The Unusual Possession of Alastair Stubb

by David John Griffin

  Under normal circumstances, I’m guessing,’ she answered.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘He’s has been leaving the tin outside, and not hidden either.’

  ‘I see,’ Stubb said, ‘so I suggest we take it,’ then adding quietly, ‘before anyone else does.’

  CHAPTER 10

  The Notes

  THE NEXT DAY was even chillier than the day before. Icicles had formed along the eaves of the manor house and under its window ledges. Eleanor had returned from visiting the rickety Mrs. Crowpack. It was against Dr. Snippet’s instructions to go outdoors but as well as Mrs. Crowpack looking forward to the visits, the old lady had been feeling unwell. Eleanor now saw herself as a practical and down-to-earth queen, who cared for the solid, elderly ones; who had learnt to run her own baths, one who even shopped for groceries.

  Upon approaching the gardener’s shed, she grasped her coat as her heart seemed to miss a beat: there was no tin can to be seen. Nothing by the shed door except for three piles of newspapers, each pile tied with rough string.

  She padded across the snow towards them, heaved the papers away, and gasped with relief when she saw the silvery container that had been hiding behind the piles as though for warmth. A scrap of folded paper was held to the lid by an elastic band. Her breath quickened and condensed the more into a fine mist. She was locked in a moment of indecision. Then, glancing about her and seeing the white garden containing no other living thing, she bent and snatched the tin from the ground. The metal was cold, even through her woollen gloves. She pulled the folded paper from the lid and pushed it into her pocket, and bundled the tin into her bag before hurrying into the house.

  ‘Afternoon Mrs. Stubb. It’s properly chilled. You look frozen,’ said the cook gaily.

  ‘Good afternoon, Mrs. Wickling. Yes, it is cold in this world.’

  ‘Luncheon won’t be long. I’ve made your favourite sweet.’

  ‘Summer jelly?’

  ‘No, jam roll with cream,’ the cook replied with a bemused tone.

  Eleanor put her shopping bag on the chair in front of her and pulled the fingers of her gloves to take them off. The cook steered her generous bulk around the kitchen table and tottered up to the bag. ‘I’m sure you remembered my liver salts,’ she said as she began to extract articles from the bag, placing them on the table.

  ‘If you don’t mind,’ shouted Eleanor and upon grabbing a jar of face cream preparation from the cook’s hand she threw it back into the bag. She winced when the glass jar hit the tin can and gave a dull chink. For her, the noise seemed to echo about the kitchen and scream ‘Poison!’

  The cook’s mouth drooped like a child that had been reprimanded. ‘Well, really.’ Mrs. Wickling trotted over to the stove whereupon she began to vigorously stir a concoction that had been bubbling and spitting there.

  Eleanor snatched up her shopping bag and left the kitchen quickly, walking past the scullery to the day room.

  The day room was one of those places that most of the household passed through but did not use: Eleanor had taken to keeping some indoor plants on the windowsill and her few books on the dresser. Florence would come in to dust and polish but even then only once in a while. Eleanor would use the room to sit and commune with her unborn Alastair or to read or wile away the hours, knitting and planning her child’s future.

  She was about to walk through to the lobby when, upon giving the room a cursory glance, she decided to unload the items of her bag and hide the tin of poison. She sat on the chair that stood by the window. The chair had been the first item her husband had made during his apprenticeship with Grandfellows Carpentry Trade, even before the days of Terps Joinery. Although it was a lovely article, its creator could not say why one leg was a fraction shorter than the other three. A wedge of wood had been placed under the shorter leg, as a temporary measure, to stop the chair from rocking. But like many other tasks, Stubb had never found time to rectify the fault.

  The chair rocked slightly as Eleanor placed her weight onto the seat. She leant over and peered at the shorter leg. There was no wedge – in place of it was a wad of white paper. She was intrigued and so retrieved it. Turning it over in her hand she decided to replace it, thinking that Florence had lost the wood and the paper was her substitute, when she spotted the wedge lying on the carpet further under the chair. She remembered then the folded paper that had been attached to the tin by an elastic band and she took it from her pocket. The chair was pulled over to a marquetry-lined mahogany table. There she straightened her back when she realized that once more she had been slouching, a pose she was prone to take with the additional weight carried. The little being inside her gave a hefty kick and she gave an exclamation of surprise.

