by Sam Short
“Very good, Boris,” said Willow. “I’ll tell Susie. Maybe she can use it for a newspaper story.”
“No hack’s using anything Boris says unless he gets financial compensation,” said Granny.
Boris winked at Willow. “Of course she can use it,” he said. He turned his attention to Granny. “Calm down, Gladys, you’re being very confrontational today. Have a chamomile tea, and relax. Now… do you think this is why fate brought me here?”
“I’d be highly disappointed,” said Granny. “I was hoping for more, to be honest. Something earth shattering, you know?”
Barney coughed. “This is all very nice,” he said, “but do you think we could move the topic of conversation back to what Boris may or may not know? This is very important.”
“Of course,” said Boris, “ask of me what you will, and I’ll do my very best to answer truthfully and factually.”
“Boris,” I said, “the seer in the haven knew Barney was looking for a man who makes scarecrows. She told me to repeat a phrase to you — does half a bell, or harfa bell mean anything to you, Boris. Anything at all?”
Boris laughed. “Of course it means something to me, but something’s been lost in translation. You mean Arthur Bell. He’s an artist and he has been known to make the occasional scarecrow for the local farms.”
“Why haven’t you said something before, Boris?” I said. “You were in the vets when Mrs Oliver mentioned a scarecrow man — didn’t you think to mention you knew a man who made them? It was sort of important.”
“Trigger warning!” yelled Granny.
Boris gasped and dropped to his knees, struggling to breathe.
“Don’t mention the vets!” said Granny. She placed her hand between the goats horns. “Boris, it’s okay, deep breaths, deep breaths. Think of nice things. Think of brandy, cigars, and Chinese food.”
“Is he okay?” said Barney, leaning forward.
Granny shook her head. “No. It’s some sort of PTSD,” she said. “We don’t mention what happened in the vets. He’s still very sore from the experience, both emotionally and anally. I’m having to apply both physical and emotional salves to help him heal. He’d almost wiped it from his mind until you brought it up, Penelope. How very uncaring of you.”
“I’m sorry, Boris,” I said. “I didn’t know.”
Boris looked at me through tearful eyes. “It’s not your fault, Penelope. It’s the fault of those barbarians and their glass probes. I’ll be okay in moment or two. Pass me my cigar would you?”
I placed Boris’s cigar holder in front of him, and Granny lit the cigar which Boris greedily sucked on. The cigar stand had once been my grandad’s fishing fly tying vice, but it worked admirably as a cigar holder for a smoker without opposable thumbs.
“Is that better, Boris?” said Granny. “Would you like some brandy now?”
Boris regained his composure and blew a large smoke ring. “I’m okay, Gladys, thank you.” He looked at Barney. “You’re looking for a man named Arthur Bell. He lives out in the woods on the road to Bentbridge. He made a living as a mediocre artist and subsidised his income by making scarecrows for local farmers. He used my services as an acupuncturist for a hand injury which prevented him from painting, and he began relying on income from making scarecrows until the time he was well enough to paint again. He was barely making enough money to feed himself, let alone pay me for acupuncture.”
“An artist,” I said, looking at Barney. “And a scarecrow maker.”
Barney nodded. “The green paint on the shotgun!” He stood up. “Thank you, Boris. You’ve been a great help. I’ll go straight back to the station and tell Sergeant Cooper. We’ll have Mr Bell in custody within an hour.”
****
Barney left in a rush after promising to keep us updated on events, and Granny drove the remaining four of us to the Poacher’s Pocket Hotel, stopping off at the carwash on the way to remove the coating of mud her off-roading expedition had created.
She parked the gleaming Range Rover next to the little Renault she’d given us, and we made our way through the beer garden and down the footpath to the Water Witch.
Granny hadn’t forgotten that she’d invited Boris and herself on our boat trip to the pie eating competition, and as Boris’s face lit up when Rosie and Mabel ran to greet him as we approached the mooring, I was happy they were with us. Mum had phoned to let me know that she and Uncle Brian were on their way to the pie eating contest, and I looked forward to a day out with the whole of my family.
