The Murder of Miranda

It won’t surprise you to learn that I’ve worked things out as carefully as my limited mobility allowed. What will surprise you is that you were actually present when the idea took shape in my mind. It was the last time you came to this house for dinner. Miranda, acting out her role of governess, had given the girls some questions to answer, questions for a summer night she called them. Juliet protested that it wasn’t summer yet, so she didn’t have the answers. But I had mine, right away, then and there.

Do you remember those questions? I can never forget them:

Have I earned something today?

Have I learned something today?

Have I helped someone?

Have I felt glad to be alive?

In my case the answers were easy: no, no, no and no. I added one more question. Did I have a reason to go on living? No.

You were right, Charles, in that anonymous letter you wrote warning me about taking a Jezebel into my home. She is exactly what you claimed, a Jezebel. And Cooper is what he always has been, a nice gullible fool. And the girls, my daughters, they will be the victims unless I act to stop it.

I must protect my girls. They will never marry, never create, never be employed. (What happened? Why are they like this? I’ve blamed myself a thousand times and Cooper a thousand more, though the blame game is useless.) But within their limits they can be quite happy if they aren’t criticized or ridiculed, if they’re not at the mercy of a woman like Miranda.

So I have made my plans and I think they’ll work. Even some of the things I didn’t really plan may implicate her in my death. The Dalmane is an example. I took a dozen or so capsules from her medicine chest — I learned from watching Cordelia how easily a lock can be picked — to alleviate some of the suffering which is inevitable. I have endured a great deal of suffering and I can endure more, but I hope the Dalmane capsules will help. I will swallow them after the candle is lit and before I turn on the gas and strike myself on the head with my cane, not hard, just enough to cause bleeding. Heads bleed easily, more easily than hearts, perhaps.

I expect the handle of the cane and the candlestick, both being metal, to survive the fire to some extent. There will be blood on the cane, which should start the police wondering, and no fingerprints on the candlestick because I will have wiped it clean, and that will keep them wondering. Probably none of them will even think of suicide because the whole thing is too bizarre. That’s why I planned it the way I did.

I intend to get Miranda to mail this to Professor Sukimoto, a grotesque little touch I can’t resist. I’ll also see that she walks the dog early. She’s bound to tell the police I asked her to, but will they believe her? Will anyone believe anything she says? Cooper, perhaps. No one else.