Aurelia Carnegie - The Macabre Manor Murder

An imaginative composed by Alana

(Year 10, St Joseph’s Catholic College; Writer’s Collective Cross Campus Elective)

Snowflakes floated timelessly across the wintry landscape.

My mind took in every microscopic detail as I immersed myself in the spine-chilling cold which gripped me as we promenaded towards the most prestigious manor of her Majesty’s land. If one takes the time to understand the dimensions of such things in nature, they would notice that each snowflake is more intricately webbed than the last.

Instinctively, my hands pat off specks of snow from my coat and seek shelter within my pockets. A smile graces my lips as I gaze bewitchingly at the remarkably crafted watch on my arm, counting down the seconds to our next case.

“You admire that trinket very much, don’t you?” His voice filled with amusement. I haven’t told anyone of its true purpose.“Do you perchance know what is to occur, Aurelia?” He then motions behind me. Clad in an all black brocade tailcoat, Ambrose studies me for any notion as to what Scotland Yard has gifted to us now… 

Though the carriage ride was pure pandemonium, caused by the Queen’s inauguration of the new political treaty to France, I found my cherished family heirloom working just fine.

“The Carnegie family have kept this for generations, and now it shall be yours, dear Aurelia”, my father had explained with a voice like honey and well akin to the nobility. With sharp features, shrewd eyes, neatly-parted hair, his very stature was formidable. Light filled the carriage as the memory opened up in front of me; digital pixels morphed together to create another familiar figure, with long pitch-black hair twisted to one side.

Being the intrigued little girl, my eyes were awestruck at the sight, and tied with utmost reverence; I loved how every automated memory felt so alive that I could touch it. That day, a chord of fulfilment and responsibility struck my heart. One might be thinking, what was this desirable treasure? This heirloom contains infinite memories, messages, tokens of knowledge, and moments of happiness. Over time, these have been collected from every ancestor of the Carnegie bloodline. 

Each is viewed as a holograph, an automemory, within the mechanisms of this cryptic, technologically advanced watch with just a click from the descendant. The Carnegie crest - a Roman catholic cross with a medieval symbol of two swords, a lion meaning courage and nobility and a pegasus meaning fame and integrity, along with the swirl finishings. The crest, in silver atop the watch, emphasises that the very design cannot be copied as it's made from the rarest of minerals.

Royal blue, crimson-red, and ivory-white embellished in strips, like the national flag of France, ironically enough. The glass circle houses twelve contemporary Roman numbers with hands of their own… ticking away time—an eminent brandishing of the words ‘Tommy Hilfiger’ etched at the bottom of the clock face. Naturally, a watch wielding the Carnegie prestige would be my most cherished possession; this is more than just a watch! It is a Carnegie relic, a memory of the past greats, and a revolutionary innovation for its time.  

I smile to myself, ready to see how the events of the day would unfold as we enter the imperial monument. Despite coming from a bloodline of Britain’s most famed detectives–including Sherlock Holmes–I always feel the need to don this watch. It is what grounds me in a case; it is an anchor for my stream of consciousness. 

Atlas- a gentleman- approaches us in long strides.

“Miss Carnegie, I am honoured to make your acquaintance, knowing your strong relations with the Queen and your bloodline to Britain's most intellectual detectives”, a voice greets us jubilantly. I incline my head in affirmation and examine the crime scene, a striking indifference surrounds us. Honestly, all those men from the Yard are so ‘dense’ as Sherlock Holmes would put it. 

“What a macabre scene,” Ambrose murmurs, consumed in thought. A deafening silence stretches as I analyse the body of a man lying in disarray, dead.

I close my eyes.

A man in his late fifties, with a face sculpted to portray almost the same white beard, eyebrows, and glasses as St Nicholas. If only his torso weren’t so disoriented from being stabbed repeatedly, two inches from the heart, but still damaging a vital organ. He would have been the perfect generous patron for a children’s orphanage. A crest with the German emblem embellishes his coat.  

His right hand once clutched something, but it appears to have been snatched from him. An address to the Queen is written in cursive on a ripped piece of paper in his hands. As I take in all this, someone hurtles toward me, hitting me in the process. What a ruckus indeed, am I right? The rush of adrenaline charges through my veins, and my instincts are set ablaze as my arm rapidly secures two wrists to the back of him while my other arm holds his shoulder. 

All those years of self-defence and weaponry training weren’t for nothing.

