Blue Moon Investigations Ten Book Bundle

by steve higgs

  There were two small black and tan faces pressed up against the glass of the back door. The dogs had exhausted the list of tasks they had for the garden. I let them in, performed a final check around the house, making sure windows were shut, the fridge was empty, the bins were empty. I left the heating on as Jane would be using the house as an office while I was away. She was the only person I had told about my intention to abscond. I simply told her I needed a break. If she had any concern about being left to run the firm, she did not show it.

  I stood inside the front door, head cocked to one side wondering what I might have forgotten to do. I gave up after thirty seconds. If I had forgotten to pack something I would have to manage without. If I had forgotten to do something it would have to be dealt with upon my return.

  I whistled for the dogs, waited, then went to collect them from the sofa where they were pretending to be asleep. They scurried to the car while I locked up the house, then the three of us set off for Cornwall on the other side of the Country.

  We were going to Cawsand, a tiny fishing village on the South West coast that I had visited and fallen in love with as a child. I had not been back since but could already smell the sea, could already hear the waves crashing against the rocks of the rugged shore.

  At the end of my road, I turned the car around and went back for the directions to the pub which I had left by the computer.

  The End

  Dead Pirates

  Dead Pirates of Cawsand

  Blue Moon Investigations

  Book 5

  Steve Higgs

  Text Copyright © 2018 Steven J Higgs

  Publisher: Steve Higgs

  The right of Steve Higgs to be identified as author of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

  All rights reserved.

  The book is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  ‘Dead Pirates of Cawsand’ is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organisations, places, events and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living, dead or undead, events or locations is entirely coincidental.

  Dedication

  For my father, the saltiest of seadogs.

  Contents

  Death by Misadventure. Saturday 29th October 2257hrs

  Rattler Cider. Sunday October 30th 1717hrs

  A Strange Tale. Sunday October 30th 1900hrs

  Exploring Cawsand. Monday October 31st 0630hrs

  Bobbi the Bobby. Monday October 31st 1032hrs

  Staying out of Trouble. Monday October 31st 1107hrs

  Alien Spacecraft. Monday October 31st 1413hrs

  Date at the Jolly Roger Inn. Monday October 31st 1927hrs

  Things that go Bump in the Night. Tuesday November 1st 0052hrs

  World’s Best Granola. Tuesday November 1st 0830hrs

  A Rude Surprise. Tuesday November 1st 1315hrs

  Old Ladies Together. Tuesday November 1st 1400hrs

  An Evening in the Pub. Tuesday November 1st 1850hrs

  Things That Go Bump in the Night Part 2. Tuesday 1st November 2323hrs.

  Dead Pirates. Wednesday November 2nd 0112hrs

  Breakfast with Gina. Wednesday November 2nd 0747hrs

  Real Ghosts. Wednesday November 2nd 0912hrs

  Digging deeper. Wednesday November 2nd 1000hrs

  Roberta’s House. Wednesday November 2nd 1307hrs

  Wednesday afternoon. November 2nd 1348hrs

  Adventures with my Dad. Wednesday November 2nd 1424hrs

  The Royal Navy Archive. Wednesday November 2nd 1512hrs

  What Shall I do with a Drunken Sailor? Night November 2nd 1921hrs

  Two for one? Wednesday November 2nd 2115hrs

  A Discovery. Wednesday November 2nd 2139hrs

  Breakfast and Another Clue. Thursday November 3rd 0715hrs

  Let’s go sailing. Thursday November 3rd 1240hrs

  Where’s Mum? Thursday November 3rd 1615hrs

  Really Dead Pirates. Thursday November 3rd 1822hrs

  Betrayal and deceit. Thursday November 3rd 1853hrs

  Are We Done Yet? Thursday November 3rd 1927hrs

  A Cold Pint. Thursday November 3rd 2017hrs

  Inside the House on Heavitree Lane. Thursday November 3rd 2034hrs

  Postscript

  Extract from The Harper Files: Case 2.

  Last shift. Sunday October 30th 1156hrs

  A new case. Sunday October 30th 1643hrs

  Death by Misadventure. Saturday, 29th October 2257hrs

  As Philip stepped out of the pub, the cold air reminded him that it was late October and he was on the seafront where there was nowhere to hide from it. It was a relatively still night but there was mist about already. He had expected it. Having lived by the sea his whole life, he took pride in knowing what the weather was going to do without the need to see a forecast. He pulled his coat tight about his body and zipped it all the way up to protect his neck.

  ‘Don’t let the pirates get you,’ said a voice from behind him.

  He turned to share the joke with the landlord who had come over to shut the door. It was closing time and Philip was the last one to leave. He usually was and prided himself on being a great customer.

  ‘I think I'll be alright, Dave,’ he replied with a laugh. ‘It's a load of superstitious claptrap anyway.'

  The landlord frowned as he replied. ‘Try telling that to those tourists last week. Or that nice Indian family that took over the old chip shop.’

  ‘I hardly think they were set about by dead pirates, Dave.’ He shuffled off in the direction of his house. ‘See you tomorrow, Dave,’ he called over his shoulder.

