A Raucous Time (The Celtic Cousins' Adventures)

by Julia Hughes

  ‘I’ve checked the dates she gives in her diary. It’s all true! She was there! In October 1216, she travels with him from King’s Lynn to the Castle of Newark! The week he lost his treasure. The week before he died. She must have been frantic. The country on the brink of civil war – the King dead – and she held the crown jewels. The royal regalia. An illegitimate English princess, married to one of the last great Welsh princes. It would have been high treason. She had to do something … and she hid it – so well it’s never been found. We just have to find out where.’

  Rhyllann didn’t like the sound of that. ‘Isn’t there a map or something?’

  Wren shook his head briefly. ‘I can hear a car. We’ll talk in school Monday. I’m gonna spend tomorrow in bed or resting my foot if I can.’ With that, he sprawled full length on the grass, cushioned his head on his arms, and closed his eyes.

  Rodgers had a key. Rhyllann smiled brightly as he puffed into the garden. Indicating the manicured lawn – Wren and Auntie Dottie apparently asleep – Rhyllann held a finger to his lips, while giving a thumbs up signal. Returning the greeting, Rodgers crept out again. Inside Rhyllann fumed. His word wasn’t good enough for old Crombie. Right. That meant he didn’t have to keep it.

  Chapter Ten

  To Rhyllann’s disbelief, when Wren whinged his foot was aching and he felt exhausted, he not only got out of Sunday’s chores, but Auntie Dottie allowed him to rest in her lovely comfy double bed. Rhyllann just knew Wren was faking it. But every time he crept upstairs to check, Wren was sprawled out, sleeping with a very happy expression on his face. Although he managed to wake up long enough to eat dinner and two helpings of chocolate trifle.

  Rhyllann wanted to visit Gran, but Aunt Dottie refused in spite of all his pleading.

  ‘You’ve spoken to the ward. She’s off the critical, still unconscious. I’m sorry lovey. Why don’t you do some more homework?’

  Rhyllann gave the thought serious consideration while washing up. For a moment or two anyway. Auntie Dottie kept to tradition, Sunday lunch was eaten and dishes stacked away by four.

  ‘There – that’s that!’ She said. ‘Hours to cook, eaten in minutes and all tidied away.’ She beamed at Rhyllann, still wiping down work surfaces.

  ‘Don’t worry about the floor lovey, Fred and Ginger’s about to start. Get yourself a glass of lemonade and we’ll put our feet up in the lounge.’

  Thinking shoot me now, Rhyllann dutifully obeyed. The one bright moment coming when he opened the fridge door to discover the home made stuff had mysteriously disappeared, and he was allowed a can of Sprite. Auntie Dottie didn’t protest when he swung his bare feet up to sprawl out on the sofa, easing herself into the armchair.

  It turned out Fred and Ginger were a Hollywood couple who sung and danced at the drop of an hat. All Rhyllann could hope for was that Aunt Dottie’s contagious yawns preceded her afternoon nap, and he’d be able to switch channels. Even that hope was dashed when someone rapped gently at the front door, followed by the sound of a yale key in the lock.

  ‘Who can that be?’ Auntie Dottie prised herself from the chair as Crombie entered the room.

  ‘Derek!’ She exclaimed smiling.

  ‘Thought I’d pop by and see how you were doing.’ Crombie nodded to include Rhyllann in his greeting.

  Aunt Dottie fussed around Crombie, scolding him for not calling – she would have set out an extra dinner plate – asking after Crombie's wife, then girls.

  ‘All fine thanks.’ Crombie seated himself in Aunt Dottie’s vacated armchair, picking up the remote as though he had full rights over the telly.

  ‘Anyone watching this? The Six Nations is on the other side.’ Without waiting for a response, Crombie changed channels.

  Rhyllann’s eyes widened. He’d forgotten! Wales were playing France. He tipped his head back over the sofa’s armrest to see how Aunt Dottie was taking the sudden change in schedule.

  ‘Oh you boys! I suppose they’re watching "The Eastenders" round your house?’

  Crombie merely grunted, and shrugged off his jacket.

  ‘You stay there, I’ll get you a beer.’ Aunt Dottie picked up the jacket and hurried out the room, returning with a couple of cans and after fussing round Crombie for at least another five minutes, took herself off upstairs to watch her film in a spare bedroom. Crombie kicked off his shoes to reveal "Mister Cool" socks.

