Daedalian Muse

by Jamie Crothall

“I’m not taking my pants off for this guy.”

  “Mr. Coaltree, please,” the young constable pleaded. “We are only asking you to show to him what you’ve shown us. He’s an investigator.”

  “With which branch?” the rough, middle-aged man asked, challenging the constable’s knowledge.

  “The...uh...the Mayor’s Office.”

  After mulling it over for a moment or two the reply seemed to satisfy Mr. Coaltree, if only slightly. “I suppose they patron the same tailor.”

  The young constable, an impeccable young man by the name of Richards, acted diplomatically, humouring Mr. Coaltree with a smile. He then turned to me as, behind him, Mr. Coaltree unbuckled his belt. “You will see the marks on his left thigh,” he explained, taking out a notebook to read over his jottings and observations. “Two long lashes, as well as a small prick...”

  “Hey!”

  The constable cleared his throat. “As well as a small pin-prick below the knee. The trousers that he wore at the time are available to you as well, if you require.”

  I had stood stoic, in the background, as Constable Richards convinced the construction worker to comply, but once my cue to go about my duty and been given I stepped forth. “Thank you, constable. A most valuable service you have provided. Now, Mr. Coaltree...”

  “Saul.”

  “Very kind,” I said, appreciating his offer of familiarity. “Saul, please describe what happened to you.”

  He sighed, exasperated. I’m sure he had to give this story several times. “As I told the constable, and the doctor, and the site supervisor, I was attempting to get a better look inside the Mews.”

  “For what purpose?” I asked as I reached into my leather case. I pulled out the Nonionizer - my own home-made and slightly enhanced version of a commercially-found meter, used to measure electric and magnetic fields, only it is scaled to indicate virtually any current in the entire nonionizing electromagnetic spectrum. It is also, I must add, a tool similar to those used by ghost hunters. I saw that Mr. Coaltree was somewhat daunted by this instrument, especially when standing with his trousers down. To waylay any uncertainty I simply repeated, “For what purpose, Mr. Coaltree?”

  “I’m a site surveyor for Fine Willow Landscaping,” he began. “We’ve been contracted by the council to assess the Mews, determine how much it would cost to clear the site, and how long it would take. At this rate it’s going to take yonks,” he scoffed. “I’m the second mug that’s been chased off by that bloody spirit, and that’s not including the lads we hired to carry our equipment.”

  He gave a boisterous laugh at the fate of the ‘lads’ that were sent before them like pawns, but his revelry was cut short as the meter began to give off a series of beeps and blips.

  “What does that mean?”

  “Nothing at all,” I said, putting it away. “So how did your work bring you into the remains?”

  “Well it didn’t, really. I mean, I didn’t know what all the fuss was about. I never believed in ghosts. Poppycock, the lot of it. So I took a break and decided to go inside, or as far inside as I could manage. There is only the western wing that really remains, and it’s almost inaccessible unless you want to do some harm to yourself.”

  “And did you harm yourself? While entering, that is?”

  Mr. Coaltree glanced up at me, his stern eye gazing upon me in a manner that made me appreciate the constable who stood behind me. “I’m not daft, lad. I didn’t do this to myself. Do you think this is the kind of attention I want?” he asked, bringing attention to the fact that his trousers were at his ankles in front of two grown men.

  “No, I do apologize,” I humbled myself. “It is not how I intended to phrase the question.” It was a lie, I confess. Sometimes the best way to uncover the truth is to provoke the subject.

  I studied him for a moment, and his surroundings. He was a gruff man who was probably not as old as he looked, mostly due to a life of hard labour. His white hair was overgrown and wiry, and equally white stubble patterned his face. His clothing was likely second hand, and he stood before a worn and stained armchair, which was likely the throne to his kingdom - a run-down terraced house. His wife, or so I assumed, kept herself in the kitchen and tried desperately (and poorly) to act as though she weren’t listening in on every word. I also saw a young woman, a girl in her late teens perhaps, cross the hall with a basket of washing.

  “Do you have any children, Saul?”

  “Cor, you must be joking,” he snapped. “Horrible things, they are.”

