Short Stories, Crimes, Cults and Curious Cats

by Jonathan Day

face had been peppered by shot.

  The cool control of the martial arts expert went out of the stained-glass window and she was after Densel Kaynam before he could escape through an outer door. Bringing him down with a rugby tackle, she snatched off his cassock hood with the intention of laying into him like a demented fury. The fact that Tweet recognised his face from some newscast or other meant nothing. By the time she had finished, even his trophy wife wouldn't recognise him.

  As serious injury was about to be inflicted, a breathless DI Bolton shouted, ‘Pack it up Sparrow! We want him alive!’

  Before he could catch his breath and launch into a tirade about reckless insubordination, the sight of her face stopped him dead. ‘My God! What happened to you?’ He pulled his DS off the cult leader and beckoned another officer over to arrest him. ‘You don't believe in doing anything by halves, do you?’

  ‘If I hadn't come in when I did they would have killed that kid!’

  ‘I know. We all saw the feed from the drone. Don't mean you're off the hook for disobeying orders though.’

  Tweet was beyond caring. She pointed to the cabinet of reliquaries. ‘You'll find Matthew over there.’

  Tweet was persuaded to stay with Manny Coleridge in County Hall, ostensibly to avoid the public being exposed to the sight of her face after the shot had been surgically removed, when it was actually to keep her away from the cult suspects: Densel Kaynam had already made a complaint against the fury from Hades who had attacked him. The fact he had just shot Tweet should have proved a reasonable defence, but Maurice Bolton knew better than to count on it when dealing with the rich and powerful. His efforts to persuade the prosecution not to call her to give evidence backfired and he was removed from the investigation as well, which was handed to a more senior officer. Tweet could well imagine the furious buzzing his wife had to listen to that evening.

  It may have been intended as consolation when Manny Coleridge invited DI Bolton and DS Sparrow to lunch at an expensive hotel. The surroundings in the huge marquee by the lake were idyllic, the food delicious, and arrival of two unexpected guests would have been intriguing if the detectives were not still stewing resentfully at being marginalised in the crime of the year.

  Manny Coleridge introduced them to an elegant, slightly built woman a few years younger than him.

  ‘This is Alice. She insisted on meeting the detectives responsible for arresting her brother's killer.’

  Tweet dropped her pastry fork. ‘Oh my God! Matthew's sister.’ Despite the discomfort it caused, her macerated features lit up. ‘Sorry about the face. It might be an improvement for all I know. The miserable bloke here is DI Bolton. We were going to toss up for who got into the interview room with Densel Kaynam first, but they took us off the case before we could put on the knuckledusters.’

  If Alice had been taken aback at the odd couple before her, she graciously did not show it. ‘We are so grateful you brought us closure. Now Matthew can rest in peace.’

  Tweet shuddered a little as she inexplicably imagined that the young man’s ghost was there with them. ‘We?’

  ‘My grandson particularly wanted to meet you, DS Sparrow. I think you have a lifelong admirer.’

  Only then was Tweet aware of the fair-featured young man smiling benignly at her face, which looked as though a manic woodpecker had attacked it.

  Incredibly, he seemed infatuated.

  Alice gently pushed the shy young man forward. ‘Here is my daughter’s son.’

  Tweet sat gawping until Maurice Bolton groaned under his breath, ‘Oh good grief, she's getting hormonal again.’

  ‘He works in cybercrime forensics,’ Alice explained.

  ‘And his name's Matthew, isn't it?’ Tweet suddenly announced.

  ‘Well yes.’ Matthew's grandmother cast an enquiring glance at Manny Coleridge.

  ‘I never said anything,’ he assured her.

  ‘How did you know?’

  ‘You wouldn't believe it,’ said Tweet, ‘because I'm not sure I do either.’

  Behold, the Face of God!

  Emily and Violet's new knickerbockers and overblouses with matching silk scarves, which announced their privileged status like pennants in the light Spring breeze, were guaranteed to attract the whistles and crude comments of street urchins as they pedalled sedately past.

  The day was too bright and balmy for the friends to be upset by such local riffraff envious of their expensive bicycles and aloof manner.

  The train would take them well away from all this to the quiet hamlet of Violet's maiden aunt where they could explore the twisting lanes and byways of the peaceful countryside. Ideally they should have been chaperoned but, at the ages of 18, were deemed to be sensible and safe enough in each other's company during daylight.

