The Complete Greyminster Chronicles

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The Complete Greyminster Chronicles Page 90

by Brian Hughes


  “Fellow mythological creatures. You might not have noticed yet,” she began, all eyes rooted in her direction. “But now that we’re here we seem to be having difficulty in adjusting. In fact, to say that we’re not quite fitting in would be an understatement of the greatest magnitude.”

  Several blank faces returned her penetrating gaze. With a confused frown the blancmange broke wind, raising several tendrils of kelp from the mound.

  “Racism!” shrieked a jackdaw in a fluster of feathers. In frustration it battered its scarlet wellingtons against the floorboards. “That’s what it is! Those ruddy ’umans won’t give me time of day because I’m black!”

  It thought about that for a moment.

  “With a bit of white...”

  “Our situation has nothing to do with racism!” snapped Ethyl. “You’re a talking jackdaw, for Christ’s sake!”

  A quick cross of her heart against the blasphemy, before continuing. “I’m not sure if the fragile helix of your cerebral cortex has noticed but most of the other birds won’t have anything to do with us either!”

  There was a moist sounding grumble from the corner.

  “Or other blancmanges as well, of course...”

  A satisfied grunt.

  “And...vegetables, stuffed mice etc...”

  “But how are we going to live?” A rag doll rose unsteadily to its feet, using the heads of two sleeping magpies for support. “We can’t stay here for ever!”

  “Exactly!” Ethyl hunched her shoulders as though ready to pounce. “If the unsophisticated world of Greyminster won’t accept us for what we are, then we’ll have to take more drastic measures! And that, dear comrades, is why I have concocted a cunning plan!”

  The hairs down Malcolm’s neck stood to attention as Nesbit dragged the chalk down the blackboard. The stub snapped. One end ricocheted into the hat-stand, leaving a dotted echelon describing the route into Hodges’ coat pocket.

  Undaunted he continued to jab at the board with his fingernail.

  “It’s starting to add up!” A brief prune of his moustache with his teeth and Nesbit continued. “And from here the answer looks bloody obvious t’ me.”

  “Does it, Sir?” Malcolm ground his back teeth together as his nerve endings continued to prickle. All the while he stared uncomprehendingly at the jumble of words.

  “Birdseed stolen from Miss McHerny’s!”

  Jab, jab, jab...scritch, furrrrt.

  “Dustbin nicked from the back of Gasworks’ View Retirement ’Ome!”

  Jab, jib, jab, squeak.

  “Murder!” Nesbit, hardly able to grip the remains of the chalk, drew a disjointed racetrack around this particularly large word. He finished it off with a full stop. Tears appeared in Malcolm’s eyes. “What’s the connection, Clewes?”

  “I don’t know, Sir. They’re all old biddies?”

  “Mrs Duvall, Clewes!” Nesbit slammed his fist down decisively, raising a cloud of white powder that obscured his face. “Even you have to admit that talking pheasants and little grey Martians aren’t responsible for all these thefts!”

  “Strange things do ’appen, Sir,” Malcolm began. “Take Dovecote Hall for example...”

  “Dovecote ’All was different! That was science. This isn’t, Clewes!”

  Nesbit span round, accidentally trapping his foot in the wastepaper basket. Feigning ignorance he tried to dislodge it on the chair leg.

  “Bloody boggarts and angry artichokes! Don’t make me laugh!”

  Wrestling the bin behind the blackboard, he emerged moments later as though he’d just been manoeuvring his chair for comfort. Then he wriggled his backside onto the seat and slammed his pipe back into his mouth. “This is the work of a deranged woman!”

  “Person, Sir...”

  “Woman, Clewes! To whit, Mrs Winifred Duvall.” And he snorted heavily. An insect that had been hibernating in the bowl of his pipe rose on the sudden release of air. “She’s appeared at every one of these incidents. And what’s more she knows about ’em before we get there. And now she’s murdered someone, Clewes!”

  “Her best friend, Sir?” Malcolm was having difficulty equating the eccentric old dame that he’d met on several previous occasions with an artichoke-wielding maniac. “I’m not sure that...”

  “Time we brought ’er in!” Nesbit rose again and headed off towards the door. “I’ll ’ave Partridge arrest ’er. This biddy’s dangerous Malcolm. We’d best put a stop to ’er nonsense once and for all!”

