by Allan Frost
‘You only go for the tea and cake afterwards,’ said Hilda.
‘No, I don’t. It’s part of our heritage. Visits ought to be encouraged.’
By this time, they had returned to the drawing room. Sarah was again pouring drinks when Tim’s phone rang.
‘Excellent. Well done, Seymour! Could you let Bert, yes, the caterer, know we’ll be on our way in half an hour or so? Thanks.’
‘Everything’s ready,’ he announced, greatly relieved. ‘I’ll give Ackney Cabs a ring to send the minibus.’
Bert Nibbull drove like a hooligan along the drive from Priorton Hall. He was now running a few minutes late and the pressure was on to make sure everything was ready for dinner at the Priory ruins. And Hives and Crimp weren’t exactly the quickest workers.
Tonight’s party had to be a success. It wasn’t just his reputation on the line, either. It was the possibility of future events. He could be onto a winner keeping the Foot-Warts and Easons happy, simply because they were bound to have influential (and rich) friends who would want to stage similar private events. Personal recommendation was a sure-fire way of attracting future lucrative business . . . and Christmas wasn’t so far away.
Speeding along country lanes is not a wise thing to do. However, It was just before six o’clock and Bert, like everyone else in the neighbourhood, knew PC Blossom would be at home writing his daily report and not out cycling.
Bert wasn’t paying much attention as he sped along; it was, after all, Sunday evening. Churchgoers were already seated in their pews and pub regulars had another hour to wait until opening time. So there was no excuse for anyone else to be in the lane.
And Bert, like everyone else, didn’t bother to slow down at the small crossroads by the Watch Oak. Although the road narrowed slightly because of the four-fingered signpost rising from the centre of a grassy hummock, there was still plenty of room to zoom past without changing gear.
However, someone (a woman and two youngsters, he thought) in a battered old mini narrowly missed him when it chugged out of the lane from Hemlock and took a wide swing into the road towards Priorton.
Cursing all careless women drivers, he tore past the crossroads.
Poor little Bambi didn’t stand a chance. The gate had blown open again at some point during the day and, as so often appears to be the case, the grass on the other side of the hedge looked greener and more appetising. She heard a long, loud shriek of brakes getting nearer and was about to look up when she suddenly found herself tossed in the air like a rag doll.
Bert himself didn’t really know what happened. For months afterwards, all he could see in his mind’s eye was something brown moving a few metres in front of the van. The two seconds before impact seemed to take several minutes. His hands gripped the steering wheel as if paralysed, shoulders hunched ready to absorb the force. It was no use.
A loud bang assailed his ears and the brown object hurtled over the bonnet, smashed into the windscreen, bounced into the forward section of the van above before slithering, in terrifyingly slow motion, onto the ground.
Bert sat, stunned and shaking uncontrollably, for what seemed an eternity. Over fifteen years driving and never an accident. He could hear the charges: ‘Driving without due care and attention; speeding; cruelty to animals’ and probably more. Even Sir Cedric wouldn’t be able to help; Bert faced a substantial fine and perhaps a twelve months driving ban.
Hide the evidence!
He leapt out of the van and, trying not to look into the motionless creature’s startled eyes, grabbed it by the neck. It was no good; the young deer was too heavy even for his bulging muscles.
Beads of sweat poured down his face. It would take ages to roll the limp body into the field. He could hardly butcher the animal where it lay; there wasn’t enough time and someone might come along. And he couldn’t drag it into the van because it would be seen by guests at the ruins.
He ran to the back of the vehicle, grabbed a rope and hastily made a noose at one end. He slid it over the deer’s head and tied the other end to the towing loop projecting from the front bumper. Then, with a final glance to make sure no one had seen him, he reversed the van through the gateway and dragged the body into the middle of the field, well out of sight from the road.
That would have to do for now. He could pick the body up later, after the party.
Bert drove away, this time very slowly in a desperate attempt to calm his shredded nerves before meeting Hives and Crimp.
