Cats and Mice

"Show yourself!" screamed a woman from the depths of the frightened crowd.

"I will drown you in wealth! Do you know who I am?" —chances are, they did. She was Agatha Linmere, not born an aristocrat; she had been brought to where she stood only thanks to her family's wealth. Whoever the murderer was, no matter how prosperous, she could make their wealth seem like a droplet in her sea.

But no one answered.

"Lady Linmere," he spoke in his usual serene and calculated tone. Earl Whittemore seemed to have decided to take matters into his own hands. "You are negotiating with a murderer the way you would with a thief."

However, she and most of the attendees alike no longer had the tolerance to let someone else enjoy playing the detective, with a bloodthirsty murderer free to wander around, likely among them.

"You aren't showing yourself, are you?" she screamed once more, ignoring the Earl's instruction, "so be it then!"

She made her way to the centre of the room, eyed those who stood next to her, and announced their names as loud as she could, "If any of you tries something funny, they will be the suspect," —a keen move, though unfit for the circumstances, suddenly, the room went from silent fear, to a living storm, the brittle glass that contained their worry and fear needed only a tiny push to shatter everywhere, the hall was in no time filled with indistinguishable screams of names.

Once everyone had the names of those next to them pronounced, the silence naturally returned.

"I hope you are pleased now." Came an annoyed, slightly angry shriek from where Godfrey Whittemore stood; the kind you hear with your chest rather than your ears.

The silence certainly existed before that scream; however, one cannot be blamed for reporting the other way around. The silence that followed was Earl Whittemore's; he owned it, and no one could contest it, and so it kept existing until he decided to interrupt it.

"You," he said, facing Iris, who stood behind Eleanor all along, "What must I know about this case?"

Before she could talk, not that she wanted to, Eleanor stepped in, "The first death was due to poisoning."

"Baron Greystone was injected with a rare and potent poison when he left the hall. The second murder was with a string attached to the front door. Viscount Hatherleigh charged into the sharp line, cutting his own throat."

"I thank you kindly." He answered, then spoke loud enough to be heard by everyone, but not enough to tear through chests the same way he did earlier, "I could tell the murderer desires to be seen, for they have took the lives of The Baron and The Viscount, only after they'd taken part in a conflict with Lady Thornwood and professor Wycliffe."

He paused for emphasis, his performance that of a trouper.

"Please, stand a fair distance away from Lady Thornwood, myself, and Lady Linmere. That way, we shall see had anyone dared to get close to any of us."

Their surroundings were cleared likewise.

Before the moment of silence could stretch beyond anyone's comfort, someone's running steps were heard and felt on the ground, and he then shouted, "Move!"

The scream was followed by a mechanical clink and the sound of a chain breaking.

Lady Linmere chose to stand in the middle of the ballroom, to her, it was as safe as it could get… before she could have a moment to regret that decision, the chandelier on top of her head was approaching, the luxurious piece of furniture was falling, and it could neither be begged nor bribed to stop, it was an inevitable soul reaper.

The shattering of glass and a third silence that marks the death of yet another noble kept the crowd from roaring hysterically; maybe it was that they got used to or prepared for death that night, either way, Theodore used that moment to announce.

"I have an idea of who the murderer is. Everyone but me, Eleanor, Iris, Earl Whittemore, and sisters Windemere may leave."

No one reacted, still shocked by the mess they had just witnessed; thus, he continued, "That is, unless you wish to be the next victim."

Theodore's eyes didn't meet the crowd; they scanned the roof where the chain hung, "Is that… a dagger?"

He looked back at the crowd with a satisfied expression.

The first footstep was followed by many, all running in the direction of the door. Godfrey Whittemore couldn't help but smile at that sight, all the masks dropping, and the left are beasts that only care to survive, maybe those murders weren't that bad after all.