Solomon Grundy
Born on a Monday
Christened on Tuesday
Married on Wednesday
Took ill on Thursday
Grew worse on Friday
Died on Saturday
Buried on Sunday
This is the end
Of Solomon Grundy...
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A small glass of scotch was set down on a cluttered oak table. The small room was cluttered with large piles of leather bound books and papers that were scattered across the floor. A rosy cheeked woman sat on a leather bound chair with a young man perched on the arm rest. Her eyes were puffy and red from the constant dabbing of tissues to her crying eyes.
“Mr. Mortimer, private investigator. Do excuse the mess, Madame.” A young man dressed in a grey suit entered the room. “I’ve been very busy preparing for your case.” He was a stout, young lad with dark brown curls that were clipped short atop his head. Nimble fingers quickly sifted through the papers on his desk as he sat in the squeaky chair positioned behind it. Finally finding what he desired, he pulled out a small notepad and took a pen out of a cup on the desk.
“So, Mrs. Grundy, please catch me up to speed.” The young lad said.
With a sniff and another dab to her eyes, she began: “Well, Mr. Mortimer, my husband, Solomon, was born on Monday, October 13, 1743.” The pen scratched across the notepad quickly with every word from the widow.
“Before you continue, might I ask who this is?” Mr. Mortimer asked while pointing to the boy sitting on the arm rest of the chair.
“This is my son, Gregory.” The boy nodded to Mr. Mortimer. “On a Tuesday, he was Christened; a Wednesday, we married.”
“Do excuse my interruption again but does Mr. Grundy’s life follow the nursery rhyme?” Mr. Mortimer asked, a bemused look playing at his face. The son nodded and Mr. Mortimer scribbled it down along with the previous information.
“So, that being, let’s say about two months ago, your husband fell ill on a Thursday. A month later, on a Friday, his condition worsened and he then died the day after. A few Sundays later, he was buried.” The widow suddenly burst into tears and repeatedly answered yes. Her son rolled his eyes and sighed.
“Are you suspecting that maybe it wasn’t the illness that killed him?” Mr. Mortimer asked while preparing his pen.
“Yes. When he was found, we were told there was blood.” The son mentioned.
“That was all?” Mr. Mortimer asked. “Was there anything else that was off?”
“No, not only that. Mum here wasn’t allowed to see him.” Gregory said. Mr. Mortimer scribbled down notes again.
“Odd…” Mr. Mortimer mumbled. “Were you allowed to see your father?” The teen nodded. “Were you there when they discovered that he was dead?” The teen nodded once again. “Who else was there at the time? Was it just you?”
“Yes.” He answered. Mr. Mortimer bit his bottom lip in thought.
“Mrs. Grundy, could you please step out for a moment, I’d like to speak to Gregory alone.” Mr. Mortimer said, his eyes never leaving the boy’s. The widow nodded and quickly left. Gregory slipped into the chair his mother was in and meekly stared at his feet.
“Why were you there?” Mr. Mortimer asked while setting down his pen.
“I wanted to see my father that day.” Gregory said while looking up.
“Lies!” Mr. Mortimer said while slamming his hands down on the desk and standing; the small glass of scotch spilled over onto the floor. “Why were you there when he was pronounced dead?”
“I-I… l-like I said, I wanted to see my father. The nurse at the front wouldn’t let me in so I snuck in the back and went up to my father’s room. When I got up there, there was blood coming out of his mouth. I flagged down a nurse and she got a few doctors to come over.”
“I thought doctors were already there?” Mr. Mortimer said as he folded his arms and sat back in his chair. His eyes narrowed as he studied Gregory. The teen immediately looked down at his feet.
“You can leave.” Mr. Mortimer. Gregory scrambled to a stand and left the room. ‘Odd.’
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“So you’re telling me that Solomon Grundy didn’t die of pneumonia?” Mr. Mortimer said. The doctor sitting in front of him nodded. The P.I. sighed and leaned back into the chair he was situated in. “Is there anything else you can tell me?”
“There is something but Mr. Gregory Grundy won’t let me tell anyone.” The doctor said.
“And what would that be?” Mr. Mortimer asked while pulling out the same pen and notepad from before. The doctor looked at him like he was stupid and sighed.
“When I was called into the room, there was a scalpel in Mr. Solomon’s chest and his son was just staring at his father with tears in his eyes. Mr. Solomon had been stabbed multiple times in the chest.” The doctor said with a shiver. “When he noticed me, he practically screamed for me not to tell anyone about what had happened, swearing that if I did, he’d have me killed as well.”
“So?” Mr. Mortimer said.
“I didn’t tell anyone. I just said his condition worsened and he died the next day.” The doctor said.
“Just like the nursery rhyme.” Mr. Mortimer murmured while standing. “Thank you for your time, doctor.”
“You’re welcome.” He answered. The PI exited the doctor’s office but then walked into a person.
“Oh, sorry. I didn’t see yo–! Mr. Mortimer, thank goodness it’s you!” Looking down, Mr. Mortimer eyes widened. The person he hired to watch Gregory while he dug for evidence had bumped into him.
“Your allegations, they were true! Gregory did kill his father, he told me!” The person said. Mr. Mortimer sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “He said that the lie about his father dying of pneumonia was indeed a lie. He also mentioned before the fact that his mother was there when they discovered that he was dead, and also about how his mother supposedly poisoned him when she visited the day before his death were also lies. Did he tell you those?”
“No, he didn’t.” Mr. Mortimer said.
“Well, now you know!” The person said. Mr. Mortimer sighed once more.
“And he is to be arrested for manslaughter.” Mr. Mortimer said simply.
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The sky was grey and cold as Mr. Mortimer tucked a small pocket watch into his breast pocket. The cheroot in his mouth lit red as he inhaled and watched the door of Gregory Grundy’s house burst open. Neighbors in the area chattered and gossiped as they wondered about what was going on. The look on the P.I.’s face was grim and tired from a long two months of investigations and questionings.
“The last six lines of the nursery rhyme still hold true, Gregory.” Mr. Mortimer said while bringing the cheroot from his lips and exhaling through his nostrils, smoke teeming out. The teen was currently being dragged out of his house by two men with huge grey mustaches.
“No, I killed him so they wouldn’t.” Gregory said as he struggled against the grip of the two Bobbies.
“On Thursday, he was diagnosed with pneumonia, a few Fridays later, his state did worsen. A Saturday later, you stabbed him to death and the next Sunday, your mother laid him to rest.” Mr. Mortimer said. “Your fingerprints were on the scalpel, Gregory.”
“I didn’t kill him!” Gregory shouted.
“The evidence proves otherwise.” Mr. Mortimer said as he folded his arms. “The odds are not in your favor. This case is closed and will not be reopened.” Gregory frowned and dropped his head as he began to weep. The Bobbies dragged him away and into the back of an old steam powered car. The chatter amongst the neighbors heightened as the car started up with a groan. His mother, who was currently weeping, pleaded for him not to be sent away.
“He’ll be good!” She begged. “I’ll keep him up in the house all day! Just please don’t send my baby away!”
“This case is closed, Mrs. Grundy. I’ve stated this already.” Mr. Mortimer said. “I am very sorry that this has happened to you.” The P.I. apologized once more before leaving and mulling over the nursery rhyme once again.
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Gregory Grundy
Born on a Monday
Chastised on Tuesday
Began to go loopy on Wednesday
Took “ill” on Thursday
Grew worse on Friday
Slaughtered on Saturday
Locked up on Sunday
This is the end
Of Gregory Grundy…