by Brian Hughes
Unfolding the paper he stared at the words, “Continued pages 2 to 19 inclusive.”
“Not much of a story by comparison,” he went on. “Especially considering the seagull in question only got away with the lid.”
“But you’re implicating council members in illegal activity, Mr Mungford.” Councillor Ordenshaw’s narrow eyes became even narrower.
There was something about the woman that Mungford couldn’t quite get a handle on.
Or rather, he suspected, there was something about the woman that already had a handle where it shouldn’t have been. Despite her obviously feminine charms, if ‘charms’ was the correct word to use in association with a pointed face and earrings the size of dustbin lids, she always sported a blue chin.
“Surely you’re not suggesting corruption on the board?” Ordenshaw arched one eyebrow dangerously. “Now there’s a highly libellous thought.”
“Something funny’s going on around Greyminster!” Behind Mungford’s head Perky the gerbil sneezed into his food trough. “The public have a right to know.”
He prodded one ink-stained finger at the desktop, angry at having been disturbed in the small hours. The other council members who used his weekly rag for propaganda at least had the decency not to emerge from their beds until dinnertime. And then it was only if there was a free luncheon in the offing.
“Just so long as your article isn’t breaking the Official Secrets Act.”
“Surely the story hasn’t reached those sort of heights yet?” Judging from his countenance it appeared that Mungford hoped perhaps it had.
“No...” Ordenshaw toyed with the spectacle chain round her neck as though adjusting a hangman’s noose. “But the greenhouse on the roof of the Chronicle is overstepping Building Regulation heights.”
There was a moment’s pause for the implications to take root.
Not that any was needed.
“Heights, no doubt, that you ’elped establish.” Having spat the words, Mungford continued resolutely. “I’m sorry, Councillor, but our motto ’as always been, ‘Britunculi!’”
Ordenshaw turned the Latin over in her head.
“Nasty little Brits?”
“What?” Mungford screwed his glasses back down his nose as he scanned the front page. No...there it was in black and white as it had always been. “Bugger! I thought it meant ‘Britain expects’.”
“Perhaps you should research your work more thoroughly.” Councillor Ordenshaw smiled. The sort of smile that a cougar would wear after placing its paw on a rabbit’s ear.
“A court case would be very expensive.” Her chin rose slightly revealing the stubble that Mungford so often wondered about. “Especially when greenhouse extensions and unregistered loft conversions get dragged into the proceedings.”
“Yes, well...” Now Mungford was fumbling amongst his pencils. “We ’ave got photographs o’ the seagull I suppose.”
His accent slipped further as he spoke.
“Very vicious lookin’ bird it is an’ all! Apparently it pecked Mrs Dunstable on the ’ead.”
“It’ll make an excellent front page, I’m sure.” Ordenshaw rose and straightened her skirts. “And let me assure you, there’s nothing strange going on around Greyminster.”
Outside the window the street turned black.
What resembled a cotton-wool hillock jerked itself past the now eclipsed lamppost, the creak of inadequate legs following its progress down the street.
Councillor Ordenshaw appeared not to have noticed, despite Mungford’s jaw hitting the desk with a thump.
“Just the usual imaginings of excitable pensioners,” she concluded. “That’s all it is, Mr Mungford.”
Time to leave that particular conversation to run its course, accompanied by a few brandies and a verbal consensus to legalise matters once and for all.
No doubt the reader is wondering what’s become of Superintendent Hodges and would like some explanation concerning the discoveries unveiled in the previous chapter.
Time to cross the rich tapestry of the Lancashire night, through silver clouds hemmed with contrails of lace. There’s Greyminster below us, its rooftops marinated in dusty moonlight as the last of the fog boils up from the streets. The woolly mammoth from the Barley flock is currently squeezing itself down a ginnel heading towards the fells, a half-chewed lamppost between its teeth.
Let’s follow the coal-black ribbon of slag winding serpentine through the small brick houses. That’s the River Grey, concluding its journey from the patchwork countryside, tonight a mosaic of blues.
Under arches designed to let the flotsam flow, it meanders. Round hedged embankments and grey slate towpaths until, at last, it scrapes the outhouses at the rear of Greyminster Hospital.
