A Crack in the Glass (Telling Tales Book 1)

by Charles Owen

  ‘You mean to tell me that Colonel Tom knows about this!’ The CO removed his spectacles and they clattered down on the table. ‘I suppose you told him that you owed money to a brother officer?’

  Derek’s silence answered for him.

  ‘It was not enough to disgrace yourself,’ the Colonel pursued, ‘you had to disgrace your regiment.’

  ‘I had to put it like that,’ Derek muttered. ‘It was my only way out.’

  ‘That is where you are wrong,’ said the Colonel. He pushed back his chair. ‘There is another way out, Captain Headland, and that is out of this regiment – at once and as far from the rest of us as possible! West Africa is in my mind. Go to Cairo and stay there until your posting comes through. This meeting is at an end.’

  In Cairo, Derek sat at a bar, sank another scotch and brooded over the day. The humiliation did not end in the Colonel’s office. He was escorted to the camp perimeter where he waited in the sweltering sun, attracting curious glances, until a car could be found.

  By now the story would be all round the regiment. In a week it would be all round the county. West Africa. That wouldn’t suit him at all. That wasn’t his style. But no more was settling down in some suburban villa after the war and trimming his champagne tastes to a beer income.

  Some chaps would find a quiet spot and blow their brains out. But he had always been a gambler. The odds were unattractive but he had been in tighter corners before and come out on top. He could feel the adrenalin coursing through him. He wasn’t playing with chips this time. His life was the wager. Living, breathing, nerve and sinew. Flesh and blood, bone and muscle pitted against the ambition of the knife, the gun, the club or the garrotte. It was terrifying. And exhilarating. His fingers curled around the grip of his service revolver. Never had he felt so truly alive as he did at that moment.

  For the next two hours he trawled the Arab bars in the sleazier parts of the city. He went on drinking and he told anyone who would listen what he would do to Bin Khouri when he found him.

  The man’s spies slipped away, reported to their master and received their orders. The following morning, the body of Derek Headland was found in a corner of the necropolis. His throat had been cut. There were rumours that he had taken three of his assassins with him but nothing was ever proved.

  ANYONE FOR TENNIS?

  The market stallholders called her Magpie Maggie. She liked shiny objects and that beady eye of hers rarely missed a bargain. She married during the war but things did not work out and she had to find some means of earning a living. Like the rest of us, she made some bad mistakes while she was learning but before very long she built up a nice little business visiting out-of-the-way houses where the owners were usually elderly and wished to dispose of the odd piece of silver or an unwanted table or chair to help make ends meet.

  The war made me a widow and there were no children, so when I had finished moping I took over a lease in what had formerly been a large shop but had been subdivided into boutiques and I started dealing in second-hand furniture. It made a small profit and my neighbours were a friendly lot and the days passed pleasantly enough.

  One Monday morning, Maggie arrived in her Mini van and parked in a side street. I asked someone to keep an eye on my shop while I returned with her to look at her latest purchases. There was a nice Victorian screen and we argued amicably before settling on a price.

  Maggie was not her usual ebullient self. She looked rather wan and seemed subdued so I took her to the corner shop and bought her a cup of coffee. ‘Something is on your mind,’ I said. ‘You can tell me off for being nosey. I shall not be hurt.’

  She gave me a rueful smile. ‘I would probably have told you anyway.’ Something rather strange, rather unsettling, had happened the previous Saturday. ‘I regularly place small classified advertisements in the newspapers under a box number and I received a reply from a Mrs Hazelrigg.

  ‘The handwriting was that of an elderly person. The letters were spidery and written in violet ink. She said that she and her sister, Edith, had some old silver that they rarely used and if I was interested, I should telephone and make an appointment. She signed herself Eleanor Hazelrigg.

  ‘When I called, it was she who answered the telephone. She spoke in a thin, reedy voice which kept sinking to a whisper as if she was afraid of being overheard. “If it wouldn’t be too much trouble,” she said, “drive over and have a look at it and see what you think. We can have an early cup of tea.”

