Curl up with my murder mystery novel this Halloween season

“No man or woman alive will deny they are privileged with certain truths, beliefs that justify their actions, even when others may disagree or have abandoned any belief that such truths exist. Such are the exigencies of all beliefs, be they mundane, religious, creative, judicial, or criminal. 

I trust you may think me a philosopher or high-minded academic, flaunting my verbiage so enigmatically, but, alas, I claim no such heritage. I am nothing more than an ordinary constable, a simple believer in justice, the sort attached to the more sordid acts of individuals lacking in either moral fortitude or the emotional capacity to regard others as they would wish to be regarded. In other words, a mere copper whose life has been devoted to criminal investigation. And, while my career has not reached the epic proportions of some of my more illustrious colleagues–one of whom you shall come to know quite intimately between the jackets of this literary opus–I expect you may come to appreciate my certainty that the privilege I hold is well-justified. I shall not be discouraged in my pursuance of the truth in this matter, even while more renowned parties have decided they are not up to the task. 

Allow me to properly introduce myself: retired Superintendent Alec Spooner, Warwickshire C.I.D. As might be inferred, some individuals–be they intimate or mere acquaintances–fall to the temptation of openly referring to me as “Spooner,” “Spoon,” or, if they are especially tactless or loathsome, “Spoonful.” I generally reply to all three, as I am quite satisfied–even honored–to be considered a public servant, though I tend not to forgive any lengthy references to dinnerware. 

Following a mercifully short career as a miner in Staffordshire, I spent more than thirty years conducting mostly murder investigations in and around my beloved Stratford-upon-Avon. Though I retired in 1964, the case related in these pages has never failed to escape my ongoing attention. Its extenuating circumstances illustrate the human need to believe in the unseen; in fact, our willingness to kill in the name of that belief cannot be fully explained by examining the chaos of the criminal mind or religious zealot. It is far more generic. Was I relocated because I would not give up my determination to find a conclusion to this heinous crime? I never publically accused that in 1959, as I have always considered myself a loyal Englishman who does not disobey his superiors. Apparently, though, my die had been cast. 

That year I agreed to leave my duties in Stratford to become Divisional Superintendent in Nuneaton, far removed from the territory I had served nearly all my life. I was, of course, livid, but concurrently civilized. 

Today I am no longer associated with the C.I.D. Though my finances require I freelance as a security officer for the National Coal Board, I am free to pursue those truths that certain people–including those who controlled my career–seem convinced should never see the light. Your proper attention to the following summary of facts, I expect, may enlighten those of you interested in truth. 

My acquaintance with Stratford and its environs has understandably endowed me with an appreciation for all things Shakespearean. I cannot ever recall walking Henley Street without wondering how the Bard might have treated the circumstances surrounding this particular crime. Having frequently considered the ramifications of medieval superstitions and witchcraft, Shakespeare rarely failed to illustrate the ways in which the supernatural affected his characters, revealing truths about ourselves that remain as relevant today as they were in the 16th and 17th centuries. While I never attended university, I did become a learned enthusiast of all his plays that put the paranormal under a microscope. Who says a civil servant must merely indulge in The Mail, The Mirror, or the Teds? 

Since the reopening of the Shakespeare Memorial Company Theatre in 1932–the same year I began working for the Warwickshire C.I.D.–I have been a regular attendee, though on more occasions than one, the work of policing preempted my viewing the company’s latest production. And, of course, the war years prevented all of us the pleasure of their company. One of the greatest advantages of retirement–and world peace–is the uncompromised capacity to appreciate the work of England’s greatest contributor to the Lively Arts, an indulgence I share with several of the characters in our story. 

Perhaps, Mr. Shakespeare’s greatest contribution to the world has been his appeal to all levels of social and economic advancement, even to those of us perennially scraping by in our modest communities of South Warwickshire. I shall forever be indebted to his wisdom regarding the fantasies of the masses, information that has helped confirm my suspicions in this and other investigations. 

Where to begin? Or, perhaps, more accurately, where to end? Since retiring in 1964 I have made it my responsibility to return each year to Meon Hill and the hedgerows of Lower and Upper Quinton. The murderer still walks these streets, awaiting, perhaps, an older figure like myself in pursuit. 

In fact, despite the discouragement of Scotland Yard’s “Famous Fabian,” I have attempted to prove their literary star was badly mistaken. Having done so, I have made myself quite unpopular in this neighborhood, as I’m reminded every February 14, Valentine’s Day, when I make my way back to the site of the murder. 

Not for the purposes of seeking passion or companionship. My last encounter with a woman just after Valentine's Day that same year proved I could still find love if I remained open. No, I’m afraid my age and health preclude anything of that sort. I want only to hold responsible the monster who brutally, bloodily, and ritualistically hacked to death an innocent person with a thoroughly decent soul. For this I am annually ridiculed by my “friends” at The Yard, not to mention the various shopkeepers in Quinton and Stratford who would rather I fade away, truth be damned. 

Why, you may ask, has this one crime led me to blindly pursue a perpetrator that nearly everyone–almost all the five hundred townspeople queried about their knowledge of the crime–claims to know nothing about. They show no eagerness or willingness to assist any inquiry. This reality alone should raise enough red flags to keep the Metropolitan Police on top of this case in perpetuity. However, even though the case remains technically “unsolved,” no one will lift a finger to continue the investigation. 

Why has no one, excepting yours truly, found the resolve to dedicate himself to the case’s disentangling? I believe I have addressed the first part of this question; its second part requires us to examine some very basic realities about English history, religion, culture, and legal system. Let me even suggest that a reliable, more complete understanding of the very fabric of British society may be at stake. 

Consider–and forgive–the freedoms I employ in telling this story. On numerous occasions I shall take you into the private spaces of various parties pertinent to an understanding of these events. You will be allowed the privileges of a silent bystander, as if you’d paid for an orchestra seat for the drama. 

How, you might ask, would I have the advantage of knowing the words of our cast? Trust me. As a veteran investigator I have taken great care to consider the contributions of all our actors, to carefully craft their language so that it represents the details of my research, as both an experienced sleuth and longtime Stratford resident assigned to this case from its beginning. Besides, since all other interested parties have chosen to abandon any search for justice, my narrative appears to be the only one available. 

The trouble is, dear friends, my future seems to have dwindled. In a matter of days, I shall be entering George Eliot Hospital in Nuneaton for what I’m told is a rather serious procedure. Hence, the words of this tale are told with a certain urgency from one who clings to the hope that some of you will take heed. And, since this book may never find the commercial success of Mr. Fabian’s thread of questionable conclusions in his bestseller Fabian of the Yard, should circumstances determine that I have come to the end of my investigation and my life, I trust enough of you will follow my lead by bringing this disturbing affair to its proper conclusion.”

        — Blood of Beelzebub by James Seymour