  Relief mixed with pleasure ran through Rhyllann. He almost felt happy to see Crombie, and that wasn’t right. Ten minutes later, Wales converted a try, Crombie unbent enough to pour a small drop of ale into Rhyllann’s lemonade and Wren having heard the shouting limped into the room.

  ‘The old biddy’s snoring woke me up.’ He complained. He did a double take at Crombie’s form filling the armchair. Recovering quickly, he squeezed between the coffee table and sofa to sit on Rhyllann’s feet.

  ‘And watch that bugger too. He’s trying to get you drunk.’ He said, leaning forward for Rhyllann to ease out his feet.

  ‘Speak English please.’ Crombie said mildly.

  ‘I just warned Annie you’re trying to get him drunk and pump him.’

  ‘Why would I do that? When young Rhyllann's told me the truth, the whole truth and nothing but, and you don’t know nothing?’ Crombie retorted, seeming amused when Rhyllann sniggered.

  Wren turned his attention to the telly. With a sideways glance at Crombie he changed the subject by asking ‘Who are you supporting?’

  Crombie sipped at his can, considering for a long moment before answering.

  ‘Guess I’ll root for the principality.’

  With that a general truce seemed to be declared, until half time anyway, when the score stood at 6 – 3

  ‘So you’re the gambler - what are the odds on Wales holding the lead?’

  Rhyllann looked up sharply, but Crombie was addressing Wren.

  ‘I don’t gamble.’

  ‘No? Not many kids know when a race is underrung.’

  ‘Talk English.’ Rhyllann muttered.

  Wren giggled. ‘You been talking to young Billy Palmer?’ still smiling he explained: ‘I didn’t know till he told me, I just saw the odds didn’t add up.’ With a shrug he added. ‘We’ve been doing probabilities in maths.’

  This was news to Rhyllann.

  ‘We have?’ He should have kept quiet.

  ‘Annie – come on. You know we have.’

  Ignoring this, Rhyllann drained the last of his shandy, holding out the empty glass hopefully towards Crombie, who shook his head no.

  ‘Look, what if you had a race?’ Wren persisted.

  ‘Who with?’ Rhyllann wished he’d never said anything, then wished Wren had stayed upstairs.

  ‘Just you. You and you alone. Who would win?’

  ‘Duh! Me. I would win.’ Rhyllann chinked his empty glass against Crombie’s can, still hopeful. Crombie gave a grim smile, shaking his head again.

  ‘Then it’s 100% certain that you would win. Okay?’ Wren leaned forward, warming to the lecture.

  ‘What if you and me had a race? Who would win? – I mean normally.’ He flicked a hand towards his plaster cast as if to say “ignore this”.

  ‘Me.’

  ‘And you’re certain of that?’ Wren probed.

  ‘Well – almost certain.’ Rhyllann began to see the light.

  ‘OK. Now what if you were carrying something? Say a sack of potatoes?’

  Rhyllann gave this one more thought. Eventually he said ‘Over what distance?’

  Wren leaned back against Rhyllann’s feet; satisfied he’d got his point across.

  ‘There you go. You’re calculating probabilities and odds.’ He glanced across to Crombie, nodding sagely at Wren’s explanation.

  ‘Now say Crombie entered the race. Who would win?’

  Rhyllann couldn’t help himself. He burst out laughing. ‘Depends how many cans of beer he’s poured down his gullet.’

  After a heartbeat, Crombie and Wren smiled to show they thoug
ht he’d made a funny too. But afterwards Rhyllann wondered at the slight hesitation. He decided not to tell Wren that under different circumstances, Crombie might not be his first choice to watch rugby with, but he wouldn’t be last on his list either.

  The second half of the game dragged a little, all three of them shouted when the referee awarded a penalty to France, Parra knocked it over and France were in the lead for the first time. At the final whistle the score was 8 - 9, closer to a football than a rugby result; Wales would have an uphill struggle when they played England at their next outing.

  Crombie shoved his shoes back on and went hunting for his jacket. As he re-emerged into the room, there was another rap at the door. A uniformed shape loomed against the net curtains.

  ‘My lift home.’ Crombie murmured, as noises above announced Mrs. Reade too was stirring.

