by Brian Hughes
Sometimes...but not very often.
In H. G. Wells’ “The Time Machine,” the hero, attempting to explain the concept of time travel to his friends, stated that, “Whilst the time-traveller journeys through time his (or possibly her) position within normal space would never actually alter.”
This has been the model for generations of quantum theorists ever since. But surely if that were the case then, should the would-be traveller go backwards (or indeed forwards) by about six months, he/she would find himself/herself reappearing in deep space, Earth by this point having revolved 180 degrees around the sun.
As I mentioned, it’s just a thought...perhaps one worth noting for the sake of it and then dismissing as such important matters as cooking dinner or tidying the bathroom take precedence. Still, regardless of that we have a book to get on with and, as per usual, the perennial problem. Where exactly do we start our murder-mystery?
As with our last venture into this field of literature (if the word literature can be stretched to accommodate what’s about to ensue) there now follows an extract. This time it’s been borrowed from ‘Bray’s Murders and Legends of Lancashire. Volume Four.’ (One can only assume from the title that Lancashire was a dangerous place to live when Professor Bray was alive. Especially for Bray himself, who refused to cough up the royalties to those who’d contributed to his book.)
‘Let me tell it as it was...it was a dreadful night on Crompton’s Crag. The rain was falling with such ferocity that the sheep were bleating in pain. The thunder gathered in strength before it broke across the moors, echoing down the coast towards the mill town. A flash of lightning lit up the firmament. Two humps that had previously resembled boulders revealed their true identities. Two middle aged men, trying desperately to shelter beneath an overhang of rock.
The blueness faded, the taller of the men pulling his wide-brimmed hat down over his eyes. As he did so, he also pulled himself deeper into his trench coat.
“Bit chilly t’night, ain’t it, Mick?”
“Good job Oi brought me sweater, Phil.” The stouter of the couple wrung the sleeve of the aforementioned sweater. Then he snorted in the manner of a working-class sage. “My missus said Oi should have worn me coat t’night. Oi told her, ‘Margaret,’ Oi said, ‘Don’t be daft woman! Oi’m on watch duty on that arky-logical dig and moi sweater’s much warmer!”
His comrade mutely agreed. Either that or he wasn’t listening. The silence was ended by a snuffle that sounded as though something was jammed inside his nostril. He pruned a hair from his bulbous nose.
“’Ere...I hope nothin’ happens.” There was a grunt from the darkness. It was followed by a watery eye. “Moi old heart’s not up t’ shocks, y’ know? And you hear some weird stories ’bout these old burial places bein’ disturbed.”
“’Ere Phil? Can you hear something?”
“Arh...thart pint of Thackery’s Owd Bastard must have been orf. Oi’ve already left a mound be’ind the barrow thart looks like a set of boules.”
It’s difficult to know what happened that night. At least, it’s difficult to know with any certainty. The only witnesses to the terrible scene that followed were the sheep. But the savagery would go down in Greyminster folklore forever.
It was assumed, whether rightly or wrongly, that Gingerbeard’s ghost rose from its grave with a maniacal grin.
It was also assumed, although one can’t be certain about such matters, that his hook flashed and rang in the dead of night.
The haunting screams were heard as far away as the retirement home down Wattling Lane, where several old dears went into spasms and one cracked the handle on her chamber pot. Elsewhere the solitary word, ‘Bollocks’ rang for several moments around Father O’Donnel’s living room, putting a severe crimp on his game of scrabble.
It was a hideous night to be sure.
Gradually morning dawned over the fells, wraiths of mist making ghosts of the search party crossing Walking Edge. Grass squeaked soddenly underfoot, the storm lanterns losing their battle with the daylight.
At length George Holborn shouted down from the top of Jack’s Ladder.
Poor Phil Webster! He was found bent double over the altar stone of Greyminster’s stone circle. His striped sweater was torn into shreds, a contorted expression across his face.
As for Mick Johnson...what was his fate? There was nothing to be found of him but his floppy hat, hanging from a pine tree on South Ringing Fell.*
(*Editor’s Reference Note: A tor on the opposite side of the valley.**)
(**Author’s note: Sorry about that. That editor’s note has spoiled what would otherwise have been an enigmatic conclusion to this adventure.)’
