by Tony Lewis
“Not likely,” answered Noah, testing the earthen walls with a few well-placed slaps. “Grave diggers are usually quite conscientious when it comes to leaving vast, open death-traps in the ground. And I think you'll find that the large mound of earth that you're standing next to is a bit of a giveaway. Gertie, love, have a look around to see if you can find something I can use to get out of here, will you please?”
“Okay. Like what?”
“A ladder or some rope should do the trick.”
A couple of minutes later, after raiding a small hut she had stumbled across, Gertie returned.
“I found this,” she announced.
“What is it?” asked Noah.
“A rope ladder,” she said.
“Perfect. Get it down here, then.”
After explaining to Gertie that she needed to secure one end of the rope ladder topside rather than throwing the whole thing down to him (she did, you know), Noah was reunited with his love.
“What do we do now?” she asked. “We could fill it in, I suppose. It would stop anyone else having an accident.”
Noah rubbed a hand over his face and shook his head.
“That's very community spirited of you, my darling, but I think we need to leave it as it is and inform Constable Gullett. There's definitely something not quite right here.”
* * *
Constable Gullett, the sole embodiment of law and order in Skullenia, was diligently walking his beat. He didn't have a set route. He preferred to leave it to chance. If there was one thing he had learned over the last forty years of policing, it was that spontaneity was the key to effective thief taking. Never give the bad guy a chance to work out your routine. He had also learned that the uniform was a sure fire way of almost never having to pay for anything, and that people had a habit of reporting the strangest of incidents.
His latest call had been a dispute at the toy store on the outskirts of town. A tourist had bought a cuddly toy and then complained when said fluffy purchase had taken off one of his fingers. Whilst he did inform the tourist that shopping in Skullenia wasn't quite the same as a trip to Hamley's, he did agree that maybe the proprietor should reconsider advertising his products as `cuddly toys'. As Gullett had explained, the dictionary definition of a cuddly toy states that it is `a toy animal made from cloth and filled with a soft material so that it is pleasant to hold', which for the purists of lexicography was the polar opposite of what the shopkeeper was actually selling. Nowhere in the description are the words horned, sharp, dangerous, poisonous, or possibility of amputation mentioned. (If you ever get the chance to visit the aforementioned boutique, make sure that your clothing is up to scratch or, at the very least, is up to being scratched. Life insurance isn't a bad idea either).
So with the tourist more culturally aware and the business owner working on a new sign, Gullett had resumed his beat, confident in the knowledge that that was probably going to be the highlight of his evening. Although not one to complain, he did after all love his job and its responsibilities, when it came to out and out villainy, Skullenia barely registered on the radar. He never dealt with anything more serious than some of the local youngsters trying to sneak into the Bolt and Jugular for a drink, or Mrs. Ladle and her witchy friends getting tanked up and indulging in a spot of drink flying. One thing was for sure though, at some point during the night he would end up scraping old Hector off the pavement and pouring him through his front door.
Gullett rounded a corner and decided it was time for a well earned mug of tea and a gargantuan, continent sized piece of cake. An hour and a half of crime busting was thirsty work that literally incinerated the calories. What Gullett did couldn't qualify as that of course, the average traffic cone used up more energy than the good constable, but he was hungry and thirsty, so there you go.
Weighing up the many options that were open to him, he decided to drop in on Ollie. It was warm; the tea was good, there was always something tasty to eat, and seeing as it was about to hammer it down, it was the closest available port of call. Gullett stepped off the pavement and was about to cross the town square when all holy hell broke loose. Or, to put it another way, two people shouted at him at the same time.
“Constable!”
“Officer!”
“Someone's broken into…”
“Walking through the cemetery…”
“And knocked him out…”
“Massive great big hole…”
“The strange thing is…”
“Fell right into it…”
“All that they've taken…”
“Landed right on my backside…”
“Jar of Sherbert Demons…”
“Coffin lid was missing…”
“Grendle's alright, I think…”
“Seems a bit odd of you ask me…”
“Just got a bit of a headache…”
Gullett stood resolute and, putting his hands on his not inconsiderable hips, made an announcement.
