Riddles 29

 

By the Riddler

The Riddler has two puzzles for us today:

 

No 1.  Which 3 of the following numbers add up to 20?   9, 7, 11, 15, 3, 13, 12, 5. 

 

No 2. Solve the code below.  You are close:

OFBSCZ?

 

Keep em coming Riddler

 

 

Revenge is best served cold

By Barbara Thomas 

Many years ago, it came to my attention that a certain person was

spreading untruths about me.

For several weeks I searched the High street looking at faces hoping to see her and confront her but I gave up the search after a few weeks.

 

Several months later my friends and I were meeting up to go on a day trip by coach.

As I was chatting a lady came up to me and said “do I know you your face is familiar.”

My reply was as follows.

“Well yes, you should know me as for months you have been spreading untruths about me.”

She took a step back looking shocked, then all of a sudden recognition as to where she had seen me.

My words to her was,” You know nothing about me so in future don’t you dare discuss me or mine otherwise I will definitely be looking for you.”

She looked like she wanted to melt into the ground, her friends were staring at her in disbelief.

With this I walked away.

This women’s coach arrived and she made sure she was the first on the coach and couldn’t get in quick enough, job done!

As luck had it the woman was going

on a different coach trip.

 

I happened to look up to see my friend running across the car park, looking very flustered.

Apparently she had just realised

the person I had been looking for months ago was also going on a coach trip at the same time and would be meeting up with her friends.

I laughed and told my friend everything was ok I had dealt with the situation.

Revenge is better served cold.

 

Copyright Barbara Thomas

 

GUSTAVE (Part 5 & Last)

 GUSTAVE     (Part 5 & Last)

 by Richard Banks        

The consolation of many an irksome journey is to return to the familiar comforts of home and family; in this no man can be more fortunate than myself. It was while sitting in the conservatory after dinner, a cigar not long lit, that Helen remembered to give me a letter which had arrived in the morning post. Finding it to be postmarked Penrith I opened it with a trepidation that rapidly shifted to horrified disbelief. It was, no less, a letter from Gustave. Dated several days before his death I can do no better than to bring it into this narrative, word to word, as it was written:

 

‘Dear Richard,

      Our friendship was my first and last. Only you, it seemed, had time for the impoverished little Saxon who, like yourself, was scraping a living at Shadlows. We shared the drudgery of that place and also the after hours delights of the tavern and music hall. You were my passport into that other world of pleasure, your manly bearing and easy manners so often attracting the attention of the ladies, jolly East-end girls who after a few drinks were always up for a lark, girls like Dot and Ethel. Do you remember them? I’m sure you do, especially after meeting them again at my funeral. What a reminder they must have been of your wild bachelor days.

      What would your friends in polite society say if they knew? Would they continue to be the true friends you thought them to be, the true friend I thought you were until you left Shadlow’s and abandoned me, no more to be seen in our familiar haunts, nothing said about your change of address, no letter of explanation or goodbye. 

      You were going up in the world and I was no longer good enough, an embarrassment, someone not even to be acknowledged when we passed each other in the Strand. Betrayal! There is no better word, none more appropriate, and I have spent many an hour contemplating my revenge. Best served cold so they say, so I held off, until you were married, had children, and then even longer until your much predicted elevation to the board room. The higher the man the heavier the fall, and oh what a tumble it was going to be when I struck you down. But now I can wait no longer and my funeral must be the scene of your undoing, your embarrassing disgrace. I only wish I could have been made to sit up in my coffin as you hovered over me, but the things I have planned will, I’m sure, have been well done by the persons well paid to do them.

      And now there are consequences to face. Your penance has only just begun! 

Remember me always,

Gustave.’

