Prior Engagement, or Plagued to Death!

by Allan Frost

  Spurred on by panic, the butcher dived across the ground and grabbed the gun. Having gained the upper hand, he got to his knees and levelled the twin barrel at Blossom’s chest.

  ‘Don’t move!’ he ordered.

  I can’t believe I’m doing this! Give me a saw and meat cleaver any day. I’m not a shooter; damages the goods. Oh, God, what am I doing?

  ‘That won’t do you any good, Bert Nibbull,’ said Blossom. ‘I’m not afraid of you. Drop the gun.’

  ‘No. Stand back or I’ll shoot!’

  Bud laughed, rather evilly in Bert’s opinion.

  ‘It’s no good, Bert,’ came another voice from the darkness.

  ‘Mick? Is that you, Mick?’

  ‘Yes, Bert. Do as he says. Drop the gun.’

  ‘I can’t believe you, of all people, are on Blossom’s side!’

  ‘I’m not, Bert.’

  ‘Then why—’

  ‘Because the gun’s not loaded.’

  Bert snapped the barrel open; the cartridges inside both chambers were spent. He snapped the barrel shut and held it in both hands, wielding it like a club.

  ‘Don’t come near me, Blossom!’

  ‘It’s no good, I tell you,’ said Mick, resignation in his voice.

  ‘It’s two of us against one of him!’

  ‘That’s not the point, Bert. You can’t hurt him now.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘’cos he’s dead, that’s why,’ replied Mick, matter-of-factly.

  ‘Dead?’ croaked Bert. ‘He can’t be! He’s standing there and talking to me! How can he be dead?’

  ‘Just the way it is,’ said Mick. ‘Don’t quite understand it myself, but that’s the truth.’

  Bert wasn’t convinced. Was this a conspiracy? Had Mick experienced some strange visitation which made him and Blossom form an unhealthy, unnatural alliance?

  ‘You’re having me on, aren’t you? You want to sell the deer and share the profits, don’t you? Go on, admit it!’

  ‘Are you accusing an officer sworn to uphold the Law of accepting bribes?’ asked Bud indignantly.

  ‘Yes. How much?’

  ‘Bert, I keep telling you. We don’t want your money.’

  ‘Then what do you want?’ said Bert, exasperated.

  ‘Nothing. Money’s no good to us now.’

  Mick seemed thoroughly dejected; it wasn’t at all like him to sound so miserable.

  ‘Look, both of you, step into the light.’

  ‘You won’t like it,’ warned Mick. ‘Not a pretty sight.’

  ‘Oh, come on!’

  ‘Blossom, after you.’

  ‘No, after you, Mr Sturbs. I insist.’

  What! Something must be wrong if Blossom was being pleasant to Mick. Bert braced himself for a shock.

  He didn’t brace himself enough.

  Mick hovered into the lamplight, keeping his chin as close to his chest as he could.

  ‘What’s up, Mick? Got a sore throat?’

  ‘Sort of,’ said Mick, lifting his head and exposing the gaping hole in his neck.

  ‘Cut yourself shaving, then?’ said Bert. He passed out.

  Neither Mick nor Bud could do anything to revive him. They had no choice but to hang around until he came to.

  ‘What happened?’ he eventually gasped. ‘Or shouldn’t I ask?’

  ‘Blossom chased me across the field. I fell on one of me traps. Bit into me throat. After he’d accused me of killin’ Bambi.’

  ‘Bambi?’

  ‘The deer. She’s mine; won her in a competition at the Just Once More.’

  ‘I heard about that. I was going to make you an offer nearer Christmas.’

  ‘Well, you’ve got her for nothin’ now.’

  ‘But why shoot her?

  ‘It was an accident. I was trying to kill Blossom.’

  ‘What? Kill a copper? Come on, Mick, that’s not like you! Defenceless animals, yes, but not policemen.’

  ‘He was already dead.’

  ‘I wasn’t!’

  ‘You were, too! Someone had cut your head off. Well, almost. Hangin’ on by a thread, it was. But you was definitely dead when I shot you. Otherwise, how’d the bullets hit Bambi?’

  ‘What do you mean, cut his head off?’

  Blossom’s ghost glided into view and hovered next to Mick’s.

  Bert passed out again.

  The ghosts waited patiently. It took longer for Bert to resume a standing position, but neither Mick nor Bud was in any hurry, particularly since it might be some time before they could have a conversation with another living being.