“Quiet please, people. I can't make out head nor tail what either of you is rambling on about. All I got was someone's backside is a massive big hole, and that Grendle seems a bit odd. Now, decide between the two of you who's going to go first, then hopefully I'll be able to make some sense of what's going on.”
Ronnie took his tobacco from his pocket and proceeded to roll a smoke. He nodded his head to the young man and his companion, indicating that he should go first.
Noah recounted what had happened to him at the cemetery.
“And it wasn't until I got out and looked down,” he continued, “that I noticed that the body had an arm missing. The right one, to be precise. Now, I may not know much about much, but I know that Mr. Coffin is very particular about putting the deceased into the ground whole. He buried my dear grandfather last year after his combine harvester accident and you couldn't see a single join.”
Caractacus Coffin was Skullenia's undertaker, a business that he had owned for many a decade. He took pride in his work and was meticulous when handling the dearly departed, no matter how many times they ended up in his workshop, a common theme in the town. Not many creatures died just the once. Paintpot the ghoul, for instance, had been interred at least a dozen times, although on each occasion there was less and less of him to bury. At the moment he was resting in his plot safely housed a small, leather suitcase.
“Very well, young Noah. We'll look into this grave of yours. Ronnie?”
Ronnie told his story next and seeing as the victim of this potential crime was still above ground (it didn't matter that he was deader than hip hop), Gullett's keen investigative skills told him that Grendle's was the place to start. Besides, the cemetery didn't have a kettle.
“Noah,” said the Constable. “I want you to go to Master Splint and tell him everything that you told me, and take him to where it happened. Alright?”
“Yes, officer,” Noah said as he and Gertie trotted off.
Ronnie and Gullett made their way to Grendle's.
* * *
“I know you're lying,” said Ollie.
“I am not,” said Stitches, cut to the quick.
“Whoever heard of someone called Fred Stinks?”
“Be that as it may, it's the truth. He was at my school and that was his name. I sat behind him in geography.”
Ollie shook his head and waved a dismissive hand at his colleague.
“Go on then, get on with it. Let's hear your story,” he said.
“Well, he had a really hard time as you can no doubt appreciate,” Stitches explained. “Just imagine going through your formative years with a name like that. No one ever said simply `Oi, Fred' or `Hi, Fred' it was always `Oi, Fred Stinks' or `Who's that? It's Fred Stinks'. So time went on, and we went through primary and junior school and eventually university, and do you know, in all that time it just carried on. Even the lecturers weren't averse to using the poor chap's name as a punch line. I can still remember seeing him in lectures, head bowed down, resting on his arms, tears
dripping onto his text book. Well, as you might expect it all became too much for him.”
Ollie leaned forward and put his elbows on his desk. He was quite taken with the story now.
“Oh no,” said the half vampire, a hint of concern in his voice. “Don't tell me he went and did something silly.”
“No, no. God bless you, no,” said Stitches. “Nothing so drastic. He went down to the local council offices and changed his name by deed poll.”
“What a good idea,” said a relieved Ollie. “What did he change his name to?”
“Harry.”
Ollie picked up a rather hefty paperweight, that ironically and in common with paperweights everywhere, wasn't ever used to hold down any documents at all, and launched it at Stitches.
“You total and utter bumhead. Of all the…”
Ollie's outburst was cut off by a knock at the door.
“Come,” he growled through gritted fangs.
Noah and Gertie entered nervously. Rumours still abounded about the agency premises, a legacy of Gorge's tenure at the helm, and in keeping with every small town or village that has a haunted house that strikes fear into the local youths, Skullenia boasted Ollie's home. The sort of place that kids would dare each other to stay overnight in, after telling stories of murder, mutilations, manglings, and any other horrible thing beginning with M that they could think of. It was a testament to Gorge's legend that even in a place such as Skullenia; a single building could inspire such fear.
