by Brian Hughes
She coughed, uncomfortably.
“Actually I’m not sure what time is it, after all,” she went on. “Millicent must have stolen my watch again. You’ve got to keep an eye on that one!”
“Where is she tonight?”
“Back at home.”
Pip heard the rustle of petticoats as the timepiece was stuffed back into its secret pocket.
“She should be content enough. I’ve given her something that’ll keep her occupied for hours.”
Number five, Wainscot Lane. Miss Duvall’s house. Millicent Broadhurst was perched on a stool in the dimly lit kitchen. Her chin was cupped in her hands and her eyes were as wide as flying saucers.
On the table, next to the bone-china cruets, a small glass duck with a very long neck bobbed in and out of a tumbler of water.
This duck was known around the household as Daffy Ducktail. It was generally kept under lock and key for times of dire necessity. Miss Duvall preferred to have Millicent tearing around causing chaos as a rule.
It was all the poor old hen had to live for.
“Ahha...movement.” Miss Duvall’s breathing quickened.
Pip felt the swell of her mentor’s enormous bosom close by and drew in a deep breath herself.
Two yellow eyes with almond-shaped pupils appeared about twelve feet above the ground. They were surrounded by a silhouetted head. Whatever creature owned them, they now blinked through the tendrils of fog. They had an almost hypnotic stare. The sort of stare that pleaded for titbits of fish.
“What is that?” whispered Pip, the fear contracting the tendons in her throat.
“I don’t know, dear. But it doesn’t look friendly.”
There followed the sounds of panic being swallowed down a scraggy throat. Miss Duvall grabbed Phillipa’s hand.
“Time to depart I think...”
The departure was somewhat less organised than they’d hoped for.
In fact, although it started as a simple step backwards, it rapidly descended into a flurry of limbs. This was followed by numerous articles of gothic clothing becoming entangled with plump legs.
Moments later Miss Duvall and Pip found themselves sprawled head-down in the gutter, the blunderbuss skittering off down the alley.
Behind them, Jasper the cat jumped down from the wall and strolled off nonchalantly. His whiskers tore strips of cold air from the mist in his wake.
Pip struggled to regain some composure. Her hair was stuck against her face beneath the weight of the damp. From somewhere close by came a rhythmic squeaking. It sounded as though a team of asthmatic mice were moving an obelisk on a rickety cart.
A wheelchair emerged from the back door of Oddman’s Antique Emporium. It slowly advanced into the moonlight, its occupant’s eyes hidden by the broad brim of his feathered hat.
“Miss Morgan?” Flinders Peterson pulled up alongside the two women and offered Pip a reassuring hand. He watched as Miss Duvall hunted round for her useless blunderbuss. “Please forgive the theatrics. I wasn’t sure if I was being stalked. I’m so glad you could make it.”
‘Psychological Profile on the ‘Petty Pilferer’
A study of degenerative genes in Greyminster.
Copyright Angus Evesham (Criminal Psychologist)’
“Criminal psychologist? So that’s what ’ee is, is it? And there was I thinkin’ee was just a useless great bog-mat!” Nesbit lowered the dog-eared report that Hodges had handed him earlier and reached for his tankard of ‘Foul Owd Fart’.
It was crowded in the Thatch tonight, almost as though the unusual crimes around Greyminster were shepherding the locals towards familiar sanctuaries.
“Criminal Psychologist? Does that mean the bearded Scot’s fairy ’as got previous then?”
“He does have some interestin’ theories about the underclass, Sir.” Clewes wiped the froth from his lips and fumbled for the pork pie by his half-empty glass. “He’s been studying the latest scientific discoveries from America, apparently.”
Unimpressed by Angus Evesham’s theories in the past Nesbit reluctantly went back to the report. He continued to drink noisily, forcing himself to read through the bottom of his tankard.
‘The latest spate of crimes in Greyminster could well be attributed to certain ‘bad’ genes.’