  ‘It was a very warm day and I had the window wound right down. I took it fairly slowly and had to stop more than once to look at my map. At last, I was driving down a sandy track which seemed to lead nowhere when I came to a rambling, red-brick house in a clearing of tall trees.

  ‘The front door had a glazed panel typical of the period. On the brickwork to one side, the name of the house was shown as “Aruana”. I pressed the bell and waited but no one came to the door so I walked around the back.

  ‘Almost covered by a tangle of overgrown creepers, was a greenhouse. I have always been interested in plants and I could not resist pushing on the door. It opened just enough to permit me to put my head in, but no more. There was a tall, spiky plant with a purple flower which I did not recognise. It gave off a peculiar scent and within a few moments I felt very unsteady and had to leave quickly.

  ‘I closed the door behind me and drew in great draughts of fresh air until my head was clearer. In front of me the ground sloped down quite sharply. Steps descended to a flat lawn which was obviously used as a tennis court for the net and net posts were still in place, the grass was neatly trimmed and the white markings looked quite fresh.

  ‘What need of a tennis court had two elderly ladies? I could only assume that they had younger friends who used it. Beyond it lay a meadow and a stream and then a hillside, heavily wooded and with no evidence of another dwelling.

  ‘Behind me, a glass conservatory ran most of the length of the house. It was impossible to see inside for the blinds had been pulled down. I tapped on the door. Again there was no answer. I knocked again, this time louder. Nobody came. Irritated and still feeling rather muzzy, I found a pair of wooden seed boxes and stood on them.

  ‘By craning my neck, I could now see through the sloping glass roof of the conservatory to the interior. Two young men attired in striped blazers and white flannel trousers were sitting in wicker armchairs. Beside them, on a table, was a pair of straw boaters and two old-fashioned tennis rackets.

  ‘They were very similar in looks. Both were tanned brown by the sun and had frank, open features. Their hair was dark, almost black, parted in the middle and shiny with brilliantine or some other oil. Their heads were half turned towards me as if, at any moment, they expected their partners to appear.

  ‘I rapped on the pane and, to my consternation, one of the sisters appeared and, catching sight of me, gestured to me in the most emphatic manner to get down and go around to the front of the house. When I reached the door, it was already open. Both sisters were hopping about on the doorstep like agitated birds.

  ‘Tall and slender with grey hair curling around the tops of their heads, they were wearing white voile tea dresses trimmed with lace. We went into the hall, past a stand in which there were walking sticks with carved wooden heads, faded parasols and a croquet mallet. I was ushered into a drawing room with gas wall lights and pink striped moiré paper.

  ‘There were marble busts of famous explorers and watercolours of scenes of South America: a paddle steamer on the Amazon, a crumbling Mayan temple, a macaw in brilliant plumage. Aztec rugs were thrown over a sofa. The bookcases were crammed with books on tropical plants. The bluish-grey hide of a puma was stretched out on the floor.

  ‘I picked my way among the clutter and sat at a round table next to Eleanor. Edith sat stiffly on a window seat. “Edith is very displeased with me for writing to you,” said Eleanor. “We see very few people here and are rather out of sympathy with the world and its ways. I do not wish to seem discour
teous but we are both a little tired and would like to make this visit a short one.”

  ‘I agreed with as much grace as I could muster. A tray laden with an elegant, bone-china tea set was produced and we made rather stilted conversation while I sipped at my cup and nibbled a cucumber sandwich. Then Eleanor went to the piano and picked up a silver-gilt rose bowl.

  ‘It was a fairly ordinary piece,’ said Maggie, ‘but I felt so guilty about the way I had behaved that I probably paid too much for it.’

  ‘Very unlike you,’ I teased. It was uncharitable but my mind was racing off in another direction.

  She sighed and looked at her watch. ‘I ought to get back to work.’

  ‘And the conservatory? What did you make of what you saw?’

  Maggie shook her head. ‘I don’t know what to make of it. It was rather like seeing a ghost – or rather, two ghosts. It upset me. I am trying to forget that it happened.’