  Emily and Violet were very prim and proper young ladies, educated in the best finishing school where they had learnt to avoid ideas that challenged the strict hierarchy and protocols of their upbringing. If the hedgehogs or badgers in the countryside had subversive points of view, they would only come out at night to air them. Embroidery, setting banquet menus, and finding suitable husbands were the aspirations expected of these young women.

  The light midday meal prepared by Aunt Henrietta’s cook restored their energy sufficiently for a few hours cycling before the carriage Emily's father was sending arrived to collect them. They had to avoid the home-commuting workers on the returning train at all costs. Such close proximity to the lower orders, if only on the platform before boarding a first-class carriage, was not desirable.

  The cowslips were just passing their best and red squirrels busy raising young in newly constructed dreys as the Spring sunshine cast a crisp radiance over the patchwork of fields, copses and country lanes. The ground was firm and the newfangled pneumatic tyres of their bicycles absorbed the jolts from the ruts iron-wheeled wagons had made. The piles of horse dung did cause Emily and Violet to swerve once or twice, but they had been braced to encounter such unpleasant inconveniences.

  The peasants labouring in the fields could barely be seen over the hedgerows, and their bantering was far away. The girls could have gone on cycling for miles without encountering a living soul.

  Then the rough track suddenly dipped.

  Emily managed to freewheel down the slope without mishap, but the front wheel of Violet's bicycle struck a large stone and she was catapulted over her handlebars. Emily immediately dismounted and dashed to her friend who was furious that better care had not been taken of the narrow thoroughfare. The wheel of her bicycle was buckled beyond remedy and the fact that they were miles from any sensible, civilised hamlet compounded their predicament.

  ‘Oh my goodness, Violet! We will have to walk now.’

  ‘You could cycle back and send assistance.’

  ‘Goodness no! We must stay together. Your Papa would never forgive me if I left you here. Can you stand?’

  As Violet was helped to her feet she realised that her ankle had been sprained. There was nothing else for it - Emily would have to summon help from the peasants weeding spring crops.

  Satisfied that her friend was comfortable, sitting on the grassy verge, she went to a nearby stile which gave access to the fields beyond the hedgerow.

  Before Emily could climb over it a strange woman walked up the track towards them. She was dressed in a patchwork over-gown and wore a brimmed hat crowned with pheasant tail feathers. She had to be a witch or herbalist. At that moment it hardly mattered as long as she could help them.

  ‘Can you assist us, my good woman?’ Violet demanded haughtily.

  ‘What? Me?’ The older woman's eyes were filled with mischief. ‘I'm no good woman, so can't be sure.’

  ‘If you cannot supply a bandage for my ankle, could you at least summon help,’ the young woman ordered.

  Emily realised that Violet's high-handed manner was getting nowhere. ‘We are rather stuck here, and would greatly appreciate any help you could offer. We will naturally ensure that you are recompe
nsed for your trouble.’

  The eccentric woman scratched her weather-beaten chin. ‘Now you seem like the one with manners.’

  ‘Oh really!’ Violet's response to such insolence was heartfelt. ‘I'm sure one of those peasants would be far more helpful!’

  ‘You could ask them, but out here they might not speak the same language.’

  Emily giggled.

  Violet glowered.

  The woman viewed the friends too objectively for comfort. ‘Now here's an odd thing. Two young ladies with the same privileged upbringing - should be like peas in a pod, yet one of them turned out to be a maggot.’

  ‘How dare you!’ screeched Violet.

  Emily tried to calm her friend. ‘The lady is only joking.’ She turned to the stranger. ‘My friend’s name is Violet, and I am Emily.’

  ‘My name’s Hecuba – but call me Hetty.’

  ‘Please, Hetty, are you sure you cannot do anything about Violet's ankle?’

  ‘Probably. If we can get her to my home it can be bandaged.’

  ‘How far is it?’

  ‘If you wheel her there on your bicycle it shouldn't take too long.’

  ‘No,’ protested Violet. ‘I forbid it.’

  ‘There is nothing else we can do,’ Emily insisted. ‘Do you really want me to call someone from the fields over to carry you?’

  Violet had no choice. Her ruined bicycle left by the verge, they made their laborious way along the track to a gap in the trees. As they reached it the two young women stopped in amazement. They were looking down into a