 

          Never have I received a letter triggering such a tumult of emotions: guilt, yes I did feel guilt over my dropping of Gustave, embarrassment at youthful indiscretions, anger at being tricked and humiliated, and fear of things yet to happen. But surely it was over now, despite the veiled threat in Gustave’s letter. Had I not suffered enough? Of course it was over. He was dead and buried, what else could he do? The Countess might write a letter of complaint to the bank but then did she  realise who I was when I was so unclear and confused and she less than fluent in her English. Anyway, I was there in a private capacity and any letter would surely be sent to myself. No need for any one else to known. I was in my ‘castle’ now, everything back to normal, the way it would continue until my next promotion when we would move into one of those new villas bordering the golf course. Yes, that’s how it would be.

         I sleep well, too tired to do anything else. The new day is a Sunday, nothing much happens on a Sunday, and what does happen is as predictable and reassuring as the rising of the sun. Helen and me do our own rising at nine, the girls are already playing noisily in their bedroom. We breakfast in our dressing gowns at half past, after which we ready ourselves for church.

         One sees the best of people at church on a Sunday, everyone in their best clothes, on their best behaviour, trying not to fall asleep when the sermon is overlong and obscure. The sun shines brightly through the stain glass windows and when we finally emerge into the fresh air we know it is with the vicar’s end of service blessing. We exchange pleasantries with him in the porch and I give him a donations envelope containing a five pound note for the restoration fund.

         Am I trying to buy the Good Lord’s favour? If so, will five pounds be enough? But then should I need to? I have done nothing wrong, indeed it is me who has been wronged. If only Gustave was still alive! What a thrashing I would give him! But these are not appropriate thoughts for a Sunday and after an excellent lunch I am as untroubled as the day which continues on like a meandering stream: games and stories with the children, Sunday tea, the children to bed and the quiet eve tide companionship of the woman I love and always will. I’m tempted to say so, but don’t. True feelings are felt, no need for words.

         Monday begins as usual with the shrill ringing of my alarm clock. For the first time since March it is more dark than night, but no matter, by the time I’m on my way to the station it is as light as any overcast day is likely to be. I arrive at the bank ten minutes early as is my practice. If a man can’t be punctual he’s unlikely to be good for anything else. My staff know this and are never late without good reason.

         I mean this branch to be a model of efficiency, a shining example to all those in London and beyond. Old Jessop will be retiring in three years. Could it be that I will be promoted in his place. No one has ever risen from Assistant to Branch Manager in as little as three years, but then no one intends to be more deserving than myself. I seek out Dawkins, the Chief Clerk, to find out what has been happening in my absence and, ten minutes before opening, inspect the cashiers to ensure they are appropriately attired. Jackson appears not to have shaven that day. He denies this but I suspect the last time he used a razor was the previous evening. This is not good enough I tell him. I send him to the wash room where I have made available various toiletries, including a razor and a stick of shaving cream. Jackson returns to his position as Second Cashier, the doors are opened and the first customer enters. I observe the transaction and retire to my room where I make a start on my in-tray. At half nine Jessop puts his head around the door and asks me, “how it went.” I tell him it went well, a funeral grander than most, but nevertheless just a funeral, nothing much to report.

         “Did you get to speak to the Countess?”

         I assure him that I did.

         “And?”

         “She was most gracious,” I say, “but, of course, there was no business spoken.”

         “Quite so. I’ll report what you say to head office. Anything else I should know?”

         I smile and shake my head. “No, nothing that comes to mind.”

         At a quarter past twelve I’m nearly through to lunch. Any letter of complaint to the bank posted on the Friday or Saturday will surely be through the post room by now. If one is not received by closing time I will probably be in the clear.

         At half past twelve I go to lunch. At twenty minutes past one I return, and everything is changed. Jessop is standing stony faced in my office. We have both been summoned to head office in Threadneedle Street.

         “What for?” I ask.

         “What for!” he croaks, bristling with rage. “What for! You’ll soon be finding out what for.”

