a new take on Rumplestiltskin

 

The Tale of Rumplestiltskin – with other choices.

 

Once there was a woodcutter, who had a beautiful daughter, who was also good, and kind, and sweet natured, and what’s more, she was even a good cook and a fine manager, able to make even the most meagre of foods taste as if they made a meal fit for a king. And she could spin finer wool and flax than any other girl in the village, for her fingers were so nimble.

Naturally, her father boasted of her abilities.

“My lovely Rose could even spin straw into gold!” he said.

Rosa sighed when she heard that.

This was a foolish thing to say, even if his neighbours knew it was nothing but boasting, for foolish boasts have a way of coming to the ears of those best left in ignorance of pretty girls who have no very great protectors. It was bad enough that Rosa’s suitors heard of it.

“So, you can spin me gold, when we are wed, can you?” asked Willem.

“We aren’t getting wed; I don’t like you,” said Rosa, who thought Willem an overbearing bullying boor.

“I don’t suppose it is true, but if it were, we would never have to do another day’s work,” sighed Conrad.

“How would anyone notice the difference?” asked Rosa, who thought Conrad lazy and feckless. “It was a foolish thing for Papa to say, and I wish he had not.”

She was right to wish this, for it came to the ears of the king, since the woodcutter and Rosa lived in the very shadow of his castle. Now the king wanted to get married, and he wanted to marry a suitable bride, a princess, perhaps, because he loved his self-image; but he loved gold more. And he said to himself, “This is a ridiculous boast, but on the other hand... magic exists. Yes, indeed. And if she can spin straw into gold, she would make a suitable wife, and if she cannot, I can have my way with her, as she is very pretty, and then put her and her father to death.”

His name was Andreas Cakeburg-Whosis.

Consequently, he sent his men to bring Rosa and her father to him, on the orders of his equerry, Jeffrey of Ebostone.

“I hear your daughter can spin straw into gold,” he said, with a cruel smile.

“It... it was a figure of speech, your mightiness!” cried the woodcutter.

“I don’t deal with figures of speech, I deal with counting-houses,” said the king. “Your daughter will stay here with me, and a room full of straw, and if she can spin it into gold, I will marry her. If not? Well, telling lies is a sin and you will be punished.”

He took poor Rosa by the arm, and dragged her to a turret room filled with straw, and with a spindle and whorl, and a very basic bed. He was most improper in how he handled her, too.

“Oh, now, your majesty, how can I spin anything if my back is sore from a broken bed and cold for a lack of decent quilts?” cried Rosa, apparently indignant. “I will spin nothing unless I have comfortable accommodation, and not a draughty, smelly turret room.” After all, if she was going to die, she might as well have a few days’ luxury.

“You are very nice for a woodcutter’s daughter,” said the king, disconcerted. Surely she would not make demands if she was a fraud? As well to humour her. He gave orders for the spindle and the straw to be taken to guest quarters, where Rosa might have a fire, and a soft bed with wonderful coverings and curtains all round it. He stood and waited.

Rosa glared at him.

“I’m not going to do a thing with you watching,” she said.

He went out and slammed the door behind him, in a naughty temper. Some plaster fell from the ceiling. This was not unusual, as Andreas was often in a naughty temper, and door slamming and plaster-falling was a cause for regular hasty repairs by the palace repair-gnomes.

Meanwhile, her father went into the woods, sobbing, where he was met by an ugly, red-haired dwarf, who asked what was wrong. Rosa’s father spilled out his woe, and the dwarf laughed.

“I can help,” he said, and promptly vanished.

He reappeared in Rosa’s room. Rosa squeaked.

“I told the king, I would do nothing while anyone watched,” she said, her voice trembling, for she had given way to weeping.

“Fear not, pretty maid,” said the dwarf. “I can spin straw into gold for the king.”

“But... but why would you?” asked Rosa. “I would be tremendously grateful not to die, but I cannot see what benefit you would gain, although I do believe in altruistic people, I’ve never met any.”

“Oh, good, you are a sensible girl as well as plainly kind enough yourself to believe in altruism.”

“I do try, because I can’t believe in what I don’t practise. But it usually only causes trouble with people expecting more and more,” she sighed.

“Well, that’s because people are greedy,” said the dwarf.

“Sadly, yes; or I wouldn’t be here for my father’s foolish boast,” sighed Rosa. “So, what do you get out of helping me?”

“Because at the end of three days, when you have shown him all the gold, and he asks to marry you, I want you to promise that if you cannot find my name before your firstborn son is weaned, I will take him as my payment.”

