Post by J.Hollick on May 18, 2014 17:10:49 GMT -9
The sun was high in the sky when the soundly sleeping siblings finally emerged from their chambers, stretching and rubbing sleep from their eyes.
“Oh do we have to move on? Why can’t we just stay here? It’s so lovely, even if the garden is overgrown with weeds.” Jasmine said as she tore into a bit of salted fish.
“Please Jasmine, you are seventeen, at some point you must start gaining some common sense.” Theresa folded her nightdress back into her suitcase. Jasmine sat cross-legged on the bed and Theresa avoided informing her sister that the crotch of her hosiery had split open.
The door slammed behind them, driven by the wind and the three siblings were off, bundling together against Mother Nature as they shuffled forward.
They were well out of the city by midafternoon and stopped by the side of the road beneath a tree to eat their lunch. The wind had thankfully died down, unfortunately the sun had decided to peak out between the clouds and shine brightly down on the siblings in their pilgrimage. Instead of finding themselves covered in mud they found themselves sweating profusely, a most disagreeable state of being. Nevertheless they found an apple tree and, picking a handful each, settled down to enjoy the small sour fruit.
As they chomped noisily but otherwise in silence Theresa observed their surroundings. Carriages rolled by occasionally but gave no mind to the riff raff on the side of the road. Theresa had given up on feeling ashamed and instead looked to her younger sister. Jasmine was looking slightly red, perhaps from too much sun or perhaps it was the light yellow dress she was wearing accentuating her naturally flush face.
“Jasmine. That’s not your dress.”
Jasmine suddenly looked up into the branches of the tree, “I don’t know what you mean.” She stated simply, avoiding eye contact.
“I mean that’s not your dress. You stole it from Mrs. Hill didn’t you?”
“Papa bought this dress for me ages ago.”
“Papa never bought us anything.”
As the girls argued Charles sighed wearily and withdrew a small flask, taking a long swig of scotch.
“Theresa, please. She had so many dresses what makes you think she would miss this one. She had hundreds in her closet.”
Theresa, realizing they had already gone to far to even think of turning back and returning the dress sighed in defeat, “I suppose you’re right. She probably won’t miss one dress. And even if she does she won’t have a clue who took it.”
“Exactly. Oh Theresa you should have seen it. Her closet was the size of my bedroom back at Godhold Place. There were so many dresses in there you could easily take four or five and still she would not notice.” Theresa narrowed her eyes at her sister.
“Four or five?” She asked. Jasmine blushed in embarrassment as Theresa’s face darkened with anger. Her lips pursed and if she hadn’t already been covered in a rash she would have turned a bright beet red. She rose off the branch she had perched herself on, sputtering with anger but before she could let a word out Jasmine offered her only line of defense,
“Don’t be mad at me, I replaced them with my own old gowns just to make sure. Besides Charles stole three bottles of scotch and a whole box of those expensive cigars.” Charles paused midway through his second swig, closing his eyes and waiting for his sister’s anger to bear down upon him. But nothing happened. Theresa returned to her branch and began picking at the bark of the tree.
“I suppose we are all just a bunch of common thieves now.” She said, her anger gone and her voice quiet, “If only Papa and Mama could see us now.” Charles and Jasmine shared a look of curiosity before staring at Theresa. At first she ignored them but finally gave up, “Alright, alright. It’s just that, I’d never seen a book collection that extensive. I couldn’t help myself,” Both Jasmine and Charles looked disappointed that it had only been a stupid book that their eldest sister had stolen, “At least I only took one.” She finished, as if that fact exempted her from sin and would see her through the pearly gates.
The station was a bustle of activity as Inspector Wallace Wingham strode through, his eyes focused on the file in front of him, reading the report. He rubbed his eyes wearily as he sat down at his desk. His uniform was tight around his midriff, not having exactly the same figure as he once had as a youth, which was only a few pounds difference, and his buttons strained against the fabric, threatening to remove themselves in a violent burst of energy.
He settled down into his rough wooden chair and took a moment to slow his breathing from his brisk walk to work. He removed his domed hat from his head to wipe the sweat from his forehead and flipped to the next page, sniffling through his bulbous nose.