Subconsciously Nesbit removed the pen from his pocket and started doodling on the top of the page. Presumably the drawing was meant to represent the ‘bad gene’ alluded to. It resembled an amoeba with pointed teeth.
‘The crimes are being committed by an individual, or group of individuals, with the bad gene in them.’
“Group of individuals? What other sort of group is there?” Nesbit asked pedantically, as though somehow Clewes was following the report himself. “I s’pose a group of ‘unindividuals’ would consist of Siamese twins?”
‘The crimes fit a pattern of systematic victimisation. Their perpetrator cannot operate outside his own limited imagination. Bad Genes run amok amongst the working class.’
At this point an image sprang to Nesbit’s mind of Gene Wilder charging through a council estate wielding a pickaxe.
‘Recent innovations in genetic coding indicate that within 10 years scientists will be able to determine which genes are responsible for the social deviancy of the underclass. The inability to learn, appreciate culture, acquire wealth, behave in a civilised manner and not commit crimes will all have an appropriate gene which we will be able to turn off in the corrective process.
It has long been established that those who live in council estates have a particular genetic lineage that creates unacceptable behaviour.’
Nesbit’s moustache upended into a snarl. He clamped the stem of his oxford between his teeth and the following sentence was forced to work around it. “Established, Clewes? Established by ’oo?”
“Sorry Sir?”
“This bloody report, Clewes!”
The ‘bloody report’ was flung across the beer-mats in disgust, knocking over a couple of empty glasses.
“I don’t suppose it’s ever occurred to the ‘intelligentsia’ that poverty and social depravation might ’ave something to do with the crime statistics! Take away an individual’s rights, Clewes, such as proper housin’ and education and they’re bound to rebel.”
“Actually Sir, I haven’t taken anythin’ away...”
“Imagine having t’ wake up every morning to poverty and little grey ’ouses! Imagine having no other future than being pushed around by ‘superior’ gits at the dole office!”
The word ‘superior’, for some reason, was very clearly articulated.
“Treat people like shit, Clewes, and y’ shouldn’t be surprised if they start actin’ like it!”
“I wasn’t aware I had been doin’, Sir...”
“All for the sake of a penny in the pound!” Nesbit ploughed on, incensed. He’d spent too many years amongst the deprivation of Greyminster not to recognise the arrogance of right-wing radicals. “If they want to perform corrective-gene surgery they ought t’ start with those aristocratic bastards! Turn on their ‘Fair Play’ gene and turn off their bloody ‘Snotty’ one!”
The tirade subsided, most of the customers in the crowded pub now staring at him. Satisfied that the outburst was over, Malcolm ventured, “I didn’t know you felt so strongly about social politics, Sir?”
“It’s not ‘Social Politics’ Clewes! It’s common bloody sense!” Nesbit struggled to his feet, steam almost whistling from his ears. He yanked his trilby down at the front. “I’ll show that stuck-up Scottish fascist!”
“What are you goin’ t’ do, Sir?” Malcolm scrambled from his chair, his glass hovering between his mouth and the tabletop indecisively. “I don’t think it’d be wise to hit him. He’s six foot four and you’re only...well...you’re not that big, Sir.”
“I’m going t’ tap Hodges for a video camera, Clewes!” Full of resolve Nesbit downed his pint and removed a drowned beetle from his chin. “All the crimes are ’appening in t
he same part of town! The so-called ‘underclass’ quarter! We’ll catch this biddy-scaring bastard if it’s the last thing we do! And we don’t need some genetically-modified nazi to ’elp us!”
The fog was flowing down Old Crompton’s Crag in ribbons. Each tassel was illuminated where the moonbeams had punctured the clouds.
The scabrous knoll of the crag itself was crowned by the ruins of the abbey.
Slowly but surely the three investigators made their tortuous route up the track, Pip struggling beneath the weight of Flinders’ wheelchair. It was an old contraption and one that obviously hadn’t been used for a long time. The rickety wheels were proving reluctant when it came to the larger stones.