  Crombie placed the empty cans in one of his jacket's cavernous pockets.

  ‘Who’d have thought that? France beating Wales at rugby.’

  Rhyllann started to protest that the ref was blind, or biased, spluttering into silence when he noticed Wren and Crombie regarding each other, both poker faced.

  ‘Just goes to show, even when the odds seem stacked in your favour – you can still lose.’

  Rhyllann kept quiet, not liking the undercurrent in the room.

  ‘I told you, I don’t gamble.’ Wren folded his arms.

  ‘Just as well then isn’t it?’ Crombie taunted. ‘Sometimes the stakes are too high.’

  ‘Do you always use police cars as your personal taxis?’ Wren asked.

  Crombie shrugged the barb off. ‘Changing shifts. Don’t worry; the taxpayer’s money isn’t being abused. Not by me anyway.’ Addressing Rhyllann he said:

  ‘Take a leaf out your cousin’s book. No matter how good the odds seem, don’t gamble. At least, don’t gamble what you can’t afford to lose.’

  Rhyllann raised his eyebrows. Two lessons in one afternoon. Monday morning and school began to look attractive. Before he could say anything though, Crombie left the room, intercepted in the hallway by auntie Dottie who cooed over him a bit more before the front door slammed and he was gone.

  ‘What the hell was all that about?’ Rhyllann demanded. Wren grimaced.

  ‘Do you get the feeling Crombie’s hen pecked at home?’ he muttered, just as auntie Dottie poked her head round the door to ask what they fancied for tea.

  That made Rhyllann smirk, but later he would remember that Wren wasn’t there when Crombie first came in, and wonder again how Wren managed to know things without being told.

  *

  After tea Wren got out of washing dishes again, and bagged first bath, before taking himself off to bed for yet another early night. Air Cadets ran regular first aid courses, so Rhyllann knew that knitting bones did leach energy, though he felt Wren could make more of an effort to entertain their hostess.

  Surfing the net was joyless with aunt Dottie looking over his shoulder, You Tube “Jackass” clips were definitely out. Several times during the evening Rhyllann thought the clock had stopped. By the time he climbed into bed, he felt exhausted with boredom. But he couldn’t sleep for fidgeting. Niggling away at the corners of his mind, Wren’s notebook. Why hadn’t the little geek just handed it over to Mikey Stern? Although Wren loved complications. Unless he’d planned the whole charade purely to add weight to the false trail – but then …that would have meant deliberately involving gran, not to mention … Rhyllann's mind shied away, back to Stern’s son and his friends. He should have told Crombie. Too late now. Crombie might even decide he’d deliberately kept quiet, and lock him up again. Rhyllann snorted; wondering how Crombie had ever made detective. Probably just barged his way into an executive office one day and refused to move.

  Rhyllann’s imagination created a Neanderthal copper who solved crimes by using his primitive senses and slugging bad guys with an oversized club. At home he kept an unruly pet mammoth, which was forever annoying the neighbours. Feeling himself drifting off to sleep, he reminded himself one last time to get the truth from Wren. Tomorrow.

  The small voice piped up again. Asking why Wren hadn’t just handed over his notebook with the false trail.

  ‘Shut up.’ He murmured. ‘How should I know?’ Anyhow, what did it matter now? They were in this together. Him and Geek Features against the world. If Rhyllann had known the real reason for Crombie’s visit and extra patrols and vigilance at Auntie Dottie’s house, he might not have been so blasé about taking on the world.

  Chapter Eleven

  Earlier that morning, while god fearing folk were all abed, because it was dark, and the chances of being caught minimal, Crombie’s smile remained in place as he crept out from the marital bedroom and downstairs avoiding the creaky step to tiptoe into the kitchen. Before the florescent light flickered fully on, he glided to the double door American style fridge which acted as a white board, and added a note under his wife’s neatly printed reminder for Sunday.

  D. Don’t forget. Paul and Sandra for Sunday Lunch to discuss wedding seating arrangements & bridesmaids’ bouquets. .

  Three red marks underlined ‘Don’t forget.’