After an hour or so of his time was wasted pouring through the file he rose from his desk and headed to his captain’s office. Knocking he whistled and waited, rocking on the heels of his feet.
“Come in.” A gruff baritone voice called, muffled through the door.
Wingham swung the door open, turning his face from an expression of mild humour to a more stern tone.
“Good morning sir.”
“What is it Wingham?” Captain Cox asked without even looking up from the report he was filling out.
“Just thought I’d let you know I was on my way out sir. Heading over to the Hill Manor.”
“Ah, murder eh?”
“Ah, no sir. Robbery. I’ve been taken off homicide sir, three years ago.”
“Right. Well, good luck.”
Wingham was almost out the door when the Captain made the connection and Wingham grimaced instinctually, “Er, that wouldn’t be Mr. Harold Hill would it?” Wingham took a moment to roll his eyes in annoyance before twirling back to face the Captain, hands in his pockets and starting to sweat profusely,
“Yes sir. That would most definitely be Harold Hill and his wife. Apparently they returned from Paris last night to find their house had been ransacked.”
“Tough luck. Poor old boy that Harold, never seems to get ahead. Well, good luck Wingham. Do solve the case for me, my wife is rather good friends with Mrs. Hill and I really would hate to have to spend the rest of my life hearing my wife natter in my ear about how I could let that happen and how she can no longer feel safe in the city. You see, if my home life were to become a sort of living hell I could very well make your work life a living hell. You see how it works?”
“Yes, sir. I’ll do my best.” He shut the door before the Captain could say another word. Wingham left the station at a brisk pace, his chins jiggling with each step, eager to get an arrest so he could get the Captain off his back and go back to his deskwork.
“Oh come on. We’ve done it once before.” Charles urged as the siblings crouched in a group of bushes off the main road.
“Yes and it was out of sheer desperation.” Theresa whispered.
“We haven’t eaten all day and we have nowhere to sleep. I didn’t think it possible either but we are even more desperate than we were last night.” Charles said.
The house before them was a simple cottage home but they had been sitting outside it for the last couple hours and had not seen a soul come or go and now dusk had fallen and the house remained dark. Jasmine’s breath curled up before her in the night air and she shivered.
“Please Theresa. I’m so tired.”
“Oh very well,” Theresa said, breaking, “But we get up before sunrise and get the hell out of here before anyone possibly comes home.” Charles and Jasmine didn’t even notice her curse, they were too eager for food and a warm bed.
“Agreed. Now I say we leave our suitcases here so if we have to sprint we can at least grab them on the way.”
Theresa hid her surprise at her brother’s cleverness and set her suitcase down in the bushes, but not before opening it and removing the fire poker. Charles looked up at her in both amusement and awe. However it was when Jasmine removed the frying pan that his jaw completely dropped in unimpressed disbelief.
“Alright, alright,” Theresa gripped the fire poker in both hands, “Let’s get a move on.”
Charles closed his jaw and together the three of them walked through the wooden archway and up the path, both Theresa and Jasmine wielding their household weaponry like swords.
Charles tried the front door but found it locked. Circling the house they found all the windows barred and the back door locked as well.
“Well, looks like it’s the ground for us.” Charles said, preparing to head back to their bags and knowing that Theresa would never permit him to break into the cottage like he had the Hill Manor. Tears swelled in Jasmine’s eyes as she joined her brother when a loud shattering sounded behind them. The two turned around, Jasmine raising the frying pan and ready for a fight but all that stood before them was Theresa. She had swung the fire poker over her shoulder in defeat and upon doing so had effectively shattered the window to the wood room. Instead of the reprimand she was expecting however Charles and Jasmine only shrugged before Charles knocked away the glass from the bottom of the frame and leapt lightly through the window. Jasmine attempted to crawl in after him but only managed to get herself caught on her chubby midsection, her feet dangling and waving in the air above the ground as her flimsy arms struggled to lift her belly off the frame. Theresa waited patiently until, eventually, the lock on the door clicked and Charles swung it open, grinning merrily.
