by Tony Lewis
Walter Thrice, noted local Rotarian and amateur ballroom dancer, who had died during a rather energetic tango, was missing both of his feet.
Bodkin Sturdyflaps, a troll who had worked in the carpet mines of Glans for most of his life, was bereft of both of his elbows.
Next was Cecilia Dragon, a psychic medium who had committed suicide after becoming depressed when she realised that her talents for speaking to the dead were of absolutely no use to anyone in Skullenia. If you lived there and couldn't speak to the sadly departed then you were either thought of as a bit of a weirdo or a bit of a misery guts. Obviously Cecilia could have moved away and practised her talents elsewhere, but a gift for communing with the souls of the dead doesn't necessarily come hand in hand with a particularly high IQ. For whatever reason, Cecilia's eyes were missing.
The last desecrated corpse belonged to September Last, a local thief who had perished after a chase with Constable Gullett. By chase we mean Gullett had seen Last shoplifting, shouted `ere I want a word with you' before becoming winded after slightly increasing his walking speed. Luckily for Gullett and rather not for Last, Bill the Coachman had chosen just that particular moment to come thundering into town. No one knows exactly what happened, but according to Bill, “He went over top trumps, all fire dance and giant stones before mooning over like a reapers hound and getting completely slabbed.” To reiterate, no one knows exactly what really happened!
For whatever reason, Lasts' thighs were gone.
“This is all a bit strange, isn't it?” said Stitches, helping Biddle out of Lasts' final resting place. “And you can't recall anything weird going on?” (which, when they'd already been informed that the aged troll had slept through entire incident was, of course, about as insightful a question as asking a resident of 1940's London if he'd had a good nights sleep. Still, it pays to be thorough I suppose).
“Nothing at all, Sir. I do my rounds and retire to my hut. And that's it. Anything untoward I would have reported straight away,” explained Biddle.
“Fair enough,” said Ethan. “Right, you two get off home whilst Stitches and I meet up with Ollie back at the office. If either of you, or you, Biddle, remember anything else, then let us know.”
With that they left the cemetery.
* * *
Ollie cast his gaze over the room at the rear of Grendles' shop for the umpteenth time, but he still couldn't put it together. Why would someone go to all the trouble of clocking the old boy on the head for the sake of a jar of sweets that cost next to nothing? To be fair if you put most of what was sold here next to nothing, then nothing would come out looking pretty darn good.
“Well, I've cast my expert eye over the crime scene,” said Gullett, jotting something down in his notebook.
“And,” said Ollie.
“And what?” said Gullett.
“What do you think happened?”
“Oh good grief, I haven't got a clue, lad. Very perplexing indeed.” More perplexing and screamingly unclear was how Gullett had remained a constable for the last god knew how long. Good luck and slightly irregular paperwork probably had something to do with it. Still, that's what happens everywhere else. Most police statements could top a fiction chart!
Ronnie came into the shop at that point and he had a rather pleased look on his face.
“What are you looking so smug about?” asked Ollie.
“I've had a thought,” said Ronnie, rolling up.
“Go on,” said Gullett.
“Well, as we all know, whenever anyone enters the shop the bell emits a clang loud enough to be heard on the moon, doesn't it?”
“It does,” said Ollie.
“So it seems to me that whoever attacked Grendle must have already been in the shop or, and this is what my money is on, they didn't come in through the front door at all.”
“But that's the only way in, lad,” said Gullett. “There are no other doors. There aren't even any windows.”
“Mind you,” said Ollie, “the door to the shop doesn't let people in one at a time does it? A second person could have come in on one ring of the bell.”
“That's a fair point,” said Gullett. “But Grendle would have noticed another person. He came from the back when Ewan came in and didn't report seeing anyone else. And there's nowhere to hide out there.”
“And I've already spoken to Ewan,” added Ronnie. “He confirmed that nobody followed him in and that he was definitely alone in the shop.”
“Grendle, are you absolutely sure that the front door is the only way in or out?” asked Ollie.
