The Canning House Ghoul by Phineas Redux

‘The Canning House Ghoul’

by Phineas Redux

—OOO—

Summary:— A 1930’s country house weekend party find themselves in the mire when a series of brutal deaths breaks out in the estate and surrounding neighborhood.

Note:— Halfordshire is fictional.

Caution:— There is some light swearing in this story.

—O—

General Kenneth Sanderson had done well in the 2nd Boer War as a mere Colonel, if pilfering as much gold as he could lay his hands on in a wild rampage leading his Forces through the Orange Free State counted as such. During the Great War he had gone on to greater things, now as a full General, his activities in the line of bringing back trophies and memorabilia now understated, underhand, and under the eye of the Civil as well as Military Authorities—who may well have had suspicions, but none that could be verified. His pensioning-off at the conclusion of the Great Conflict probably coming only a hand’s-breadth ahead of a proposed official investigation, which latter was dead before getting on its front legs, leaving him as legally innocent as a day old lamb, and as rich as many American millionaires or members of those European Royal Houses which still happily existed after the huge reduction in same over the past four years.

The next step, of course, was the acquisition of a country estate, complete with Georgian villa, landscaped vistas, folly’s, a Lake, a Home Farm, and best of all a small village to Lord it over as the local Squire. All this he found in the seaside county of Halfordshire, squeezed in between Norfolk and Lincolnshire facing the North Sea. Halford itself sat some twenty miles inland while the Canning estate, and Canning House, lay another two miles west of the town, hidden behind a spreading wood which enclosed the outskirts of the estate, and close beside the hamlet of Goddensbury, so small it almost had fewer residents than letters in its name.

As to temperament he reveled in an atrabilious persona which got up the noses of almost everyone he met. In the Army he had been something of an martinet within the meaning of the Army Regulations, where he would milk same to his own devices, which he had done on a regular basis. In civil life he was just as offensive, based on his extraordinary wealth. Having had immense, unopposed, power during his military career he now exercised something similar over the members of his extended family; a family which was now, August 1929, in a state of flux and change. He had, in his time, managed to argue three women into marriage with him—all three of whom, finally coming to their senses after a varying number of years, had broken their ties with him, via the Divorce Court, much to his disgust and embarrassment. The residue of flotsam and jetsam of these being four sons, five daughters, and three angry ex-wives all having, in their time, harangued him for allowances through the Law Courts; in which his own lawyers still seemed nowadays to spend most of their, highly expensive, days.

And now, in the late seventies of his years on this Earth Fate, as it does to us all, caught up with his coat-tails in the form of heart disease and severe arthritis ending in a sentence of impending fatality from his Doctor, the Second Opinion he asked for, peremptorily ordered actually, and the Third Opinion he shouted for with oaths, curses, and uncouth expletives in three languages and two dialects. The whole unmannerly incident ending in a familial get-together summoned by the General in his office as Head of the Tribe, accompanied by promises of huge donations of money to one and all in his Will, under certain as yet un-named conditions, whenever such became active. This ending in itself with the gathering of the Clan at Canning House in late August, 1929.

John Blaithe, eldest son of Helen, Sanderson’s first wife now deceased, was an author of very well-received thrillers, much to the disgust of the General who had never been able to see the use of any form of literature in the field of Conflict—apart from devious propaganda, that is, and the Army Regulations of course. Susan Garron, daughter of Myrtle, wife number two, worked as secretary to a business-man in London, and had never seen her father since early childhood. Morton Norham, second son of Sarah, third wife, owned a small second-hand bookshop in Golders Green, London, a grocer’s shop in Bethnal Green, and a Ironmongers in Tooting Bec, and was doing very nicely thank you; but more money was, in the words of the famous Eastern Guru, more money and definitely not to be sniffed at, after all!

The hook and fly Sanderson had dangled before his relatives in order to bring them within the immediate orbit of his existence was, of course, this same flaunting of his extraordinary pelf. Having sent them all letters informative of his sinking health, followed by other missives detailing the fact that he wallowed in disgusting wealth, and finally by others reflecting the simple wish he wanted to see, and take note of, his siblings in order to decide who got what on his demise, they had all, mostly against their better judgements, answered the call, if only out of pure politeness rather than interest or a deep wish to come into thousands at some undecided date.

He had specified a long week-end, Friday through the whole of the following Monday; so now, at 4.30pm on this signified Friday Weekes, Sanderson’s butler,—because of course he employed a specimen of that exotic breed,—opened the antique-nailed main door to the premises to allow of the entry of the first of the visitors linked to the Squire by ties of blood, if ever so thin.

“Hallo! Morton Norham, guess you’re expectin’ me!”

“Yessir.” Weekes eyeing this specimen of the proletariat with something very like open suspicion, then glancing out to the wide gravel-covered driveway before the long frontage of the villa. “James here will take your, ah, vehicle round to the garages in the rear, sir; if you will kindly give him the keys?”

While not in any sense wearing a uniform James, for all that, gave this impression inside his wholly ordinary but sharply ironed grey linen suit.

“Why, sure!” Morton happy to oblige this kind action. “Here; treat Bertha gently, she’s a fine lass!”

Finding himself unable to reply to this inanity in regard to a battered old Ford with any confidence or politeness Weekes contented himself in reversing back into the spacious hall in a very highly butlery manner, gained through long years of experience.

“General Sanderson is engaged on important matters to do with the estate at the present moment, sir. He therefore tenders his heartfelt apologies and asks that you be shown to your room at once to, ah, freshen-up after your long journey. Dinner at seven sharp, dress required. James will bring your belongings to your room in a few minutes, sir. Will there be anything else?”

Morton took a deep breath as he looked around him; the Hall usually having this effect on unsuspecting visitors.

“Some place, Weekes! I mean, splendid, and all that; but a trifle overdone, don’t you think?”

“Sir!” Weekes duly offended by this early faux pas. “It is not my place to think! It is my place only to serve! Thank you!”

But the butler’s woes were not yet at an end; no, in fact they were only just beginning if he but knew, Nemesis having his name inscribed on her daily scroll in bright golden letters and ready to carry out her contractual duties in the matter to her best avail.

Ten minutes later, just time for Weekes to take a refreshing sherry in his Pantry, the graveled drive delivered its next customer via a taxi scrunching up to the door, scattering little pebbles all over the Portico flagstones like snowflakes in Winter, to Weekes’ annoyance.

“James, inform Gaites the Gardener he will have to brush the Portico again.”

“Yes, Mister Weekes.”

The taxi now disgorged its inmate revealing a young lady in a green tweed coat and grey skirt, with red hair, pale face, and a jaunty outlook on Life which made Weekes grit his teeth at her first words.

“Taxi all the way from Halford! Hope I’m gettin’ reimbursed!”

“Miss Garron?”

“Yep, that’s me. An’ you must be the famous Weekes! Glad t’meet ya, Weekes! Hopes we’ll get t’be pals quicker than quick, eh?”

Weekes, making it up as he went along, glanced over his shoulder to where a diffident young female servant had appeared as if by magic.

“Jane, take Miss Garron to her room. Dinner at seven, dress required, ma’am! Thank you.”

The thought hovering on the edges of his consciousness that perhaps a second sherry wouldn’t be at all out of place Weekes’ daydream was shattered by the roar of a powerful engine as the third vehicle of the day raced up to the front door, only coming to rest via astonishingly good brakes within a foot of the Portico step, more gravel accumulating on the flagstones as a result; Weekes almost thinking he was walking on a pebbly beach as he went to assist the latest newcomer.

The vehicle was in fact a glorious example of Teutonic engineering, being a white Mercedes-Benz two-seater sports reveling in every iota of its immense power ratio. The young man who athletically jumped out showing as tall, blonde of hair, brown of eye, and dressed in open white shirt and cotton slacks of a sandy hue, all set off by white plimsols with a thin red stripe along their upper edges; an outfit which made Weekes turn pale where he stood, hardly believing his shocked eyes.

