The Yewin Files

by Etana des Etoiles

~*~

Somebody died last night.

Ordinarily, a death isn’t that remarkable. The little girl who succumbed to polio, the old man whose heart gave out the night before… they were former news. Misery and desolation often struck those who knew the dead- but nobody stood on street corners to gossip about the tragedy, and it didn’t make sensational headline news. Just a quiet funeral, and everyone went on with their lives. Nobody remembered the dead for long.

There was, however, one exception. His name was George Q. Yewin.

George Q. Yewin was the richest man in the city, maybe even the country. People often remarked that money flew to him, attracted to some exotic perfume that us common people would love to get a whiff of. Nobody was sure if it was millions, billions, or even trillions of dollars he kept hidden in his mansion by the lake. But we all knew that is was money, and he had lots of it. Why was this man murdered, and who received his money? That was the question the people were dying to know.

~*~

26 December, 1933. 12:30 p.m.

Le Vivant Café

Wynne Dow sat primly on the café stool, drinking something outlandish and reading the newspaper. Her eyebrows were tightly knitted, and her free hand jittered nervously. A frown appeared on her lips, and her normally gray eyes resembled cold steel. To the cheery people in the café, she looked frenetic, maybe even dangerous.

Two young men walked into the café, hats in their hands and a shifty look in their identical blue eyes. They were easily distinguishable as brothers, their heads scraping the ceiling and auburn hair falling into their eyes. They walked carefully to where Wynne sat meticulously, and sat down.

Wynne looked up as they were seated. Her eyebrows unraveled and flew into her hair, and she glanced wildly between the matching faces.

“Misters Dover and Dover?” she asked.

“Benjamin and Rudolph Dover, at your service,” said one of the brothers.

“How am I supposed to tell you apart?” she said. Wynne Dow was an easily discernible person, with flyaway curly blonde hair that extended a foot from her head, and a permanent surprised look on her face. Her eyes still danced nervously between the two Dover brothers. She could not see one difference between them.

“I talk more,” said the one on the right, “And that’s about it.”

“And you are…?”

“Benjamin.”

Wynne settled back into her seat, and took a sip out of her streaming cup. Benjamin and Rudolph sat with her, not speaking and staring at the newspaper upon the café table. The headline screamed,

MULTI-MILLION MURDER!

“Good use of alliteration,” murmured Rudolph.

“I want to crack this case,” said Wynne abruptly, “Money’s tight, and people don’t give a damn about fairytales anymore. This mystery is the break I’ve been looking for.”

“That’s why you hired us,” said Benjamin. It wasn’t a question.

“Why else would I hire a pair of detectives?” snapped Wynne.

“You’ll have to fill us in on the details,” said Benjamin, glancing at his brother, “Especially the financial ones. Money doesn’t only shy away from starving writers.”

“Of course,” said Wynne, waving her hand, “But I don’t know all the details myself. This piece of rubbish,” she glared at her newspaper, “Will only say that Mr. Yewin was murdered, and the police don’t have a clue whodunit.”

“What do you suggest we do?” asked Rudolph. Wynne grinned.

“I have a plan.”

~*~

24 December, 1933. 7:45 p.m.

Yewin Manor

Breah Lamant couldn’t make up her mind. Would it be pearls or sapphires tonight? It truly did not matter, for both would look stunning with her midnight-blue gown. But the decision was difficult, and the choice bothered her.

“Samantha!” she called, bringing her satin-gloved hand to her mouth, “Samantha Letue, I need you! And bring Ruby along as well!”

Although Breah Lamant was an intelligent person, she strongly believed Ruby Hampton, one of her poorest servants, would be able to decide which jewel looked best on her. If you were named after a philosopher, she reasoned, you would be intelligent. Ruby Hampton was named after a jewel, so she must have some knowledge on the subject. She did realize, however, that Samantha Letue was of high breed of servants, and brought her along as well. In the end, Breah always looked stunning.

“Coming, Madame,” called Samantha, hustling into the room, slowly followed by Ruby. Their matching black dresses and prim caps made them look antediluvian, but Samantha’s youthful face shone in anticipation under her blonde locks. Ruby, in contrast to her exotic name, looked like a dying weed. Breah turned to her maids and said,

“I cannot decide whether it shall be sapphires or pearls tonight, and several important businessmen shall be here tonight, and I must look stunning for Mr. Yewin. You know how he depends on me.”

“Of course, Madame,” declared Samantha, “We shall deck you like the halls downstairs, trimmed with mistletoe and pine! You shall look ravishing!”

“Hold the pine, bring me the diamonds,” smiled Breah, “I hope George gives me another one, they are such lovely things.”

“They are,” agreed Samantha, “But I propose that pearls are lovelier. They would go better with your dress, the sapphires would bring too much blue, and you need to balance it. We can also add pearls to your hair.”

“Brilliant!” exclaimed Breah, “What you think, Ruby?”

Ruby shrugged, her eyes determinedly fixed on the carpet.

