The Unusual Possession of Alastair Stubb

by David John Griffin

  Now that he was awake, he decided that he should not waste the opportunity to bury the rabbit. It didn’t seem too cold, despite the white layer of snow covering all, glowing in the moonlight. He went back into the shed and fetched the dead animal, and hung the slim form from his belt. With spade in hand, he trudged across the snow, heading for the pear tree.

  Stubb awoke with a start and sat up, brushing aside the sacking. A noise: the key slowly revolving in the lock. He stood and placed himself at the side of the door with his back and arms flat against the rough plastered wall.

  It was then that he decided to light the lamp and position it on the other side of the entrance so that he would see the enemy clearly, with himself hidden in shadow. He fumbled in a pocket and brought out a box of matches. And at the same time as the thick timbered door clicked open, he struck a match. There was a low, sugary voice, calling softly. ‘Eleanor my beauty, it is I, Theodore. I have come back for you as I promised. I know you are calmer now amongst our friends. We’ll find our little baby together.’

  Stubb was surprised at his father’s words and had not realized that the lit match had slipped from his fingers onto the dry sacking. It caught light and burnt a hole quickly, a bright circle of flame. The door opened wider and from a strand of moonlight that came through the window at the end of the attic, Stubb could see his father made silver with a leering smile upon his lips and his arms waving and outstretched. ‘My darling Eleanor, here amongst our family. Not kept for long, were you?’

  Stubb pounced and grabbed Theodore by the wrists and with all of his strength pulled him into the attic. As Theodore tottered over the floorboards and fell heavily against a presentation case, Stubb ran out onto the landing and then, pulling the door shut behind him, turned the key. His father had given a yelp of surprise and a groan when he had hit the boards. He picked himself up, touching his nose and chin gently, stepping over to the door. ‘Eleanor, stop playing games,’ he said loudly. ‘Be a good girl and let me out.’ He did not wait for an answer for long tongues of flame appeared suddenly as they consumed the sacking and ate the dark shadows in the corner of the room. He shouted but Stubb did not want to hear for he was already in the first floor corridor looking for his wife.

  ‘Fire, fire! Let me out!’ pleaded Theodore, a panic engrained within his being. He began to stamp on the sacking but already the flame had lit a pile of old papers and was singeing the sawdust and running quickly along the ancient dry wood of the bookcase on the back wall. As he wafted some of the newspapers in an attempt to extinguish them, the fire was taking a firmer hold of the books at a surprising rate, aided by a small fireball made as the sacking and newspapers and heap of dirtied sawdust that had not been cleared away, burst into golden light. Now burning on one side of the bookcase, the summit was almost reached and the top rows of antique leather volumes began to burn, along with the rest there, producing a peculiar odour, making the bookcase crack and creak. Theodore ran to the case and clawed at the books, trying to pat out the blaze with the palms of his hands but even as he did so, the fire was spreading the more. And throwing the smouldering volumes to the floor only made matters worse as the parched layer of sawdust caught alight, sending fingers of flame in all directions over the floorboards, the smaller particles of sawdust popping and sparking like fireworks. Theodore ran to the casement window at the other end of the attic in a frantic attempt to find some implement to beat out the fire, but there was nothing. The flaming tongues had taken a firm hold of the bookcase and it burned with a steady light. It was becoming hotter from the timber and paper and wood chips being eaten by the fire. Theodore pulled off his jacket and tie and undid the top buttons of his shirt. He whimpered and stood dazed, wasting valuable time, hypnotized by the dancing and flickering swords of light.

  Prompted into action again he ran back to the bookcase and pulled out more of the burning volumes and threw them to the floor. The fire coursed across the floorboards and had reached the other bookcases and the scattered piles of journals and documents. Flames were gaining strength in one half of the attic and he cried out. The blaze flexed its orange muscles in reply and licked greedily with its many spikes of yellows and reds as the fiery form became stronger still. Bottles of ether, formaldehyde and isopropyl alcohol fell from their burning shelves, some rolling away, others shattering upon impact with the floor, their preserved contents of slugs, frogs and other small animals scattered, the great puddles of flammable liquid immediately igniting before they could seep into the wood and gaps of the floor.