         We depart in a hansom cab leaving the inexperienced Dawkins in charge with instructions to do nothing he’s not sure about until Jessup’s return. My return is not mentioned. This is not looking good. We are admitted to the board room where the Managing Director, Secretary and three board members appear to be engaged in a competition to make the angriest face. The bank has received a letter from her ladyship complaining about my conduct at the funeral which, she says, has not only sullied the reputation of the bank but is an affront to all civilised standards of behaviour. Not only was I intoxicated at Mr Von Wern’s funeral but I also consorted with several lewd women who, in addition to their other indiscretions, had gained unauthorised access to the corpse. The Countess could hardly believe that such a man could be a senior employee of an organisation she had previously understood to be both reputable and trustworthy. She therefore had no hesitation in closing all the Von Wern accounts with the bank that were under her control. Indeed she was also considering with her legal advisers whether prosecutions should be brought against myself and the bank with regard to possible violations of the criminal and civil laws. Any observations the bank was minded to make should, the letter says, be addressed to Walpole and Bamford of Lincoln Inn Fields.

         The Director finishes the ‘indictment’ and, red faced with rage asks me if I have anything to say. Indeed there is much that could be said, but if her ladyship considers me to be a disgrace to the human race, who am I, many places down the social scale, to say otherwise. Anyway, who is going to believe me if I say that Brownlow made me drunk without me knowing, especially as he would deny this and in all likelihood give further testimony against me. I return to Holborn to clear my desk and from there catch the train home, my career in banking at an end.

         How am I to explain all this to Helen? ‘Dismissed from the bank,’ she would say. ‘What have you done to deserve that?’ And I would have to tell her the full story which I should have done two days before. We had an understanding, a pact, that there should be no secrets; she was my confessor and I hers. Where there was truth and openness there would always be trust and forgiveness. That is what we promised each other and, not for the first time, I had fallen short. Why confess a sin when it might not be noticed had become my axiom, and now I had been caught out, the allegations against me seeming all the more credible for my silence. Nevertheless, I determined to now tell her every humiliating detail and let her be the judge of me.

         I arrived home to find the house strangely quiet. It was not until I had changed into my parlour clothes that I realised I was not alone. Half way down the stairs there was a movement below followed by a sob. It was Helen seated at the dining room table, dabbing with her handkerchief at a tear stained face.

         “What’s wrong?” I asked, the disaster of my day suddenly unimportant. She gave no answer, but picking-up a large brown envelope tossed it across the table at me. I sat down and pulled from it twelve photographs taken at that strange dinner before Gustave’s funeral, photographs of the low company I was in, of the unseemly contest for vegetables, and photographs of me being no better than them gathering my dinner from the tablecloth. Worse were those showing the lack of distance between Dot and me and of her arm out of sight below the table top into a space occupied by myself. The intoxicated appearance of Ethel, with and without bottle, also needed careful explanation, but the photograph of me hauling her up from the floor in what appeared to be a passionate embrace seemed incapable of any other explanation. 

         “But there was no photographer there,” I stammered foolishly. “How can there be photographs without a photographer?”

         “What does it matter who took them and how, you silly, deceitful man; they are of you, you with those awful, dreadful people, together in the kitchen of a common lodging house or some other low place.”

         “No, no,” I protested, “not so, these people were at dinner with me at Whinfell Castle.”

         For the first and only time I heard Helen give vent to bitter recrimination. “Whinfell Castle? These people were guests at Whinfell Castle? Do you take me for a fool! They would not be allowed within sight of Whinfell Castle. They are libertines like yourself and common whores. You think I don’t know that such women exist, about the infections they have, which you might catch and pass on to me and our children. Yet there you are, one to your left, another to your right. Are you mad, am I not enough for you, your wedded wife, the mother of your children? No! don’t say a word, no more lies, it’s over, no more you and me, just hear you this….”        

         I could have made her stay. She would not have gone without the children and over them the law gave me legal custody. But had I enforced my legal right our marriage would have continued only in name, our happy accord gone, replaced by distrust and bitter resentment. She left that afternoon, with the girls, in a hansom cab returning to her parents’ home three miles away.