“I’m not saying it was vicious, Mrs Duvall.” Flinders tried his best to help by pushing forward on the wheels without getting his knuckles snarled up in the spokes. “Just unexpected, that’s all.”
The brow of the fell came into view, the fractured windows of the abbey that had once stood proud now only twisted half-ellipses.
“Hold on a moment...” Flinders gripped the tyres with a bit more determination. It was his way of telling Pip that her help was no longer required. “I’ll go ahead and look for my shovel. It should be marking the place where the booty was found.”
Seconds later the amateur archaeologist was engulfed by the creeping fogbank. The occasional muffled, ‘Bugger’ could be heard as he ran into boggy ground.
When he was out of earshot Pip turned to Miss Duvall who was breathing with some difficulty beside her.
“I’ve been thinking...” Pip whispered.
“Good...there’s hope for us yet then!” It wasn’t a cruel jibe that Miss Duvall returned. Just one made under duress with a wheeze wrapped around it.
“Flinders could have dressed up as that pirate, couldn’t he?” Pip scratched her head. “He could have stolen Mr Eccles’ money for himself. It would have been the perfect disguise what with his missing leg, an’ all.”
Miss Duvall forced her palms against her knees and pushed herself upright.
“That’s what you reckon is it?”
“Obviously you don’t.”
“Didn’t you go to school with Mr Peterson?” Miss Duvall inflated her udders beyond the call of duty.
“It was a long time ago.” Pip thought about her distant childhood. “That was how he remembered who I was, I s’pose. We both attended Miss McHerny’s Sunday Class.”
“And did he strike you as being a petty thief back then?”
“We was only four years old...”
This was about as good an answer as Miss Duvall was going to get.
“Well...he seems a decent sort to me, Phillipa. And we shouldn’t jump to conclusions.” Miss Duvall fumbled inside her petticoats. She produced a bottle that winked in the moonlight. “Flinders’ leg would have been plastic with a foot on the end. Gingerbeard’s was wood and finished in a carved ball.”
“It all happened in such a hurry.” Pip mulled the recent events over, nibbling her bottom lip as she did so. “I didn’t notice what ’is leg was made of.”
“I did!” Miss Duvall popped an angina tablet into the slash of her mouth. She screwed the top back onto the bottle until it clicked. “There were indentations in the carpet next to the dresser. They had beeswax in them.”
“Why didn’t you say something at the time?”
“We don’t want to give too much away to the police, dear. They’ve got to figure some things out for themselves. Otherwise they’d feel left out.”
There was a twang of knicker elastic as the container was stowed away once more.
“No, I suspect the pirate stole Mr Peterson’s technologically-advanced leg for himself.”
Flinders’ distant voice drifted over the crag on a saddle of marsh gas. He was swearing savagely, an outburst aimed against the mud that was gripping his tyres.
Pip added quietly, “What do you reckon to what he told us about the rabbit?”
“Sometimes our eyes play tricks on us in the dark.”
Miss Duvall tapped her forehead sagaciously.
“Take you for example. I could have sworn I saw you blush when Mr Peterson’s fingers brushed against your own before.”
Oddly enough the dark was having a similar effect on Miss Duvall’s eyes now. Pip appeared to be blushing again. At that moment, somewhat fortuitously, Flinders’ voice echoed back from the fog.
“Pip...Miss Duvall. I’ve found it.”
The two women exchanged glances. Then, grabbing hold of their skirts they took to their heels across the misty hillside. Miss Duvall’s excited nose twitched like a hare’s. Pip’s heart was pounding. The buttons down her tunic creaked under the pressure. All this midnight air was very exciting. She’d always felt that she was made for the night. Which probably explains why she dressed like a vampire.
At length the two of them reached Flinders’ chair. Its buckled wheels were deeply embedded in the mud, causing it to lean.
Flinders himself was holding a casket covered in rubies on his knee. The box was open.
Most of Pip’s colourful baubles still glinted inside, alongside a mound of coins that looked like those belonging to Mr Eccles.
