by Brian Hughes
There was a tussle.
Then a snap!
And the rabbit scampered round the corner again, disappearing into the marren grass.
Shocked by his encounter, Flinders pushed himself back onto his elbows, shook his head and stared at the empty half of his denims where his false leg had once been.
Beyond the tumbledown walls he could make out his upside-down foot weaving erratically through the undergrowth towards the cliffs.
A small piece of paper fluttered to rest by his hip.
“Bugger me!” He gripped the crook of his walking stick and tried to hoist himself upright. “The insurance company will never buy this one!”
Inspector Nesbit added the ‘R’ to the line of dashes with a flourish. Then he drew in his tongue and sat back in his chair.
Outside the window of the Homicide Division the drizzle was sluicing from the leaky gutter through the empty hanging basket.
Malcolm studied the paper on the desk before him, gnawing his bottom lip. “‘M’, Sir?”
The sir was added more out of force of habit than respect. Both policemen were now of similar ranks, but tradition died hard. Especially when Nesbit wasn’t about to surrender it.
He shook his head and added a leg to the crude drawing of a man hanging from an equally primitive gibbet.
“Actually, Clewes, you’ve already had ‘M’. But I’m givin’ him a leg anyhow ’cos, being a detective, you should have spotted that!”
He tapped his pencil against the blotter, leaning back on his chair until the front legs left the floor. Then he studied the sentence himself, hardly able to believe that Clewes hadn’t worked it out.
This is what it read:
‘H-D-ES IS - BI- F-T B-ST-RD’
“Glad t’ see you’re not busy, Reg!” came an incensed voice from the doorway.
Suddenly everywhere seemed much more crowded. Almost swallowing his pipe, Nesbit toppled backwards. There was the sound of furniture breaking, followed by a flurry of limbs as he struggled to stand upright again.
Hodges’ shadow fell across him. As Nesbit’s eyes reappeared above the table they came into contact with his superior’s frowning face.
“What the ’Ell do y’ think you’re playing at, Inspector?”
“Well...er...me and Clewes were just finishing off some old paperwork, Sir!”
“Arsing about more like!” Hodges picked up the alluded to paperwork and snarled. “There’s a crime wave going on out there and you’re buggering around playin’ hangman!”
He squinted at the letters.
“In all honesty, Sir...” Nesbit stumbled over his words, trying to prize the page from his superior’s grip. “I’d ’ardly call a group of old biddies going senile a crime wave. Y’ can’t honestly believe there are gremlins and spacemen on the loose in Greyminster?”
“Ours is not to reason why, Inspector!” Hodges stuck his giant hand into his jacket pocket. He pulled out a memo and handed it to Nesbit. “’Owever, when a crime is reported, no matter ’ow stupid it might seem, we’ve got a duty to follow it up. And besides...”
Nesbit read the memo to himself as Hodges’ continued. “This ’as just turned up on me desk!”
“What is it, Sir?” asked Malcolm trying to get a clearer view over Nesbit’s shoulder and failing dismally.
“It’s the pathology report, Clewes. Makes interesting reading!”
For Malcolm’s benefit, as well as for our readers, here’s what the report read, being written in Spotty Dribblethwaite’s nervous handwriting:
Coroner’s report on ‘Victoria Doe’ found in lavatory at Applegate.
On opening the skull, I, Roger (Spotty) Dribblesthwaite discovered it to be completely lacking a brain. (‘I believe such a thing to be true of Spotty too.’ Dr Driscal) In fact, the skull wasn’t spacious enough for a brain to fit in it.
The entire head was made from solid ham, much like one of those joints that appear in Tom and Jerry. Usually when Spike is about bite it and then Tom stupidly pulls it away at the last moment and Spike’s teeth smash together then fall out one by one...Er, where was I? (‘About to be sacked.’ Dr Driscal)
After further dissection we discovered that the rest of the cadaver was solid ham too. Apart from a small heart (one and a half inches by two inches) and two lungs (three inches each). Oh yes, and what appeared to be a tiny brain of sorts, large enough only to operate the limbs (‘Or an inferior pathologist perhaps.’ Dr Driscal) situated at the end of the little toe.
