#inspired by agatha christie

[spindlesaurus-rex]

Eothiriel murder mystery au mark 2

Because @konartiste asked!!

After the Funeral

It was, in the end, a beautiful day. The sun was strong for September and the air was warm. The beech trees in the garden of the graveyard of Meduseld’s parsonage gently waved and light fell through them, dappled and surprised, onto the neatly trimmed verges that were as they had ever been. The blackbirds were singing, ready for the autumn glut in the hedges and ditches, bright and clear in the morning air. It was an English morning, pure and true. And Uncle Theo was still fucking dead. 

Eomer Eadig, Earl of Meduseld, and just plain Eddie to his friends was currently attempting, in his own way, to square up to that fact. He stood by the fresh earth of the grave, alone, and tried to find some sort of meaning in it all. He did not succeed. All he saw, instead, was the earth that covered his uncle’s body and the neighbouring plot that held his cousin and no rhyme or reason for why he still stood there at all. 

He wondered just how much Wynnie would resent him if he took the bike and left. Just drove out of the grounds and down, away from all the sober suited people who must still be milling about the chapel grounds or starting up the vast lawn and through the yew walk to the house. His house. Damnit, he didn’t want the thing. Besides, that manicured thing that George the gardener called a lawn wasn’t the way to come upon the house anyway. To see it properly you needed to go via the meadows instead, wild grass in the wind, tramp down the path that wound from the hill and trip down those final steep steps until you came upon the roof below you, blinding in the sun. The wildflowers would be out, purple mallow bright against the green and yellow of the long grasses. 

How hideous it was to love something so fiercely, he thought, and be so afraid of loving it at the same time. From behind him came a little cough. 

“They’re starting to head up, old chap. Wyn’s in the lead, so they’ll be alright for a while, but I promised I would come and tell you.” 

Imrahil, master of the neighbouring Amroth Hall, stood tall and unbent. His hair was beginning to grey, silvering his temples and his clipped sharp beard. It lent him an oddly roguish air, as if one could ever forget that he had spent his youth running about in rigging. Eomer loved him fiercely, and had since childhood, having spent the best and earliest days of it running around Imrahil’s home and his own. Neighbouring was a stupid word for it, it took the better part of three hours to ride from one to the other and by the time you had the vistas changed from rolling ranging hills to the sharper cliffs of the sea, but neighbours they were. Imrahil had been staying at Meduseld for the week, helping everywhere. The idea of him leaving this afternoon, of all of those people who only a moment ago he had resented leaving him alone in that great big house without Theo or his Uncle suddenly threatened to bend him in two and he pulled air sharply into his lungs to say something, anything but the words wouldn’t come and he staggered slightly. Imrahil put out an arm. Steadied him. The sun fell brightly still through the trees and, for just a moment, Eomer wept. 

The breeze stirred the leaves above them. Eomer passed a hand over his eyes. Imrahil squeezed his shoulder and he straightened, turned to face his dear friend. “You know I’ve told Wyn to go?” he asked softly, gesturing at the path ahead of them.  

“She’s worried about leaving you.” Imrahil matched his stride, knocking his shoulder against Eomer’s as they left the churchyard and headed into the sunshine. “And I can’t say that I blame her. I don’t like the thought of you rattling around in Meduseld just now on your own. You know you’re welcome with us, don’t you? For as long as you like? Alfie would love it above all, you’re my grandson’s favourite as we all know, and -” He broke off. Eomer was smiling at him, softly, but shaking his head nonetheless. For a while, neither of them spoke. The birds sung still in the hedges about them and the yew walk came into view. Finally, Eomer cleared his throat. 

“I can’t. He trusted me to do this. I have to begin it.” 

Imrahil sighed beside him. “We’ll stay, if you like, as long as you want. Or simply ride over. You can or we will. Hell, I doubt you’ll be able to stop Lola -”

“Lothiriel? Your Lothiriel? Little Lola? I thought she was still in Paris?” Eomer did not try to hide his surprise. He hadn’t seen Imrahil’s youngest child, his only daughter, for some time. She had been in some theatrical or something her brothers had dreamed up, a last hurrah before she went off to school. He remembered her collar, starched and wide and white against the navy of her dress, and how she blushed when they all applauded, pleased with herself. She had blushed, too, when he had kissed her hand in a show of appreciation meant more to make her brothers laugh than to please her. Yet he had been fond of her. She and Wyn, when they could, would sneak away from any governess and join him and the brothers, Amrothos always so brash and Erchirion always so cunning and Elphir trying to keep them all from anything too dreadful, and all of them roving the hills with grass-seed in their boots and plans packed in their bags alongside the ginger beer. Lola and Wyn had never turned from a thing, giddy alongside them. He hadn’t thought to age her in his mind and, for an absurd moment, he imagined her riding over on the pony she had had then, collar flapping. 

