has recommended you…says you are a man of discretion…I have a commission for you…same charges and expenses.”
   
   Francis Willmott propped up his forehead with his hands. Then, looking up at his new client, he murmured, “Ok…tell me everything…please.”
   
   “My name is Dryden Littlewood, many years ago I,” he said with an intense gaze fixed on Willmott. “Sorry…this is a long-winded story…bear with me.”
   
   “OK,” Willmott replied, shifting in his chair, leaning back with a pensive expression.
   
   “I, and a mate, named Montmorency Smith, we all called him Smudger, together we left this City when gold was discovered at Kalgoorlie, Australia.”
   
   An unidentifiable expression lurked across Francis Willmott’s features, “Really”, he grunted, “I’ve always wanted to see a real live Kangaroo.”
   
   “Don’t interrupt my story” Dryden barked.
   
   “We caught a ship to Sydney, and after a long and gruelling trek to the mining site, we started prospecting, on our third day discovering a rich seam of gold, it was almost El Dorado.”
   
   Willmott slid back into his chair and watched, face still, eyes closed.
   
   “Our mining site was a lonely place,” Littlewood murmured, “It was carved by a severe nature, miles from anywhere. Lost, we had found, by accident a small gully full of large stones, grey leafed wickedly barbed ill-humoured shrubs.”
   
   Littlewood stared at Willmott for a moment, then said quietly, “It was home to unwelcoming aggressive snakes, scorpions and an infestation of small biting midges that would torment us at sunrise and sunset.”
   
   With a finger Francis brushed his cheek and chin but said nothing, I saw suspicion in his eyes.
   
   “Mister Willmott, Francis…at the bottom of the dip was an almost dried-up trickle of a stream.”
   
   Littlewood leant forward stared at Willmott for a moment, then said quietly, guardedly, “On the left bank, we’d dug a few small shallow trenches, besides which a twisting track wormed its way upwards to the high ground…on the right side, a steep rock-strewn embankment where we’d dug before but found nothing...nothing at all.”
   
   “Wow,” Willmott splurted, rolling his shoulders.
   
   “God, we sweated buckets for all our worth…it was hard back-breaking work, digging out heavy clay trenches and sifting soil, tons of soil; it was hot, back-breaking toil.” Littlewood’s hands shut up into clenched fists, and his voice trailed off.
   
   Francis bent forward, laced his fingers tightly together, unthreaded them slowly, then reached out and lit up his pipe.
   
   “Eventually,” Littlewood resumed, “Word soon spread of our copious finding. One-night looters raided us, trying to steal our gold. By chance, only days before I'd deposited it in the local bank, and the receipt was hidden next to my crown jewels…In that wilderness, the sound at night is so distinct and clear; we heard the renegades long before they arrived. Out of sight and well-armed, we fought them off and, eventually, they scarpered, but I was shot and injured, near dead.” He glanced up to the ceiling and then back at Willmott through half-closed eyes.
   
   “Luckily, a fellow prospector took me to the nearest medical station… But unfortunately, I remained there for a long time…I was in a bad way.”
   
   “It was touch and go,” continued Dryden in a tone rough and croaky, “But in the end, I survived,” he grimaced feeling his thigh.
   
   ”Well, I still have this limp, and I don’t hear so well, but I lived, eventually I returned to our broken and empty worksite,” he grinned, and then wrinkled his forehead.
   
   “Such a sad sight after all our arduous work…Smudger was nowhere to be found. A fellow miner told me he’d heard rumours the bandits had shot him trying to escape.”
   
   Francis frowned, sat down, glanced at his watch, propped forwards as if to speak, then changed his mind.
   
   “You see, Mister Willmott,” said Littlewood, “I had no reason to stay…Not long afterwards, I presented my chit to the gold depository Bank and withdrew our money.” There was a pause during which their eyes met neither looked away.
   
   A tiny frown reappeared between Willmott’s eyes, it lingered a little longer than before, and vanished.
   
   “Travelling around Van Diemen's Land,” continued Littlewood, in a light heated tone, “I liked what I saw, I’d done with gold mining, an’ bought a huge sheep farm, employed a farm manager, what I knew nowt’ about sheep.” Dryden paused again, rested back in his chair, face suffused by a mixture of emotions.
   
