“Oh, no; it’s you again,” the television transmitted. “What did I do to deserve this?”
“But I’m ready,” Jenny said. “Aren’t you going to ask if I’m ready?”
“Honey, no matter how ready you are, it’s still hopeless,” the small but perfectly proportioned image shot back. “I don’t promise miracles, just a toned body. He was right, you know.”
“Who was right?” Jenny asked, her lower lip now trembling.
“The guy at your office who said you have to have a shape to start with. What you’ve got doesn’t qualify. It’s hopeless, so just give up.”
“But I want to try!” Jenny pleaded, the trembling lip now threatening to vibrate her entire body. “Please, you’re the only hope I’ve got. You’ve got to help me.”
A glimmer of a smile touched the image’s face. Perfectly shaped eyebrows raised in mock appraisal of the situation. “I think you’re right,” the television said, “I’m probably your only hope.”
“You really are,” Jenny whimpered.
“All right,” the figure brusquely said, signaling for the background music to begin again, “but there’s only one way I can think of to help you and you’ll have to follow my every instruction to the letter or it won’t work.”
“Oh, I will, I will,” Jenny answered, relieved and heartened at this new-found chance.
“Stand with your feet a little more than hip distance apart, chin up, stomach in, buttocks tight,” the voice instructed.
Jenny carefully followed every movement.
“We’re going to try something new.”
“Oh, joy,” whispered Jenny to the woman on the tiny screen, “I’ll do anything you ask.”
“Here we go,” the woman answered. “Oh, and I won’t be exercising along with you this time. I want to make sure you do it right.”
“Anything you say,” Jenny promised.
“Reach your arms way up, that’s right, shoulders forward. Right arm over your right ear, no—hips are squared, stretch out. Good. Now left arm over your left ear. Good. Stretch—out. Both arms up and pull all the way down, as far as you can, between your legs. Further, pull further! Reach from the crown of your head to the floor. Reach! Reach! That’s better. Hold that position.
“Bend your knees, stretch, don’t bounce…breathe…press your head and arms through your legs, touch your chin to your chest, further! Make it Burn! No—stay in that position, Jenny; don’t straighten up. Now, bend your right knee up in front of you and reach your left leg behind you as far as you can—further!—hips are pressed forward, feel that stretch! Make it Burn! Keep your head down. Move your right knee over your head and bring your left leg up from the back to cross over…”
The resulting crack was loud enough to startle Jenny’s upstairs neighbor who made a mental note to knock on Jenny’s door the next time she went out—Thursday, maybe—to ask her what broke.
“Bye bye Jenny,” the television lady said as she reached out toward the rewind button. “If you can breathe for more than five minutes with your knee in your windpipe, I’ll be amazed. And, with a broken back, I just don’t see how you’ll get out of that position.”
A single tear welled up in Jenny’s right eye.
“Believe me,” the woman said just before she rewound, “it’s the only solution.”
MAYHEM IN ST MARGARET MEDE, by Peter King
“Keep that window closed!” shouted John Strode. “The smoke’s all coming in!”
“Oh, don’t be such a fussbudget!” Ella Neel had to shout as she leaned out of the train window. “You can see St Margaret Mede! Look!” Her words were drowned out by the shrill shriek of the whistle and the steely scrape of the wheels as the brakes clamped them down on the rails.
“Anyway, it’s dangerous to lean out of a train window while the locomotive is pulling you along at sixty miles an hour,” John Strode protested. He was aware that his words were lost, but he always felt obliged to restrain his headstrong young colleague whose disregard for danger got them into trouble so frequently.
Strode rose and collected his bowler hat, his umbrella, and his suitcase from the overhead rack. He had to steady himself as the train slowed. Then with a lurch and a final tooth-nerve grinding of metal, they came to a stop at the tiny village station.
“We’re five minutes late,” Strode said testily. “What time did we leave Paddington?”
“Four fifty,” said Mrs Neel.
“That’s very significant.”
“Really? Why?”
“It proves that trains don’t arrive in St Margaret Mede on time.”
St Margaret Mede was apparently not a popular destination for they were the only passengers to alight.
“Over here,” said Strode and they walked to the stationmaster who stood by the platform exit. He seemed amazed to see anyone get off the train, held their tickets close to his eyes to make sure they had the right station and clipped them.
“Can we have our return portions back?” asked Mrs Neel sweetly. He reluctantly handed them over.
“I wonder why he didn’t think we would need them?” was Strode’s murmured conjecture.
The High Street in St Margaret Mede was strangely quiet. John Strode and Ella Neel surveyed it with practiced eyes. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” murmured Mrs Neel.
“‘The quintessential English village,’” quoted Strode.
“That’s what the Cotswold Bureau of Tourism calls it.”
“So where is everybody?”
The butcher’s shop across the street looked open, but it appeared to be empty of customers and staff. The flower shop had a dazzling array of colours in boxes and trays but it appeared unattended. So did the other shops. “Even the betting shop,” Mrs Neel said, frowning.
Strode pointed his umbrella at the The Blue Boar that was next to The Novelty Shop. The red, black, and gold sign outside the pub looked new and shiny, while baskets of daisies and dandelions glistened from recent watering.
