by Allan Frost
‘Hello, Constable Blossom,’ replied George, trying to sound as if talking to the ghost bobbing next to its own corpse was an everyday occurrence. ‘Can you explain all this?’
‘Very sorry, sir. Don’t really know what happened.’
‘Have a stab,’ said George, not choosing his words particularly carefully.
‘I was practicing with my shakram—’
‘Your what?’
‘Shakram,’ replied Bud, pointing to the plastic bag. ‘Made it myself from my old scout dish,’ he added proudly.
‘What’s it for?’
‘It’s a sort of throwing knife, I suppose. Xena uses one all the time.’
‘Who’s Xena?’ said George, mystified. ‘Do I know her?’
‘She’s a warrior princess. Greek, I think. She’s in films.’
‘Oh.’
‘On TV.’
‘Oh.’ George began to form the opinion that a deranged dead Blossom was almost as bad as a normal live one.
‘As I was saying, sir. I was throwing the shakram against the Watch Oak. I heard it clip the side of the tree when I spotted Mr Sturbs hauling a dead deer down the far end of the field. Well, to be honest, I didn’t know it was a dead deer at the time. Anyway, I pursued him on my bicycle, apprehended him for poaching the deer. He shot me, killed the deer and ran away into Corpses Copse, where I managed to catch up with him. I’m afraid he was already dead.’
George pondered for a while, during which he glanced up and down the field and back to the murder scene.
‘Couple of questions, Blossom.’
‘Sir?’
‘You don’t appear to have any gunshot wounds either in your dead body or . . . in your ghost’s body, if I can call it that.’
‘Quite understand, sir. No, you’re right. It was Mr Sturbs who pointed out I was dead when I caught up with him.’
‘OK, so it wasn’t Sturbs who killed you.’
‘’fraid not, sir, no. Actually, he seems a decent sort of bloke, really, in spite of being a law-breaker.’
‘I don’t see a dead deer in the field, either,’ noted George.
‘No, sir. Mr Nibbull came later and took it away. Mr Sturbs said he had no further need of it and Mr Nibbull could have it.’
‘And the shotgun. Was that Sturbs’s?’
‘Yes, sir. Mr Nibbull took that away as well. Mr Sturbs said he could have it as he had no further use for it.’
‘Anything else you want to add?’ asked George.
‘Could do with a bit of advice, sir, if I might make so bold.’
‘What?’
‘I’ve been hearing voices, sir, telling me I have to make a choice.’
‘Choice?’
‘Apparently, I have to choose something personal to which my spectral being is to be associated.’
‘I beg your pardon, Blossom. I don’t understand.’
‘I think I do,’ interrupted Tim. He remembered what Augustus had said about his oak chest. ‘Blossom, someone in your position is unable to put their soul at rest until the right time comes. In the meantime, your ghost is tied to an item of your choice and won’t be able to travel too far away from it. Do you understand now?’
‘I think so, sir,’ said Blossom. He wasn’t at all sure what this nice Mr Eason meant. George wasn’t too sure, either.
‘Well?’
‘I think it would have to be the bike. Spent a lot of time in that saddle, I have.’
‘Ah,’ said Tim. ‘I don’t think that’s a very good idea.’
Tim wanted to say Bud’s former colleagues at the police station might not appreciate riding the bike with the ghost of its former occupant sitting in the same saddle. Instead, he said, ‘I’m afraid it’s police property.’
‘Got a point there, sir. Quite right. Hadn’t thought of that. How about my shakram, then? Especially since it was the weapon that must have done for me.’
‘Good choice,’ agreed Tim. ‘Next, do you want to spend the rest of your unnatural death in this field or would you prefer to be allowed to, hm, continue practicing with the pla— . . . shakram in the graveyard? Only during hours of darkness when no living soul is present, of course.’
Blossom considered the options.
‘Bury it with me in the graveyard,’ he said adamantly. ‘Since you put it like that, and much as I’ve come to like the late Mr Sturbs, I think I’d like the opportunity to meet more people. The graveyard would suit me quite well.’