  Not all of the trawler men had denounced their fishing heritage for a handful of government cheques and a free ticket to Greyminster Museum. Grimeswald Haddock was the last generation of a family whose tradition of reeling in rusted bedsteads stretched back to a time when surnames were determined by occupations.

  He had seen the error of his companions’ ways. Or, to be more accurate, with the demise of the trawling industry he’d seen the opportunity for rich pickings.

  Nowadays the Saucy Fru chugged and rolled in its cloud of black smoke around the coastline, netting the plump shrimp that the absence of other predators had allowed to proliferate.

  It was a living.

  And quite a profitable one to boot.

  Every Sunday Grimeswald would anchor his wheezing tug alongside the jetty, unleash the prawns and bright orange crabs across the York-stones, upturn his lobster pot, sit down on it with his huge Arran knit stomach acting as a table on which to stuff his clay pipe, and stand a sign against his knees which read:

  Fresh Sea Prodduse!

  Welks boiled. Shrimps poted. Mussels straned.

  You cant beet it!

  Right now, however, the Saucy Fru was engulfed in its scarf of effulgence, Haddock’s long johns and roll-top socks hanging out to dry on a skein of rigging.

  Behind the lolloping boat the nets clanged and sloshed through unsuspecting shoals, a flock of seagulls screaming wildly above them.

  Grimeswald Haddock himself was sprawled across his stool, propped up against the tiny cabin. Through the cabin window his apprentice, Danny, peered in concentration, the knuckles of his fingers turning purple as he steered his future down the River Grey.

  Not far ahead the river mouth yawned into the bay. Greyminster’s lighthouse watched them pass on one side. The vertiginous banks of the fells rose sharply on the other. Flattened by perspective somewhere to the right stood the ancient harbour. Nowadays only the Saucy Fru’s mooring ladder was keeping the ruin in any sense alive.

  From the window of the Ice House, humming and wobbling as though on a string, a flying saucer rose against the clouds. Its green shadow copied the craft’s schizophrenic route across the quayside. Then it arced across the white caps of the waves.

  Grimeswald Haddock watched as the saucer drifted up towards the disk of the sun. Momentarily it blotted out the warmth that he’d been trapping. With his pipe wedged firmly in the razor-nick of his mouth, he continued to observe its erratic movements, until the saucer suddenly swooped across his masthead.

  Storm lanterns rattled.

  Pulleys whirred.

  The overweight sailor toppled backwards, upsetting a bucket of slops across the deck. His vista had become engulfed by what appeared to be a very annoyed bantam squashed up against a porthole.

  Danny struggled with the wheel.

  The Saucy Fru rocked dramatically, the wakes from both vessels snarling up into one confused knot.

  Then with a ‘thwump’ the trawler keeled over. Its grimy hold took on several hundred gallons all at once. And the last of Greyminster’s once proud fishing fleet set off in search of Davie Jones’ locker.

  The saucer regained its composure above Devil’s Crevice, set its sights back on Greyminster and headed off with an air of ignorance.

  Let’s follow its route.

  Mrs Wainthrop felt a chill in her bones as the shadow rifled across her down Wattling Lane. Being the far side of senile she put it down to not taking her hormone pills that morning and left it at that.
<
br />   As though sewing the poplars together, the ship darned its route across the Memorial park. It banked right at the gates, startling several dogs busy comparing the aromatic bouquets of their rears down Sword Street.

  Up Crompton’s Ginnel it hurtled, becoming briefly entangled in a climbing rose that Mr Cheddar had allowed to become unruly.

  Along Wainscot Lane it rumbled, past the sagging stocks and the mediaeval fish slabs, before taking a detour across Miss Duvall’s garden. Over the hollyhocks it rose and fell. Once beyond the wall the sounds of a dustbin being clipped and a grief-stricken cat continued to track its route across town.

  We’ll leave it for now to continue its ridiculous journey.

  There’s something important about to take place in Miss Duvall’s kitchen. Seeing as we’re already here, we might as well indulge ourselves in a spot of eavesdropping.

  “Are you sure you’re feeling alright?” Pip brushed her curtain of hair aside and peered out with one eye.