Time to descend. In through the incinerator chimney we head, along deathly dim corridors, through mazes of courtyards, until eventually we reach our destination.
Nurse Adeline Wagstaff handed Malcolm another large coffee to steady his nerves. The sort of coffee in which NHS hospitals specialise. All milk and no caffeine that’ll either send you into a coma (where, frankly, you’d be much less trouble to the overworked staff) or into the bathroom for several hours of vomiting.
Still recovering from the shock Malcolm was now jammed into the corner chair. He was even paler than usual, his freckles standing out in clusters as though picketing his cheeks.
“Sorry about that, Inspector.” Superintendent Hodges accepted his own mug. Then he stared at his toecaps morosely. “Not something you’d expect to find in an ’ospital cupboard, I suspect.”
“Especially the tattoo,” added Nesbit, shuddering at his own recollection. “You’ve got some bad bum fluff down there as well, Cuthbert.”
Hodges stiffened at that remark.
“What the ’ell were you doing prowling about like that any’ow, Reg?” His loose cheeks collapsed as he slammed shut his mouth.
“We could ask the same of you, Sir!”
“I’d ’ave thought it was blatantly obvious w’at me an’ Nurse Wagstaff were up to!” The superintendent cast a nervous glance toward his accomplice who was busying herself with the sugar bowl. “Even a useless great oaf like yourself should be able t’ work that out!”
“It was ’ard to determine your exact activities, Sir.” There was a predatory smugness edging Nesbit’s words. “W’at with y’r big pink arse fillin’ the doorway an’ all.”
Suddenly remembering the huge ‘Y’ fronts round Hodges’ ankles, Nesbit grimaced. No wonder Malcolm was queasy. The sight of his superior’s backside snared up in Nurse Wagstaff’s legs was enough to turn a hippopotamus’ stomach.
“W’at I get up to in private is my own affair, Inspector!” The old duffer had dropped his Christian name again, his authority distending in proportion to his embarrassment.
“We were asked to investigate your movements.” A recollection of the bedpans swam up to taunt him. Nesbit turned jade. “Investigate your movements, as I say,” he carried on courageously. “By your good lady wife.”
“Oh God!” Hodges punctured, his arms falling limply across his knees. “I could do without Prunella finding out.”
With sagging jowls and reddening eyes he looked up imploringly.
“At least give me the dignity o’ tellin’ ’er meself, Reg.” A wave of regret washed over his features. “Since she went through the change we’ve not exactly ‘shared relations’, so to speak. And, no, I don’t mean like Parkins does with ’is mother-in-law! It’s been hard these last few months.”
“I could see that, Cuthbert.” Judging by his haughty demeanour, Nesbit was enjoying himself. He crammed his oxford into his mouth and grinned. “Would y’ like Partridge t’ provide an armed escort w’en y’ get ’ome?”
“’Old on a moment, Sir,” interrupted Malcolm as a sudden thought traipsed across his brow. “Does this mean that you’re not in league with Mrs Duvall then?”
“I’ve never touched the woman!” With a defiant snarl Ho
dges launched himself to his feet. “Nurse Wagstaff! That’s all! I don’t make a habit of this sort o’ thing, Clewes!”
“Then presumably, that also means y’ didn’t write the note?”
“Note, what note?”
Nesbit and Clewes exchanged glances. An atmosphere of tension filled the room.
“Oh God!” The oxford tumbled as both of them shouted in harmony, “The atom bomb!”
Miss Duvall wheezed herself into the hedgerow, far from convinced that she’d outrun the police.
To be perfectly honesty she could have out-walked them. On a Zimmer frame. With both legs missing.
There were titanic-sized sheep loose in Greyminster tonight and that sort of thing tended to take precedence over dotty old biddies.
Nonetheless, she flattened herself the best she could into the hawthorn and watched the clouds slicing the moon into tin-foil strips. Every so often a pocket of inharmonious singing buffeted her ears. It was coming from the Albert Finney Memorial Hall somewhere up the slopes of South Ringing Fell behind her.
