The Unusual Possession of Alastair Stubb

by David John Griffin

  ‘It’s very nice to meet you, Isabel, now I really must—’

  ‘Pleased to meet you, Mr. Stubb,’ Isabel began quietly and she curtseyed. ‘It’s my birthday tomorrow; I’ll be seventeen.’

  ‘Oh, really. How nice for you.’

  Stubb watched nervously his father’s steps. Theodore had turned and was walking past though his attention and mirth was directed towards Mr. Badger. This man had quietened, though was enthralling his audience with a stream of peculiar and rude anecdotes, with much gaiety and enthusiasm in his newly-acquired high voice, interrupted with bird calls of shuddering intensity, much to the delight of his audience.

  ‘Tell me, what does it feel like to be a successful woodcarver?’ Isabel enquired softly with obvious admiration. She fluttered her eyelashes through her plaits and scratched her pug nose, and Reverend Musty looked on proudly.

  Stubb replied crisply: ‘Miss Isabel, let me make it quite clear that I am no longer a woodcarver, nor can it be said that I am in the least successful. Now if you will excuse me, I have an urgent errand to attend to,’ and he turned and walked away.

  ‘Well, really,’ said the Reverend.

  Standing in the lobby, a coolness immediately dismissed the warmer layer that Stubb had acquired in the drawing room. He heard the muted conversation of the guests, the guffaws of his father and the voice of Badger floating high above all others.

  He listened for any sound of the butler or maid: all was clear. Another clap of thunder boomed outside. There was a pattering of rain on the porch and sounds of the gusting wind gaining in strength.

  Passing quickly through the reception room he came to the door of the study. He grunted after trying the handle. The door was locked. He swore under his breath, cursing his forgetfulness.

  Then he remembered there was a spare key under the clock on the mantelpiece. As he approached the clock, the door he had previously come through from the hallway, opened quickly. Stubb turned at the noise of the hinges singing. He felt his face redden.

  ‘Hallo old chap. Looking for the maid, you know. Theodore sent me on the assignment.’ Mr. String grinned and winked. His voice lowered. ‘To be truthful old bean, I volunteered for the task myself. She’s a bit of a cracker, your maid, what?’ His protruding teeth stuck out almost horizontally as he shoved his head forward, his eyebrows twitching.

  ‘I’ll be bound,’ laughed Stubb, playing the ridiculous game. His collar felt sticky and his face still burned from his blush. ‘She’s not here though,’ he remarked hurriedly. ‘Perhaps in the kitchen or one of the back rooms.’

  ‘I say, the back room,’ said Mr. String with glee and he winked again. He left the door ajar behind him, calling as he went, ‘Tally ho!’

  Stubb sighed and wiped his damp brow. He closed the door to the hall and then, collecting the key from under the clock, walked over to the study door, unlocked it and entered.

  Stale tobacco and an odd perfume came from the books and the few animals heads on the walls. Time was not to be wasted. He went straight to the drinks cabinet, opened it, and drew out a decanter of tawny port. He placed it on the table and fumbled in his pocket. His heart gave a jolt when he could not find the vial of arsenic but a thorough search revealed that it had been hiding in the jacket lining. He retrieved it and held the glass tube up to the light. The contents looked no more than water. He removed the cork stopper and without hesitation, poured the liquid into the decanter.

  He put his nose to the decanter lip. There had been no visible reaction. He had expected it to bubble or change colour. However, he considered that it did smell differently and so he left the cut glass stopper off the decanter for as long as he dared, in the hope that the new odour would disperse. Finally replacing the stopper, he swilled the mixture around. Perhaps Theodore would be too drunk to notice.

  He chewed on his lip. It was done now, he could not go back. Or could he? He considered the idea of tipping the concoction down the drain and be done with the whole affair. But no, he said to himself. He had come this far. He would see it through to the end.

  He replaced the decanter into the drinks cabinet and gave the room a final inspection. Satisfied that everything was in its place, the light in the gas lamp was extinguished and the study locked.

  The noise of the gathering in the drawing room seemed louder than ever though evidently Badger had ceased his farcical cabaret. Florence came into the hallway from the kitchen, giggling and flushed. The laughing Mr. String was following her. Upon seeing Stubb, the maid brushed over her apron with an edge of a palm. She tipped her head respectfully. Without thought, Stubb demanded, ‘Florence, I would take that silly grin off your face and take in my father’s special reserve port.’

