The old man jerked taut with a strange, sick vigour as 2,000 volts of lethal current slammed through his frail body.

It wasn't the first execution I'd witnessed, but there was something particularly disturbing about this one. Sure, the murder he’d committed had been unusually cruel, but there was just something so gentle about the old man that exaggerated the violence of the Chair to an almost unbearable level.

And I was still haunted by those ghostly words, replayed time and time again in the courtroom - the last words of a dying man, breathing the last of his life down a too-long phone line, to a helpless 911 operator: "Butler...did it...."

It had been an open-and-shut case. The butler was captured at the scene, literally red-handed; the revelation that his master had recently changed his will, leaving his fortune to his 'faithful' aide, providing more than enough motive.

Behind the glass screen, we sat in tense silence. After an age had passed, the current ceased and the butler slumped back, still. Dead.

A solitary giggle broke the silence.

I hadn’t really noticed the man beside me. There's something almost intimate about being a witness at an execution, and I guess it just seems wrong to want to know anything about those who were also present. Embarrassing, even.

I imagine my face looked as shocked as I felt when I turned to the man, for he appeared startled. If I'd been able to think, I would have expected him to display shame, or at least embarrassment. Instead he broke into a wide smile.

"Now, that's justice!" he exclaimed jubilantly. "Nasty old sod, that one."

"But...em, who are you," was all I could think to reply.

Reaching into his breast pocket, he slickly withdrew a business card from his immaculately tailored suit. He handed it to me.

"Bryan. The victim’s nephew," he said. "I thought you'd remember me." And then I did. He hadn't been at the trial, but he'd been present at the reading of the will: I remember thinking how inappropriately pleased he'd been upon hearing of his inheritance – a sizable chunk of his uncle’s estate.

"Hideous crime – stabbed, then his wedding ring taken from his dying hand. Just hideous," he said, shaking his head.

__________________________

Finishing my whisky in one gulp, I signalled the bartender for another. I needed this after the execution, and the meeting with that awful man. I wanted to forget about him, but something was nagging me. Something he'd said? I tried to remember. Something about the murder itself...

The wedding ring! How could he have known? It didn't come up at the trial - it had been rather embarrassing for the prosecution that the missing ring hadn't been noticed until after the trial had begun. We'd thought it better not to mention it in court.

Hurriedly, I searched my pocket for his business card.

Hands trembling, I brought it before my eyes.

Printed in tasteful off-black italic script, was his name: Bryan Butler.

“Don’t say anything. You’ll screw it up,” my boss threw over his shoulder. I took a couple of quick steps, trying to catch up to him. But it was a wasted effort. With a sigh, I settled into place three steps behind.

I caught up to him at the door. He firmly grabbed the ornate knocker and gave it two solid whacks. Then he gave his final whack to me.

“I don’t know why Kribitz asked you to come today. He probably wants to see how you fill out your bra. So shut up and look pretty. He’s not going to waste his time listening to a woman.”

I ground my teeth, biting back a scathing response. In the month I’d worked for Kribitz Architectural Design, I had become an expert at ignoring Chaz’s demeaning comments. Fortunately, his responsibilities running the company for the reclusive Mr. Kribitz kept him away from my cubicle – most of the time.

The large wooden door slowly swung open, revealing an older man in a worn tuxedo. He was tall but slightly stooped, as if he’d spent a lifetime serving other people. But his blue eyes were still sharp and I could have sworn they had a mischievous twinkle.

“Take us to Kribitz,” Chaz demanded.

Mortified by his rudeness, I tried to soften his words.

“Is Mr. Kribitz available for Chaz Holtz and Victoria Smith?”

The butler returned my friendly smile. “If you’ll follow me…”

Chaz pushed past me into the most elegantly designed foyer I’d ever seen. I paused for a moment in awe of its beauty.

“Do you like it, ma’am?” the butler asked.

“I can’t believe that a man as loaded as Kribitz lives in a dump like this,” Chaz answered.

“Are you familiar with Mr. Kribitz’s design philosophies?”

“Nope, never met the old fart. An executive search firm found the perfect man to run his business – me, of course.”

Silently, the butler ushered us into a small library.

“May I get you something to drink?” he asked. But he was too late. Chaz was already helping himself to the bottles on the sideboard.

With a look of disgust, the butler left the room.

“Why would Kribitz keep a codger like that?”

I’d finally had enough.

“That ‘codger’ is a person. And he deserves to be treated with respect and dignity. If you can’t do it, then just be quiet.”

I suddenly became aware of someone else in the room. The butler now stood tall, the worn tuxedo gone. Formerly kind eyes now looked at Chaz with distaste.

“Where’s Kribitz?” Chaz demanded.

“Let me introduce myself,” the butler said in a cold voice. “I am Alexander Kribitz. And I will no longer require your presence here…or at my company. Good day.”

He turned to me.