   Francis blinked twice but remained silent.
   
   Watching Willmott warily Dryden resumed, “I sort of half retired but was always buying up some of those large properties popping up in Melbourne and Sydney. I felt guilty that half my wealth was because of Smudger, so I promised myself I’d find him…and, if still alive, repay him what I owe.” Littlewood rose from the chair gave a weary sigh.
   
   ”I understood,” Willmott replied with a smile, “I will begin tomorrow …Sir.”
   

3. Intrigued by my Clients commission, and, mindful of the adage ‘the Devil is in the detail,’ Francis made enquires with a few prominent Businessmen and discovered that Smith’s reputation was not sound. After leaving Australia in a hurry, he washed up in New York.
   
   He discovered Montmorency Smith was conspiring with several gangsters and corrupt Politicians and set up a Bank exclusively for the wealthier clients offering huge, guaranteed returns. In reality, it was just a means of whitewashing dirty money gained from trading illegal alcohol and drug, gambling, and prostitution. The soiled cash found its way into the bank accounts of New York’s elite wealthy dynasties.
   
   Smith soon acquired a reputation of being a slick far-seeing Businessman when really, he was underhand and duplicitous. Offering bribes and inducements to unscrupulous Businessmen and journalists who, on his instructions, claimed certain Companies were doomed, secretly losing enormous amounts of money and bankruptcy imminent. It was all lying and hostile gossip. Then, of course, the share price nosedived, Smith stepped in, acting as their white knight saviour, buying up the stocks at a highly discounted rate. Suddenly the supposedly financially collapsing Companies miraculously delivered huge profits, and of course, the share price boomed. Smith sold the shares and made a fortune!
   
   Montmorency had one particular weakness, well one amongst many; he loved playing poker and seven-card brag and was often invited to card games at the Vanderbilt’s and Rockefeller’s and their set.
   
   One evening he was accused, quite rightly, of cheating. An argument burst out, angry words and insults were traded. Montmorency lost his temper; he shared blows with a leading senator. Finally, Smith shot both the Senator, the Senator's wife, and their daughter stone dead in a fit of rage. Only escaping narrowly when one of his criminal friends purchased him a third-class passage on the next Atlantic crossing. He remained in his cabin for the whole of his journey, so I was told.
   He arrived in London a few years ago, before the old Monarch died. He kept a low profile but began to work his way into London's private gentlemen's clubs, where he schmoozed with the rich and the irresponsible. He began to rebuild his empire and, using a third party, bought a lot of dilapidated properties in the East End, renting them at huge fees to the new influx of immigrants.
   
   Willmott decided he would visit Montmorency Smith, with yours truly, his assistant, Anton Greenham.
   

4. We arrived at Smith's residence in Greenwich, close to the Naval Hospital, a very posh Edwardian tall house, detached, six bedrooms with long front back and side gardens, grey Welsh slate roof and huge floor to roof high chimney. We drove through a tall double black wooden double gate along a long winding granite chipping driveway. There were three marble steps leading to a dark mahogany door nestled beside two large, tall bow windows in the front. We knocked on the door a young maid answered, she let us inside and showed us into a small greeting room.
   
   Willmott and I eased ourselves onto a red and gold covered overstuffed sofa. Francis lit up a John Player cigarette. Even the sofa made a statement, grandiose in its detailing. The gold was intense and the red deep. I had all the time in the world and waited and waited. I slumped against the wall looking discomforted and ill at ease.
   
   Eventually, a small haggard-looking man entered dressed in a sort of livery. His eyes swept us with unconcealed contempt.
   "My colleague and I,” Willmott said, “Want to see Mr Smith, Mr Montmorency Smith.”
   
   He replied reticently in a calm colourless voice, “I'm Mr Smith's Valet…and personal Butler…I believe he may be otherwise occupied…Sir...your name is….”
   
   “My name is Francis Willmott…and this here,” he pointed at me, “Is my assistant...Anton Greenham.”
   
   The Valet’s and my eyes stared, almost malignantly, at each other; he blinked first. I smiled to myself, “fifteen love to us”, I thought triumphantly.
   
