Midwinter
Mystery – Chapter Seven
"Hail, Hail, the Gang's All Here"
Morning
crept it's way in to John's small room, it's cold sobering early
light finding him strewn across the bed staring up at the white
uneven and cracked ceiling. The day had begun where the night had
finished, having moved little since passing out a few hours earlier,
only the occasional shifting of the hips to alleviate the pain in the
lower back caused by the weight of his legs hanging over the side of
the bed. Gently raising himself into an upright position he wiped away
the last remnants of sleep from his eyes, and concentrated on
restoring sound and vision for a new day. He sat motionless for a
while, his thoughts slowly coalescing as he submerged under a wave of
questions: why was he really here, did he even want to do his job
anymore, was this all some sort of disturbing dream or a hind of
midnight madness, but to these, and more, no answer came - there
never was. His new world was populated by secret fears and doubts,
with only the inhabitants of routine and habit offering any hope of
normality or solace.
He
also drew a certain amount of solace from his ritual ablutions, the
purification of body, in action if nothing else, with all it's
various components the splash of water, the application of cool
shaving cream, the scraping of steel razor against skin and the
stinging kiss of cologne, which currently was supplied by a bottle of
Penhaligon's Blenheim Bouquet Aftershave, a present from Cathy on his
last birthday – he'd often find himself smiling into the mirror as
he recalled her saying how much it suited him, the fragrance was
discreet, sensual and dry - like his sense of humour. Cathy always
had a way of making John laugh, particularly about himself, as if she
somehow knew how important it was not to let him take work or life
too serious.
After
washing away the previous evenings hangover a degree of humanity and
consciousness had been restored, allowing John to turn his attention
to dressing, an act hampered by the fact that most of his shirts and
ties were in his other suitcase – the one still siting at the train
station. He finished shaping the dark navy silk tie, with a full Windsor knot, which rested atop a crisp white shirt and then slipped
into a finely pinstriped charcoal three piece suite, shoe horned on
a pair of black leather slip-on shoes and grabbed up his single
breasted herringbone tweed overcoat from the back of the chair as he
strode confidently towards the door.
A
light breakfast of tea and toast, assisted by a choice of preserves awaited him downstairs courtesy of a large burly woman named Janet,
the Inn's chief - see only - cook, bottle-washer, waitress,
chambermaid and all round busy body. John noted her warm refined
accent and was not too surprised to hear, during their brief
exchange, that she wasn't exactly a 'natural native' to the area, he
also admired her ability to weave in and out of the tightly packed
tables of the small back room, swaying her hips around them like a
human pendulum, a testimony of stature over service. Janet revealed
the station's location, but couldn't shed any light on the rest of
his enquiries, as she had never heard of anyone needing their help.
Downing the last dregs of his brew he got up from the table and
thanked her politely for the assistance, the irony of the situation,
a member of the public giving directions to a policeman was not
entirely wasted on him.
John
stepped out into the main street - as far as he could surmise –
where a new morning refused to reveal any more of Mistry's identity
than the previous night. A murky sun diffused sky descended upon the
little village seemingly merging with the dank hanging mist that
rested upon the rooftops, threatening to engulf another day. He
walked through the heart of the village, under the large ominously
dark tree rooted in it's center, now dead for the winter, and carried
on to the other side upon which he then turned promptly left and
followed the curving road around, he passed a string of terraced
cottages, several passageways and two derelict houses, in truth only
the first building actually merited this classification, the other on
closer inspection was more a borderline civil case, or to give it's
official designation... police station. The main distinguishing
features for such a conclusion were the iron bars covering the
downstairs windows on the outside - whether to stop somebody from
getting out or to prevent anyone trying to get in was debatable –
and the blue glass lantern hanging above the doorway, with the word '
POLICE' inscribed in white capital letters. A short overgrown garden
path led up to the entrance and an open door, whereas normally this
wouldn't be an issue for John, he decided to err on the side of
caution on this occasion, after all he still didn't have any idea of
what he might be walking into. ” HELLO ! HELLO
! IS ANYBODY THERE ?” he called out, but if there were then his
words had fallen on deaf ears.