God help the other internees, thought George. So much for R.I.P. with Blossom on the prowl!
‘That’s settled then,’ smiled Tim. ‘Do you have anything else to say, George?’
‘Any next of kin, Blossom?’
‘No, sir. I’d like my things to be sold and the proceeds given to the Lucy Lawless Fan Club.’
‘Who’s Lucy Lawless?’
‘Xena, Warrior—’
‘Princess. I get the picture. Well, thank you Blossom. We’ll be in touch if we have any more questions. In the meantime, er, take care of yourself.’
‘Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.’ He gave one last salute and disappeared.
‘You seem to know an awful lot about ghosts and the Afterlife,’ observed George. ‘I suppose that’s all down to Augustus and Elizabeth?’
‘And a few others.’
‘Not that crowd at the Priory?’
Tim nodded.
‘Where next? Corpses Copse?’ he suggested. ‘Not much else we can do here at the moment, is there?’
They drove to the far end of the field.
George removed a metal detector from the back seat of the car and climbed over the fence bordering the woods. Tim picked up a short branch and followed close behind.
‘Mind where you go,’ said George. ‘Sturbs’s traps could be anywhere. He wasn’t an accomplished poacher for nothing.’
Following a barely perceptible trail of broken ferns and branches, they wove their way through the dense undergrowth, stopping occasionally to examine the causes of ear-splitting whines from the detector. Tim used the stick to spring the mechanisms of Mick’s traps; one had already been sprung by an unwary rabbit which, as it was already covered in flies and ants, they decided to leave where it lay.
They’d almost reached the lane to the Priory ruins when there, on the ground, lay Mick’s throat-gashed corpse.
‘Mr Sturbs!’ called Tim. ‘Mick Sturbs! Where are you?’
‘Here,’ came a glum voice from beneath the lifeless body. A thin wisp of vapour emerged and quickly expanded to form a phantom. ‘Oh, it’s you Chief Inspector, Mr Eason. Right mess, this, ain’t it?’
‘Sorry to disturb you, Mick,’ said George, doing his best to adopt an official tone. ‘Just spoken to PC Blossom. I’d like to hear your version of events.’
Both George and Tim were relieved that the erstwhile poacher confirmed Bud’s statement and gave them his estranged wife’s address for George to break the sad news.
Tim asked Mick the same questions he had of Bud.
‘If possible, I’d like to stay here, that’s if Mr Eason has no objection, seein’ as it’s his land,’ said Mick. ‘I love this place, really quiet and peaceful. Plenty of God’s creatures to keep me company, Better than being stuck with a load of stiffs in the graveyard. I suppose I’d better choose the mantrap. Been in the family over two hundred years, it has.’
‘In that case, we’d better arrange for it to be buried here,’ said George. ‘After the inquest.’
‘Inquest? Can I go?’ asked Mick. ‘Should be interesting.’
‘’You’ll have to attend,’ said Tim. ‘The trap will have to be presented as evidence. Wherever the mantrap goes, so must you.’
‘But my actual mortal remains will have a proper burial, won’t they?’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘That’s OK, then. Oh, Chief Inspector, don’t mention Bambi and the shotgun or Bert Nibbull, will you? He can have my lockup cabinet for it as well, if he wants, and the ammunition. Wouldn
’t want to get him into trouble.’
‘Mr Eason will ask him to apply for a licence and send the form to me. I’ll make sure the application’s approved. Thanks for your help, Mick. There’s a lot of folk who’ll be sad to hear you’re no longer with us.’
‘They can always pop in for a chat,’ said Mick. ‘Oh, Mr Eason, you’d better come again soon so’s I can show you where the rest of the traps are. I want to be alone here, not have to share the woods with a load of strangers.’
‘If all murder investigations were so easy,’ said George. ‘Interviewing a corpse has a lot to be said in its favour.’
Two inquests took place on the same day at Priorton Coroner’s Court. Tim and George had given very specific instructions to Bud and Mick for their ghosts to stay hidden between the dividers in George’s leather brief case, forbidding them to make an appearance of any sort even if they objected to the evidence presented to the coroner, Mr Mortimer D’Ethdelver.