Noah tentatively introduced himself and Gertie before telling Ollie not only about the events that had transpired earlier that evening to him, but also what had happened to Grendle. Whilst he was doing this, Gertie stared at Stitches. Stitches stared back. Gertie's gaze flickered upwards and hovered for a moment at the zombie's forehead. Stitches suddenly recalled what had happened just before the two visitors had entered. He got up and went over to the mirror.
“Bugger,” he said to himself.
The paperweight had left a large paperweight sized dent above his right eye, or to be more correct, where his right eye should have been. The ocular orb was currently resting on his cheek, giving him a rather panoramic view of the carpet. He tilted his head and as unobtrusively as he could, if such a thing is possible when reinserting bodily parts into their appropriate vacant space, popped the aforementioned squidgy sphere back into its rightful place. The dent would take a bit more time, effort and steam to sort out.
“Have you seen the divot you've made in my head?” he asked, turning away from the mirror. “It'll take me ages to get rid of that. I'll have to get Crumble to panel beat it out.”
“Excuse me, Noah,” said Ollie, turning to face his moaning colleague. He stifled a giggle when he saw Stitches' concave forehead. “To be fair,” he continued, “you kind of asked for it, didn't you?”
“Somehow, I don't think so,” said Stitches sarcastically. “At no point during the conversation do I recall saying to you: please chuck that heavy, blunt and quite frankly rather pointy potential murder weapon at my cranium. That was out of order.”
“Well, possibly,” said Ollie, who out of the corner of his eye could see Noah and Gertie looking rather puzzled by the whole display. “But you'll be alright. Did you hear our young friends' story?”
“I did.”
“Excellent. Get hold of Ethan and get him to meet you, Noah and Gertie at the cemetery if you would.”
“Fine. I'll see what we can dig up. What are you going to do? Batter someone with an ink well?”
“No. I'll go over to Grendle's and meet up with Ronnie and Gullett. We'll meet back here later.”
* * *
Stitches, Noah and Gertie met up with Ethan at the entrance to the cemetery after the lycanthrope had finished up his meal at Mrs. Strudel's. Although he was a part time carnivorous hunting machine, he had developed a taste for Mrs Strudel's rice pudding and tried to avail himself of a gargantuan portion at every available opportunity. It was a strange dessert that never looked the same twice. Today it might be so runny that you'd need a straw and a bib, whilst tomorrow you might have to hire an angle grinder and have a dentist appointment booked.
However it looked, it was the best ricey, puddingy type rice pudding ever made, and no matter how much of the thick, gloopy, gelatinous concoction he wolfed down, it was never enough. It was a good job that he got regular exercise in the forest a couple of times a week, he had thought to himself when he had first tried it, otherwise he would have been busting out of his fur. He could have asked her for the recipe of course, but that was the mistake that Dr. Jekyll had made when he had enquired what she put into her chocolate pudding that gave it such a distinctive flavour. Suffice it to say that the details were never made public, but it was something that had no business whatsoever being in a sweet treat. Dr. Jekyll never ate the choccy dessert again, and for some inexplicable reason he felt nauseous whenever he passed by a cat litter.
“Hi mate,” said Stitches as Ethan approached the wrought iron gates. “Enjoy your dinner?”
“Oh, you bet. I don't know what she does to it, but that rice pudding of hers is amazing.”
“I'm sure. I've heard it's great at keeping up tiles as well. Do you know these two?”
“I do indeed,” said Ethan, nodding politely at Noah and Gertie. “So, what's going on?”
A brief synopsis, a ten minute stroll and a couple of stumbles later, the four of them were standing around the offending grave.
“Is this exactly how it was when you left it?” asked Ethan.
“Sure is,” answered Noah peering into the hole. “We walked along the path and whoosh, down I went.”
