Tales from the Unknown, a Halloween anthology

 Now available as paperback or kindle on Amazon - an anthology of short stories about fae, ghosts, dragons and the like. https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0DJV7CJHY ↗️ or https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B0DJV7CJHY ↗️ or your nearest Amazon.

Ritual and Runes, a tale from the Green Man

 

Ritual and Runes

 

Godwin was a convivial sort of fellow; he even liked humans, which was more than could be said of many of the fae, even the most upright of the Seelie Court. But he had his limits.

He had concocted a potion with deep ritual and he was writing on his right palm sigils which no scholar of runes could have read, since they were old long before the first primitive marks made with meaning by those humans with the vision to translate thought and word into visible representation.

Even if anyone could read such glyphs, they would still have trouble, since Godwin was laying them on his palm in a precise mirror image. As he worked, he muttered in his own tongue, a rhyme of his own devising, which might be rendered approximately into English as follows.

“By Oak, and Ash, and Thorn

May you wish you were not born,

By Heath, by Moor, by Sedge

May you wander to the edge,

May you pass the twilight veil

May your senses start to fail

As the trees on you prevail

By the beating of your heart

By panic I bid you depart.”

 

Whistling to himself an air which anyone in the village may have recognised as ‘Teddy-Bear’s Picnic,’ Godwin strolled down towards the village guild hall, where the meeting protesting against the sale of Pharisee Woods was being held. To anyone who heard him whistle, it was a reminder, perhaps, of a long gone youth, when such tunes were popular. To anyone who knew Godwin, and knew that he was fae through and through, with the lack of ruth of his kind, it was a horrifying reminder that Godwin had a rather individualistic sense of humour; and the words, ‘If you go down to the woods today, you’re sure of a big surprise’ did not refer to anything so benign as a teddy-bear’s picnic.

One of the very few who did know was Peter, seventh son of a seventh son, who appeared to be about the same age as Godwin; but being mortal, Peter’s appearance was genuine. He felt his blood run cold.

Godwin smiled at him, and Peter nodded.

“You don’t want him awaking those powers best left torpid,” said Godwin.

“No, I know,” said Peter. “I just see the implacable ages of the trees in your eyes. But you don’t flinch to look into mine as... she does.”

“I don’t have to fear what she does,” said Godwin. “I can even enter the church; I have no fear of your God, and He has no enmity to me, as I do not see Him as an enemy. Sometimes, perhaps, I even regret that I have no soul; but my descendents can choose to go on where humans go, or remain as unchanging spirits until the death of the universe.”

“What happens then?”

“I have no idea,” said Godwin. “We are close to nature; we live very much in the now. It is how we handle such long lives.”

“I see,” said Peter. “Thank you for explaining. But I would not have said I was especially devout; what can she see in me?”

“Seven souls whose choice is to remain as your protectors. Your father and his brothers summoned to the aid of the seventh son of the seventh son; their wild magic that wreaths around you like a storm.”

They went into the guild hall together, and Godwin approached Theodore Morecroft, holding out his hand.

“We may be on different sides, but you will not, of course, refuse to shake my hand in the expectation of gentlemanly proceedings,” said Godwin.

Morecroft sneered.

“I suppose I can make that concession,” he said, holding out his hand. Godwin slapped his palm to the other’s flesh, transferring the runes.

How the meeting went was now immaterial, though he nodded to a nervous and unhappy Rupert, who wanted to sit with the villagers, but had compromised with being neither on the dais with his father, nor amongst the protestors, but hovered betwixt the two.

His mother sat with the villagers.

Morecroft scowled. If he only dared to beat her into submission, but the nightmares he had suffered last time he had beaten her still made him sweat.

He little realised that they were nothing compared to what was to come.

 

The meeting was, as expected, of no help whatsoever. Godwin would not make the same mistake again of letting the land pass in ownership to the heirs of his body; Amelia, Rupert’s mother, had been the only child of a father too obsessed with his researches, and at seventeen, orphaned, and vulnerable had been easy prey to the floridly handsome and utterly unscrupulous Morecroft when he bought the manor, land, and a lovely bride, after she was left destitute, at a time when Godwin had been away on other business, and was unable to stop her making such a disastrous decision.

The villagers went home feeling bereft and deeply dissatisfied.

 

Two days later, Rupert appealed for aid to find his father.