“Totally positive,” said the shopkeeper. “I run a tight ship here. I like to know who's on the premises at all times.”
“There's got to be something else,” said Ronnie. “Something we've overlooked.”
They retreated once again to the back room, and even though they had been over it already, they prepared to do so once more.
“Anyone fancy a cuppa?” said Grendle. “Bit of lubrication before we get going. Might get the old grey matter going.”
Ollie had his doubts about that. His was tired, that was his excuse anyway, Ronnie's was frazzled and wasn't so much grey as beer coloured, and Gullett's was about as much use as a set of brakes on a tortoise.
They all agreed and waited whilst the water warmed up in a kettle that looked like it had been worn by a knight during a rather intense jousting tournament. (Actually the knight in question was Sir Tentodie, an absent minded sort of chap who had a habit of walloping his head on the portcullis every time he went back to castle after a hard day's serf bating. Maybe he was an ancestor of Flug's. Which bit of Flug is more of a mystery, but they must be related somehow. Who else would wear a kettle on their head?)
Water suitably boiled, Grendle did the honours and passed round the steaming mugs.
“Be a bit careful with yours Ronnie,” he warned. “The handle is a bit…”
SMASH!
“Loose, perhaps?” said Ronnie shaking his head. “It's all over my shoes now.”
“Hold on a minute,” said Ollie, who was also staring in the direction of Ronnie's feet. “Look at that.”
The floor of the store room was laid with rough cut slabs approximately two feet square, and it was these that had peaked Ollie's interest. The hot tea that had spilled wasn't resting on the surface of the stones. It was running off to one side and disappearing through what appeared to be a small gap. Ollie knelt down and poured his own drink onto the floor in the same spot. The liquid rushed into the gap and disappeared as if it were being hoovered up from underneath. He held his hand over the area. A faint waft of cold air caressed his palm.
“I've got a feeling this could be it,” he said getting to his feet. “Grendle, have you got a crowbar?”
“No, but I've got a ravenstick.”
“And the difference would be?” asked Ronnie.
“No idea,” said Grendle, retrieving the long piece of black metal and handing it to Ollie. “Does the trick though.”
Ollie shoved the business end of the tool into the tea devouring gap and leaned on the other end.
“My goodness, it's moving,” said Gullett coming over to help. He placed a meaty hand under the slowly rising slab and lifted. With a loud grating and a blast of stagnant, air the stone was loosed from its place. It toppled over with a loud thunk.
“Well I'll be buggered,” said Grendle, taking a tentative step forward. “All the years I've been here and I never had a clue that that was there.”
The `that' he was referring to was a hole. And not just a hole. It was a hole that had steps going down into it and away into the darkness. The old man grabbed a lantern off a shelf, lit it and handed it to Ollie, who was now lying flat on his belly trying to make out where the hole went. Even with his half vampire sight he was struggling to see through the intense blackness.
“Well, it would seem that we may have found out how the criminal got in and out,” said Gullett. “The question is where does it go?”
“I'm not sure we'll be doing anything about it right this second,” said Ollie, bringing the lantern back out of the hole. “There's about ten steps, a short corridor and a door. A very big, heavily riveted, and probably very thick, wooden door to be precise.”
“It might be open,” said Gullett.
“I somehow doubt that,” said Ollie, dusting himself down. “There's a padlock on it the size of a briefcase. There's no way we're getting through that without some serious hardware.”
“Well that's all fine and dandy,” said a perturbed Grendle, “but what am I supposed to do in the meantime? I don't want to stay here when there's a chance that this, whatever it is, could pop up again unexpectedly. I might get seriously damaged next time.”
Gullett approached the old boy and gave him a friendly pat on the back. “Not to worry. I'm sure they'll put you up at the Bolt for a few nights until we can get to the bottom of this.”
“Good idea,” said Ollie. “We'll drop you off on the way back to the office. We need to meet up with the others and find out what's been going on in the cemetery.”