Not long afterwards, Bud Blossom brought his bike to a diligent stop at the Watch Oak crossroads.
He looked up and down the road to make sure the way was clear before crossing and entering the lane to Home Farm.
Determined to get some practice in as soon as possible, he’d hastily written a detailed report on the day’s inactivities while nibbling an apple (he’d have a proper meal later) before changing into his torn, blood stained track suit.
Nothing really interesting ever happened to him, except the occasional self-inflicted injury. Furthermore he, rather than the criminals he arrested, seemed destined to suffer miscarriages of justice and physical pain. He was a dedicated officer who had yet to chalk up even one conviction. It wasn’t fair. Surely the judge would grant him at least one success? That’s all he really wanted. He speculated on how satisfying it would be if he could put Mick Sturbs behind bars.
Perhaps it was a desire for success that drove Bud to excel in other fields, preferably ones which required no participation with others, ones he could do on his own. It had been like that with the body building. Now the homemade shakram satisfied that need.
He did a final check before dismounting.
Shakram: yes.
Leather gloves tied together with a longer length of twine: yes.
All present and correct.
He warmed up by flinging the lethally sharp plate towards the Watch Oak while standing still.
Eight out of ten hits was a new record, and no cuts!
The time had come to mount the steed and see how well he could do from the saddle of his warhorse.
It was at this point that Mick Sturbs arrived at the open gate after walking across the fields from Hemlock.
The poacher sighed and sat with his back resting on a gatepost, resigning himself to a long wait.
It had been one of those better-than-usual afternoons when he and his separated wife managed to remain civil and had had a great time playing with their children. For once he’d felt genuinely sorry to wave them all goodbye when she drove off in her mini.
He was about to lay the shotgun, both barrels loaded but broken open for safety, at his feet when he noticed tyre tracks on the ground.
It took a few seconds for the marks to register. Wesley Pope couldn’t have made them: the field had lain fallow for several months and he’d have no reason to drive in. Besides, the grooves were too narrow for a farm vehicle.
‘Bambi! Bambi’s been rustled!’ he exclaimed. ‘No, calm down, someone could have driven into the field to turn their car round and go back up the lane.’
He stood up and held a hand above his eyes to shield them from the sun. No, Bambi wasn’t near the copse. Perhaps the tether had broken again. He cursed himself for not replacing it.
Suddenly, his eyes fell on a light brown bundle in the middle of the field. Could it be Bambi? Asleep?
Well, he couldn’t leave her there, Blossom might see her.
There was only one thing for it. He lay down on the grass and began to drag himself with his elbows towards the deer. Having to slide the now-shut shotgun along the ground wasn’t easy but there was no way he was going to leave such a valuable weapon by the gate.
It took quite a while and no little effort to come within a few metres of Bambi; it was definitely her. Then he saw the rope around her neck. Realisation dawned . . . the deer’s motionless body brought tears to his eyes.
He buried his face in his hands, sobbing quietly so that Blossom wouldn’t hear.
&nb
sp; But what should he do? He couldn’t leave her lying there. Someone might come along and take the body away.
His imagination went into overdrive. He could clearly see ‘Bambi Special’ on menus at the Priorton Arms.
There was only one thing for it: he’d have to take the risk and stand up. If luck was on his side, Blossom would be too busy to notice him dragging the body towards the shelter of the woods.
He got up and gripped the tow rope; holding the shotgun at the same time was awkward, to say the least.
He pulled hard.
Bambi’s head jerked up and fixed him with a wide-eyed stare. He had to look away, his lower lip quivering. Turning round, he put the rope over his right shoulder, dug his toes in and hauled as hard as he could.
Her body barely moved. This was going to take some effort but desperation can lead to the conjuring of hidden strength.
He tugged again; this time she slid several centimetres.
And again.
And again.
Meanwhile, Bud was having the time of his life.
He’d developed quite an efficient routine and was experiencing the closest thing to ecstasy he’d ever felt. OK, so he’d nicked the fingers of his right hand once or twice, but this was the best he’d ever done.