“John Blaithe, of that Ilk! Nice t’meet you, Weekes! Where’s the ol’ whale, then? Thought at least he’d have the politeness t’meet his visitors at the door? Seems I was wrong, eh?”

“Eric here will show you to your room, sir.” Weekes bravely butling as well as he could in the circumstances. “James will bring your belongings up when he parks your vehicle round in the garages, if you will give him your keys, sir. Dinner at seven, dress required, sir. Thank you.”

John, however, was not fazed in the least.

“James can stand down, Weekes, I’ll park the jalopy later myself, thanks. And as t’dress, this’s what I’m wearin’, an’ it will be till I hit the sheets abed later t’night. The General’ll just have t’put up with it, with me as I am in Life in fact. Whether same drives him to drink, or an apoplectic fit, is entirely his own business. OK, Eric lad, lead the way to Paradise, if you will! I’ll come back in ten t’park the ol’ machine, just let it cool where it is for the mo’, Weekes.”

This time Weekes did indeed make a hurried second visit to his Pantry for a calming spot while the going was good. Indeed he had hardly replaced the goblet on the shelf and fixed the stopper in the crystal glass decanter once more when the sound of yet another vehicle drawing up at the front door necessitated his almost sprinting to take up his official position there yet again.

Sitting beside Morton’s Mercedes a long sleek red two-seater Riley did its best to out-glory Glory itself, very nearly succeeding in the brave attempt. Clambering forth from the genteel machine a dark-haired Lady who could only be described as a perfect imitation of Louise Brooks stepped under the Portico with a regal air as one who had returned in triumph to the Ancestral Home, which, in fact, was legally the case.

“You’re Weekes, ain’t ya, lad?”

“At your service ma’am. You are Miss Agnetha Norham, ma’am?” The butler in question striving to serve with distinction in a very dicey situation indeed. “James will take your vehicle round to the garages, if provided with the key, ma’am. Sarah will show you to your room, Dinner at seven, dress required. Thank you.”

“Weekes?”

“Yes, ma’am? Can I be of service?”

“This here’s how ya find me, I ain’t changin’ fer Apollo himself, so there. When I sit down t’the vittals t’night I’ll be as I am now, an’ everyone’ll jes’ have t’try not t’throw up as a result, OK? Right, Sarah, lead the way, I dam’ well need a warm bath pronto!”

James was hovering beside the two cars, in a state of indecision.

“What about the, er, German machine, Mister Weekes?”

Weekes, who had been a Sergeant in the Army in his time, considered this example of pristine mechanical engineering with the curled lip of xenophobic disdain.

“Leave it, Mister Morton will be down instantly to take care of the problem. You just see to the, ah, red item.”

“Yes-sir.”

But all was not over yet; the sherry decanter in his Pantry now shining in imagination like the Silver Cup to a Grand National winner, Weekes was brought soundly back to reality by the coughing hack of another vehicle trying to reach the House’s Portico, though sounding on its last legs in attempting the impossible.

What drove over the long winding drive, finally to come to a shuddering halt by Weekes, was more of a thick blue patch of streaming fog than a solid vehicle. This miasma dispersing to reveal an ancient Morris sedan showing and sounding its age. The near door being pushed open, with some effort, a lanky young man emerged as from the Gate of Avernus itself to stand grinning before the staggered Butler.

“Hi, I’m Rodney Blaithe; John’s my elder, who’re you? Pa? General Sanderson? Or should I say, Daddy! Not quite what I imagined you as, I got’ta admit. What on earth are you wearing, and why?”

Never before, in the whole of his butling career which was extensive and imposing, had Weekes experienced anything like this; visibly tightening his shoulders he, however, faced the challenge as a true Briton ought.

“Weekes, sir! Butler to General Sanderson. Mary here will show you to your room. Dinner at seven, dress re—”

“None o’that nonsense, Beeks, ol’ boy! I’ve come as I am, an’ intend t’go in the same suit, so bite it, dear boy. Mary? Lead the way. Imposing place, ain’t it, Peekes? Overdone in the most awful plebian manner, of course, but still, imposing!”

James stood by his master, one hand extended as if to belay any possibility of the Butler buckling at the knees.

“That, ah, would appear to conclude the visitor’s list, Mister Weekes.”

“Yes-yes! Quite. Go about your business, then, James, Thank you!”

Two minutes later, back in his Pantry with the door firmly locked, Weekes removed the stopper to the sherry decanter with the air of a thirsty desert traveler finally reaching a beckoning and much vaunted oasis.

—O—

The great thing about a drawing-room in a large establishment such as your ordinary Country Pile is the delightful sense of comfort as well as privacy which surrounds the genteel visitor therein, apart from the constant necessary comings and goings of the servants, of course. A point just after 6.00pm found all the visitors assembled in said room passing the time before the great event, Dinner, took place under the austere auspices of the certified Cicerone of the House, General Sanderson himself; not as yet set eye on by anyone, not that anyone was particularly anxious to do so if truth be told.

“Cousin Agnetha! Haven’t seen you in years! Where’ve you been hidin’?” Rodney getting off on entirely the wrong foot.

“I’m your blitherin’ half-sister, idiot!” Agnetha taking no prisoners. “Dumb as a brick as ever, I perceive! Pass the teapot, thanks.”

“I understand you’ve just returned from Africa?” John doing better with Susan Garron. “What took you out there? Not your usual scene of activity, I’d have thought. Work for someone in Poplar, don’t you?”

“Regent Street, if you must know—Imports and Exports. We transport all sorts of stuff worldwide.” Susan replying cautiously, eyeing her relative with wariness the while. “Very interesting business. Often spend most of my day down at The Pool as a result; exotic cargoes, and what-not of that nature.”

“Hmm!” John already wondering if a story could be made from this slight information. “More interestin’ than I thought.”

Morton now took up the task of interrogating Rodney.

“Saw that heap you arrived in! Amazed it got you this far; from Halford, I take it?”

“Nah, all the way from London.”

“Astonishin’!” Morton hot on the trail of a new customer. “Been thinkin’ lately of expandin’ into the trade in second-hand jalopies, myself. Seein’ you’re related, could do a good bargain, percentage off sort’a thing, once I get the business on its feet. Interested?”

Rodney cast a suspicious eye over his near relative.

“Depends on the percentage, the price, the state of the car, and the paperwork!” Rodney showing he wasn’t as innocent as he perhaps looked at first sight. “The answers t’all such questions’ll have t’be pretty good, if I take the bait at all! Me already havin’ my own garage business an’ fully up t’snuff on all the perks an’ back-alleys of same, thanks!”

“Hmmph!” Morton conceding the point glumly. “A hard case, eh?”

“Just so, my dodgy back-street relative, just so!” Rodney showing his iron gauntlet till now concealed beneath the outer lambskin glove.

“Jane?” Agnetha addressing the single servant present. “Pour me a gin an’ it, would you, please. More gin than it, thanks.”

John nodded his approval of this technique.

“Goin’ into Dinner already half-sozzled! Yep, that’ll work! Jane?”

“Yessir!”

“What’s the local Cook like? Worth much is she, or him?”

“Mrs Pantenglas, sir?” Jane hardly knowing how to reply to this query. “She’s been with the General since his South African days. He seems satisfied.”

John looked mournful.

“That probably says it all. Stews made of wildebeest and kangaroo, probably!”

“They don’t have kangaroos in South Africa.” Agnetha jumping in here. “An entirely different continent, never mind country.”

“Oh, really.” John hardly interested. “it’s the thought I was tryin’ t’convey, y’see. If you do see, that is?”

Agnetha, however, knew how to shut down a bore.

“Can’t say I do, or care! Is there a wireless anywhere to hand? Can’t we have some Jazz or Swing, or Big Band music or what? Buck us all up no end—an’ don’t we all need just that!”

