Midwinter
Mystery – Chapter Eleven
“untiled “
A
loud deep throaty – self-inflicted - snore, jolted John from his
slumber. But he remained unmoved by this suddenly interruption,
choosing instead to savour the last precious moments of tranquility
that existed on the borders between the dream state and the land of
the living. Laying wrapped in a cocoon of bed sheets - resistant to
the notion of having to leave the warmth of their protective custody
– he knew, and grimly accepted that it was only a matter of time
before he would have to face the cruel reality of a frigid room.
Eventually, he reluctantly swung his legs out from under the
sanctuary of the covers to greet the unwelcoming morning and sacrificed his bare feet on the altar of the cold wooden floor.
Sitting on the edge of the bed he rubbed a hand over his semi
conscious, half paralyzed face, temporarily rearranging it's
features, and released a cavernous full bodied yawn followed by an
overly ambitious stretch of the arms. Once this conditioned response
to stirring after so long a period of inactivity was completed he
stepped into his slippers and shuffled towards the sink. The small
adjacent window had frozen over during the night, forming
crystallized patterns across the pane, but there was sufficient
enough of the dull light filtering through for John to continue his
life affirming ablutions - cold water ( hot water still not available
), shaving cream, sharp razor, and the refreshing face slap of
astringent aftershave. Once dressed there was the mandatory last minute
check of his appearance in an old rickety three quarter length
mirror, resulting in a slight adjustment to a well shaped black silk
tie and the expunging of a small scuff mark, with a dirty
handkerchiefs - on one of his well polished black leather shoes.
Even before
reaching the bottom of the stairs John could detect the welcoming
aroma of fried eggs, bacon and fresh coffee, his stomach grumbled
with expectation.
"Morning all !” he
greeted his two comrades, who were already sitting at the small table
eating their breakfast. “ Something smells good, and I'm not
talking about the pair of you,” he quipped. Buster looked up from
his plate, holding a doorstep size of toast in one hand and a large
white badly chipped mug of coffee in the other, a deep frowned
expression crossed his overgrown brow, “ What'd yer say ?”
"He said you don't smell
good !” replied George without looking up from his plate,
concentrating as he was on soaking up a runny egg with a piece of
bread.
"Cor, he's good a
cheek ain't he, what with coming in here smelling like..a.. a tart's
boudoir after Christmas,” retaliated Buster in a defensive strike.
"I didn't say you smelled
!” John denied fervently.
"YES YOU DID ! I 'eard
you say it !” countered George, pointing a butter knife at John.
"Well..yes.. I suppose it
may have sounded like that, but I didn't mean it to come out that way
!” he explained awkwardly. “ Look, can we just start this day over
again... please !”
"Wot does he want now ?”
queried Buster in a confused state.
"He wants us to start
again,” replied George unhelpfully, taking a big gulp of drink.
"Oh no, I can't do that !
One breakfast is all I can eat these days !” replied Buster
updating his current dining status. John sighed in despair, pulling
out a spare chair from underneath the table, “ Is there any going
spare ?” he asked pointing at a frying pan on the stove awash with
bacon and eggs still spitting in hot fat. “ Yeah, course ! Help
yerself, there should be a spare plate lying around 'ere too,
somewhere,” George answered leaning back in his chair, cup in hand.
“ Good ! Do you know I can't remember when I last had a proper
cooked breakfast, “ replied John seating himself down and arranging
the odd assortment of cutlery before him.
“
There might be some
coffee left in the pot, if you want some,” chimed Buster, lifting
a white painted metal jug from the center of the table and sloshing
it about. “ 'Ere it's still warm too !” he confirmed.
"Thanks,” said John,
finding a spare cup nearby he made a cursory glance at it for
cleanliness and gave it a short sharp blow inside - to remove any
foreign bodies - then filled it up. As he sat with his plate now
loaded up with food and a cup of coffee at hand, he reflected how it
wasn't such a bad way to start a day, any day in fact, especially in
Mistry – perhaps things weren't as bad here as he first thought.
John was finishing
his second cup of coffee, to help wash his meal down, when Buster
commenced clearing the table. John offered to do the washing up, but
Buster declined insisting that he had a 'system'. Unfortunately,
before he had a chance to outline the general logistics of it, a wet
cup slipped through his hands and despite an entertaining but
otherwise doomed attempt at manual dexterity, it fell to the stone
floor and smashed to pieces. John smiled, “ Perhaps it would be
easier and cheaper to just wash the crockery and the floor at the
sametime – what you might call ' making a clean sweep' of it all !”
he joked. George had already left the table, making some excuse
about an outstanding chore or other, missing the little kitchen sink
drama, and made his hurried escape.