On the whole, he was considered a pleasant youth since he had separated himself somewhat from his father, and was making amends to the girl he had got with child, so despite feelings towards the youth’s father, the villagers made up a search party.

They brought back the man’s body on a hurdle. Dead of a heart attack, the autopsy concluded, and the look of terror on his face an artefact of the rigor mortis.

Godwin knew better.

He had some idea what Theodore Morecroft had seen.

 

The contractors wanted to get on; respect for a son’s feelings for his dead father was not on their agenda. They could hardly believe their ears when Rupert told them where they could put their proposals.  He started out politely enough, saying, ‘No, the land is no longer for sale,’ progressed to suggestions that they could take their proposals and fulfil them where the sun did not shine, and finally fell into outright scatology. He had every right to refuse to sell, after all; the contracts  to do work had been signed personally by Theodore, and with his death, Rupert declared them null and void.  Now he knew a bit more, he knew why the love of the woods was in his blood. And with his support of the woods, he became very popular.

 

Rupert knocked at the door of Godwin’s cottage next to the Green Man pub. Having once been inside, he could see the door at which to knock.

Godwin let him in, and drew him a tankard of mead.

Rupert sipped, straightened, and sipped again.

“Is this some fae drink?” he asked, awed.

“No, just mead; though we invented it,” said Godwin. “That was a good settlement you made on Jane, the cottage for her lifetime, to pass to your child with her and the heirs of her body in perpetuity, and a stipend.”

“I owe you a lot for opening my eyes,” said Rupert.  “I asked my mother what the ritual was, that father was so dead against; the passing of a child’s body through the hole in a tree, or natural cleft where two trees have grown into one... or whatever it was.”

“There was a glacial erratic around which a coppice grew, and merged into one tree, and the fae mined the rare mineral from which it was made. A magical mineral, which imbued the tree with its essence,” said Godwin. “I expect you  have researched how sick children are also passed through it, who subsequently thrive?”

“Yes, and that it is said that there is a geas upon the tongues of all that they cannot speak of this to outsiders so that we are not inundated by visitors like some Fae Lourdes,” said Rupert.

“It would kill the magic,” said Godwin.

“What I have not discovered is what happens if a healthy adult goes through it of his own will,” said Rupert.

“Ah! Well, if he or she is purely mortal, what happens is nothing; though the immune system may be boosted. If he or she is of fae blood... do you know what happened to your grandsire?”

“No; mother will not talk about him.”

“He went through the tree. It enhances the fae and suppresses some of the human. He came back to the village, but he could not settle; and he squandered all his wealth on fool ideas about the fae, encouraging charlatans and witch doctors, modern druids, and mediums, when he could have got all the answers if he had just asked me.” Godwin snorted his disgust. “And then, he set off deliberately for the veil between the worlds, whence you have been, and chose to stay.”

“That sounds decidedly cowardly.”

“To hide in the revels of court, and the pleasant harmony of the now, untroubled by planning, thinking, worrying, or making decisions, provided for by magic? It is the Fae way, which I rejected for the love of this place and my descendents. Some have made the decision to go there, usually those who are unhappy for some reason. It is their choice. If you go through the tree, it will be your choice.”

“Untroubled by planning, thinking, worrying, or making decisions, and provided for, each one according to his needs, from each one according to his abilities; a perfect picture of communism. Which doesn’t work,” said Rupert. “At least, not for humans.”

“It doesn’t work that well for the fae, either, but it’s an illusion of contentment which pleases most,” said Godwin. “And to maintain the power for providing for all, the Unseelie court take humans as a teind, not for hell as the folklore says, though it might as well be for those taken; but, as you might say, as batteries to power up the magic.”

“And the seelie?”

“Oh, the odd affaire with a mortal gives some power; and those of us who have left our seed have offspring whose hybrid vigour adds to both the gene pool of the fae, and the general power of the Tir, the land.”

“I want to go through the hole; but I want to stay,” said Rupert. “Knowing that you know what is there and what is here should help. You will help me adapt?”

“I will,” said Godwin.

“I want to call you ‘Grandpapa,’” blurted out Rupert.

“Make it ‘Great Grandpapa,’ or your mother may be upset,” said Godwin.

“Thank you, Great Grandpapa,” said Rupert.

“The best time will be at Samhain, when the walls between worlds are thin,” said Godwin. “Naked and with runes of protection drawn on your skin.”

“Very well,” said Rupert, trying not to shudder at the idea of being naked in the forest on the last day of October.