“General Sanderson has one in his study; listens to the Business news on it, nothing else.” Jane passing this on to the collected visitors as neutrally as she could manage. “No other such machines in the House.”

Rodney spoke for them all at this terrible news.

“I can see this party, indeed the whole dam’ weekend, is goin’ t’be a complete flop. Especially if we have t’spend most of the time listenin’ t’the General proselytizing about his dam’ wealth ad infinitum.”

“OK, Jane, that’ll be all for the moment, thanks. We’ll ring if we require anything else.” John taking command, waiting till Jane had closed the door behind her. “OK, now we’re free t’talk among ourselves, what about it, anyone?”

“What about what?” Susan chiming in with the question that mattered.

“About the dam’ General’s wealth, of course.” John making a guttural noise in his throat. “Seems he’s ordered our presence before him expressly for the purpose of haranguing us with his grotesque corner on the market in gold, diadems, Old Pictures, an’ pieces of eight beyond calculation; all gathered, it appears, from the furthest corners of the Empire, bypassing the usual politeness’s of actually paying a price or any taxes on same. For a start, this dam’ estate must have cost him a veritable Prince’s fortune. If he leaves it to any, or even all, of us it could be sold off in portions to land-grabbers an’ developers for a huge profit t’us all, y’know!”

Agnetha now made an indescribable noise.

“Don’t know about that. Would quite like t’live here, myself. Place’d have t’be tarted-up something big, of course—couldn’t possibly invite friends down for the weekend in its present sorry state of déshabillé, not t’say outright anarchy!”

Morton spoke up here.

“My choice! I’d sell-off the Home Farm. Can’t be bothered bein’ a dam’ farmer! All the noise, an’ smells an’, beg pardon ladies, dirty animals, droppings, an’ mess! No, what I’d like best is the quiet, pampered life of a country Squire who knew how to take life easy—and I’m your man there, I assure you!”

Susan had been frowning morosely for a while and now shared her thoughts.

“What if he’s only brought us down here to regale us with the various Charities he’s going to leave everything, absolutely everything, to; leaving us all penniless! What then?”

“Law Courts!” Morton on this in an instant. “It’s a well-known ploy, folks bein’ left out of Wills when they think they have a perfect right to be in one. Every right to, what is it, ah, yes, contest the Will. I can tell you all right now, if dear Pops leaves me stranded under Waterloo Bridge without a dime I’ll have his dam’ Will in the Dock at the Old Bailey, or Divorce Court or wherever, before you can wink twice!”

Rodney nodded in agreement.

“Fair do’s, certainly; no other course open to the lawful relative in such a situation. Whatever he tells us—we get our fair shares, or, after he’s kicked the ol’ bucket, the Courts beckon! Yeah, I second that sentiment.”

Susan felt it needful to interrupt here.

“He is, after all, our Father, you know! Nobody seems to be taking much note of that simple fact. If he was to die I don’t—I don’t quite know how I’d feel about the matter.”

Morton shrugged, leaning over to refill his sherry glass.

“Wouldn’t give a dam’ myself; sorry, Susan, but there it is. Haven’t seen him in twenty odd years, don’t feel close to him or accountable to him in any way. Be pleasant if I was left something in the Will, but who knows. Beginnin’ t’think it was a mistake comin’ down here at all, at the Call of the Wild Beast, as you might say!”

Agnetha joined in with another sliver of criticism which had just occurred to her.

“Something been nagging at the back of my mind; where’re all the rest of the Clan? I mean, I have two brothers an’ another sister, but none of them have deigned to rush home to Daddy, in his hour of need. What’s keeping them, I wonder!”

Rodney frowned over this idea, too.

“My sister Teresa, she’s gone AWOL too. Of course, the last letter I got from her she was ensconced in an apartment in New York, USA, with someone with lots of money in the leather goods trade. Perhaps she thought it wasn’t worth the effort?”

“Yes,” John musing on the subject himself. “A good percentage of our nearest an’ dearest seem to have given the whole pantomime the bum’s rush, to use an Americanism. Only us few die-hards on duty, as it were.”

“What if he, Daddy, gives all his goods and chattels to those who aren’t here? A sort of double-bluff sort of thing.” Susan voicing a worry that had just slithered unasked into the forefront of her mind.

“Would need to be truly cracked from side to side for that to happen, I’d have thought.” Agnetha facing reality with a cold stare into the distance. “Say, what about mental issues in general; forgive the term but you know what I mean! If his Will is in any way cracked, get the bods in the white coats on it instanter, have it annulled, like a dicky marriage, an’ all go home with fair cuts of the side of beef, if that’s not too gross a term!”

This proposal seemed to provide food for thought for all there, judging from the overall silence which descended on the group as they all digested the pro’s and con’s of the matter. Then the door opened to reveal both the form of Weekes in splendid majesty and the sound of the Dinner gong.

“Dinner is served, ladies and gentlemen!”

—O—

The idea of everyone dressing in evening clothes and splendid dresses for the event having fallen by the wayside Weekes, butling away like a hero, simply ignored the fact as of no consequence, prepared to carry out his appointed duties steadfastly even under the worst of all possible conditions.

With the whole cast eventually seated to their satisfaction along both sides of the mahogany table a general grumble, as of distant thunder, broke out as they all discussed in subdued voices this new setting.

The room was long, thirty feet if an inch, half-paneled in light oak, with a decorated plaster ceiling of swathes and circles in the old Art Nouveau manner. The furniture, apart from the table itself, was heavy and dark, clearly dating from the turn of the century too. A long sideboard ran along almost the full length of the interior wall; the opposite being taken-up with no less than three French Windows in a row, separated by wide alcoves. A fine view of the nearby lawns being clearly seen outside as a result.

Several silver dishes with lids, small burners exuding blue flames underneath, sat ready on the sideboard simmering quietly to themselves, while what appeared a whole army of servants, mostly young women in white starched uniforms, entered from a far door bearing all the riches, in food form, of the fabled East. Weekes standing by the head of the table where the chair there was still unoccupied.

“A trifling concoction prepared rather quickly, ladies and gentlemen, hence the absence of the usual printed menu. First course, haddock boiled in premier cru white wine; second course to follow, asparagus soup; third course, beef cutlets or ham steaks with potatoes whole, roasted, mashed, or French fried; dessert, tangerine and raspberry sunburst with mocha flavoured whipped cream. Coffee and port to follow in the Library. Thank you!”

“Where’s Daddy?” Agnetha determined to hold the Host to his official duties, wherever he was hiding.

“General Sanderson is slightly indisposed; hopes you enjoy your dinner all the same, will join you in the Library after the repast for a few minutes.” Weekes transmitting this news in a perfectly cold neutral tone honed over a lifetime’s service to others. “He is, he wishes it to be known, presently suffering from heart troubles, diabetes, arthritis, and low blood pressure; these sort of events tending to drain his strength if appearing for too long in person. Jane, the haddock, if you please!”

It will perhaps be best to pass over the actual Dinner itself; the sight, and sound, of a large group digging into the vittals like half-starved drunken sailors, never being a sight worthy of recording at the best. Then the Sybaritic enticements of the Library, in the form of coffee, liquors, and old port, beckoned the weary masticators to their next trial, like the Ten Labours of Heracles!

The Library, in its turn, rose to every required aspect of its formal designation and appointments; books lined all four walls, in deep heavy-looking cases rising almost to the ceiling, itself some twenty feet above the antique Persian carpets littering the oak floorboards like cast-off tu’-penny rugs. Two more French Windows offered egress to the lawns, if anyone felt more like listening to the crows in the nearby woods than actually reading anything. This anything being composed of serried ranks of the Standard Classics in leather-bound editions which, since their deposition on the varying shelves, mostly some one hundred years past, had never since been disturbed by any following visitor desirous of displaying a literary bent.