I kick my leg at the back of his knees, immobilising him on the ground and at my mercy. A fighting gaze leaves my eyes as I zero in on the man.

“Aurelia, I’ve told the Yard, they will be here to deal with him,” Ambrose fixes the man with a piercing glare-one of a hawk I would say- his oak-brown hair parted neatly, a pocket watch dangling from his tailcoat, as if to have a look at the culprit itself.

“I was wondering why you were in such a hurry,” he says as he finds something of interest.  

Moments of the dilemma are erased as Britain’s frigid temperatures freeze my skin and drops of water fall to the ground like a battalion at war.

“Good rain knows when to fall”, the auto memory of Great Duchess Beatrice materialises in the open space as I have a moment to myself.  The auto memory is as smooth as time; graphics emerge from the watch, and I’m captivated by her words. My eyes read the insatiable beauty of her perceptive hazelnut eyes, the ringlets of chocolate-brown hair that sway beguilingly with her dress, made from the finest silk, and an unmatched, midnight blue. It was unimaginably perfect, and the watch depicts her as though she were here with me, having a conversation over tea and cakes… 

For generations, Carnegie’s bloodline has been an exceptional group of intellectuals, and I intend to exemplify its brilliance. As the policeman handcuffs the suspect from before,  I notice a structure protruding out of the manor, just twenty metres above the entrance, centred within the two marble pillars. My mind runs rapidly as I realise the last piece of the puzzle.

It was written in his blood, how very horrendous, how very vile.

There stands a balcony above, adorned with a pattern of blood splattered across the cream-white marble. “Ambrose, we need to get up that balcony at once, there is something I must confirm.” Before the rain dominates us, he joins me in one swift move, as we ascend the stairs.

A symphony of turmoil unfolds as the Yard policemen on the ground attempt to figure out why they have a “supposedly innocent” man in handcuffs. My hands find the smooth stone railing of the balcony. My jet-black hair is tied in a complex noblewoman-style braid, matching the petite ebony, cornflower-blue feather hat atop my head which hugs one side. My day dress models a men’s black coat style with long sleeves layered with white lace at the wrists, silver buttons going down the centre of my waist, and a deep, anchor-blue flowing skirt pleated and embellished with ribbons and pearl embroidery. Of course, I would set a new fashion trend, a classic Aurelia move!

 Ambrose spots something off the balcony’s edge, near the supporting pillar that extends the roof. “Aurelia, an indent has been made by something that was abruptly cut by the stone as another thing went against it”, he notes thoughtfully. While I rotate the watch, a miniature blade pops from the side, and I test my hypothesis. As I had suspected, the murderer was inexperienced but was determined to land its mark on the target. The sheer force made the blade cut stone as the final blow went through the back and down the stone balcony, nipping a bit off. A hint of crimson catches my eye, just inches from the stone indent. 

“That pretty much checks out, doesn’t it, Ambrose?” I query, and my eyebrows narrow in concentration upon the residue. Ambrose nods as realisation dawns on him.

“It's time to draw the curtains for this case and report to Her Majesty,” I exclaim with resolution on my face. I glance at my watch and whisper “Thank you,” to my cherished Carnegie heirloom, who is filled with surprises. The rain has now softened into a sun-shower, illuminating the Queen’s holiday manor. 

Organised like books on a shelf, policemen and detectives from the Yard stand on one side, while onlookers and eminent guests stand on the other. The eerie man of mystery (to the public that is) has been displayed centre stage, dishevelled yet acting every bit innocent. I incline my head to Ambrose and commence coherently unpacking the case.

“Ladies and gentlemen, we are gathered here today on the matter of the murder of German Ambassador Christoph Schmidt.” Dusted with antiquity, I find the letter pieced together and give it to Ambrose to present to the crowd.

“Here we have the evidence of a letter–the address ripped from Christoph’s enclosed palm by the murderer who was planning to discard it until he ran into me.”  I gesture at the blonde-haired man in his late twenties, disguised with the attire of a butler. His eyes are pinned on me, along with an inhumane smirk. “By this man’s cufflinks, we can identify him as Sir Arthur Von Müller, who obstructed the German Ambassador from delivering his report to the Queen.”

Gasps resound amongst the masses.

On cue, I step with purpose towards the body.

“Due to the post-mortem marks, we can confirm that Christoph Schmidt’s death was measured; alcohol was consumed with Arthur Von Müller at the balcony”. I then walk up the stairs and continue explaining from the balcony.