 

oOoOo

 

The villagers were not surprised that Rupert was a little withdrawn after the horrific death of his father, though they toasted his health for stopping the bulldozers.   Including the one of the contractor who said that a contract was a contract; Rupert had shot out all the wheels of the JCB, and when the contractor came back next day with new tyres, the JCB was visible only in part where a grove of trees had grown around it and enclosed it. The sort of grove which normally takes one hundred years of growth. Rupert shrugged when taxed with stripping it down and reassembling it inside the treeline, and declined knowledge of how it had got there. A robin fresh hatched that spring took up residence in the cab, and raised a single late brood with his lady love; and the scoop was angled most conveniently to make a shelter, rapidly provided with a bench for the convenience of canoodling humans.

The contractors went away.

Rupert was, meanwhile, learning with Godwin; and went out with him to the mystic tree. Stripping naked, he let Godwin paint runes of power on his body, and as midnight struck, he went through the hole.

Godwin waited.

One o’clock struck, a mile away as the crow flies, on the village church clock.

Rupert stumbled back, bemused.

“I met Rosamund,” he said. “She introduced me to a beautiful girl... not fully grown... she said she is part human.”

“Elaine had leukaemia,” said Godwin. “She was passed through the tree, but Rosamund took her to rear because the tree was not enough. She will make a very good lady of the manor in the future; and you will both live long, and prosper.” He had heard the phrase somewhere in the village and thought it sounded suitable.  He had no idea why Rupert grinned and held up both hands with  a v-shape made in the middle of his fingers, the two each side pressed together.

 

The villagers were glad that the young squire had overcome the problems that beset him taking over from his father. Indeed, they said, he had grown fairer in all ways, being even more handsome than before.

But Rupert did not exploit this with the village girls anymore.

 

 

 

 

The purloined parure 19, final chapter weekend bonus

 

Chapter 19

 

Alexander firmly discharged himself next morning, over the protests of the medical staff, and in particular a starchy matron.

“I have no intention of spending my Christmas in hospital,” he said.

“Mr. Armitage, I cannot guarantee that you will not suffer considerable pain if you are not under the eyes of trained medical staff,” said the matron, frowning at him.

“I shall be; my mother ran a hospital during the war,” said Alexander. “She’s more than capable of checking my ribs and taking out stitches.”

“Well, I can’t say that I think it a good idea to leave your bed,” said the starchy matron. “We advocate three weeks minimum of bed-rest after an appendectomy.”

“Yes, but I didn’t actually have appendicitis, the surgeon only took it out while he was in there because it had been nicked by a knife. No festering detritus poisoning my system, unlike poor old Winnie Churchill, who had a nasty bout in October, I understand.”

“That’s neither here nor there! You are my patient....”

“Sorry, matron, I’m betrothed to a wonderful girl, so you don’t get to tie me down and give me an incentive to stay there,” said Alexander.

“Well, really!” said the matron, outraged. Alexander winked, kissed her on the cheek, patted her on the backside and swept out as she gobbled incoherently at a liberty which had not been taken with her for many years.

“Victory,” said Alexander, to a waiting Campbell. “Took the wind out of her sails nicely.”

“You didn’t ought to flirt,” said Campbell.

“I wasn’t; I went on the offensive purely to take the mickey. Women like that scare me far too much to flirt with them. But a bold move outflanks the scariest enemy.”

“I took Freddy home to be with his fambly for Christmas,” said Campbell. “Not sure he wanted to go, but he and Mr. Henderson was not on good terms.”

“I can’t see my brother-in-law-elect having much time for Freddy,” said Alexander. “Thanks; I can’t say I was looking forward to having him for Christmas.”

“Naow, goose or turkey tastes better,” said Campbell, with a straight face. “Gwine to go load up Miss Ida and Gladdie, then ’ome.”

“I look forward to it.”

Alexander was not ready to admit that the journey across London to pick up the women had already tried him sorely; but Gladys got in the front with Campbell, and Ida in the back, and having taken one look at his white face, Ida pulled his head down onto her lap.

“Put your feet up, do, and doze,” she said.

It was with a sigh of relief that Alexander did so, with his sorest ribs uppermost.