         Her father brings the girls to me every other Saturday. In desperation I tell him what happened, every detail, leaving nothing out.  He sighs and blows out his cheeks, he believes not a word. “Take my advice, son. When you’re found out the best thing is to confess all and beg forgiveness. Get down on one knee like you did when you proposed. Play the penitent, the prodigal returned. Say it will never happen again, and say it like you mean it. That usually works first time around. Now, first off, write a sensible sort of letter and send it in an envelope addressed to me. I’ll make sure she reads it, although what she will do or say I have no idea. Young women now, who can guess them. Too many novels and not enough needlework if you ask me. And they call it progress.”

 

                                               *****

         So Gustave, you have had your revenge. A revenge after death is a very hollow triumph for I feel sure you have not been savouring your ‘triumph’ from up high. However, if somehow, you are still a witness to events on Earth I want you to know you have not won. The future belongs to me, not you, and I will make it even better than before. Keep watching, Gustave, while I win back my wife and children, keep watching as I build a new career in insurance. Unlike you I may never have great wealth but what I once had, I will have again, and value all the more. No one will be happier and more blessed than myself, and for that, Gustave, I will remember you forever in my thoughts and prayers. Thank you for this day, and every day to come.

 

The End

 

Copyright Richard Banks 

 

  

 A Fantasy Nightmare

By Jane Goodhew

The snow crackled as I made the first footprints into what looked like winter wonderland and wandered around the lakes to the house on the other side of the hill.  It was so beautiful, the snow was frozen onto the trees and the icicles hung like large diamond earrings or over excessive glitter on a Christmas card.  Blue skies and a bright sun that reflected its rays on everything it touched meant that it did not appear to be cold even though it was minus 14.5 degrees.  It was magical and my mind began to wander and imagine all sorts of things not the usual Santa on his sleigh with his elves helping but of people from the past who had long gone; of mythical creatures that flew through the air and then skimmed across the ice to see if there were fish below.

So jumbled were my thoughts and changing so rapidly that I was not paying attention to what was really around me until thud I landed and banged my head on a jagged rock that was projecting out from the side of the hill.  When I came too I really thought I must still be dreaming as I was in a house and not one I recognised and several vertically challenged men were staring at me as if I had grown two heads like something out of a Greek or Roman Myth.  It was the seven dwarves from Sleeping Beauty and behind them was the three bears and yes Goldilocks.   I had entered into the land of make believe, all I needed now was Alice from Wonderland to appear.

As if by magic she did and smiled as if to say I know how you feel I have also been there is a dream but this was no dream it was real.  I could see them, hear them and feel them as they tended to my needs, fed me chicken soup and tucked me up in their small bed.  The fire glowed bright and warmed me as I felt sleepy and closed my eyes again and hoped that when I opened them I would be back home and this would have been nothing more than a strange fantasy after reading my children fairy tales and watching sentimental films.

The darkness took over and I slept like a baby well until the morning when I could hear the birds singing but not ordinary tweet tweet or chirping but in time to ‘I know you; you walked with me upon a dream’.  Beautiful sweet songs which filled my heart with happiness but as in my own world it was short lived.  A loud cackle came from the kitchen and a wizened old woman bent and haggard looking hobbled over with as you guessed an apple in her hand.  This really was too much how on earth could anyone be expected to endure so many jumbled stories rolled into one’s nightmare which this was becoming impossible to imagine let alone believe.  She looked at me through her beady eyes which reminded me of an eagle about to dive at it’s prey and she stepped forward, almost glided, her feet made no sound and before you knew it she was bending down over me her hand outstretched with an apple perched upon it.

                                                       

 ‘Manger, manger’ she kept saying, why was she speaking French, I was not in France or any French speaking country.  Then I remembered my first Mother-in-law forcing me to eat chicken curry which I would have enjoyed had she given me the breast meat but instead she gave me the bones of the carcass! Why was I thinking of her now, she had been dead for years and I can’t pretend to have missed her and anyway that was in Mauritius and I was not there.  Come to think of it I am not so sure that I am anywhere I seem to have lost the plot and the will to go on.