We have not yet decided if this body was ever alive. Or even dead.
We haven’t written out the possibility of ‘murder’ although under the circumstances it’s difficult to say.
We are also not responsible for the charcoaled toe that landed in Mr Joiner’s brew outside the window.
Signed (Roger) Spotty Dribblesthwaite.
Time moves forward.
At about 4 o’clock that afternoon there was a furious knocking on Miss Duvall’s door. The hammering was so boisterous that the ivy around the porch was shaken loose.
“Just a minute...oh my goodness.” Miss Duvall fumbled for the spectacles around her baggy neck. “There’s no need to tear the door off its hinges.”
She reached for the latch with her arthritic fingers, and shook her jowls. Seconds later the door creaked open onto what resembled a female version of ‘It’ from the Addams family.
“Ah, now, let me see...Phillipa Morgan, wasn’t it?” Miss Duvall slid her spectacles down her nose and craned forwards to check that she wasn’t being visited by one of Michael Bentine’s Potties. “I’m sure you’re upset about something dear, but my front door can’t stand much more of that!”
“Sorry, Mrs Duvall,” replied Pip in her usual mouse-like voice. “But I had to see you. I’ve just got this through my letterbox.”
She handed the old woman an envelope. It was an almost transparent affair, similar to the sort of Christmas cards that people receive from relatives who don’t really care for them. It had crinkled edges and a drawing of a pig in a policeman’s uniform decorating the front.
“Tickets for the Greyminster Constabulary Ball?” read Miss Duvall with the bob of her chin. “Hold on a moment. I’ll get my purse...”
“Oh, no...sorry...” Chewing her bottom lip, although of course Miss Duvall couldn’t see it behind her locks, Pip stuffed the envelope back in her waistcoat and pulled out another. This time it was a grubbier affair, with peeling gold braid around the corners. The words across it read:
To Miss P. Morgan Esq. Urgent and Private.
“Do you mind if I...?” Miss Duvall cocked her head on one side, presumably awaiting Pip’s permission to open the letter.
Pip nodded vaguely and watched as the pensioner picked at the gummed edge. As she read through the contents Miss Duvall’s lips moved in time to the words. This is what any good lip-reader would have heard:
Dear Miss P. Morgan,
Who I am is not important. But I have news about the crimes being perpetrated around Greyminster. (Scribble indicating that the pen was running out.)
In particular the one involving the ginger-bearded pirate who stole your baubles and Mr Eccles’ life savings.
Unfortunately the Greyminster police believe the whole accumulation of events is nothing more than the fabrication of elderly minds. (Soiled thumbprint)
However, I have uncovered something that proves otherwise, and the situation is far more serious than anyone knows. (Bit of chewing gum that somebody had obviously tried to remove but failed.)
Please meet me behind the gasworks at nine o’clock tonight.
Yours hopefully (ink blot)
‘?’
“Ah good...” Miss Duvall stammered, blinking rapidly and cross-examining the message. At length she snuffled, folded the page and stuffed it back in its envelope. “So, what are you going to do?”
“Well...I was hoping you’d come with me.” Pip shuffled nervously about the step as though Miss Duvall was some fa
mous Hollywood star. “Sort of under cover...”
“Exactly what I hoped you’d say.” Miss Duvall grinned. A crash broke out from the general direction of the kitchen and her expression turned to one of resignation. “Millicent Broadhurst. If you’ve been after the haemorrhoid cream again I’ll box your ears, so help me God!” She lowered her voice and spoke to her visitor with a confidential smile. “Last time she got hold of the superglue by accident. Constipated for a fortnight, poor old goose. She might be dotty, but I promised her sister Rose that I’d look after her. Now...”
The volume of her voice rose again with her enthusiasm. “You’d better come in, dear. Why did you bring this to me instead of the police?”
“Well...” Pip followed her down the hall, closing the front door with a creak and navigating the numerous cheese-plants. “The police seem to think it’s all a joke. But you appeared to be taking it seriously. And...”
They entered the lounge and stopped in front of the coffee table.
