Polly Deacon Mysteries 4-Book Bundle

by H. Mel Malton

  I changed my shirt and added, for Richard’s benefit, a pair of silver earrings that Aunt Susan had given me—little dangling puppet figures, which, if you pulled their tiny silver chains, would dance. I had an hour to kill before meeting him at the Moghul, which gave me time to pop into the Internet café, just to check for messages.

  To: Polly1258@hotmail.com

  From: oppmorr@kuskawa.com

  Subject: RE: The Real Story

  Date: Friday, February 15

  Dear Polly,

  We have heard from Constable Potts, and I think you should be careful. You may think this thug guy as you call him is after your puppet case, but maybe there’s something more in it. Becker is in Calgary again, something to do with his sister, and I’m holding the fort. Potts wants to know if Becker ever worked with Drug Enforcement and thinks there’s some outfit trying to pay him back for something through you. I may have to look at his files, because he’s not checking messages like he should. Listen to Potts and don’t do anything stupid.

  Regards,

  Earl

  This message made me mad on several fronts. The first was that Becker had gone to Calgary, and I was the last person to know about it. Couldn’t he have sent me an email? He still hadn’t bothered to answer my Wednesday morning check-in thing, either. A second after I realized that I was pissed off about this, my conscience (that wretched little creature who sits on your right shoulder like the sparrow-sized angels in cartoons) suggested that I might be suffering from double standards. Hadn’t I told him I would not be in touch, that I was only going away for a week, that communication was too much trouble and was silly? And here I was, having a nuclear meltdown because he wasn’t sending me his schedule and letting me know every time he went for a pee?

  The second thing that annoyed me was Morrison agreeing with Potts’ theory about this stuff instead of mine. I had been on the verge of telling Earlie about the Eastbridge Hospital episode, but I thought better of it at once. It would only freak him out. I had figured how to fix the whole thing, anyway—nothing to do with Becker. My dream had told me the answer. All I had to do was get Richard to help me.

  I sent Earlie a short “don’t worry about me” kind of message and headed out into the Canterbury evening. Many of the streets of town had been what they call “pedestrianized”—which means that though local traffic is allowed, it’s not encouraged. It lent a pleasant, historical aura to the cobblestoned and narrow laneways. Delivery trucks were allowed, though, and I counted no less than three anonymous white vans on my walk from the Pilgrim’s Rest to the Moghul. One was parked next to a souvenir shop, another at “Ye Olde Fresh Meats & Fish” and a third outside a newsagents. After Cedric had mentioned that the thug who came looking for me was driving a white van, I’d been on the lookout for them. I was already aware that they were everywhere, the English equivalent of the yellow cabs in New York, and from what I’d seen of the local newspapers, the average Englishman detested them, and especially their drivers. I’d seen a letter in a tabloid I’d picked up in the Internet café, which read, in part:

  One of those new Escort transit vans thought it could get in front of me on the M5 in heavy Friday evening traffic by undertaking me and trying to cut in after pushing someone else on to the hard shoulder.

  Trouble is that not one of these girly shirtlifting tosspieces will never read this newspaper, because they can’t. Being illiterate is a requirement for the job.

  I liked “shirtlifting tosspiece”, although I marvelled at its actually being printed in a newspaper, because I suspected that it was a tad rude. There were no signs of any van drivers near the white vans spotted in my walk, though. Perhaps they were inside the shops they were delivering to, trying to read their purchase orders.

  The Moghul looked quite full from the outside. Obviously Friday night was curry night for many Canterburyites.

  “It’s okay, I made reservations,” Richard said, arriving on foot a moment after I did. “Been waiting long? Did your landlord drive you?”

  “No, I walked,” I said. “The pregnant lady requires regular exercise, all the books say.”

  “You shouldn’t be walking around by yourself, you know. Not after dark. Not after what happened.”

  “Not after what happened?” I said. Aha. Maybe he’d just given away that he knew about the Eastbridge thing. It could have been a set-up. He might be in league with them, whoever they were.

  “After the cathedral thing,” Richard said, surprised. “And the guy the cop chased at your demo. Come on, you don’t think there’s something to be worried about?”