The sun moved around and was no longer shining in through the window so I could see the outline of a face, of one I recognised from the present time, not from years long gone.    It was my old friend and walking companion who must have come to save me.  I tried to sit up, to wave my hand, to call out but nothing, no movement, no sound, just stillness and the old hag staring.  My friend had not seen me and for reasons best be known to her did not bother to knock or ask if anyone had seen me.  I had been overlooked, deserted, stranded in this living world of fantasy.

 

     Copyright Jane Goodhew                                                         

GUSTAVE  (Part 4 of 5) 

By Richard Banks 

There is little that can be said in favour of night sitting a corpse in a cold dungeon with rats, even less when you are also in the presence of ghosts. There were several, and although they were only visible through flickering shadows on the walls and ceilings they were most loud in their lamentations. They evidently had much to complain about but apart from the occasional uttering of words such as ‘death’ and ‘oh no’ their ability to communicate their displeasure was limited to their vociferous wailing and sharp blasts of icy air. Reasoning that neither noise nor air was going to do me any actual harm I resolutely persisted with my night sitting duties while singing ‘Onward Christian Soldiers’ in the hope that this would be agreeable to those who had once been fighting men. Whether it was the song or my rendition of it that displeased them only they will know but on my beginning the second verse the ear splitting shrieking of several voices caused such a commotion in the air that my hair stood up on end and could not be made to come down again for several weeks. Even so I persisted in my duties reciting the Lord’s Prayer under my breath in case that also met with their disapproval. Could I have continued so until sunrise and beyond? Spunk was needed and spunk I had, but nothing was going to fortify me against the shock of Gustave’s voice.

         “Richard, Richard why did you forsake me, I who was your friend, your ever faithful friend?” Did I see his lips move in the flickering light?  I did. At least I think I did, and in reaching out in terror for the bell rope and bringing it silently to the ground I also fell, losing all consciousness.

         I awoke to find myself lying on a couch, Brownlow looking down at me with grim expression. He had, he said, decided to look in on me at 3am and on finding me insensible but still breathing had me brought up into the house where, by pouring whisky down my throat through a funnel, he had managed to restore me to something resembling my usual self. On my standing, and finding my legs barely able to support me, Brownlow insisted I take another whisky which he assured me was the best treatment for shock outside Harley Street. After pacing me up and down he accompanied me up to my room where I made myself ready for the funeral taking place an hour later. Still far from steady on my feet and, fearing to sit or lay down in case I fell asleep, I decided to take the air outside in the hope that ‘normal service’ would soon be restored. It was while clinging to one of the Doric columns in the portico of the Grand Entrance that a carriage arrived bearing the first of the many rich and powerful persons paying their respects. On several other carriages also arriving I took a deep breath and followed those alighting into the ballroom where we were to gather before making the short walk to the family church.

         It was I admit an error of judgement to accept and then drink the sherry offered me but the sight of everyone else with glass in hand persuaded me that the example of so many eminent persons was not to be ignored.  Having done my duty by Gustave as far as rats and ghosts had allowed I now steeled myself to be the good ambassador of the bank by making the acquaintance of the Countess Sophy, heiress to Gustave’s fortune.

         It was a situation requiring the utmost tact and diplomacy. While conducting business at a funeral was a social faux pas unlikely to be forgiven, my mission was to convey the impression of a capable and trustworthy representative of Brysons whose mission it was to communicate their genuine and heartfelt condolences. If during our conversation I was to say that the Bank was ready to offer every help in her ‘hour of need’ this was as far as I could go. Clearly there was much to be gained or lost. But who among those present was the Countess Sophy? This I needed to know, and soon, before the number of people wishing to speak to her became too many. Fortunately Brownlow was back at my side solicitously enquiring after my health.

         “Fine,” I said, unconvincingly.