“Oh, good sir! I do not want to marry the king!” said Rosa. “Why, as you have offered your aid, I would rather flee with you and marry you, and give you a son of your own, for you have shown me kindness.”

The dwarf froze.

“Do you speak the truth?” he asked, in a whisper. “I want a son, but no woman will look on me and submit to be my wife.”

“Good dwarf, I do not care how you look, if you are kind to me,” said Rosa. “And I like ginger whiskers more than a smooth face whose smiles are poisonous.” And she leaned forward, and kissed his forehead.

He fell to his knees and kissed her hands.

“I fear I am under no enchantment, to change into a handsome prince as all the stories would have might happen,” he sighed.

“I do not care,” said Rosa. “You look on me with honest eyes. The king’s eyes make me feel dirty.”

“Well, then!” said the dwarf. “My name is  Rumplestiltskin and I make you free with it, my lady; but let us get this straw spun to gold, for I have an idea.”

He sang as he spun, and Rosa joined in, handing him straw to add to the spindle as the rock dragged gold thread from it. And when food was brought, she gave the greater share to him, as he was working, but he made it double in size anyway. And after three days, the king was due to come.

Rumplestiltskin and Rosa had spoken during the time he was spinning, and she helped him by passing straw; and she knew he was also a magician and a herbalist, and he knew she liked cooking and sewing, and liked to embroider, but the spinning of wool and flax made her fingers too tired.

“You will not have to spin all the time when we are married, Rosebud,” said Rumplestiltskin.

“Oh, but I must help you all I can!” said Rosa.

“If you can cook, and tend to repairs, that will be all that I ask,” he said. “For magic does not cook well, and sewing does not last, any more than this gold will last.”

“I must scrub and clean....”

He laughed.

“Nay, lass, that is one thing magic is good at; once dirt is banished, it is gone forever,” he said. “I will take care of cleaning, and raising the money with herbs and simples for us to live well, and snare rabbits in the forest, and so on; we will be a partnership.”

 

Then they heard the sounds of the impatient feet of Andreas on the stairs. Rumplestiltskin, or Rumpy, as he let Rosa call him, made a curious little gesture, and all the golden straw twinkled.

“Do not touch any of the gold, Rosa, my precious flower,” he said.

“No, Rumplestiltskin, my lord,” said Rosa.

The king came in and he could scarcely believe his greedy eyes.

“Gold!” he cried. “Wench, you did it, and I will marry you!” he seized up handfuls of the gold threads... which attached themselves to his head, and grew into golden hair, as his body changed and became a beautiful golden-haired girl. Rumplestiltskin took Rosa by the hand, and they vanished, and so did not hear the screams when Jeffrey of Ebostone came and found an unattended wench who was tangled in her own hair. Of course, when he touched the gold, much later, and gloated on it, he changed as well, and found that attitudes come from the top, and he and the former king were eventually sold into slavery and when their looks went they spent the rest of their sorry lives in a sweat shop sewing clothes for aspiring merchants. But Rosa knew nothing of that, for she went to Rumplestiltskin’s cottage, and mended all his clothes, and cooked proper meals for him, so that by the time their first child was born, her husband was healthy and had filled out, and took the time to trim his whiskers and take pride in his appearance, and looked as fine as any other goodman. And they and their children lived happily ever after.

snow white and Ice Lily

 a twist or two on Snow White, with touches from Donkeyskin and Sleeping Beauty and a nod to the odd Italian fairy tale with dragons

Snow White and Ice Lily.

 

Once upon a time there was a king, whose proud boast it was that he was married to the most beautiful woman in the land. He had had a magic mirror made, and every morning he made his wife look in it, and say, ‘Mirror, Mirror, on the wall, who is the fairest of them all?’ and whilst it said ‘Why, you are, dear queen,’ he was quite happy. They had a baby girl who was growing up as lovely as her mother, with black hair, pale skin touched with roses at her cheeks, and big beautiful dark blue eyes. But the mother, Queen White Rose, was starting to age, and one day, the mirror said, ‘The fairest of them all is Ice Lily.’ White Rose gasped, but she did not tell her husband. She did not know that her husband had a duplicate mirror which told him; and before long, the child, Snow White was informed by her nurse that her mother had died, and that she was to have a stepmother.

Ice Lily was terrified to be consort to the king, whose standards in all things were exacting. But she had no choice.  She concealed, however, that she was a witch, and knew a few potions to keep her husband happy. She remained distant from the child, to ensure the little girl did not get too fond of her, for when her own end inevitably came, for Ice Lily quickly worked out how things worked. She took to asking the mirror very early in the day, so that she had time before King Strong Horse awoke. If she had been able to give him a son, she might have rested more easily, but alas! It appeared that she was barren.