Towards the end of Strongarm Lane a murky figure, shrouded by night and stencilled flat against the woods beyond, crested the rise. As it failed to grow in height Miss Duvall surmised it to be a rather short person.
Her deduction was confirmed as a rotund girl, wearing too many petticoats for comfort and with hair down to her knees, reached the nearby stile. She was surrounded by a duvet of condensing breath and appeared to be deep in thought.
“Phillipa!”
Pip lost her footing on the slippery cobbles and landed face first in a leaf-strewn puddle.
“No need to panic! No need to panic!” Miss Duvall emerged from her prickly hiding place, unable to follow her own advice. “It’s only me. I’m on the run!”
Phillipa pushed herself up onto her elbows, brushed her hair to one side and peered at the apparition leaning over her.
“Mrs Duvall? I thought you was locked up?”
“I was.” Miss Duvall clasped her hands to her generous bosom and spluttered excitedly. “I escaped, my dear! There’s danger afoot in Greyminster tonight and nobody gives a cuss, ’scuse my French.”
“But you can’t escape!”
Noting that Miss Duvall wasn’t about to extend her a helping hand, embroiled in her own drama-filled world as she was, Pip struggled back onto her feet.
“You’ve blown your chances for a fair court hearing now. What’ll Sergeant Partridge say?”
“Not much, dear...” Miss Duvall checked about herself on the off chance that the sniffer dogs were tracking her down. “I gave him a crack with my guzzunder! I doubt he’ll be saying much for the next hour or so.”
“But...” Wringing the puddle from her petticoats Pip studied the situation thoughtfully. “What about Mr Berthold, your lawyer? What’s he going to reckon about you assaulting a police officer?”
“I doubt that I’ll tell him,” replied Miss Duvall. “There’s an atom bomb poised to detonate somewhere in town and nobody’s paying it much heed! I don’t think I can trust anyone any longer!”
Although it was pitch black Winifred could see in her mind’s eye that Pip was frowning.
“So why do you trust me?” Pip asked.
“Because you’re the only one who’s believed me so far,” Miss Duvall answered honestly. “You’re my only advocate, Pip. Everyone else thinks I either murdered Millicent or I’ve been dealing crack cocaine.”
“But I don’t want t’ be an avocado.” Now Pip was pouting. “Atom Bombs! Pointless puzzles! Orang-utans! Pirates with stuck-on beards! I’m tired Mrs Duvall. And I just want to go ’ome!”
There followed a few moments of reserve.
“There must be a good reason why he’s not returning your advances, Phillipa.”
“What?” Pip stumbled out of her reverie. “How did...?”
“I’ve told you before,” interrupted Miss Duvall. “I might be old, but I’ve still got my wits about me. Obviously Mr Peterson isn’t living up to early promises.”
This was the sort of conversation that could have gone on for hours. A writer’s blessing with opportunities for plot off-shoots, personality building and character analysis by the bucket load.
In other words, a good plot filler.
Unfortunately perhaps, especially as far as I’m concerned, the exchange was halted by the sudden appearance of a silver Frisbee above the treetops.
Pip and Winifred watched the demented craft stumble over the dry stone wall before erratically swerving around a bemused but not-especially-worried cow. The Aberdeen Angus patiently followed its route with its large brown eyes as the unfeasible machine rose in fits and starts towards the Memorial Hall.
Clattering along in the saucer’s wake was an old iron bucket, occasionally slopping dollops of water onto the grass.
“I almost hate to mention this,” continued Miss Duvall as the spacecraft receded to a brilliant speck. “But did that look like a chicken behind the steering wheel to you?”
Five boys in blue lined up in a row. Ruddy noses forward, starched collars cutting red rings into pink necks, gleaming buttons standing to attention.
Or rather four boys and one girl in blue lined up in a row, Constable Jaye occupying the end of the line. She was singing with as much gusto as her male counterparts, but nobody seemed to be orchestrated anyhow.
In front of this small congregation Sergeant Bill Foster’s baton performed its own acrobatics. Swirls and dervishes that didn’t have any connection with the ‘music’.