‘In the matter regarding the demise of Police Constable Bud Blossom, what conclusions did you reach, Chief Inspector Young?’
George couldn’t help noticing the absence of sympathisers and interested onlookers in the courtroom. In fact, only the assistant of a psychiatric expert, a junior reporter from the Priorton News and himself were present.
‘Forensic evidence confirms that only PC Blossom’s fingerprints were found on the sharpened enamelled metal plate. Further investigations indicate the plate ricocheted off the side of the Watch Oak. Particles of metal identical to that of the plate were discovered in a nick on one of the arms of the signpost at the nearby crossroads. Another arm was scuffed and stained by red oxide paint, the sort frequently used on cranes and other heavy duty machinery.’
He continued. ‘There was some traffic along the road that evening. Our conclusions are that the signpost was hit by a high vehicle causing the arms to spin like a carousel. The plate, having been thrown by the deceased, flew over the hedge and hit the spinning signpost before being flung back. It struck Police Constable Blossom and succeeded in almost severing his head from his neck. Death would have been virtually instantaneous.’
‘Then a verdict of Accidental Death rather than suicide would seem appropriate,’ Mort D’Ethdelver concluded. ‘PC Blossom, as I understand from the character profiles submitted earlier, was somewhat accident prone yet committed to duty as a serving police officer. That being the case, he would have no reason to commit suicide, especially since this mode of death would require considerable skill combined with an impossible degree of luck. Accidental Death it is, then. Constable Blossom’s body may be released for burial. This court will adjourn for lunch.’
By the time the Coroner’s court resumed business, the room was packed to the brim. George assumed most of those present were former clients of the dead poacher.
Mrs Di Sturbs, Mick’s widow, sat near the front next to Bert Nibbull who seemed, from Mick’s restricted view from within the brief case, to be paying her a little more attention than common decency permitted at such a sad time. Still, she’d obviously been crying and had worn her best black outfit, although a see-through off-the-shoulder number, fishnet stockings and high heels weren’t quite appropriate given the circumstances.
‘He was a poacher, you say?’ asked Mort.
‘That is correct, sir,’ replied George.
‘And no evidence of foul play or drunkenness?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Have you reached any conclusions?’
‘We have. In view of the fact that dusk had already fallen and Corpses Copse was shrouded in darkness, the only reasonable explanation we can offer is that Mr Sturbs failed to see the mantrap which, as you are well aware, was a lethal device only recently serviced by the deceased. Tests showed that even the slightest contact would trigger the mechanism.’
‘Could it have been suicide?’
‘Most unlikely, sir. Although Mr Sturbs and his wife have had a few problems with their marriage, there appears to have been some progress made towards reconciliation. In fact, Mrs Sturbs has stated she and her husband had discussed that very matter during the afternoon before he died. The elder of their two children has confirmed her statement.’
‘In that case, I am returning a verdict of Accidental Death. The body of the deceased may be released for burial.’
Police Constable Bud Blossom had been a prat of the first order but Chief Inspector George Young could not bring himself to allow Bud’s funeral at Priorton All Saints parish church to take place without a strong police presence.
Happy to have witnessed the placing of Bud’s precious shakram inside the coffin seconds before the lid was screwed down by undertaker Ivor Posh-Kaskett, George felt pleased and, it has to be said, relieved to see such a good turnout. The fact that he had cancelled all leave by officers in his division may have been a contributory factor.
Bud’s coffin, draped with the Constabulary flag, was carried out of the church, through an arch of raised truncheons, to the graveside.
Everything was going so smoothly until one of the worn webbing straps lowering the coffin into the ground snapped. Fortunately, no one heard Bud call out, ‘Steady on!’.
It took several ghastly minutes to retrieve the casket from where it had landed awkwardly in the hole, but all went well at the second attempt.