 

Having slept all the way back to Essex, Alexander was amazed how pulled he was by the journey, and fell asleep again, as soon as he was installed in bed, Ida fending off her brother’s complaints about Frederick Beauchamp.  A good rest did wonders, and Alexander enjoyed his family Christmas in a very sedentary way, on a sofa with quilts, and with enough extended family about to mean that he did not have to see much of David Henderson.

 

“I put Mr. Blakecastle onto purchasing a house in Sussex Gardens, and several adjacent mews in Bathhurst Mews behind it,” said Ida. “The mews is accessed by the old coaching inn entrance under the inn, so it’s easy to have it watched for strangers, but if we keep the basement of the Sussex Square house, we can let the floors above if we want, and use the service tunnel to the mews. I am sure you can find some decent old lags who will unblock it for you with a consideration to forget it.”

“Possibly,” said Alexander. “And what, three mews buildings will be our house in London?”

“One for Gladys and Campbell,” said Ida. “But with doors through. And the house is a couple of doors down from a hotel where you might permanently hold a room.”

“Oh, very clever.” Alexander kissed Ida.

“I also purchased a residence being built in Gidea Park for Cosher,” said Ida. “128 Balgores Lane, it’s a semi-detatched[1] house in the modern style, very nice, three bedrooms, nice garden at back, small garden at front.  Not too large and intimidating, a new start for him, and five minutes’ walk from the train if he wants to go up to London, which should be about fifteen minutes.”

“You’re a dear,” said Alexander.

 

 

The fly in the ointment was the arrival of several reporters who camped outside and refused to go without a story on whether the parure was real or not, and whether it was true that the inspector had undergone torture rather than give it up to those not entitled to it.

“They won’t go until we give them a story,” said Alexander. “Tell them I will give them a statement and answer three questions. Total, that is, not each. Unless it breeches anything sub judice.”

Simon and his butler and Campbell made an intimidating set of guards when the reporters were brought to see Alexander.

“Gentlemen... and lady,” said Alexander. “The parure is real. It’s a monstrosity of a piece in rubies and pearls,  quite hideous, but fabulously expensive, I’m sure. There is a necklace, a brooch which can depend from it, a tiara, bracelets, earrings, and rings. One of those who could have been entitled to it was tortured to death by others who believed he had found it; and because I took it into my protection for a third party who is none of your business, yes, they decided to torture me, which is why this session will be short as they managed to perforate my guts and, like Mr. Churchill, I feel rather the worse for wear for that and other wounds.”

“We want to see the parure,” said one truculent-looking reporter. “Have someone bring it in here.”

“That’s question one,” said Alexander. “I can’t just send someone to the bank to get something out of my deposit box; they won’t give it up to anyone they don’t know. What, did you think I keep it lying around in my bedroom?  You must think me insane.”

And it would be going into a safety-deposit box at Child’s as soon as he was mobile enough to set it up. It had been brought here by Campbell as a stopgap measure.

This, apparently, had not been one of the three questions the other reporters had agreed upon, and the truculent one was the subject of less than charitable mutterings from the others.

“Is it true that the old woman was poisoned by the same people who tortured Marty Beauchamp?” asked the woman reporter.

“Yes, it is true. They made lead acetate in her own house, adding insult to injury,” said Alexander.

“Can you name those who have been taken into custody for being caught in the act of torture?” asked another man.

“Stanley Brightman, you know very well I am not allowed to name minors, and nor are you,” said Alexander.

“Only two of the Beauchamp grandchildren are minors,” blurted out Brightman.

“What you are suggesting is conjecture,” said Alexander.

They would find a way of doing a story on the old woman, her scandalous past, the parure, the identity of the whole family and would mention in passing that the culprits could not be mentioned because of their age, and leave it to the readership.

Ida had slipped out and returned.

“I made a sketch of the parure when Alex had it in his keeping,” she said. “You may photograph that.”

“And who are you, miss?”

“I am Ida Henderson, I am betrothed to Alex,” said Ida. “And yes, sister of the artist, Basil Henderson, who was a friend of my fiancé. I will be nursing Alex on a cruise, with a chaperone, of course. And that’s all you’ll be getting out of me.”

This was more than anyone had expected, so the vultures were happy, and snapped away at Ida’s drawing, and Ida holding it, and one of them at least planned a scoop on ‘a new Henderson artist.’

“You’ve asked your three questions, and got more than you might have expected,” said Alexander. “And if I pass out on you, my mother will get involved, and you will none of you like that. She’s a formidable grande dame.”