  She curtseyed and turning her head to giggle at Mr. String again, entered the drawing room.

  ‘What a cracker,’ said Mr. String and he followed her in.

  Florence collected a few empty glasses as she approached Theodore. She waited for an opportunity to speak.

  ‘I suppose I am. There can’t be many people who can boast of having a collection of over forty thousand insects,’ Theodore was saying. ‘Though curse the Brindling Entomological Society for not recognizing me. I’ll show them.’

  ‘Why don’t they recognize you?’ said Mr. Brittle.

  ‘Never mind why,’ Theodore snapped. He inhaled from his cigar.

  ‘Excuse me, sir, but if you are ready for your special port,’ said Florence. Mr. Brittle’s eyes lit up.

  Theodore snorted. ‘Who told you that?’

  ‘Sir, Mr. Stubb asked me to—’

  ‘Well, he should know better. You are a maid, do you hear? I will have the port later and the butler will bring it. Now go and tell him as much.’

  Florence, looking decidedly upset, curtseyed and went.

  ‘My, you are jolly good with your staff, may I say,’ said Isabel.

  ‘Don’t I know it,’ Theodore said to everyone but the girl.

  Mrs. Musty was seated in a large armchair in one side of the room.

  Theodore left a group of guests and made his way over to the vicar’s wife. ‘How are you, my dear lady,’ he enquired very loudly, bending down and pushing his face close to hers.

  ‘Quite well, I might say, Mr. Stubb.’ She smiled sweetly.

  ‘What else might you say then.’ Theodore snuffled with amusement and breathed alcoholic fumes into Mrs. Musty’s face. She attempted to maintain her smile but failed and held her nose. Theodore lowered his voice to a more personal level. ‘I wonder if I might ask you something, my dear Mrs. Musty?’

  ‘Of course you may, my dear Mr. Stubb.’

  Theodore grinned. ‘Do you mind if I sit where you’re sitting? That’s my favourite chair, you know.’ He belched so loudly that it seemed to have the strength to cause him to sway backwards.

  Mrs. Musty stood hurriedly to her feet. ‘Don’t you think you’ve had quite enough to drink?’ she stated and walked quickly away to find her husband.

  Theodore fell into the vacated armchair and let his eyelids close for a couple of minutes, opening them in time to see the butler stagger into the drawing room, his nose seeming to glow with a light of its own. Before he could reach his master, Reverend Musty and his wife stood rigidly before Theodore.

  ‘Thank you for a pleasant evening but I feel we must take our leave,’ stated the reverend and he gave a creaking bow. The rain doubled in strength outside.

  ‘So soon?’ Theodore spluttered and he wiped his mouth with the back of one of his hairy hands. He snatched up a bell which stood on a table beside him, ringing it with a type of annoyed enthusiasm.

  ‘You rang sir,’ Pump said quietly.

  Theodore’s eyes focused onto the butler. ‘I most certainly did. The reverend and his wife,’ and he indicated with his hand, ‘are leaving. Show them to the door will you,’ then he added as an afterthought, ‘and anyone else who’s going. And when they’ve gone bring me my most excellent port.’

  ‘Goodnight to you,
sir,’ said the vicar formally, fingering his collar. ‘Come, Matilda,’ he pronounced to his wife. ‘Come along, Isabel.’

  Despite his sciatica, Badger had been bending over, ostrich-like, in an attempt to peer at the back of Elsie Snicker’s shoes in search of feathers though the young woman, quite unaware of the farm hand’s strange behaviour, had stepped back and accidentally kicked him in the head. Badger stood and somewhat dazed, retired to his corner, wondering whether he had consumed too much sherry, though still clucking all the same.

  The party was ailing. Conversations were still-born and patience grew to infancy only. Finally the celebratory atmosphere was killed: a drunken Theodore floundered to his feet, and swinging an arm about him, said loudly, ‘I wonder when this damnable crowd are leaving.’ There were gasps and embarrassed coughs and upon asking the maid to fetch their coats, the majority of those assembled prepared themselves to depart.

  Mr. and Mrs. Parsley felt that it was time to go as they had a long day ahead of them tomorrow. Mr. Taper the cobbler expressed great apologies for not being able to stay longer and Elsie Snicker and Mr. Brittle passed by Theodore without bidding farewell, following the remainder of the guests out of the room.