Starting
to cross the threshold he suddenly became aware how clammy his hands
felt, he rubbed them dry down the sides of his trousers, as his heart
began to beat faster and faster, running a hand over a fevered brow
and unbuttoning his shirt collar was all he could do to manage the
worsening condition. But, it was to no avail, John was already deep
in the grip of a powerful force unlike anything he'd known before,
one that grew stronger and stronger, rapidly surging through his body
and onward to his head, overwhelming feelings of … anxiety and
panic ! The tsunami like emotional wave that flooded his brain along
with the disturbance to his blood pressure, caused him to almost
blackout as he staggered back against the door-frame. Remaining
motionless, suspended by the doorway, John found himself too weak to
do anything but wait for the palpitations to subside, wait and
desperately struggle with whys and wherefores and any rationalization
of his state of mind, but it was impossible to control his own wild
chaotic thoughts anymore.
Slowly
as his composure and strength of purpose returned he forced himself
away from the sanctuary of the doorway and took the first few
tentative steps forward into the deserted looking charge room. The
main room was divided into two sections by a 4' ft counter, on John's
side there were only three shabby looking table chairs sitting under
a noticeboard adorned with old public service posters, advocating
everything from the benefits of buying war bonds to drives for blood
donors, and one wanted poster for an escaped mongrel called 'Digby'.
Raising the counter-top flap he passed though it and finally entered
the AWOL office, which more resembled someone's living quarters than
an actual working police office, with two deep armchairs seated
in front of a fireplace, a small round heavily stained coffee type
table, a larger fold-down dining table and a gas stove. John noted
the hint of fried bacon hanging in the air and steam escaping from a
boiled kettle on the hob, all indications of recent life but no sign
of a corpus delicti, it was a veritable public servant's Marie
Celeste.
On
the opposite side to the fireplace there was another doorway, this
one shut, he wondered if behind this closed door were some of the
answers he was searching for. Turning the handle John cautiously
pushed it open, his body tense with the anticipation for whatever lie
ahead. It gave way without argument revealing a room with two iron
bar cells, neither without doors, one of which appeared to be engaged
already, it's resident lying seemingly dead to the world buried
beneath a pile of blankets, only a pair of twitching mismatched socks
protruding from out of them betraying any living presence . The
'mystery guest' had left their muddy old boots propped up against the
outside of the cell and an assortment of garments hanging from a tall
elaborate looking coat stand next to the bed.
John
approached the slumbering cadaver, shoved it carefully a few times
and then withdrew to a respectable distance awaiting the expected
fallout. The mass rose, undulated and collapsed several times before
finally expelling it's elderly captive to the hard floor, “ Huh !
Eh ! Is it breakfast time already ?” came a confused mumble. John
relaxed his guard slightly as the new arrival didn't appear to pose
any immediate danger to him, and given his current state of undress,
a long washed out nightshirt, a bobble hat and woolly scarf , he
wasn't exactly a flight risk either. The wizened gentleman was also
wearing a rather confused and dazed expression beneath a beard as
thick and as grey and as it was long and wiry, he stood, well more
stooped, in front of John, his mouth held ajar in awe.
“ BREAKFAST TIME ! WHERE DO YOU THINK YOU ARE, THE RITZ ? ” John
started up. “ Come on with you, get up now, and would you please
put some clothes on while I'm talking to you. It's a personal rule of
mine about questioning naked people before mid-day,” he continued.
The skinny man of the cloth nodded his head slightly as if
acknowledging the request, then bending over grabbed the bottom of
his night shirt between both hands and proceeded to lift it off over
his head. “ NOT NOW, MAN ! I meant wait until I've left the room,
turned my back, or something !” John interfered promptly, fearing
the repercussions.
“ 'OLD YOUR 'ORSES THERE YOUNG FELLA ! You can't jus' come in 'ere
and start bossing people around in their sleep whenever you feels
like it, y'know. There are laws for that sort o' thing... “ the old
timer regained some of his spirit as hopped around the cell trying to
slip his boots on, “ ...' DISTURBIN' THE PEACEFUL', that's wot
it's called ! ”
” NO, IT'S NOT ! Besides, in
your case it's more like ' WAKING THE DEAD' ! ” John remarked
caustically, eyeing up the would-be protagonist. “ Look, let's
start from the beginning shall we ? What's your name old-timer ?”
”
William Wilberforce Burke the Third !” came the proud, defiant
answer. ” THE THIRD ! And
people say you can have too much of a good thing !” John remarked
sardonically, while watching his cell mate struggling like a second
rate escapologist trying to pull his trousers up - over his shoes.
