Let's Kill Uncle

by Rohan O'Grady; Rohan O’Grady

  ‘Today? Nothing, honest, Sergeant,’ he stammered.

  Christie paled.

  ‘You’re a desperate-looking pair,’ said Sergeant Coulter, laughing. ‘Been plotting any dreadful crimes? Watch your ps and qs or Constable Browning and I will be after you.’

  He reached into his pocket and brought them out a package of gum each. Turning to go into the store, he paused, then walked back to them.

  ‘Say, listen, when the hunters and dogs start arriving, you two will have to stay indoors. Understand?’

  They nodded, but when he again turned to leave them, Christie stepped forward and grabbed him by his sleeve.

  ‘Well?’ he said, puzzled.

  She remained silent and looked to Barnaby.

  ‘Sergeant,’ said Barnaby hesitantly, ‘when is it going to be a full moon?’

  The questions children ask.

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Sergeant Coulter, ‘soon, I think. Why?’

  Christie still clung to his sleeve.

  ‘With the rain,’ she said in a quavering voice, ‘with the rain and the clouds now, you can’t see the moon at night.’

  ‘Well, don’t worry, it’s still there.’

  They nodded non-committally, thanked him for the gum and shuffled off toward the war monument.

  He stood for a second watching them. What a pitiful-looking little pair of mugs they were in those clothes. Some-how and suddenly he felt terribly sorry for them. They looked so tiny and helpless and lost.

  ‘Hey!’ he called. ‘I’ll check about the moon in my tide book. You ask me later, okay?’

  They gave him a wan smile, waved, and like two old pensioners, sat wearily on the step of the monument.

  Christie examined her gum and tossed it to Barnaby in disgust.

  ‘Peppermint,’ she said.

  Barnaby, as always, crammed the ten sticks in his mouth, and with a titanic effort, managed to chew them.

  They sat watching Mr Duncan, laden with a pack of feed, walking up from the dock. He glanced grumpily at them as he passed, and once his back was to them Barnaby shoved the gum into one cheek in a hideous manner, while Christie crossed her eyes like an idiot and let her tongue hang on her chin.

  Barnaby sighed and took the gum from his mouth.

  ‘Listen,’ he said finally, ‘you’re sure you remember all I told you about how to shoot the gun?’

  Christie nodded.

  ‘Don’t forget to hold it tight to your shoulder. If anything happens to me, don’t get scared and forget. Just keep calm and shoot him.’

  ‘Why are you so worried about me?’ asked Christie.

  ‘Oh, I’m not,’ he said, tossing the lump of gum up and down. ‘I just want to make sure if I get killed, he goes too.’

  Christie nodded understandingly.

  ‘We haven’t much time,’ he continued. ‘I’m sure it’s either tonight or tomorrow night. I guess tonight would be the best time.’

  Christie trembled. They were both terrified now that the actual commission of the crime was at hand, and if they had had any way of escaping from the Island to avoid the murder, they would have.

  To make matters worse, during the last couple of days Uncle’s schedule had been most erratic. He was always buzzing off and on the Island, and he had also taken to rambling happily along the beaches and sprinting up and down the steep cliffs with the air of a large, friendly mountain goat.

  ‘We’ll hide in the bushes on the way to the cottage,’ said Barnaby. ‘With any luck he’s bound to pass by, and with all the hunters on the Island, nobody will notice the shot.’

  How little they knew. Uncle had exactly the same plan in mind, except he was far too cunning to use a gun.

  ‘Do you think they’ll get One-ear?’ asked Christie.

  Barnaby shook his head.

  ‘I don’t think so. He’s been hunted before and they never caught him. He’s too smart to sit around and wait to get killed. Once he hears those dogs, he’ll beat it.’

  But One-ear had no intention of leaving. In common with Uncle and other wild animals, he also was affected by the moon, and he too planned a murder, a murder he had long wished to execute.

  Barnaby stood up.

  ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘Let’s go over to Mr Duncan’s field and get some apples. Those hard yellow ones are ripe now.’

  Christie shook her head. She was afraid of the Iron Duke who was tethered in that very field.

  The rain drizzled quietly down on them.

  ‘Well, we can’t sit here all day. Let’s go and play with One-ear.’