  Miss Duvall appeared to rise from the depths of a personal reverie. She shook her jowls with a blubbery noise and replied, “What, dear? Oh...yes...of course I am.”

  Pip patted her hand. Miss Duvall was obviously concealing her emotions. Such a shock to the system as, no doubt, Millicent’s death had been couldn’t be taken onboard all at once.

  “She’s one of the old school,” Pip decided before adding out loud, “Would you like a cup of tea, Miss Duvall?”

  At that moment there was a boisterous knocking from the front door. Several pot plants rattled around the lounge.

  “Come in Sergeant!” The bloated toad of Winifred’s body suddenly stiffened. “I was wondering how long it would be.”

  She brushed several crumbs that weren’t actually there from her skirts.

  Pip watched as the front door cautiously opened, a Mohican haircut filling the gap. Sergeant Partridge’s bulbous nose hovered some little distance behind it.

  “Go on then, lad.” He pushed his apprentice encouragingly from behind. Moments later he followed the bewildered punk into the hallway. “Sorry Ma’am...we’re training ’im up.”

  “That’s alright Sergeant.” Miss Duvall rose unsteadily to her feet, her chin (or at least the first two of them) continuing to rise after she’d reached her full height. “I presume that you’ve come to arrest me now?”

  “Well...er...”

  Pip noticed that Jack’s cheeks had turned as red as his nose.

  “I...er...suppose that I ought t’ read y’ your rights, Ma’am.”

  “Oh, we don’t need to bother about them.” Miss Duvall gathered her scattered thoughts and waved a few fingers at the sergeant’s assistant. “Make a note of that, young man. If it comes to a court case I wouldn’t want anyone getting into trouble.”

  Jack Partridge nudged the young man alluded to in the small of his back, all the while staring at the carpet. “Go on, Spike...”

  Spike licked his pencil officiously, flipped open the notepad and started to scribble, his tongue protruding from his mouth.

  “Will it be handcuffs, Sergeant?” Miss Duvall held out her arms, the wrists pressed against one another in compliant expectation. “Or do I look the sort that can behave without them?”

  “I’m sure you’ll be’ave for me, Ma’am,” Jack replied, his voice dropping to a mumble as Miss Duvall bustled past him towards the doorstep.

  By the ivy she stopped.

  Spike, still dutifully scribbling, ambled blindly into Jack’s rear.

  Miss Duvall looked back across her shoulder.

  “Phillipa...get in touch with Mr Flinders. I’m sure that between you, you can reach the bottom of all this.”

  Pip nodded thoughtfully, watching as Spike closed the door with a thump.

  “I’ll be down at the police station, dear.” Miss Duvall’s retreating voice reached her through the lace curtains. “I’m counting on you, Phillipa! Now then Sergeant, front seat or back?”

  “It’s a bicycle Ma’am...” Jack grabbed his trusted old steed by its handlebars. “It’s such a pleasant day I thought that the walk would do us good.”

  Now then...where’s that flying saucer gone?

  If we follow the trail of upset milk bottles, crew-cut snails, bristled cats and scorch-marked cobbles we should soon discover that it’s...ah ha! There it is, look! Battering senselessly against the window of number forty-one Caldwell Crescent.

  The suds had gathered on Felix Wetherby’s nose. Several shapeless lathers of soap slid down his chin and plumetted soundlessly into the plug hole. Felix’s unseasonal carolling drowned out the noises from his living room window.

  Nothing, however, could muffle the sudden sound of the pane shattering. It was followed by the screech of what appeared to be brakes.

  A few seconds later Felix’s shower cap thrust itself around the bathroom door. He gripped the fluffy towel around his waist with one hand, carefully pushing his pince nez up his nose with the other.

  Crumpled up against the sideboard lay the flying saucer. A plume of smoke drifted up from its exhaust. Stumbling from the charred remains were a collection of groggy animals. Some of them had stuffing coming loose. Others had singed beaks and sparse tails.

  Amongst them reeled a small grey alien with a bandana of stars dancing some sort of polka around its head.

  “Oh dear! What now?” Felix stepped into the lounge, leaving two soggy footprints on the rug.