“ Aye,
well it's a bit much, so folk around 'ere just call me … Buster !”
” BUSTER ? Huh,
that does surprise me, I thought they'd have gone another way with
that one. Still, a curious choice where did it come from ? ” John
resignedly enquired.
” I dunno, they jus'
started callin' me it one day and it kinda stuck” and with this he
toppled sideways, knocking the coat stand over, which landed heavily
on a nearby jug of water smashing it to bits.
”
Well, I guess that solves that little mystery,” John muttered
proceeding to grasp the semi-decent suspect by his upper arm and
guided him into the main ofice. “ Come on, let's do things by the
book, the due course of the law in action and all that ! THEN, I can
find you guilty and put you back in your nice snug little cell, all
official like !” John pointed to one of the armchairs by the
fireplace.
” GUILTY ! ME ?” choked the old boy.
” Ahh, a confession already. Excellent ! “
” WOT ! I'M NOT CONFESSUN TO
ANYTHING ! LOOK, JUS' WHO THE HECK ARE YOU ?” the ageing jail bird squawked loudly at the end of his tether.
” Sorry, perhaps I should have formally
introduced myself from the beginning. Would it help at all if I
showed you my credentials ?” John offered.
” Why would I
want to look at YOUR DENTURES ? “
” CREDENTIALS,
YOU DEAF FOOL ! ! AS IN PROOF OF IDENTIFICATION ! ” John drew
out his wallet and presented a warrant card to Buster..
“ 'Ere,
this says that you're a policeman ?” came the reaction to this
shock revelation.
“ Yes, that's right, and
you're in a P-0-L-I-C-E station, Buster. Do you remember where you
are now ?” John spoke purposely slow and deliberate to allow for
the age delay.
“ OF COURSE I DO ! I'M THE ….” Buster was cut
dead before finishing.
“ HEY,
BUSTER, SHAKE A LEG THERE MATE ! Some stranger arrived in the vilage
last night and people are sayin' that he's fixin' to come over 'ere
this mornin' to see us ! ” a young red faced man bounded through
the doorway, his arms laden with farm produce, dressed to a fashion
as a police constable. He collided with the dropped down counter
before running into the arms of John, “ Well, well, who do we have
here then, another uninvited guest ? Does this station operate some
kind of ' Open House ' policy, or is there an amnesty on waifs and
strays today ?” John lifted the flap, beckoning the newcomer to
join them. “ So I take it from what I've overheard, the pair of you
are in cahoots with each other, and if that's so then I have only ONE
QUESTION to ask ! Which one of you is going to tell me... WHAT THE
HELL IS GOING ON IN THIS PLACE ?”
The
two suspects glanced at each other furtively, a moment of guilt and a
secret shared passed between them. “ HEY, NOT SO FAST THERE, MISTER
! WHAT GIVES YOU THE RIGHT TO COME IN 'ERE ALL COCKSURE OF YERSELF
AND START THROWIN' QUESTIONS AROUND ? ” the chubby youth responded
in an act of bravado, slyly pushing a carton of eggs along with a
suspiciously wrapped piece of uncooked bacon under a pile of papers
on the desktop. John briefly studied the features of this new ' rebel
without a cause', noting the way his thick mop of unruly black hair
flopped over the forehead, the short snub nose and the dark beady
eyes. “ Well, for your information, we,” John waved an open hand
in the direction of Buster, “ were already in the middle of
introductions when YOU BARGED YOUR WAY IN HERE, ON US ! Still while I
have the attention of you both, allow me to clarify my position.”
He produced his warrant card once more and handed it over to the
youth, “ I believe this should help to clear matters up. I'm Det.
Inspector. John Foxe, and ... I'M IN CHARGE OF THIS POLICE STATION -
SUCH AS IT IS ! NOW, I TRUST THAT ANSWERS YOUR QUESTION
SATISFACTORILY ? “
The
pair shared the same stunned expression, caught in the aftermath of
this revelation. John scoured the desktop in search of some paper and
pen, to press home his advantage, “ Okay, now it's your turn. Who
are you lad, and what's your business here ?”
” George Clemens, P. C. 49, Guv'nor
!” he stated, puffing his chest out, to the best of his ability.