“The ladder is still there if you want to have a closer look,” said Gertie helpfully. “I got it from the groundsman's shack.”
“Was he in there?” asked Stitches.
“I don't know, actually,” said Gertie. “It was hanging on the wall outside. I just grabbed it and came straight back because I was worried about my little dumpling.”
“Hey, Gertie,” said a horrified Noah. “Not in front of people.”
Stitches suppressed a laugh and indicated to Ethan that he was going to speak to the grounds-keeper, Biddle. He was a forest troll. Not very bright and about as stimulating as a Puritan stag night, he was nevertheless the ideal candidate for his chosen line of work. It involved wood and earth which are the two things that forest trolls cared about above all others. Unless it's more wood and earth of course.
Ethan checked that the rope ladder was still securely fastened and lowered himself down into the grave. He then propped himself on the sides of the coffin in much the same way as Noah had done (it was exactly the same way actually. Let's face it: how many different ways are there of standing on a coffin with no lid when it's at the bottom of a bloody great hole).
“Throw the torch down, Noah,” he shouted.
Readily equipped, he shone the light into the lidless box and illuminated its grisly contents.
“I know you,” said Ethan, more to himself than to anyone else as the beam from the torch fell upon the face of the casket's occupant. “Devlin Floom.”
“Ethan,” called Stitches from the graveside. “I've spoken to Biddle. He didn't see or hear a thing. He finished his rounds at about eleven and reckons everything was in order. No one was in the cemetery and all the plots were as they should be. He tidies them up every night before he turns in. He was back in his hut by half eleven and asleep by midnight, so whatever happened must have occurred between then and one.”
“Seems logical,” said Ethan. “Recognise him?”
Stitches leaned forward. “That's Devlin Floom. He died about eighteen months ago. I remember the service, virtually everyone from the Bolt and Jugular turned up.”
“I've never heard of him. What did he do?” asked Noah.
“Job wise,” said Stitches, “he was a labourer for the council. In his spare time he was the best darts player that the pub team ever had. He was their captain for years
.”
“Notice anything else?” asked Ethan.
“Indeed I do,” said the zombie, leaning over a little more to avail himself a better view. “It's just like you said, Noah. His right arm is missing.”
Ethan crouched down to study the body more closely. He lifted a flap of cloth that was draped over where the top of the arm should have been, exposing bare flesh beneath.
“The wounds have been sewn up,” he observed. “Whoever or whatever did this knew what they were doing. There's a certain clinical expertise on display here. Not that I'm an expert, you understand, but the stitching closely resembles the ones that Dr. Zoltan put into my thigh a couple of months back. This needed medical knowledge, not just to close the wound but to get the arm off in the first place, without turning the shoulder joint into mincemeat.”
“But why on earth would they go to the trouble of sewing the wound up?” pondered Stitches. “It's not like Devlin's going to bleed to death or get a nasty infection, is it?”
“Maybe he's got a conscience.” suggested Noah.
“Perhaps. Let's go and check the rest of the graves, see if any others have been tampered with.”
“What's that?” said Gertie, pointing at something in the hole. “It looks shiny. Is it a coin?”
“Whereabouts?” said Ethan, sweeping the torch beam back and forth.
“Just there,” Gertie said insistently, “on the pillow next to his head.”
Ethan concentrated the light where she had indicated until it reflected off the object. “What's this?” he said as he plucked the item from its position, which was just poking out from between Devlin's head and the silk pillow upon which it rested. He held it up to the light.
“What is it, Ethan?” asked Stitches.
“A sweet wrapper,” said the lycan, turning the piece of plastic over. “From a Sherbet Demon.”
Three quarters of an hour later they had checked the rest of the graves in the cemetery and unearthed another four disturbed plots, and with the help of Biddle, whom they had roused from a deep slumber, had identified who they belonged to and established that each and every one had a particular body part missing.