  ‘All right,’ said Christie in a flat voice. All the verve and bounce of childhood seemed to have gone out of them.

  Clad in their soggy, flowing vestments, they walked to the forest. The rain had stopped temporarily, but their legs were chilled by the water-laden grasses, and when they jarred against bushes, cool showers sprinkled down the backs of their necks.

  It was a discouraged-looking pair that found One-ear.

  Barnaby and Christie stopped and stared at him strangely. Something was the matter with One-ear. They looked at each other, then back to him.

  What was it?

  One-ear, for the first time since they had met him, was happy. He was extremely pleased with himself.

  He purred when he saw them and rubbed his big head against Christie’s shoulder, knocking her down. He leaped into the air, swatting a drifting leaf, and chased his tail like a kitten. His creamy breast was stained with blood, and there were shreds of flesh between his claws.

  A grouse, looking like a damp, cross dowager, skittered along the path, its tail outspread and its head held high.

  One-ear purred louder than ever and sprang after it.

  His eyes were no longer green; a hidden black demon expanded the pupils. His tail, usually so supple, was stiff, and his body was one line of deadly grace.

  The children drew back. This was not the One-ear who crankily allowed them to maul him. This was a cruel One-ear whose sustained mirth frightened them.

  One-ear leaped six feet in the air, and the startled grouse disintegrated into a puff of gory, blowing feathers. Rippling with feline humour and lazy ease, the cougar turned to the children.

  They drew back even farther. They had seen murder, and the forest was full of apples and serpents. It was the end of innocence, for they knew now that One-ear would never, never like cinnamon buns.

  With dragging feet and downcast eyes they arrived at the goat-lady’s for lunch. Because of the chilly rain, she had prepared a hot meal for them, with one of their favourite dishes, baked macaroni. She took it from the oven, bubbling with golden cheese, and set it before them, accompanied by the salad they liked best, chopped fried bacon, lettuce and onion, tossed with a tart dressing.

  Instead of the usual ohs and ahs, they merely picked at the meal listlessly, and when she brought out the dessert, a creamy rice pudding, they shook their heads and pushed their plates away.

  The change in the weather was affecting even them, reflected the goat-lady, and she did not urge them to eat more. After she had cleared the table, they sat staring at each other.

  ‘What’ll we do now?’ sighed Christie.

  Would they, asked the goat-lady, like to play checkers, or cards, or perhaps draw pictures?

  They settled for cards, but they bickered so fretfully and accused each other of cheating so often that they gave up.

  Barnaby sat swinging violently and noisily in the rocking chair, while Christie, perched on the black leather sofa, teased Tom with a dangling piece of string until he reached out and scratched her. She whined peevishly and said she hated cats when the goat-lady put iodine on the wound.

  Finally, at her wits’ end trying to amuse them, the goat-lady decided Mrs Brooks could have the pleasure of their company for a while. She gave them a bag of cookies and told them to take it to Mrs Brooks for tea. They could, she added, have some on the way, if they wished.

  It was raining heavily again, and t
hey had nearly finished the cookies by the time they reached the store. Although the store itself was deserted, the potbellied stove in the center was roaring cheerfully, and they could hear Mr Brooks bustling about in the parlour.

  They took off their squelchy, wet running shoes and put them on a chair before the stove to dry, then, like a pair of tired mice, they crept onto a pile of clothing under the counter and munched the remainder of the cookies.

  The bell on the door rang and Mr Brooks came dashing from the back.

  ‘Ah, Sergeant Coulter. Everything ready?’

  ‘Just about,’ replied the Mountie. ‘Do you mind if we use the store as a meeting place?’

  ‘Not at all. Have you time for a cup of tea?’

  ‘No, thank you.’ Sergeant Coulter spread a map of the Island on the counter. ‘There’ll be six hunting parties, so I’ve split the Island into six sections, we’re sure to get him that way. They should be arriving in about half an hour. By the way, keep the children in, either here or at Mrs Nielsen’s. We don’t want any accidents. Oh, yes, I nearly forgot. Tell them I checked in my tide book and it’s a full moon tonight.’

  The bell on the door rang again, and Agnes Duncan, dishevelled, flushed and strangely elated, came running in.