Together the two eldest siblings gave a hard tug on Jasmine’s arms and she came tumbling in to the wood room as both Charles and Theresa fell to the floor. Rising they quickly checked themselves for glass and removed any shards they found sticking to their garments, Charles took a moment longer than his sisters to remove the dust and un-crease his suit, which he failed to notice was of no effect. He did however notice the dirt under his fingernails and made his way into the cottage to find some instrument capable of handling such delicate work.
Very quickly the siblings had a fire crackling away in the fireplace. It was voted, by Theresa, that since she had cooked dinner the night before it was now Jasmine’s turn to come up with something. Jasmine disappeared into the kitchen while Charles elected for a nighttime stroll through the property. Grabbing a cigar from his pocket he disappeared out the back door. Theresa grabbed her book from her suitcase in the bushes and curled up beneath a blanket on the rocking chair before the fire.
Inspector Wallace Wingham stood gazing about the room, an incalculable amount of garments were strewn across the bed, draped over chairs and crumpled on the floor. In the closet only four or five gowns remained and they were raggedy, faded and twice Mrs. Hill’s size at that. He was doing his best to ignore the shrill rant that was currently escaping from Mrs. Hill’s mouth as he focused on profiling the thieves and searching for clues.
“We left the bedroom as we found it, so you might see what this filthy pillager has done to my beautiful gowns. My poor back, it so aches from that jolty carriage ride. I need nothing more than to lie down on my feather bed and rest my weary bones but I knew how important it would be to catching the thieves so I left it in this condition. I tried to sleep in the guest room but I’m afraid my body has grown accustomed to certain standards, certain levels of softness you could say and I really cannot seem to get any rest lying upon that lumpy old mattress we have put in there. Oh it does well enough for our guests, of course, but I’m afraid my derrière is,”
“Accustomed to a certain standard... Yes I know, you said as much two sentences earlier.” Wingham was doing his best to remain cordial but what he really needed right now was quiet, the chance to focus and observe and maybe more importantly than that, lunch. As if to reinforce the thought his stomach chose that moment to give a loud rumble and Mrs. Hill’s eyes widened in fright.
“Oh I am so sorry Mr. Wingham,”
“Uh, Inspector Wingham if you please.”
“Inspector Wingham. Here I am going on and on while you work and I’ve talked you right through lunchtime. I’ll just pop down to the kitchen and tell the girls to send you something up.” She slipped out the door and Wingham sighed and let his shoulders relax. Removing his handkerchief from his pocket he lifted his domed cap and dabbed the sweat from his brow, the upstairs being excessively balmy. He walked around the room once more before returning to the bottom of the stairs where a serving girl brought him a tray filled with pastries, cheese and fruit. The Hill’s came out to meet him at the door. Mrs. Hill, wearing her black dress looked as if she was attending a funeral and Mr. Hill beside her, a head shorter and wearing a tux with long tails and cuff links shaped like golden ram heads. He sniffled through his large nose, had no chin to speak of and had beady little black eyes. Wingham wondered for a second how such a small sniveling man could have ever managed to marry such a rare beauty as Mrs. Hill. Money. Wasn’t that the way of it! For a moment Inspector Wallace Wingham was flooded with jealousy. In his youth he dared to dream of marriage and of a family. Yet somehow, here he was, forty years old with very little prospects. While he had never had an issue with his weight it seemed to make him anything but attractive to the younger women he so desperately flirted with. His multiple chins, straining buttons and generally sweaty skin seemed to be the exact opposite of what they were looking for in a husband. And so time had passed, he had risen to an Inspector and had convinced himself he was happy. He stared now at this odd couple and forced himself to smile.
“So you say the only things missing are a few dresses, a book, a box of cigars and a few bottles of scotch?”
“Yes. But the book was extremely rare and the scotch aged to perfection. Please tell me you have a suspect in mind, I should like to think that I can sleep soundly knowing he is locked safely away, rotting in some cell somewhere.” Mr. Hill said, his voice high and quivering with rage.