Some seven years passed, and Snow White was becoming a beautiful young woman; and one day, when Ice Lily asked the question, the mirror returned the answer, ‘Snow White.’  At first, Ice Lily was relieved, thinking that Strong Horse would not consider marrying his own daughter; but then she recalled that he had sworn an oath only to be married to the loveliest woman in the land.

She summoned a loyal servant, and Snow White.

“You must go away, and try to reach another land before your father wakes up,” said Ice Lily. “Brand here will go with you and serve you. I will keep him asleep for another day, but I cannot do so for longer.”

“But why, Stepmama?” asked Snow White.

“You know his oath,” said Ice Lily, harshly. “And the mirror informed me that you are the fairest in all the land.”

“But... but he is my father!” cried Snow White.

“Yes, and he does not care,” said Ice Lily.  “But if you wear this cloak made of donkey skin, it will make you look very ordinary, but you cannot take it off until you are far enough away to be safe.”

“I see,” said Snow White. “What will you tell my father?”

“I will tell him that I killed you in jealousy,” said Ice Lily. “With your beauty concealed, and then far away, he will believe me, and will laugh that I am so desperate to keep my life and my position.”

“Did he kill my Mama?” asked Snow White.

“I believe so,” said Ice Lily. “I was summoned to get married.”

“Oh, take care, Stepmama!” said Snow White, kissing the older woman on the forehead. She and Brand set off on the long walk to the next land, with a few gifts from the queen. Snow White felt safe with Brand; he was a man she trusted, as he had been her servant for many years, and looked after her. He was a handsome man, too, she thought, well-built, tanned without being weatherbeaten, and with merry blue eyes, though his hair was dark.

 

“We’re nearly over the border, Miss,” said Brand. “Once we cross those mountains. There’s a road through.”

“Oh, thank you, Brand,” said Snow White, who was very tired of walking so far.

They moved into a wooded valley, and suddenly came face to face with seven dwarves carrying mining tools. Brand thrust Snow White behind him, and confronted them.

“We’re just passing through,” he said to the angry looking little men.

“Nobody passes through our valley!” said the leader.

“But it’s the main road out of the kingdom!” argued Brand.

“What do we care?” said another, hitting Brand with his pick. Snow White screamed. Brand fell, bleeding.

“What about the wench?” said another of the bent little men.

“Anyone as ugly as her will be glad to be our servant,” said the leader. They dragged Snow White, who clung closely to her donkey skin, to their cottage, which was frankly filthy.

“You can clean up, and wash and mend our clothing, and cook for us,” said the leader. “Our names are Eendy, Meendy, Mony, Mite, Balico, Halico, and Mo.”

They rigged up a couple of curtains in the corner for Snow White to sleep behind, and pegged a bed frame into the walls, stretching rope to put a mattress on for her to sleep. By the time it was done, Snow White had cooked a meal for them, which they ate, giving her the leftovers. She crept into bed, and cried herself to sleep; though at least it was more comfortable than sleeping on a makeshift bed of bracken made by Brand on the forest floor.

Mo kicked the side of the bed to wake her up in the morning.

“Breakfast, wench,” he said. “Hurry up, we have to be at work in the mine.  Balico and Halico are putting an enchantment on the fence about our garden so you can’t leave. The vegetables need tending and you can scrub the floor, and wash all our bed linen, and wash and mend our clothes which are in the corner over there.”

Snow White milked the cow, collected eggs, and made porridge and eggs for them all, fed the chickens, and the cow, and had enough in the bottom of the porridge pot for a small bowl for herself.  The dwarves headed off for the day, and Snow White decided to test whether Mo was telling the truth about spells. As she tried to go out of the gate, she felt a stinging pain as if she had been struck with a whip. She tried climbing the fence, and the same thing happened.

Snow White limped back to the house. She knew how to do household chores because her mother believed that even a princess should understand what the servants did; and Ice Lily had taught her more. Snow White dragged all the furniture outside, to clear the floor, and let the air in.  Then she did all the washing, to try to give the washing time to dry, on the bushes, and she used the dirty water to give the floor a first rinse as it was so dirty. She took off her gown to scrub, so that she did not dirty it, and belted up her shift. But she kept an eye on where the sun was, to make sure she had her donkeyskin back on before the dwarves came home. Somehow, she got the floor scrubbed before they came back, but it wasn’t dry.

“You lazy wench!” cried Eendy. “Lying around all day while we work!”

“Oh! I have been scrubbing the floor and you have brought all your mud in and walked on it and messed it up again!” wept Snow White. Eendy sneered.

