The Strange Case Of Solomon Frost

By Catherine Joanna Hazlitt

It is the year 1700 in England – a year of change in manufacturing and trade and all other fields. However, a majority of the English population was still employed in agriculture. It is winter, the days are shorter, and nights, longer. The birds hesitate to step out of the tummy of the earth for grain. Preston Town is still under the hypnotic clutches of sleep. In the church, the priest’s help stirs from his sleeping spell to ring the church bell. A new day had begun.

At nine-thirty, neither the cold nor the clutches of sleep can prevent eleven-year-old Solomon Frost, son of Samuel Frost, from running out to play. Fate decides the choice of their game today. What will it be? Hide-and-seek.

Around sunrise valley, Solomon Frost and his friends run in play – over rocks and around the dusty old cabin. Henry Mitchell, the gardener of the Preston town garden resided at the log cabin. Now, he was probably at the town garden taking away weeds and hoeing the soil. At least, the children thought so.

The lively game progressed as Solomon’s dear friend Milan counted: “One, two, three…” all the way to a hundred. Solomon Frost had hidden himself in the back yard of the lonely log cabin but half-an-hour after Milan sought out all the rest, Solomon Frost was nowhere to be found. All friends looked for Solomon around the valley.

“This has got to be some kind of joke. Solomon! You can come out now!” Milan shouted.

“Yeah, the game’s over! We want to leave!” piped in another friend.

Finally dejected, the friends gave up searching and made their way out of the valley, passing through the log cabin. Surprisingly, the gardener was in today and asked the boys why they looked so depressed.

“Our friend, Solomon Frost, is missing! We were all playing hide-and-seek and even an hour later, we can’t find him!”

At home, Milan told his father what happened. The police were immediately notified and investigations began. The police chief inspector arrived at Milan’s place to conduct enquiries. One thing that the Inspector said before he left kept perking in Milan’s head – “Could he have been kidnapped?”

Gardener Henry also visited Milan some hours after, to know if there was anything he could do to contribute to the investigations. Once he heard about the possibility of kidnapping, Henry Mitchell said, “Well, that butcher Jake has always been a suspicious character. You never see him out and about but always a shady character. Many a time, I have caught him observing the children, through the bushes. If I were the police, I would look him up first!”

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

Years have passed. It is November, 1720. The British Times has published an article about the release of a new book by renowned writer – Winston D’Souza. The writer had never revealed his true identity had never been seen by public as Winston D’Souza. That is why the people of Preston City were surprised when Media had published a photograph of Winston D’Souza for the first time; and it was none other than their own gardener – Henry Mitchell!

They could not believe Henry Mitchell had been writing all these years as Winston D’Souza. They had never seen him reading a book, let alone writing one! But it was true, Henry Mitchell had been writing under the name Winston D’Souza. No wonder he had always been an enigma – in the lonely, dusty log cabin!

Information about his latest non-fiction book had been released. The book was titled: “The Physiological Crisis of Man”. Interesting. The people of Preston City couldn’t wait to read it, now that they knew its author.

But what game does Fate decide to play now?

A few days later, a crowd of people gathered around the dusty old log cabin. A pool of blood stagnated in the middle of the cabin from which a steady streamed trickled to the edge of the cottage and dripped drop by drop. A stained weapon lay next to the pool of blood and beside it, the lifeless corpse of Henry Mitchell.

He was certainly murdered – a large gaping wound just above his heart. There certainly had been a confrontation. Rumours about his death spread around Preston Town. Investigations had begun. Milan’s father once again pointed out Henry Mitchell’s suspicion about the town butcher Jake.

As life assumed a mask of normalcy in Preston Town, there was a stirring among the people when they discovered that despite Henry’s death, his work, The Physiological Crisis of Man, was progressing towards completion. Who was completing a dead man’s work?

The publishers had received an anonymous phone call from an untraceable source to confirm the contract and get on with the publishing. The publishing house said they never suspected anything wrong because when it came to Winston D’Souza, he had always been a shady writer, never really disclosing his identity.

The next day, The British Times published a tiny news piece in a forgotten corner of the newspaper. The printers of The Physiological Crisis of Man were given a revised edition of the book for printing. Apparently, some changes had been made to the original piece of work and the name of co-author had been added. Even if the people of Preston Town had read that little news piece, they would never have guessed who had been doing all this work. Henry Mitchell had always worked alone and never had associates.

Two weeks later, the book was released. Milan, now 31-years-old, made his way to the book store and grabbed a copy of the book. Nothing prepared him for what he was about to encounter. Milan stared hard at the name of the co-author. It was name he knew so well; in fact, he was a dear friend! Milan could not believe his eyes. He flipped open the book. The Dedication was vague: “To every man who had a vibe of curiosity run through him, in all fields of life.”

There was a special note after the Preface to the book. It ran thus:

“Everyone has been curious to learn more about the vague enigma – Winston D’Souza. Winston D’Souza was merely a town gardener who had high hopes and a vast imagination. He knew he had to contribute to Society in more ways than gardening. He knew he was curious about the physiology of man.

Winston D’Souza’s real name was Henry Mitchell. Henry Mitchell always stayed alone in a dusty log cabin in Sunrise Valley. Henry Mitchell observed the little boys come to Sunrise Valley each day to play. Each time a boy ran past his cottage, a surge of pleasure filled his mind as he finally found his target for experimentation.

Henry kidnapped a little boy and conducted his grotesque experiments in private. No one could guess where He hid the boy. The boy, however, turned against Henry Mitchell and murdered him. Now that the truth is out, I am not afraid to say that Henry Mitchell was a perverted degenerate and deserved to die. That boy who was kidnapped, and that boy who murdered Henry Mitchell, was me - Solomon Frost.”

By Catherine Joanna Hazlitt