The Old Cliche

I escorted the detectives to the Study, although they could've followed the yellow tape trail themselves. The Lord and Lady dead, at his desk and Chesterfield; a close range shot through his mouth; her in the back of the head, hand clutching her lover's letter. Upstairs, the children's throats cut, Nanny, too.

The nearest relative, their young, sheltered, impressionable, orphaned niece, who I'd groomed since infancy, en route for identification duties. She'll be in need of comfort.

A clear-cut case of murders-then-suicide. No forgeries, nor mention of servant redundancy, certainly no old cliche: "the Butler done it".