Millicent Broadhurst was twiddling her thumbs in the armchair, resembling some mischievous crinkled cherub trying to disguise its misbehaviour.
“You’re the sort of person I can trust, I’m sure...” Pip continued, embarrassed by her confession. “You have a kind face.”
“Actually I have a face like a bag of bolts, dear. But that’s the ticket, anyhow!” Miss Duvall waved Pip into the closest chair and sat down herself, placing the flat of one palm against the teapot to check that it was still warm. “What makes you think it’s not just somebody...milk?...playing a joke on you? Sugar?”
“Oh...” Suddenly recalling something important Pip’s hand disappeared back inside her flamboyant blouse. Moments later it reappeared clutching another scrap of paper. “This was with the letter. It’s like the one in Mr Eccles’ bedroom.”
Miss Duvall held up the small note to the window and studied it closely. This is what the cryptic words read:
“Four: Cheese Pie. Fifth Journey: Head West for ten yards down Tunbridge Terrace until you reach Lancaster Street. Turn right and head North up Lancaster Street for ten yards until you reach Stafford Avenue on your left. Follow Stafford Avenue for ten yards, turn 180 degrees and return to Lancaster Street. 2>?”
“Hmmm...” The sound emerged from Miss Duvall’s nostrils rather than her mouth. Her lips were compressed very tightly and thoughtfully. The silence didn’t last long. “Frustratingly vague, isn’t it? That’s another for the collection then.”
She struggled to her feet and stomped across to the writing bureau. Unlocking the lid she rummaged around in a cubbyhole until she’d found a number of similar scraps. Then she laid them beside each other and scratched her head. Quietly Pip scampered up alongside and both of them stared at the puzzles.
“What does it all mean?” asked Pip at length, mimicking her mentor by tilting her head at quizzical angle.
“I’ve no idea,” Miss Duvall replied. “But they’re obviously describing the route to something important and, if you look, they’re forming some sort of book.” She pointed out the numbers at the top of each page. “The whole collection must be connected with the treasure map we found. But I’m damned if I know how! We’d be better off finding out who’s writing them instead of solving them for now, don’t you think?”
Pip nodded in agreement. “And at nine o’clock tonight,” Miss Duvall went on. “We might just find out who that is!”
Chapter Five: Of Bantams and Blancmange
The rainwater dripped through the plaster ceiling of Giles Barley’s bedroom. It created an almost musical rhythm as various guzzunders (Editor’s note: Guzzunder: (English. n) Chamber Pot (from the Lanky Twang. i.e. Guzz-under the bed)) chimed in strategic positions.
Field mice poked their heads from beneath the hem of the grubby duvet, wondering what all the commotion was about.
At length Dr Patel removed the stethoscope from his ears and placed one hand on Anne Barley’s shoulder. Resting the spud peeler on her knee she looked into his eyes.
“He should be fine in a day or two, Mrs Barley,” the doctor said in a broad grin. “Just a few bruises and a mild concussion.”
“Bugger!” There was a splash as Anne thrust her doughy arms back into the water. She’d wasted a lot of valuable energy carrying the bathtub up the stairs and she’d been hoping for better news.
“Oi ain’t dead yet woman!” came a rasp from the general direction of the pillow. “If Oi was you Oi’d get your fat arse down t’ the cow shed afore I kick it!”
Malcolm stood up with his notepad open. “Would it be all right to ask him a couple of questions?”
Dr Patel nodded.
“Oi ain’t answerin’ nothing without moi lawyer present,” interrupted the pillow.
“It’s all right, Sir. We’re not accusing you of any crimes.” Malcolm licked the point of his pencil and turned to a clean page. “We’d just like a description of your assailant.”
There was a rustle from the duvet. Giles’ scruffy head rose from the foetid depths. As it did so a bantam scurried out from beneath the blankets.
“Oi said Oi ain’t answerin’ no questions! Now get orf moi property before Oi sets tha dog on y’!”
A sawn-off shotgun was produced from behind the bedstead.
Giles aimed it squarely at Dr Patel’s down-turned grin.
“And take this gurning idiot with y’! Oi’m not going t’ warn you again!”