This story, of course, is probably nothing more than an old wives’ tale. More noteworthy, perhaps, is the fact that the book from which it was taken was borrowed from Greyminster library on June 29th, 1906. Similar works in the same cupboard had been on loan since September 15th, 1752. (All those who’ve read ‘The Fellowship of Dovecote Hall’ will no doubt now be checking the dates for inconsistencies.)
Enough interruptions...time to get on with our story proper.
The steep grass embankment, blue and liquid tonight, rustled for several moments before falling silent again. Then the crooked sign bearing the words “Property of British Rail! Keep Off! Joanne Beardsley is a Slag!” rocked back and forth in the fashion of a metronome.
On the fifth swing it toppled into the chickweed. Moments later a murder of crows marched from the brambles. They reached the railway tracks and stared down them in silence.
In the distance, nestled down the cleavage of the fells, a yellow speck rumbled towards them. The midnight train! Outward bound from darkest Sellarfield. This wasn’t the sort of engine that pulled into stations with a great deal of noise. Instead it crawled past the sleeping travellers who’d missed their connections and were now wrapped up in their rucksacks. No whistles shrieked to announce its presence. There were no registration plates bolted onto its flanks for those enthused by such numerical matters.
The speck became a box and grew in size. A smoking diesel engine pulling a solitary carriage. The carriage itself consisted of a philosopher’s knot of wires, designed to add suspension to what looked like a cricket-ball hanging between them. The box became a suitcase trimmed with chevrons, and the largest of the crows turned back to the slope. Forcing a wing to its beak it whistled loudly.
Up above, where the bracken was strangling the fence, a silhouette rose against the moon. Grunting damply it began its descent towards the tracks.
Charlie Woodthorpe narrowed his eyes above his mug of cocoa. Then he flattened his nose against the engine’s windscreen, creating two circles of condensation.
With the brakes producing sideburns of steam, the freight train wheezed to an uncertain stop. Illuminated in the headlamps what appeared to be a scarecrow lay across the rails. Charlie pushed his cap back and rolled his shirtsleeves up his arms.
“Bloody kids...” he muttered, swinging down from the cabin. “Nearly scared the daylights out o’ me then.”
The scarecrow sat up. Its felt-tip mouth parted into a grin filled with straw and field mice. Waving its birch twig fingers excitedly, it yelled, “Surprised?”
The air was suddenly filled with feathers and squawking.
On reflection, that’s not such a good place to start our story after all. Let’s try again. How about this?
It was, as the locals would have said, a ‘grismal’ morning. Above the streets, squirts of smoke rose from the chimney pots. The boisterous wind tore a handful of leaves from the oaks along York Street and shook them over the lawns as though flavouring a stew.
Albert Doyle, Greyminster’s foremost odd-job man, was perched on his scaffolding outside the police station, a smear of paint down his boiler suit. In one hand he held his leaking paintbrush, in the other the pot of paint. There was a creak as the gale buffeted his gantry. Albert tried to hold on to his cap but it was wrestled from his head and flung into the g
utter. Seconds later a 1946 Triumph Bonneville pinned it to the cobbles.
Sergeant Jack Partridge (or Sarge to those who knew him) turned his overcoat collar against the draught and fumbled for his cocoa. With one leathery thumb he turned the page of Model Makers Monthly. Despite being absorbed in all matters aerodynamic he heard the squeak of door hinges from across the lobby.
Miss Duvall bustled into the foyer, removed her gloves one finger at a time and readjusted her flying helmet goggles. They left a smudge of oil across her upturned nose. In her wake staggered the gormless Millicent Broadhurst.
“Oh bugger!” Jack swallowed his cocoa with the affronted expression of a pregnant toad. “Mrs Duvall...Oh no y’ don’t, my lad!”
He grabbed hold of Parkins by one shoulder before his junior colleague had chance to get through the self-locking door. “Mrs Duvall, what can we do you for?”
Had any of Winifred Duvall’s associates called her an old trout then she would probably have agreed with them. Not because she could take an insult on the chin but because, unfortunately, she resembled one. Her long slash of a mouth started at one corner of her jaw, arced up towards her nose, then continued its parabola to the other corner. In fact, she could be said to resemble a cross between Margaret Rutherford and Beeker out of the Muppets.