“We may as well register and get rid of these suitcases,” Strode said. “Then we can look around.”
* * * *
“Easier said than done,” Mrs Neel muttered as Strode rapped on the desk for the fourth time. Eventually, a very large lady in a faded apron appeared. “Was there something?” she asked belligerently.
“We’d like to register,” said Strode with an easy smile. He gave their names. The lady stared at them. “Two rooms?” she questioned after looking at a sheet before her.
Half an hour later, John Strode and Ella Neel met in the bar. It was empty. “Strange,” said Mrs Neel. “Where is that pleasing thump of darts hitting a cork board?”
“Not to mention the happy clink of glasses and the landlord’s cheery, ‘First one’s on the house.’”
They departed the unwelcoming atmosphere of the Blue Boar. “Still no-one on the streets,” Mrs Neel observed. “Most odd. Could it be the population is afraid?”
“Afraid of what?” Mrs Neel’s long-legged stride kept up with her companion effortlessly as they walked along the empty sidewalk.
“You recall our mission?” Strode said. “The reason the Ministry sent us here? St Margaret Mede has had sixteen murders, twelve robberies, eight muggings, two cases of embezzlement, three blackmails, two poison-pen campaigns, and four missing persons.”
“Three missing persons,” Mrs Neel corrected. “Just before we left, a report came in that a body had been found in the village pond.”
“Drowned?”
“No. Stabbed and poisoned.”
“But drowned afterward surely?”
“Well, yes. At least she would have been if she hadn’t already been stabbed and poisoned.”
“She?”
“Yes, the victim was the village co
nstable. St Margaret Mede prides itself on being in the vanguard of equal rights for women.”
“H’m,” said Strode, “no wonder the populace is afraid.”
They stopped at a store front. The print on the large window said WINSTONE FUNERAL PARLOR. “Look!” said Strode. He pointed to an elaborate wreath. It was the only object in the window. A prominent card declared:
RIP
John Strode
“Is that a date in the corner?” asked Strode faintly.
“Yes,” said Mrs Neel. “It’s today’s date. Isn’t that a coincidence?”
“I hope so,” Strode said.
A newsagent shop was ahead of them. Mrs Neel plucked the top copy from the stack of newpapers on the rack and opened it to display the headline. “Looks like we’re famous,” she observed wryly as they read:
TWO MINISTRY CLERKS DIE IN COTSWOLD VILLAGE
“Clerks!” snorted John Strode.
“Our cover must be blown,” said Ella Neel.
“Today’s date,” commented Strode. “The Daily Gazette is really on top of the news.”
“Premature, I’d call it,” said Mrs Neel.
“I’d prefer erroneous,” said Strode.
A sudden roar startled them. It rose to a bellow and a motorcycle swept around the corner, bounced up on to the sidewalk and headed directly for them. Years of training and experience paid off as the two of them quickly stepped away from one another. The split second of indecision by the black-helmeted driver caused the black torpedo to race between them instead of pushing them through the newsagent’s window. As it slewed around, another attack was clearly contemplated, but the front wheel swerved and the cycle thundered down the High Street and out of sight.
Strode motioned toward the newspaper still in Mrs Neel’s hand. “Does that account say, ‘Hurled through shop window’?”
“No, it says, ‘Died in the stocks’.”
“Stocks?” frowned Strode but Mrs Neel tossed the paper nonchalantly into a trash barrel and the two continued their walk. They stayed away from the inside of the sidewalk where they were vulnerable to items dropped from rooftops but also away from the edge of the sidewalk.
A cheery “Good afternoon!” startled them. They turned to see a figure in clerical garb on an old Raleigh bicycle.
“Good afternoon, vicar!” Strode prided himself on getting along well with the clergy and Mrs Neel indulged him. The vicar stopped, one foot on the ground, hands still on the handlebars. “Quiet today,” Strode called out, “Is it always like this?”
“Goodness gracious, no,” said the vicar, “in fact, it’s occasionally noisy and sometimes, well, even violent.” He was elderly with a lined face and a suitably pious air.
“We hope it won’t be violent for the next few days,” said Strode.
“There’s no telling.” The vicar shook his head in dismay. “Just no telling.”
“The nearest we’ve seen to violence so far has been a person on a motorcycle and in a great hurry,” said Mrs Neel.
“And with a blurred idea of the difference between a road and a pavement,” added Strode.
“That would be Letitia,” the vicar sighed. “A headstrong girl.”
“She’ll be headless, too, if she always drives like that,” said Mrs Neel.
“I’ve spoken to her,” the vicar said. “So has Primrose.”
“Primrose being…?” Mrs Neel prompted.
“Our village constable.”
“Really? We thought Primrose was, er—incapacitated?”
“Not when I saw her earlier this morning,” the vicar said. He looked from one to the other of the faces of the two visitors to St Margaret Mede. “Oh, I see, you’re thinking of Rosemary, the last village constable. Oh, no, Primrose is our new one.”
“Rosemary, yes,” Strode said. “What exactly did happen to her?”
“Poor Rosemary, one gin too many, I’m afraid. We really should put up a fence around the village pond. Other unfortunates may fall in, too.”