  The papers were opened out flat onto the table and she saw that they had similar writing upon them although both were quite illegible. It looked as though the scrawl was the result of someone in a hurry or of poor penmanship, or indeed both. It did not help that the ink had got wet and was smeared in places.

  She took one of the pieces to the window where it could be deciphered more readily. Gradually she could understand a few of the words though not enough to make any sense of the whole.

  She was not going to be beaten by this intriguing problem. She went to an oak bureau and took out a pencil and a sheet of crisp paper and, seating herself once more at the table, began to translate the scribble into intelligible words. The cryptanalysis threatened to take her the rest of the afternoon but she was determined to understand the characters.

  As the sense began to emerge she shook with an impassioned anger. Eleanor screwed both pieces of paper into a hard ball and stuffed them into her shopping bag. She left the day room behind her, puffing in an intense irritation. She would prepare herself before dinner.

  CHAPTER 11

  Arsenic

  FROM DR. SNIPPET’S examinations and with a speck of sixth sense, he had surmised that the birth of the child would be slightly premature and that the happy event would take place in no more than six weeks ahead. The doctor insisted that Eleanor spent more time resting. On no account was she to attempt anything strenuous, including any work in the abandoned church, although she insisted all had been completed there.

  She sat up in her bed while Dr. Snippet bumbled from his black bag to the bedside cabinet and back again. A constant mumbling emitted from him. He idly scratched his balding scalp and then, as though he had only noticed her for the first time, looked up in surprise. His features warmed into a smile. ‘Ah, Mrs. Eleanor,’ he said cheerfully. Large spectacles were pushed further up his angular nose. Placing a finger upright as though testing for the strength of the wind, he added, ‘and how are we feeling today?’ He did not hear her reply for she spoke softly. She did not feel very well. ‘Excellent, good,’ he muttered.

  He sniffed and seemed satisfied with himself for finding the item that had been apparently hiding in his doctor’s bag. A stethoscope was extracted and held between two fingers and at arm’s length as though it could whip up and give him a nasty bite. ‘Now Mrs. Eleanor, I wish to examine you if I may.’ He gave a lopsided grin.

  William Stubb entered the bedroom. The doctor was ignored as Stubb walked quickly up to the bedside.

  ‘Eleanor, I must speak with you,’ he whispered urgently.

  ‘Dr. Snippet,’ she mouthed without sound, flicking her fingers towards the muttering gentleman, who was now stalking about the room inspecting this and that like a curious child. A patterned vase was balanced precariously on the palm of his hand and he peered at it over the top of his spectacles.

  He was oblivious to the presence watching him until Stubb spoke: ‘Doctor, if you would not mind, I wish to have a word with my wife.’ The man addressed smiled benignly and placing the free hand behind his back, remained where he was. ‘Alone,’ added Stubb, precisely.

  ‘Ah,’ Dr. Snippet exclaimed as if he had thought of the answer to a particularly intriguing puzzle and then with a nod, walked out into th
e corridor.

  ‘How are you feeling?’

  She smiled. ‘As well as can be expected, I suppose. Alastair keeps giving me twinges.’

  Stubb was patient. ‘Eleanor, we don’t even know if it’s a boy.’

  ‘But I know. It is my baby Alastair come back. Even the doctor tells me so. By the way, did you know that your insect father is paying Dr. Snippet?’

  ‘I did. It’s the least he can do. Did you get it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good. Where is it?’

  ‘Standing by the shed.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean it is standing by the shed. I got it but then I put it back.’

  ‘Why? Have you changed your mind?’

  Eleanor stared hard at him. ‘No, but one thing is certain. We’re not going to use that poison from our gardener. We’ll have to buy a tin, or make some.’

  ‘But whatever for? What’s happened?’

  Eleanor looked serious with her fine brow creasing. She sat up in the bed and without twisting her body, put her hand behind her, placing it under the pillow. She withdrew two balls of paper and put them onto the counterpane and replacing her hand, extracted a third note.