“Of course, Mr. Hill,” Wingham talked between bites of cheese. It was a most delicious cheese, well-aged and strongly flavoured, “The chief inspector has assigned me only this case so that I may devote all my time to it,” He grabbed a vine of grapes and tipped his hat, “I promise you a formal report in the morning, and you can expect regular updates.” He backed his fat bottom out the door, spun on his heels and wobbled down the street, slurping up the round purple grapes and hoping the Hills would let him be and not pester him. It was true this was his only case but he had no leads to speak of, only the nagging suspicion that perhaps it had been a woman who had robbed them. It would explain the dresses; but not the cigars. Cigars were far too unladylike. With that train of thought his profiling changed, perhaps it was a man; after all, he had seen men prone to queerer notions than wearing a woman’s gown.
The property surrounding the cottage was peaceful and green. A forest stretched off to one side and a field full of crops to the other. Charles lit up his cigar and puffed happily as he strolled through the outbuildings, the moon filtering through the clouds lighting up the earth in a greenish pale glow. Hearing a ruckus he paused to investigate and found a hen house full of plump juicy hens. Charles’ mouth began to water at the mere sight of so many birds and so he decided to make it his mission to bring one of them to Jasmine to cook.
Slipping into the henhouse Charles surveyed the group of hens for the perfect one. Finally settling upon a particularly fat brown one he sauntered over only to have the hens instantly scatter. He paused a moment, becoming vaguely aware that this was not going to be as easy as he thought. He took another look around the dark henhouse and once again honed in on his hen. This time he hunkered down into a crouch and slowly crept forward. Once within arm’s reach he lashed his arms out like lightening, attempting to scoop the bird up. The bird dodged and the whole henhouse erupted into a shower of feathers and a large outburst of clucking. Charles swore vehemently before calming himself, selecting his hen and crouching down. Once again within arm’s reach he lashed out, felt the bird’s feathers against his hand, lost his balance and fell face first into the dirt and muck. Lifting his face up to glare at his enemy he spit out his now broken cigar. Picking himself up and brushing himself off he refused to admit defeat. This time there was no planning, no preparation and no pride. Stooping down he proceeded to run around the pen wildly until eventually one of the poor birds happened to jump and flap in the wrong direction and he closed his arms around it.
The door to the kitchen burst open, startling Jasmine who was in the process of cutting up fresh garden vegetables while humming softly to herself and dreaming up what sort of cosmetics she might be able to buy in the south.
There before Jasmine, covered from head to foot with dirt and chicken shit, grinning triumphantly, stood Charles clutching a franticly flapping fowl by the neck. Feathers fell like rain as it clucked and squawked and squirmed. He thrust the bird towards her and held it out. Jasmine waited, her eyes shifting about the room not quite sure what Charles wanted and Charles waited, having caught the chicken and now left to wonder why his sister hadn’t already turned it into a delicious tasting meal.
“Well Charles?” Jasmine asked.
“This is for you.” He said, thrusting it towards her again.
“And what am I supposed to do with a live chicken?” She asked as if the answer was obvious.
“Uh…Cook it so I can eat it?” He said, beginning to lose confidence in his accomplishment.
“I can’t cook it alive. It needs to be killed, and plucked.”
“How do I do that?”
“Go find an axe or something.”
Charles disappeared back out the door, slamming it behind him and Jasmine returned to her humming and cutting. When he returned the salad was already finished and half eaten by Theresa and Jasmine. Blood smeared his face and hands, he was heaving heavily and in one hand he held a bloody axe while the other held the leg of what at one point in time had been a live chicken but had now been brutally hacked upon and had been for the most part plucked, though a few stray feathers remained. He set it down roughly on the table before staring at each of his sisters, a dangerous gleam in his eye as he silently dared them to utter judgments and see what happened.
Theresa and Jasmine remained silent. Raising from their seats they quickly prepared a marinade and tossed the chicken over the fire. Almost an hour later they were sitting down before the fire to chew on the overcooked meat. Charles still had not said a word, nor cleaned the blood and dirt from his face and hands. Instead he sat there, staring intently into the fire and eating with his hands. He looked caught halfway between a savage with his bloody hands and mouth, and a gentleman in his top hat and coattails.
“Oh do we have to move on? Why can’t we just stay here? It’s so lovely, even if the garden is overgrown with weeds.” Jasmine said as she tore into a bit of salted fish.