“Well, you’ll have to do it again, then,” he said. “Get our furniture back in.  And what is for supper?”

“I haven’t had time to think about that,” said Snow White. The blow to the side of her head knocked her to the floor.

“Go and wash; you’re filthy. And then get our supper,” snarled Eendy.

“Oh, oh! You will have to fetch the table and chairs in then,” sobbed Snow White. Poor thing, she was exhausted.

The days stretched one into another, and Snow White’s soft hands became callused and ingrained in dirt, listening every day for the song the dwarves sang going to and coming from the mine.

“Down down we go,

In the mines below,

To the dark of the deep sunk mine

But we gather the brightest gems that glow

In the crowns of the mighty shine

Whatever they need comes from our deed

Whatever they assert

Their jewels aglow the sweat of our brow

Is won from the deepest dirt.”

They worked hard; Snow White could not deny that, and if they had shown her basic gratitude, she might even have been prepared to work willingly, but all she received were blows and curses and it wore her down more than the hard work. She was so hungry all the time, and her cheeks furrowed with tears, when she caught sight of herself reflected in the well, she knew that she would no longer be the fairest in the land. 

“Oh, stepmama, if only I had a fraction of your magic!” she cried. “If I could escape the fence, I could be over the border before I regain my looks. But maybe I can; the magic line cannot extend far, can it? And it will hurt, but I will get over it.”

 

Meanwhile, Brand had been dealt a cruel blow, but he had survived it, for it had knocked him off his feet, and the force of the blow had been lost. His shoulder was broken, and he was giddy from pain and blood loss, but alive.

What nobody knew, save Ice Lily, was that Brand was Ice Lily’s brother, who had come with his sister to her wedding as her loyal servant. Her proper name was Lily, for it was an affectation of the nobility to add a second word to a name. Brand loved his sister very much, and he also loved the young girl his sister had set him to watch over, with a fierce intensity. Hence, he dragged himself to his feet to see what he might do to rescue Snow White. He made a sling for his broken shoulder and made his painful way to overlook the hut, watching the cruelty of the dwarves towards their young slave.  It angered him, but he did not know how to overcome their magic.

As Brand had managed, one-handed, to climb a tree to sleep and watch, he could see what the dwarves could not; which was a dragon, circling above. Brand was a brave man, and he knew more about the lore of dragons than most, as his sister was a witch. When the dwarves were away, he made his way to a clearing in front of a cave, whose location he had guessed by watching where it withdrew.

“Good dragon, your magnificence,” he called. “I may have a trade for you.”

Thirty two feet of head and neck thrust out of the cave entrance.

“Oho, little man who roosts in a tree; I have seen you, and you have seen me.”

“Are you interested in the jewels the dwarves dig?” asked Brand.

“Nasty little thieves stole from my gold, I want them punished until they are old,” said the dragon.

“They have taken the girl I love and made her their slave, but there is magic about their house,” said Brand. “Oh, and they have robbed her cheeks of their roses, and made her move like an old woman in pain from drudgery.”

The dragon smiled.

“She has an apple, her stepmother’s gift, tell her to her lips she should lift,

Take but a bite, and lie on her bed, and the sorry dwarves will think her dead.

Her beauty returns as in slumber deep she lies upon her bed in sleep;

They will place her into a crystal tomb, then you and I to capture them come.”

“Thank you, your magnificence,” said Brand. “And what then?”

“Lift her and give the true lover’s kiss, the enchantment will fall and allow your bliss.

And I will have seven miserable slaves to dig as much as they stole from my caves.”

“How suitable,” said Brand. “And then I will take her away to be safe from her father, and hope my sister is safe too.”

“The king is a fool and I have a hunch that he would go down with a toothsome crunch,” said the dragon.

“Couldn’t happen to a nicer chap,” said Brand, laconically.

The dragon sniggered, and smoke seeped out between his teeth.

 

Next day, a seeming old woman came to call at the cottage gate.

“I can draw you water, good mother, but if I give you food, I will be beaten, even if it is my share,” said Snow White.

“Snow White! It is I, Brand; I am recovering from that blow, and I have made a friend!” said Brand. “You must go into the hut, take off the donkey skin, and take a bite from the magical apple that Lily gave you! And then, leave the rest to me.”

“I trust you, Brand,” said Snow White. “I tried to run through the gate ignoring the feeling that I was being whipped, but I was dragged back, being whipped all the while.”

“I saw you dragged back,” whispered Brand, tears in his eyes. “You are so brave to try to push through the pain.”

“I can barely move, for it,” sobbed Snow White.

“Then try the plan my friend suggested,” said Brand.

