by Brian Hughes
And if that’s not enigmatic, I don’t know what is.
When it became apparent that nothing further was going to present itself, Inspector Nesbit turned back to Mrs Prune who was eyeing him suspiciously from the patio.
“Have you any idea what this is, Madam?”
“Well, bugger me giddy fat aunt with a pineapple! It’s not the secret formula for me ‘Exploding Gattox’, is it? I wondered where I’d put that!”
Nesbit lowered his voice. “Your sarcastic attitude isn’t helpin’ matters. When we arrived you said you was a psychic. I didn’t realise your batteries needed recharging.”
“I said I was a clear-voyant, Inspector. Not a nubile scientist! To be blunt, I just got up this morning to empty me chamber pot and found this...this...” Mrs Prune screwed up her face even more than usual and studied the body of Queen Victoria half-submerged in the lavatory bowl. The following words appeared to have difficulty leaving her mouth. “This monarch stickin’ out of me jon. Now what are you goin’ t’ do about it, or do I ’ave to call Rentokill?”
“Clewes?” Nesbit rubbed the stiffening tendon on the back of his neck. “Give forensics a ring, will y’? We’ll have Bill ’Ardbottle check this over. It’ll give ’im something to do other than making lamps-stands out of skulls.”
“Bugger it!” Pip struggled with the hasp of her St Christopher. It was a pity there was nobody else in Mr Eccles’ bedroom. This was a rare opportunity to see what was hidden behind Pip’s hair. All that was normally visible were her large pale nose and purple lips. “Get off me ear, you annoyin’ bugger!”
Let’s have a quick look outside whilst she’s busy, shall we? On the wall of Eccles’ Grocers (Quality Fruit and Veg: Open All Hours), inching up the drainpipe in the manner of a cautious spider, a figure struggled to find purchase amongst the pointing. His wooden leg scraped the brickwork, sending dust into the street below.
Moments later a black shape appeared above the sill; a pirate’s hat, complete with traditional skull-and-cross-bone motif.
“Smeggin’ snot!” Pip hadn’t noticed her visitor. Alright...I know what you’re wondering. What sort of name’s ‘Pip’ for a girl? Well, it was short for Phillipa if you must know. You have to be careful how you pronounce your name when you’re only three years old because sometimes grammatical mistakes can stick. She felt the hairs on the back of her neck pull as she tugged at the chain.
I’ll tell you what! Let’s have a closer look at her whilst she’s otherwise engaged. She’s going to feature heavily in the following adventure so now’s as good a time as any to get properly acquainted.
Pip was probably in her mid-twenties, although it was difficult to tell because her clothes belonged to no discernible era. She wasn’t so much a hippie as a pincushion covered in baubles. At five foot nothing (and that was on a good day when the moon’s pull was at its strongest) it was difficult to know if there was a Pip under all those layers or not.
She wore the sort of flouncy dresses that on most women would have been skirts but on her resembled ball gowns. And her fingertips always seemed to be poking through the cuffs of her blouse like inquisitive field mice through letterboxes.
An eye patch appeared beyond the pane. The drainpipe creaked. Seconds later a metal hook was forced between the window and the sill. With a splinter the window moved upwards, scaring the woodlice from their roosts.
Downstairs, in the cramped shop, Mr Eccles was serving Mrs Tulip. He hadn’t forgiven Pip for upsetting the sprouts. She’d gotten those blasted bangles of hers caught up in the sack again. The result had been an explosion of Brussels finest across the floor. Now, every so often, some old dear would skid towards the potato bucket and end up headfirst in a sea of King Edwards.
Pip had been banished to the bedroom until every article of jewellery likely to cause mayhem had been removed. A large mound of colourful trinkets now sat on Mr Eccles’ dresser.
“Will you let go y’ miserable blasted...” There was a further groan from the window.
Suddenly Gingerbeard sprang into the room. Chalky exploded at the pirate’s appearance. Not literally of course. That would have been too Fortean for words. It would also have been very messy, because Chalky was the sort of cat that would have kept a feline lipo-suction firm in business for a year. Rocketing into the air with his claws outstretched, he stuck into the ceiling. From that point on he was forced to watch the proceedings upside-down like a large furry bat.