It wasn't until
much later that morning when they were all finally together again in
one room, which had given John the chance to draw up a new duty
roster for them all – or 'article of war' as he humourously
referred to it. Taking Buster's long history of loyal service into
consideration, above and beyond the call of retirement, and his
general appearance into consideration, it was decided that he would
be best suited – manning the front desk and answering the telephone
for the rest of the day. Whereas John and George would were to drive
out to the scene where the 'reported' spectral incident had occurred,
to scout for any physical evidence to support or disprove the young
P.C's supernatural hypothesis.
The drive up
into the hills proved to be a particularly painful experience - in
more ways than one - which was not entirely unexpected, after all
hearse's aren't generally associated with off road pursuits, and John
was prepared to swear – at length - to the fact that it was sorely
lacking where it counted most. Over the roar of the Austin's old
engine, straining under the cross-country assault, John battled to
find something, anything, that he could hang onto in order to stop
himself from flailing about. As his struggle continued he hardly had
time to take in the rolling scenery, with it's succession of tall
dark trees lining the way, descending into the skies their high
boughs obscured from sight by a thick low hanging mist while their
lower branches hung under the burden of heavy snow. George continued
to handle the unwieldy 'people carrier' with all the skill and
panache of a stock car racer in a china shop, and seemed determined
to set them on a collision course with every pot hole in their path.
"So, how did you manage
to...ughh.. end up with this... arghh..poor excuse of a vehicle, then
?” John managed to ask as he was being thrown around in the cab. “
Oh, right... well you see, ha, ha, that's kind of a funny story,
really, I guess !”George answered nervously, staring intently
straight ahead, his mind racing faster than they were – while his
knuckles began turning white as he gripped the steering wheel ever
tighter. John wondered about his drivers demeanor and if he might
be preparing for some last ditch attempt or about to jump ship, so
prudently kept a free hand near the door catch – just to be on the
safe side. “ Go on. I could do with a laugh,” he taunted, raising
an eyebrow at him. “ 'That's the one !” George exclaimed,
abruptly wrenching the steering wheel hard over sending them
careening off the road. John was caught off guard by this unexpected
manouevre and left helpless as he suddenly felt the rear of the motor
swing out from under them. George fought feverishly, but ineptly, for
control turning the whell this way and that, unfortunately his
actions merely resulted in sending John slamming into the side of the
cab then up out of the seat, smacking his head on the roof. While the
four wheeled 'death machine' rocked and rolled, kicked and bucked,
before eventually grinding to a shuddering lopsided halt on a snowy
verge. “ Uuuhh, what the hell happened ?” queried John slightly
dazed from a sprawled position on the floor. Regaining his seat and
composure he began to gingerly feel his aching skull, wincing every
now and again when he touched upon a tender area.
"There you go !”
proclaimed George laying pressed against his door, a condition
brought about by the car now resting on a raised stretch of bank. “
This where we almost crashed into a tree,” he explained.
"How can you be so sure
of that ?” asked John incredulously, peering out the front
windscreen. “ 'Cos we almost clobbered it again, comin' the other
way !” revealed George pointing to a large tree right in front of
them. “ See, that's me tread marks over there,” George confirmed,
once more directing John's attention to the road ahead.
"YOU BLITHERING IDIOT ! I
just wanted to SEE the scene of the crime, NOT RECREATE IT !” John
shouted angrily back as he tried to loosen the passenger door open
with his shoulder. Finally succeeding, he grabbed the sides of the
door and catapulted himself up and clear of the vehicle, “ Just for
the record, I like a little notice when I'm about to be involved in a
murder/suicide attempt, thank you very much !” John continued,
unable to hide his annoyance. “ And why did the back end swing out
like that ?” he followed up.
"I dunno, it's not like
it's light or anythin'...” George replied honestly, “ .. I mean
we're carrying close to a full load back there, right now.”
"A 'full load' of what,
exactly ?” John asked apprehensively, staring down at the bottom of
his snow drenched trousers and shoes, both of which he wondered would
ever be the same again.
"King Edwards, 'course !
What else ?” George illuminated, matter of factly.
"Is that supposed to
be a rhetorical question ?” replied John, as he made his way
carefully around the motor, hands crawling along it's side for
support as his feet slipped from under him on the icy ground. “
Never mind, just explain to me what possible reason there is for us to
be carting a hearseful of potatoes around ?”
"Breakfast,” George
answered loudly through the open door, while struggling to free
himself from behind the steering wheel.
"WHAT ! You can't tell me
that you actually intend eating that lot by yourself, do you ? It'll
take you months, man !”