  “Tell me about the lights-out at Eastbridge again,” I said. “How come you left suddenly and then the lights went out? Tell me you had nothing to do with that.”

  “You think I turned the lights out? What? Why would I do that?” I was testing him, in the most blatant way I could imagine, because I wanted to make damn sure about him. This was partly because I was more than a little attracted to him, and I didn’t want to do anything stupid, as Earlie would have said.

  “Maybe you popped the fuse to give the guy the opportunity to jump me,” I said.

  “What guy? Hey, something did happen back there, didn’t it? Why didn’t you tell me? We could have called the cops. Somebody jumped you? Are you okay? What’s that on your neck?”

  Now, on a scale of one to ten, I would have given that performance a clear 9.5, and Richard was a puppet maker, not an actor. Okay, maybe the whole thing was subjective as hell, but I believed him at once. He had passed the Polly-test.

  “Let’s go eat,” I said. “And I’ll tell you about it.”

  In North America, restaurants with buffets will put up a sign that says “All You Can Eat.” In England, they’re way more refined. It was buffet night at the Moghul, and the sign said, “Help Yourself To As Much As You Like.” I thought that was a much classier way of putting it, even if it meant the same thing, that you could gorf out like a pig if you wanted to, and nobody would mind.

  Over something called Butter Chicken (even the name makes your mouth water, doesn’t it?) and a double order of Peshawari naan, I spilt the beans about the Eastbridge episode.

  “So obviously the guy came in while Father David was showing us around upstairs,” Richard said. “But how did he know how to turn the lights out? How did he know where the fuse box was? He must have some connection with the place, eh?”

  “It’s open to the public, you know. Maybe he cased the place first.”

  “Then how did he know you were going to be there?”

  “I don’t know, Richard. He was following us, maybe. Maybe he heard us talking about it.”

  “And he said he—or ‘his people’—expected a handover of some kind? Your puppet case, right?”

  “That’s what I think, yes. I think they thought I was bringing something in—drugs or guns or something—well, we kind of wondered about that yesterday, which is why Potts searched the puppet case again. I think the thug has got me mixed up with some smuggler-type. That’s why they were so pissed off when I didn’t ‘hand it over’. He was expecting me to be in on it, don’t you see? That’s why he’s been following me, but not actually attacking me. He’s expecting me to live up to my side of the arrangement.”

  “So you’ve got a gang of some kind who think you’ve got guns or drugs in your puppet case, and they’re expecting you to give it to them at some deserted place at midnight, and you don’t want to tell the police about it? Are you crazy?”

  “I don’t have much luck with the police, Richard. They tend to mess stuff up.”

  “I thought you were marrying one.”

  “I haven’t made up my mind about that. I told you. Police officers are difficult people.”

  “They’re not the only ones,” he muttered. “Look, you need to tell the police about this as soon as possible, Polly. Then they can set a trap for the guy at Greyfriars.”

  “He said ‘come alone’. If he sees the cops, he’ll just hide.�
�

  “So? They always say that. But the cops are usually pretty good about being discreet.”

  “How do you know? In my experience, most bad guys can smell a cop a mile away.”

  “Have you ever been to Greyfriars? Do you even know where it is? Or what it is?”

  “I was hoping you could tell me, actually. And maybe come with me, as well.”

  “He said ‘come alone’,” Richard said, trying to sound like me, a small smile on his face.

  “Puppeteers are usually pretty good about being discreet,” I shot back.

  “What are you proposing to do? Tackle the guy barehanded?”

  “I’m going to hand over the puppet case and let him see for himself,” I said. “That’s what he wants, right? I’ll tell him I don’t know what the hell is going on, and let him tear the thing apart if he wants. I’ll be honest. I’m going to use the voice of reason. Then I’ll ask him what he’s looking for. When he realizes I’m the wrong person, he’ll stop bugging me. He’ll see that he’s barking up the wrong tree.”

  “Are you on crack?” he said. “You think being ‘the voice of reason’ to a psycho is going to make him shake your hand and say no hard feelings and then go away? Have you forgotten about Alma?”