   “It's of great consequence,” Willmott stated. “Please be so good as to tell him it’s in connection with Mr Dryden Littlewood.”
   
   The valet looked from face to face his knotted hands hung down beside him flexing.
   
   “There is,” Willmott said in a forceful tone, “A matter they need to discuss…it would be to his benefit if we could talk about this now…please...ok?”
   
   “I’ll see Sir,” the Valet said then turned on his heels and left the room.
   
   We waited for what seemed like an eternity. Eventually, I heard his low, slow tread descending the stairs.
   
   The Valet entered mumbling, “I'm sorry; he can't be troubled, however, Mr Kenton Smith, Mr Montmorency's nephew, will see you.”
   
   ”Thanks,” responded Francis and together we trailed the Valet up the stairs.
   
   Kenton Smith was a lean, fine-looking man. He shook hands with Willmott saying brightly, “How do you do, Mr Willmott...You're from Australia…I understand.”
   
   ”No…but I'm here on behalf of a client,” Willmott answered, “In connection with Mr Montmorency Smith’s Australian dealings.”
   
   ”What Australian business,” Smith responded, “That’s news to me…You're a business associate of Uncle Montmorency’s?”
   
   Willmott shook his head, “Scarcely that, but I've some knowledge I think he should have.”
   
   Kenton Smith studied him for a few minutes in silence. “I'll do my best to coax him to see you, Mr Willmott, but, bluntly, I don't know.” He left the room hastily.
   
   After a long delay, probably twenty minutes, if not more, he returned. Kenton stood at the doorway and paused as if gathering his words. Worry lines pleated across his urbane looking face; his eyes had an ‘I've been scolded’ expression.
   Smith shrugged, with a grimace sighed, “He's odd every now and then. His mind seems strong and vigorous, and yet at other times...he has the tetchiness and odd behaviour of a stroppy ailing old man and... well...at times he can be challenging.”
   
   “He's declined to see me?” Willmott asked leisurely.
   
   “Yes.”
   
   “It's in his interest to see me...I've come a long way.” Francis replied.
   
   "Wait, wait,” Smith said. “I'll do what I can.” His dark eyes suddenly became wary. “You're not just attempting to sell him something, something we should be concerned about…are you?” Smith blinked twice, and his eyes went blank.
   
   “No,” Francis replied, “Just tell him we have come on behalf of a client who is an old colleague of his.”
   
   Suddenly a woman swanned into the room towards Kenton Smith. Wearing a long white dress pulled tight at her waist. She looked pleasing to the eye, with her dark black hair growing in ringlets falling below her shoulders. She was elegance personified.
   
   Kenton Smith half pirouetted, staring at her. The woman turned to face me and nodded an apologetic gesture. Annoyance cast a shadow across her eyes, and she began to speak to Kenton and stuttered, “I heard shouts…loud voices, sounding threatening.”
   
   She looked at Kenton saying, “I'll tell you later…we shouldn't bore Mr Willmott…it’s of no matter.”
   
   Kenton looked surprised, turned his head, with eyes that ping ponged between Willmott, me, and the Woman.
   
   “Ruby,” he murmured, “This is Mr Willmott...My sister-in-law, Ruby McGough.”
   
   Ruby McGough had long slender fingers like a pianist and well-manicured fingernails.
   
   Kenton waved a hand airily, “Well…I will go and see Uncle…talk him into seeing you …he will be down soon.”
   
   Willmott hissed, “You sure?”
   
   “Unquestionably,” he replied, “He won't be long.”
   
   Hastily Kenton and Ruby, hand in hand, departed up the grand wooden staircase, faces together almost cheek to cheek, talking conspiratorially.
   
   Out of nowhere, we heard a howl. It was a woman's shriek, high and shrill with terror. The noise was magnified, reverberating off the walls and ceilings. Willmott and I bound down the hallway towards a woman sprawled on the floor, lying prone on her back. At the end of the corridor, we could see a bedroom door ajar.
   
   Kenton Smith followed us and knelt beside her, rubbing one of her hands desperately, crying in a faint voice, “Adele.”
   
   Ruby McGough staggered up and wrung her hands while tears streaked her cheeks. The woman on the floor resembled Ruby McGough but aged, her face was lined with brittle hardness.
   