         “Fine?” he said, the look on his face suggesting that from where he was standing I was anything but ‘fine’. “I think you need a little pick me up, dear boy. Here take one of these. Slip it into your glass, let it dissolve and when you are feeling a little better I’ll introduce you to her ladyship. Having emptied my glass with a single, determined gulp I was not long in feeling its benefits. While my ability to walk and stand seemed much as before I was filled with a sensation of untroubled euphoria that seemed anything but appropriate to the solemn events going on around me. Nevertheless at Brownlow’s prompting I joined the throng of persons gathered about the Countess and on her becoming free Brownlow stepped in and almost pushed me towards her.

         I had long considered what I was to say, rehearsing every line and the correct cadence for the most important words. First, there must be my commiserations to her ladyship on the sad loss of such a valued family member followed by my sanguine, but solemn, recollections of Gustave’s many admiral qualities, after that a polite enquiry as to whether her ladyship would be remaining in the country and ending with mention of the bank. All this to be articulated in a well scripted cameo of a few minutes. What actually happened I am less than sure.

         Never get off to a bad start if you can help it, and help it I could not. There are many words to express grief but the only one I could bring to mind was ‘sorry’. I was sorry, the bank was sorry, Helen was sorry, indeed everyone I knew was sorry, even Mr Gladstone in Downing Street was sorry, how could anyone not be? Receiving no reply to my question I continued on to my heartfelt, tribute to the deceased. Having few recollections of him that seemed in any way suitable for the occasion I had decided to use a few phrases cribbed from a newspaper obituary of the great missionary and explorer, David Livingstone. This seemed to go better, although moving on to her ladyship’s forthcoming plans I may have inadvertently mentioned the Zambesi River. If so, this, no doubt, accounted for her assertion that she had no plans to visit that river or any other part of Africa.        She looked every bit as confused as I felt and, with two strong men taking a firm grip of me, I was swiftly removed from her presence. But then what did I care, the feeling of euphoria within me growing ever stronger. But as we approached the Neptune Fountain all became clear as the stone figures at its centre quit their rigid postures and turned to welcome me into their midst. I was Pontius returning with tribute from far off seas. Tossed into the water by my bearers, Jupiter and Zeus I wasted no time in wading out to the deities waiting for me in the middle. I was a god among gods but not for long, and on finding myself cold, wet and disappointingly mortal again I also became aware of the singing of hymns in church. Determined to salvage what I could from my unfortunate audience with her ladyship I decided to seize the moment and come to her attention in a more favourable light.

         How I thought I would be allowed into the church soaked to the skin and covered in pond life I can only attribute to the fact that I was still not looking at the world through the prism of sound reason. Nevertheless I was not beaten yet and finding a clear glass window near the front of the nave I peered in, following the service as best I could, lustily singing the hymns and ready to cheer the corpse as it was carried out of the church. Unfortunately, or so it seemed at the time, I was interrupted by the same two men as before, who this time locked me in a shed. The shed had a window through which I watched the coffin taken away in a four horse hearse and the guests return to the ballroom for lunch. Mid afternoon a long line of carriages arrived for their well heeled owners and, once they were safely out of sight, a charabang trundled up and after disappearing around the back of the house returned a few minutes later with my fellow diners on board, including Dot and Ethel.

         It seemed I had been forgotten until, with the sun low in the sky, the door jolted open and I was reunited with my belongings by a liveried servant who told me his instructions were to escort me to the main gate and set me on the road to Penrith. It was a long walk, a very long walk, and on missing the last train I slept on the platform until catching the 5.20 back to London.

 

(to be continued)

 

Copyright Richard Banks

 Love at first sight

By Jane Goodhew

Dark eyes, long lashes

Love at first sight

How could I resist

The gentle way she moved

The way she just accepted her fate

And on their first date

Fell pregnant with a wild and unmanageable child

The first of several who skipped through the grass

Until it was time for them to leave

But then my favourite one had a son

being a September birth

He was named Virgil

It was not a name that suited for he was a large and clumsy male

Who even when fully grown would run to his mum to be pampered and spoilt

She loved him so much she just gently obliged his every whim

But now he’s alone for dear Pixie died a tragic death and was taken unceremoniously legs in the air to her resting place.

