An Entirely Non-Magical Murder Mystery
by Jake A. Rolling-Norelation
Chapter One
As he scanned the pages of Private Eye, the well-known magazine for detectives looking for work, looking for work, heroic former-soldier-turned-private-investigator Action Mann suddenly jumped out of his chair excitedly, momentarily forgetting that he’d had a leg blown heroically off during a tour of Afghanistan with the Royal British Army.
“Wow, brilliant!” he exclaimed as he picked himself up off the floor of his low-rent office squeezed between the platforms of Euston Station. He re-read the advert out loud for the benefit of anyone who might be wondering what he was so excited about. “It says here: ‘Mystery at London Manor – Police Baffled!'”
“I’m off to Scotland Yard!” he added, as he hopped over to the hatstand, donned his trench-coat and trilby and caught the train to Scotland Yard.
Chapter Two
“I’m Action Mann and I want to see the detective in charge of the London Manor Murder, sergeant,” Action Mann told the desk sergeant, whose name was Dixon, at the desk of Scotland Yard police station.
“Whom shall I say is calling, sir?” asked Sergeant Dixon, politely.
“I told you that three lines ago,” snapped Action Mann, impatiently.
“Right you are, sir,” agreed Dixon the desk sergeant, agreeably.
It wasn’t long before Action Mann, private detective and wounded war hero, was bouncing his way into the office of Superchief Detective Intendant Foyle.
“Frankly, Mann, I don’t mind telling you this London Manor case has got me stumped and no mistake,” Foyle told the monopod of mystery with his usual frankness. “Seems a young model by name of Claudia Klum committed suicide and made it look like murder, but we suspect it may be the other way round. She was wearing a sixties-inspired Alexa Chung kimono in pop-art check over snugly form-fitting lingerie by Marlies Dekkers and a pair of comfy yet cool Haflinger slippers, and the top of her head was all over the ceiling. Any ideas?”
Action Mann turned it over in his troubled mind, struggling to suppress recurring traumatic images of his leg flying off into the middle distance. Through the red mist of pain, a shrewd question pushed itself to the forefront of his whirling thoughts.
“Were there any witnesses?” he shouted, cleverly.
[continues for 994pages]
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