Light twas my footfall as I chanced a stride over the mushy carcass of Curbishley. I shooed Jasper aside as I clasped my kerchief to my nose and peered at his pathetic frame in the half light.

The sun was rising over the Campsies and beckoned a new dawn upon the horrendous murder of this once proud and erect gentleman. A thin triangular toblerone of light cut through the dank, heavy curtains like a rapier through soft camembert and shimmered a little, sad morsel of life into one of his still opened eyes.

Being not forensically savvy, I could not offer speculated musings upon the manner of Curbishley’s demise, but I hedged a flimsy bet that the jagged shard of walking cane inserted seemingly violently into his perianal area did nothing to slow his passing.

I turned his body over, leaving the stick in his hinterhole. Jasper was lapping at one of his frontal wounds. I rapped him in his lion-like cat façade and examined the wound more clearly. In his upper chest, at the left side was a strange looking entry wound – a pulsating, bloodied gash no less! Strange was the implement that had forced entry into this old man’s body.

I was about to finger the hole to locate bullet fragments when I heard the pithy sound of a door creaking.

It had yet to occur to me that the perpetrator of this deed of horror: this occidare, may very well still be at the scene in the dim shadows of morning.

I had time to leap into the confined space between the refrigerator and the kitchen door before person or persons most foul began slowly to ease it open…