Family trips were a rare occurrence in the Weaver family, and they’d been made a lot harder to arrange by Granny’s lifetime bans from a lot of the popular venues in the area. Her most recent ban — from Bentbridge great ape and owl sanctuary, had even made it into the newspapers. Granny had denied the accusations of course, arguing that it must have been one of the keepers who’d left the chimpanzee enclosure open after feeding time. Even when PETA claimed the chimp liberation as one of their operations — and pictured a jubilant Granny on their website with only her purple spectacles visible beneath her balaclava — she still denied the charges. I doubted Granny could cause many problems at a pie eating contest, but it was always wise to be a little vigilant in her presence.
The contest was being held near the brewery which was sponsoring it. As with all old businesses in a town built around a waterway, the Wickford brewery was built on the banks of the canal, and an adjacent field had been transformed into the setting for the afternoon’s competition.
Granny took the controls of the boat for the last five minutes of the short journey, and she giggled as she increased the power, wetting Boris with spray from the propeller.
Willow took over driving duties as we approached the brewery and guided the boat alongside the bank as I leapt ashore to tie it off. Four other boats were already moored up next to the field, and the vehicles in the makeshift carpark glinted in the sun.
The field contained a few small colourful marquees and a low stage which was home to a long table which the competitors would sit at while eating their pies. In a small town like Wickford, a lot of people could be relied on to attend most planned events, and the pie eating competition was no exception. Children ran round playing and bouncing on the inflatable castle which had been erected, and adults drank beer and ate the pies which were being baked on site for customers and pie eating professionals alike.
The smell of food being cooked and the music which came from speakers on the stage had an uplifting effect on all of us, and Granny hurried towards the tent which housed the bar, to meet Mum and Uncle Brian, with Boris trotting alongside her on the end of the dog leash they used when Boris was in the public eye.
Susie waved at us from across the field and made her way over to join us, her camera hanging around her neck, and a notebook in one hand. We told her about the developments in the murder case, and she scribbled down notes as she listened, promising not to alert her newspaper about the developments concerning Arthur Bell until Barney had given her his permission. “Of course not. Barney knows he can trust me. Anyway, I’m here to cover the contest,” she said, looking around the field. “I’ve just been interviewing the competitors for a piece I’m writing, they’re all in the little tent behind the stage. Felix Round doesn’t look too well — he stuck to his celery diet, but he really needs to eat something more substantial before he faints.”
Willow laughed. “I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again — salad is not real food, and a man like Felix needs more than just celery to keep him going. I’m surprised he’s still alive.”
“His wife’s so angry with him,” smiled Susie, “but she’s happy that Felix will be retiring from competition eating if he wins today — which I’m sure he will — none of the other competitors look like they have a chance of out eating Felix. I think I could beat some of them. They take it all far too seriously if you ask me, it’s only a bit of fun.”
“One man’s fun is another man’s passion,” I said,
hoping I sounded wise.
Susie and Willow seemed to agree, and before either of them had the chance to question my wisdom, Granny and Boris hurried towards us with Mum close behind them. Granny clutched a plastic glass of beer and Mum carried a wine glass, while Boris complained about not being able to finish his drink.
“There’s plenty of time for another drink, Boris,” scolded Granny. “But a moment like this will never be repeated. Today’s the day I get validated as a mother and get to watch my first born triumph victorious. Today’s the day that Brian will bring the Weaver family name into the spotlight where it so rightly deserves to shine.”
“What’s happening?” said Susie.
“My thoughts exactly,” I said.
Granny pointed at the stage. The competitors had begun to climb the short flight of stairs and take their seats at the long table as plates laden with freshly baked pies were placed in front of them.
His bright red suit and green cravat made Uncle Brian stand out like a clown among vicars, and Granny clutched her chest as she watched. “That’s what’s happening,” she said with a quiver in her voice. “He entered without telling me — as a beautiful surprise. My son has risen from oppression and is about to win the Wickford pie eating competition. If any higher accolade could be bestowed upon a mother, I’d like to know what it is.”
