Short Story: The Groundskeeper by J. Kyle Turner

This is a guest post by J. Kyle Turner. Please see the author’s links if you enjoyed this piece.

Dunstan Harrows sat in the near darkness of the groundskeeper’s cottage while the setting sun glared through the window behind him.

He often came here in the evening to shed the heat of the day while his callouses hardened and the mud dried to dirt under…

…his fingernails. The cottage had fallen to ruin in recent years, but that didn’t bother him. He preferred ruins, with their empty hearths and sagging furniture. He liked the way bright things faded when people left them alone. It reminded him of the cool layer of dirt just beneath the topsoil, the soft mulch of last year’s leaves.

He probably owed the instinct to his childhood. The village children used to torment him once they learned Dunstan always got the worst of any engagement. Oh, he could have beaten any three of them in a fair fight—and sometimes needed to. But no one hired a boy with a swollen eye, and losing his temper was never worth the striping he got when he came home without a day’s wages.

Better to lay up somewhere quiet until trouble passed him by. And if a boy fell out of a church belfry and cracked his head on a flagstone now and then, well, boys were always wandering somewhere they shouldn’t, weren’t they?

A knock sounded at the door, which creaked open an inch before settling back against the jamb. Dunstan stared as if it had moved entirely of its own accord. Nobody came out to the cottage, and no one who lived at the big house would have thought to knock.

He stood and opened the door. Light spilled past the silhouette of a stranger in a gray wool suit. The crown of his hat stopped just short of Dunstan’s chin.

“Mr. Harrows,” the stranger said, removing his hat. He used a free hand to pull a notebook out of his breast pocket. “Detective Prodwell. Forgive the intrusion, but I was hoping for a moment of your time before I finished today. All very routine, of course, just trying to be thorough.”

“Evening, detective. But if it’s all the same to you, I prefer to be paid for my time. Come back tomorrow morning, if you like.”

The smaller man returned Dunstan’s hard stare with a polite smile. “I understand completely, Mr. Harrows. My own workday ended an hour ago. Perhaps a friendly chat instead, since we’re both off the clock?” He tucked the notebook back into his breast pocket.

Dunstan considered his options. He wasn’t fooled by the absent notebook. A clever man wouldn’t need one, and this one had the air of a clever man.

But refusing a second time would only render him more suspicious, and he disliked the thought of Detective Prodwell’s continued scrutiny.

“Right this way, Detective.”

Prodwell scanned the room as he entered, paying special attention to the tools that lay about the room: a woodcutter’s axe by the door, the heavy mallet beside it, a large pair of garden shears on the table. If he expected to find bloodstains on any of Dunstan’s tools, he was going to be disappointed.

“Quite the cottage,” Prodwell remarked. “Though I believe it belonged to your predecessor.”

“It did.”

“Retired?”

“Passed away, I’m afraid.”

“I see. May I ask how?”

“Fell into the pond and drowned,” Dunstan said, which had the advantage of being true.

“Poor soul,” Prodwell tsked. “I suppose he was too far from the house for anyone to hear him thrashing. The grounds are quite extensive.”

“Enough to keep me busy,” Dunstan said carefully.

“I imagine things often go missing in such a large space.”

“Naturally.”

“Tools, trinkets, personal effects.”

“Of course.”

“Weapons?”

Dunstan grinned. “Detective, I do believe you just accused me of being an accomplice to murder.”

“I suppose I did,” Prodwell admitted. “Bad habit, I’m afraid. Are you?”

“No,” Dunstan said. “Once or twice a year, I’ll find something in the mulch pit by the garden, or I’ll stub my toe on something in the muck after a good rain, and I can usually guess how it ended up there. Sometimes I return it, sometimes I make sure it stays hidden. I’ve been an accomplice to all manner of sins, but never to murder.”

“Did the late Mr. Davenport ever object to any of the items hidden on his property?”

“Once or twice,” Dunstan admitted. “But all the Davenports had their secrets, and I made good money keeping them.”

A light wind pushed the door closed, darkening the cottage interior. No light came into the room now save through the window. Prodwell considered the closed door carefully.

“Since this is only a friendly chat, Mr. Harrows, and since we are quite alone, allow me to outline a possible theory.”

“If you like.”

“In my experience, the difference between discretion and blackmail is a matter of ambition. You don’t strike me as an ambitious man, Mr. Harrows, but you might be confused for one in the wrong light. Suppose a member of the Davenport family approached you in the hope of buying your secrets instead of buying your silence. You could hardly refuse your employer, but accepting one offer would make you an enemy to the rest of the family. Better to refuse the request and silence the one who made it…”

“And hide the evidence in one of my usual spots,” Dunstan offered. “Is that it?”

“Something like that.”

“My, my,” Dunstan chuckled. “Means, motive, and opportunity. I should work on my alibi.”

“You have one, I assume?”

“I was alone at home when Mr. Davenport died.”

“Then I expect we’ll speak again,” Prodwell said, donning his hat. “In an official capacity.”

As the detective made to leave, he paused a moment before opening the door.

“Oh, and Mr. Harrows? I would think carefully about your alibi.”

“Why is that, Detective?”

“Because you seem quite confident about the timing of Mr. Davenport’s death, and I don’t believe we’ve made those details public.”

J. Kyle Turner is a writer, musician, and author with several written works that you can find online at his substack here. Please be sure to check out his other work there if you enjoyed this piece.