She pushed Jack’s mug along the counter, then fumbled with the clasp of her handbag.
“Now...” Her spectacles swung from the chain around her neck. “I had my glasses here somewhere. Just a minute.”
Jack waited as she rummaged. Various items were emptied onto the counter.
“Deary me...no, that’s not them.” A stick of lipstick rolled across Jack’s magazine. “I’m sure I had them somewhere.” A book of stamps followed suit. “Oh no...that doesn’t look right at all.”
A mound of personal artefacts soon gathered across the ledgers. At length Winifred smiled in the manner that only her peculiar mouth could, and shook her head.
“Never mind!” When she spoke it was as though she exhaled rather than talked. “I’m sure they’ll turn up. Now...onto business!”
She took a deep breath and leaned into Jack’s face enthusiastically. Behind her Millicent Broadhurst drew in a deep breath as well. “Officer Partridge, I’ve come to report a burgullary.”
The word ‘burgullary’ was accompanied by a twinkle in Winifred’s eyes. She sounded pleased that the crime had been committed. She slammed her umbrella onto the counter and knocked over her bottle of angina tablets.
“Very good, Mrs Duvall.” Jack licked his pencil. Miss Duvall’s frequent visits to York Street Station were probably the only thing preventing the building from being closed down. “So w’at’s bin stolen?”
“My brolly.” Winifred leaned back at an angle of sixty degrees, as though the sentence was about to explode. “And, with all due modesty, I think I know who took it from me!”
Jack stared at the black umbrella amongst the junk. Near the station door Millicent Broadhurst was scribbling a moustache on the ‘Pickpockets’ poster. That was the trouble with Winifred Duvall. She always seemed to be at the eye of a personal maelstrom.
“I distinctly remember feeling a sharp tug at my elbow as I was crossing Piermont Grove.” Miss Duvall hoisted her bosoms. “I suspect it was removed from my arm by some sort of ape. Look...”
She tugged a microscopic amount of ginger hair from her cardigan and presented it to Jack in a grin. “Too coarse for human hair, Sergeant. And the dexterity with which my assailant vanished suggests that ‘he’...” She checked about herself conspiratorially. “Or, indeed, ‘she’...was small enough to fit beneath Mrs Woodthorpe’s gate.”
Jack stared again at the black umbrella. Miss Duvall was famed around the manor for her elaborate mysteries.
“So the question is, young man, have there been any reports of orang-utans escaping from Greyminster Zoo?”
Jack scratched his head. Behind his shoulder Parkins scratched his as well. To be honest, Jack wasn’t sure if Greyminster had a zoo. There was Farmer Barley’s Animal Kingdom, a place he’d visited with the R.S.P.C.A. inspector on several occasions. But apart from that...
“Tell y’ what, Mrs Duvall...” He scribbled a note and handed it to Parkins who eagerly accepted it and bolted. “We’ll look into the matter and let y’ know.”
“Very kind of you, I’m sure...and it’s Miss.” Winifred snuffled. “In the meantime...” She snatched her brolly off the counter and headed towards the door. “I’ve an important engagement with Reverend Wordsmith.”
With a purposeful stride she marched from the lobby, the handle of her brolly catching the scaffolding on the way out. Overhead, Albert Doyle lost his footing and his pot of paint tumbled onto the pavement. There was a splat! A blue krakken appeared on the flagstones.
“Really Mr Doyle...” Miss Duvall fumbled for the spectacles on their chain and placed them on her nose. “You ought to be more careful.”
The reader is now probably thinking that Miss Duvall was senile. (Providing the reader hasn’t fallen asleep, that is.) Oddly enough, nothing could be further from the truth. Miss Duvall, for all her pomposity and absent-mindedness, was a canny old goose. Her mind worked like a Chinese puzzle-box, full of contradictions and secret buttons.
In a boarding house on the opposite side of Greyminster her red and white striped umbrella was propped up against a wall. (Ah...there you go, you see? Miss Duvall, in fact, had two umbrellas, which just goes to show, you shouldn’t judge a book by its cover. Although in the case of the Greyminster novels it’s a good indication of what’s to come.)