“Gentlemen! Gentlemen!” At length Bill Foster frowned and rapped the back of the wooden seat before him to gain their attention.
“And, of course, lady,” he conceded, taking note of Jaye’s frown. “Are we all on the same page?”
The constables checked their song sheets at arms’ length.
Then they checked each other’s song sheets with a growing murmur of confusion.
“Actually Sir,” came a baffled voice. “I ’aven’t got the same book at all.”
Bill Foster plucked the cookery book from Parkins’ grip. He took a quick glance inside and removed the Beano from its centre pages.
“Might I remind everyone, we’ve got three days t’ get this thing ready for the Policeman’s Ball?” Bill rubbed his balding forehead with one withered palm. “I only ’opes to God we ’aven’t sold many tickets.”
With a defiant gesture he leant determinedly over his troops.
“C’mon! Make an effort will y’? The only thing we’re impressing tonight are cats on ’eat! Now...” A cough rumbled out of his sinewy throat. “’We’ll keep a Welcome in the ’Illside’...from the top.”
The baton rose theatrically, along with an index finger designed to curtail any false starts from Parkins.
The clunk of falling bricks!
The clank of a bucket tumbling down the chimney.
The slosh of water dowsing the embers in the hearth.
With mouths open in anticipation of the first bar, the choir watched as a cabbage of soot billowed out from the fireplace.
It softly dispersed towards the stage.
“What the..?”
Sergeant Foster never managed to complete his damnation.
With a horrible creak a gigantic talon extended from the pyroclastic cloud, clawing frantically at the floorboards. It was closely pursued by a thunderous jet of flame that seared the floor and detonated the curtains.
Down Strongarm Lane Miss Duvall and Phillipa Morgan had watched the flying saucer drop the bucket down the chimney pot. Now they were waiting expectantly for whatever might follow. Moments later they were rewarded by a colossal explosion. It blew a section of roof from the Memorial Hall and exceeded all their expectations.
They covered their heads as tiles shattered around them, some landing with steaming ‘dink’s in the roadside ditch, others making soft thuds as they pierced the cow pats.
Up the fellside, beneath the swollen awning of fumes, distraught Bobbies were pour
ing from every opening in the building. Helmets rolled into hedges. Constables scattered in the fashion of buckshot. Another detonation sent cistern heads from the cloakroom tumbling up towards the moon, powered from beneath by a ferocious blast of flames and plenty of smoke.
“I can see it’s going to be one of those nights,” commented Miss Duvall, as Parkins’ recipe book, now a ball of crackling flame, fluttered into the hawthorn reminiscent of a scene from the Book of Moses.
There was a gentle tugging at her skirt. After several attempts to brush whatever had landed on her away, she gave up and looked. Staring up at her from knee height was a ginger tom. It was wearing a long coat, a paisley cravat and a polished top hat that was reflecting the furnace blazing above them.
Having caught her attention it raised one paw, coughed politely and said in an upper-crust accent, “Miss Duvall? The Quizzling felt it necessary for you to have this.”
A short note written on the same type of parchment as the clues was thrust towards her. Miss Duvall accepted it without question.
With a grin that consisted of pointed fangs and fish-smelling breath the boggart cat shot up the nearest birch tree and disappeared. There were the sounds of snapping branches as it did so. For some short time all that could be heard were the hoots of worried owls, shouts of “Phone the Fire Brigade” from Sergeant Foster, and the angry spitting of the Memorial Hall accompanied by the flapping of serpent wings. Pip finally broke lull. “Please tell me that was a midget in a costume?” It wasn’t a question but, by rights, it ought to have been.
“Whatever it was,” answered Miss Duvall, trying to read the letters in the shifting orange light. “The whole of Lancashire’s emergency services will be descending on us in a few minutes. And I don’t think it’ll do either of us any good to be implicated in this, do you?”
For those readers still attempting to tie the numerous strands of this novel together, here’s what the message read:
“Seven: Barnacles. Return to where Punt Close meets Dilbury Avenue. Head South down Dilbury Avenue until you reach Dunstable Close. Follow Dunstable Close East for ten yards. Not an anaemic plaice.”