With his left hand on the handlebar, he pedalled furiously in a wide circle until he approached the oak. Then, with a meticulously-judged sweep of the right hand, he launched the shakram.
A few shots fell short but an increasing number actually hit the tree.
He needed a bit more power behind the throw.
He prepared for his next run, determined to make it strike home, burying the shakram somewhere in the middle of the splintered timber waist-high above the ground.
‘Always aim for the guts,’ he muttered, over and over again.
The bike increased speed . . .
It circled round . . .
Almost parallel to the tree . . .
Now!
With a show of strength he hardly knew he could muster, Bud Blossom hurled the shakram with all his might.
He slowed the bike down, looking over his shoulder as the shakram clipped the side of the tree and whizzed over the hedge.
At that very moment, Seymour Krapps was speeding merrily northward on his way back to Wellingley. He should have been home hours ago and would have been if it hadn’t been for his stupid son feeding diesel into the petrol generator.
But, as Bert discovered, driving quickly along country lanes is not something to be recommended. Seymour’s lorry was much wider than Bert’s van and the onboard crane hadn’t been properly secured.
Seymour misjudged the width of the road as he approached the crossroads. He swerved sharply to avoid the signpost. The crane turned on its pivot in the opposite direction and clipped one arm of the signpost, spinning it wildly like an out-of-control carousel.
Neither he nor his son noticed the shining plate come flying over the hedge, nor did they see it strike the spinning signpost.
And they certainly didn’t witness the plate being flung, with even greater force, back over the hedge.
XIV
‘Oh, what a shame,’ said Bud to himself (bad language didn’t come easy to this champion of justice). He turned the front bike wheel towards the farm lane; he needed to retrieve his precious shakram before a car ran over it.
He spotted someone pulling something at the other end of the field. It was Mick Sturbs! This was his big chance: Sturbs was bound to be up to no good! He pressed down hard on the pedals.
‘Oi! Stop in the name of the L—!’
For some reason, his view of the world turned upside down. Odd. He pedalled furiously. The poacher wouldn’t escape justice this time! What was he hauling along the ground? It’s heavy, whatever it is. Looks like an animal. Even better. Talk your way out of this one, Mr Sturbs!
But why did everything look funny? He held a hand to his face and pushed. That’s better. He could see clearly again. Odd that Sturbs hadn’t heard him shout or the bike wheel squeaking along.
‘Oi again! I said stop in the name of the Law!’
Mick heard him this time.
‘Oh, sod it!’ he muttered.
‘I said, stop—’
‘I heard you!’ Mick yelled. The sun was in his eyes but he knew that voice so well. ‘I’m not doin’ anythin’ wrong.’
‘What’s that, then?’ Bud said smugly, bringing the bike to a halt. He tried to prop it up on its stand but it fell over silently onto the grass.
Mick dropped the rope.
‘Been killing deer,’ observed Blossom. ‘And carrying a shotgun.’
‘I’m on private land.’
‘With the owner’s permission?’
‘Of course.’ Mick could rely on Wesley.
‘Wesley Pope doesn’t have any deer.’
‘I won it! Honest! At the Just One More.’
‘A likely story!’
‘It’s true, Blossom. I won Bambi in a competition!’
‘Constable Blossom to you. Let’s have some respect for the Law!’
‘OK, Constable Blossom, then. Happy now? Look, I’m tellin’ the truth. Anyway, aren’t you out of your area?’
‘Maybe. But that doesn’t stop me apprehending criminals. A policeman’s never off duty when a crime’s been committed.’
‘I’ve told you, everythin’s above board!’ He didn’t trust Blossom one bit and wished he’d move to one side so he could see him properly.
‘I think we’ll discuss this at Hemlock Police Station.’
‘There isn’t a Police Station at Hemlock, it’s just your house.’
‘Never mind that. C’mon, put the gun down and hold out your hands.’