Mick’s service was a joyous affair, supported by a large congregation. Unfortunately, Mick’s ghost was unable to attend as the fatal mantrap had been buried deep in Corpses Copse some days earlier by Tim and George.
They didn’t want anyone else to know where it lay. Afterwards, they’d spent another couple of hours being escorted by Mick around the trees, springing and collecting the remaining traps.
The differences in how Bud and Mick were regarded by those who knew them were emphasised on their headstones.
Bud’s said:
R.I.P.
PC Bud Blossom
1977 – 2006
Who lost his head, and then was dead.
Mick’s read:
R.I.P.
Michael Sturbs
1976 – 2006
Popular poacher, loving husband and father,
and a deer friend.
EPILOGUE
Summer gradually found itself slipping inevitably into autumn. And, in much the same way as Nature adapts to changing seasons, so the inhabitants of Priorton and its environs adapted to the changes brought about by the events of the past few months.
After much deliberation, Julio Hives and Euphemia Crimp tied the knot in a quiet ceremony at Priorton Registry Office.
Armed with more than enough cash to satisfy their needs for the rest of their lives, they emigrated to Portugal where they now live in a converted farmhouse on the estate owned by a vineyard owner whose classic Port wines are renowned throughout the world.
Julio has a part time job showing visitors around the winery while Euphemia runs a small on-site cafe where her homemade cakes and pastries are the envy of local housewives.
Neither of them felt too guilty at creaming off so much money during years of dedicated service at Blister Grange, although Euphemia did give her faithful Morris Minor to that nice Fatima Arkwright who had taken her place in the kitchen.
Bert Nibbull and Di Sturbs have gone into partnership.
Di looks after the garden centre with help from a couple of locals. Gerry Bilt gives an occasional hand but most of his time is spent looking after the smallholding. He is slowly becoming quite a keen horticulturalist and, despite missing the thrill of deceit, shoddy workmanship and substitution of poor quality materials and other felonies associated with the building trade, has decided his future lies in making an honest living from the soil.
Bert and Di are currently spending a great deal of their spare time in each other’s company, and Di’s children seem to have taken quite a shine to him.
He particularly likes turning up at monthly Priorton Chamber of Commerce meetings wearing newly-acquired deerskin shoes and
matching gloves, belt and wallet, courtesy of Hide’s Leather Goods and Pet Preservers (‘We’ll have your loved ones in stitches’).
A few weeks after Mick’s interment, Di presented everything associated with his poaching activities to Priorton Museum where the Mick Sturbs Collection is currently prominently housed in a separate room. Visitors are able to purchase a short guide on the history of poaching, written by T R Eason (with information gleaned from several nocturnal visits to Corpses Copse, or ‘Poacher’s Paradise’ as Mick now prefers to call the woods).
Ted Bowman and his Medieval Minstrels have been to Priorton Hall three or four times since their debut appearance at the Priory ruins. Despite Tim and Sarah’s offer to put them up at the Hall, they much prefer to camp in the middle of the former refectory and jam away to their hearts’ content throughout the night.
They hope to release their first CD of original and authentic Medieval troubadour tune arrangements in time to catch the Christmas market next year.
Tim Eason has been extremely busy researching the day-to-day activities of the Priory during its four centuries of occupation. Unfortunately, this entails long nights spent in freezing cold temperatures while he systematically interviews every one of its ethereal inhabitants. They each have their own tale to tell.
He successfully recovered the Priory treasure from Prior Francis’s tomb which, at a brief hearing before Judge Sir Cedric Foot-wart, was declared Treasure Trove and Tim handsomely rewarded. Much of the collection is now housed in the British Museum because of its astounding rarity, beauty and value, although a few pieces of pewter occupy a space in Priorton Museum.
Tim has kept his promise not to consign Prior Thomas or his spectral followers to the fires of Hell and they continue to make merry during hours of darkness.
Sir Augustus and Lady Elizabeth Wilton, deceased, and their oak chest occasionally accompany Tim to the Priory ruins to enjoy a good night out listening to music and conversing with some of the more lucid and less inebriated occupants.