by Brian Hughes
Down the stairs at York Street station the night continued to spread its roots, albeit in a more reluctant manner. The naked bulb kept the holding cell in a state of perpetual brightness.
Miss Duvall was having trouble sleeping. It had been a difficult couple of days and the never-ending twilight wasn’t helping.
‘Burgullaries’ and ‘orang-utans’ crammed her weary thoughts! The brutal murder of her closest friend reared up in half-sketched dreams to disorientate her.
And now prison! For a crime she didn’t commit!
But beneath all the emotional upheaval her doddering heart beat excitedly. It was certainly turning out to be a grand adventure.
As her tired thoughts wandered she stumbled into the minefield of recent memories. And in particular, Millicent. Oh dear! She’d let the old goose down badly this time. And her sister, Rose! No doubt the pair of them would be wagging their fingers at her from the pearly gates. Well...Rose would be anyhow. Millicent would be trying to defrock Saint Peter and stuff his wings down his thong.
Miss Duvall felt her heart sink as guilt tugged the rug of her stomach from beneath it.
Scrit, scrat, scrut.
A skein of dust cascaded down the wall above her head. It created a fine crease across the flagstones.
Winifred craned her neck to watch as a tiny crack appeared in the plaster.
“Surely not rats?” She spluttered herself upright as one of the bricks slid backwards.
Two eyes leered in through the hole.
“Must be damned clever rats to do that!” she decided. “Who’s out there? Friend or foe?”
The emotionless eyes vanished. They were replaced by a cadaverous hand clutching a roll of parchment. It was bound with a scarlet ribbon.
Hesitating briefly, Miss Duvall accepted it, muttering to herself as she did so. “Most irregular I must say.”
She gave the bow a tug. The paper unfurled, revealing a letter addressed to Councillor Ordenshaw. It contained a long list of seemingly pointless demands that ranged from: “Recognition of our rights as inanimate-animates” to “Free sewing services and formaldehyde top-ups at Greyminster Hospital as, and when, required.”
Curious about the messenger Miss Duvall swung her legs over the side of the bed. Then she flattened her nose against the wall with some discomfort.
One beady eye peered into the cellar, watering as it strained against the darkness.
In the distance she could hear the slap, slip, slap of cold insteps crossing equally frosted stone.
“Surely not!” She sat back up straight, or at least as straight as a sack of old flesh could muster. Blinking in astonishment she added, “If I didn’t know better, I could have sworn that was Millicent Broadhurst in a postman’s hat!”
Lets make our way up the stairs and through the self-locking door.
Sergeant Partridge wasn’t having as much difficulty sleeping as Miss Duvall. He was slumped over his desk, a mug of congealed coffee by one elbow, his copy of Model Makers Monthly tucked under the other. It had been a long stretch, beyond the usual call of the graveyard shift. Sergeant Foster was alledgedly off with the flu and Jack, reluctant to hand the station over to his juniors, had remained on duty.
Every so often what sounded like a saddleback being sawn in half drifted upwards from his trench coat and a straggle of hair would rise on the updraught of a snore.
Jack didn’t notice the slurp of sticky soles down the corridor behind him.
With the tiniest of snicks somebody unlatched the door and inched it open a fraction.
A gaunt hand lifted the sea-serpent’s bucket from beneath the counter, and then disappeared again.
“Sergeant Partridge!”
Jack shot upright, his eyes as puffy as boiled whelks. The stray turret of hair was now standing erect from his crown.
“Mrs Hodges, Ma’am? What can we do you for?” He blinked, checked the clock above the door, realised it was fast approaching midnight, and became visibly confused about the superintendent’s wife standing before him.
“I’ve come to see Cuthbert!”
Mrs Hodges, it would be fair to say, was not an attractive woman. The phrase ‘she had a face like a bag of old spanners’ hardly paid her justice.
“I’ll overlook your sleeping on the job on this occasion.”
Jack coughed appreciatively. It didn’t pay to argue with Prunella Hodges.
She peeled the mint green gloves from her fingers and continued without lifting her eyes. “If you’d like to let me in?”