  Theodore ran to the entrance again and hammered with his fists upon the door and threw horrified glances behind. With a mighty whooshing the bookcase at the back there burst into a solid wall of flame. The fire which had crawled across the floor began to lick at the legs of some of his presentation cases containing their dessicated contents. He ran over to the new fiery offspring, shielding himself from the hot wall of light and he stamped upon burning floorboards. He was forced to step back as more of the legs of the cases soaked in flammable liquid caught alight, the flames spreading quickly over them. There was a loud report as one of the panes that covered his collection cracked with the heat.

  Flickering spikes danced and jeered before him and at one point in the room had gained such a hold as to brush the rafters of the roof. Cobwebs there shrivelled in the heat and dry twigs of one of the old nests caught alight.

  The bookcase burned avidly now and sent out showers of sparks that danced and twirled in the hot air like fireflies. A reeking stench and billows of thick smoke was the prelude to total conflagration. Theodore rattled the door handle and bellowed at the top of his voice until he was exhausted. Resigned to death by cremation, he slumped onto the floorboards like a crumpled doll, his fingers raw and bleeding and his eyes staring and bloodshot. The side of his face and his hands were badly burnt. Jumping shadows mocked the flames by casting their spider legs over the walls and rafters, following the waving and twirling movements of the fire.

  Theodore cowered under his workbench and sucked on a stinging hand and in perfect unison a bead of sweat and a tear fell to the floor.

  Bright light glowed from the attic window and smoke swelled out in cumulations before vanishing into the night. Brood threw the spade down to the bare earth he had uncovered and hurriedly grabbed a bucket which stood on the snow-smothered patio before loping across and over to the kitchen door. He could see the gas lamp in the kitchen was lit. He beat urgently upon the door pane and blew into his hands and stamped his feet. The temperature was becoming too cold again for his liking. ‘Come on, come on,’ he muttered. He crouched and peered into the kitchen through a slit that the window blind did not cover. He could see the edge of the stove and the row of pans but, by pressing his nose harder onto the cold frosted glass and twisting his head, he saw Stubb slumped across the pine table. Brood beat upon the door again and rattled the handle.

  Stubb’s eyes sprang open. He cursed bitterly for allowing sleep to lure him away from his search for Eleanor. He looked at his watch. Five minutes had been lost. ‘Alright, I’m coming,’ he said irritably. Then he brightened suddenly. Had Theodore locked Eleanor out of the house; was she trying to get back in? When he had unlocked and opened the door, the gardener pushed past him and went straight to the hand pump. He furiously worked the handle while scowling at Stubb. The water gurgled and Brood, placing the bucket under the now spurting spout, demanded, ‘Don’t stand there, you. More buckets, anything. Fire in the attic.’

  Stubb stared for a second but then was motivated into action, and scuttled across the kitchen into the utility room in search of more receptacles. He found two more buckets there which he left for Brood to fill, insisting the new sink taps were used instead of the hand pump in the kitchen. But already the gardener was moving fast and was standing by the carving of the stag beetle in the hallway. He ripped the rabbit carcass hanging from under his belt and flung in into the corner by the hallway mirror. On he went up the stairs with the two filled bu
ckets and, at the same moment, Stubb wrenched open the door to the cellar: more buckets and helpers were needed.

  Pump was asleep in his domain, curled under a moth-holed blanket. Stubb shook him violently and kicked his feet. The butler grunted and yawned and upon opening his eyes and seeing Stubb standing over him, fought his way from the blanket and staggered to his feet. ‘Sir,’ he said wearily, ‘I haven’t been drinking, honest.’

  ‘Never mind that now, man, there’s a fire in the attic.’ Pump looked blank-faced. Once Stubb had taken an iron bucket from a corner of the cellar and pushed it into the butler’s hands, he began to run back up the steps.

  Pump remained where he was standing. ‘What’s this for?’ he questioned, holding the article away from him as though frightened of it.