  Still grinning broadly, Crombie drew a frowny face. Scribbling “Sorry sweetheart. Gotta a phone call from the top. They want me at the Yard.” Rummaging through the ironing basket he found a not too wrinkled polo shirt and a pair of jeans. The only socks he could find were ‘Mister Men’ novelty socks, but no one would see them. Snatching up his jacket from behind the front door, he eased open the dead bolt, peering out to see a car blocking his drive: Crombie could just make out the uniformed driver by dawn’s first light.

  The ominous disembodied voice demanding his presence at the Yard should have fill him with foreboding, instead, Crombie thanked his lucky stars rather than cursing his misfortune. He knew his wife would handle the in-laws-to-be just fine. In fact, things would probably go smoother without his presence.

  With barely a twinge of guilt, Crombie eased himself into the passenger seat, buckling his belt as the car purred away, heading towards Central London.

  *

  Despite a campaign by the present mayor of London to open the “Black Museum” to the public; since 1877 the police had steadfastly refused to make a “peep show” of their macabre collection of murderers’ weapons and artefacts. Rightly so in Crombie’s opinion, too often victims became forgotten while murderers and their crimes gained notoriety. That didn’t stop him from peering at the letters under the glass display case supposedly written by "Jack the Ripper". To Crombie’s mind they were almost certainly hoaxes, no great detection feat really, as three were completely different in handwriting and syntax, and outside of fiction serial killers enjoyed their work too much to risk any chance of revealing their identity and getting caught. Aware of a soft breathing beside him, he turned, to come face to face with a man he hadn’t seen in over twenty years.

  ‘Cavan Beckinson.’ The name sprung to his lips, and memories of Hendon flooded back. Cavan had been born middle aged, but now he’d grown into his looks. Iron grey hair and half moon spectacles rimmed in a lighter grey perched on a long aristocratic nose, he’d barely gained a pound in weight; although he'd always been big boned. His taste for handmade suits from Savile Row hadn't changed either.

  ‘Derek old man. Good to see you after all this time.’ As Cavan shook hands he grasped Crombie’s upper arm, squeezing gently. Beckinson had been slumming it back at Hendon, clearly out of the other recruits’ league and destined for higher things. Whilst training, they’d barely exchanged more than a daily greeting; yet Beckinson appeared to reflect Crombie’s pleasure at meeting someone who’d shared his youth.

  Still grasping his arm, Beckinson guided him out along the corridor and into a corner office, the outer walls composed of glass. Crombie walked behind Beckinson’s desk, gazing down at minions scurrying below, even a pre-wedding meeting with his daughter’s intended parents suddenly seemed more appealing. Somehow he doubted Beckinson
had summoned him for his opinion on the Met’s latest “Community Care” campaign.

  Crombie kept an impassive face as Beckinson steered him over to a pair of bulky cream leather sofas, congratulating him on his recent commendation, his daughter’s coming nuptials, his wife’s progress at the local WI, and his youngest daughter’s qualification as a scuba diver. Formalities over, Beckinson got down to business without any further beating about the bush.

  Pushing a round low coffee table to one side, he dropped a file into Crombie’s lap, before sitting opposite; beneath their feet was a rug of Moorish patterns, mainly worked in muted reds, greens and cream.

  Receiving a nod to his enquiring glance, Crombie opened the file as Beckinson talked him through the reports in his plumy accent. Crombie scratched his head as he finished. Then re-read the file in silence. He hadn’t realised Mikey Stern had tried and failed to become a police officer. According to Beckinson’s report, he’d been chucked out of Hendon for "inappropriate racial remarks and behaviour." Even stranger, it seemed WPC Hewes attended Hendon at the same time. Peculiar of the woman not to have mentioned it before now.

  Across the way, Beckinson let out a barely inaudible sigh of relief, slumping against the sofa’s back for the first time, acknowledging he’d made the right decision to bring Crombie in.

  ‘You’re putting me between a rock and a hard place you know that don’t you?’

  ‘Sorry old chap. The cookie crumbles that way sometimes.’

  ‘You can’t freeze me out. I want in on the Interpol meeting. And I want some of the action.’

  Beckinson nodded, as though he’d expected nothing less of Crombie. Rising to his feet, he stretched his hand out again for Crombie’s shake.

  ‘The kids? They’ve been contained?’

  Crombie thought for a moment. ‘They’re in a safe place. I’ll make certain they stay put if they know what’s good for them.’