Always the stalwart policeman, even when he’d just emerged from a dream about pink elephants and a bathtub of custard, Jack punched the code into the lock and the hinges gave an orgasmic gasp.
“Thank you, Sergeant.” She bustled past as Jack sucked in his stomach, still blinking himself awake. “I know the way.”
The door closed behind her acting as a psychological barrier from her demonic breath.
Seconds later Jack was punching the buttons again in panic.
Shouts of “Sergeant! Sergeant!” rose noisily from the station’s bowels.
Slamming the door open he charged through it frantically, not realising that the Prunella was standing just inside.
The two of them went flying.
Jack’s bulbous nose rebounded off Mrs Hodges’ tightly-skirted rear. His head rose in alarm from where no right-thinking chin should ever have ventured, braced for the onslaught of abuse.
But it never came.
Instead Mrs Hodges was pointing, ashen faced, towards the far end of the building.
“Sergeant Partridge!”
Jack picked himself up and offered her one large hand.
“Would you mind telling me exactly where my husband is spending his evenings as, quite clearly, his office is empty?” She brushed herself down as Jack sought desperately for an explanation. He was cut short before his mouth could move into gear. “And whilst you’re about it, could you also explain that!?”
Following the direction of her finger, Jack stared at the familiar hat-stand, glanced at the door to the Homicide Division behind it, and then suddenly noticed the hole.
It was approached by a series of wet footprints.
A gaping, Millicent Broadhurst shaped hole with what appeared to be a second, bucket-shaped opening attached to one arm.
Chapter Twelve: Of Sheep and Shadows
‘August 14th, 1868. Crosby’s Meadow. The narrow strip of scrag adjoining the rear of Stewartstones Slateworks. This was the setting for one of the most publicised events in Greyminster’s turbulent history. Three ewes and their tupping ram, Gordon Ramsbottom (an odd name for a prize-winning Lancashire thoroughbred, but Farmer George Barley no doubt had his personal reasons) were discovered to be suffering from violent wind.
According to Veterinary Simpson’s personal diary:
“Such excesses of flatulence as made these turgid ovine expansive can only be put down to the influence of experimental lubricant being drained from the cutting tools at the nearby slateworks.
Following examination of Mrs Ramsbottom (Barley’s favourite breeding ewe) I proceeded to remove the mallet and chisel from my portmanteau with a view to releasing the gas and thus relieving the weary creature of its intestinal bloating.
Unfortunately, with the first wallop, Mrs Ramsbottom exploded triumphantly, scattering gizzards and intestinal tracts with some considerable force across Stewartstones’ rooftop.
Having cleansed myself of the offal in the local stream I then proceeded to test the other sheep in turn. Each followed the suit of its predecessor, large intestines, stomachs and juicy spleens rocketing up into the night sky.
Gertrude Ramsbottom Jr put on a particularly excellent display of spontaneous combustion, her nose coming to rest on the spire of St Oliver’s and her large colon disappearing with a whistle into Mrs Evesham’s Dancing School for Young Ladies via the chimney, where it was greeted with much enthusiasm and applaud.”
To date, no satisfactory
explanation has been given for the “Exploding Sheep of Crosby’s Lea” but myths about the Barley farmstead accepting bribes from Codagnone’s Methane Suppliers to store their excess produce are rife.’
Extract from ‘Bray’s Murders & Legends of Lancashire (Volume 14)’
A conga of snores snaked their way onto the landing from Timothy’s bedroom. For a while they hung around the banister before becoming enmeshed with the snorts and dribbles from his grandmother’s boudoir.
Downstairs, his feet on the coffee table blocking his view from the late night horror movie, Malcolm fumbled for his mug of cocoa. This was hampered by the fact that Janette’s head was buried in his paunch. She was also snoring, although considerably more violently than Malcolm’s relatives upstairs. Her nostrils rattled every so often, forcing something between a grunt and a statement from her comatose mouth.
Malcolm’s fingertips brushed his Garfield mug but failed to make purchase.