“He isn’t joking,” said Stanley Brightman, who had followed Alexander’s career. “He got shot once, and she made me feel as if I was in the kindergarden, sent for by the sternest headmistress ever. Thanks, Mr. Armitage; and may you enjoy your cruise.”

“I shan’t, but thanks,” said Alexander.

It was a relief to get rid of them, but better than having them loitering at the end of the drive, camped out in various cars, waylaying servants, and dropping discarded fish and chip papers and empty beer bottles in the road whilst they waited. Their dedication was admirable, even if their lack of tidiness was to be deplored. 

“And they’ve been peeing in the hydrangeas, too,” grumbled Margaret Armitage, Alexander’s mother. “All that alkali, it will turn the blue ones pink.”

“Depend upon it, Mamargaret, it will all have washed away through our sandy soil by the time they come to flower,” said Ida.

“I hope so,” said Margaret.

Alexander went back to sleep, angry with himself that such a little thing as an interview with the press had so exhausted him.

 

 

 

Alexander had strict orders not to come in to the office, though he had to hold himself in readiness to give evidence at a trial. In which case, Barrett wrote, he would be collected by ambulance and would be wheeled into the courtroom in a wheelchair.

Alexander rolled his eyes.

And then reflected that, at that, he might just find standing to give evidence rather trying.

 

Barrett visited in the New Year.

“Good news,” he grunted. “Joseph started boasting, and both those lads will be going to Broadmoor at His Majesty’s Pleasure; neither one of them is fit to plead, and their mother likely to be joining them there as well, for assaulting sundry officers of the court to release her precious innocent babies.”

“I didn’t think she was terribly stable,” said Alexander. “I confess, I am glad it isn’t going to come to a big wearisome court case with some flash barrister trying to make out that I’m the villain of the piece, entrapping two sweet little boys from school and pushing them beyond endurance, not to mention breaking Joseph’s nose.”

“I think it’s what sent him over the top,” said Barrett. “Their testimony was terrifying, to be honest; they hold the most awful views, I don’t know where they came from, but they were going on about some German bloke called Neitzsche.”

“Oh, the existentialist,” said Alexander. “I think his work is dangerously easy to misinterpret in dangerous ways.”

“Well, the Beauchamp boys certainly did,” said Barrett, grimly. “Their life-view is that you are old and should be enslaved until you reach forty-five when you should be euthanized. It looks likely that their father is also suffering lead poisoning, but at least he can be treated with chelating drugs.”

“Castor oil for lead, if I recall correctly, and I have very little sympathy for the side effects,” said Alexander. “The young, beautiful, right cult, eh?”

“Pretty much. With an admix of the Bolshevist religion-is-the-opium-of-the-masses, and willingness to share everything everyone else owns,” said Barrett, cynically. “Living in luxury isn’t enough for them, they should be shown deference and given power because they are greater than normal men.”

“Ah, the Űbermenschen to which Nietzsche says mankind should strive; overmen, as one might translate it,” said Alexander.  “I was brought up that man is sinful and fallible, but that in striving to do well, one day we will be lifted above ourselves in Heaven.”

“Yes, I was reared much the same, but with less eloquence,” said Barrett.

“They’ve been failed by their parents, but I wager they were born with a seed of insanity,” said Alexander. “There’s evidence to suppose they’ve been killing, and possibly torturing, animals for a while. Their school record says that Charley has never been caught bullying, but that there was an unhealthy level of acquiescence towards him, and that one of Joseph’s class mates committed suicide. He left a note, ‘Never again, Joe’ and the autopsy revealed various wounds, and evidence of rape and other sexual abuse. But Joseph is a common enough name, and of course that little turd is good at turning on the charm and the big, innocent eyes.”

“Until bested,” said Barrett. “A lot of what he said was a rambling condemnation of you for daring to kick him, and being able to do so when tied up, as you should have accepted your position as victim and let him do whatever he wanted.”

“Clear-cut, anyway,” said Alexander. “I reckon I could come back to work next week if I stuck to desk duties....”

“Your duties are as escort to Alma and Miss Henderson, and to get well,” said Barrett. “They removed your appendix, for goodness sake![2] And your ribs are broken!”

“They’ll heal,” said Alexander.  

“And that’s why you’re such a rotten colour just from talking to me,” said Barrett. “I want you well; you’re one of my best men. And as you can afford to pamper yourself on a cruise, it’s very fortuitous.”