  ‘What happened to you?’ asked Bert, thinking he’d soon be wrapped up warmly in a strait jacket if he related this conversation to anyone of sound mind.

  ‘Dunno,’ replied Blossom. ‘One minute I was riding my regulation police-issue bike, next the world turned upside down. It was Mr Sturbs here who kindly pointed out I was, apparently, deceased.’

  ‘And you chased him into the woods?’

  ‘Yes. I believed he was in the act of perpetrating a felony.’

  ‘So it’s your fault Mick died! You killed an innocent man, Blossom. Well, a man who was innocent on this occasion.’

  ‘It wasn’t murder!’ exclaimed Blossom. ‘It was an accident!’

  ‘Manslaughter. That’s what the judge would call it.’

  ‘It’s not true!’ insisted Bud.

  ‘Who’s going to tell?’ asked Bert. ‘More to the point, who’d believe any of it?’

  ‘He’s got a point, Blossom.’

  ‘I think the coroner will believe Mick’s death was accidental, so you needn’t worry, constable. No charges will be brought against you.’

  Bud seemed relieved for a moment, then asked, ‘But how did I die?’

  ‘Haven’t a clue,’ replied Bert and Mick in unison. ‘Perhaps the real police will be able to find out,’ added Bert.

  ‘What do you mean, real police?’ said Blossom.

  ‘You’re hardly real, are you?’ Mick pointed out.

  ‘S’pose not,’ said Bud. ‘Fair point.’

  ‘What’re you two going to do now?’ asked Bert. He was genuinely interested. Seeing Mick’s neck was bad enough, but he didn’t feel inclined to dwell on Blossom’s head swinging from a short strip of gristle.

  ‘Dunno,’ answered Mick. ‘Probably spend the rest of my death being chased by him.’ He jerked a thumb towards Blossom.

  ‘You won’t be needing the shotgun, then,’ said Bert.

  ‘No; you might as well take it.’

  ‘Just make sure you get a licence!’ said Blossom. ‘And only shoot it in authorised places.’

  ‘Oh, give it a rest, Blossom!’ said Mick. ‘It’s none of your business.’

  ‘And the deer? What did you call her? Bambi?’

  Mick tried to nod. A jet of translucent blood shot from his neck. Bert didn’t flinch; it wasn’t as bad as the real thing. He should know.

  ‘You might as well take her as well, but be gentle with her,’ he said sadly.

  ‘I’ll make sure she only gets served on the best tables,’ agreed Bert. ‘How does Bambi Special sound?’

  ‘It’ll do. Doesn’t really make much difference now, does it?’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Could you tell my wife . . . Di and kids . . . that I love them?’

  ‘I’ll change the tense; I’ll say you told me you loved them, missed them and was sorry for the trouble you caused. How’s that sound?’

  ‘Don’t overdo it, she won’t believe you. Oh, and tell her to look under the loose floorboard in my bedroom.’

  ‘What’s there?’

  ‘Deeds to the property, some jewellery and a fair bit of cash. All perfectly legal!’ he added, glancing at Blossom. ‘Oh, and make sure all the poachin’ stuff’s taken away. Don’t want my son to end up like me. Most of it’s quite ancient; belonged to my great-great-great grandfather. Could be worth a bit, so give a share to Di if you find a good buye
r. Otherwise donate it all to the museum at Priorton. Call it the Mick Sturbs Collection.’

  ‘Have you any last requests, Blossom?’ Bert asked kindly, noticing the crestfallen expression on Bud’s chest-fallen face.

  ‘Only that I want to be buried in uniform,’ he replied. ‘With my shakram or bike.’

  ‘Your what?’

  ‘Shakram. Actually, it’s an enamel scouting dish with sharp edges. It must be lying in the road near the Watch Oak. I last saw it whizzing over the hedge just before I had problems with my . . . balance.’

  ‘Fine. I’m not sure how I’ll let the undertaker know about it but I’ll do my best.’

  ‘You’re very kind, Mr Nibbull. Take back all I said earlier.’

  ‘That’s OK, Constable Blossom. The force won’t be the same without you.’

  ‘Do you think they’ll miss me?’

  ‘I wouldn’t go that far but, yes, your absence will undoubtedly be noticed. Anything else, either of you?’ asked Bert, glancing at his watch. ‘Time’s marching on and I really must get to the Priorton Arms before closing time.’

