Short Story

The Perfect Winter Murder

“As long as you live in my house you’ll do as I say,” roared Bevin Baldwin, all of his 300 kilos shaking with madness at his mail order bride of five months.

“I only want to please you,” said the young wife through sad green eyes.

She was only twenty and he was fifty-five and a monster of a man. He organized her every move as he was jealous knowing that she might run away if given the chance.

“I want my dinner on the table when I come through the door,” he demanded. His breath smelt of stale ale.

“Just what are you doing all day while I’m out chopping wood for the market? Day dreaming again I’d say.” He saw the magazine on the table that she was always reading. He picked it up and threw it into the trash bin.

“I was up at five this morning,” she replied, pulling her long blonde hair back over her ears. “I milked the cows, fed the chickens and brought in the vegetables from the garden for your dinner.”

“So where is my dinner then?” he bellowed. Slobber drooled down his thick grey beard which came to rest in droplets on the polished wooden floor.

The drool splattering across the floor provoked a response from the woman. “Oh, and I scrubbed and polished the floor.”

“You’ve been reading that stupid magazine instead of doing your duties. I told you such rubbish will only put ideas into your head.”

“I’ve made your favourite cabbage, beans and onion strew,” she said sternly.

He sat and ate with ale in one hand and a soup spoon clutched in a death grip in the other. After an hour of gluttonous splashing about, he rose and staggered off towards the bedroom. When she thought it was safe she taped around the bedroom door with masking tape.

Early the next morning the wife removed the tape from the door and entered the room with a cloth over her nose. She knew her husband was a notorious farter.

He was well and truly dead.

She removed the tape from the window frames that she had placed there the day before. With no fresh air coming in or out of the room her husband was forced to breath his own methane gas which the coroner said was the cause of death.

Death by misadventure was the ruling.

For the first time in five months she managed a smile as she retrieved the magazine from the trash bin and read the story for the umpteenth time.

A man in London died from methane gas as he slept. The combination of cabbage, beans, and onions plus alcohol caused such a poisonous fart that it killed him. He had sealed all the bedroom windows so no cold air could enter the room. He was awarded the Darwin award for stupidity.

She laid the magazine on the table. Her husband had been right…it had given her an idea.