Boris Karloff walked across the television screen. The moaning violins built up the tension as Frankenstein’s monster approached his victim, rearing up in a heap of bolts and stitches.
Thump, thump, thump!
Janette shot up straight, catching Malcolm under the chin and sending him reeling into the cushions.
The hammering continued, echoing through the house with its customary lack of consideration for the family’s sleeping habits.
“Oh...buggering bollocks! I wonder who that could be?” It wasn’t difficult to notice the sarcasm in Malcolm’s voice.
“What’s happening?” Janette blinked vacantly but didn’t wait for any reply. Instead she shook her hair over her half-closed eyes and collapsed back into Malcolm’s lap, making it difficult to inch himself out from beneath her.
Following several more thumps, whacks and wallops, Malcolm wormed himself onto his feet. Then he headed in the direction of the bombardment.
He was just in time to stop Nesbit hammering again. The safety chain threatened to tear a chunk from the jamb as he angrily stared out at his colleague.
“Work t’ be done, Clewes! Got t’ track Hodges down!” Nesbit grinned enthusiastically. Obviously Piglet’s workout had been beneficial.
“Hodges, Sir? Has he gone missing?”
The image of his corpulent boss being pursued over the fells by a posse of vigilantes filled Malcolm’s tired brain.
“Not exactly Clewes, but he’s up t’ somethin’.” With a clack the oxford found its rack amongst Nesbit’s teeth. “I always knew there was more t’ the old duffer than meets the eye.”
He turned the phrase over in his head. “Than met the eye...mets the eye...”
Having tried several variations he sucked thoughtfully at his empty pipe and left the semantics of grammar alone.
“Superintendent Hodges, Sir?” Clewes was obviously having difficulty understanding the purpose of this late night visit. Reluctantly he slid the chain along its groove and opened the door.
“No, Hodges the Warden from Dad’s Army!” snapped Nesbit back. “Come on Clewes, the game is a foot.”
He stopped in mid spin, his Macintosh coming to rest by his sides theatrically.
“Or in this case,” he went on. “The game is an over-ripe stomach! It appears our superintendent is in cohoots with that Duvall woman!”
Malcolm frowned, checked his pockets for his keys and then pulled the front door closed quietly behind him.
“Surely not, Sir? And I still don’t reckon Miss Duvall had anything t’ do with all this. I mean...why would she?”
There was the crunch of gravel underfoot as Nesbit spearheaded their advance towards his Bentley.
“Because she’s a sad old bat, Clewes!” Realising that further explanation was possibly required he continued in a slightly more thoughtful tone. “She’s famed around the manor for ’er ridiculous stories of intrigue. Thinks she lives in an Agatha Christie novel that ’un.”
He unlocked the car and a flurry of Mozart filled the night.
“She obviously committed these crimes ’erself, t’ give some substance to ’er elaborate fantasies!”
Unconvinced Malcolm continued to frown. “And Hodges, Sir? I take it he’s gone senile as well now, ’as he?”
“Greyminster’s a quiet town, Clewes.” Nesbit leaned across the Bentley roof, sonatas parting around him and filling the avenue behind. “Hodges needs t’ boost ’is crime figures otherwise there’ll be some redundancies round this neck o’ the woods. Obviously they’ve concocted this scheme between ’em.”
“So where do y’ reckon Hodges is now, Sir?” Malcolm ploughed on, not entirely convinced but warming to Nesbit’s theory.
“No idea Clewes. We’d best get down t’ the station an’ check ’is diary.”
Nesbit smirked a bit too ardently for comfort, with the full knowledge that his wife had given him permission to commit this indelicate act.
“But I suggest you go back ’ome and get your shoes on first.”
The hedges round the porch of forty-one Caldwell Crescent were blue and chiselled in the moonlight.
Come to that matter so were Pip’s lips, but that was probably more down to her choice of lip-gloss than anything atmospheric.
“Are you sure we should be doing this, Flinders?” The sound of his name appeared to wither up as she pronounced it. Fortunately her hair hid the sudden flush of her cheeks.