It did, however, possess a wide deep fireplace, surrounded by white Italian marble, hosting a crackling wood fire; scattered around were a plethora of easy chairs, well-upholstered, and three long sofas, equally composed for the comfort of the reclining form; like Pauline Bonaparte though, hopefully, with more clothes on view. A litter of small coffee-tables, well laden with the liquids which revive and restore, quickly coming into their own as the guests took their chosen seats after their previous mighty masticatory efforts.

“Not a bad Dinner, as such go!” Morton settling himself with a fine old port, wondering if it would be terribly passé to burp loudly and prolongedly in company.

“Mrs Panteglas’ clearly a fine cook!” Agnetha admitting the fact unreservedly, while genteelly sipping a sundowner of her own invention, half gin, half white rum, with just a splash of bitters.

John, conservatively, stuck to a cup of strong black coffee.

“Well, Pops’ been a no-show so far; what’re the odds he doesn’t appear on the Finishers’ Card at all, at least tonight?”

“Meb’be his diabetes’s playin’-up?” Rodney hardly interested. “Should I go for rum, whisky, gin, or port?”

“Shut your eyes an’ pick up the first decanter you touch.” Susan offering this solution to a knotty problem with a twisted smile, she sticking with a cup of pure Assam tea.

“How long’re we expected t’stay here, soakin’ up spirits like we’re in an American Speakeasy?” Morton, casually sipping a splendid single malt, looking round at his compeers.

“If Daddy doesn’t show in the next hour I’m hittin’ the sheets for sure; had a long hard day.” Susan laying out her plans for the evening.

Jane, ever trusty and hard-worked, not to say hard-pressed, servant was mixing drinks and pouring coffee and tea at the sideboard like a star of her profession, but was still open for other duties as such might arise.

“Say, Jane, could you go find Weekes an’ ask what’s what with the dear old Pater?” Morton employing an almost pleading tone.

“Yessir, of course, sir.” Jane heading for the door instantly.

“Well,” Agnetha sipping her cordial appreciatively. “something’s bound to come of it!”

Five minutes later, John having meanwhile proposed a game of Bridge, Susan a game of Cribbage, and Morton Poker for sixpence a point, Weekes appeared like the Genii from Aladdin.

“May I be of assistance, sir?” He meanwhile eyeing Morton as if he were a bad taste in the mouth.

“Wondered if Po—that is, General Sanderson was goin’ to show for the party?” Morton attempting a hearty manner he signally failed to feel in his heart. “A pretty good game of Texas Two-hand Poker about t’commence here, I believe!”

Weekes almost visibly rocked back and forward on his heels before replying.

“Ah, yes, sir!” He recovering his composure manfully. “I was about to make the announcement that the General has retired for the night. He feeling somewhat under the weather re his health. Asks you all continue to, ah, enjoy yourselves as you see fit; means to appear at breakfast for a certainty. Thank you, sir.”

With which Regal Proclamation Weekes exited the Library, the door closing behind him as if by magic.

“Beginnin’ t’wonder if we’ll ever set eyes on the old fossil at all!” Agnetha speaking for the whole company on this topic. “Begin t’think Weekes’ has already mysteriously suffocated the reptile in his bed and’s keepin’ the awful news from us for his own personal an’ practical aggrandizement, if that’s the correct term in these circumstances? You know, or at least you, John, must know, it’s always the Butler who did it in all these crappy thriller novels one finds festooning the Railway bookstalls!”

John, faced so comprehensively with such a disparaging view of his own works, took refuge in retreat.

“Had enough t’drink, can’t be bothered playin’ cards, think I’ll hit the hay; thanks all! G’night!”

—O—

The morrow dawned, as they all had a tendency to do in the counties facing the North Sea, grey, dull, with a chill breeze, and tending towards rain later in the day. In the Breakfast-room, because of course there was such a designated apartment within the purlieus of the House, Weekes was not apparent, but the dishes were, in vast order on the groaning sideboard.

John came in with Agnetha, both hungry as hawks, closely followed by Rodney, who never foreswore a free meal if he could help it; Susan and Morton, ten minutes later, blearily-eyed bringing up the rear.

“My God! What’s all this?” Morton taken by surprise at the viands on show all round.

“A concatenation of comestibles fit for an Eastern Potentate, is what, old boy!” John acting as Host of the Table. “To begin, over there, fish of three differing types, flounder, poached in milk; herring in vinegar; or kedgeree, fish mixed. Then bacon lightly fried, or crisply fried; in the silver dish on the small burner, devilled kidneys; in the deep dish, porage; in the smaller dish, cornflakes; toast French, or Common; marmalade made from three individual fruits; jam from four separate fruits; coffee, Mexican, Columbian, or Egyptian; tea from Ceylon, India, China, or Japan. Anything missing to your tastes, ask and it will be delivered!”

“My God!”

It wasn’t till the last of the toast had disappeared, leaving only fine crumbs to ever hint at its earlier existence on her plate, that Susan broached the subject of most interest.

“Where the Devil’s the Old Man? Nary a dam’ sight of the moron, yet!”

Rodney, still industriously disposing of the last of the devilled kidneys, looked up.

“A touch of animosity this mornin’, what?”

“Who wouldn’t feel that way, kept like an animal in a cage, with no sign of the Host at all! Jane!”

“Yes’m?”

“Weekes! At once if you please! Doesn’t matter what important household duty he may be involved in—Him! Here! Right away!”

“Yes’m!”

The door closed behind the servant, and John had hardly begun a retelling of one of his favourite literary anecdotes, dealing with a famous littérateur of the moment, when the door re-opened to reveal the embattled form of the Butler ready to face another day with calm exterior and the highest level of politesse.

“You wished—, sir?”

“Where’s Pops! The Ol’ Fossil! The Pater on High! In short, where the Devil’s General Sanderson? If not believable, at least try to make the answer entertainin’, Weekes! We have all here come to relish your tales of fiction covering the matter so much over the course of the last day or so!”

Weekes was, as he stood barely within the door, looking slightly paler in face than previously; almost like a man voyaging at sea and experiencing the scend of the waves for the first time and not liking same in any way.

“—ah, as to that, sir, we would appear to be experiencing a—a—a somewhat extra-ordinary turn of events in the immediate neighborhood, sir. We have—ah, we have—umm—some visitors lately arrived—may I present—”

“What? More relatives turned up for the spree?” Rodney finishing his meal with a cultured cough, in lieu of choking on the last kidney. “Dam’med impolite t’be so late for the revels, surely?”

“—may I present—,” Weekes continuing stolidly. “Inspector Pardoe, Sergeant Thompson, and Constable Fairley—Gentlemen!”

John dropped his last piece of toast on his plate, staring in disbelief at the group of visitors who now made their presence very firmly felt indeed as they stood within the door; all three looking on the seated guests, like jailers on Death Row their latest victims for the long cold morning walk to Eternity.

“What in Heaven’s—” Rodney, too, astonished by this sudden turn of events.

“G’mornin’ t’you all! Inspector Thomas Pardoe, of the Eastern District Police Force. Here because things has gotten some out of hand in this particular District lately, I’m afraid to say. Therefore beggin’ my, an’ my colleagues’, presence on the matter.”

John rose to the occasion, probably having written so many scenarios covering the same situation he was used to the format.

“Someone died? Someone we all know? Who? We’re all new to the District since yesterday, you must realise.”

Inspector Pardoe shuffled his wide shoulders under the grey overcoat he wore.

“Who’s died, you asks? Several folks, apparent! Three individual bodies having been discovered, scattered around the village an’ estate; over an’ above General Sanderson in person, just within the last hour havin’ been hauled from the local Lake, drowneded complete, apparently since late last night! Quite enough, you’ll all agree, to be goin’ on with!”

“Good God!”