“From here, a blade was used repeatedly to stab the victim to death, yet as heavy drinkers, the murderer's sense of coordination was lost, which led to a finely cut indent on the stone and blood splatters– indicating Christoph Schmidt fell over the balcony.” A mix of trepidation, shock, and disapproval emerges as guests cast disgusted looks at Arthur Von Müller. 

I reach the ground, Ambrose retrieves the block of wood and stone I had asked for earlier. “Ladies and gentlemen, the motive for Christoph Schmidt’s murder was led by the grudge felt by Sir Arthur Von Müller. His relations with the Queen of Great Britain were significant in Germany. Sir Arthur Von Müller was Christoph Schmidt’s closest friend; jealousy and his ego made him take on murderous intentions.” I turn on my heel to face him properly.

“Did you think you could discard the letter and blade before the Great Aurelia Caregie came? Well, you are sorely mistaken!” I bellow with vindication, my hands on my hips. 

A policeman gives me the evidence which I present to the crowd.

“This stained blade is a German dagger from the Von Müller familial line that was found on his personage when police arrested him and was used to stab Christoph Schmidt ten times, the final blow landing its mark. The force of it caused him to fall off the balcony and die.” Talks of disbelief and resentment dawn upon the crowd.

“With my watch, I will show a demonstration of this. Ambrose, the stone and block of wood, please.” Ambrose places the block of wood atop the stone.  

I stab the wood ten times in a hostile manner; the last hit shows a clean, sharp cut of the stone after going through the wood. Zero tolerance was felt as noblemen and women thundered with utmost belligerence to Scotland Yard to see that action was taken against Arthur Von Müller. 

“Do you have anything to say for yourself, Arthur?” Ambrose gives the man a look of disclosure. His eyes light up in frustration at getting caught, his lips shape themselves into a repulsive snarl and his hands are clasped together in clenched fists.

“I-I-I hate the cold, I hate that man–he ruined my chance!”

Jacaranda blossoms fall picturesquely and my breath is taken away by how fast time has gone. I lean back and rest my shoulders against the back of the luxuriant lounge. I had recounted the day's events to Her Majesty, Queen Victoria, who sits patiently with a hand to her chin, considering this in a calm composure. Diamond jewels adorn her crown, and she wears a gown made of all the royal fabrics a queen would desire. Today’s a rosy pink and mint green day for her, it seems, her outfit reflects the colours of the tea set bearing the same intricate patterns of sakura-pink roses and herbal-green leaves. 

Ambrose and I admire the delectable chocolate cakes–compliments of the Queen. 

“I see the German associate was consumed with envy for his colleague. I will arrange a meeting with the German correspondents at once. Thank you for your ongoing service, Aurelia Carnegie and Ambrose Blackwell”. 

Outside of Buckingham Palace, I feel the breeze embracing me and the vivacious violet hue of jacarandas brushes a nostalgic smile on my lips. I am filled with satisfaction that even Ambrose senses it on the carriage ride to each of our residences.

“You're in a good mood, Miss Aurelia. You solved the case in mere seconds! How did you do it?” Ambrose raises his eyebrows with renewed astonishment. My fingers caress my innovative Carnegie heirloom, as I remember my great, great uncle – all clad in his classic black travelling coat, a hawk-like nose, piercing eyes and sharp features with a glorified cane in his hand, I click on an automemory on the watch and a strident voice booms a message. 

“Elementary, my dear Watson!”

I laugh as Ambrose sighs with mock despondency. I crook an arm at the window and relish at the sight of chrysanthemums, as I remember Great Aunt, Aunt Enola and her mother’s love language through flowers. 

Abruptly, the same strident voice from before echoes through the carriage.

"When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth. "The graphics digitalise as Uncle Sherlock sits there in the air, ever the gentleman.

 “Now that was an intriguing quote.” Ambrose grins, his voice roaring with laughter. 

I gaze triumphantly at my Tommy Hilfiger watch–an ancestral heirloom that holds the memories of Britain’s greatest detectives. It reminds me of them every day and will continue to help me till the very end. Whether through countless built-in functions of tools used for crime-solving demonstrations, analysis, or a token of my most cherished childhood possession which displays cutting-edge technologically-advanced automemories, one thing’s for sure. The clock is ticking to uphold the Carnegie legacy – and so, as he said, the game is afoot!