Beware The Peckish Dead!

by William Stafford

  In lurched a man I recognised: the lewd fellow from the corridor. He clung to the door frame for support and rocked with the movement of the train.

  “There you are!” he belched in my direction. The stench of cheap ale gusted in my face. “Been looking for you everywhere, darlin’.”

  Miss Lindquist took charge. “Be looking here, you rough fellow. This is being a private compartment and my sister and I shall be thanking you to be moving along.”

  “Sisters, eh?” The rough fellow’s shaggy eyebrows performed high jumps in rapid succession. He stepped over the threshold and rubbed his hands together. “Eeny, meeny, miney, mo...”

  “Be getting out!” Miss Lindquist leapt to her feet and swatted the ruffian with her handbag. Laughing, he fended off her blows.

  “Sister!” Miss Lindquist cried and it took me a bit to remember she was talking to me, “I shall be fetching the guard. Be doing what you can to defend your honour.”

  I deemed it prudent to refrain from making a quip about that ship having sailed; she was making a coded reference to preserving my disguise. Before I could make any communication, she was off, leaving me at the mercy of the lecherous fellow.

  That which had made him drunk had also made him bold. He threw himself onto the empty seat beside me, far too close for comfort, and gave my knee an appreciative squeeze as though it were a vegetable available for purchase. I rapped his knuckles with the edge of my folded fan. He moved his hand farther up my thigh. Sour and beery breath blew hot through my veil. I was as rigid as a board. If his hand were to venture any farther North, the cat would be out of the bag - in a manner of speaking.

  “Come on now, darlin’.” His nose pressed the mesh against my cheek. “Don’t be a shy little flower. Let’s have a squint at that pretty face.”

  I raised my hands in a bid to prevent him from uncovering that pretty face. He seized my wrists and chuckled.

  “Don’t be like that, sir! I’m only after a bit of fun.”

  I jolted with surprise then renewed my squirming in his clutches.

  “That’s right,” he grinned. “I saw you, coming out of the Gents’ toilets. How queer, I thinks to myself. Now,” his grip tightened, “Let’s you and me have a little fun or I shall report you to the police.”

  Dash it all! A momentary lapse of character had led me to the wrong facilities.

  Well, the jig was up. There was no need to maintain the pretence of being a poor, defenceless female. I was free to be a poor, defenceless male instead.

  “Unhand me, villain!” I snapped. The deepness of my voice seemed to incite him further. He tore off my hat, veil and all, altogether ruining my hairdo.

  “Ain’t you the pretty one! Quite a pretty mouth and all!”

  He put one hand to my throat, pinning me against the backrest of my seat; his other hand fumbled with his belt buckle. I tried to peel his fingers from my neck; he was choking the life out of me. He struck me across the head, stunning me, then he got to his feet. His trousers dropped to his ankles.

  And then he cried out in agony. He thrashed around within the confines of the compartment and, in my half-dazed state, I saw something russet and white clinging to the ruffian’s backside.

  Cassie!

  The faithful collie growled and snarled but would not release my assailant. The ruffian tried to pull up his trousers and exit the compartment at the same time.

  “Call it off! Call it off!” he wailed. He tumbled through the doorway and toppled into the corridor just as Miss Lindquist returned with the guard in tow.

  The ruffian scuttled away like a disgraced rat. I quickly donned my hat and pulled down the veil, trying to compose myself as best and as fast as I could.

  “I see...” said the guard, peering around. “Like this, is it? I’m afraid, Miss, dogs is extra.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  I was, to my surprise, inordinately overjoyed to be reunited with my canine chum. I petted and stroked her and called her a clever girl over and over, in gratitude for saving me from the unwelcome advances of that villain. And in the nick of time! The last I’d seen of her was back in London, when my publisher came to cart her off to his place. And now, amazingly, she was here!

  Why, every other day of the week you hear about dogs making incredible journeys to be reunited with their loved ones. Cassie had come all this way to be with me.