“I gave you two beautiful grand children and I did very well in university,” said Mum.
Granny sighed. “Maggie, Maggie, Maggie,” she said, shaking her head. “It can’t always be about you. I’m very proud of you, of course, but you had it easy, dear. Brian has had to fight hard to smash his way through the layers of oppression which society has put in his way. Has he been burned in the process? Many times. Too many times to count, but look at him up there on the stage — transformed into the beautiful phoenix we see before us — transformed so the whole world may marvel at him. You and he are in different leagues, sweetheart.”
Uncle Brian waved and smiled at us, putting two beefy thumbs in the air as Granny blew him a kiss.
The speakers on stage went quiet and the music was replaced by the voice of the mayor, who stood centre stage with a microphone in hand, dressed in his full ceremonial regalia. “Ladies and gentleman,” he said, his booming voice matching his large stature. “Welcome to the Wickford pie eating contest, kindly sponsored by The Wickford Brewery — home of the world renowned Wickford Headbanger, and the locally renowned, but considerably weaker, Wickford Tallywhacker. Both fine ales, but only one of which finds a home in the little cupboard under my oven, although I’m told the Tallywhacker is a beer which grows on you, although, frankly, life’s too short to be trying to force oneself to enjoy a beer which is not to one’s taste. Drink what you enjoy is my motto.”
A man hurried onto the stage and spoke into the mayor’s ear.
“I digress, apparently,” said the mayor. “So let’s get on with the competition!”
The crowd applauded, and Granny put her fingers in her mouth and blew a piercing whistle. “Go Brian Weaver!” she yelled. “Give em hell! That’s my boy!”
The mayor continued, reading from a small card he held close to his face. “The competition rules have changed this year after advice from the British Foundation of Obesity and Heart Health. No longer will the contestants be expected to eat as many pies as they can in order to win. This year will be a timed competition — the contestants will have ten minutes in which to eat as many pies as they can!”
Granny wolf whistled again. “You’ve got this, Brian! Glory awaits you! Fill your face!”
“But before we begin,” said the mayor. “Let us have a minute’s silence for a man whose place at the table behind me is empty, and a man who was a legend in the highly competitive world of pie eating. Please be silent and remember Gerald Timkins, or as he was known in pie eating circles — The Tank.”
The crowd fell dutifully silent for the prescribed sixty seconds, and when the minute was up, the mayor thanked the competitors and organisers and passed the microphone to the compère as the contestants stuffed napkins into their shirts and pulled their pies close.
Felix Round sat to the right of Uncle Brian, and I realised what Susie had meant when she’d said he looked ill. He pallor was far too pale to be healthy, and his hands trembled as he pulled a plate in front of him.
The other competitors appeared as if they were only there to make up the numbers, with one man in particular looking far too thin to finish one pie, let alone the pile in front of him. It seemed that the competition was firmly between the two fattest men on stage — Uncle Brian and Felix Round.
A hand tightened on my wrist and I gasped as the painted finger nails dug into my flesh. I looked into the face of Felix Round’s wife who pulled me close to her. “That’s your uncle on stage isn’t it?”
I attempted to tug my wrist from her fierce grasp as Granny pushed between us. “Take your hand off my granddaughter. Nobody touches a member of my family in that way,” she warned.
The look in Granny’s eyes could have melted ice, and it had the desired effect on Mrs Round, who released her grip and took a step backwards. “I’m sorry,” she said, “I didn’t mean to hurt you, but you have to help me. You have to tell Brian to throw the competition. Felix has to win!”
Chapter Twenty-One
Mrs Round’s eyes were those of somebody who had not been sleeping well, and her hair was thoroughly neglected. She took a step away from Granny and allowed her arms to drop by her sides. “Please tell Brian to throw the competition,” she urged. “My husband has to win. If he doesn’t win today he won’t retire from pie-eating, and the doctor has told me he won’t be around for more than three years if he carries on like he is. It’s literally life and death that he wins today.”