  “Married, are you?”

  “Aye,” he said with a sneer, “and it’s not by any lacking on my part that we have no children, so you can scratch that off your list.”

  I did not rise to the challenge or reply to his comment.

  “You may pull up your trousers, Mr. Coaltree.” He complied, muttering under his breath as he sat in his throne. I continued, “Any allergies? Any history of family illness?”

  “Well I don’t know if it’s relevant, but me father was once attacked by a poltergeist.”

  I glanced up at him. “Really?”

  “No, you flamin’ idiot, but I was!!”

  I drew in a deep sigh. This was going nowhere. Pulling up a chair from the nearby dinner table, I sat down across from him. “Okay, please explain what you saw. In detail.”

  Now he was happy, eager to get to the stories of ghosts and goblins. “Right, well I had finished up for the morning and was about to go down to Muncie’s for me tea. It’s a small café just across from the church. You really should go. They have...”

  “Yes, indeed, I am sure it is fine.”

  “Well anyway, I thought I’d go have a look and see what I could see. All these daft stories about ghosts, and then Murray from the company saying he was attacked...I wanted to prove them all as poofters. So I go towards the west wing of the wreckage and start peeking through the windows and holes. Well I see something, don’t I? What looks like a figure running through the gutted halls. Scared me for a moment, but then I thought that it was probably a bunch of kids playing. Well that’s when I feel it - like claws lashing at my skin, trying to drag me away. I panicked, but then it bit me,” he insisted, pointing to his leg with the scratches and pin-prick. “Again, could have been a wild animal of sorts, but when I turned back towards the west wing...” He trailed off, and this scoffing, sceptical man suddenly had the face and demeanour of a heretic who had just seen the face of God and was ready to repent. “The hag...” he said, and repeated it again at least twice.

  “A hag, Mr. Coaltree?”

  “A horrific face...not old...just....ghastly. Her face...it was as white as snow, her skin was wrinkled, torn, like a corpse. She glared at me with such hatred. She was right in front of me, on the other side of the old window. I swear my heart stopped. I fainted, I admit it. For a moment or two. I clamoured to get back to my feet, and as I did I felt a hand shove me, away from the wreckage. I didn’t argue and I ran, and it’ll be a cold day in Satan’s realm before I set a foot near that place again. A curse, she put on me. I fear that she’s here right now. She attacked me this very morning, she did.”

  This arose the interest of both myself and Constable Richards.

  “Really?” we both said in unison.

  “Aye,” he said, possibly coaxed by our mutual interest. “At the break of dawn she was waiting for me. Mavis ‘ere was in the kitchen, making me eggs as she always does on a Sunday, and when I woke I felt a presence holding me down. I couldn’t move a muscle, by God. It was as though my whole body was being held down, and I couldn’t even form the words I needed to call for help. I don’t remember what happened after that. Perhaps she knocked me unconscious. I woke a few minutes later.”

  Mr. Coaltree looked to the kitchen, where his wife stood in the doorway looking as though she had seen his very own tormenting ghost.

  “I didn’t want you to hear that,” he said to h
er, uncharacteristically sympathetic. He then glanced up at me and the constable. “I’ll never hear the end of it now,” he muttered.

  The girl with the washing basket emerged again for a moment, then quickly scurried off. No one took any notice.

  “Right, well, I think that is all of your time that I need to take,” I said, standing and holding out a hand to Mr. Coaltree. “I thank you for your co-operation with this investigation.”

  Somewhat rattled by the sudden end of this meeting, Mr. Coaltree stood, shook my hand, and glanced at the constable. “So what now?”

  “This is an ongoing matter,” Constable Richards said. “We will inform you if we need any further information. In the meantime, I would like to ask you and your good lady wife to notify us immediately if there is any change in your condition.” He then turned to me. “Is that suitable to you?”

  “Absolutely,” I replied.

  “What about the hag?” his wife, Mavis, had cried. “What if she really has followed us here? What if she comes back?”

  I shook my head and smiled as best as I could to comfort her. “My dear lady, there is little to no chance that she shall bother your husband again.”