  “Oh, doggy, my doggy,” I pressed my snout against hers and cooed in her ear, “I must say, I like your style.”

  Miss Lindquist was less than delighted. She stood stern sentry at the door, shaking her head in dismay.

  “The English are loving their dogs,” she marvelled with a hint of distaste.

  “Give me a mutt any day,” I countered, “Rather than a roll-mop herring.”

  My remark puzzled the Scandinavian and, I must confess, I am not entirely sure what I was driving at either.

  “This will not be doing,” Miss Lindquist wrung her hands. “You cannot be keeping this dog. It is being impossible.”

  I covered Cassie’s ears lest Miss Lindquist’s words offend.

  “Be thinking about it!” her eyes widened with impatience. “This dog is being at home in Scotland, yes? She is knowing the countryside like it is being the back of her hand, yes?”

  “Well, yes, but...” I was about to point out how that could work to our advantage when I saw Miss Lindquist’s point. “Ah.” I sat back, deflated. “She also knows the people.” I remembered how she had growled at Laird Baird. “What say we disguise her in some way? I’ve some boot polish in my trunk.”

  “You are still not thinking, Mr - Sister. Changing the outside of the dog will not be changing it on the inside. She will not be being able to act the role of stranger; you must be seeing this. We are being over this before already.”

  My shoulders slumped farther still until my corset pinched me under the arms. “Dash it all.”

  Cassie sensed an alteration of mood and let out an enquiring whine. She put a front paw on my lap. Dogs truly are brilliant; I’ll have you know - or have we been over that already too?

  Miss Lindquist consulted her wristwatch. “We shall be stopping at Carlisle for the better part of an hour. You may be disposing of her there.”

  I was horrified. “Dispose of her? Why wait until Carlisle, Miss Lindquist? Why not just open the window right now and have done with it?”

  Miss Lindquist sought to calm me. “Please, please! I am misspeaking. I am meaning ‘make arrangements’.”

  “That sounds even more sinister.”

  “I am meaning be finding a kennel. Be finding someone who will be looking after your furry friend for a few days.”

  I didn’t much like the sound of that either. The thought of leaving my Cassie with a stranger, some mercenary...

  “I shall telephone my publisher,” I resolved. “Then he can meet her off the next train to London. Perhaps he can keep her on a shorter leash this time.”

  ***

  At the station at Carlisle, I found a public telephone and asked the operator to connect me with Monty, my publisher.

  “Hector! Old chap!” The greeting sounded forced to me. No one is ever pleased to hear from the last person they wish to speak to - and old Monty was no doubt feeling sheepish on account of having lost the dog I entrusted to his tender care. “How’s Scotland? As bonnie as aye?”

  I cringed at his attempt at an accent; I would not be distracted from my purpose.

  “Haven’t got there yet. Am in Carlisle. Listen, how’s that mutt of mine doing without me?”

  “Er...” Monty faltered. “Awfully sorry, old bean, but this is a terrible line.”

  Oh, is it, indeed!

  “Put her on for me, would you?”

  “What?”

  “Who?”

&n
bsp; “Cassie!”

  “Who? Listen, old thing, I can barely make out a blind word you’re saying.”

  “Nonsense!” I scoffed. “The line is as clear as if you were breathing down my neck. Now, hold the receiver to the dog’s ear and let me speak to her.”

  “Have you taken leave of your senses?”

  “You’re bringing me to the verge. Just do it, Monty.”

  The line went quiet. I thought he would attempt to impersonate Cassie and hoped for his sake his barks would be better than his Scots.

  “Woof!” came down the line. I was surprised by its authenticity. Monty could take to the London stage.

  The barking continued. I could not get a word in.

  “That’s quite enough, Monty! Monty!”

  “What’s that, old boy?” Monty sounded farther off - and the barking was still going strong...

  “Cassie?”

  A single bark of confirmation. My mind reeled... Cassie had not run from Monty’s after all... and yet...