  ‘Apologise to the Just One More landlord, would you? I’ve never let him down before. Not much I can do about it now; I’m sure he’ll understand when he hears what happened.’

  ‘I’ll take care of it, don’t worry.’

  ‘What’s to worry about? Except knowin’ what the future holds. I assume we have a future, don’t we, Blossom?’

  Bud shook his head with the help of a hand. ‘Haven’t a clue. Don’t know what to expect.’

  Another spectre silently entered the light-filled arena.

  ‘Bambi!’ exclaimed Mick. ‘Come here, girl, come to daddy.’

  The phantom deer nuzzled up to his side.

  ‘Can’t be all bad, this Afterlife thingy!’ he said, thrilled to bits. ‘Bambi and me’ll be together always.’

  ‘And me,’ said Blossom.

  ‘There’s a downside to everything,’ observed Bert. ‘Can you give me a hand with the deer?’ He opened the back door of the van and pressed the button to lower the platform lift.

  ‘Sorry, no can do,’ said Blossom.

  ‘It’s not against the Law,’ appealed Bert.

  ‘No, but we can’t lift anything. We’re spooks, remember,’ Mick said.

  Bert struggled to roll Bambi’s mortal remains onto the lift and into the back of the van. Rigor mortis had set in with a vengeance and the only way he could fit her into the narrow space was to break two of her legs by whacking them with the shotgun.

  ‘Don’t worry, Bert. She can’t feel a thing. Can you Bambi?’

  Bert, glad to have his precious cargo on board at last, tossed the gun inside, raised the lift and closed the doors. He hauled himself into the cab.

  ‘Well, it’s been an experience,’ he remarked.

  ‘Once in a lifetime opportunity . . .,’ said PC Blossom.

  ‘I sincerely hope so,’ said Bert.

  ‘. . . but please drop in whenever you’re passing. Like to chat to you again, hear what’s been happening.’

  ‘I’ll bear it in mind.’

  ‘Could become a bit boring otherwise,’ the ex-policeman continued. ‘I have a feeling we won’t be able to get around as much as we used to.’

  ‘What makes you think that?’

  ‘I wasn’t allowed to when I was alive and I imagine whoever’s in charge now will impose similar restrictions.’

  ‘What makes you think it’s a man?’ asked Mick. ‘Could be a woman.’

  ‘Because God’s a man,’ answered Blossom. ‘Everyone knows that. If he weren’t we’d have to call him Goddess the Mother, not God the Father.’

  He had a point.

  ‘Oh, Bert.’ said Mike. ‘One last request.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You’d better tell Mr Eason not to go into Corpses Copse without a metal detector.’

  ‘A metal detector? Why would he want to do that?’

  ‘To take up all me traps. I won’t be needin’ ’em no more. And I wouldn’t like anyone else to die on my account.’

  ‘OK. I understand. Will do.’

  He slammed the door and pushed the accelerator pedal hard to the floor.

  XVI

  Night was falling rapidly as an orange sun dipped behind fragmented Priory walls and distant tree tops. Hives borrowed George’s England’s Glory matches and lit tea-lights in blood-red glasses and gold candles in tall candelabra on the dining table as well as a few blue butane Camping Gaz lamps thoughtfully provided by Marquees de Sadie.

  ‘Will that be all, sir?’ he asked Tim.

  ‘Is there anything else we need Hives and Crimp for?’ said Tim, looking round the table.

  ‘Any food left?’ asked Cedric.

  ‘There are a few desserts, sandwiches, and cheese and biscuits remaining in the catering marquee,’ replied Hives. ‘And a camping gas stove, kettle and matches if anyone requires coffee later. Wines, spirits and mixers are in boxes and cool bags, sir.’

  ‘In that case, Hives, you and Crimp may return to the Grange,’ said Cedric. ‘Don’t wait up.’

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ bowed the butler. ‘We shall, of course, tidy up before we depart.’

  ‘Thank you very much, Hives. Please tell Crimp you’ve done a superb job,’ said Sarah.

  ‘Thank you, ma’am. It’s been a pleasure.’

  The awning concealing the catering area barely had time to swish back when Cedric grumbled, ‘Never says it’s a pleasure back home.’

  ‘That’s because we don’t entertain guests very often,’ said Cynthia. ‘Mind you, I have to say the meal was excellent.’

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Hilda. ‘So many dishes and not too much in any of them. I don’t feel bloated at all.’

