Magnus Stark-Woolf walked down the curved front stairs of the Haymarket Square house. He was tallish, on the fair side, with the knowledge that he wore blue to compliment his eyes. He padded barefoot down the hall to the kitchen, and made himself coffee, with a splash of cream. After he took a sip, Magnus walked into the dining room, to sit down and think over his schedule for the day.

His parents were both out, on pilgrimage to Jerusalem, and his sisters were with friends up north for the weekend. Therefore, Magnus had the entire house to himself, and the knowledge that he would probably read a book, but say he had gone out and interacted with other people. Had he his druthers, he would avoid humanity altogether and move to an island that no-one else would live on.

The door to the kitchen had barely closed when Magnus stopped, the coffee cup at his lips.

Someone was at table. Rather, the cold, stiff corpse of someone was at table. They were set in the chair at the foot of the table by the sideboard, facing the front windows, shards of a blue and white ginger jar across the table and floor.

Magnus walked around to look at the face, and set his coffee on the table in shock. It was Beatrice Wheatley, a friend of his sister Marianne's. Her face was blank, and her hair had been matted down with dried blood from a crack on the back of her skull. One hand was in her lap, the other arranged on the table as though a pen had just fallen out of it. Her cotton print sundress was stained with blood and fluids, and a necklace of pink pearls on a ribbon was tied tightly into her neck, as though to strangle her.

Magnus was unsure of what to do. Anyone could have gotten into the house, they kept the key in the bottom of the rusted cast iron mailbox screwed to the doorpost. He was a heavy sleeper, and alone in the house.

The shrill sound of the doorbell jerked his head around. Magnus walked into the hall and peered through the lace curtains that covered the windows either side of the front door. Ophelia stood on the steps, a book in one hand, and a broad brimmed straw hat in the other. Ophelia Carmichael lived on the east side of Haymarket Square, in a gambrel-roofed, cream painted frame house across from the church next door to the Stark-Woolf's.

Magnus opened the front door.  'Ophelia, what brings you here?'

'I was passing, wanted to drop this at the library.' She held up the book. 'They froze my account again.' The local lending library had stopped incurring late fees, and simply froze a patron's account when they had an overdue book.

'You need to stop reading Mary Westmacot all the time.' Magnus shook his head.

'Do I smell coffee? I could use a cup, may I come in?'

'I don't think, I mean, it's not really convenient, could you come back later?'

'I can wait if you need to shower, don't worry, I'll control myself, stay downstairs, that sort of thing.' Ophelia walked through the front hall into the dining room. 'If there is one thing you can always count on about the Starks is that - '

Magnus came up behind her. 'You were saying?'

Ophelia swallowed. '-They always have fresh coffee in the kitchen.' She soon recovered her voice. 'Who did this?'

'No idea.' Magnus turned Ophelia away, and led her into the parlor.

'Is it some sort of sick joke? You need to call the police.'

Magnus sat in the settee opposite her. 'I was, then you rang the doorbell. There's a bit of a problem.'

'What?' Ophelia had her phone out, and was tapping on it. 'Hello, nine one one?' She spoke into it.

'I don't have an alibi. Of any sort. I was at home all night, by myself, and I slept in, and only just found, only just found - ' He opened his mouth as though to speak, but nothing came out, as though the words were an Atlas Obscura sized spitball lodged in his throat.

'I would like to report a murder. There's a dead body at No. One Haymarket Square.' Ophelia's voice nearly echoed off the parlor walls.

Magnus studied the was her lips moved as she formed the words, the grotesqueness of the situation practically danced as she spoke. The address rocketed around his brain like a jalopy, Number One Haymarket Square.

Number One Haymarket Square.

Number One Haymarket Square.

The morning sun glinted off the the family photos arranged across the mantelpiece. The silver frames were on the verge of tarnish, and there was a worn spot on the China carpet where the cat lay in front of the fire in winter.  A siren tore down State Street, from the Police Station that overlooked South Mill Pond. Another siren joined, and another.

Magnus closed his eyes, the address banged around his head, echoed by sirens. His knuckles were white, the threadbare velvet chair slick in his grasp. His toes dug into the carpet, his heartbeat a mere thumping hunting drum in his ears.

Ophelia set her book on the nesting table, and she stood to answer the door. 'In there. Magnus discovered the body, he's in the parlor.' She motioned to the dining room for the detectives, who swarmed in like bees, little workers who had discovered a new source of nectar, the fountain of youth to them.

Magnus sat in the parlour, as what was left of him slipped away, into a billowy sort of fog, near-like madness, 'The mind blanks at the glare. Not in remorse / -The good not done, the love not given, time / Torn off unused-nor wretchedly because / An only life can take so long to climb...'

Author's Note: the quotation at the end is from the poem Aubade, by Philip Larkin, 1922 - 1985.