“Is that what happened to her?” asked Mrs Neel. “Drowned?”
“So sad.” The vicar looked distressed. “There is only two feet of water in it, too.”
“How about the Vicarage?” asked Mrs Neel. “Is all well there? No incidents?”
“Oh, no,” the vicar smiled.
“No murders?”
“Murder at the Vicarage? Good heavens, no.” He frowned. “What have you heard?”
“Must have been something I read,” responded Mrs Neel sweetly. “Good morning, vicar.”
He nodded, tipped his hat and cycled off, looking around anxiously for non-existent cars.
“YE OLDE TEA ROOMS AND CAFÉ,” Strode read the sign, peering in the window past the lace curtain. “Not a tea-drinker in sight. Not a waitress in sight, either.”
“You’re thinking that St Margaret Mede is in need of a more vigourous hand at the helm of the Department of Tourism?” asked Mrs Neel.
“The thought had crossed my mind,” Strode admitted.
“Still, they keep it very clean and tidy.”
“No wonder, there’s no one to dirty it.”
“Listen!” said Strode abruptly and they both stopped. The throaty splutter of a small motor had started nearby.
“Another motorcycle?” Mrs Neel asked.
“Not powerful enough, not even for a scooter. It’s coming from down here.”
‘Down there’ was a narrow alley, cobble-stoned and with a row of neat cottages on each side. Window boxes held dazzling displays of fresh cut flowers. Door handles and letter box slots gleamed from a recent application of Brasso.
Their footsteps echoed sharply. They could see no one, but the alley was short and they came out into an area of green and grey. The expanse of well-tended, carefully cut grass was broken up in irregular fashion by aging tombstones. A path leading to an old church was flanked by a twin hedgerow.
The source of the sound was a big man in a leather apron. He was wielding a portable hedge clipper like a Crusader swinging a sword. He had greying hair and a scowl on his face as if he were chopping down Saracens.
Strode and Mrs Neel exchanged glances, then approached him warily. He became aware of them but continued his task.
They came closer, then close enough that he could not ignore them.
“Beautiful day!” Strode called out cheerfully as the gardener flicked off the switch and the sound died.
“You keep the cemetery looking immaculate, I must say,” Ella Neel congratulated him.
The man stood immobile, belligerent. He looked from one to the other.
“Graveyard,” he said in an appropriately sepulchral voice. “It’s a graveyard.”
Strode was scrutinizing tombstones. “Several generations of villagers here, I see.”
“Not just villagers,” the gardener grunted. “Some visitors, too. Tourists, a lot of ‘em.”
Strode turned a jovial smile on him. “Ah, yes, there was one a couple of months ago, I recall. Poor chap got himself decapitated and dismembered. Very messily, too. Don’t remember just what the coroner concluded. Some kind of a high-speed cutting tool—with serrated edges, wasn’t it?”
The gardener changed his grip on the hedge trimmer. He said nothing.
“Wasn’t that just a couple of weeks after that woman fell from the church tower?” asked Mrs Neel brightly.
The gardener jerked his head in the direction of the grey building behind him. “Aye, she fell on that pavement there. Splattered her brains all over.”
“Ah, the blood-stained pavement,” Strode said. “So that’s where that fits.”
“Dear me,” murmured Mrs Neel. “Poor Annabella. So that’s why she never wrote home to Mother.”
“Y
ou knew her?” The gardener’s beetling brows beetled even closer.
“A business acquaintance,” said Mrs Neel. They nodded to the gardener and strolled on.
“At least, the Ministry will be relieved to hear that Annabella didn’t defect,” she said to Strode who was looking at his watch.
“Four o’clock; shall we try the tea room again? I could do with a cuppa.”
Inside the lace curtained windows of Ye Olde Tea Rooms and Café, a very elderly lady eventually answered their repeated calls. “All right, all right, I’m coming. I’ve got to wash the saucers, haven’t I?” She had a coarse craggy face and a confrontational manner.
From a tiny table, Strode and Mrs Neel studied the walls with their photographs and posters. One section had a pattern of book covers. Mrs Neel leaned forward. “They are all by Joan Marble. Of course, she lives here.”
“‘The Queen of Crime,’ they call her.” Strode nodded.
“That’s right, she does.” He pointed. “‘The most popular mystery writer of the century,’ it says on the cover of The Six Clocks Mystery.”
“I wonder if she could help us,” mused Mrs Neel.
“Remember when she disappeared a while ago?” Strode asked. “Did it ever come out where she went and why?”
“Not that I recall.”
The elderly waitress returned with two cups and saucers, which she slapped down with only a minimum of splashing. “Two hawthorn teas.”
“But I ordered comfrey tea,” Mrs Neel objected.
“And I ordered myrtle tea,” said Strode.
“We’re out. Only got hawthorn left,” said the waitress and hobbled away.
They sipped hawthorn tea. “That sounds interesting,” Strode said, aiming a finger at a poster advertising the village museum. ‘The Story of St Margaret Mede—Ten Centuries Brought to Life,’ it proclaimed.
Sherlock Holmes Mystery Magazine #3 Page 17
