‘Listen closely,’ it reads. ‘No matter what they’ve told you, I did not die in an accident. Someone came for me.’ And so the letter rambled on. “Well, of course you didn’t, you daft bint,” I said out loud, crumbling Great Aunt Maud’s letter up into a ball. I stood in the newly built kitchen, tiles designed to my specification, paid for out of dear old Maud’s generous inheritance. Thanks Maud. The kitchen was immaculate. It was worth every penny. I’d also had the living room converted into a games room, and built the spare reception room into a small living space. It was perfect. And I’d spent the rest of the inheritance on the therapy needed to erase my guilt. Well, on the two sessions before I decided it was a waste of time and, actually, there wasn’t that much guilt after all. She was quite something. Grumpy, miserable, fussy old lady with an inclination towards horrid cats with ridiculous little bells alerting you to their presence. That, and their sharp claws digging into your ankles. Vile things. But practically, very helpful vile things. Maud had this cane, which she said helped her hip in the winter, but really I only ever saw her use it to hit the buttons on her dated TV. Her skirts were long, and made of that sort of fussy patterned material that looked itchy. I’m surprised they didn’t wrap around her cane and trip her up. That would’ve been rather opportune. I don’t think it ever happened. I’ll tell you what did happen, though. My pal, Thom, had offered his services. Unknown to dear old Maud, he was perfect. It helped that he had a face to forget. I’d offered him half my inheritance for his services; I figured I’d work that one out later. We’d met, we’d schemed, we actioned and we hit. Thom took the cane when dear Maud was dozing, jabbed a cat and watched it settle beneath her feet, ready to trip her up, all fingers crossed. The cats typically did as they were directed, tripped the old bag and sent her flying. A fatal twist to the neck, a week before calling the ambulance, a month of very, very mournful behaviour. And six weeks for them to read the will, and my renovation work to commence. The mystery now lies in how she knew and how’d she have the time to write this letter. Her will had named me as her closest relative, the last she trusted in a family she despised. Can I help being so lovable? She’d trusted me to send this letter, in her naivety. I continued to read, sipping my coffee and nibbling a square of toast. “I know they’re planning something, and I don’t know how to stop them. I don’t know who they are, but the cats have been spooked each night, and I fear my death is coming. I need you to know this, and I need you to work this out after. Don’t let me down and bring justice for my death. I beg you.” I crumpled the letter up, and chucked it over my shoulder, landing in the dustbin: a perfect shot. I suppose I’m letting you down, Maud. Sorry about that. Cheers for the coffee machine.