With a rattle of hooks and belt buckles Gingerbeard charged across the room. His elbow caught Pip in the back of her neck, pushing her roughly into the full-length mirror. There was a crash as the glass shattered.
A gash opened up in his curly beard, several cockroaches scurrying into his collar from the stench. He laughed maniacally as he emptied the contents of Mr Eccles’ porcelain pig into his pockets. Then he snatched Pip’s collection of plastic trinkets, gripped his sabre between his teeth, grabbed hold of the curtain, swung back towards the window (pulling the rail down in the process so that curtain rings flew in all directions) and finally crashed into the street below.
Mrs Tulip’s startled screams spiralled up from where she’d just been used as a safety net.
It took a few minutes for the dust to settle. At length Pip snuffled thoughtfully. She shook the stars from around her head, lifted a drape of hair and peered cautiously out at the devastation.
Across the carpet, coins and aftershave bottles had been scattered untidily. The piggy bank was upside-down on the dresser.
“Oh bugger...” she muttered as the thud of Mr Eccles’ boots echoed up the narrow stairs. “This is going to take some explaining.”
“Refill reverend?” Winifred Duvall leaned over Father Wordsmith, the teapot in its striped woollen cosy hovering just above his cup. The old priest made to respond but was cut short by his genial host.
“Help yourself to another Hob Nob. There’s plenty more in the barrel.” She unplugged the cork from the teapot’s spout because the build up of steam was starting to make the lid rattle. Father Wordsmith fumbled for the plate on the coffee table as she poured him another brew. “Thank y...”
“We must bring up this crime wave at the next committee meeting,” Miss Duvall bulldozed on. “There’s been some remarkably odd...napkin?” Father Wordsmith nodded, his mouth full of biscuit. An off-white doily was placed on his lap. “Odd goings on around Greyminster...” Miss Duvall continued, her attempts at tidying up after him being conducted on autopilot. “Now look, you’ve got crumbs everywhere.”
Father Wordsmith’s weekly coffee at Miss Duvall’s wasn’t exactly the favourite event of his calendar. Miss Duvall treated him in the same manner that a headmistress would treat her favourite schoolboy. He waited patiently whilst the crumbs were brushed from his knee. Then he swallowed his Hob Nob dutifully.
“Millie? What news from the radio, old gal?” Crooking her double chin over her shoulder Miss Duvall peered towards the corner of her lounge. Miss Duvall’s living room, by rights, shouldn’t have survived the Second World War. It was all oak and tweed with China ornaments and had the permanent smell of lavender about it. The sort of room that would be hard to imagine in any other colours than sepia and rose. “You’ve gone a bit quiet back there, Millicent. You haven’t had another accident, have you?”
Father Wordsmith winced as the memory of Millicent’s last accident swam back to haunt him. It had taken him three hours to get the stains from his dog collar.
In the broom cupboard Millicent Broadhurst twiddled the antiquated knob on the equally antiquated radio. She was perched on a stool with a set of earphones spanning her head. Almost as though senility required it of her, she was tapping her heels together contentedly.
“You haven’t got Radio One on again, have you, dear?” Miss Duvall grabbed one half of the earphones. “You know that Dr Driscal said you weren’t to get over-excited!”
She forced her own ear against the headset wearing the sort of expression that a bulldog w
ould wear after swallowing a lemon drop. The sound of the police band filled her ears.
“What on Earth could you possibly find musical about Sergeant Partridge asking Constable Jaye for a sandwich? Hold on...what’s this? Ahha!”
The strength with which this ‘Ahha’ was added almost caused Father Wordsmith to choke on his coffee. His cup rattled against its saucer as he steadied his hands.
“I knew it! There’s been another incident! This time at Applegate.” She let go of the headphones. They slapped back against Millicent’s temples with a hollow thwok, almost toppling her from the stool. “You’ll have to excuse me, Father!”
The cup was grabbed from his trembling hands and the elderly priest suddenly found himself being ushered towards the door. Miss Duvall was spluttering again. If he closed his eyes and let his imagination drift he could picture a small boat chugging across a Scottish loch.
“Work to be done! Millicent, get the goggles, dear! The game is afoot.”