  ‘What are these?’

  ‘Why don’t you unfold one and read.’

  Their eyes met and Stubb bent to pick up one of the collection. He pulled it out flat, ironing out the creases with the palm of his hand. He placed it closer to his face and began to read Eleanor’s translation under the scribbled words. His features changed gradually from amusement to a look of disgust. Stubb looked up. ‘Why haven’t you shown these to me before now?’

  ‘Because I was going to ignore them until I found the third one in my coat pocket this morning. Besides, I didn’t want to upset my king unnecessarily.’

  Stubb resumed reading. ‘The dirty swine,’ he said. He clenched his hand into a fist; and the paper was crumpled to a ball again. ‘So that’s how Brood wants repayment for his favour. I should have guessed. A question remains though: if the so-called favour is not repaid, will he say anything to Theodore?’ He shrugged his shoulders and answered himself: ‘It’s a possibility but even if Theodore did know, he wouldn’t know how. We will have to think about that later. The immediate problem is, what to use now.’

  ‘Why not buy it from the chemist?’

  ‘The one along the Grinding Road? He knows the family too well and it might cause suspicion. He also knows Brood is the only one to buy the stuff.’

  ‘You could go into Grinding town tomorrow. If it was bought at one of the large stores then nobody would ask questions.’

  ‘True. I think that could be the answer.’

  The doctor returned uninvited. Sticking his head around the door, still the smile engraved upon his pasty face, he said, ‘Good afternoon, may I examine you, Mrs. Eleanor?’ as though he had at that moment arrived at the house.

  Stubb threw an impatient glance at him and answered for his wife. ‘If you want,’ he snapped.

  ‘Thank you, thank you,’ replied the doctor and he entered. ‘And how are you feeling today?’ Eleanor tutted at his forgetfulness. He examined her swollen belly with his fingers. Whispering and muttering still, he returned to his bag. He began to take out green bottles of pills, tweezers and tins and glass tubes and strange metal instruments. He had lost something in the depths of the bag once more. He placed the extracted articles in a neat line on the ottoman standing at the foot of the bed.

  Stubb rubbed his jaw thoughtfully. Perhaps he would not have to go into Grinding after all. Eleanor gave him a sidelong glance. ‘You have many things there, doctor,’ said Stubb amiably. ‘You must be very clever to know what does what.’

  Dr. Snippet grinned. ‘All has to be learnt, Mr. Stubb. Now I remember my university days in Pellingshaw Mews—’

  ‘Yes, I’m sure you do, but for instance what is this strange substance?’ Stubb picked up a glass bottle from the ottoman.

  ‘That is known as a purgative compound. Administering doses of up to…’

  ‘I see. Most interesting. And what about that one?’

  The doctor chuckled. ‘The little tin? I keep my blackboard chalk in there.’

  ‘This one?’

  ‘A urine sample.’

  ‘Oh. And this? It looks a strange liquid.’ Stubb picked up a thin glass vial.

  ‘That, Mr. Stubb, is an arsenical solution. A very useful substance. Patients with asthmatic conditions find it most beneficial.’

  Stubb licked his lips. ‘Is it strong or a weak concentration?’ He bit his lip. He thought that he had said too much even to the absent-minded man but Dr. Snippet merely raised his generous eyebrows.

  ‘It should really be back in my laboratory. It is concentrated. For that, one must be careful; there is enough there to fell ten men. It is quite amazing how much I can fit into my bag.’

  The leather bag in question received an affectionate pat and then the doctor, tiring of the conversation, returned to his search for the particular tablets prescribed to Eleanor. ‘Here we are,’ he exclaimed triumphantly and clutching a bottle in one hand proceeded to replace the articles from the ottoman with the other hand.

  Stubb could not wrench his sight from the vial of arsenic. ‘Dr. Snippet,’ he stated quickly. The doctor looked up. ‘I noticed your interest in that antique vase over there.’ He pointed to it and placing the palm of his hand on the doctor’s back, guided him firmly away, towards the object sitting in a wall recess. ‘This,’ Stubb explained with false pride, ‘is a very old vase.’ What else was he to say about the monstrosity? ‘I’m sure you will agree that it’s a very fine specimen, probably one of a pair. They were given to my great grandfather’s wife as a wedding present—’ and thus he continued, enthralling his learned listener with its varied and colourful history. He heard Eleanor ruffle the bedsheets.