“I will; but go, quickly, lest they return early, as sometimes one of them does, to spy on me,” said Snow White.

Brand took her hand and kissed the callused palm.

“A dear little hand, so badly used,” he said. His tears fell on the calluses, and they healed! He took the other hand and wept on that too. And then he left her.

Snow White had half wondered if the apple would prove to be poison, but as it was, she hardly cared. She laid aside the donkey skin, laid herself down on her bed, and bit into the apple. And suddenly it was as if she was in a dream, half aware of what was going on, but as if it happened to someone else.

 

The dwarves came home, singing, and growled in anger to see the garden untended, and the door standing open.

“Slave! Slave! Where are you?” yelled Eendy.

“Brother! There is someone on her bed!” cried Meendy.

“It is not her, this girl is beautiful!” said Mo.

“She is dead, quite dead,” mourned Balico.

“But who is she?” asked Halico.

“And where is our slave?” asked Mony.

“Is she fresh enough to....” Mite put a hand on Snow White’s body, and Eendy hit him hard enough to send him rolling end over end.

“This is our slave,” said Eendy. “She must have been under an enchantment to hide her true looks, and was freed from it in death.  Quick, brothers! We must use our magic to make a crystal casket to keep her from decay, just outside our fence, and we can work then on spells to animate her body.”

They made a crystal tomb for Snow White, and Brand, who could see the cottage, sat on the dragon’s neck, allowing the dragon to see through his eyes as there were spells of dragon gaze repelling on the cottage. Sniggering, the dragon dove through the air, through the bubble of enchantment, his very nature enough to destroy all the magic. The dwarves tried to scatter but the dragon blew smoke rings which lassoed them, and tightened on their arms painfully. And when he had gathered them all, he made a delicate and singular mark on their foreheads with one claw.

“Now you’re punished as my slaves and work until you’re in your graves!” he bellowed. “In your mines for me you’ll work, and heaven help you if you shirk!”

Brand slithered down, and, heart hammering, went to the crystal tomb. He pushed aside the lid, and lifted Snow White out, and kissed her on the lips.

She coughed, and spat out the bit of apple, to the side of him.

“Oh, Brand!” she cried, and kissed him properly.

The dragon cleared his throat.

“Let’s leave these miserable fools to feed themselves and clean their tools,

And to the castle let us fly, it’s time for King Strong Horse to die.”

 

The flight was thrilling, and King Strong Horse, convinced that he was wearing a suit of invisible but invulnerable armour his wife had given him, strode out of the castle naked to confront the dragon.

“How thoughtful of the kindly witch to send him out without a stitch,

For armour plate is hard, in sooth, I shall not have to crack a tooth,” said the dragon.

Liking his food cooked, he sent forth a burst of flame to grill Strong Horse nicely, and promptly ate him.

Brand was crowned King Fire Brand, and married his beloved Snow White, and the dowager queen went off with the dragon to share knowledge. And they all lived happily ever after. Except the dwarves.

 

 

 

 

Lies in Lashbrook 26 final

 

Chapter 26

 

The dramatic opening of the overture segued as the curtain opened and a Japanese village was seen, with a number of exotically-clad men coming forward.

“Have they shaved their heads?” squealed one small boy.

“Of course not, Pike secundus, they have bald wigs, you stupid boy,” boomed a master.

The gentlemen of Japan launched into their opening number ignoring this byplay.

There were a few gaffes, Nanki-Poo dropped his guitar to avoid tripping over his leg wrappings, which had come loose, but sat himself down to sing whilst doing them up to cover the mishap, and having Miss Goodie playing helped him to hold himself together, and he made an impromptu comment off the cuff about his samisen having been enchanted to play by itself by a fairy named Iolanthe, which creased up those knowledgeable about Gilbert and Sullivan’s other plays. Fred managed to trip on his kimono as well, and Miss Thripp saved the day with a quick ad lib, ‘It’s totally meet, he is at my feet, of his daughter-in-law elect,’ and Fred made much of brushing himself down and restoring his dignity as if such clowning had been deliberate.

In the intermission, he hugged Miss Thripp and kissed her cheek.

“And Edgar would have tried to make you feel inadequate, thank you, dear lady,” he said. “Nicely done, Dan, but I’m not going to kiss your cheek.”

“Thank you, Fred, I have eyes only for your wife as Yum-yum for another hour,” said Dan.

They got through the play, showing how good the troupe was by covering small problems, and bowed to the appreciative audience, and retired to the spread of food from the bakery, provided with the fee the boys’ school had paid. They fell on it like locusts and it was somewhat later that Fred spoke up.