  “Alma was killed accidentally by the Right-to-Lifers, I’m sure of it, Richard. It has nothing to do with me.”

  “Yeah, right. And they tore apart that puppet baby she had for no reason. Jesus, Polly, I can’t let you do this,” he said. “You’re nuts.”

  “If we let the cops know about this midnight meeting, they’ll show up with floodlights and police cars, and this white van man will not show up, he’ll just keep following me until I’m on the plane home,” I said. “I want it to be over now, right now, and this is the way I want to do it.”

  “And what do I do, lurk in the shadows and jump the thug when he tries to clobber you?”

  “He won’t try to clobber me. Trust me on this one, Richard. And tell me about Greyfriars.”

  We ordered tea, and Richard got out his handy dandy guide book—one he’d bought at the Roman Museum. Under Greyfriars it said:

  This building, located behind the private Franciscan Gardens in Stour Street, near the Post Office, is not commonly open to the public without special permission. Greyfriars is somewhat decayed, but still quite an architectural wonder, the last monument of the Greyfriars or Franciscans, once the most popular of the monastic orders. This little house occupies no land, for it is built on arches over a branch of the Stour, and its slender supporting pillars rise from the middle of the river bed.

  “There’s a little laneway you have to take to get to it,” Richard said. “I checked it out when I was exploring, yesterday. It’s sort of in the middle of a field. There’s an archaeological excavation site next to it. It’s lonely and deserted, Polly. You don’t want to be going there alone at midnight.”

  “I won’t be alone,” I said, looking at the lovely watercolour illustration that accompanied the text. “You’ll be with me, right?”

  Richard looked extremely unhappy, but he nodded his head. “I’ll be with you, yeah,” he said.

  “And if you tell Potts about this, I’ll never speak to you again. Now we’d better get the bill and boot it. The Czech show starts in half an hour. You want to split a cab?” On the way out the door, it occurred to me that saying “I’ll never speak to you again” to a guy I’d only known for two days was a bit foolish. There’s no point in threatening to cut off communication with someone unless you thought that communicating with them was important. He put his hand on the small of my back as we hurried out onto the street. It felt warm and intimate and far more significant than was proper for a woman in my circumstances. I experienced a sudden roaring blast of lust that made my face burn, a follow-up to that moment at Eastbridge that had more urgency than anything I’d felt since before Christmas, when Becker had stopped touching me and started treating me like I was a fat and fragile porcelain vase.

  It didn’t help when Richard kissed me in the back of the taxi. It didn’t help at all.

  Twenty-Two

  Some women will find that their sex drive significantly increases during their pregnancy, while others will experience a decreased interest in sex. The same holds true for fathers. The most important thing here is to be open. Talk freely with your partner and continue to build upon your warm, healthy relationship.

  -From Big Bertha’s Total Baby Guide

  The Czechoslovakian puppetry company, Sidewalk Weeds, claimed inspiration from the tradition of subversive performance known as “daisy shows”, which proliferated in Prague during the Second World War. While the Nazis were in occupation, puppet theatre was apparently a way to keep the spirit of resistance alive. Probably far more sensible than taking out ads in the local newspaper. It took a long time for the Gestapo to figure out that puppets weren’t just a kind of kiddie entertainment, since the guys in jackboots didn’t spend too much time attending theatre for young audiences. Nazis weren’t big on metaphor. However, when the Nazis finally clued in that the puppet shows were attracting large audiences over the age of six, they cracked down, and the stuff went underground. Instead of theatres and beach-side black-boxes, the shows, enormously political, were performed in private homes, alleyways and basements.

  The program notes explained the name:

  The performances were known as “daisies”, named for those tiny, determined flowers that have the strength to force their way up through concrete in order to find light. By the time the war ended, the “daisies” had almost entirely disappeared, and so had their creators. More than 100 Czech puppeteers died under torture or in the camps during the Nazi occupation.

  Sidewalk Weeds’ production of “The Development” is a tribute to those dangerous performances.