Greyminster market was bathed in blue light that evening. The traders had packed up their stalls, counted their floats and headed for home. Now every noise sounded hollow and the whole place felt as though it was under water.
Here and there abandoned chip papers staggered between the metal struts, snarling themselves up on cobblestones and losing their dignity in puddles.
A pair of scaly feet tottered into this half-dreaming world.
Ethyl the bantam pecked at the inedible stains littering the ground. Since escaping from the Barley farmstead it had been increasingly difficult for her to find food. As cruel and unpleasant as the farmer had been, at least he’d kept her belly full.
“’Ello! W’at have we got ’ere then?”
Ethyl lifted her head, disorientated. For a moment she stared at the baggy denims of Seth Marmaduke, Best Trout & Mackerel Purveyer in Greyminster. Then the ruddy-cheeked fishmonger crouched down and gently patted her crown.
“Where’ve you come from, Missy?”
“The far side of Hell,” Ethyl replied, formulating an idea in her tiny head. “I’m starving and broke! I don’t suppose there’s any chance of a job?”
There followed a lengthy pause during which Seth simply stared at his new-found friend.
Occasionally he blinked. The situation quickly became uncomfortable.
“I’d work for food?” Ethyl broke the lull before it suffocated them both. “Although I could do with some lodgings as well. Nothing fancy, you understand? Just some cosy corner with a wingful of straw in it would suffice.”
Seth Marmaduke continued to stare, his eyeballs now boggling out of their sockets. Ethyl cocked her head on one side and prodded his nose with her wing. “Er...is everything okay?”
“AAAAAAAArgh!”
Suddenly the fishmonger leapt back onto his feet. Then he pounded across the empty market, his arms flailing wildly above his head.
Ethyl’s eyes narrowed. She watched him round the corner and followed his cries as they receded towards Sword Street. “So that’s how it is, is it?”
Grabbing hold of a trout she tugged it into the gutter with a slap.
“This isn’t going to be as easy as I'd suspected. Perhaps what we need here is organisation.”
Time moves forward once more.
Night poured its shadowy broth over the taciturn streets of Greyminster, bringing with it a swirling ground mist. The ancient bells in the tower of St Oliver’s struck nine o’clock mournfully. The dirge of the chimes echoed around the dark blue fells.
Behind the gasometer on Br
oad Street several ginnels had met each other clandestinely on such foggy nights for centuries. Here was a seedy underworld of alleys and nooks, their moss-covered cobbles clothed in coiling vapours.
Four eyes blinked expectantly from the gloom of a door arch, straining against the darkness.
“Is this the right place, Mrs Duvall?”
“I’m not sure, dear,” came the splutter of Miss Duvall close at hand, although from where exactly it was difficult to tell. “The note said ‘behind’ the gasometer. This is about as ‘behind’ as you can get with a sixty foot cylinder.”
“Is it nine o’clock yet?” Pip’s heart was beating erratically. She hadn’t noticed the tolling from the church tower. She’d asked the question purely for psychological reasons anyhow, the sound of their voices being the only comfort in this Cimmerian realm.
“I don’t know. It’s too dark to tell. Take hold of this and I’ll check my watch.”
Pip felt something being manoeuvred into her palm. Whatever it was, it wasn’t Miss Duvall’s umbrella.
“An inventor friend of mine constructed this special pocket watch for me,” Miss Duvall continued. “He made it for use during stake outs.”
There was a pride in the old woman’s voice that she knew such distinguished people.
“The numbers are raised so that you can feel them.”
Unfortunately they weren’t raised enough. Miss Duvall’s hoary fingertips had little sensation left after a lifetime of not using creamy Fairy Detergent. (Editor: That’s enough now!) After several attempts to read the dial, she clamped the lid shut again.
In the shadows behind her, her motorbike pinged as it cooled in the fog.
“Mrs Duvall...what have you just shoved into my hand?”
“My father’s blunderbuss, God rest his soul.” Miss Duvall made a movement in the air. The sort of movement that implied she was crossing her heart. As though she was reading Pip’s thoughts, she added, “I might be eccentric dear, but I’m not bloody stupid. These ginnels are full of hidden menaces.”