  After his monologue, and ascertaining that the doctor did not have the cash on him to pay for the article, Stubb immediately changed the subject. ‘Well doctor, I presume that the tablets you hold in your hand are for my wife.’

  ‘How right you are. Indeed, yes.’ The doctor trotted over to the bedside and murmured instructions to Eleanor and giving her a tap on the head and collecting up the last of his medicines and instruments, he bade farewell and departed.

  ‘Did you get it?’ Stubb asked his wife excitedly.

  She smiled proudly and withdrew the corked glass tube from behind her pillow. Stubb took it and held it up to the light.

  ‘When is the deed to be done?’ Eleanor melodramatically questioned. To have been told that she had been defiled, ravished without permission, let alone without consciousness, had polluted her mind more than she would ever care to admit or know.

  ‘In a month’s time,’ said Stubb slowly, still inspecting the liquid. ‘Theodore has planned a party in the new year. I have something to say to him.’

  ‘Are you mad? It will turn into a fight. My king in battle with an insect, I’m sure of it.’

  ‘I am going to express my most humble apologies for the dreadful misunderstanding that has been made. I will say that you have, after all this time, confessed the truth. I’ll beg him to forgive me and when that’s done, I shall ask that we are guests at his party.’

  ‘You won’t convince him. He – it – will never believe you, William.’

  Stubb sat on the edge of the bed, gently resting Eleanor’s head on his chest, and he stroked her hair.

  ‘There is nothing to worry about. He will believe me. I’ll twist him around my little finger, you’ll see. It’s going to turn out just the way we want.’

  CHAPTER 12

  The Party

  THE AIR FELT heavy; dark clouds blanketed the sky and covered the full moon. It was a stormy night and a sudden change of temperature had softened the ice and melted the snow into a slush. The heavens rumbled ominously. There was no wind: the trees stood pensively as Muchmarsh slept under the hood of darkness, though a mewling baby broke the qui
etness from its cot in a cottage and farmer Solomon awoke with a coughing fit. A rag-tailed fox, stalking the empty lane, blinked up to the farmhouse; the sky rumbled again.

  The splattered marble fireplace in the drawing room, with its aging and bequeathed plushness, was full with burning logs that popped and crackled and threw their cherry redness about the place from behind the fireguard. It was pleasantly warm. A hearty guffaw from the drawing room was dampened as the first thunderclap bellowed its arrival; a mighty vociferation that sent cats scurrying behind dustbins and other animals deeper into the earth to their lairs and burrows.

  ‘—and then I said to him, in no uncertain terms, if you don’t get your backside out of that door, I’ll take it out for you.’ A round of laughter filled the room. ‘And I haven’t seen the ridiculous fellow since,’ chuckled Theodore and he looked smug as there were more happy smiles. Then a pause was created by all: taking a sip of brandy or a swallow of fortified wine, or warming their toes by the fire, suddenly finding the chandelier of immense interest or perhaps a sudden lapse into thought to mull over the progression of the evening. But as quickly as they had fallen into silence, conversation sprang into life again and a mumble of voices from the party guests grew to a babble.

  ‘Not quite like that,’ Mr. Parsley was saying, ‘but more like this.’ He put two fingers to his head and waggled them. ‘It was a queer thing to watch, I can tell you, and then this other fellow dressed in purple appeared and came up behind him with a sprig of holly and – what was it now? Ah yes, a knife and fork and some rope and he says, “a sprout of holly to beat him, a knife and fork to eat him. Tie you up with string till you appear next spring.” Most peculiar it was. They call it the Oak Leaf Day Ceremony.’

  ‘It sounds right strange, I agree. But where does the oak leaf come into it?’ enquired Mr. Taper.

  ‘I wish you could tell me. I asked this oldish chap and he says the custom has been going on every year for as long as he can remember, and his father before him. He reckons it’s pagan.’