“So let me get this straight, Mr Hobson?” Malcolm was hunched into the shapeless armchair, scribbling in his notepad with a stubby pencil. His elbows were stuck up due to the restriction of the chair arms. “You didn’t hear anything odd in the back yard this morning? Somebody dragging a short fat monarch about an’ upsetting the bins, for example?”
Jess Hobson scratched his bristled head and burrowed his nose back into his copy of Old Kent Road. “Yeah...I ’eard a crown rattling down the bog but I thought it was just me liver comin’ loose!”
“This dundernut wouldn’t ’ave ’eard the chimney if it ’ad fallen on ’is ’ead!” added Mrs Prune, stepping to one side as Benjamin Hobson muscled past with a tray of custard creams. “’Ee was on the tiles last night! Don’t bother checking those footprints across me dahlias, Sergeant. There’s only one bugger round ’ere ’as sized eighteen Doctor Martens!”
“Ah...” Malcolm brushed a curl from his eyes and stared at Jess who was struggling to open a can of Thackery’s. “What exactly were you doing on the roof, Mr Hobson?”
“Mrs Prune means he was drunk.” Benjamin shuffled a mound of dented beer cans off the edge of the coffee table. Then he balanced the tray on a collection of crumpled cigarette ends. It rocked back and forth for a moment, resembling something that a team of Egyptian slaves might have used to shift blocks of stone. “Jess drinks in the same way that spawning whales paddle.”
“And Our Ben likes t’ get ’is teeth kicked in repeatedly,” Jess added with a belch. “In answer to your question, Segeant...no! I never ’eard nowt. No bloody great fanfare as ’er majesty arrived. No patter of tiny foot soldiers rattling round the yard!”
“It’s highly improbable that she’s the real Queen Victoria, you know, Sir?”
Malcolm wasn’t sure about all this sarcasm being used in response to his questions. Sarcasm was difficult to express in written form. His paperwork was going to be covered in Italics by the end of this lot.
“If I were you,” said Benjamin, offering Malcolm a soggy biscuit. “I’d have a look round for any fancy dress parties that were happening last night. Or visit ‘Farmer Barley’s Private Gentleman’s Club’. Jess knows where that is. He likes to check it out with his binoculars after dark.”
“There’s some sort of paranormal activity going on there!” Jess grumbled to himself, flicking over another leaf of his magazine with such embarrassment that the spine tore.
“The groans and the chains rattling aren’t ghosts, Jess!” Benjamin bit into one of the biscuits. “As I’m sure you’re aware by now!”
Whilst this conversation was taking place, the throaty roar of a Triumph Bonneville had been rattling the window. Once the spluttering had stopped there came the crunch of boots up the drive and the rap of a leather-clad fist on the front door. Mrs Prune had gone to answer it. Now the headquarters of Hobson & Co (Paranormal Investigators) were suddenly full of commotion. Winifred Duvall swept into the living room, the cold morning air outside still surrounding her.
“Thank you Sergeant...don’t get up.” She twiddled her fingers at Malcolm and lifted the goggles from her eyes creating a sort of inverse Batman effect. “I’d just like to ask the good residents of this building a couple of questions!”
Malcolm tried to release himself from his armchair. This was difficult. It was like trying to squeeze a haddock out of a pickle jar.
“It’s inspector now, Ma’am,” he corrected the interfering old woman. “And Mr Nesbit has left strict instructions not to let you in. He ’asn’t forgiven you for what happened to Mrs Forest’s budgerigar yet!”
“There have been a lot of funny comings and goings around Greyminster of late!” Miss Duvall swelled antagonistically, her snub nose pointing towards the ceiling. “For all I knew it could have been a gremlin out to cause havoc. Stranger things have happened! Besides, budgies are a penny a dozen. It cost me a fortune to have my brolly cleaned. Now...”
She deflated slightly with a splutter. “Have you caught the murderer yet?”
The word ‘Murderer’ came out of her mouth with more enthusiasm than was probably required.
“We’re not sure if it was murder, Mrs Duvall!” Malcolm closed his notepad and tried to shuffle her out of the room. “Forensics are just finishing off in the lavatory.”