They slid the slab back into place, locked up the shop and left.
* * *
A pair of beady eyes watched as the stone was replaced. They widened as the light grew dimmer and dimmer until, with a loud THWAP, it settled into its former position. A match was struck, lighting up a three foot circle of the underground passageway. The figure holding it came out from behind the stairs, a sigh of relief escaping into the gloom as they offered up a silent thank you. A visit to check on the security of the entrance had almost ended up with them being discovered. Only the heaviness of the slab had afforded the watcher the time to get to the steps and hide. More care was needed. The figure blew out the match and discarded it, and then reached into a pocket and retrieved a sweet which was quickly unwrapped. The only sound then that indicated the watcher's presence was a gentle slurping as the Sherbet Demon slowly dissolved. The figure took a massive key and unlocked the imposing wooden door, ignoring the dummy padlock, before disappearing through it into the darkness beyond.
* * *
Ollie, Ronnie and Gullett met up with Stitches and Ethan back at the office. Grendle was safely ensconced in the pub and Noah and Gertie had been sent home. They had discussed their various discoveries and were now desperately trying to figure out what it all meant. They had been at it for about two hours and hadn't gotten very far, which wasn't surprising really. Hercule Poirot they were not.
“The only connection that I can see,” offered Ethan, “is the sweets. Sherbet Demons go missing from Grendle's and we find a wrapper from one in a grave at the cemetery. It's tenuous and extremely coincidental, but it's all we've got so far.”
“That's even if anything dodgy has gone on at the cemetery,” said Stitches. “For all we know, Biddle forgot to tend the graves and that's how they ended up in that state. He's not going to admit to being negligent, is he?”
“I don't think that's very likely,” said Ollie. “Some of those people have been dead for a couple of years. That long exposed to the elements would have done untold damage to the corpses.”
“Nevertheless,” interjected Gullett. “At the very least we have a theft, an assault on Grendle and a mysterious hole.”
“Speaking of strange things with nothing in them. Hi, Flug,” said Stitches.
“Hi, Stitches. Hello Mr. Policeman. You need to come wiv me.”
“Why's that, Flug?”
“Cos Mrs. L said so. She said get you.”
With that Flug took hold of Constable Gullett, threw him over his vast shoulder and headed for the door.
“Flug,” said Ronnie insistently, “put him down. He can walk there. You don't need to carry him.”
“Oh, okay.” He placed Gullett back onto the ground.
As they made their way outside Ollie asked Flug if he knew what was going on. His hopes of an intelligent answer weren't high, but the two word explanation that he got said it all.
“Maudlin Mandrake.”
Wolfgang `Maudlin' Mandrake was officially the most depressed person in the entire world. He had even been awarded a certificate for it, which had cheered him up no end. The problem was he was so depressed that he had developed the habit of trying to end his existence at every available opportunity. There was one sticking point though. He was absolutely rubbish at it. He had tried overdosing but had ingested oestrogen tablets instead of painkillers. Not only had he not become dead, he had spent two months sporting a fair sized pair of boobs and amassing a rather impressive collection of fancy shoes. He had also tried shooting himself with a starter's pistol, and hanging himself from the branch of a tree that wouldn't have supported the weight of an ant a fortnight into a crash diet.
“I wonder what he's tried this time?” wondered Stitches. “Throwing himself into the path of an oncoming pensioner, perhaps? Or maybe something more direct. Perhaps he's stabbed himself with a banana.”
“Could be anything,” said Gullett. “The last time I dealt with him he was trying to drown himself in the river, but he weighed himself down with three helium balloons and a rubber ring. We found him seventeen miles downstream.”
Now, some may think that Mandrake's continued suicide attempts were a cry for help, whilst others seem to think that he's a consummate show off of epic proportions who loves getting as much attention as he can. You need to make your own mind up, but bear in mind this: Mandrake tried to electrocute himself by taking off three woolly jumpers at the same time.