  ‘For water, you idiot. Now come on, hurry.’

  The bucket fell to the rough stone floor with a clatter and Pump’s body shook. He crammed his fingers in his mouth and whined, ‘Water? No, I won’t come. I can’t help you, sir. Can’t stand the stuff.’ Frozen with fear, he held tightly onto one of the wine racks as though expecting Stubb to drag him away.

  Stubb could not waste any more time. He sneered and shouted, ‘You snivelling baby. You haven’t heard the last of this.’

  Returning to the kitchen he found that Brood had still not returned and so quickly filled two buckets with water.

  It was then that he heard loud footsteps clattering down the stairs, barking and grunting and squealing as if made by animals, then a pause, followed by the front door singing on its hinges before the sudden slamming noise as it was shut in haste…

  Stubb took the two filled buckets to follow in the gardener’s footsteps, water slopping onto the marble tiles of the hallway as he went. The front door seemed to beckon. ‘Eleanor,’ he cried out for he guessed that from wherever she had been hiding in the house, she had now run out in terror.

  The attic room blazed with light. The rafters smouldered and the bookcase and books were ablaze and the insect cases crackled furiously. The floorboards burned and there was choking smoke. It was very hot. The gardener had flung his buckets of water onto one of the bookcases and although the fire had ceased in a section it had spluttered angrily then burst into flame again. Stubb threw his water load over the floor. A stinking fog of blackness was produced and it grew to fill the room.

  ‘Brood, more water,’ he shouted above the roaring of the fire. Both left the attic, coughing and with their eyes streaming.

  It became such that whilst one was fetching filled buckets the other fought the flames and thus a crude rota system was formed. The stair carpet was drenched where, in their hurry, water had been slopped down its length. Brood suggested that the water would be more easily obtained from the bathroom. Stubb agreed and wondered why he had not thought of that before.

  Stubb felt that they were fighting a losing battle for, upon throwing their bucket load onto the fire, it would die but then spring up again in another part of the attic. Both laboured boldly, soot and dirt smearing their faces, their arms and legs aching and their bodies heavy with exhaustion. When the blaze seemed firmly under their control, they allowed themselves to rest for a few minutes only.

  It was after half an hour that the fire was finally vanquished though even then it hung onto life by a thread. As Brood and Stubb stood gazing forlornly at the wreckage, a spark would wink weakly and then flare into life but only to be drenched by water from a filled bucket at hand. Wreaths of gauzy smoke drifted, the rest having made its way through the opened window and burned holes in the roof. Some of the roof tiles lay about them amongst the debris. The gardener rubbed his smarting eyes.

  The books lay half eaten by fire or scorched on the sooty floor and on the blackened remains of the bookcases. The room held an acrid stench. Scraps of paper that had been shrivelled to a wafer thin ash would float and drop to the ground and disintegrate. A large gaping hole had been made in the charred floorboards and much of the floor was unsafe to walk upon. The insect collection was destroyed, if not by the fire then by the two who had fought valiantly to save the attic and thus the whole house from burning to the ground.

  To curtail the progression of the flames, cases had been hacked from the floor with an axe and flung into corners of the room which had been untouched by the blaze. Shrivelled paper, charcoal and exotic butterflies, caterpillars and beetles – insects of all shapes and sizes – lay scattered throughout the room, burned, charred, squashed or black with soot.

  Stubb wiped his brow with a dirty hand, smearing more soot onto his grimy face. He glanced at Brood who had acquired a similar disguise.

  ‘Theodore,’ said Stubb as he gazed mournfully at the mess. Where could he have gone? How had he escaped? If he had been consumed by the fire there would surely have been some remains.

  ‘Where is the master, you?’ asked Brood suspiciously. He remembered the noises that he heard coming from the attic.

  Stubb thought quickly. ‘He was called away tonight on urgent matters. God knows what he’s going to say about his insects. They were his life’s work.’ The gardener nodded slowly. Then Stubb said, ‘Brood, was the attic door locked when you first came up here?’

