White Stones by Myroslava

Detective Edward always hated the cold rain

of the English countryside, but it was his job to step into other people’s secrets, no matter the weather. He stood in front of Whitestone Manor, a grand old mansion built in the 1880s. Red carpets, wooden tables, mirrors on every wall — the old man who owned it clearly liked to show off his wealth. But now that man, George Whitestone, was dead, he was found at the bottom of the stairs two nights ago. Everyone said it was an accident, but Edward doubted. The old man was healthy for his age, and now his three children came home to hear the reading of the will.

Edward was waiting in the living room when the heirs entered one by one. First was Veronica Whitestone, the eldest child. She looked stunning, though too bright for such a gloomy day: blonde curls, red lipstick, a short leopard coat, and a tiny white dog peeking out of her handbag. She nervously lit a long cigar. Next came Charles Whitestone, the second child. He was in his mid-forties, wore an expensive suit that could not hide his round belly. He smiled politely and shook Edward’s hand firmly. Charles was a local councilman and a respected businessman, but Edward knew that perfect men needed more money to win elections. Last to arrive was Peter Whitestone, the youngest. He was twenty but looked older, his eyes tired, his hands shaking slightly. He barely met Edward’s eyes before sitting in the corner and staring at the floor. Rumours said Peter spent most of his inheritance on drugs. Now he owed money to the wrong people.

Edward cleared his throat.

“Thank you for meeting me. Before the lawyer comes, I need to ask you a few questions. Your father’s death, I am convinced it wasn’t an accident. Yes, he was old and could miss a step, but all of you have a reason to push him.”

“Do you want some tea, Mr. Edward?” cute maid interrupted the detective and than offered him something stronger to drink. He refused.

Veronica blew smoke at the ceiling. “Detective, darling, I loved Daddy in my own way. But money is tight now. My husband is divorcing me because he found out about my little lover, and divorce is terribly expensive. So yes, I needed money. But murder? Too much trouble.” She giggled and sipped her cocktail.

Charles adjusted his tie. “Detective Miller, I have nothing to hide. Yes, I am campaigning for re-election next year, and it’s costly. But my father would have supported me anyway. Why kill the goose that lays the golden eggs?”

Peter looked up, eyes red. “I was with my… friends that night. I swear. I didn’t touch him. I need money but I wouldn’t… I wouldn’t kill him.”

Edward took notes but said nothing. Before Edward could ask more, the lawyer arrived. His name was Mr. Thompson, an old man with round glasses and a stack of papers. The family gathered around the wooden coffee table.

Mr. Thompson cleared his throat. “According to George Whitestone’s last will, all his estate, money, properties, and investments go to…”

He paused. The room fell silent except for Veronica’s dog barking.

“…to Maria, the housemaid.”

“What?!” Veronica screamed. Her cigar fell to the floor, leaving a black mark on the white carpet. Charles went pale. Peter laughed.

Edward stood quickly. “Where is Maria now?”

Maria came into the room. She looked terrified, her eyes darted between the angry children and the detective.

“Maria,” Edward said calmly, “I need to hear the truth. Did Mr. Whitestone really leave everything to you? Why?”

Tears filled Maria’s eyes. “He said he loved me. But it wasn’t love. He forced me to have sex, many times. I am pregnant with his child. He promised to marry me, to give the baby his name. But that night… we argued. I said I would tell everyone. He laughed at me. I pushed him away… he fell.”

The room went deadly quiet. Veronica’s laugh broke the silence. “Well, I hope you enjoy the house, dear Maria. And the child of an old man!”

Edward signalled the local police. Maria didn’t resist as they led her away. She would not go to prison immediately because of her pregnancy, but her confession was enough for a court one day. The Whitestone children were left speechless, their dreams of easy inheritance turned to dust.

Years passed. Edward Miller worked many more cases but never forgot the Whitestone Manor. One rainy afternoon, he drove past the estate again, curious how life had changed. He knocked at the door, and Peter, who was older now, healthier, wearing clean clothes, opened it with a smile. A little boy was playing in the living room.

Peter said “Come in, detective. This is George, Maria’s boy. She gave him to me to raise when she… went away. We were friends for some time, so she trusted me. Now I’ve got a job . No more debts. George keeps me honest.”

Edward smiled softly. Sometimes, he thought, even from tragedy, good things could happen.