“That was a farce, ladies and gents, but they say a bad dress is a good first night, so be not despondent.  You’re all troupers and keep your heads. If you forget your lines, saying something is better than freezing up. Good catch, Tim, having Pish-tush say ‘we love our house of peers,’ which may be from ‘Pirates of Penzance’ but it worked well enough before your speech about what the Mikado decrees being taken as having happened. I don’t think the boys noticed.”

“I was distracted, thinking of Edgar Thripp being at large; sorry,” said Tim. “A policeman’s lot is not a happy one.”

“You have Thursday and Friday to catch him, so get cracking,” said Fred. “We’ll knock them dead on Saturday.”

“I know where he is,” said Alexander. “Miss Thripp told me.”

Miss Thripp gave a squeak.

“I did?” she said.

“You did, because as Fred says, you are a trouper and sensible and I don’t believe you were dreaming,” said Alexander.

“Surely even Edgar isn’t brazen enough?” gasped Tim.

“You know him best, what does your gut say?” asked Jeff.

“My gut says that he’s a cheeky little bastard... oops, sorry, ladies... fellow... and he would laugh at Theodore’s grief and revel in using the home of his victims,” said Tim, grimly. “I know we don’t use the posse system here in England, but I sure could do with some volunteer deputies,” he tried to put on an American accent.

“That sounds more like Australian,” said Alexander. “I’m sure Campbell will help, and my father.”

“Gladly, and I’ll take the blame, if anyone quibbles,” said Simon. “Sketch map, Alex!”

Alexander sketched out the lay of the land on a  napkin.

“Get changed; somehow I don’t think he’d be impressed by the Lord High Executioner,” said Simon. “The Misses Goodie, Harmon, and Thripp had better stay here until it’s all over, or go over to Heywood Hall for dinner.”

“I was going to invite the whole cast,” said Alexander. “That was a nice afternoon tea but I shall be hungry again in an hour or so; I got rid of all my extra weight sweating under the lights, I do declare. And we’re about to have a bit more exercise; because I think Edgar will fight like a cornered rat.”

“He’s facing the rope; he’ll fight,” said Jeff, grimly. “And his time in jail beforehand, short as it is, will not be pleasant for killing Irma, who was still essentially a little girl.”

“Get the bastard,” hissed Helen. “I’d volunteer, but I don’t suppose you’ll have me.”

“Your mother would have my guts for garters,” said Jeff. “But if a gaggle of Guides would care to take their bicycles to the road as spotters, I shouldn’t object, and you can jeer at him when we nick him.”

“Come on, girls,” said Helen.

Ida went too, leaving Alexander with mixed feelings. He went to change, and Jeff helped him out of the heavy grease-paint.

“I feel like a Christmas turkey,” grumbled Alexander.

“What, that hungry already?” asked Jeff, startled.

“No; I feel well basted,” said Alexander. “Hot and greasy.”

“You would join the players,” said Jeff.

“Yes, all my own fault,” agreed Alexander. “Are we ready?”

“As we’ll ever be,” said Jeff. “I don’t think I’ve ever known a murderer I disliked more.”

"Indeed; even those two boys who cut me have the excuse of being barking mad, and their upbringing wasn't the best," said Alexander.

"Oh, don't go blaming upbringing; look at Tim Mapp, whose old man was an abusive thief," said Jeff. "And Tim's come through."

"Not without help, though," said Alexander, softly. "Miss Thripp has probably done more for the good of the village than any number of bobbies. I don't believe in bad blood, but I do believe in the power of parents to make a mess of their children. I swear if Vi Savin hadn't been so selfish, Irma at least would still be alive."

 "Well, I don't say you're wrong, there," said Jeff. "But you're right; Edgar has had every privilege, and is still a wrong 'un. Sometimes people are just born bad.  But enough philosophising; the cast would have every right to quote the Modern Major General, 'But you don't go,' if we don't go and meet his fate."

"But at least not in a highly nervous state," said Alexander. "Though I do urge caution; he will be like a cornered rat. He hasn't a chance of avoiding the death penalty." 

 

They drove to the curve in the road about a hundred yards from the cluster of three cottages, and got out.

“I’ll go with Tim round the back,” said Alexander. “Give us a few minutes to be in position and then go to the front. You should still have Mrs. Savin’s key.”

“I do,” said Jeff. “Sir Simon, after you.”

“I answer to ‘Simon,’ to Alex’s friends, you know,” said Simon. “Even to David Henderson. Poor David,” he added. Jeff did not answer; he did not know David Henderson, but he had heard plenty from Ida and Alexander.

