Miles Kington: A murder mystery with too many leads

Time for a complete murder mystery today! But how on earth, I hear you ask, will we have time for an entire crime novel in 800 words? Easy - because it stars Inspector Kenneth Braid, the Sixty Second Sleuth, who never takes more than a minute to solve any crime!

Today's little yarn is entitled:

Through a Glass Darkly

"He died almost instantly, sir," said Sergeant Comfort. "It must have been quite a blow."

"What's his name again?" said Inspector Braid as the car sped through the Berkshire lanes.

"Hugo Anthony," said Sergeant Comfort. "The famous writer."

"Is he indeed?" said Braid heavily. "Then why haven't I heard of him?"

"Not your line, sir," said Comfort. "He's a biographer. He's discovered a bit of a niche market. Writes lives of critics. He did a good one on James Agate. When he he died, he was working on a life of Kenneth Tynan."

"And he has been attacked?"

"No, sir. Kenneth Tynan is dead. Too late to attack him now."

"Very funny, Comfort. I meant Anthony, as I think you know."

"It sounds like it, sir. He was found in his study with a big dent in his head, bleeding copiously. Hit on the head, presumably. No weapon found."

"So, at least Kenneth Tynan can be ruled out as a suspect, can he?"

"Yes, sir."

"Even posthumously?"

"I think so, sir."

"Good."

The body lay sprawled across the floor by his desk. There was blood everywhere. He had clearly been working at his computer when the murderer had entered, because Chapter 5 of The Big Bad Critic was still up on the screen, unfinished. But now he lay on the floor, his foot half entwined in the thick wires that led to and from the computer.

"Tynan's next change of career took everyone by surprise," read Comfort from the screen. "He announced that he was going to ..."

"You'd think that when a writer is attacked at work he might have the decency to tap the name of his assailant into the text, instead of tamely getting on with work," said Braid strictly. "It would help us no end."

A weeping female was led into the room. It was Pauline, the late writer's secretary.

"I found him when I arrived for work this morning," she said. "I arrived early because his computer was new and he hadn't got to grips with it yet. He didn't like computers much. I used to find him glaring at the screen from about three inches as if he hated it. And there he was... dead."

More weeping.

"Did he have many enemies?" said Braid.

Comfort had heard this question so often he sighed at the predictability of it. He often wished that one day someone would say, "Yes, he had 27 enemies. Here is a list of their names ..."

"No, I don't think so," said Pauline. "Everyone loved Hugo. He was such a darling. Nobody could possibly have..."

"Did he have reading glasses?" said Braid.

Ah, that was a better class of question, thought Comfort.

"Yes," said Pauline, startled. "He was never without them."

"Then where are they?"

"In the waste paper basket," said Comfort. "Strange. Why would he throw his glasses away?"

"Oh, he didn't throw them away," said Braid. "They fell off."

"Fell off?"

"All of us with reading glasses have done it. You sit there writing or reading. Everything you focus on is 10 inches away. Then you get up, forgetting you still have your reading glasses on. The world becomes a blur. Your feet get entangled with wires which weren't there yesterday. You fall heavily and bash your head on this filing cabinet here..."

"So it wasn't a murder at all?" said Comfort.

"Of course not," said Braid. "Still, it's only 10.30am. God may send us a proper killing before lunch. Let us drive back towards London, and discuss the only matter in this affair that puzzles me."

"That being?" said Comfort, when they were in the car again.

"Who was James Agate?" said Braid.