  I rotated on the spot and peered through the glass in the door of the booth. There, across the concourse, was Miss Lindquist, our luggage and the blasted dog! Sitting obediently, awaiting my return.

  Then, how...

  I was startled by the urgent rapping of knuckles against the glass.

  “Here, darlin’,” scowled a lowly fellow, “Are you finished in there or what?”

  I exited the booth, leaving the receiver hanging and the call still connected. The lowly fellow brushed past me; I was in such a daze I hardly seemed to notice. Behind me, I heard him utter a single word before he closed the door.

  “Barking.”

  I assume he must have taken up the receiver.

  In the cafeteria, Miss Lindquist and I sat at a table laden with tea things and fondant fancies. Under this smorgasbord, Cassie lapped water from a bowl. Miss Lindquist tried to explain the dog’s duality. I attempted to nibble on a chocolate éclair without lifting my veil; I must have looked for all the world like a suspicious apiarist.

  “Be thinking about it. My father is appearing twice and now Cassie is doing the same. One must be able to pass through the portal and visit the same time and place.”

  “But are there two of them now?” I neglected to use my female register. Miss Lindquist’s eyebrows reared up in warning. “Two dogs, I mean,” I modulated my voice to a soft squeak. “Have I now got two Cassies to look after? Do you now have two fathers?”

  Miss Lindquist looked stricken. “Perhaps, at this stage, I am having no fathers at all.”

  I patted Cassie under the table. She rested against my skirts, her tail beating the linoleum in an expression of sheer bliss.

  Two of these companions would not be such a bad thing at all. Cuthbert and I could walk one each and –

  The chocolate éclair turned to ash in my mouth.

  Never mind two of him! What wouldn’t I give to see my Cuthbert just once?

  ***

  Laird Baird agreed to see us at once. An invitation to supper was in the offing. Miss Lindquist had wired ahead and, because she was her father’s daughter, His Lordship was keen to offer any help he could in the finding of the lost explorer. Perhaps he felt partly responsible because old Ranulf had been using His Lordship’s library to further his research at the time of his disappearance; I don’t know.

  Miss Lindquist and I waited in a reception room. She took advantage of the opportunity to adjust my attire and to correct my posture. Annoyed, she patted dog hairs off my skirts and shoulders. Cassie had been left at Auld Jock Hitchin’s croft, where she was quite at home. I felt bad about leaving her on her own and hoped she would not pine for me too much.

  “You are being covered with hairs,” Miss Lindquist complained.

  “I shaved my chest!” I protested. To be perfectly frank, it was itching like billy-o beneath the damned corset.

  “Just be remembering,” she admonished, “To be letting me be doing the talking.”

  “Yessing, of coursing,” I mocked her. She scowled and pulled down my veil.

  In the doorway, Berryman the butler cleared his throat. He inclined his head and ushered us from the room with an economic gesture. Miss Lindquist sent me a final glare of warning. I poked out my tongue and got an unsought-for lick of the veil.

  I tottered along behind her, aping her walk to the best of my mimetic ability. My shoes continued to pinch like insistent crabs trying to attract the attention of a paddler. At the door to the dining room, Berryman looked me up and down. The tiniest trace of a smirk twitched his inscrutable features. Had I been recognised already?

  Laird Baird was waiting to greet us at the fireplace. I tried to keep Miss Lindquist between us, like a shield, and my gaze downcast in semblance of feminine modesty.

  “My dear Miss Lindquist,” His Lordship exclaimed, taking her hand and kissing it. “A pleasure to meet you at last. Might I say you are even lovelier than your dear father led me to believe?”

  Miss Lindquist tittered. I hoped I would not be called upon to do the same.

  “Terrible business,” Laird Baird continued, “Your father disappearing like that. Of course, any books, any documents in my collection, are entirely at your disposal.”

  Miss Lindquist bobbed in deferential gratitude, causing Laird Baird to react, as if noticing me for the first time. His smile broadened.

  “And who is this ravishing creature?” He reached for my hand and fondled my fingers. “How charming! How enigmatic!”