  The maid served the guests their coats from the doorway of the dining room whilst the butler stood as a swaying coat-hanger with six or more items clutched unceremoniously in his hands and a steeple of hats balanced upon his head.

  The reverend and his wife stood on the porch steps with a hope that the rain would lessen. They began to twitter together of the rudeness they had been subjected to, competing in sound with the hissing downpour.

  Isabel, who had been inspecting the images of ants in the stained glass about the imposing front door, looked bewilderingly to Badger for he was slowly raising and lowering his arms.

  ‘Uncle,’ she finally said in a dreamy voice, ‘Mr. Badger looks like he’s trying to fly.’

  With a hint of impatience, Reverend Musty replied from the open doorway, ‘Pardon, Isabel? What do you mean? Now I think we really must go. We’re going to get soaked but that’s the way it is. Say goodnight to Mr. Badger.’ With that said he stepped back into the hallway, took hold of Isabel’s hand and pulled her into the night rain.

  Though the fire had maintained a comfortable heat, it seemed colder without the room’s former occupants. Stubb returned from his bedroom to find that all of the guests had gone save Mr. String, who was involved in chasing a foreign speck in his drink with his finger.

  Eleanor was gazing into the fireplace, perhaps too afraid to look at Theodore for he was pouring himself a glass of port. Stubb was transfixed; he could not drag his sight from the glass. Theodore held the concoction up to the light of one of the gas lamps and Stubb held his breath; then Mr. String walked out of the room, thinking of higher pleasures, followed by the intoxicated butler.

  ‘An exquisite drink. A toast to both of you,’ Theodore said loudly. He sent the glass at arm’s length in a semicircle about him and brought it to his lips and Stubb heard a clink as it touched his teeth. Theodore paused. Stubb was on the verge of crying out. His father lowered the glass and rang the bell twice. The butler appeared again, surprisingly quickly. ‘Pump, get my best cigars, and both of you – you’re not drinking. Where are your glasses?’

  The butler left yet again to leave Theodore smirking at his son and daughter-in-law.

  ‘Yes, let’s get a drink,’ said Stubb to his wife, his voice shaking uncontrollably.

  ‘That would be nice,’ Eleanor answered in a surprisingly calm manner.

  When they had finished pouring drinks from a bottle of red wine, Pump returned, clutching a pine box. He lifted the lid and offered the selection of cigars to Theodore who carefully selected one after much consideration as though choosing a particular chocolate. The butler bowed, leaving the room in an ungainly fashion, and headed for the cellar.

  Theodore bit the end from the plump cigar and spat it into an ashtray beside him. ‘Must keep the place tidy,’ he chuckled. He lit the cigar with a taper, the flame taken from one of the candles in a candelabra on a side table, and after pumping volumes of smoke, raised the glass to his lips once more. ‘Here’s to an excellent party,’ he declared and he consumed all the liquid in the glass in one swift movement. Stubb and Eleanor were as sculptures, motionless and staring. Theodore smacked his lips and looked inquisitively to his son. ‘What in diamond’s name has got into you?’

  ‘Nothing, I mean, what do you mean?’

  ‘You’re not drinking, boy.’

  Stubb took a sip quickly and with a shaking hand he dropped the glass and it smashed onto the carpet, leaving a pool of blood red wine by his feet; and then his father stood upright.

  CHAPTER 15

  A Death

  ‘I AM AFRAID I don’t feel very well,’ Theodore muttered and he touched his mouth gently and coughed as though clearing his throat. But then, wheezing and gasping for breath, he fell onto his knees. He swallowed constantly and gulped in air to his heaving chest. ‘I can’t breathe,’ he croaked, clutching and clawing at his throat. His eyeballs rolled upwards, leaving the bloodshot whites of his eyes twitching. His tongue hung from his mouth like an obscene red slash. He gurgled and tried to push fingers into his throat while the other hand still grasped at his stout neck. He fell clumsily, face-down, onto the carpet as his rasping breath became shortened and laboured. He stretched out his arms; with a fearful cry of agony his whole bulk overturned ponderously like some great ship sinking beneath the sea and – limbs pulled as far away from his body as was possible – the arms and legs flayed about like a beetle on its back. Then, with his inflamed eyes staring and his mouth gaping open and dribbling, his tongue lolling and his belly heaving, he emitted a shrill shriek. So sharp and sudden was the shriek that it turned Stubb’s limbs to water; so acute and abrupt that it seemed to take on solid form and hang in the room like a serrated rag, then to vanish as quickly as it had appeared. His back arched so that only his head and heels of his brown shoes touched the floor until his weight dropped and he became limp.