“Yes, sir,” said Alexander.

He was looking forward to it, in a way, and planned to make a detailed itinerary.

Getting into the warmth of the Mediterranean was also an incentive.

---

[1] Duplex in American

[2] In the 1920s, several weeks of bedrest was advocated after an appendectomy. Alex has not had appendicitis, so has not had any poisoning to his system, but it’s still debilitating, allied with the other torture. Taking several weeks on a cruise to recover is not unreasonable.

the purloined parure 18 penultimate

 this is the heavy chapter. Be aware.

Chapter 18

 

Alexander meticulously wrote out a will form, something he acknowledged that he should have done the day before. But the Beauchamp boys were going to be in a real rage now. He left a block of shares to Morrell as an apology for losing his temper, which would give him enough income to dress a bit better; and similar for sergeants Harris and Teal.  He left his car and shares in a relatively recently formed German company, Bayerische Motoren Werke, to Campbell, and the rest to Ida. He added a codicil, leaving another block of shares to Barrett and instructions that Ida should pay for a cruise for Mrs. Barrett, and go with her.

He called in two constables to witness his signature, and stowed the document in his desk, and slipped a fifty pound note in an envelope for Mary and her husband, which he put under the tree. She had done her best to alleviate his bad mood with cups of tea and gossip from the typing pool.

He had, after all, smiled fleetingly at the tale of WPC Collins’s little sister having pulled a Christmas jape on her school by emptying Matron’s mattress out of the top floor window to convince everyone it was snowing.  He hoped that Miss Collins would be able to sit down again to eat her Christmas dinner. Matron apparently had no sense of humour and a weapon called a tawse. Although Alexander recalled avoiding helping with the yearly ‘shooting the tick’ when the feathers in a mattress were emptied, de-clumped, any unpleasant ones discarded – those with cocoa stains for example, when a chap fell asleep during a bout of illness with a cup of half finished cocoa in his hands – and new feathers added.  The tick was then sewn up again with waxed thread and the seam waxed to try to prevent feathers working their way out.

He sighed impatiently. He was wool-gathering, a bad habit he also fell into when waiting for the order to go over the top. His mind raced around trying to think of everything except what was to come.

He made himself go to the canteen for lunch and ate without noticing what he ate, and returned to his office. Here he caught up on all the paperwork he should probably have done earlier, wrote a report about the break in, and how he anticipated an event that evening in which the Beauchamp Brothers, Charley and Joseph, would work him over. It was to be hoped that the two sergeants and Campbell would stop them when there was enough evidence but before he was hurt too badly.

He noted that he planned to take home an acoustic device to make recordings onto wax, to hopefully get the voices of the unpleasant young men on record... literally.

The device he collected from the laboratory; sometimes autopsies were recorded thus. It rode home on the front seat of his car, with the safety belt around the box it was in. If the Beauchamp brothers did not kill him, the lab boys certainly would if he damaged it. He drove home carefully.

 

Alexander stopped his car and put on the parking brake to open the doors.

He caught a flicker of movement out of the corner of his eye as he got the doors open. Suddenly, his belly was hollow, and his mouth dry. Thank goodness he had told Teal to wait upstairs; if he had been down here, they would have dealt with the chubby sergeant in no time.

Alexander sauntered out of the garage and got back into the car. He revved the engine loudly, hoping that Campbell would hear it. Campbell could be relied on to recognise his master’s car engine.  Then, Alexander drove carefully into the garage. He surreptitiously set up the recording device, and got out of the car to shut the doors. He did not think he would have a chance to get back in the car to start it once the doors were shut; and he was right.

Two shadows came forward.

“Hello, Charley Beauchamp, hello Joseph Beauchamp,” said Alexander. “You don’t need the masks, you know; I know who you are.”

Joseph pulled off his mask.

“Well, it will be more fun this way, anyway,” he said.

Charley sighed.

“We have to kill him, now,” he said.

“I want to kill him,” said Joseph. “He’s a bastard and he dares to despise us. Grab him!”

Alexander fought, of course. It would be suspicious if he did not. But he permitted Charley to creep up behind him, and get a rope around his neck.

Half throttled, Alexander let himself go limp whilst he was still conscious. His wrists were lashed together, and the other end of the rope holding them was thrown over one of the ceiling joists, and secured somewhere. They had pulled him up onto his toes.