“Please Jasmine, you are seventeen, at some point you must start gaining some common sense.” Theresa folded her nightdress back into her suitcase. Jasmine sat cross-legged on the bed and Theresa avoided informing her sister that the crotch of her hosiery had split open.
The door slammed behind them, driven by the wind and the three siblings were off, bundling together against Mother Nature as they shuffled forward.
They were well out of the city by midafternoon and stopped by the side of the road beneath a tree to eat their lunch. The wind had thankfully died down, unfortunately the sun had decided to peak out between the clouds and shine brightly down on the siblings in their pilgrimage. Instead of finding themselves covered in mud they found themselves sweating profusely, a most disagreeable state of being. Nevertheless they found an apple tree and, picking a handful each, settled down to enjoy the small sour fruit.
As they chomped noisily but otherwise in silence Theresa observed their surroundings. Carriages rolled by occasionally but gave no mind to the riff raff on the side of the road. Theresa had given up on feeling ashamed and instead looked to her younger sister. Jasmine was looking slightly red, perhaps from too much sun or perhaps it was the light yellow dress she was wearing accentuating her naturally flush face.
“Jasmine. That’s not your dress.”
Jasmine suddenly looked up into the branches of the tree, “I don’t know what you mean.” She stated simply, avoiding eye contact.
“I mean that’s not your dress. You stole it from Mrs. Hill didn’t you?”
“Papa bought this dress for me ages ago.”
“Papa never bought us anything.”
As the girls argued Charles sighed wearily and withdrew a small flask, taking a long swig of scotch.
“Theresa, please. She had so many dresses what makes you think she would miss this one. She had hundreds in her closet.”
Theresa, realizing they had already gone to far to even think of turning back and returning the dress sighed in defeat, “I suppose you’re right. She probably won’t miss one dress. And even if she does she won’t have a clue who took it.”
“Exactly. Oh Theresa you should have seen it. Her closet was the size of my bedroom back at Godhold Place. There were so many dresses in there you could easily take four or five and still she would not notice.” Theresa narrowed her eyes at her sister.
“Four or five?” She asked. Jasmine blushed in embarrassment as Theresa’s face darkened with anger. Her lips pursed and if she hadn’t already been covered in a rash she would have turned a bright beet red. She rose off the branch she had perched herself on, sputtering with anger but before she could let a word out Jasmine offered her only line of defense,
“Don’t be mad at me, I replaced them with my own old gowns just to make sure. Besides Charles stole three bottles of scotch and a whole box of those expensive cigars.” Charles paused midway through his second swig, closing his eyes and waiting for his sister’s anger to bear down upon him. But nothing happened. Theresa returned to her branch and began picking at the bark of the tree.
“I suppose we are all just a bunch of common thieves now.” She said, her anger gone and her voice quiet, “If only Papa and Mama could see us now.” Charles and Jasmine shared a look of curiosity before staring at Theresa. At first she ignored them but finally gave up, “Alright, alright. It’s just that, I’d never seen a book collection that extensive. I couldn’t help myself,” Both Jasmine and Charles looked disappointed that it had only been a stupid book that their eldest sister had stolen, “At least I only took one.” She finished, as if that fact exempted her from sin and would see her through the pearly gates.
The station was a bustle of activity as Inspector Wallace Wingham strode through, his eyes focused on the file in front of him, reading the report. He rubbed his eyes wearily as he sat down at his desk. His uniform was tight around his midriff, not having exactly the same figure as he once had as a youth, which was only a few pounds difference, and his buttons strained against the fabric, threatening to remove themselves in a violent burst of energy.
He settled down into his rough wooden chair and took a moment to slow his breathing from his brisk walk to work. He removed his domed hat from his head to wipe the sweat from his forehead and flipped to the next page, sniffling through his bulbous nose.
After an hour or so of his time was wasted pouring through the file he rose from his desk and headed to his captain’s office. Knocking he whistled and waited, rocking on the heels of his feet.
“Come in.” A gruff baritone voice called, muffled through the door.