  “Laird Baird, this is being my sister, Annie.”

  “You never mentioned you have a sister.” He peered at me, trying to penetrate the mesh between us.

  “Neither have you,” said Miss Lindquist, trying to draw his attention.

  “Because I have no sister.”

  “You are never mentioning that either.”

  Confused, Laird Baird led me by the hand to the long, broad table. “Annie Lindquist, eh? Bit of a tongue-twister, what!”

  “You will be forgiving my sister,” Miss Lindquist intervened. “She is not speaking a word of English.”

  “I believe I could forgive your sister anything,” the old coot twinkled - disturbingly. He directed me to a chair next to his at the head of the table. Miss Lindquist took the one opposite mine in the hope of keeping the old man looking in her direction. Judging by the worrying way he was giving me the glad eye, she would have her work cut out.

  “Velkommen til min beskjedne hjem,” he said in a startlingly convincing accent. “Kan du gjøre deg komfortabel.”

  I looked to Miss Lindquist for assistance.

  “I am being afraid my sister is not speaking a word of Norwegian either. She is not speaking at all. It is being tragic, actually.”

  Laird Baird smiled sympathetically and gave my hand a squeeze. “Never mind, my dear; I like them quiet, what!” He laughed heartily but I was not entirely sure he was joking.

  Dinner was served. Unwilling - in fact, forbidden - to remove my veil, I merely pushed the food around the plate: neeps and tatties, I believe. I felt pangs of both hunger and guilt because I could imagine the trouble Sally Forth had gone to at such short notice. His Lordship seemed to pay no heed; he was preoccupied with telling us tales of his hunting exploits.

  “Do you know, the queerest thing,” he recharged his own glass. Miss Lindquist and I shook our heads. “Tracking this bally stag through the valley, take a pot-shot at him, winging him in the flank. He goes halting off, I give chase - but keeping back, you know how it is. Those blighters can be dangerous when injured. I didn’t want him turning on me and spearing me like a slice of bread on a toasting fork. So I creep along, keeping low. He lurches through the valley, honking in pain and fury. I’d be doing him a favour, putting him out of his misery, what!”

  Only after
you put him into it, you odious bastard, I thought. What is it with the landed gentry that they take such pleasure in killing animals for sport? It was the most I could do not to nod my head - I didn’t want the odious bastard thinking I agreed with him, even though I was not supposed to understand a blind word he was saying.

  “I follow his tracks, my job made easier by the drops of blood pooling in his hoof prints, but then, right slap bang in the middle of the valley, the trail stops, with no bleeding stag at the end of it. There was no cover, no place for him to hide; he had just vanished into thin air.”

  I looked at Miss Lindquist to find her looking at me.

  The Hole! It had to be! Laird Baird’s injured quarry had gone through the portal to heaven knows where - and when.

  And, if Cassie was anything to go by, what goes in also comes out...

  But, if Cassie is anything to go by, where was my Cuthbert? And Miss Lindquist’s father? And Auld Jock Hitchin?

  Laird Baird peered into his glass and waxed reflective. “Like your father,” he nodded to us each in turn. “Like my grandson - if that degenerate Mortlake is to be believed.”

  I dropped my fork with a resounding rattle against the crockery.

  “Do you know, he tried to tell me my grandson had disappeared into a hole, like Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland, I suppose. Not only is Mortlake a degenerate and a purveyor of the most improbable fiction, he is also something of a plagiarist! Rabbit holes, indeed! I suppose, if he were here, he would try to argue my stag went down the blasted hole as well.”

  My face was burning behind my veil. My fingers clenched around my knife and I was about to blow the whole thing and give the fellow a stiff talking-to, when Miss Lindquist rose suddenly to her feet and let out a cry. The pallor of her cheeks and the tremble of her finger as she pointed at a window somewhere behind me, indicated she was in deadly earnest.

  “What is it, my dear?” Laird Baird asked, glancing around. My empty stomach performed a gurgling somersault. I had a bloody good idea.