  I walked with Maggie back to her little van and returned to work but I found it impossible to concentrate. At lunchtime, I locked up the shop and went down the street to the church and sat in one of the pews at the back.

  I closed my eyes and the images came flooding back. It was a few years earlier and December. I had been trading only for a few months and was just about breaking even. Then, in Christmas week, when we were all hoping to be doing good business, we had a heavy snowfall.

  It was a Saturday and noon but there was not a buyer in sight and about a dozen of us locked up and trudged down to the church. We kicked the snow off our shoes and huddled around the brazier. The vicar provided some hot soup and mulled wine and we made a collection and put it in the offertory box.

  Outside, the snow was falling steadily and no one wanted to go back to work.

  Someone suggested that each of us told a story. After all, it was close to Christmas Eve. So, we made a circle of our chairs but then nobody wanted to begin and we drew lots. Percy drew the short straw – or matchstick, for that is what we used.

  Percy Prettiman. That was his full name. His eyes were dark, almost black, and set in a thin face. His long nose and russet beard added to his foxy appearance. He had a green cloak which was threadbare and shiny with age. If someone told me that he lived in the woods and slept in it, I should not have been surprised.

  Percy had a little shop next to mine from which he sold stuffed birds and animals in glass cases. These had long been out of fashion but he had a few ‘regulars’ which helped to keep him afloat. Nobody knew what age he was but he must have been close to seventy. He never stayed anywhere very long.

  Percy sucked on an old briar, showing his yellow teeth, as he composed his thoughts. ‘I am not much of a hand at stories, leastways not the sort that you make up in your head. I could tell you tales that I heard when I was a traveller, for I mixed with gypsies, vagrants, thieves, circus performers, defrocked priests, all sorts and conditions of men. But you might be more interested in something that happened to me a long time ago – nearly forty years by my reckoning.

  ‘I was in an unusual line of business, one I learned from my father and he from his, and I journeyed all over the country selling patent medicines. I went on horseback and carried my equipment in two large saddlebags. Most of the houses that I visited belonged to the rich. In the years before The Great War, they led easy, comfortable lives with little to think about except their money, their social lives and their health.

  ‘I did not always look the way I do now.’ Percy ran a hand through his beard. ‘On my horse, with my fresh complexion, my wide-brimmed hat and long cloak, there was many a girl who gave me a second glance. I was strong too. My arms were like steel bands and my skin as smooth as marble, for a man’s form and features are shaped by the work that he does. In wrestling bouts at the summer fairs, I drew a good crowd and it was not just the men who wagered a shilling or two on me.

  ‘One day, I was trotting along a track through the woods in the hills above Dorking. It was a very warm afternoon and I was glad of the shade from the trees. It was then that I thought I heard a cry. I dug my heels into my horse and galloped through the trees, praying that the brute would not put a hoof in a hole. Twice I thought I was lost but then I heard the cry again.

  ‘I drew rein in front of a house in a small clearing in time to see two men being carried through the door. A young woman rushed up to me and seized the bridle of my horse. Despite her dishevelled hair and tear-stained face, she was one of the most beautiful creatures I have ever set eyes upon.

  ‘“Thank God!” she cried. “A doctor!”

  ‘I tried to explain that I was not a doctor although I had some experience of illness. She must call a proper doctor, I told her, but she would not listen.

  ‘“There is no time,” she sobbed. “Only you can save them.” I threw the reins over a post and she clung to my arm and almost dragged me into the house.

  ‘In the drawing room, I found the men laid out on two sofas. A fair-haired young lady, almost the twin in looks of the one who had greeted me, was being comforted by an old manservant.

  ‘I examined both men. It did not take many moments to establish that both were beyond all human aid. The pupils of their eyes were enormously dilated and blisters were coming up on their faces, necks and hands. Soon they were running a high fever. Then delirium set in.

  ‘Edith and Eleanor, for those were the names of the young women, were on their knees beside the men, holding their hands, crying out to them not to die, not to desert them. But it was useless. The poison was not just on their clothes, it had impregnated their skin. Within the hour they were in a deep coma from which they never emerged.

