Page 92 of Dead Serious Case 4 Professor Prometheus Plume
Professor Plume winces. “It’s even worse watching it than what I remember.”
“Why did you have the knife anyway?” Danny asks. “Did you steal it from the kitchen?”
“Borrowed!” he says indignantly. “I borrowed it! I was going to return it when I was finished. I don’t steal.”
“Borrow… steal…” Aggie gives a cross mutter. “If you weren’t already dead, I’d spank you.”
“But why did you need the knife at all?” I frown.
“Because I was doing Macbeth’s speech, of course.”
“Yeah, I heard that,” I reply. “But you do get that the knife wasn’t real in the play, right? Macbeth was hallucinating it during his soliloquy. It was the representation of his guilt, even though he hadn’t yet killed Duncan.”
Danny turns and stares at me.
“What? Didn’t you doMacbethat school?”
“A Midsummer Night’s Dream,” Danny replies.
“I’m not sure which of us got the worse end of the deal, like the British school system hasn’t been torturing kids with Shakespeare for the last five hundred years.” I roll my eyes and turn back to Professor Plume. “So again, why did you have the knife at all?”
“Because I’m a Method actor.” He draws himself up haughtily. “I work better with props. I thought having the knife actually there and in my line of sight would help put me in the head space. I was going to edit it out of the video before I sent it.”
I turn to Danny and sigh. “I feel like this night isn’t ever going to end.”
Grabbing one of the plastic bags from my pocket, I drop the phone inside and seal it before pulling off my gloves and shoving them all back into the same pocket.
“So this isn’t a murder at all, just a case of death by overacting,” Danny says. Mrs Snow snorts loudly behind us.
“Excellent!” Mr Greyson says cheerily. “Now that you’ve proved that dimwit wasn’t murdered, could you get these handcuffs off? They’re starting to chafe somewhat.”
“You may not have murdered the professor,” Danny says, “but you’re in some serious trouble, Mr Greyson.”
“What?” He blinks. “But I didn’t do anything!”
“Impeding an investigation, tampering with evidence, illegal removal of a body.” Danny ticks the offences off with his fingers.
“Really?” Mr Greyson deflates. “You’re not serious?”
“Do I look like I’m laughing?”
“No,” he says sullenly.
“As soon as the local police arrive, they can decide what they’re going to charge you with,” Danny tells him.
“But that could be hours,” Mr Greyson complains. “If we’re really snowed in, days even! Are you going to keep me handcuffed all that time? Because I’m sure there are Geneva Convention laws against that sort of thing.”
“Fine.” Danny crosses towards him and grasps his arm, hauling him out of the chair. “Given the circumstances, I’ll uncuff you. But don’t even think about running. You won’t get far. It’s better to face up to it, take your punishment, and walk away with a clean slate.”
“Easy for you to say,” he grumbles. “You’re not looking at a possible prison sentence.”
“I also wasn’t the one lugging a body about and hiding it in a cupboard,” Danny points out. “Now, are you going to behave if I uncuff you?”
“I’ll keep an eye on him,” John the Maid says.
Danny nods, but as he reaches into his pocket to pull out the key to the handcuffs, a small, black velvet box tumbles to the ground and rolls over to stop at my feet. I stare at it for a moment as Danny goes still. My heart is hammering in my chest and there’s a strange buzzing in my ears.
Is that what I think it is?