‘You’re not puttin’ cuffs on me!’ insisted Mick. ‘Are you stupid or what? I tell you, I’ve done nothin’ wrong!’
Mick felt threatened. He snapped the shotgun shut and pointed it at Blossom, who quickly stepped to one side.
Mick could see him quite clearly now, but something wasn’t right.
‘Why’re you holdin’ your head?’
‘You won’t distract me like that. I said, drop the gun and hold your hands out.’
Mick took a step back.
‘You can’t put the cuffs on me with one hand. What’s up? Got a headache?’
Blossom took a pace forward.
‘Don’t be silly, Sturbs. Killing a policeman in the execution of his duty will land you in hot water, you mark my words!’
Mick stepped back again.
Blossom let go of his head to open the handcuffs with both hands.
A look of horror spread across Mick’s face.
Blossom saw the world go upside down again.
Mick found himself standing in a massive spray of unearthly blood, gushing from Blossom’s neck.
‘You’re a bloody ghost!’ exclaimed Mick in a panic. ‘Your head’s hangin’ off your neck!’
He took another step backwards.
Blossom, slightly confused, propped his head back into position. Having regained a better view, he slid, rather than walked, towards the poacher.
Mick recoiled in terror.
‘Keep away from me! I’m warnin’ you!’
Bud took another step forward.
Mick fired both barrels at Blossom’s stomach.
They had no effect.
Unfortunately for her, Bambi had chosen to recover consciousness not fifteen seconds earlier; gentle massage from being hauled along the ground had revived her. First the collision and now all this shouting; what’s happening?
She struggled to get back on her feet and stumbled towards her beloved keeper, only to be floored again by the shots from Mick’s gun. The last thing she felt was something hitting her between the eyes.
‘Bambiiiii!’ howled Mick.
‘You shouldn’t have done that!’ said Blossom in a menacing tone. He advanced again.
Mick threw the shotgun aside and took to his heels, sprinting towards
Corpses Copse with the phantom policeman drifting behind in hot pursuit.
The poacher hurdled the low fence and darted between the trees. He tripped over a root and fell headlong into one of his prized eighteenth century mantraps, in fact the one he’d mislaid some months earlier. He barely had time to think, ‘So that’s where I put it’ when its jaws snapped into his throat.
He looked up at Blossom who stood, smiling wickedly from the head resting on his chest, holding the cuffs out with both hands.
‘I did warn you. No escaping the Law. Get up!’
Mick, blood spurting from the deep gash beneath his chin, meekly held out his hands. Bud slipped the cuffs over the wrists and fastened them tightly.
‘What do we do now?’ asked the crestfallen yet bemused prisoner. ‘We’re both dead now. Satisfied?’
Sarah asked the minibus driver to stop twice on the way to the Priory ruins: the first time to turn the signpost back to its original position, the second to close the gate into the field.
They’d heard the gunshot soon after the minibus had arrived at Priorton Hall and naturally assumed Mick Sturbs was out hunting. So did the landlord of the Just One More, who waited patiently for Mick to bring the pigeons for tomorrow’s menu. He’d have a long wait.
Tim felt quite at ease now: Seymour’s telephone call had lifted a tremendous weight off his shoulders, as had the fact that Augustus and Elizabeth Wilton, deceased, had kept well out of Hilda’s way.
The minibus dropped them off at the ruins. Tim and Sarah showed their guests and the musicians (who were into all things medieval) around the Priory, drawing attention to various points of interest.
Bert, Julio and Euphemia kept out of the way, making final preparations for the meal.
The time came for everyone to take their seats at the dining table after first exploring and making use of the Royal Flushes. Seymour had switched on the Queen of Hearts and King of Clubs illuminated signs ready for when darkness descended.
Hives stood like a stuffed penguin on one side of the central, open-fronted marquee waiting to show them to their seats. Bert had thoughtfully arranged the table so everyone was able to see out without having to strain themselves. Euphemia was busy out of sight in the left hand catering marquee while Bert was sweating over the propane gas stove of the mobile kitchen inside his van.