  The gardener appeared confused by the question but finally answered, ‘When I got here, the door was wide open.’ He turned and said, apparently to the charred rafters, black and stark above him, ‘I think it’s wise we all get some rest, you.’

  Stubb nodded in agreement, too tired even to answer. They filed out of the fire-swept attic. Stubb was the last to leave and he looked at the destruction for a few seconds but hid it by slamming the charred door shut. How did Theodore escape? he wondered again. Where was Eleanor?

  CHAPTER 21

  Aftermath

  WINTER PREPARED TO leave the village to aggravate warmer parts of the country; although it left an acquaintance of rain to ensure that Muchmarsh did not give welcome to the next season yet awhile. A dull day was marked by starlings studding the bare trees on the village green, the silhouettes of the birds on those branches looking like black pods of seaweed.

  Stubb sat on a settee in the front room of Mr Nuckle’s terraced house. ‘There was nothing else I could have done,’ he said and shrugged.

  Mr. Nuckle screwed up his nose and scratched his ear. ‘To be honest with you, Mr. Stubb, I hadn’t wanted to do the job anyway, seeing as I am going into the catering trade.’ He rubbed his hands together as if in excitement at the prospect. Both men sat in silence until Nuckle said, ‘And you say that arrangements for your father’s body are no longer needed because there is no body?’

  ‘Yes, I told you, the police have no qualms about the matter. As far as they are concerned everything is cleared up. The letter that Theodore left behind before he emigrated explained all.’ It had taken him many hours to forge the writing though he had been pleased with the fictional story which read as fact; a persuasive result. ‘So no dead body.’

  That’s most strange after your insistence of a corpse, but if you are happy.’ Stubb grimaced while Mr. Nuckle continued, ‘And now that you’re leaving, what’s to happen to the servants? If you don’t mind me saying, all the years they’ve been there; just asking, just wondering.’

  ‘When they heard I’m selling the manor house – to Dr. Snippet – a few threatened me. Would you believe it? They spun the old story, you know – they had been there for years, dedicating their lives to the Stubb household; they deserved more than that; they had nowhere else to work. But with money considerations offered and with persuasion most of them went without trouble.’

  ‘Most of them?’

  ‘Look, can we move this column thing out of the way, I’m getting a stiff neck with peering around it.’

  ‘If we must,’ Nuckle replied and he moved the large sprays of blooms in their vase from the top of the wooden plinth, placing that on the floor next to others, and moved the plinth to the side.

  Stubb sneezed while watching the fine pollen and fragments of dried le
aves floating in shafts of light that came through the front sash window into the room seemingly dedicated to horticulture. They moved as bright spots within the sun’s ray like stray molecules, or tiny organisms swimming under a microscope.

  ‘Thanks. Now where were we? Oh, yes: most of them. Your friend Brood was particularly difficult.’ Stubb pointed with the cigarette to his puffed and blackened eye. ‘Well anyway,’ he said. ‘Thanks for the coffee. It’s a very nice beverage; much different from tea, isn’t it? I must be away soon. I’m to view a certain property again this morning.’

  ‘Where are you going to live now, Mr. Stubb? I mean to say, what with your recuperating wife and a baby to support you’ll be after a fair-sized place, I expect.’

  Stubb stared dreamily to the scattered petals strewn over the floor. ‘Just me and the child, with the help of a registered nurse,’ he answered. ‘The sudden disappearance of my father has, I am afraid to say, had an adverse effect upon my wife’s health. She has always been very sensitive. She is getting better, at her Uncle Thomas’s in Smudge.’ Stubb blinked rapidly and uncontrollably while speaking the lie.

  ‘I see. Let us hope she recovers soon,’ replied Mr. Nuckle. ‘By the by, what are you both to call the little one?’

  Stubb’s mouth distorted into an unknown expression. He had thought long about the name and was certain that Eleanor, wherever she might be, would be more than happy with his final decision.

  Stubb was about to answer when his good hand dropped to his side. Then feeling a newspaper in the settee on which he sat, he casually withdrew it, hoping to use the article as an excuse to ignore any more questions.