  Theodore lay on the carpet, motionless.

  Eleanor peeked through her fingers that were plastered across her wide eyes. ‘Is he?’ was all she whispered.

  Stubb could not answer. What had he done? Watching his father’s death throes, he had seen it as an unreal dream but as he stared hard at the body of Theodore on the drawing room carpet, the reality exposed itself in a vicious instant. He, too, fell to his knees like his father before him and wept bitterly, his eyes stinging.

  Eleanor held his quivering head to her side while stroking one of his impressive sideburns and said, ‘There, there, William, all over. The old slimy cockroach is dead. He wasn’t real anyway. It’s all ours now. It was always ours, wasn’t it? Our palace stolen from us. We have everything again. I have my Alastair. We’re going to be so happy.’ She grinned when an idea came to her. ‘We’ll sell the rotten insect collection in the loft. Dead creatures can’t help. I’m sure it’s worth a bit.’

  Stubb stood and drained the liquid from Eleanor’s glass and he wiped his face with the back of his hand. ‘What do we do now?’ he whined, clutching his sideburns.

  ‘Get rid of this damned insect, that’s what,’ Eleanor hissed and she bent down to Theodore’s pocket watch which dangled onto the floor, unbuttoned the chain and placed the watch into her cardigan pocket.

  The door swung open and Stubb gasped. Eleanor blinked at Mr. String who was chuckling as though he had heard a rude joke. ‘My dear William and Mrs. Stubb,’ he said, ‘I cannot express how much I have enjoyed myself but all good things must come to an end. I’ll be taking my leave over yonder hills. Where is Theodore? I must thank him also.’ He glanced down and his sight fixed onto the prostrate body on the floor behind Stubb and Eleanor.

  ‘Oh,’ he said simply. Stubb shouted gibberish and Eleanor put a hand to her mouth; Mr. String began to laugh. ‘I knew the old boy had a bit too much, even for him. Told him to watch it,’
he said.

  Eleanor was quick to take the opportunity of the moment. ‘You wouldn’t help us to get the poorly insect up to a spare room, would you, Archie?’ She pouted her lips and fluttered her eyelashes then pointed to her large mound.

  ‘Why, of course,’ Mr. String replied. He gave a short bow and with a dry chuckle he skipped over to the body of Theodore. He was joined by Stubb who was shaking gently.

  ‘I say, are you alright? You look a bit green around the gills.’ Stubb nodded. ‘Let me see now,’ said Mr. String, ‘I’ll take his head and you can take the legs,’ and before Stubb could argue the barrister’s clerk was heaving Theodore from the floor with his hands under the man’s armpits. Stubb gripped his father’s ankles and with a loud, ‘Heave ho!’ from Mr. String, they lifted Theodore, and both grimacing with the effort, carried him out into the hall, leaving Eleanor in the drawing room.

  ‘By Jove, he’s a dead weight,’ Mr. String remarked. Stubb grinned weakly.

  Taking the proceedings at a slow pace, they carried the body to half way up the staircase whereupon they propped Theodore on one of the steps. They rested. Stubb suggested that they should change ends and thus done they carried on. It was when Stubb’s shaking arm muscles gave way and Theodore’s head was dropped with a dry thud on the edge of the banister that Mr. String said, ‘Careful, old boy. A bit of life left in the old man yet.’ They both wiped their brows and continued their task. Upon reaching the landing it was agreed that after carrying fifteen stones of weight between them up a flight of stairs they deserved another rest. Theodore’s eyes were open though the pupils had given way to white; he gazed sightlessly to the spiral staircase that led to the attic. Dribbles of saliva were drying on his chin. Stubb groaned when he thought he saw his father’s chest rise and fall but he knew it was a trick of the dusky shadows. Ignoring the remark from Mr. String of ‘He’s gone a most peculiar colour, don’t you think?’ Stubb watched closely, and sure enough Theodore’s chest was still.

  ‘We’ll put him on a spare bed,’ Stubb decided and felt he needed to add, ‘he can sleep it off there.’