“So,” Pardoe, showing his best stoical manner, getting down to business with stolid determination. “Names! Ranks! Business here! Where all come from! And where were you all, individual or together, between the hours of four-thirty yesterday to the present moment! We’ll start by goin’ round the table here, clockwise. Sergeant Thompson an’ Constable Fairley will take your statements. Just remember, it’ll all be taken down an’ may be used against you in a Court o’Law, if it comes t’such at a later date. Right, then!”

—O—

“The Game’s Afoot, then!” John rather pleased than not to be able to use this old chestnut in real life for the first time. “What d’you all make of it, I wonder?”

This aimed at the group huddled together in the Library later that morning, except for Susan who was still engaged with Inspector Pardoe.

“Can’t make head nor tail of the whole business,” Rodney showing a pale countenance to the company, fiddling with a glass of whisky which he very much needed. “bodies scattered all over the landscape, apparently; killed in a variety of ways; and ol’ Pops fallen in the dam’ lake an’ drowned himself—out of sheer spite, I don’t doubt, after bein’ told by Weekes of what was happenin’ all round him on the estate. Probably chuckled to himself, as he dived in with weights in his pockets, at the sorry mess he was leaving us all in!”

“Could that have been it?” John making the plot up as he went along.

“What?” Rodney astonished at this reception to his harassed moans. “Look, don’t take my—”

“No-no!” John elaborating for those who couldn’t keep up with his sharp mind. “Three others murdered! Pardoe pretty specific they weren’t the victims of a series of unfortunate accidents. Could Pops have done the deed? All three, in fact! An’ riddled with—what is it?—despair at his actions, topped himself out of deep-seated sorrow an’ regret?”

Agnetha had the answer to this.

“Pardoe said the local blacksmith, Todday, had been strangled! Don’t see Daddy doin’ that. How old was he?”

“Who? Todday?” Morton only half aware of what was going forward, he already being on his third whisky of the morning.

“No! Pops!”

“Oh-ah!” Morton hardly more able to answer.

“Seventy-four.” John supplying the missing data. “Rather thin-framed, so Weekes told me. Suffers, or did, from all sorts of internal tribulations, muscle-wise. Don’t think he could’ve strangled a Pekinese at his best!”

“The woman, a local from the village,” Agnetha carrying on the schedule of deceasement. “was found in a local lane, head battered in by a large rock found lying beside her covered in blood an’ brains; so we are reliably informed, by exactly who I don’t know. A very messy scene, so I understand!”

“And the third man, or at least the second of that ilk, so far unnamed,” John finishing the list off. “dead in a field, thought to have been dumped there after being comprehensively run-over by a large heavy vehicle? None of which actions could’ve been perpetrated by our dear deceased parent, I’m assuming.”

Agnetha was still hunting for some form of clarity.

“Does that make him, Pops, a suicide? Or was he thrown in the drink by someone, supposedly the earlier attacker, making Pops the fourth victim?”

“In which case,” Morton coming surprisingly to life, and some level of lucidity. “the perpetrator is still out there somewhere. Perhaps in this very room as we speak here? Hiccup!”

“Mort, ol’ boy!” John sniffing censoriously. “You’re sozzled! Go back t’bed, there’s a good lad.”

At which point Susan appeared via the Library door, looking pale and interesting, as most of the old Poets would have expected.

“What’s the end result, Susan!” John coming to the fore. “Been threatened with a jail cell, or given a clean bill of health?”

“Humph!” Susan making a face redolent of disgust at the whole sorry affair. “Neither! Pardoe can’t make his dam’ mind up, about anything. Says he’ll need t’do some in-depth investigating before he can come to any competent conclusions. In the meantime we all here are strictly ordered t’stay here, or be arrested for obstruction!”

“What? All day? This’s the last place I wan’na be at present!” Agnetha giving of her best, wrapped in a wispy grey cloud via a Turkish cigarette. “Was thinkin’ of bailin’ out, back t’the Smoke at the earliest opportunity. When do the trains run round here, anyone know?”

“We stay all week, if necessary!” Susan continuing the sad tale. “Pardoe says, I havin’ asked him, that we all stay here till he says we can leave; whether that’s today, next week, or next month! We ain’t, he firmly allows, goin’ anywhere in the near future till he’s satisfied of our circumstances.”

“Satisfied with our circumstances?” Rodney not quite up to speed.

“Whether each or any of us are the guilty party!”

“Oh-ah! Quite!” Rodney now truly suffering from the internal fumes of the several hefty whiskies he had imbibed. “Are you, then, Susan? Guilty, I mean? Did you do the evil deed—or deeds? Jolly good work on your part if you did, I say! Will let us all get off home pronto, too! Did you? Go on, say you did, just to make the Inspector happy, there’s a good girl.”

Susan gave Rodney a look as of one staring at a dead whale on a beach; one that had been there for some time and was now making its presence felt in a most unseemly manner.

“Rod, why don’t you take a walk down t’the dam’ lake an’ copy Pops! Save us all a lot of bother, an’ give us all a good laugh at the same time. Don’t worry, no-one’ll care a dam’ at the loss!”

“Oh! I say!”

John felt it fully time to gather everyone in a body working together, however difficult the feat might be to accomplish.

“Ladies and Gentlemen! A little decorum, please. Our loved an’ honored Pater has just met his demise in a most unusual, not to say indecorous even uncouth, manner. It is up to us, the surviving members of the Family, to respect his memory, gain hopefully from his Will, and all go home happy after Inspector Pardoe has discovered and apprehended the true perpetrator of the other, obviously unconnected, crimes which are presently muddying the waters, if you’ll forgive the metaphor.”

Agnetha here looked round at all present, not with the eye of undying love.

“None of us could possibly have done bloody murder, especially murder in such a messy manner as seems to have been the case in all settings. None of us here have either the brains, the brawn, or the necessity to do so. I mean, what are the Blacksmith, or the woman in the lane, or the man in the field, crushed to a pulp by a heavy lorry, to any of us? None of us have ever been down here in our entire lives—except in our far youth, maybe; donkeys’ years ago. We don’t know the victims from Adam! Come to that, hardly any here today remember Pops at all, in any close personal manner. I certainly don’t.”

The door here opened to reveal the tall form of the Inspector, looking dark of mien, and cold of manner.

“Ha! Pardoe! Just the man!” Rodney, boosted by his alcoholic intake, facing-off the Policeman with a wavering attempt at self-importance. “What’s all this about keeping us all prisoner here, like the Man in the Iron Mask in that island prison, for years unbounded? Can’t be done, Inspector. Wholly un-British, don’t y’know! What?”

The Inspector, standing his ground, made a growling noise deep in his throat.

“Everyone stays till I’ve sent my preliminary Report to Scotland Yard; then you can all go home. Leave your addresses, and phone numbers, with either Sergeant Thompson or Constable Fairley. And don’t attempt to leave London, or wherever, for anywhere, especially ports foreign, in the next few weeks. If you do we will pursue you to the ends of the Earth, bring you back in chains, and most likely charge you with every unsolved murder perpetrated within the last three decades, no matter their locations within these Fair Isles; just so you all know!”

—O—

Linden Square sat on the borders of Belgravia, London; on the Chelsea side, of course, not the Pimlico side. Whether it was actually within the domain of either District had been an ongoing local council debate for the last fifty years, with no clear decision in sight. This resulting in the tenants on the west side of the embattled Square holding to their Chelsea antecedents, while those on the east side had long chosen Belgravia; as their fore-fathers, or mothers, on their parts had long desired.

At the moment, June, 1935, Agnetha Norham sat in her 3rd floor apartment on the west side, absorbed in the latest reporting in the newspapers of the shattering events which had taken place in and around the Canning Estate, Halfordshire, just over a month previously, but which still had enough verve and inherent vivaciousness to make the dailies’.

“This will never do! Never read such poppy-cock in all my life.” She making her inner thoughts known to her close friend Bernice Clements sitting opposite in the Living-room, they both nibbling sweet biscuits and imbibing pale sherry. “These reports have the gall to name each an’ everyone of us, me included, as the possible perpetrator of the criminal acts! All of them, up to and including knocking-off dear Pops himself! Dam’ morons! Can’t I take ‘em all t’Court? Could make millions in Libel, couldn’t I?”