“No matter,” said Samantha cheerfully, “Come, I will do your hair.”

Breah settled down on her rich crimson stool, and Samantha brushed her dark hair. Upon the tables around them laid an array of precious gems and dazzling jewelry. The wardrobe was open, and silk dresses spilled from within its drawers.

“Oh, what a lovely Christmas Eve this is going to be,” sighed Breah, “On a Sunday also, what a marvelous day it is. Tell me, Ruby, is it snowing?”

Ruby glanced out the window, then shook her head.

“Ah, well. You can’t have everything in life,” said Breah, placing diamond rings upon her fingers. Samantha set the exquisite pearls in her hair, and Ruby grumpily pulled a satin scarf out of the wardrobe. When Breah was finally groomed, she stood in front of her tall mirror, and looked at her reflection critically.

"Do you think George will find me beautiful?" she wondered, turning this way and that in front of the mirror.

"Of course he will," declared Samantha, "You are announcing the engagement tonight?"

"Yes," said Breah, turning away from the mirror and facing her maids, "I am off, and so are the both of you. No need to work tonight, it is Christmas Eve. Have the night off."

"Thank you, Madame!" exclaimed Samantha with a curtsy. Ruby murmured thanks, and stalked out the room. Samantha happily followed her, skipping as she went. Breah took one last look in the mirror, and went to join the part downstairs.

27 December, 1933. 9:59 a.m.

Yewin Manor

"Tell me again why we can't just tell them we are detectives," said Benjamin grumpily as the trio walked up the long driveway to the Yewin Manor, "There's nothing suspicious about detectives at a murder case!"

"The killer will be on his or her guard," said Wynne confidently. She had attempted to comb her hair before coming to the manor, and the detectives could still see the remains of the brush in her unmanageable locks. "Servants hear everything, you know. There's nothing wrong with going undercover."

“Yes, but undercover as a servant!” exclaimed Rudolph. They reached the main door to the manor, and Wynne knocked smartly three times. Benjamin and Rudolph shifted nervously, and they shivered standing upon the frozen steps. Looking up, they could see icicles a foot long hanging down in their frozen magnificence.

The door slowly opened, and they held their breaths in anticipation. A despondent woman walked into the freezing air, with a knitted shawl around her shoulder. She had dark blonde hair, and her dark blue eyes seemed to be looking at something they could not see.

“What do you want?” she said bleakly, pulling her shawl tighter.

“Ma’am,” Wynne said smoothly, “We are servants who are willing to work for the minimum wage you offer. We are dedicated to our work, and would love to help you here at this manor.” Rudolph and Benjamin made soft growling sounds, but didn’t say a word.

“Of course,” said the woman faintly, “Come in.”

As they entered the manor, a gust of pleasant warm air blasted their faces. Wynne daintily removed her threadbare scarf, and Benjamin removed his cap. They looked around, and realized they were in a room bigger than the entire Le Vivant Café. There were pillars and paintings, soft ruby rugs and china vases. Rudolph’s jaw dropped.

“I am Evelyn Jolicoeur, the housekeeper.” She said, loosening her grip on her shawl slightly, “We need more servants, because the lady of the house has taken ill. The servants that tend to her need replacing for the moment,”

“Perfect,” smiled Wynne, “We’ll do whatever you need,”

“Good,” said Evelyn, “I’ll show you around.”

27 December, 1933. 12:30 p.m.

Kaderstreet

Two glum figures sat on a curb, staring at their boots and ignoring the snow on their fingers. They wore dark caps and black jackets, both of which looked brand-new. The woman on the left had dark black hair, and the man sitting next to her was blonde. Their names were Justin and Renée Paxtrolf.

Renée twiddled her thumbs and hummed to herself, while Justin glared blearily at life and everything wrong with it. A few grim people passed by, lost souls with no reason to live, but they paid them no heed, and continued to stare.

“What,” said Justin after awhile, “Are we going to do?”

Renée sighed, and pushed her hair behind her ears,

“We’ll just go up to the house, Yewin Manor they call it. We’ll go up there.”

“Then what?” wondered Justin.

“How should I know?” said Renée through her teeth, “This whole thing is random. I don’t know any more than I did yesterday.”

“We know Dow’s there, and the Dovers.” Said Justin, “We know they’re trying to tackle the case. We should deter them somehow.”

“Of course,” sighed Renée, “It’s the only option.”

“We’ll have to get there as soon as possible,” stated Justin.

“Do I look stupid?” snapped Renée, but then she sighed again, and twiddled her thumbs once more. Justin glared at despair and grief, then shakily got to his feet.

“We’ll have to hurry,” he said, and helped Renée up.

“Of course,” Renée exhaled noisily.

So the miserable couple slowly made their way from Kaderstreet, shuffling in the snow and watching children throw snowballs at storefront windows. The owner would be angry, but Justin and Renée wouldn't be there, lost in the whirlwind of snow.