   “It's Adele...she's dead, she's been killed,” Kenton Smith rasped incredulously, raising his white face towards Willmott.
   
   “Who’s Adele?” Francis asked.
   
   Ruby replied, “My older sister, Mister Willmott.”
   
   Adele lay their hair dishevelled, arms and legs twisted staring out fear filled eyes and from her blouse dribbled blood pooling beneath her.
   
   From the ajar door, a voice groaned feebly. Willmott turned swiftly, he and I entered the open bedroom doorway. Lying there was Montmorency, wearing nightclothes sprawled across an unkempt bed.
   
   His eyelids twitched but did not open. The old man held his large knobbly hand over a bleeding knife wound. Willmott took out his handkerchief to bind his injury. He’s no Florence Nightingale.
   
   “Who did it?” asked Willmott quietly.
   
   The old man opened his eyes and said, “A man...a burglar...he entered my bedroom…I was almost asleep…but I felt a presence…someone WAS hovering over me…Ade-.”
   
   The old man’s eyes widened. “Adele came in behind the burglar…he attacked her…the thug…he -.” Montmorency coughed and frowned at Willmott in a bad-tempered way. Then then rubbed his temple with one finger.
   
   Willmott leant forward; his lips almost touched the old man's ear. “What happened?” Francis said, “You ok? where’d the burglar go to?”
   
   Montmorency stared at him again, this time there was no emotion in his eyes except for a shade of fear. Then he pointed a skeletal finger towards his open bedroom door, shook his head, and scowled, “Through there, that away.”
   
   Willmott turned to Kenton Smith, saying brusquely, “Put the old man back to bed...and…find someplace safe to put Adele…quickly.”
   
   Without hesitating, Willmott and I rushed down the stairs through a pantry into the kitchen. Seeing nobody.
   
   The kitchen door was shut; we tried it, not locked. Finally, we crossed a kitchen garden to an unbolted closed gate. We opened the gate. There was not a single person about. Befuddled, we closed the gate and returned.
   
   Back in the Library, Willmott flung himself back and slouched on the leather chair, with a confused look across his forehead. Twenty minutes later the Valet lightly knocked on the door, “Sir, Mr Kenton Smith has asked you not to disturb Mr Smith whilst he’s at breakfast.”
   
   Francis Wilmott nodded and stood silent for a moment, thinking.
   
   Five minutes later we slipped into Montmorency's bedroom. His bedroom had a lingering aroma of cigars and expensive Ladies perfume. In the centre, a crumpled unmade bed, pushed up against the far wall, with an elaborate mahogany headboard.
   
   Located right was a vanity table with an oval-shaped mirror. Strewn upon it was a box of Havana cigars, Swan matches and an ashtray containing a recently stubbed out cigar butt. In the fire grate, amongst the coals was the charred and torn remains of lavender coloured love letters.
   
   We began delving through the bedroom furniture and various drawers, sifting silk hankies, gloves, cravats, and socks. We found nothing except for an empty pistol holster. Then, in the Otterman we discovered a colourful silk scarf embroidered with the word ‘Adele’; the scarf was wrapped around a sharp knife which was covered in blood.
   
   “Anton...get my Gladstone bag,” Willmott ordered, “It's downstairs...in it, you will find my fingerprinting equipment…bring it.” Within minutes I returned, and Willmott recovered good clean fingerprint samples.
   
   “Right...Anton,” Francos said, “I want the family and staff to see us in the library...NOW.”
   

5. Willmott stood in the library encircled by Ruby McGough, Montmorency and Kenton Smith, the Valet and me.
   Willmott’s index finger pointed accusingly at Montmorency. “All right, now you've had your fun. Let's talk about the killing.”
   
   Montmorency, wearing a velvet smoking jacket over his nightshirt, he said calmly, “Um…I know nothing…they told me there was a fellow from Australia here to see me about some of my properties,” he grinned, “I knew there was something funny about that.”
   
   A faintly quizzical look came into his incisive stare, “I did a lot of raving to Adele…err’…about being spied on by my enemies in Australia…and that I was going down to see this fellow…downstairs.”
   