Granny smiled. “Then he’d better win, hadn’t he? My son has been oppressed his whole life, and a win today would show him that he’s a valuable person. He needs the validation. I must warn you though, Brian can put way food with the best of them — I’d be very surprised if he didn’t give Felix a run for his money.”
Mrs Round scowled. “Felix would have this competition in the bag if they hadn’t changed the rules. He’s trained for eating slowly over a period of time, not for stuffing as many pies as he can in ten minutes. It’s not fair — a change of rules this late in the game must be illegal.”
“It’s only a bit of fun,” said Susie. “Don’t take it so seriously.”
Mrs Round’s face reddened. “My husband’s health is not just a bit of fun!” She turned to Granny. “You’d better hope Felix wins, you have no idea how important this is to me. I’d do anything to make sure my husband has a long life. Anything.”
“That sounds like a threat to me,” said Granny. “And I’d advise against threatening me.”
Mrs Round looked Granny up and down, and rushed away. She stood directly in front of the stage as the compère gave a countdown from ten and declared the competition had started.
Granny handed me her beer and began clapping with the rest of the audience. “Eat! Eat! Eat!” she chanted, urging Brian on, who stuffed a second pie into his mouth as Felix finished his first.
The other four competitors took sips of water between bites, but Felix and Uncle Brian devoured their pies quickly, with the colour returning to Felix’s face as he ate his first proper food in days.
The minutes ticked by, and the competitors ate pie after pie as the compère encouraged them with words of support. As the crowd’s shouts grew louder, Boris tapped me on my leg. “Put Gladys’s beer down here for me, would you, Penelope? All this excitement is making me thirsty.”
I placed the plastic cup on the floor for the goat, and as I stood up straight again, a dizzy sensation made me stumble. Willow caught me with a hand under my elbow. “Are you okay?” she said. “Do you need to sit down?”
I tried to speak, but my throat tightened and my heart bounced against the walls of my chest. Images swirled around my mind and instinct told
me that the pictures I was seeing were not conjured up by my imagination — I was having a vision. What Hilda had told me was true — I was a seer — and the story which unraveled in my mind was as vivid as any Hollywood film.
My phone vibrated in my pocket, and I didn’t need to see it to know that the message was from Barney, telling me that Arthur Bell was in custody and awaiting an interview by detectives. I also knew that Arthur Bell hadn’t killed Gerald Timkins, and that the ten minutes allocated to the pie-eating competitors was about to elapse, with Uncle Brian being declared the winner.
With a clarity that shocked me, I saw a picture which made my blood run cold and my legs tremble, and I attempted to clear the swirling images from my mind and warn people of what was about to happen. Mum and Susie helped Willow lower me to the ground while Granny’s excited chanting grew louder as the compère counted down from ten and declared the competition over.
“He’s won!” said Boris, his voice distant and his outline a blur.
Mum put her face inches from mine. “Sweetheart, are you okay?” she said. “Someone phone an ambulance.”
“No ambulance,” I said, aware that Barney would be arriving in a few minutes to enjoy the rest of the day, and that his presence would be required to arrest the real murderer of Gerald Timkins — and If I didn’t do something to stop events unfolding as my vision told me they would — the murderer of Uncle Brian too.
“What’s wrong?” said Granny, finally noticing her granddaughter sprawled on the floor at her feet.
“Stop Mrs Round,” I muttered, beginning to regain my composure and pushing myself into a kneeling position. “She’s going to attack Uncle Brian.”
Granny didn’t need telling twice. A threat of violence towards her son may as well have been an attack on her very soul. She hurried through the crowd as Willow pulled me to my feet, and made her way towards the stage where the compère was announcing Brian as the winner and picking up the tall metal trophy from the table. Felix Round was magnanimous in defeat, and gave Brian heavy congratulatory slaps on the back as the cup was presented to him.