  The Development was not a kiddie show. The villains of the piece, corporate businessmen-characters in pinstriped suits, carrying huge briefcases, were represented by puppeteers working with larger-than-life body-puppets, a version of the North American sports team mascot. They moved slowly, ponderously, with enormous power—dangerous giants. The regular folks, whose property and community were being confiscated to make way for a new factory, were represented by marionettes, fragile figures with fragile strings, who skittered away from the giants like mice dashing for cover at the lion’s approach. It reminded me of those old Japanese Godzilla movies, but it was way more frightening. The dialogue was simple, fairy-tale stuff, which added to the feeling of oppression and hopelessness. Richard and I held hands throughout the show, like small children. The applause at the end was thunderous. It was not an uplifting piece, and it didn’t have a happy ending, but it was damned good.

  “That sort of puts the Hunting and Fishing Is Our Heritage show into perspective,” Richard said, blinking in the glare as the houselights came up.

  “Steamboat Theatre used to do great stuff, you know,” I said. “At least, before the Tory government stopped funding theatre companies.”

  “Yeah. But the province is funding this one. With support from the Federation of Anglers and Hunters.”

  “What exactly happens in it?”

  “A little guy is taught to fish and hunt by the ghost of his great-grandfather. There are singing and dancing fish and deer, and there’s a scene where an Indian comes along and explains the concept of honouring the earth for her bounty and the Creator for making food available to the people. So the little guy carries on killing things, but he does it mindfully. Big finish at the end when the kid bags his first deer, and there’s a chorus of ancestors like the heavens just opened. It’s going to tour the school system in September.”

  “Charming.”

  “Yup. Gotta love it.” You might conclude that the bad guys had finally realized that the best way to fight subversive performances was to co-opt the enemies’ techniques and make them your own. Propaganda, the next generation.

  We went to the student pub afterwards with a number of other conference
people, the cast of the show we’d just seen, and some of the CIPF organizers. The gang from Mermaid Theatre of Nova Scotia were there, too, and Richard had been right—they were party animals. Very funny, very friendly, and I was soon feeling homesick for the east coast, where I’d spent some wonderful years before moving back to Ontario. Although the convivial atmosphere made it really difficult to say no, I stuck to Perrier with lime, mainly because if I’d had one Guinness, I’d have had four.

  After about an hour, even then, I was ready for a nap.

  “I should go back to the B&B for a while, or I’m going to be toast by midnight,” I said in Richard’s ear. One of the Mermaid people was doing a mini-performance, animating a couple of beer bottles as if they were puppets, which had the table in stitches.

  “Why don’t you come over to my room in residence?” Richard said. “You can rest there, and then I won’t be worrying about you, and it’ll be easier for us to go to Greyfriars together, rather than meeting later.”

  “You got any etchings over there?”

  “Huh? Well, I do have a sketchbook you might want to look at.”

  “What are we waiting for? Lead on, MacDuff—if you’re sure you don’t mind.”

  “Why would I mind? I’m about ready to leave, myself. After all, I’m playing bodyguard later, right? And I don’t need any more Old Speckled Hen.” That was the beer he’d been drinking. I’d taken a sip, just to taste. It was wonderful, rich and smooth and slightly sweet. How tragic that I was in England, the Land o’ Great Beer, and unable to do more than take a couple of taste tests. Sigh.

  It was dark and cold, and I was glad of my trusty curling sweater. Even so, Richard put his arm around me—you know, to keep me warm and all that. Because we were in a university setting, there was a peculiarly undergraduate feeling to our journey, as if we were doing something illegal and slightly naughty. As if we were nineteen again, and sneaking around. Or maybe it was just me. I’d never lived in a university residence myself, and though I knew there was a rule-bound, cloistered quality to such communities, (an impression acquired from movies and TV), I’d never actually experienced it myself. Maybe I felt like I was sneaking around because I was having impure thoughts about Richard, because Becker would not have approved, and because I was pregnant with Becker’s child and frankly considering fooling around with someone who wasn’t him. Which was goofy, really, because we were going to Richard’s room to rest, right? To have a catnap before meeting a thug at midnight.