The knackers yard

For my beloved Pixie was a cow but oh how I cried the day I heard she had died.

Copyright Jane Goodhew

Virgil and Pixie

GUSTAVE  (Part 3 of 5) 

By Richard Banks 

Ethel, otherwise known as Mrs Skinner, regarded me with a befuddled expression that suggested she had been imbibing too freely from a near empty bottle in her grasp.

         “Don’t you know us Dickie, it’s Dot and Ethel from the Empire, you know, the one in Hackney. Blimey, fancy meeting you again and in a stately home too. Got left some money did you? More than we have, but who’s complaining, this is the life, ten times better than that poxy ale house you and Gusie use to take us to after the show, you know the one, the Dog and something, with the upstairs room you could hire by the hour. What a lark it all was. So, what you up to now Dickie? You look quite the part in that suit, got it from a broker did you?”

         Dot took breath and awaited my reply; her hand dipping below the table top and settling on my knee. In an ideal, blameless world I would have said, ‘I am Mr Richard Thomas, Assistant Manager of the Holborn Branch of Bryson’s Bank, I have a respectable position in society, I am a member of the Herne Hill Rotary Club, my wife is the daughter of an Archdeacon, of course I don’t know you’, but even after twenty years I knew them only too well. Deciding that an indignant denial would likely bring forth a further raft of recollections I restricted my reply to saying how nice it was to see them again though regrettably in such sad circumstances.

         Dot, who was looking remarkably cheerful said she had been at livelier wakes but nevertheless there was plenty of booze and once everyone had warmed-up a bit she felt sure they would all give Gusie a send-off to remember.

         “No doubt he is looking down on us as we speak,” I said, glancing benignly at the ceiling. 

         Dot hastened to set me right.

         “Not much chance of that, Dickie, he only came out of the ice house this morning. Right now he’s thawing out in the greenhouse.

         “In the greenhouse?” I repeated.

         “Yeah, with the tomatoes and cucumbers. They had to do something to keep him from going off, well, he’s been dead over two weeks.”

         “Are you sure?” I asked, suddenly feeling the need for a steadying glass of wine.

         “Oh yes, dear. Had a front row seat. That’s why we’re here. You see Gusie had got the notion in his head that some German fellas were planning to kidnap him and put it about that he had died, when the stiff in the coffin was only someone who looked like him. How anyone was going to get away with that I’ll never know, but nonetheless that’s what the silly sod thought, so our job was to make sure it was him by searching his body for the marks on his body that most people don’t get round to seeing. Mind you, after all these years how was to be sure, never mind Ethel who can’t remember what happened the day before yesterday. Anyway, there was no turning down the fifty quid on offer, so up we came on the train and the two of us did the necessary after breakfast today, the easiest money we’ll ever earn.”

         “And it was definitely him?”

         “More than likely, dear. I certainly hope so, wouldn’t want to meet anyone else with a face like his. It wasn’t much to write home about twenty years ago, and dying ain’t improved it.”

         “Poor Gustave,” I said searching desperately for something to say in favour of his face. “He was not the happiest of men.”

         “You can say that again, face as long as a kite, even when he was plastered. Only time I saw him smile was when you and Ethel slipped over in the mud and nearly got run over by that tram. Do you remember that Ethel? You and Dickie arse over head in the Shoreditch Road. What did you say? Nothing. You just want to go to sleep. But they’re serving dinner soon. You don’t want to be missing that, there might be some more of that nice pheasant pie you liked. Wake her up, Dickie, before she slides down under the table. Quick now! Oh dear; never mind, all the more for us. So, what brings you here, Dickie, inherit the estate did you?”