  ‘Come quickly,’ she gasped, grabbing Sergeant Coulter’s arm. ‘Something terrible has happened.’

  As they ran from the store, leaving Mr Brooks with his mouth open, in came Uncle.

  ‘Dear me,’ said Uncle, ‘what is all the commotion about? A pound of sugar and some matches, please.’

  ‘It’s One-ear,’ said Mr Brooks. ‘There’s a cougar on the Island and they think it’s One-ear. He may have been here for weeks, Major, and we didn’t even know it. The hunting parties will be arriving soon.’

  ‘Tsk, tsk,’ said Uncle.

  ‘I suppose you’ve done a lot of hunting yourself, Major. Will you be joining the guns this afternoon?’

  ‘Good gracious, no!’ cried Uncle in a shocked voice. ‘I’m terrified of guns, they make me very nervous. War, you know. Can’t bear killing of any sort. No stomach for it.’

  Mr Brooks looked relieved.

  ‘I’m exactly the same way,’ he confided.

  Behind their dark glasses, Uncle’s mad eyes settled on the two pairs of shoes before the fire.

  What an extraordinary piece of luck! He had planned to take them off the bodies later, but this was much better. Timing was always of prime importance, and this gave him a little edge.

  Uncle was warming his hands before the fire in a leisurely manner when Mr Brooks handed him his parcel.

  ‘If you’ll excuse me, Major, I think I hear Mrs Brooks calling.’

  ‘Of course, of course,’ said Uncle. ‘Such chilly weather.’

  He watched Mr Brooks disappear behind the swinging beaded curtains. He left carrying his package, and, carefully concealed under his coat, two pairs of other small items.

  Emerging from their hiding place, the children went to get their shoes.

  ‘They’re gone,’ said Christie turning to Barnaby.

  ‘Uncle,’ said Barnaby.

  ‘But what would anyone want with a couple of pairs of old running shoes? Mine had a hole right through the sole.’

  Barnaby shrugged. He was so accustomed to Uncle’s fullmoon eccentricities that they hardly bore mentioning.

  ‘Probably so we can’t run so fast when he tries to kill us,’ he said.

  ‘Oh,’ said Christie in a faint little voice, and put a trembling hand to her lips. ‘I’m scared, Barnaby. Let’s tell Sergeant Coulter again.’

  ‘What’s the use? He wouldn’t believe us now, any more than he did the last time. Besides, he’s too busy trying to catch One-ear. He’d just tell us not to bother him.’

  Christie’s common sense took over.

  ‘You’re right,’ she said in a brusque manner. ‘Besides, Uncle isn’t going to kill us, we’re going to kill him. And it doesn’t make any difference about the shoes, it’s practically like going barefoot wearing them anyway. Say, what are we going to do about being kept in for the rest of the day?’

  ‘Easy,’ said Barnaby. ‘We tell Mr and Mrs Brooks we’re going to Auntie’s, and we tell Auntie we’ll be at the store.’

  THE PRIDE OF THE ISLAND was dead, murdered in a savage battle with One-ear.

  Mr Duncan wept, Agnes rejoiced and the Islanders mourned.

  Sergeant Coulter, surveying the scene of slaughter, looked grimmer than usual. He leaned down and inspected the telltale front paw pug and then gazed sadly at the remains of the bull.

  Chained as he was, the mighty Duke had not had a chance, and Albert, who detested foul play, nodded to himself. By tomorrow afternoon, he silently vowed, One-ear would be on his way to a taxidermist in Victoria.

  Squaring his shoulders, he went back to the wharf to greet the men and hounds.

  By two o’clock a dozen vessels were moored to the float beside the wharf. From gas boats, speedboats and launches poured baying hounds and lean, gun-bearing men. Sergeant Coulter and the provincial game warden directed them up to the store, and half an hour later the various parties split up to begin covering the Island.

  All afternoon, from every point on the Island, the two frightened children could hear the signal shots and the echoes of barking, snarling dogs. At six o’clock a member of each party came to the store to take back sandwiches and hot coffee for the hunters.