 

Alexander followed Tim round the end of the cottages; there were ploughed fields beyond with the starting spikes of wheat.

“Tim,” he said, “I’m an idiot. Next to the ladies is the Twiddly-Bonk woman’s cottage. Not Theodore’s.”

“It’s still empty,” said Tim. “And I wouldn’t put it past him.”

“You go and bang on that door the minute the pater bangs on Theodore’s,” said Alexander. “Whichever one he comes out of at the back, he has to come into the lane along the side of the field via the gate in the back hedge.”

Tim nodded, turned, and ran back. It would be tricky tackling Edgar alone, but hopefully the others would hear a police whistle, which both he and Alexander carried.

Alexander hovered in the lane, listening, and watching both gates. He heard a police whistle, and heard the rattle of a casement window open. All the cottages had lean-to kitchens, and he saw a figure climb out of the window of Mrs. Tweedie-Banks’s cottage onto her leanto, or back’us as they were called in Essex, where Alexander had grown up. Alexander counted the steps from the ground to the gate, and opened it.

Edgar was on the other side, brandishing a revolver.

“Put that thing down, you idiot,” said Alexander. Edgar pointed the revolver at him, and pulled the trigger.

A sharp pain in the ear made Alexander stumble back, as Edgar cried out.

Tim erupted out of the back door, and brought Edgar down with a rugby tackle which would have done credit to someone who had played rugby, which Tim had never done. He sat on top of the groaning prisoner, and blew his whistle again, the Scouting three short, sharp blasts and a longer blast, the pattern ‘Leaders-come-here.’ He knew that Alexander had been a Scout, so it was likely that his father also knew it.

Sure enough, Simon and Jeff ran up.

“Bloody hell!” said Simon, catching sight of Alexander, who had knelt to help Tim hold down Edgar.

They heaved him up.

“My arm! I hurt my arm!” howled Edgar.

“I’m not surprised,” said Simon, cautiously retrieving the gun “An old German model, Pickert, 1890, someone’s war trophy, I should think the kick has broken your shoulder. Alexander, if you are still conscious, you don’t have a 5.25mm cartridge in your head.”

“My head is ringing, as Mowgli said, like a bee-tree,” said Alexander. “I think he shot some of my ear off.”

Simon examined him whilst Jeff and Tim made a quick sling for Edgar’s arm, and put hand cuffs on him.

“You’ll live,” said Simon. “If it swells up, you’ll look like a plug-ugly but I’m sure Ida won’t care.”

They marched Edgar out of the front, where all the Girl Guides and Ida rang their bike bells at him, and chanted, “Shame, Shame, he’s to blame!” over and over. They hissed as Edgar was marched past them to be put in the car. It was a squeeze, but they got him back to the police house, and Tim let out Amabel to put Edgar in the cell. Amabel spat in his face and kneed him in a delicate sort of place.

“Liar!” she said, as she fled the police house.

 

 

Jeff borrowed the car and took dinner down to Tim, and ate with him, so there were two people watching the prisoner. They served themselves before Tim took the leftovers to Edgar. There was plenty; just that there was no stuffing with the pork, nor any crackling, nor any gravy on his potatoes and split pease pudding, and his roast onion was from the inside and not crisp. Tim would have considered what Edgar got a fine meal had he not had the trimmings, but appreciated telling him what he was not getting.

 

oOoOo

 

“That’s my gun!” cried Miss Goodie, when Alexander told the assembled company all about it. “That wretch has been in our house, ferreting about in our smalls! Well! I will make a deposition to Timmy Mapp about it later, I took it from a German Zeppelinist we shot down when I was in the shipyards.” She looked rueful. “Well, someone shot him down and the gas bag emptied and it gracefully wallowed to earth, or rather, in the harbour, and I rowed out some military types and bagged them.”

“You had a colourful war,” said Alexander.

“You had better believe it,” said Miss Goodie. “Though they tried to get rid of me when they found out I was a woman not a boy.”

“But?” asked Alexander.

Miss Goodie snorted.

“I asked my supervisor if my work was substandard, and he said no, in fact the reverse,” she said. “I’d been there two years by then, so they gave in. Nothing wrong with my welding. Can we go home after dinner, or is our home a crime scene?”

“I wasn’t going to quibble, and I doubt Jeff will, either,” said Alexander. “We have him, and enough evidence on him to put him away. Jeff had Oxford City Police find who uses price tags like those on Irma’s scarf, and they identified Edgar as having bought it. They phoned through with the information. There was another scarf in with his clothes, still in the wrapping from the shop clumsily labelled ‘To Maud from Irma’ in a handwriting copied roughly from Irma’s signature in some of her books, which you, Miss Thripp, may be asked to testify to; to my mind, it looks like her early diaries, before she switched to using Morse Code to write them.”