  ‘See you tomorrow, Phil.’ The answer drifted back through the mist.

  Phil shuffled along the old cobbled street back towards his house. He had lived in Cawsand all his life. He would die there too, he knew that and was happy about it. He had picked out his lot already, high up on the cemetery that overlooked the harbour.

  The mist swirled around him as he turned away from the sea and headed inland. There were only two pubs in Cawsand and he had to pass the other one both coming and going from his house to The Star. The other pub, the Sea Pilgrim, was owned and run by his sister-in-law which made it far harder for him to sneakily meet with Maggie Tanner. His wife knew he was having an affair, that he had always been having affairs. Clearly though, she was no longer bothered about it, probably even saw it as a relief that she was no longer expected to put in a performance herself. Her sex drive, what little there had ever been of it, had dwindled to nothing years ago. He was a stallion though. At almost seventy, he still wanted some action every night.

  Not tonight though. Maggie had a headache she said, so their usual secret meeting had been cancelled. However, he had other things on his mind as he shuffled home: He was going to be rich. Maybe rich enough to leave his wife and move in with Maggie. A recent chance discovery had guaranteed his future, now he waited on a decision to be made. He would not wait much longer though. He had already issued his ultimatum and they had no choice but to pay up.

  A shadow moved ahead of him in the fog.

  He stopped, peering into the murk. Had he seen something? The recent reports of ghostly pirates were making him nervous, that was all it was. Tourists and newcomers and superstitious rubbish.

  He started moving again, then heard a noise behind him. He spun around or at least turned as fast as his decrepit, drunken body would turn. There was nothing there. At least, that was what he
told himself, ignoring the fact that he could only see a few feet before the mist ate what little light there was.

  He chuckled to himself for his foolishness. Shook his head and turned back to face the way home. Paying no attention to his feet he tripped over a cat as it came out of the alleyway next to him. It shrieked at him and shot across the street, the fright making his heart rate spike. He leaned against the wall of a house for support. His chest hurt suddenly, it felt tight and he was struggling to breathe. Regret for a lifetime of drinking more than he knew he ought to dominated his thoughts. He sagged against the wall, thinking it was stupid place to die, then just as the pain in his chest was reaching an unbearable level, he let out a long, loud belch that seemed to start deep in his gut.

  It went on for several seconds. When it finished, he wiped his mouth and stood up straight. Not a heart attack at all. His chest pain was gone all bar a lingering niggle. He chuckled to himself again, pushed off the wall and began tottering along the road once more. His house was just a few more yards away, just around the corner. Fishing in his pocket for keys, he saw another shadow in the mist ahead. This time he ignored it entirely. Nothing but the moonlight playing tricks on his alcohol addled sight.

  ‘Philip,’ called out a voice in a creepy, singsong, off-key manner. It was behind him. He whipped around, but there was nothing to be seen in the impenetrable mist.

  He looked about, worry gripping his pulse again and making it beat hard enough for him to hear it banging in his head.

  ‘Philip.' The voice again. It called out from ahead of him this time. He spun around. Something moved in the mist and a figure emerged from the gloom, then another joined it. Both were dressed as pirates, complete with knee-high boots and hats. Each bore a cutlass in their right hand that looked wickedly sharp and eerily both were softly glowing as if lit from within. The scariest detail though was that they were both very definitely dead. They were virtually skeletal, their skin missing from their skulls and arms and wherever their ripped and rotten clothing had exposed what should have been flesh beneath.

  Water was dripping from their clothing as if they had just emerged from the sea. ‘Run,’ the one on his left instructed. That the skeleton had no tongue and should not be able to make words did not occur to Philip as he turned and fled.

  With no idea where he was going, his only thought was to get away. Away from the horror in the mist.

  The boat.

  He remembered his boat. Ever reliable despite its age, Betsy would be his refuge. All he had to do was get there. Once he was cast off, they would not be able to get to him out at sea.

  His pulse was hammering in his head from the effort of running, even though it was barely a stumbling jog. His chest ached from the exertion, but it was not far and all downhill. He checked behind when he reached the jetty, the pirates were still behind him, walking slowly, visible mostly due to the soft glow they were emanating.

  Betsy was in sight though, right where he had left her earlier today. He tumbled onto the deck and scrambled to find a knife to cut the lines. There was one just indie the cabin, he kept it there for gutting fish when he caught them. So focused on reaching for it in the dark, he barely felt the cutlass cutting his throat. It was the warm liquid soaking his shirt that made him stop and look. Only when he looked at his hands to find them covered in dark sticky liquid did he question why his throat was stinging. He fell onto his backside. A shadow came over him and he looked up. The night sky was obscured by two dark figures. His vision was blurring but they looked different from the two pirates that had been chasing him a moment ago. The pirates were the same size, these two were not. He wanted to say something, but his lungs were beginning to fill with his blood. Taking a breath was no longer an option.

  As he sank to the floor, his pulse hammering in his ears, he wondered why they had singled him out. He tried to speak but a sudden blow to his chest silenced his question before it made it to his lips. He looked down at his body as an old, rusty-looking cutlass was pulled slowly back out of his ribcage. It made a comedic slurping noise as it came clear.