“No!” Bernice shaking her head, she being a Solicitor’s Secretary. “Not a hope; Free Speech, an’ Free reporting! Staple of the British Constitution.”

“Didn’t realise Britain had a Constitution? First I’ve heard!”

“Well, technically speaking, anyway!” Bernice shuffling her options with professional ease. “Anyway, cut the Courts out’ta your thoughts entirely, lady! No hope there, I assure you.”

“Oh, dam’!”

“So, what’s the latest?” Bernice deeply interested in the woes of her nearest and dearest friends. “In reality, I mean; not the dam’ rags.”

Agnetha made a noise as of the deepest contempt.

“Pardoe first thought it was one murderer; then he changed to thinking it was two, then three; then returned to his first hypothesis. Now, in a letter I received this morning, he wants me, along with all the other members of the gang, to return to the scene of the crimes—to help in clarifying certain points of interest, he says! Whatever the dam’ they may be, for I certainly can’t imagine!”

But Bernice, safely out of it, could.

“He wants to pin the tag on the donkey, is what he’s up to.”

Agnetha looked up at her visitor with a frown.

“What?”

“He’s got his eye on someone amongst you as the murderer, and’s going to pin them, whoever they may be, to the wall in the Library at Canning House! Like the end chapter in one of Agatha Christies’ novels, don’t you know!”

Agnetha curled a sensitive lip.

“Don’t want t’be a character in a dam’ cheap thriller novel! God! The disgrace!”

“Oh, don’t know!” Bernice looking mildly interested. “Some, me included, wouldn’t mind. The notoriety! The Fame! The publicity! Well, I mean!”

“Or, more likely, the long years in Holloway!” Agnetha looking at the real side of life. “If, in fact, not the accompanied walk to the shed in the yard early one cold morning!”

Bernice considered this aspect idly for a few seconds.

“Dear me, yes! Isn’t it just the thing, don’t you find! Every sweet dream usually ending in a disaster of one sort or another just at the critical moment! Dear-dear!”

“Bernice, I often wonder about your intellect, what there ever is of it on show! Have another sweet biscuit, dear; and pass the teapot, thanks! We’ve both had quite enough of this mediocre sherry!”

—O—

Rodney was lying underneath an MG two-seater, more or less in his element, trying to fix a brake cable when a tap on his boot alerted him to the presence of a potential new customer. Sliding free from the vehicle he looked up from his prone position only to be instantly disappointed—a Police Constable, in full majesty staring down at him, not being the elixir of Hope and Joy he had expected.

“Constable Barrand! What can I do for you on this fine mornin’? Want a new sedan, or sports, or runabout?”

“I want’s you, sir!”

“Oh, God!” Rodney rising to his feet, in his small garage off the Old Kent Road down a side street beside the London and North Eastern Railway’s Viaduct. “I’ll come quietly; what’s the charge? Haven’t sold a hot vehicle in, oh, at least six months. That trade goin’ awfully downhill lately, y’know.”

Constable Barrand, perfectly used to this old customer’s brand of sarcasm, sniffed officiously, holding out an envelope.

“Notice from the Yard; orders fer your instant transportation t’the Colonies, I shouldn’t wonder! ‘ere!”

Pausing to wipe most of the dirt and oil from his sticky fingers with a rag kept for that purpose in the back pocket of his overalls Rodney tore the envelope open and read quickly.

‘Dear Mister Rodney Blaithe, having done some intense research and investigation in the vicinity of the Canning Estate, Canning House, and the village of Goddensbury, Halfordshire, I have come to a series of conclusions about the sad affair of the four deeds of deceasement so far having occurred in the region. Having done so I must ask you to appear here, at Canning House, on the 17th ult., when I shall have some news of worth to convey to all those necessarily connected with the business. Yours, Inspector Pardoe.’ Well—well!”

Even Constable Barrand was impressed by this news.

“—‘e’s got someone on the ‘ook, mark my words! Y’all go down there, t’the wilds o’Halfordshire—my ol’ woman tol’ me jes’ last week, y’can still find unicorns there, if you looks close enuff! Fac’! Yeah, you’ll go down there, but one o’yer’ll be comin’ back curtesy of a Black Maria t’Clink an’ utter despondency! Mark my words! If’n it turns out t’be you, yersel, Mister Blaithe; well, it’s bin very pleasant knowin’ yer all these years, I must say!”

“Barrand?”

“Yessir?”

“Go away; there’s a good lad!”

—O—

The villain had coaxed the heroine to the top of the wild Cliffs of Moher in Ireland, on a stormy morning, with evil intent in his heart. Now all John had to do, as he bowed over his typewriter in his study in Islington, London, was find a way for the heroine to escape with her life. Now—exactly how was that to be accomplished, at least in an acceptable manner not too far beyond the pale to believe, especially for impatient railway travelers who had just picked-up his latest work from the station bookstall as they raced to catch their train?

Ring-Ring-Ring!”

“Oh, God! What the hell now? Yeah? What? Oh, hallo, Sergeant Thompson! What’s that? Back at the ol’ Dungeon, quick’s I like? Must I? The Seventeenth? Oh, if I must! I must? Yeah, well, if you insist. Yes-yes! I heard you the first time; this is upsetting my schedule, y’know. I’m a busy man, beaverin’ away providin’ succor an’ delight for my readers, y’know! They can go an’ do what? Oh, an electric disturbance on the line? Yes, I expect. So, the Seventeenth then? Yes, I suppose; g’bye—g’bye. Oh, g-d’d-m!”

—O—

Susan Garron sat on a bollard on the East Dock at the West India complex, trying not to get oil on her tweed skirt at the same time as arguing the Captain of the SS Caronia of the Blue Funnel Line into accepting a last minute passenger bound for the Far East, under the usual mysterious circumstances. The fact she worked ostensibly for the Excelsior Import and Export Agency, a blind for MI6, not helping matters as it should.

“Yes, Captain Norris, everything is Bristol Fashion an’ shipshape to the nth degree; nothing underhand about the business, or person, whatsoever.” She lying through her teeth, an almost daily occurrence with her which no longer worried her morally in the least. “Just a businessman who needs to get to Tongaoroa as soon as likely, if not sooner, is all. Yes—yes, all papers fully in order, visas and everything of that sort, don’t worry. Yes, you will? Great! That’s him, the thin man in the heavy greatcoat standing by the boarding gangway amidships. Yes—yes, thanks, g’bye!”

Two minutes later she returned to her car at the Dock entrance only to find it now accompanied by a police car, with its two officers standing by the bonnet examining her number plate with interest.

“You the driver of this vehicle, ma’am?” Officer Number One sucking the end of a short pencil and looking like business.

“Yes, I am.”

“Number don’t match with any of our official schedules, ma’am. What’s the meanin’ o’that, might I ask?”

Susan sighed.

“I work for a Government Department—Security. It’s an official vehicle, code of its own.”

Officer Number Two broke in here, frowning darkly, like an Angry Roman God of earlier times.

“That’ll be something needs lookin’ inter, ma’am. Meanwhile, if you would be so kind as to give Bert—er, the officer here, your name, address, place o’work, an’ reasons fer bein’ here in the first place, that’ll at least be a start. Don’t worry about the rest o’your day—you ain’t goin’ anywhere we don’t want yer to, be sure o’that, fer sure, ma’am!”

At which delicate point the police car radio burst into a shower of crackles and eerie whines which made Officer One almost sprint the couple of yards to climb in his vehicle to take the call. All this while Officer Two sucking his pencil and looking pensively at Susan, awaiting her response.

“Name, ma’am?”