“Did she write much about her friends?” asked Helen.

“Of you, as I recall, she said, ‘Helen is a golden friend, and a sweetie, but oh! So cautious. I told her, I always wear passion-killers to meet any boy to keep him from getting fresh, with nettles pinned to them, and what harm can I come to in sleepy old Lashbrook?’”

Helen gasped, and gave half a sob, half a laugh.

“Oh! That was Irma. Insouciant but practical. She liked to tease, but... well, you know.”

Alexander nodded. He knew. A girl with good sense did not let boys go too far, and it explained why she had been wearing knee-length elasticated-legged flannel drawers with more daring corsetry and sheer stockings. The nettle had plainly come adrift in the water.

“She had never given herself to anyone?” asked Alexander.

“She said a boy once hurt her with a finger and she didn’t want to do that again, though I’m not perfectly sure what she meant,” said Helen, blushing violently. “It’s why she started wearing passion-killers when she was going out with a boy.”

“Bless you, Helen,” said Alexander. “I can append that she had been assaulted to the notes of why she was not virgo intacta,  so her reputation is not besmirched.”

Poor little Irma, half child still, craving to be a woman, with a strong sense of self-preservation in one respect, and the sense of a kitten in others. Alexander rarely celebrated the thought of the death penalty for anyone he arrested, but he was happy to make an exception in Edgar Thripp’s case.

 

Jeff and Tim sent for a car the next day to have Edgar Thripp placed before a magistrate to be remanded in custody; as he had already tried to run, there would be no bail. Amabel Brinkley went readily to a nursing home to deal with her broken heart, and Simon went to collect Ruth and Millie, coming back to play the organ for the show on Saturday.  Miss Goodie and Miss Harmon were roped in as well, as their playing had helped no end. Fred spent his off hours with Alexander as his helper, making the organ pit into a more regular part of the village hall and less of an accidental-looking hole. It now had steps down to it, railings around,  book shelves for scores, and was boxed in to keep out under-floor draughts. Simon appreciated that.

Friday was a day of mourning for Christ Crucified, and Dr. Brinkley also added the remembrance of those torn in an untimely way from life, for the greed of a man who sold his soul for an equivalent sum to thirty pieces of silver to be gained in an inheritance not even left to him. 

The mood on Saturday was, however, jubilant, and the players looking forward to the show. The hall was packed, with extra chairs added as extensions to the seating ever way Fred or Alexander could manage.

And the performance went smoothly from start to finish.

Braithwaite catered to the post-show party, with everyone chipping in a donation, and Alexander making up any deficit. Jeff came down for the afternoon and evening, and Theodore Savin arrived, very dignified, and asked Fred if the players would accept Mr. Buttons as a mascot and member of the troupe, in memorial of Irma. He had had the bear re-stuffed and dressed in a kimono.

Fred accepted on behalf of all, and Mr. Buttons moved onto the organ, from where he could direct everything.

Alexander sang glad hymns on Sunday, uplifted by how the village had rallied round, and on Tuesday made the trip to London to break the news to Edwin Barrett that, as he was finding recovery hard, he felt he had no choice but to tender his resignation from the Force.

“Dammit, Alex! We’ll miss you,” said Barrett.

“I’m setting up as a consulting detective, so you can ask me to do some unofficial poking around any time,” said Alexander. “I won’t lose touch.”

“No, don’t,” said Barrett. “And Alma wants to keep in touch with Ida, as well.”

“We shall,” said Alexander. “But I can’t guarantee to do my job properly without a longer time of healing, and I know that won’t be allowed.”

“If you ever want to come back, I can probably make sure there’s no big deal made about it,” said Barrett.

Alexander cleared his desk and removed Basil Henderson’s page of sketches of him from the wall with a heavy heart; but at least he would have more time to spend with Ida.

And he would be seeing more of Jeff Morrel, who was to be spending weekends at Heywood Hall, having proposed to Ruth and been accepted.

 

 

 

And on the day Edgar Thripp was hanged, which was not long after his trial, Alexander invited a small group of those most nearly concerned to throw a wreath to Irma into the river, and toast her memory in champagne, because it would have excited Irma to have such a romantic drink.

 

Finis

 I got interrupted in the Brandon, with all that's been going on, and the stress has knocked my health for six. I am working on it, but I've only completed one story arc. I do, however, have a number of shorts, a couple of fairy stories, some further adventures of Adele Rawlins, and a few random police procedurals from Więszy-Bydlin so I will post this and that whilst working on it.