  Distraught and clearly unhappy with my assurance, she began to wail and tremble, telling her husband that they’d have to stay at her mother’s. Mr. Coaltree did not seem to want to entertain the notion.

  “Can’t you do something?” he asked quite tersely. “You, a man of science, should know how to repel evil spirits.” He then added, with some finality, “Anything.”

  Of course I had a myriad of reasons why I should not have to humour his wife so, and drew back on my resolve to show my clients the truth, rather than satiate them with symbolic gestures, but in the moment and facing the pressure of a tearful wife and her impatient husband, I must admit that I resorted to my father’s tactics.

  “Here,” I said, rummaging through my leather bag. I withdrew a small stuffed object, sewn together with worn patches of multi-coloured but faded canvas. Mrs. Coaltree took it in the palm of her hand and examined the frayed threads. “It is an ancient artifact from the Maori Tribe, used to ward off evil spirits. Keep this by your bed, and I guarantee the hag will not return.”

  She sniffed, thanked me, then ran off to find a tissue while clutching the ‘artifact’. In gratitude, Mr. Coaltree gave me a nod and a short punch in the shoulder. I rubbed it, thanked him again for his time, and left the premises with the escort of the constable.

  “You seemed pretty confident that the hag will not return,” the young man said, leading me down the front path. “How can you be so sure?”

  “I’ve not yet sussed out what he saw at the Mews,” I admitted. “I plan to take my investigations there in the morning. However I can assure you that Mr. Coaltree was not visited by the same ghost this morning, though he was, ironically enough, visited by a hag.”

  “You mean his wife?” the constable said with a cheeky laugh. When he saw that I did not find such humour to be appropriate he cleared his throat and allowed me to continue.

  “It is an old wives tale,” I said, not allowing him the chance for another wry remark. “The Old Hag is a superstitious name given to a neurological state, where one is between the boundaries of waking and sleep and their perception blurs. Most commonly one finds themselves unable to move. It is somewhat of an unlikely occurrence, but more unlikely that anyone experiences it in such a vivid manner. It has, of course, given rise to many tales of the paranormal, the most common being that it is a ghostly old hag who pins you down and terrorizes you. I feel that it has much to do with the apparent abductions by aliens, where one feels unable to move and note a strange presence in their room. These hallucinations are produced by the fear one feels, no doubt. It is an amazing coincidence that Mr. Coaltree experienced such a rare phenomenon the morning after his ordeal, but I dare say that his own paranoia was likely to have educed the episode. Textbook, Constable Richards. Our Mr. Coaltree could be a perfect case study for any psychologist.”

  It took the young constable a few moments to gather all the information that I had just fed him. “So...what was the artifact that you just gave his wife?”

  “Hm? Oh that? It was a cat toy. It seems Aristotle hid it in my bag last night.”

  The young man chuckled, though I tried not to take pleasure in the deception I had laid. We had reached his patrol car, whereupon he asked me if I needed a lift anywhere. When I gave him the address of the Bed & Breakfast he seemed not that surprised.

  “Mrs. Tellman’s place? Well done, not a better stop in all of Greyfield. Is she still firmly in power, with only the occasional assistance from her children?” I nodded in response. “Justin and Nicolette,” he said, filling in a few blanks in the information I was missing. “I went to school with them. Their father died about five years ago, and Mrs Tellman has not been the same since. Probably for the best, really.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Well,” he said, his demeanour very candid, “let’s just say that Nicolette is hardly a stranger to the men of this town, and Justin...gay as anything, he is. Recently came back from a holiday in London, and probably turned tricks all over the city.”

  I immediately turned cold to the constable who, I had previously assumed, was a respectable and promising lad. “Well,” I scolded quietly, “if a lady’s character should be called into question just for befriending the men of the village then I question your standards. Alternately, if a young man of good spirits wishes to share his love of magic and the slight of hand with the rest of London then why must it be, to you, something worthy of criticism?”

  The car pulled up to Mrs. Tellman’s home. I got out of the patrol car, bid the constable good day, and left him to think about what I had said to him.

  CHAPTER FOUR