March 25th 2013 |
We here at Socked are not fans of cold-blooded murder. The act of homicide is something we do not encourage in the slightest, for it is not the work of a gentleman.
But let us assume the circumstances have taken on a mind of their own, and you find yourself in the highly inconvenient position of having a corpse on the hearth rug of your best parlour, the butler having high-tailed it for the continental ferry with a bloody length of lead piping and the family silver in his carpet bag. On top of that, the vicar has promised to pop round for tea, where he will assume the worst and have the constable on your back before you can explain your innocence.
Hardly a circumstance any gentleman would wish to find themselves, but all too common in today’s society where it is impossible to hire serving staff that don’t have aspirations toward murder. Worst of all, this is the kind of thing that stains a gentleman’s reputation, and leads to averted eyes and tutting at golf club dinners.
In these desperate times, desperate measures are required, because it is the Devil’s own work to thoroughly dispose of a corpse, particularly when the local constabulary have been tipped off by a vengeful butler, seeking revenge for the time you publicly admonished him for serving red wine with the fish course. Sadly, whatever plan of action you choose to dispose of this poor cur, modern scientific method will almost certainly incriminate you if any trace is found.
Accepted wisdom these days is to feed the cadaver to the pigs, but even then they’ll almost certainly miss a bit, and there’s nothing worse than the milking girl finding a spare head and an arm as she makes for the cow shed, and then you’ve got another body on your hands.
Of course, the disposal must be a solo enterprise. Involving others is a recipe for blackmail, incrimination and an ever-growing list of people of whom you’re telling worried relatives “have gone for a long holiday to the Seychelles and they said they’re not coming back”.
This being the case, we recommend the following course of action: Dress the deceased in old clothes from a charity shop or jumble sale. Then, leave the body in the rough end of town, a handful of hair gleaned from your disloyal butler’s hair-brush in his right hand, the neck of a smashed bottle of whisky in his left. The forces of the law will assume the obvious – a fight over the last of their cheap booze – and crisis will be averted. A sizeable donation to the chief constable’s favourite charity will seal the deal.
Alternatively, just talk to the chappies who make value-brand meat pies for popular low-end supermarkets. We’re pretty sure they’ll be happy to help. Tastes like chicken, we’re told.