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Tonight we discover the truth of a murder in the small town of Hearse.
The Skinner Co. Network
105 - The Murder Of Eustace Norton, and his wife, Matilda: A Mother Gran Story, Part 1 of 1
(upbeat music) - Welcome to Flashpulp, episode 105. Tonight, we present the murder of Eustis Norton and his wife, Matilda, a mother grand story, part one of one. This week's episodes are brought to you by Flashpulp on iTunes. It's where the leprechauns store their pots of gold. Find a link to Flashpulp's iTunes feed at skinner.fm. Search for Flashpulp using the iTunes in-program search or point your browser at http colon slash slash bit.ly slash nine z two e-h zero. (upbeat music) ♪ Sunday is gloomy, my hours are stumbled ♪ ♪ Here is the shadows I live with are stumbled ♪ (upbeat music) Flashpulp is an experiment in broadcasting fresh pulp stories in the modern age, three to 10 minutes of fiction brought to you Monday, Wednesday and Friday evenings. Tonight, we discover the truth of a murder in the small town of hers. The murder of Eustis Norton and his wife, Matilda, a mother grand story, part one of one. Written by J.R.D. Skinner, art and narration by Opopenax, an audio produced by Jessica May. On a damp Saturday morning, the majority of the population of Bigelow County found itself at the grave sides of Eustis and Matilda Norton. It's a shame to see such an upstanding man come to such an untimely end. A murderer in our midst? It seems unthinkable. whispered Miss Tupper to Mrs. Wills, hoping as always that some tantalizing negative information might drop from the constable's wife's lips. Mayhap, it was Matilda herself who killed him. Was the best reply Miss Wills could make. Slip him a poisoned drink, then turned his musket on her own person. Seems improbable. Why wouldn't she have simply saved some of the elixir for herself? More plausible is that she discovered his body and overwhelmed with her grief she did herself in. Interjected Mrs. Pilfer. Who knows what a mental defective might do. It is well known that she was a bedlamite. I certainly do not believe it beyond her to have done exactly that. Likely she poisoned the man in a fit of passion, then realizing there was no other who might take the blame, brought her crazed hand to his weapon and ended her life. As often happened when defending her gossip-strong theories, Puppy Tupper's voice had crept into a volume unsuitable for a solemn event, such as a funeral. Father Burke stifled the conversation with a targeted gaze, his practice lips never stumbling on the conjoined eulogy. At the furthest edge of the crowd, from beneath the rough blanket she held a loft to guard against the drizzle. Mother Gran made her single statement of the service. Heard only by her grandchild, Ella. I cannot abide a murderer. Gran had been summoned to an emergency at the Norton Homestead on more than one occasion. And at times, Matilda had made her own way to the large spread of land, three generations of Gran's family worked and shared. So it was not without familiarity of subject that Ella eavesdropped upon the conversation of the chatterers who'd gathered on the loyalist's veranda the following Monday. The Lord has no love for a suicide, continued Puppy, the solemnity of the burial having worn away. That woman was never right. Do you recall the afternoon, perhaps three months ago, in which she stumbled through the town weeping and screeching? Covered in mud and screaming. She was a mad woman like us not. The prattler nodded as Ella motioned the tea spout towards her emptied cup. And her poor husband, attempting to make what he could of her. It's only luck that she never bore children. Replied Mrs. Madison, eager as always to support her friend's position. It's a surprise he was not driven to turn the weapon on himself. Oh come now, replied Miss Pilfer. I understand it does not reflect well to speak ill of the righteous dead. But you have sainted that booze hound before long. Seems to me you are not so enthused at his character a little more than two weeks ago when he saw a fit to lay his foot to your little putzer. Putzer, the Tepper's beloved terrier, had had the misfortune to stray within range of used as his boots as the man was exiting hers's general store. He'd let out three sharp yaps and then a whining squeal. Every man has his moments, said Miss Madison. Puppy was quick to find a new topic upon which she expound. Later, as her duties at the loyal ascended and she walked home with her brother Alvin, also returning from his position of apprentice to the town's cobbler, Mr. Tepper, Ella began to carry with her nagging concern. She made her best effort to remain merry. And even as they slept some hours later, she took pains to hold her smile. She could not help but notice however, how silently Mother Gran maintained her position at the head of the table, unjoking even as little Rory was caught with his fingers amongst the biscuits for his fourth serving. He had never entered her mind to doubt her grandmother or to ask after what business the old woman chose to engage in during the late hours. But her cryptic comment at the burial had left a rattling guilt in the girl's mind. As the time ticked away and the first round of good nights were said, Ella slipped into the little back room which her grandparent shared. Gran sat upon the edge of her bed, and for the first time that evening, a smirk came to her face. "You seemed too quiet at dinner," she said. "I was of mine to say the same thing to you," Ella replied. She repeated some of what she had heard earlier in the day. Then as she completed her recitation, she paused, eager for some explanation that might absolve her increasingly heavy conscience regarding the death of Mr. Norton. Gran smiled once again, but there was no happiness in it. "You stopped short of asking the question. "I can hear silently echoing from your words, "and I wish I could provide some answer "which would lighten your heart. "But in truth, I suspect one day you may take up my role, "and it is important you understand the balance of things." Matilda had come to me on a baker's dozen of occasions seven times to seek my counsel on birthing, and six times to seek my counsel on burying. I know not the number before the pair found themselves at the edges of our county, but it is telling that it was me to whom Matilda came, and not the physician, Boyle. On the third conception, I asked her what might be occasioning her miscarriages, as if the bruising about her torso did not make it clear enough. The monster's hands seemed to double and fury at the sight of her rounding, she said, but nothing more. She worked hard when the sixth was imminent, strapping down her belly, and servicing her drunken lout only in the dark. She overslept one morning, and he saw the evidence pushing at her stomach. By the time she woke, he drank through what gin remained in the house, and it was only my hard night's labor with needle and herbs that kept her in our world. The babe, at a seventh month count, was not so lucky. Its departure was bloody work, and a pitiful interment. Gran, who Ella had never seen as anything less than stalwart, now seemed to gray and shrink with her age. She continued. On the seventh she ran crying when I confirmed her condition, and it nagged at me so that I felt compelled to visit her upon the following day. I knew that even Eustace would have found his way to his labor in the mine by noon, so I expected little trouble. I found the door ajar and a gin bottle open on the table, and the majority of her cranium spread along the back wall. How many more lives would he end? If not Matilda, then some such as the Lindsay girl, who'll bend for any kind, murmur. I spent the rest of the daylight picking what I needed from amongst the surrounding foliage. By the time of Eustace's return, I had laid out the tableau. The door was fully open despite the chill, and a single of Matilda's shoes would lay the sconce on the lip of the porch. Upon a rock, along, but some ways away from his path to the door, I set the remainder of the gin, having topped it up with my own concoction. I myself awaited behind a tree near the spirits. If his concern had outweighed his thirst, he might still be alive. Ella nodded, and, after a moment, set herself down on the bed, wrapping her arms around the old woman. (dramatic music) Flashpulp is presented by HTTP colon slash slash skinner dot FM. 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