         I replied that unfortunately that had gone to a family member living in Prague.  I was here in the capacity of Night Sitter and would be watching over the deceased from eleven o’clock that evening until nine in the morning.

         “Blimey, how much are they paying you for that? Hope it was more than what we got for the searching, that only took half an hour.” Dot peered short sightedly at the long case that was striking the hour. “Let’s hope they serve up the nosh soon or you won’t have time to eat it all. Be a pity to miss out, it’s a long time ’til breakfast.”

         The clock chimed for the ninth and last time, and as it fell silent the double doors of the dining room parted and two liveried servants entered pushing trolleys on which twelve lamb cutlets had been set out on what looked like the third best china. Having placed the cutlets in front of the diners and dishes of vegetable down the middle of the table, the servants departed with a rapidity that suggested they were not keen on remaining. The silence that greeted their entrance was now, on their departure, replaced by a loud and disorderly competition as to who could fill their plates with the most vegetables, those attempting to do so with spoons being less successful than those using one or more hands.

         A sharp tug on my trouser leg signalled that Ethel, sensing the arrival of food, was attempting to raise herself to the table by climbing up me in the manner of a mountaineer ascending a lofty peak. Feeling a vice like grip on my free knee and fearing where next Ethel might lay a hand I reached down and, grasping her beneath both arms, pulled her up onto her feet and from there back onto her chair where, wonderfully revived, she joined in the contest for the vegetables. Meanwhile Dot, successful in the overfilling of her plate, was now attempting to devour it all while disputing with her neighbour over the ownership of a potato that had rolled from her plate. The dispute settled in Dot’s favour her attention shifted to me and my plate containing only the lamb cutlet.

         “What’s wrong Dickie, ain’t you hungry? Come on now, dig in, it’s all free you know.”

         Salvaging a potato and several sprigs of cauliflower from the spillage of an overturned dish I did as I was bid while observing with horror the antics of my fellow diners. The main course finished the same two man servants re-entered with three large trifles and a pile of dishes which they abandoned mid table and fled. I did too, finding refuge in the smoking room where a housemaid discovered me, and at my request furnished me with both a coffee and a cigar.

         “Is Mr Brownlow about,” I asked. At nearly ten o’clock I was anxious to receive the final instructions I had been promised before taking up my station in the greenhouse or wherever Gustave had now been put. “Will you tell him please that I’m here and ready for our meeting, if it’s not too soon.”

         The maid departed and within minutes a polite knock on the open door heralded his entrance. On enquiring whether I had enjoyed dinner, and receiving the reply that I had eaten lightly but well, he handed me a schedule listing the actions I was to take and the exact time of their undertaking. Tweezers, he said, had been provided for the opening of his eyes but if I preferred to do so with my fingers I could do so safe in the knowledge that his face and other parts had been thoroughly cleansed with Port Sunlight soap. The operation of the stethoscope he assumed I was familiar with and must only be applied to his chest, while any sign of life was to be immediately signalled by the ringing of the servants’ bell. Otherwise I was expected to stay awake at all times and to protect the corpse from the molestations of the several rats known to frequent the basement room where the deceased now lay.

         The room, Brownlow continued, had once been one of the dudgeon cells and the rats were direct descendants of the ones that many centuries before had nibbled the extremities of noble prisoners, such as the black earl of Longwithy and Robert the Brusque. They were, therefore, distinguished rats to which no hurt should be inflicted beyond the occasional chastisement of a poorly aimed shoe. Instructions at an end we wiled away the time in the company of a good malt until at ten minutes to eleven we set-off by lantern light on the downward journey trod by so many, never to return. Thinking my misfortune was little compared to theirs I took up my position at the foot of the open coffin on a low backed chair of the hardest, roughest oak I never wish to sit on again. Brownlow lit the lantern in the room and after bidding me a cheery goodnight made his departure, closing the door behind him with a disheartening clang. 

(To be Continued)

 

Copyright Richard Banks