By the time the gang and Gullett reached the town square a large crowd, seemingly comprising of most of the townsfolk, had gathered around the fountain. They were talking in hushed whispers and pointing at something that was obscured by the seething mass of bodies.
“I think he's a goner this time.”
“Ouch, that looks painful.”
“Poor chap. So misunderstood.”
“When I went on holiday I saw an elephant fall over.”
Even most of the regulars from the Bolt and Jugular had left their stools to come and see what all the fuss was about. Not Hector Lozenge of course, who wouldn't leave an alcoholic drink behind if you paid him with alcohol. Others had leapt upon the situation and taken the opportunity to earn a little extra cash. The Stella triplets were offering their wares in a buy one get all three special, and Mrs. Strudel was trying to entice those present into purchasing some tasty treats from a mobile oven that looked more like a transient mortuary than a cooking appliance.
“Make way please, make way,” shouted Constable Gullett in a booming, authoritative voice as he snow ploughed his large belly through the crowd. “Come on, move along please. I'm sure there's nothing to see here.”
Gullett, closely followed by Ollie, Stitches, Ronnie and Ethan, finally made it through the undead mass.
“Obviously I was wrong,” shouted Gullett. “There is quite plainly something to see here, but could you please all stand back so I can determine exactly what we're dealing with.”
On a side note, why do police officers insist on informing members of the public that `there's nothing to see here' when there clearly is? That is the precise reason why people gather in the first place, because there's clearly something to see, be it a car crash, a potential suicide or a cat up a tree (this could also be a suicide if the cat's feeling a bit down). A group of people aren't going to stand about in a huddle staring in wonder at something mundane like a crisp packet, are they? Unless they're from deepest, darkest Norfolk of course, where the sight of an errant tube of Pringles once brought half the county to a standstill because the locals thought it was the Devil's work. They might have been right though. They were prawn cocktail.
Anything out of the ordinary, or in the slightest bit interesting, and by interesting I mean having the possibility to see internal organs, death, destruction, or a tramp dancing i
n his pants, is going to attract attention. If a copper wants to make best use of that particular phrase then he should stand in front of a television whenever a reality show comes on. He'd be telling the truth and would be guaranteed a job for life because they're on all the bleeding time.
The fountain looked the same as usual for the most part. The deep red blood was flowing normally from the demons mouth, the gargoyles were settling in after a shift change, and Blind Arnold had decided that this was the optimal time for him to have another go at retrieving all of the coins that had been thrown into its crimson depths. Little did he know that it was a futile pursuit. The dead of the night had been out in the dead of the night and swiped the lot. They were saving up for a dead good holiday that was a dead giveaway, after losing all of their money on a dead cert!
The only thing that was out of place was Maudlin Mandrake, or to be more precise, the position that he was in. He was lying sprawled across one of the fountains corner stones, soaking wet, out cold and clutching a piece of paper.
“Not again,” said Gullett, approaching the prostrate mess and retrieving the note which, on inspection, was an inky and bloody jumble that was totally indecipherable, although it no doubt contained Mandrakes' usual ramblings about cruel worlds, not being understood, why doesn't anyone like me's and when are velvet pantaloons and Afghan coats going to come back into fashion?
“I reckon I can pretty much figure out what happened,” said Ollie. “But there's one thing I don't get.”
“Go on,” said Ethan, who had come to the same conclusion that Mandrake had tried to end it all by leaping off a ten foot high fountain into six inches of blood.
“One of his legs is missing,” said Ollie.
“If you crack his head open you'll probably find that his brain has gone AWOL as well,” said Stitches. “He could challenge Flug in next year's densest being competition.” Flug had won this year by being so dense that he had forgotten to turn up for the contest.
Gullett had given up on the note and was now talking to various people in the crowd trying to find any witnesses, thus affording Ollie and his colleagues a chance to examine the scene. Even a cursory glance told the story and it quickly became evident what had happened to Mandrake's leg. It was also evident that Gullett would remain a simple village bobby until the end of time because he had missed it.