Susan, however, had been observing Officer One who now seemed to be in a quandary judging by the way he was bowed over his radio speaking rapidly into the microphone with what was, even from Susan’s perspective and distance, an harassed attitude. Finally the Officer clambered back out to rejoin his erstwhile victim; though now looking hangdog in the extreme.

“Sorry, ma’am, seems t’have bin some kind o’mix-up. Seems yer kosher as all hel—er, as needful, ma’am. You can go on your way, o’course. Sorry fer the delay. Had a report over the radio, though, relayed from the Yard—you have t’report t’your Boss quick’s yer finds convenient. Something important y’need t’know, they wouldn’t tell me what.”

“Thanks, officer. I’ll be on my way, then, g’bye.”

Climbing into her car Susan waited patiently until the police vehicle behind her finally reversed and drove off, leaving a blue haze behind it, before switching on her own in-car radio and giving a series of code-words to the waiting ether.

“What’s that Jake? From Inspector Pardoe? Oh, dam’! He wants me t’do what? Oh, does he? What’s the Manager say about that? Oh, given his authority, has he? Just what I expected! Oh, well, looks like it’s back t’dam’ Halfordshire for me! Oh, very funny, Jake! Yes, I will bring you back a stick of dam’ rock, an’ I hope all your teeth fall out as a result!”

—O—

Morton Norham, ensconced in a poky office behind his bookshop in Golders Green, was unsuccessfully trying to juggle books, lettuces, and steel kitchenware together into some kind of mutual conformity that would end in them all appearing in the black in his accounts instead of the other colour.

“Why the hell did I ever think expanding into vegetables an’ soup pots would bring in any kind’a profit? Must have been drunker than usual, fer sure! If ten cabbages in every gross are rotten that lowers my Greengrocer profits by thirty percent; how, God Alone Knows! An’ as t’the Ironmongery business! My God! I was certainly mad there! Sooner I can get rid of the dam’ enterprise the better. Like strugglin’ in the sea after a shipwreck, with iron chains round my dam’ ankles!”

Ring-Ring-Ring!

“What the dam’ now! What? Oh, Constable Fairley! What can I do—what’s that? Back t’Goddensbury, quick as I can manage! The Seventeenth, no excuses! Sh-t! Must I? I must! Dam’mit! Yes, OK, yeah, I’ll swing by, I assure you. Thanks, yeah, g’bye. Dam’! Suddenly lettuces seem bosom friends, compared to other dam’ Life choices!”

—O—

The Metropolitan Dailies had taken enormous enjoyment in puffing the mysterious deaths in and around Goddensbury to their furthest extent, but this was nothing compared to the local Halfordshire Dailies and Weeklies which had all gone overboard in an almost insane manner. At first positing a single unhinged individual as sole perpetrator, this had soon become de trop in favor of at least two if not a whole cadre working as a team of undercover underworld spy killers—the killers themselves being spies, not the reverse interpretation!

This had not fueled the interest, or fears, of the general populace enough of course; who en masse sought a far more bloodthirsty, not to say outré, explanation. The newspapers, nothing loth, falling in line with a vengeance. One rag reported the offender as a well-known and infamous madman newly escaped from the local Asylum for such; this holding water for precisely three days of extravagantly worded Extras before someone noted there hadn’t been such a building functioning anywhere in the county since 1888! Next in line of possible hypotheses had come the rather boring one that a London gang of thugs were fighting to get a foothold in the local Underworld. But, as several competent reporters were not slow to mention, the fact that Halfordshire boasted no level of organised Underworld activity at all soon put a stopper on that theory. Then came the possibility the murders were all down to a single local murderer having his own personal reasons for knocking off such a disparate group of his neighbors; but as no-one was able to put a name or nature to whoever this mysterious evil genius might be, this fell by the wayside as well.

Then, of course, as anyone of any sense could have told their friends and neighbors from the very beginning, it was all laid at the heels of The Ghoul!

“The Ghoul! What the fu—er, I mean, hell!” Rodney, already tanked up via his second whisky, looking round the others grouped in the Library at Canning House once again on the evening of the 17th.

“An old ghost story, relevant to this House.” Agnetha coming forth with the historical details. “Heard all about it when I lived in a cottage hereabouts as a young girl, before I had the sense or capability to move out of firing-range of the ol’ Pater of unloved memory.”

It was Susan who made the appropriate query.

“Tell us!”

“From what I recall,” Agnetha sipping her cup of tea to gain the necessary energy to continue. “there was a Master, or Lord, or Somebody, at least, of Note who lived in this House somewhere around the middle of the Seventeenth century—”

“Place wasn’t built then, late Eighteenth century, y’know.” John interrupting with this boring piece of reality.

“Well, then—whatever hovel stood on this site at the time, I suppose.” Agnetha a trifle miffed at this wholly unnecessary interruption. “Suppose the Ghost, or Ghoul, or whatever, could easy transfer from one building t’the other! Anyway, where was I?”

“Hadn’t really got anywhere yet!” Rodney helping out here. “Just start again.”

“What it was, was this character, whoever he was, I don’t know any names, just that he owned and lived in whatever House stood here at the time,” Agnetha sighing deeply, faced with the struggles of a simple anecdotist under fire. “he took to drink, to assaulting his wife, finally to murdering her, the gamekeeper, the local Vicar, and a Justice of the Peace who had, for some unknown reason, gotten up his nose as well. Finishing by flinging himself in the very same lake that still exists out there on the estate, leaving behind a letter calling down Damnation an’ Gruesome Death on all the owners of the estate to come for evermore!”

A silence, as of the Ages slowly dying, descended on all listening, Morton finally breaking the charm.

“Well, that’s comprehensive! He, whoever he was, took to mayhem like a weekend hobby, laying swathe to all an’ sundry round him, then committed hara-kiri just out of pure spite! Afterwards accepting, with Grace and Charm, the honored title of Ghoul! Quite a story! But where does it get us in our contemporary situation? Surely you’re not contemplating putting the present crop of murders, an’ Pops unseemly demise, down to a spectral Phantom? Simply won’t wash, y’know!”

“Know a few Victorian and Edwardian authors, many of ‘em women, who’d have given that story a good run for its money!” John nodding knowingly, his wide knowledge of the subject giving a firm foundation for the claim.

“Whatever!” Susan bringing the Light of Reality to the situation once again. “What does the worthy Inspector Pardoe think of the whole thing? Must have come to some conclusion, or why insist on dragging us all down here again?”

Rodney snorted, clearly considering his next and third assault on the whisky decanter.

“Can hear the irrepressible Weekes now! Hallo, everyone! Ghosties! OK, you can all go home now. Sorted! Ha-ha!”

“Rod!” Agnetha taking command authoritatively. “Put that dam’ decanter down, before I shoot it out’ta your hand, like Annie Oakley!”

Rodney tried opposition, unwisely.

“Ha! Where’s your gun, sister?”

The haughty Agnetha was up for this however.

“In the Gunroom! Gim’me a mo’. Won’t be but a sec. Can write your will in the interim! Or have the redoubtable Weekes call for an ambulance, depending on my aim!”

“Ho! Very funny!”

At which point, as if the naming of his name had acted as some sort of incantation, Weekes himself popped through the Library door resplendent in his majesty.

“Ladies-Gentlemen!” He gracing all present with a scathing scowl. “First let me say, comprehensively an’ conclusively, I did not do it! No, not one bit—not anyone! I did not murder anyone, an’ anyone who says otherwise is a dam’ liar an’ will feel the anger of my Solicitor to the full in a Court of Law! That dam’ Agatha Christie, an’ the local news-rags, havin’ a dam’ sight t’answer for! Anyways,—Inspector Pardoe’s ‘ere!”

Stepping aside, the unhappy butler made way for the heavy form of the Inspector, his face a mask showing no discernible emotion whatsoever—not a good starting point for any discussion, as all present immediately felt.

“Good Evening, one an’ all; well, here we all are once again!”