Alexander knew that with his feet free, if he could grasp the rope above his tied hands, he could do a lot of damage kicking; but he would let them incriminate themselves first.

Charley had a knife and was slashing off Alexander’s clothing without any care for whether he nicked skin underneath as well.

“Morrell would be scandalised at you spoiling a good Savile Row suit,” said Alexander.

“I’ll spoil a lot more than your suit if you don’t tell me where the parure is,” said Charley. He and Joseph punched and pummelled Alexander’s torso, like a pair of boxers with a punching bag hung between them. Alexander felt a rib break. They worked him over, up and down so that not an inch of his chest was left without bruises, and the odd punch to the belly making him heave. Then Josef hit him in the kidneys, which was a blow to make his bladder release involuntarily. Joseph giggled.

“Now we got him scared, to piss himself,” he said. “Ready to talk about where you hid our parure, copper?”

“I am not going to talk, however much you hit me,” said Alexander.  He yelped as the knife dug in suddenly in his armpit.

“Careful, don’t kill him,” said Joseph. “Why don’t we peel all his skin off, an inch at a time? They used to call copper ‘Peelers’ once upon the time, we’ll see how well he peels.”

“Give me a pen, and we’ll mark it out,” said Charley. “Then he can anticipate where the knife will follow the pen nib.”

Joseph giggled again. It was a high pitched giggle.

“You sound like a girl,” said Alexander.

Joseph hit him in the crotch, and then cried out in disgust as Alexander vomited on him.

“You threw up on me on purpose!” he declared, shrilly. “I’m going to peel your todger like a banana!”

He moved forward with his sharp little knife and Alexander managed enough control, despite the spots still before his eyes, to grab onto the rope running up from his wrists, and delivering a pile-driving kick into Joseph’s face.

“You shouldn’t have done that,” said Charley. “I’m going to cut open your belly and pull out everything inside, like we did to them rats.” He crouched low. “And we’ll burn your body, with the petrol in the car, the place will go up like a torch, and no evidence left.”

Alexander steeled himself.

His kick missed, and the steel cut a hot line on his belly.

 

oOoOo

 

“I don’t care what you say, that was the Lancia’s engine. Any good mechanic knows the sound of an individual engine, even of the same make. I allus knew Mr. Basil’s camel when the flyers were coming back. You can’t fool a good greaser, and I am going down.”

“I hope it won’t spoil the boss’s game,” said Harris.

“Look, ’e never revs like that; wot for would ’e ’ave to?” said Campbell. “It was a bleedin’ message, it was.”

He headed for the stairs with the two sergeants following him.

 

oOoOo

 

Alexander had the sudden thought that Campbell had not heeded his unusual and unnecessary revving, and that nobody would come. His wrists and palms were being cut to ribbons as  he reached to hold the robe, ready to sell his life hard.

And then the door crashed open, and Campbell was leaping on Charley, the sergeants on his tail.

“What kept you?” asked Alexander.

“Arguin’ wiv these two,” said Campbell. “Didn’t see ’ow I could tell one car from anuvver, I arsts you!”

“I revved the engine when I saw I had visitors,” said Alexander. “I knew you would know it.”

“Jus’ as well I did,” said Campbell. “Teal, call an ambulance, ’Arris can’t ’ardly speak the king’s English.”

“Pots an’kettles,” said Harris.

Teal ran off upstairs, and the other two men cut Alexander down, and Campbell investigated the belly wound.

“’Asn’t perfulated the periwassitcalled,” he said, sniffing. “Naow digestive smells at the wound site.”

“That’s a relief,” said Alexander, and passed out.

When he came to, the garage was swarming with bobbies, and an ambulance was waiting.

“Campbell! Recorded it all – front seat,” said Alexander, as he was bundled onto a stretcher and into the back of the ambulance.

 

 

oOoOo

 

Alexander hated the smell of hospitals, it always reminded him of comrades dying, despite the best efforts of the nurses and doctors. They had given him some sort of sedative, and he knew he was rambling as he listed those dead in his unit, like a bizarre litany of loss.

“Are these the men who hurt you so badly, sir?” a young bobby with a notebook was beside him.

“Damn your eyes! Those are the ones the hun got,” said Alexander. “The smell of death, carbolic acid, the smell of death.”

“For goodness sake, constable! He’s not in his right mind, I gave him a sedative,” said someone starchy and bustling, the smell of her starch as tangible as the sound of the crisp rustles of her costume.