Imrahil laughed. “I wouldn’t recommend calling her Little Lola to her face, old thing. I think she’d likely take a parisian heel to your tenderest toe! She tried to make it back for today, of course, but her train was delayed in London. She’ll be here soon, I shouldn’t wonder. Telephoned from the hotel this morning to say she’d buy a car if she had to. She was very fond of your Uncle and - well, she wanted to be here. So she’ll be down and around and about in the shire. I’ll need you to keep her out of trouble, I shouldn’t wonder” 

They had almost made it within sight of the party. Already Eomer could hear the voices, the bubble of polite chatter. Within moments he would be back amidst the thick of other people’s grief and there would be right things to be said and done and thought. He paused, and Imrahil, catching his movement, paused too. 

“She isn’t going back?” He asked. “To Paris? To school?” 

Imrahil laughed again. “School?” he fixed Eomer with a questioning look “She’s twenty two, Eomer. She’s been done with school for some time. She took a degree and has been keeping my sister company. But now Irviniel is coming back and Lola claims Paris has delighted her long enough. Even if it hadn’t been for this, she would have come back over with Ivy in a month.” 

“I can’t think of her as twenty-two, I don’t think” Eomer confessed softly and Imhrail snorted as they resumed their steps. 

“Imagine being her damn father,” he muttered and together they rounded the corner and came upon the rest of the funeral. 

[novlr]

“The best time for planning a book is while you're doing the dishes. ” ― Agatha Christie

[thehopefulquotes]

I like living. I have sometimes been wildly, despairingly, acutely miserable, racked with sorrow; but through it all I still know quite certainly that just to be alive is a grand thing.

Agatha Christie

[thepersonalwords]

The secret of getting ahead is getting started.

Agatha Christie

[thoughtkick]

I like living. I have sometimes been wildly, despairingly, acutely miserable, racked with sorrow; but through it all I still know quite certainly that just to be alive is a grand thing.

Agatha Christie

[resqectable]

I like living. I have sometimes been wildly, despairingly, acutely miserable, racked with sorrow; but through it all I still know quite certainly that just to be alive is a grand thing.

Agatha Christie

[surqrised]

I like living. I have sometimes been wildly, despairingly, acutely miserable, racked with sorrow; but through it all I still know quite certainly that just to be alive is a grand thing.

Agatha Christie

[everysongineverykey]

read a screen rant article that argued that future knives out movies should feature recurring characters to "flesh out blanc's character" and "make him a more interesting lead" and that "all detectives need a team"........ what if i killed you lol

[stay-close]

I like living. I have sometimes been wildly, despairingly, acutely miserable, racked with sorrow; but through it all I still know quite certainly that just to be alive is a grand thing.

Agatha Christie

[john-deco]

Fan art? For a movie that we only have a title to go by?

More likely than you think.

[aletterinthenameofsanity]

the age old dilemma of going into a book tag on tumblr to get inspiration for the book/fic you're writing...only to get nothing but gifs from the mediocre/questionable movie/tv show adaptation

[perfectquote]

I like living. I have sometimes been wildly, despairingly, acutely miserable, racked with sorrow; but through it all I still know quite certainly that just to be alive is a grand thing.

Agatha Christie

[novlr]

[thelastrenaissance]

Murder on the Orient Express is a work of detective fiction by English writer Agatha Christie featuring the Belgian detective Hercule Poirot. It was published on 28 February 1934.

“It is the psychology I seek, not the fingerprint or the cigarette ash.”

Agatha Christie, Murder on the Orient Express

[thepersonalwords]

“I like living. I have sometimes been wildly, despairingly, acutely miserable, racked with sorrow; but through it all I still know quite certainly that just to be alive is a grand thing.” - Agatha Christie

[libraryofrosy]

The urge to be an old money heiress who lives in a luxury apartments in new york, has degrees in English, law and art history and speaks several languages (two or three dead ones too), has a wide collection of books and rare paintings and spends her vacations on private islands and get occasionally involved in murder mysteries (maybe help solve some of them)