  He wanted to chuckle, but hand gripped his chin, forcing him to look up into the face above him. The face was mumbling something, whispering perhaps. He could barely hear it over the pounding in his ears. There was something about him having ignored a warning. Then his vision began to fade, and it no longer mattered.

  Rattler Cider. Sunday, October 30th 1717hrs

  The first swig of the pale liquid washed over my taste buds in a soothing kaleidoscope of flavour. At the bar, I had found myself presented with an array of options I was unfamiliar with. On a whim, I selected the Rattler pear cider, mostly because I liked the look of the pump with its snake motif. Plus, I was in the West Country and therefore drinking cider felt obligatory.

  I downed half the glass in the first go while stood at the bar. I was thirsty from the journey, hungry and a little sore. The drive had taken longer than I had expected. It was only two hundred- and seventy-miles door to door, but the route took me down the A303, which even on a Sunday afternoon got snarled up as it went past Stonehenge and drivers gawked out of their windows at the odd collection of rocks. It was a single-track road for much of the journey after that, my speed dictated by tractors and farm vehicles and then, as I got deeper into Cornwall, by the narrow confines of the roads themselves, which were often too tight for two cars to pass.

  The five hours I had planned for the journey quickly became six and although the dogs slept most of the way there, it was necessary to stop several times so that they might stretch their legs and exercise their bladders.

  It was dark by the time I arrived. There was nowhere to park near to my lodgings, the tiny seaside village streets far too narrow for cars. There was a road that led through the village and in front the pub but a large sign on the way into the village made it very clear that visitors were to park in the car park and walk to their destination unless emergency or disability prevented them from doing so. Turning the engine off, my first imperative was to get both the dogs and myself out of the car. I was not certain where the pub was exactly, other than it was on the seafront, so I left my luggage behind and set off to find it.

  Pulling at their leads, the two miniature black and tan Dachshunds dragged me downhill towards the sea. The streets of Cawsand were lit by streetlamps as one might expect, but the narrow streets reduced the distance the light could penetrate, creating far more inky, dark shadows than one might expect. Even darker alleyways disappeared into an impenetrable gloom mere feet from their start point.

  What I remembered of Cawsand was a picture-postcard-perfect little fishing village where rows of tiny, but brightly painted terraced houses wound around the steep cliff the village sat on. Undoubtedly evolving due to a natural harbour, the streets themselves were winding and unpredictable, side streets would suddenly appear to my left or right revealing yet more houses tucked away. I looked forward to exploring tomorrow during daylight.

  I found the pub easily enough by the simple expedient of heading downhill until I ran out of road and reached the water. Buzzing around my feet, the dogs were very happy to be somewhere new, the myriad unexplored smells causing them to dash here and there, constrained only by their leads. Where the road from the car park terminated at the seafront, there was a small pebble beach that could be accessed by stairs or by a ramp and the pub with its rooms was just to my left. It occupied an enviable position directly in front of the beach itself. I had probably sat outside it as a boy enjoying a bottle of cola with my twin sister though I had only a vague memory of doing so. There were no patrons of the pub sat on benches outside it now though. It was a cool October evening so anyone visiting the pub would want to stay inside.

  The dogs did not resist as I pulled gently on their leads to steer them inside.

  ‘Good evening,' I called out as I got to the bar. It was untended, even though there was a chap sitting at the far end of it, a half-empty pint glass in front of him and a paper in his h
ands. He looked up briefly, nodded in my direction but returned to reading his paper. He was the only person in sight. It was still early on a Sunday for the evening crowd, but the Dirty Habit back in Finchampstead would be full of customers at this time of day.

  I heard footsteps approach from somewhere behind the bar. They were coming closer, clomping along wooden floorboards out of sight.

  ‘Hello,’ A lady said as she came through a gap in the wall behind the bar. She was close to sixty, or maybe slightly over, had a windswept face that spoke of living by the sea and she was quite short at what I estimated was a shade over five feet. Her hair was neatly styled in a shoulder length bob and shot through with grey that she showed no interest in colouring.

  ‘Hi.’ I smiled at her. ‘Tempest Michaels. I rather hope you have a room booked under my name.’

  ‘Indeed, I do. I have been expecting you. I'm Gretchen, the landlady. I must say you were lucky to get a room. You called just moments after the last chap announced he was leaving earlier than planned. There has been quite a bit of interest recently with all that has been going on.' She didn't elaborate on what she was referring to. ‘So, you are staying for five nights, leaving on Friday?'

  ‘That is my plan,’ I confirmed.

  ‘And you booked the en-suite master bedroom bed and breakfast. You are going to enjoy the breakfast. My John makes it fresh to order every morning. He is such a talent,’ she boasted. I assumed that John was her husband though she didn’t say he was. The mention of breakfast made my stomach rumble lightly.

  ‘How will you be paying, Tempest?’ Gretchen asked.

  ‘Credit card?' I replied, producing one from my wallet. ‘Perhaps I can open a tab for drinks and food. Is the bar open?'

  ‘Oh, yes. Would you like something now?’