“Look...” Flinders delved enthusiastically into the contents and tugged at something towards the bottom. “There’s another note.”
It came loose and he handed the card to Miss Duvall.
She held it up to the limited moonlight, perching her spectacles on the end of her nose.
This is what it read:
“One: Kettle. Follow Lancaster Street North for ten yards until you reach Driftwood Drive. Head East down Driftwood Drive for ten yards. What’s black and white and red all over?”
“Not only that,” Flinders continued, handing a smaller scrap to Pip who eagerly accepted it. “But this time the thief left another clue.”
Pip turned the piece of material between her fingers, studying its ragged edges for important marks.
Miss Duvall squinted over her shoulder, pursing her mouth.
Embroidered across it were the words:
‘48” chest. Stoughton’s Tailors. 85 High Street. Greyminster.’
Number five, Wainscot Lane. Again. Daffy Ducktail was snapped in half and stuffed headfirst down the plughole. Millicent Broadhurst on the other hand was having a rare old time. She was up on the draining board, swinging from the medicine cabinet like some sort of dehydrated chimpanzee. Her skirt flapped around her ankles, her shrivelled fingertips gripping the cupboard door.
In the opposite corner stood Miss Duvall’s fridge. It was an antiquated affair covered in Wallace and Gromit magnets.
Something was stirring in its depths tonight.
A faint scratching noise moved along the tomatoes before chewing its way through a cucumber.
Above the draining board, her toes squeaking against the crockery, Millicent Broadhurst whooped.
There was a splinter, followed by an ominous crack. With a squeal Millicent toppled into the dustbin.
Seconds later she reappeared with a cabbage leaf across her head. She watched a drop of tomato sauce plummet off her nose, gingerly tasted it and then grinned as somewhere inside her shrunken mind two shrivelled synapses connected.
‘Time to Eat.’
Eagerly she scrambled across to the fridge, a collection of decaying vegetables being dragged along behind her.
Inside the refrigerator something gnawed its way through the Wensleydale.
Suddenly the door opened onto the dazzling kitchen. Millicent’s head filled the gap.
The yellow light spilled across the hard-boiled eggs and the cartons of milk.
Behind the strawberry punnet something tried to hide.
Millicent’s crooked fingers reached into the icy parlour.
A crunch!
A snap!
She reeled backwards, crashed into the bottles by the bread-bin and attempted to peel the pink blob from her face.
Numerous squelches and muffled scr
eams filled the air.
The struggle continued across the welcome mat, then bounced off the sink dragging the teapot from the draining board. Eventually the two wrestlers disappeared behind the pine table that Miss Duvall had inherited from Millicent’s sister.
As unexpectedly as it had started, the battle stopped dead!
With a yell the Wassack Blancmange found itself hurtling towards the nearest wall.
A thunderous splat! And the flowery tiles were strewn with smears of pink. They slithered in trails toward the skirting board, the odd gummy tooth still glistening amongst them.
Beneath the red brick overhang of the kitchen chimney, Millicent Broadhurst wheezed and then collapsed. A pool of blood began to form around one ear, sparkling in the yellow light from the opened fridge.
And with a groan the old woman passed out.
Chapter Six: Of Moonlight and Murder
11.35 a.m. Celebrity On Your Marks, Get Set, Trough! One of the BBC’s thirty-five cookery programmes this week. More talentless personalities gain weight at the licence payer’s expense. Ainsley Harriot fights the Battle-of-the-Bulge in the kitchen (the bulge being Venessa Feltz) forcing starving pensioners to watch whilst Vanessa provides mindless entertainment with an artichoke.
12.00 noon. Midday News read by Trevor McDonald. A round up of the day’s trivia, ignoring the major social issues and concentrating instead on what royal leech was wearing what designer rag. Followed by ‘Sports Roundup’ to keep the plebeians from questioning their inferior status and some ‘made-up weather report’ arrived at by the office tea-boy holding a licked thumb above his head.’
Extract from ‘The Marxist Radio Times’