LatinosUSA

Truth is stranger than fiction, so it is said. The emphasis people give to this truism is on the word strange.  

A customer walked into their local butcher’s shop, grabbed a paring knife from the cutting board and slit the butchers throat.  Taking up loose muslin from the counter they cleaned the knife and placed it back from where it was taken and walked out of the shop.  In the shop at the same time that fateful morning, Mrs Blackwell, the butchers wife was preparing sausage meat not three yards away partially obscured by a screen, and Gary Madden, their young apprentice was within arm’s length of Mr Blackwell, cleaning the bottom shelves of the display cabinet. First to be aware of the murder as he straightened up finding Mr Blackwell slumped forward over the counter. The subsequent police investigation was frustrated by the inability of either Mrs Blackwell or Gary to describe the attacker beyond asserting they were sure it was a man. The only fingerprints on the paring knife were those of Mr Blackwell.

After much publicity to find passers-by in the street that morning (just one of your normal South of England towns) the various descriptions provided –led to nothing.  A motive was never established.  After six months the police, totally baffled gave up their investigation.  And what was so strange about this, you might ask? 

I can tell you that the attacker was a woman, albeit somewhat manly in appearance and she lived a solitary life three doors away in a tumble-down book and bric-a-brac shop, surrounded by cats. And what was her name?  Miss Celia Butcher. The motive?  Three of her cats died of food poisoning.  No guess from where and from whom she believed the lamb scraps was supplied that she had fed her cats the previous day.  Whilst you may still be amazed and incredulous that such an act could be committed in reprisal, consider this.

Mr Blackwell instinctively did not like Celia Butcher and aware that these feelings were quite unprofessional made great emphasis on service whenever she appeared for meat purchases. Celia, a soul of great sensitivity, saw through this charade from the beginning. For three years she suffered his falseness, repressing anger and outrage.  Then, just two weeks before that eventful day, she had obtained a remedy that purported to remove facial hair and given what she thought was the beginnings of a benefit, trebled the intake overnight. Whilst the outward effects continued to show improvement, inwardly her hormone system was spinning out of control.  Strange compelling dreams would interrupt her sleep, fleeting images of unknown faces, and angered words she couldn’t understand causing her to feel they should be justified. And there were periods during the day when she simply lost the sense of time altogether.  If asked, visitors to the shop would have said she appeared uninterested with their intent to purchase and had a faraway look in her eyes.  Some youngsters took advantage and made off with comics and girly magazines of their choice. 

On that fateful morning, discovering the prostrate forms of her beloved cats, (three of ten I might mention), a black despair enshrouded her mind.  Mechanically, she attended her chores and as was always the case, and being a Tuesday, took up her purse and went to the butchers shop.  On returning she buried the dead cats in her back garden, prepared meals for the survivors using tinned foods she had hoarded in her cluttered kitchen, and opened the shop –on time, she never opened before 10 a.m.  As the day wore on she felt better –less tense. Satisfied that her appearance had significantly improved took no more of the remedy.

Had Celia Butcher committed the murder?  By all conscious accounts she had but in her reality she had not –not only had she no memory of the killing act but also had somehow contrived to accept she had decided not to buy fresh meat for them that day but instead would use tinned food to feed the cats.  Two days later and by now fully aware of the dramatic and terrible event three doors away, three of her remaining seven cats became very poorly, vomiting continuously.  In a moment of inspiration she deduced that tinned food was responsible –threw all her stock into the bin and went straightaway to the butchers shop for pigs hearts.  The cats improved dramatically. 

Ongoing she still shopped at the butchers and was secretly not sorry that Mr Blackwell no longer loomed over the counter –in fact, she quite enjoyed going to the shop. Mrs Blackwell treated her with respect and she genuinely liked cats.

Who then, in reality, killed Mr Blackwell?  As an insider I can tell you that it was no living person, but the disembodied memories of tortured men attracted to the needy minds of lonely women.