“Look Sergeant!” Miss Duvall plucked a skein of ginger fur from Malcolm’s shoulder. Confrontationally she held it up before his eyes. Somewhere behind her Millicent Broadhurst was pulling Benjamin’s books from their dusty shelves and hurling them across the lounge. “Orang-utan fur if I’m not much mistaken! Whoever did this ghastly deed, I’ll wager, was responsible for stealing my umbrella!”
Malcolm calmly took the evidence from her and held it up against his own curly mop. Miss Duvall snuffled in a haughty manner. “Too coarse for human hair!”
Malcolm looked again. He had to admit it was rather fibrous, even by his shaggy standards. By the time he looked back Miss Duvall was down on all fours, rummaging around the empty grate. She had a surprising turn of speed for a dotty old woman.
Jess Hobson grumbled as she lifted his outstretched legs to one side.
From somewhere up the chimney came the sounds of scrabbling claws. Anybody who’s ever owned a hamster and had it escape on them will know this sound all too well. A thin snake of soot span into the hearth.
“Whatever you’re doing Millicent Broadhurst, stop it right now!” Without looking up Miss Duvall wagged a finger in Millie’s direction. Millicent paused. Benjamin’s ‘Bumper Book of Goblins and Tree Sprites’ was open in her wrinkled palms. Judging from the manner in which her fingers were gripping the centre pages she’d just been about to tear them out.
“Ahha...thought so...” Miss Duvall struggled with difficulty back onto her tiny feet, almost toppled into the curtains, steadied herself on Malcolm and then presented him with another clue. This time it was a chewed up piece of paper, similar to the one that he’d found in the toilet earlier. It read:
“Nine: Red Herring. Third Journey: Travel South for twenty yards down Morecambe Street. Triangle. Square. Pentagon..?”
“How did you know it was there?” Malcolm blew the soot from the card and held it up to the window for signs of a watermark.
“In recent weeks, Sergeant, as I’m sure you’re aware, there’s been a spate of burgullries, mischievous pranks and dastardly deeds around these parts!” Miss Duvall held up a stodgy finger, successfully curtailing the words leaving Malcolm’s lips. “In every one of my investigations I’ve found a similar note. This one makes...” A bit of mental arithmetic. “Six in all.”
She made a strange clucking noise with her bottom jaw. Exactly what this meant was anybody’s guess. It was just one of those quirks that came with old age and narrow gene pools.
“I believe, Inspector, that somebody somewhere...” All eyes now looked up towards the roof as though the ‘somewhere’ alluded to was inside the chimney, where the scrabbling noises had been heard moments before. “That somebody somewher
e, I say, is trying to spell out the murderer’s name!”
Chapter Three: Of Gastronomes and Greys
‘October 4th, 1657. It was a dark and stormy night. Deep down in the bowels of Kiln Brick Manor, McDougal the chef worked with his chopper. The flash of steel, the squeal of mice, the colourful blur of a tartan kilt.
At length he unwound his beard from the mincing machine and grunted noisily down his red-veined nose.
Now to see what Lord Goitre would make of his dessert. ‘Wassack Blancmange,’ the most potent pudding in the whole of North Lancashire! A pudding with more culture in it than downtown New Orleans.
Unfortunately, as it turned out, Lord and Lady Goitre were not impressed. Not only did one mouthful of the stuff contain so much acid that their heads turned purple, but the indigestion that followed could be heard as far away as Chester.
October 8th, 1657. The Brick Kiln Manor blancmange was put on trial at Greyminster Assizes and formally sentenced to death.
It was raining that night. The constant drum on the slates of the round tower gradually sent the poor blancmange insane. In its cell, using a length of straw to hack away at the bars, it carefully plotted its terrible revenge.
After nine years of hard labour, the blancmange escaped through the tiny hatch, scampering towards the distant hills. Now feral and abused it roamed the fells at night, howling at the moon.
(Editor: For the sake of convenience and not wanting to bore the reader, lots of blood and guts followed. Murder, mystery, legend and stupidity.)
Extract from ‘Bray’s Murders & Legends of Lancashire (Volume 27)’
The thunder cracked across the fells, the first opals of rain slamming into York Street with such ferocity that the cobblestones frothed. A soggy carnation from some recent wedding span in circles along the gutter. Without realising it was there, Nesbit’s boot squashed it flat. Moments later the rear door of the station house creaked open and Reginald Nesbit peered inside.