an early twist in the aforestated unpredictable plot- Part 3

The hallway was wide and expansive. Lined with the portraits of past masters, the hallway was the epitome of understated affluence. There was a sweeping staircase ascending into the higher levels of the house, and underneath this staircase, another less impressive set, led down to the source of the only noise in the house.
Mr Beedle heard the recognisable chinks and thunks of the snooker game and crept that way.
As a child Mr Beedle was described as "a highly systematic monomaniac" in one satirical school report written by a harassed teacher who had fast hardened into scholastic cynicism, and who was forced to euphemise the misdemeanours of the extremely..."active" set of children he was forced into looking after. the linguistic beauty of the report could be derived from its multi-layered sentences, often sounding verbose to the unenlightened parent, yet making total sense to the nervous Mr Beedle, aware of the certain unfortunate events being glossed over, and who hoped not to be questioned further on this strange verbosity by the parent.
This monomania was making a guest appearance at an inopportune moment, by gliding into the hallway alongside Mr Beedle, who had been single-mindedly approaching every task as the first and last, such as climbing over the wall, check, breaking and entering, check, taking off shoes, check. But now as he approached what he was really there for, the enormity of his actions started sinking in, and Mr Beedle was not one taken kindly to sudden epiphanies. He started sweating all over, his round glasses steamed up, which he then polished with shaking hands, and he even took this key moment to correct his rather confused theological standings, by turning to all the different Gods he could think of one ofter the other, God, Jehovah, Allah Vishnu... all the time his eyes focused on the downward staircase, as if expecting at any moment to see Mr Fry come up.

silk white waistcoat to be worked in somewhere- Part 2

He was a fine looking specimen of a man, Mr Beedle professional assassin had sophistication and brawn oozing out of his every pore, or so he hoped. He was dressed all in matte black, and looked like he was trying very hard to appear the incorrigible, cool and deadly assassin nonchalantly going about his business. A bystander may not have gone away with that impression and indeed the truth was that he was a weak-hearted young man, terrified with what he was doing and wondering nervously about the presence of a large pile dog stool being the proof of the presence of its source.
Entry to the house was imperative, and quickly too. carefully avoiding the dog stool Mr Beedle, with his suitably long and black cloak which was quietly doing its artistic duty by billowing mysteriously, skirted the rose garden focusing his attention onto a suitably placed ground floor window.

Inside the owner of the property, a certain Mr Fry stood, dressed in a loud pink shirt partially covered by a silk white waistcoat, pinstriped grey trousers and a pair of highly polished expensive looking brown shoes. He leaned over the snooker table, which dominated the newly wood-panelled basement, and played on into the night, red ball pocketed, then black ball, red black, red back, the hypnotic noises of the game seemed to dull his senses to external influences, he was focused on the pot and then the next, impervious to the danger that was heading his way.

Mr Beedle stood, his flitting eyes gazing over the plush living-room. A slow sneer spread over his face, "this will be nothing compared to what I'll buy once my assassination business takes off, its all about bloody image anyhow", he thought to himself and self consciously he checked that his cloak was well fastened and that the steel blade was safely secured under his suit jacket. Satisfied with the results of his search, he strode towards the doorway into the dark hallway. His shoes were the purchases of a fanatically image-conscious man, dark quality leather with chunky heels, and Mr Beedle now regretted that he hadn't made a concession in the shoe department of "image" and gone for the more practical silent rubber soled trainers. He stopped after a couple of agonising steps, with the loud echoing of his tread still reverberating around the hallway. With terrified glances hither and thither, he took off his shoes, tied them together and strung them around his neck and consoled himself that the cloak would cover the worst of the decidedly unprofessional socks, and the bumps that the shoes made under the cloak could easily be mistaken for abnormally large pectorals.

Murder - part 1

the dark spread quickly over the expansive lawns of Brashwood Manor. The oak trees, which lined the long driveway, stood like dark sentinels watching over the old house. there was a rose garden off to the right of the building, and on the left the horses in the stables were snickering quietly. The house itself was a sprawling Georgian mansion, with generously large proportions to everything, the large sash windows, the sweeping steps upto the equally large door. green ivy crawled all over the body of the house merging it further into the lush green surroundings. There was two balconies to the house, one built with the original house was currently being used as a roof garden, the other was built upon the top of the more modern annexation to the house. Nothing stirred in either of them. All the windows were dark, as the nightlife rustled, hooted and scraped in the background. All was peaceful.

A man climbed over the wall into the grounds and dropped to the grass behind the rose garden with a soft thump. He stood stock still as he took in the surroundings.

(Ignore my first post, this blogs going to be a novel called Murder, its plot is going to be a study in improvisation...wish me luck)

introduction

Hi, basically this blog is going to be the place where my sometimes too active mind will be let loose on any historical topic of my choice (thats covers just about everything i think) or a dialectical analysis of any school of thought i fancy, and, ill put it down to the fact that currently im in my formative years, i may just play the devils advocate for a whole host of different ideals so as to try them on for size.
until then, this is the 21st century Herodotus cum Plato signing off.