“You, Ms. Smith, have an excellent eye for design and for people. It seems that a management position has suddenly opened up at my company…”

As we left the room, I glanced back at Chaz. And smiled.

Mrs. Kern, the housekeeper, had done her best, but the deep red stain still disquieted anyone entering the parlor. The houseguests fidgeted, perched on every available surface. There was no levity or idle banter, nor indeed any conversation. Colonel and Lady Whitham sat with ramrod spines on the settee, staring directly out the open garden windows.

The hubbub in the garden was in stark contrast to the quiet inside. Loud exclamations echoed against the cold stone walls and slithered in through open windows. Occasionally a constable could be seen arising from a squat, looking anxiously about and taking a few steps in one direction or another. After this routine, he (for they were all men on this occasion) would sink behind the hedges like the target in a carnival game.

Lady Whitham knew her daughter Katherine would arrive at any moment and her composed façade hid turbulent emotions. No parent wants to bring sorrow and anguish to a beloved child, but today Lady Whitham had no alternative.

A door slammed and Lady Whitham’s head swiveled from the garden to the hall door. Of course, Kit parked in the garage and would not have seen the crowd in the garden. Colonel and Lady Witham exchanged quick glances and she rose to greet her daughter.

Kit entered the room with her usual flamboyance, but was arrested by the mural of well-dressed backs facing her. Kit met her mother’s gaze and followed the worn eyes down to the carpet. Kit dropped to her knees and touched the rich wool: “Bloody hell, what happened here?” Lady Whitham winced at the salty language, but this was no time to chastise Kit.

She touched Kit’s shoulder and magically brought her to her feet. “Mr. Howard . . .” Lady Witham started. “The butler did this?” Kit responded. As Kit uttered the words, she had a moment of vivid insight: the stain, the police, the crowd in the room, her mother’s look. She shot a piercing glance at her father which hinted at the warnings Kit had been pressing on him for the last five years – Mr. Howard could no longer be trusted. The Colonel could not meet his daughter’s eye.

Kit sank onto her knees. She pressed her face into her hands and started to sob: huge, uncontrollable, heaving sobs. “Why have you let that man take control of this family? He has ruined what I loved most.” At that she collapsed onto the once-magnificent carpet, perhaps the most valuable single piece left in the family’s diminishing store of treasures. Kit felt the residual dampness from Mrs. Kern’s valiant efforts to extract all of the egg dye from the spot where a large bowl had been dropped earlier that day.

The mothers sitting in the parlor were embarrassingly aware that they were tangentially responsible for Kit’s outburst, but the children and their fathers were oblivious in the sunny warmth of the 23rd annual Policeman’s Easter Egg Hunt hosted, as always, by the Whitham family.

The first torpedo had slammed into our stern, damaging one prop and knocking out steering control. The other torpedoes in the spread went wide, giving us a momentary reprieve at best. The Emerald Bay was a former passenger liner, converted in ’42 to a troop transport. She was fast, but no fighter. We relied on our escorts for protection, but the typhoon had scattered our convoy across the Pacific. We were under strict radio silence, for all that mattered. Any cry for help would have been just as likely to bring wolves as shepherds.

Unfortunately a wolf had still found us. We weren’t a prize catch for a Japanese sub, not like a carrier or battleship would have been. That wouldn't keep them from doing their best to blow us to kingdom come. The Japanese knew the invasion of Okinawa was imminent, and every soldier they killed on the open sea was one less they would have to fight on land.

Alone and already crippled, we had no way of striking back. Everyone on board still frantically searched the waters for any sign of the submarine. I suppose it was only natural we wanted to see our executioners. They made their presence known as not only a periscope but the entire boat broke through the surface off our port bow. Their captain must have decided not to expend any more of his precious torpedoes. Through my binoculars I could see the Japanese sailors preparing their deck gun. The single 5.5” barrel was more than formidable enough to finish us off.

There was an orange flash from their deck, and almost instantly a huge column of water shot into the air just yards in front of us. The next two shells were also off-target, but their gunners soon found the range. Explosion after explosion ripped through the Emerald Bay. She was a big ship suffering a slow death, within no one to save her or the men she carried.

A thunderous crashing came from astern, and I wondered if a shell had found the main fuel tanks. That wouldn’t explain the sudden, frantic activity on the deck of the Japanese sub, though. The sailors there were running for the hatch, not even bothering to secure the deck gun. The sudden cheers ringing out through the bridge strengthened my rising hopes.

I swung the binoculars around to the most beautiful scene imaginable. An American destroyer was steaming towards us, her every gun spitting death at our attacker. The submarine captain’s decision to surface proved fatal as his boat was ripped to pieces. The battle was over in minutes, the only sign remaining of the submarine a spreading oil slick and a few pieces of floating debris. The destroyer pulled up alongside us, her semaphore flags flashing. I didn’t recognize her designation number, so I had to rely on our signalman to tell me the name of the ship that had just saved our lives. It was the Butler.