Rodney had the perfect answer to this statement.

“Doesn’t take Sherlock t’figure that out. Got anything substantial worth passing-on, or can we all just go straight back home again?”

“Easy, Mister Blaithe, things is coming along satisfactorily, I’ll have you know.”

“Glad somebody thinks so!” Susan chirping in from her lithe attitude spread across the couch. “I certainly don’t! What’re we all doing down here yet again, may I ask? Let’s get things straight, shall we, Inspector! We, none of us, knew anyone local round here before we were all summoned from on High by the Pater last month. A series of deaths took place while we were in situ, which all had no conceivable connection with any of us; plus the ol’ Pater decided to take himself off in a huff and the assistance of the local pond! Since which I, for one, have had the niggling doubt that you, Inspector, have your beady eye on at least one of us here in this room as the next budding, if not fully in bloom, Jack the Ripper! Am I right or am I wrong! Either way, I want to go home today unhindered and contact, as the precious Weekes has stated on his own account so ably, my personal solicitor, with whom I have a great deal of substance to discuss!”

Having made which Olympian statement Susan slay back sipping her China tea with an emphatic curl of her upper lip.

“Yes, well, yes!” Pardoe somewhat checked by this Fury in motion. “What we need t’do in the present circumstances is come to an understanding of just what has occurred, and why!”

“Delighted to hear it!” John struggling not to grin outright.

Pardoe wriggled his shoulders under the grey overcoat he seemed to find a necessary accompaniment to his presence anywhere, in any circumstance.

“We, the local Police, an’ I an’ my team, have spent the last month going over every detail connected with the four deaths in the surrounding area last month. First, the obvious supposition was that bloody murder, on a huge scale, had been perpetrated!”

“Again,” Agnetha speaking-up at this point. “it doesn’t take, as John’s already made plain, Sherlock in person to figure that minor point out. The question is, of course, who did it? Taking Weekes here, out of the equation of course; unless you want the whole thing to descend into a plot from one of P G Wodehouse’s efforts?”

“Gently—gently!” Pardoe almost smiling, though catching himself just in time. “Who said anything about murder?”

This mystical statement caught everyone off-guard; a series of open mouths and astonished expressions meeting the Inspector’s cold glance round the room.

“What?” John feeling himself the spokesperson of the group. “They were all done away with, clearly, in a series of dastardly attacks! Someone was responsible—surely?”

This time Pardoe did allow himself the faintest of smiles, though barely a parting of thin lips.

“Murder? Of anyone? No! Accidents? Yes!”

This, of course, agitated the group of avid listeners to almost the level of a Football crowd at a spectacular goal. Everyone gasping in astonishment, turning to their neighbors with scathing comments, then the Inspector himself with even more untrammeled words of scorn.

The Inspector, after letting this squall of indignation flow over his unwavering form for an appreciable time, finally brought his audience to order again.

“Quite! Quiet, please! Thank you. I can explain the whole thing—”

“It’d certainly help!” Morton reaching for the nearby whisky decanter to ease the strain on his nerves.

“The first death was the Blacksmith.” Pardoe coming finally down to details. “He died in the early afternoon of the day you all mostly showed up at Canning House; but before your arrivals.”

“You mean he was killed before any of us arrived?” Agnetha frowning over the problem so raised. “You mean none of us could have had anything to do with his death?”

“Precisely!” Pardoe nodding at this assumption. “As you were all, at the time, either miles off in your cars or the local train you are all innocent of any connection with the poor blacksmith’s death.”

John, expert in these matters as he was, fictionally at least, raised an interesting point.

“You seem careful to avoid the term—murder, Inspector? Any reason for this?”

“Because it wasn’t, sir!”

This revelation brought about another flurry of questions, cries of astonishment, and general pandemonium before the Inspector’s raised hand quieted them once more.

“When the investigation was complete it all turned out to be perfectly straightforward! Todday, the blacksmith, had been seeing to the hoof of a Shire horse in his establishment in Goddensbury. His place’s on the very outskirts of the village, he being quite often left on his own without passers-by or visitors or customers, to get on with his work as he found convenient.”

John nodded, absorbed in the explanation, taking note of every nuance for future fictional reference.

“What happened then was all quite rational and logical, if unexpected!” Pardoe continuing with his tale. “It all, everything that is, starting-off with this one incident at the blacksmith’s. First, Todday lost control of the skittish Shire horse. Don’t know if you’re familiar with the breed?”

“Big things, ain’t they?” Morton offering this belief for what it might be worth.

“Yes, precisely! Very big, in fact; almost monstrous! One could easy weigh a couple of tons, if not a tad more!”

Gasps met this disclosure before the Inspector was allowed to continue.

“So, then, the horse lost all control and dragged itself out of the blacksmith’s hands; it’s head reins wrapping themselves round the poor man’s neck before he could do anything to free himself. In the ensuing catastrophe the blacksmith was strangled before he could escape; the horse finally freeing itself and racing off down the road into the local lanes in a panic.”

“I can see where this’s headed!” John nodding knowingly.

“So, we have the blacksmith dead in his shop, apparent strangled.” Pardoe carrying on the terrible history. “The Shire horse racing along the local lane in a panic. What happens next is Mrs Harding comes driving along in her Austin sports open top, meets the terrified horse, skids sideways hitting Mister Thorp, out for a refreshing country hike on the wide grassy verge of the same lane, the impact throwing him into the adjacent field. The horse runs off unscathed, Mrs Harding, hit on the head by a flying hoof, drives another half mile erratically, before sending her vehicle off the road into a small declination with a minor stream at the bottom, all hidden by a thick copse of trees. She drags herself back up onto the road, staggers a few hundred yards further, then collapses and dies there. End of story.”

“Good God!” Rodney hardly able to believe his ears. “What a dreadful mess!”

“A simple concatenation of unconnected events coming together to create a catastrophe!” Pardoe shrugging once more. “So, ladies and gentlemen! No murder! Just a series of awful accidents no-one could have foreseen.”

“What about the Pater?” Susan picking up the single stray point left unanswered so far. “Where’s he come into this scene of mayhem and disaster?”

“That’s rather curious.” Pardoe acknowledged. “We finally found one of his fishing poles in the lake near where he fell in. It would appear that General Sanderson, from what his doctor has told me, was suffering from the onset of, among a plethora of other ailments, something called dementia! He was, in essence, slowly going senile—Doolally, we used to call it! Appears he took it into his head, that evening you were all assembled in the House here, to go fishing instead of meeting his guests. Went to the Lake, lost his footing and fell in; result, bearing in mind his state of mind and general health, or lack of same, inevitable death!”

Another pause settled over the inmates of the Library; they finding the whole affair somewhat hard to take in and digest, straight off the starting-line.

“Well, I never!” From Morton.

“Dam’med mess-up, from the start!” Susan shaking her head.

“God!” Rodney pouring himself another much needed refresher.

“Interesting! Very interesting indeed!” John already laying out in his mind the plot of his next thriller.

“Well, if the show’s over, I’m headed home right away!” Agnetha having nothing further to do with the whole sorry affair. “Not staying here another dam’med night! If Pater’s solicitor wants to get in touch, re the dam’ Will, he can dam’ well telephone me in London!”

Rodney, almost slurping his latest drink, looked up appealingly at the Inspector.

“Is that right, Inspector? Can we all go now? Innocent as lambs in a field?”

“Yes!” Pardoe shrugging, as having lost a whole host of likely suspects at the last minute.

“What about the Ghoul?” This last from Morton, as he rose wearily from his chair. “Thought folks had pinned the whole she-bang on his ethereal shoulders?”

“Ladies and Gentlemen!” Weekes, for the last time, gently interjecting with what passed for him as quiet contempt. “There never was a Ghoul, or any other form of Supernatural entity, associated with this House, or previous establishment—all tommy-rot an’ Betty Martin from the get-go, take my word on it!”

The End.

—OOO—