Even Flinders couldn’t help noticing the embarrassment in her voice, however. Hastily Pip continued. “It’s very late after all. Perhaps we should leave it until morning.”
“His light’s on,” Flinders replied, reaching for the mildewed knocker above his head. “Or would you rather Mrs Duvall spent longer in gaol than she actually has to?”
Pip shook her head. At least finding out about the mysterious jacket label would make a change from Flinders rabbiting on about archaeology. Since Blackmoore Road he’d pontificated on the structure of the Antonine Wall, dissected the sociological changes between the Mesolithic and Neolithic Eras in Northern Britain (those consisting mainly of the shift from hunter-gatherer to primitive agriculture) and argued vociferously about the reliance of pollen gradation charts.
On several occasions she’d deliberately bumped his chair down the curb in the hopes of changing the subject. But he’d just settled himself back into his cushions and continued undaunted.
The sound of a deadbolt being dragged backwards crept out of the porch. The front door opened marginally onto a worried face.
“Can I help you?” Felix Wetherby’s gaze darted back and forth between the two weird creatures staring up at him from the step. “I’m a Hindu and I’ve no intention of going to the Kingdom Hall for an informal chat.”
“Actually,” Pip corrected him with as much authority as she could summon. “We’re investigating a murder.”
“Don’t know nothing about that.”
The door started to close, but Flinders jammed his makeshift leg inside it.
There was a crunch as the cardboard tube that he’d stuffed inside his denims suddenly bent upwards at a ninety degree angle. The hiking boot on the end bent backwards painfully.
Felix’s mouth dropped open in a gawk. “Oh lord! I’m dreadfully sorry!”
In desperation he attempted to loosen what he assumed to be a genuine limb from the letterbox. In the process he forced it into an even more uncomfortable, if not physically impossible, position.
Felix was well aware of how the law worked even if he’d never been on the receiving end of it. And he knew that assault and battery carried a nasty sentence.
“I must apologise, young man. I had no idea...please...come in! Come in!”
Perhaps a brief description of the Wetherby lounge would be appropriate at this juncture. To call it a miserable dump would be doing a disservice to the donkey-jackets who ran Greyminster Tip. Cobwebs festooned every crevice, most of their occupants shrivelled up in transparent mounds along the bookshelves.
Newspapers, magazines and tattered tomes
filled every surface. Pot plants grew like bushes in the limited spaces between. If Flinders had found Greyminster Museum difficult to navigate then Felix’s lounge was nigh on impossible. His wheels left two ruts through the junk as he struggled across the room, his outjutting leg catching an urn marked ‘Madeline Wetherby’ and covering what remained of the carpet with ash.
The lid ground in circles for several moments, then finally reached a halt by the chair.
“No problem, no problem!” Felix scrambled onto his knees, scooping the powder back into its container with sweating palms. “Just my wife. She never got out much when she was alive. The exercise would probably do her good.”
From the corner of his pince-nez he spotted what looked like a trail of webbed footprints beneath the coffee table. Surreptitiously he dusted them into none-existence with his cardigan cuff.
“Now...” Standing up again he grabbed Flinders’ wayward foot before it caught the precariously teapot. Then he smiled about as amicably as he could under the circumstances. “Perhaps I could get you a splint, or a bandage...or...or...something.”
Embarrassed he shuffled off into the kitchen.
“What a nutter,” whispered Flinders when he was out of earshot. “Puddled by loneliness no doubt, but he’s got some damned interesting books.”
“Such as?” asked Pip.
“Such as the entire collection of Bray’s Encyclopaedias,” Flinders replied, forcing a path towards the padlocked bookcase. “I’m not sure why he’s got them locked up though. Worthless misprinted rubbish on the whole. I suppose they could be considered quite a find from a Fortean point of view.”
“Flinders look!”
Flinders span back round in his chair. Then he squealed across a collection of gramophone records. The priceless 78’s splintered.
As Felix continued to bumble noisily around his cupboards, Flinders pulled up alongside his gothic admirer. She was holding the note from the toilets in one hand and Felix’s puzzle magazine in the other.