  There was an almost festive air in the store, with Mrs Brooks and Agnes busy cutting bread and opening tins of corned beef. The old Islanders, clad in ancient deerstalkers and gaiters, were caught up in the spirit of the hunt and, briskly swinging their walking sticks, they dropped by for news.

  The dogs were still fresh, said the men, and had picked up the scent. The rain made it difficult, but the hunters felt confident they would track him down in the next couple of hours. Once treed, he was finished, for the dogs would tear him apart alive if he came down.

  The children sat quietly, listening. They tried to keep their minds on One-ear’s fate, but they found it almost impossible. It would begin to get dark between eight and nine, and in just a little over two hours they had a man-sized job on their hands and they knew it.

  The aura of excitement that hung over the usually quiet Island did nothing to calm their already taut nerves and they sat with their fists clenched, unable to eat or relax, and wondering how they could possibly bear another two hours of tension.

  Like everyone else on the Island, they were shocked that One-ear had killed the Iron Duke. It struck them as a brutal, senseless act, and try as they would, they found it difficult to justify One-ear’s behaviour.

  ‘It serves him right, and I don’t care. It serves him right. He’s as bad as Uncle,’ whispered Barnaby.

  He turned to Christie.

  ‘I don’t care,’ he repeated.

  ‘You do too,’ said Christie. ‘And he’s not like Uncle. That’s the way cougars are supposed to act. Uncle’s bad because he pretends to be a real person.’

  ‘Maybe they won’t catch him,’ said Barnaby hopefully.

  As the minutes ticked on, they wished desperately that they knew where either Sergeant Coulter or Uncle was. Barnaby whispered that Uncle was probably out looking for them, and the smartest thing they could do would be to get the gun and hide in the bushes now, even though it was still daylight.

  Christie was all for going home to the safety and comfort of her bed and murdering Uncle some other night.

  ‘You’re not backing out now,’ her companion informed her. ‘Because I’m not, and as long as I’m not, you’re not, whether you like it or not. It was your idea and you’re going to stick with it.’

  ‘I’m not trying to back out!’ said Christie indignantly. ‘It’s just that I’m so scared!’

  ‘You think I’m not? And if you think you’ll be safe at Auntie’s if he’s made up his mind to do it tonight, you’re crazy. I told you, you don’t know what he’s like. I’ve seen him do
things - ’

  He stopped, his firm little mouth clamped together.

  ‘All right, all right,’ said Christie. ‘We’d better tell Mr and Mrs Brooks we’re going to Auntie’s.’

  Mrs Brooks did not like the idea at all. They were supposed to stay indoors until One-ear was shot, that was what Sergeant Coulter had said.

  But they would be indoors, once they got to Auntie’s, they insisted, and they would walk only on the roads and it would take them only fifteen minutes. Please, please, it was so hot and stuffy in the store, and they’d been in all afternoon.

  Mrs Brooks consulted Mr Brooks. Well, said Mr Brooks, there was no place for Christie to sleep at the store, so she would have to go home sometime anyway. Barnaby could go with her, if they went straight to the goat-lady’s, and stayed inside, and Barnaby would have to spend the night there.

  Mr Brooks paused. Still, he said, he didn’t like to bother Mrs Nielsen, and it didn’t seem right to send Barnaby there without first asking her.

  ‘Oh, she won’t mind,’ cried Christie. ‘Barnaby can sleep on the black leather sofa, and Auntie would never let him go out to walk home by himself in the dark.’

  So they received permission to leave the store, and they left, with no intention of going to Auntie’s.

  They decided to hunt for a suitable spot in the bushes from which they could waylay Uncle, and once having found it they would sneak back to the church for the gun.

  They found a place not too heavily overgrown, and with a good view of the path, at the same time still affording them a certain amount of seclusion.

  ‘This is as good as anything we’ll find,’ whispered Christie.

  Barnaby raised and turned his head in a curious fashion.

  ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘Do you smell cigar smoke?’ he whispered.

  Christie sniffed and shook her head.

  ‘I guess maybe I’m imagining it.’ He sounded relieved. ‘Come on, let’s get the gun.’

  Christie was worried in case someone saw them. There were people all over the Island now.

  It was a chance they would have to take, said Barnaby. Everything would be okay once they were hidden with the gun.