*****************************************************

Borrowing a phrase from Hollywood, this story was “inspired by actual events”, so it’s almost entirely fictional. The Butler was a U.S. Navy destroyer that served in both theaters of WWII, including the invasion of Okinawa. USS Butler history

Samuel placed the gun in the suitcase and sat down on the bed in his hotel room. Twenty-one years, he thought. Twenty-one years spent with murderers and rapists, treated as one of them. The television flickered red and yellow on the tattered wallpaper. Samuel lay down.

Samuel Goodwin, an upstanding member of the society and the butler of the Bradbury family, had been convicted of the murder of Abigail, the 16-year-old daughter and only child of Edward and Margaret Bradbury. The murder took place in the family's home, while Mr. and Mrs. Bradbury were entertaining guests in the sitting room. One of the guests found the body of the young girl in the library. She had been strangled.

Samuel had had plenty of time to think about what had happened. He was certain he knew who had really murdered Abigail. The tension between father and daughter had been almost tangible. The girl was dating someone her father did not approve of. Samuel felt a bitter smile touch the corners of his lips. Edward Bradbury didn't approve of much, he thought.

The autopsy had revealed that Abigail was pregnant when she died. This revelation had been carefully kept from the media, Mr. Bradbury had taken care of that. Samuel knew this because it was part of the butler's job to know. He had given statements to the police, telling them what Mr. Bradbury wanted him to tell them. That was another part of being a butler. Had he known that those statements would come back to bite him, he might have thought twice.

Mr. Bradbury had only framed him because he couldn't frame the boy, Samuel knew. It was nothing personal. All that time in prison felt personal, though, Samuel thought. It was hard not to let twenty-one lost years make it feel very personal indeed.

Samuel got up. It was almost time. He snapped the suitcase shut, picked it up and glanced himself in the mirror. The look on his face betrayed none of the feelings inside. The excitement, the vengeance, the exhilaration of what would follow was hidden beneath a polite, if distant, countenance. That was what made him such a good butler. That was also what made him dangerous.

_______________

The taxi ground to a halt in front of a colossal mansion. The Bradburys had moved here after Margaret's nervous breakdown a few years ago. Samuel chuckled to himself. It wasn't as easy to keep things from the media anymore. He pressed the button on the side of the gate. His suitcase seemed to weigh more with every passing moment. An old man's reedy voice came to him.

"Who is it?"

"It's the butler, sir," he answered.

His courteous smile grew wider as the gate opened.

It was a dark and stormy night when Baron Kneebles got into the limousine and disappeared down the lane. Immediately the entire household sprang into action. The conspiracy was finally coming to fruit.

Every person in the mansion had their part to play from the least of the downstairs maids to the august personage of the butler himself. They threw themselves into their tasks knowing that the Baron deserved everything he was going to get. It was payback time!

*****

The first thing to go was the tired old wallpaper. With steam and scrapers, legions of workers attacked walls and even ceilings. Other folks moved furniture to the outbuildings for cleaning and repair. Still others followed the scrapers with buckets of plaster, filling cracks and holes. The plaster had barely dried when they returned with sandpaper and more plaster. By the evening the house was a complete disaster, and everyone was tremendously pleased.

Jeeves, the butler, walked through the gracious home admiring the work that had been done; and in some places was still being done. He got the idea from the TV shows that he watched while doing the ironing. They had quietly put money aside and somehow folks in the village had learned of the plan and had made their own contributions.

Early in the morning, the papering and painting started. This was the trickiest part of the job. Jeeves insisted that each colour and pattern be authentic to the historic home. Dressed as casually as any of the staff had ever seen him, Jeeves wandered from one room to another. Whenever tempers began to flare, Jeeves would magically appear with his quiet “Ahem” and tongues were stilled and hand became busy. By evening many of the workers could barely see straight. The air was redolent with the smell of paste and paint. Jeeves sent almost everyone home, then he and a few of his most trusted staff began on the woodwork. They polished and buffed every exposed bit of wood they could find. Early in the morning Jeeves pronounced himself satisfied. At the crack of dawn, the legions returned to put furniture back in place. Flowers were brought in from the garden. Everything was ready.

*****

The Baron was puzzled. London was wonderful, but his hosts had a constant “cat that swallowed the canary” look. Each time he mentioned home they had come up with some other thing that simply they simply must do. It would be good to be home to some peace and quiet.

James dropped him off at the door, but Jeeves wasn’t there to meet him. Instead was there was a sea of exhausted happy faces. The house had been reborn. It positively shone with spendour. The Baron looked at his staff.

“Who, what, how?” He stammered.

A forest of arms pointed to Jeeves, who had, after three days succumbed to sleep. He lay gently snoring in a leather chair.

“It was him.” They whispered. “The butler did it.”