  ‘After they had died, a remarkable change came over the two sisters. They drew down the blinds in the drawing room and we moved to the study. They were silent for some minutes and I can only guess what it cost them to compose themselves. At last, Edith wiped away a tear and drew a deep breath. “Mr Prettiman,” she began, “you must be at a loss at what to think of the scene you have so recently witnessed. When I tell you something about Jerome and Neville and how my sister and I came to fall in love, you will know better how to help us.

  ‘“My father was an eminent botanist who went to Brazil in search of rare plants with medicinal properties. He dreamed of finding a new species which would cure many different diseases but he was well aware that although they could be beneficial if absorbed into the body in tiny amounts, excessive exposure to them could be dangerous.

  ‘“He sent seeds to this house to be propagated and nurtured by his gardener. His quest became an obsession and when his trips abroad turned into months, my mother insisted on joining him and brought Eleanor and myself.

  ‘“One dreadful day, he walked into the jungle and did not return. Search parties were sent out but to no avail. Whether he had become lost and died or was killed by wild animals or some savage tribe was never discovered.

  ‘“Our mother wasted no time on tears. She decided to go back to England and we set off in a paddle steamer bound for the nearest port for ocean-going vessels. One night, in a thick mist, the steamer collided with a dredger and was badly holed. She managed to save our lives but at the cost of her own.

  ‘“We had no relatives in England. There was nothing to draw us there except this house which we inherited between us. We were educated and boarded at a mission school and did not return home until Eleanor was seventeen and I a year older.

  ‘“On the liner, we met two brothers,” said Edith. “I fell for Neville and Eleanor lost her heart to Jerome. It was no ordinary shipboard romance. Neville was three years older than I; the difference between Jerome’s age and that of Eleanor was the same. We were soul mates from the first moment. We could not conceive of drawing a contented breath in the absence of the man we loved, let alone spending our days on this earth separated from him. We never discussed marriage. There was no need for that. It was taken for granted that our lives would be joined together.

  ‘“Jerome and Neville were returnin
g to England for their last term at university. After taking their finals, they were to enjoy the summer holiday before returning to Brazil. Their parents owned a large ranch which had been in the family for several generations. They were getting old and infirm and were looking forward to handing over the reins to their sons.”

  ‘Edith showed signs of distress and after halting attempts to speak, she was unable to continue. Eleanor placed an arm around her sister and took up the story.

  ‘“We had such fun during that last term. There were dances and tennis parties and trips down the river and when the summer holiday began, they hired a motor car and we drove across France to Monte Carlo. Edith and I chaperoned each other but only for form’s sake. Our love ran so deep that we had no misgivings that they might try to take advantage of the trust that we placed in them.”

  ‘Eleanor stood up and moved to the window seat. The sun was lower in the sky and the glancing light turned her wheaten hair to gold. She compressed her lips and waited for a little nod from her sister before going on. “Jerome and Neville were very different in character.”

  ‘How different they were, she related, was not apparent until they returned to England to make plans for their passage to Brazil. Neville was already homesick for the ranching life. He wanted to bring Edith home to meet his parents and settle down and bring up a family.

  ‘Jerome had been captivated by the glitter and sophistication of London and the south of France and he dreaded going back. He was willing to give his half of his inheritance to his brother. He would marry Eleanor, remain in England and build up a business importing foodstuffs and herbs from the Americas.

  ‘As for Edith, she could not bear the thought of being separated from Eleanor by thousands of miles of ocean but if they all moved to South America, she despaired of what would happen to Aruana and their father’s work, for which he gave his life.’

  Percy drained his glass and, pulling a handkerchief from his sleeve, wiped his lips. ‘Earlier, on that last afternoon, Jerome and Neville took a train to the nearest station to Aruana. The sisters met them in the pony and trap. The young men accompanied them back to the house where they confirmed that they had booked their passages to São Paulo on a steamer which sailed from Southampton the next day.