   He rocked back and forth on his heels. “Of course, I…um’…was worried it was that fool…Dryden Littlewood,” Montmorency said whilst continually stabbing and jabbing his index finger in the air violently, “Perhaps he’d discovered the attack on our mine was just a put-up job...just to frighten him away…I was behind it all…I knew the lode had run dry…That's why I sold it to them…I had to get out quick…before they realised the site was a dud…or Dryden returned.” His shoulders lifted in a shrug.
   
   The old man sniffed, “Adele and I had an affair…at first; she was enthusiastic… and used to visit my bedroom at all times of the day…but she discovered I sought these favours elsewhere…she was jealous and made threats about getting even…I ignored her of course, well she was just a woman.” He guffawed and winked.
   
   “Even I…a far-seeing Businessman and entrepreneur make the occasional commercial mistake…not often though…you can't trust people nowadays.”
   
   Montmorency sat down and paused, a few seconds later, he continued. “Sometime ago not long after I met the lovely Adele I…err’…got into financial trouble some time ago…I made some property over to Adele to save it.”
   
   His arms gesticulated furiously like a loquacious Italian, “She refused to return it to me, and she assured me that in no event...would I ever be able to get hold of a penny of it...umm'…I believed her and still do.” Montmorency stood up suddenly. A slight smile danced across his lips.
   
   “But thanks to friends...I’m rich again...made a huge killing on the New York Stock Exchange.” He stretched extravagantly and yawned.
   
   A line appeared between his brows. “An’ I’ve been offered a very senior Directorship in a big Bank, a very big Bank...I can't afford any scandal or rumour mongering associated with me.” A corner of his mouth twitched .
   
   “I discovered yesterday,” he said with a deadpan expression, “That she had taken documents of mine...Diaries, journals, notebooks...showing details of my many exploits…and began blackmailing me.”
   
   He raised one finger, “There are things, incidents which I don't want others to know about...where I’ve been unjustly, unfairly accused of wrongdoing.” Face corrugated he paused and blinked twice.
   
   “As I said it’s all lies,” he mumbled, “She told me she was going to tell everyone...and the Press, I had to stop her...I would have got away with it...except you had to poke your nose in…where it wasn't wanted.”
   
   Smith’s lip curled and his deadpan expression became bitter and turned crimson with fury. Then Montmorency’s right hand slid into his smoking jacket pocket. It bulged slightly.
   
   A muscle knotted in Kenton Smith’s cheek then his mouth opened, he seemed for a moment uncertain or confused.
   
   Willmott snarled, “You killed her…there was no robber…I don’t believe your stories…I know your real background...and about you murdering the Senator…and his family…don’t try to fool me.”
   
   With a shudder Ruby held her hand tight against her throat letting out a feint moan.
   
   Montmorency’s fingers silently fastened around the Derringer pistol tightly.
   
   Willmott glanced questioningly at Smith, “There was no intruder, you cut your arm...then play acted…giving the impression that a burglar attacked Adele…there was no burglar… your burglar never existed. Later you concealed the knife…in your bedroom,” Willmott's mouth curved into a half-smile, “I found it.”
   
   Brow puckered with anguish, pale-faced Ruby, lumped back onto the sofa.
   
   Smith’s face darkened menacingly. A gentle metallic click softly clinked as the Derringer’s trigger was pulled back, took a quick step toward Willmott checked herself and laughed sharply.
   
   Nostrils flaring against his face a dull light of loathing glowed in Kenton Smith’s eyes.
   
   Willmott continued, “I have evidence...fingerprints...which irrefutably shows you are the killer...we all heard you confess...they will find you guilty.”
   
   “And they will,” replied Willmott with a half-smile across his face.
   
   Montmorency body stiffened as he released the gun’s safety catch, his finger lingered on the trigger, with fire in his eyes he yelled, “Okay…shut up…If you move a muscle, I’ll shoot you.” His whole face became sharp, cruel, and pitiless, “Oh yes, I’ve done it before ok.”
   
   Then his heavy-lidded eyes widened in disbelief seeing his pistol snagged tight amongst the creases of his velvet jacket. Next a shot rang out deafeningly. Abruptly an acrid cloud cloaked Smith’s head as he stumbled, caught himself, stumbled again, then dropped to the floor dead.