  “Mr Wetherby! We have come to unburden you!”

  The old gentleman span round, scanned the wall for several moments, then dropped his eyes to just below knee height. A speckled hen wearing a sinister monicle was glaring back at him.

  “No, no...” The old man stepped back, wagging a defiant finger. “Not this time, I’m afraid. I’ll just wait until my head bursts, I’ve decided.”

  “From my calculations, you don’t actually have a choice in the matter.” The bantam produced a loud hailer from behind its back. Holding it up to the point of her beak, Ethyl continued loudly, “Quizzling! Are you in there? We need your assistance.”

  “Ow...no...I forbid thi...argh!”

  It wasn’t a pleasant sight to witness. For a moment it seemed that Felix’s prediction about his skull exploding was about to be fulfilled. His temples creaked beneath the enslaught of some inner struggle.

  The ensemble of animals shook themselves upright and watched in fascination as a long metal spike emerged from his ear. It was shortly followed by what appeared to be a rugby ball constructed from iron. The object had three British Racing Green fins sprouting from around its girth.

  It slopped onto the carpet.

  The gremlin thrust its thumb from Felix’s ear in the universal signal of “Mission Accomplished”.

  Ethyl raised one stubby wing, wiping the membranes from her latest treasure as the old man staggered into his armchair. Then she turned to her fellow miscreants.

  Behind the smudge marks, in dark blue letters, the words ‘Atom Bomb’ winked menacingly in the sunlight.

  Chapter Nine: Of Incubus and Interviews

  Rules of Etiquette for Conducting an Interrogation.

  During questioning the interrogator must not perform any of the following acts:

  i. Insert a pencil up the interrogatee’s nose.

  ii. Attack the suspect’s face, neck and/or body with a cricket bat. (Addendum by Constable Took: I have discovered that boxing gloves leave less conspicuous marks.)

  iii. Under no circumstances should the interrogator spit on the detainee’s butties, flick snot into their coffee or stub his/her cigarette out in the yolk of the accused’s fried egg during consumption.

  iv. The interrogator must not act in a physically threatening or verbally abusive manner. (Addendum by Constable Took: Or refer to the defendant as a ‘wog’...it now transpires.)

  v. During an emergency, such as a heart attack, the detainee must be allowed access to the doctor. Such medical assistance as is required should be admitted as soon as possible and not
withheld for personal gain. (Addendum by Constable Took: I swear I thought he was putting it on!)

  vi. Cassette recordings made during the interrogation must not be taken home and used to record the top forty. (Addendum by Constable Parkins: Or the Archers.)

  vii. If requested, an impartial lawyer must be present at all times. Threats conducted against said lawyer will be dealt with in court. (Addendum by Inspector Nesbit: Sketchy ink drawing of Superintendent Hodges wearing a pair of ‘Y’ fronts.)

  Extract from the opening page of ‘Suggested Reading for the CID’

  Inspector Nesbit studied the inflated tweed sack of Miss Duvall through the narrow slot. His baggy eyes flicked back and forth with every new rustle, scratch of the head or bosom-expanding sigh. The pompous old dame was sitting on the edge of the bed, the bulb above her head swinging back and forth giving the impression that the holding cell had drifted out to sea. She appeared to be rifling through an assortment of scraps. Every so often she adjusted her spectacles.

  “Wouldn’t it be better to wait ’til Mrs Nesbit comes back from London?” asked Clewes over Nesbit’s shoulder.

  “Er, no Clewes...she looks like a tough old sow but I’m sure we can ’andle ’er by ourselves!” He slid the shutter closed, trapping his pipe bowl as he did so. “We might ’ave t’ use the good cop, bad cop routine though.”

  There followed a couple of empty moments.

  “Are you sure that’s necessary, Sir?” Malcolm had deep reservations about having detained Miss Duvall in the first place. “I mean, she’s not exactly a threat to anybody, is she? Not much more than a well-seasoned goose with more gobble than bite really.”

  “There’ll be none of that!” Nesbit freed his oxford and checked it for damage. Then he stuffed it back beneath his moustache. “You’ve read the ’andbook, Clewes. And vandalised it, I’ve no doubt, along with the rest of us. Rules are rules and we need to abide by ’em.”

 

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