“Give ‘em hell, matron,” murmured Alexander, as a prick on his arm took him into blessed oblivion.

 

oOoOo

 

Alexander woke with a start.

His heart was hammering, and he held himself still, eyes shut, assessing where he might be.

The stench of hospital.

But he was not back on the Somme.

No, he had been worked over by those two little shits.

He opened his eyes.

The patient bobby was there.

“I’m not about to kick the bucket, lad, not yet, anyway; no need for a dying deposition,” said Alexander.

The young policeman jumped, and got out his notebook.

“Do you know who attacked  you, sir? Was it a mugging?”

“It was Charley and Joseph Beauchamp, who should be in the custody of Sergeants Harris and Teal.  Unless anyone let them go; what do you mean, was it a mugging?”

“Well, sir, it’s hospital policy to call us in to check over any emergency case who looks as if he or she has suffered physical violence, and you’ve been beaten and cut about, sir.  And I need to know what happened.”

“Son, it was a police sting which went pear shaped,” said Alexander.

“Oh! Are you associated with the police, sir? Can you tell me your name?”

“Didn’t you even go through my clothes?”

“You didn’t have any, sir, seemingly they were cut off you.”

“Oh, that would explain it, they’ll have been bagged for evidence. I’m Inspector Alexander Armitage of Scotland Yard.  It was an operation, and I should not say any more as it’s now under sub judice. Teal or Harris will be here presently for a proper statement.”

“Run along, sonny; I’ll process the inspector,” said Barrett’s voice. “My warrant card.”

“Er, yes, sir, thank you, sir,” said the young constable, moving hastily away. “The doctors said all those wounds were inflicted deliberately, sir, and there’s bruises under the bandages!”

“I saw the photos,” said Barrett. “Hop it.”

The youth retreated.

“Abiit, evasit, erupit,excessit,” said Alexander.

“What does that mean, you public school wonder?” demanded Barrett.

“‘Exit stage left, pursued by a bear,’” said Alexander. “Charley and Joseph took off their masks when I told them I knew who they were. I rendered Joseph unconscious by kicking him from my position of confinement.”  He paused. “I should begin at the beginning,” he said.

“Yes, you should,” said Barrett.

“It was when I stopped to open the garage door...” said Alexander. He gave his report in clipped, precise tones, neither glossing over the abuse to his body nor exaggerating.

“You missed some damage; according to the doctors you sprang three ribs, and Campbell was wrong, the peritoneum was punctured.  Sliced into your appendix, so they took that out whilst they were in there, so at least that’s not something you can ever skive off work with,” said Barrett.

“Thanks, chief,” said Alexander, with heavy irony.

“You’ll be going on that cruise with my missus and Miss Henderson,” said Barrett. “Counting as light duties.”

“I can be back to work in a brace of shakes....”

“The doctors say the end of February, at least,” said Barrett. “You’ve got more stitchery in you than I’ve known in any copper under me, and you’re lucky the doctors ain’t drunk yet, or you might have been sewn up with tinsel.”

“I hope it was nicely embroidered,” said Alexander. “More than one cut?”

“When they cut your clothes off, there were a few nasty ones, which would probably heal on their own, but you know how doctors are,” said Barrett.  “I have your sworn deposition now; can you sign it?”

“I think so,” said Alexander.  His hands and wrists were also swathed in bandages, which had a few gruesome stains.

“You’ll have your own special nurse to feed you, soon,” said Barrett, in an almost affectionate tone. “Campbell stopped by long enough to drop off the phonograph, and informed me he was going after Miss Ida and Gladdie, whom I conjecture is her maid.”

“Yes, Gladys is the lass who helped me with the drugs party,” said Alexander. “Campbell’s a good sort of chap.”

He dozed off again, and awoke being kissed and wept over by Ida.

The kisses were nice, so he endured the tears.

“Alexander Simon Caleb Frederick Armitage! You were reckless!” scolded Ida.

“We weren’t going to get them if not caught in the act,” protested Alexander.

“That’s as maybe, but hasn’t it ever occurred to you that the garage is the vulnerable point?”

“You know what? If I stay there, I’m going to arrange some bolt holes, and what’s more, some silent alarms, which light up little lights if anyone passes various places.”

“I think that’s an excellent idea,” said Ida. “And maybe listening tubes as well.”

“Splendid idea,” said Alexander.      

Pacifying Ida was a pleasant occupation.