Miss Duvall often took both brollies out with her in case she left one of them at the coffee morning or something. That would never do...not with the lousy Lancashire weather. She was very forgetful was Miss Duvall. But she was also intelligent enough to recognise her own character flaws and compensate for them.
Next to the stolen brolly stood an old fashioned fireplace. It had the sort of carved mantelpiece that John Tenniel used to such good effect in ‘Alice through the Looking Glass.’ The hearth, however, wasn’t filled with coal. Instead it contained a body. An old gentleman sleeping, his snores drifting up from behind the coal scuttle. He was wearing tartan slippers and a crumpled cardigan that was just a collection of holes knitted together rather than actual wool. Around his wrist was a gently humming bracelet. It was more of a box really; a cast iron spider, its metal legs jabbing into his flesh as though sucking the blood from his arm.
Across its face were the words:
‘Patented: Thomas Hobson 2037’
Two lines of blood wound from his ear. From them a set of paw prints led towards the skirting board. By one of his ankles lay a copy of Puzzle-Time Magazine. The cover was torn where the free pen had once been taped. The pen itself was now being used by the ginger goblin sitting a few feet away. It had pointed fangs and curly red question marks on its shoulders. Every so often there was a scratching noise as it doodled chaotically.
‘So?’ the reader is asking (or perhaps they’re not). ‘What exactly was the gremlin writing?’ Well, not wanting to give too much away at this point for obvious reasons, the gremlin’s missive looked something like this:
“Five: The Olde Curiosity Shoppe. Travel ten yards North-East up Garrison Lane. Turn 180 degrees. Return to the crossroads and head South-East for ten yards down Hazelnut Lane. Curdled whey in a crust.”
Chapter Two: Of Bedpans and Beards
Mrs Prune scratched her head through her night-cap and pulled the three cardigans she was wearing around her shoulders for a bit more warmth. It was chilly in the back yard and the frost was causing havoc with her bunions. She wrinkled her mouth into what resembled a chewed tangerine, then stared through the opened door into the outside lavatory.
A few seconds later Inspector Nesbit’s face appeared from behind the toilet bowl. His forehead was knotted into a frown. He stuck his pipe between his lips and bit down hard on its stem.
“Now...” A cloud
of carbon dioxide formed in the cold air before his lips. “What you’ve got ’ere, Madam, appears to be Queen Victoria.”
Although it hadn’t been sparkling so far, this statement brought a lull to their conversation. Mrs Prune looked down at the short fat legs poking up from the lavatory bowl. “Common things t’ find in your outside lavatory, are they?”
Nesbit nibbled his moustache and raised one eyebrow towards the shivering pensioner. “The question is, Madam, ’ow exactly did she get in there?”
Another lull, during which Mrs Prune’s character-filled features created a few new personalities. “’Appen the tortoise dragged it in by accident!” she snapped, rubbing her bulbous nose until it was red. “’Ow the ’ell should I know? That’s what I called you lot in for! You don’t think I’d ’ave the likes o’ you snoopin’ round me backyard otherwise, do y’? It smells bad enough as it is!”
“Sir...” Malcolm Clewes now stood up, his ginger hair brushing the cobwebs from the rafters. “There’s a tag attached to her toe.”
Nesbit looked down at Mrs Prune’s square feet. He was confronted by the two plastic rabbits adorning her slippers staring back at him. Mrs Prune’s idea of comfortable footwear had little leeway for aestheticism.
“Er...Queen Victoria’s I mean, Sir,” Malcolm corrected himself, giving the ticket a tug. It resisted stubbornly, the string cutting into the corpse’s flesh. At length it gave and Malcolm presented it to his superior. This is what the card said:
“Eleven: The noose. The.”
Scritch, scratch, scritch went Nesbit’s stubby fingers on the back of his neck.
It’s just occurred to me that there might be some readers who have also read ‘The Fellowship of Dovecote Hall’ and are now wondering what physical state Reginald Nesbit was in. Well, not wanting to spoil that adventure for those who haven’t read it, let’s just say that viruses eventually wear off, removing all symptoms, but illnesses once destroyed seldom return.