"No, their not for me,
they belong to farmer Williams ! I'm just shifting 'em down to the
store for him,” confessed George, finally managing to extricate
himself from motor, by falling to the ground. “ Hmm, I take it
that this is one of those 'public services' that you were telling me
about,” said John looking down hopelessly at his ejected assistant,
then turning his back on him he started to walk away stamping his
feet hard on ther ground trying to dislodge any remaining snow from
them. “ Yeah, that's right !” George confirmed enthusiastically
as he caught up by John's side. “ And in return he lets us 'ave a
coupla rashers of bacon, give or take, and a handful of eggs a week.”
"My, the wages of sin are
certainly cheap around here aren't they ?” John surmised
sarcastically. “ I take it that I have one such 'enterprise' of
yours to thank for my breakfast this morning,” he concluded
philosophically.
"Yeah, you could say
that,” George replied warily.
"Well, once I get in
touch with the bank and free up your wages that thing will have to
stop, do you hear ?” John warned gently, as he was hardly in any
position now to chastise the young P.C after benefiting from the
ill-gotten gains himself.
"Yeah, sure,” George
agreed all to easily.
"All right, well let's
get a move on shall we ? Where did this mysterious stranger of yours
appear from then ?”
"I.. er... guess it was
sort of... roundabout there... I think,” George waved an arm in a
general direction kind of way, not inspiring John with much
confidence. Turning away he studied the stretch of road before them
for a moment before concluding, “ IS THAT IT ?” he said standing
with his hands on his hips, shaking his head in disbelief. “ Can't
you at least tell me WHICH side of the road he sprang from ?” he
pressed frustratedly.
"NO ! I looked up and
there he was, just standing in the middle of the road... right in
front of us !” clarified George slightly perturbed. “ I see, well
in that case, I think we'd be better off starting the search where
the skid-marks actually begin, then work our way back to the car from
there. That way we'll be less likely to miss anything,” John
reasoned. “ You take that side of the road and I'll take this one,”
he ran with the old adage that ' a job shared is a job halved' and
hoped that the division of labour would lessen his time in 'the
field', so to speak, and save what was left of his footwear –
before they were beyond salvation.
As he steadily
scoured the undergrowth for tracks, broken branches or any other
signs of recent disturbance John proceeded to mentally review the
facts of the case as presented to him so far, or rather the absence
of them, and weigh them against the tower of superstition, folklore
and fear which had been served up to him ever since he had arrived in
this peculiar village. Infact such was the overwhelming level, John
was concerned that if things remained unchanged then it could
threaten to impede, possibly corrupt the entire course of the
investigation. As to their present excursion he considered the whole
affair nothing more than a wild goose chase, a fanciful tale inspired
by an excess of 'B' movies and an over excitable imagination. But he
acknowledged that he had played more than his fair share of 'long
shots' in his time – admittedly with mixed results – and as he
had been assured that there was an 'independent' witness to the
occurrence then he felt duty bound to follow it up.
"We're in
luck,” said John studying the ground, “ it doesn't look like
there's been too much new snow recently. And see how the surface has
frozen over – that should have preserved the integrity of the
site.”
"Cor, that's proper
detecting that is ! You're like that fella... wot's 'is name..
Sherlock Holmes !” expressed George with a growing sense of
respect.
"Er, thanks ! But it's
just your basic common sense and general observation, really,” John
dismissed his constable's favourable comparison but privately was
rather flattered by the remark.
The two men
worked their respective sides in concert with each other, heads
bowed, eyes down and an intense air of concentration written across
their brows. Every now and again one of them would disappear into a
dense thicket to examine it more closely, only to return a short time
later without anything to show for their efforts except a handful of
scratches. One of these mystery rambles had led John to stray further
into the woods than usual, by which time his spirits were lagging and
his flesh was weak as he lost all resistance and feeling in his feet
to the freezing wet snow that saturated his shoes and socks. But as
he was about to abandon all hope John noticed a section of bracken
that had been heavily trampled over recently, by the look of it
either by some large animal or …. a man. From there he followed a
short trail of snapped twigs and broken or bent back branches to a
small clearing covered in footprints, standing there for a while John
tried to make sense of the scene when he spied something suspicious
just breaking through the surface of the snow.
“GEORGE ! GEORGE,
COME OVER HERE ! I THINK I'VE FOUND SOMETHING !” he shouted, the
noise scattering a murder of crows from their high eyrie. He went
over and bent down to pick it up when suddenly there was a whisper
sound from behind him, he twisted round - too late -
a blinding pain exploded
in his brain and his world turned black. Not even the pure white snow
that received his limp body, as it collapsed face down, offered any
resolution. He lay there, still, silent, a light flurry of snow swept
across the ground depositing a thin blanket over him, while all that
could be heard was the raucous cawing of crows as they circled above.
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