“ P.C 49 ! Oh no, please tell me you're joking, you can't be an
actual member of the constabulary.” John looked incredulously at
the would-be-lawman. “ Wait a minute did you say your name is
George ? That wouldn't be THE George, the one who runs a taxi service
by any chance ? ” John asked curiously .
” Yeah ! That's me
! Wot of it ?”
“ Huh ! So
you're not only a taxi driver but you're a police constable too, eh !
Remind me to have a word with you sometime about the forces policy on
'moonlighting'.”
” OH NO, GUV'NOR ! I never work after midnight,”
” That's not what I meant,” the throbbing vein over John's right
eye, indicated that one of his blinding migraines was close at hand.
He exhaled deeply, trying to relax the tension in his shoulders and
ease the mounting stress, ” Never mind, it'll keep. Right now, P.C.
49, you and I need to have a serious talk,” John became aware of a
small shifting shape edging it's way closer to them. “ Look, take
this chap's particulars down will you, and then .. oh, just send him
on his way with a caution this time. I think he's merely a confused
simple citizen, or something, ” John turned to face Buster. “
We're going to let you off with a warning for now, Buster. But if we
catch you in here abusing this station's facilities again, then you
will be arrested do you understand ?”
” THERE HE GOES AGAIN, TRYING TO
ARREST ME ! WOT'S WRONG WITH 'IM ?” exploded Buster.
” NAH ! You can't
arrest 'im, Guv'nor !” George chimed in.
” WHY EVER NOT ?” demanded John
indignantly.
” COS, HE'S YOUR SERGEANT !
” George declared.
” HIM ? NO, HE
CAN'T BE ! I WAS TOLD THE SERGEANT'S NAME WAS 'KEEL' ! “ John was
visibly taken back by this revelation.
”
Aye, he is ! I'm one of those... wot you call … . 'acting
sergeants', that's it ! ” explained Buster.
John
stared in disbelief at the shambolic figure standing infront of him.
“An 'acting sergeant', you ? I'm not sure if that falls under farce
or tragedy, “ he concluded, shaking his head in denial. “ So,
where's this Sergeant Keel fellow, then ?” his perplexity with the
situation reaching it's limits.
“ Dunno,” answered George, shrugging his
shoulders.
“ Hmm, okay, well when do you expect him back,” John
asked changing tack.
“ Haven't a clue, ” admitted Buster.
“ Why doesn't that doesn't surprise me ?
I take it that neither of you are particularly familiar with the
notion of 'police work' are you ?” John's hope of a fast resolution
to this case was slowly, painfully, ebbing away from him. He stood
still and silent, looking not so much at them but through them,
rubbing his chin, pondering life's injustices before finally speaking
again, ” Let me see if I fully understand my position, I'm in
charge of station without bars, run by two 'Keystone Cops', and a
Burke for a sergeant, is that about the size of it ? ” Without
waiting for a reply John crossed over to the fireplace and collapsed
into one of the armchairs, temporarily incapacitated by a form of
mental fatigue.
” 'Ere, he looks a bit pasty, don't he ? “
said Buster leaning over the fallen inspector. “ D'yer think it was
somethin' he ate ?”
“
More likely somefink he drunk,” came George's second opinion.
” You're both wrong !
It was something I heard ...YOU TWO ! “ he murmered, leaning
forward, head buried deep in his hands.
George
and Buster loitered nervously by the fireside awaiting John's
re-emergence from his self-inflicted solitude, maintaining a
respectful silence until suddenly, “ Who's up for a cup of char
then ?” George offered with a clap of his hands. “ Oooh yes, and
throw a couple of them biscuits in with it too ! “ Buster perked
up. John raised his head, if not his spirit, and turned to look at
the stove, “ If you've got any coffee back there I'll have one –
black, one sugar, please.” he requested returning to the back of
his chair. John watched George performing his ancient tea making
ceremony, with an ancient looking tea set, while also keeping vigil
on Buster as he stoked some more life into the log fire. They seemed
harmless enough he thought, but could they be trusted and how much
did they really know ? John decided he would have to play this one
close to his chest for time being, friends or foe, he was going to
have to keep his guard up around them for time being. Until he could
be sure of who he could trust, he was going to have to continue
being alone, an outsider looking in, conducting a man private
investigation into the disappearance of Sergeant Keel.
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