  You look it, though, thought George. No change there, then. Food and Hilda, like opposite magnetic poles, held a strong attraction for each other.

  While the party sat chatting and sipping wine and the Medieval Minstrels continued playing unobtrusively in the background, Hives and Crimp packed surplus items away and loaded them into the boot of the Morris Minor.

  ‘Julio, would you be so kind as to take me to the toilet before we leave?’ asked Euphemia. ‘This place gives me the creeps and I’d rather not go on my own in the dark.’

  ‘Of course, Euphemia. I may as well pay a visit myself. I’ll wait for you outside afterwards.’

  He took her arm and shone a torch to show the way.

  ‘It’s been a good night, hasn’t it? And I didn’t make any mistakes!’

  ‘You were wonderful!’ agreed Julio. ‘Just like the old days.’

  He opened the door to the Queen until Euphemia was safely inside the brightly-lit interior, then went into the King.

  He was halfway through relieving himself of the evening’s moderate intake of wine when a tonsured head popped up inside the toilet pan.

  ‘Hey! You can’t do that here! It’s consecrated ground!’

  It was, to say the least, a trifle unnerving. Nevertheless, Julio took it as a challenge to years of vocational training. He came here to take a leak and take a leak he would, even if it meant spraying the head in the bowl. Treat the tonsured head like a target and there won’t be any mishaps.

  ‘You just wait! I’ll tell the Prior! He won’t like it!’ said the head. It disappeared, only to pop up in the Queen next door where Euphemia was happily sitting down admiring the decor. The head took one look upwards, muttered, ‘Yuk!’ and popped away again.

  Euphemia glanced around, puzzled. Did someone speak?

  She rejoined Julio, who was waiting outside and had gone strangely quiet.

  ‘Is everything all right?’ she asked.

  ‘I think we should return home as soon as we can,’ he replied calmy. ‘There is something odd about these ruins.’

  ‘Definitely. I thought I heard a voice in there. Haven’t heard voices since I gave up the bottle.’

  ‘Get into the car while I have a brief word with Mr Ea
son,’ he said. ‘Make sure you lock the door; you’ll feel safer. I’ll be back in a jiffy.’

  He strolled into the dining area and whispered in Tim’s ear. ‘Excuse me, sir, would you mind stepping outside for a moment.’

  They stood a few metres away from the marquee.

  ‘I don’t wish to alarm you, sir, but I’ve just had an experience in the toilet,’ he said.

  Tim didn’t know what to say; it was a strange admission to make to someone who barely knew him.

  ‘A head appeared in the pan and mentioned something about it being consecrated ground and the Prior would not be very happy.’

  ‘I have to ask this, Hives. Please don’t take offence but have you been drinking?’

  ‘Not enough to make me imagine what I saw,’ came the reply. ‘It was definitely a head. Tonsured, like a monk.’

  ‘You’re saying it was a ghost?’ Tim’s eyes widened.

  ‘I cannot be sure, sir, never having seen one before. May I leave you to investigate further, Mr Eason? I’d like to take Miss Crimp home straight away.’

  Tim nodded.

  ‘I understand, Hives. Yes, leave now. Oh, and let Euphemia know I think she’s done immensely well tonight.’

  ‘I shall, sir. Thank you. Goodnight, sir.’

  ‘Goodnight.’

  Tim walked over to the Royal Flushes. Euphemia’s car revved up and drove away just as he opened the door to the King. The light inside came on automatically. He looked around.

  ‘Hello, anyone there?’ he asked, feeling a bit of a fool.

  There was no reply.

  Hives must have been dreaming, tired after such a long day. Perhaps the shadowy ruins played tricks with his imagination.

  He returned to the dining tent.

  ‘Everything OK, Tim? asked Sarah.

  ‘Yes,’ he replied. ‘Hives just wanted to make sure we had everything we need before he left.’

  ‘Would you excuse me? Need to powder my nose,’ announced Hilda, taking her handbag and handing the torch to George. ‘How does this thing work?’ she asked.

  He showed her. Hilda disappeared beyond the penumbra of light. While Tim watched nervously, she weaved an unsteady path towards the Queen sign. He waited anxiously, expecting a scream at any moment.

  He was just about to lean back in his chair when he noticed a thin wisp of mist emerge from beneath one of the serving tables. He’d seen it before. He watched transfixed. Realisation dawned, in much the same way as a condemned prisoner recognises the full implications of the noose hanging from the beam in front of him shortly before a bag is placed over his head.