Wingham swung the door open, turning his face from an expression of mild humour to a more stern tone.
“Good morning sir.”
“What is it Wingham?” Captain Cox asked without even looking up from the report he was filling out.
“Just thought I’d let you know I was on my way out sir. Heading over to the Hill Manor.”
“Ah, murder eh?”
“Ah, no sir. Robbery. I’ve been taken off homicide sir, three years ago.”
“Right. Well, good luck.”
Wingham was almost out the door when the Captain made the connection and Wingham grimaced instinctually, “Er, that wouldn’t be Mr. Harold Hill would it?” Wingham took a moment to roll his eyes in annoyance before twirling back to face the Captain, hands in his pockets and starting to sweat profusely,
“Yes sir. That would most definitely be Harold Hill and his wife. Apparently they returned from Paris last night to find their house had been ransacked.”
“Tough luck. Poor old boy that Harold, never seems to get ahead. Well, good luck Wingham. Do solve the case for me, my wife is rather good friends with Mrs. Hill and I really would hate to have to spend the rest of my life hearing my wife natter in my ear about how I could let that happen and how she can no longer feel safe in the city. You see, if my home life were to become a sort of living hell I could very well make your work life a living hell. You see how it works?”
“Yes, sir. I’ll do my best.” He shut the door before the Captain could say another word. Wingham left the station at a brisk pace, his chins jiggling with each step, eager to get an arrest so he could get the Captain off his back and go back to his deskwork.
“Oh come on. We’ve done it once before.” Charles urged as the siblings crouched in a group of bushes off the main road.
“Yes and it was out of sheer desperation.” Theresa whispered.
“We haven’t eaten all day and we have nowhere to sleep. I didn’t think it possible either but we are even more desperate than we were last night.” Charles said.
The house before them was a simple cottage home but they had been sitting outside it for the last couple hours and had not seen a soul come or go and now dusk had fallen and the house remained dark. Jasmine’s breath curled up before her in the night air and she shivered.
“Please Theresa. I’m so tired.”
“Oh very well,” Theresa said, breaking, “But we get up before sunrise and get the hell out of here before anyone possibly comes home.” Charles and Jasmine didn’t even notice her curse, they were too eager for food and a warm bed.
“Agreed. Now I say we leave our suitcases here so if we have to sprint we can at least grab them on the way.”
Theresa hid her surprise at her brother’s cleverness and set her suitcase down in the bushes, but not before opening it and removing the fire poker. Charles looked up at her in both amusement and awe. However it was when Jasmine removed the frying pan that his jaw completely dropped in unimpressed disbelief.
“Alright, alright,” Theresa gripped the fire poker in both hands, “Let’s get a move on.”
Charles closed his jaw and together the three of them walked through the wooden archway and up the path, both Theresa and Jasmine wielding their household weaponry like swords.
Charles tried the front door but found it locked. Circling the house they found all the windows barred and the back door locked as well.
“Well, looks like it’s the ground for us.” Charles said, preparing to head back to their bags and knowing that Theresa would never permit him to break into the cottage like he had the Hill Manor. Tears swelled in Jasmine’s eyes as she joined her brother when a loud shattering sounded behind them. The two turned around, Jasmine raising the frying pan and ready for a fight but all that stood before them was Theresa. She had swung the fire poker over her shoulder in defeat and upon doing so had effectively shattered the window to the wood room. Instead of the reprimand she was expecting however Charles and Jasmine only shrugged before Charles knocked away the glass from the bottom of the frame and leapt lightly through the window. Jasmine attempted to crawl in after him but only managed to get herself caught on her chubby midsection, her feet dangling and waving in the air above the ground as her flimsy arms struggled to lift her belly off the frame. Theresa waited patiently until, eventually, the lock on the door clicked and Charles swung it open, grinning merrily.
Together the two eldest siblings gave a hard tug on Jasmine’s arms and she came tumbling in to the wood room as both Charles and Theresa fell to the floor. Rising they quickly checked themselves for glass and removed any shards they found sticking to their garments, Charles took a moment longer than his sisters to remove the dust and un-crease his suit, which he failed to notice was of no effect. He did however notice the dirt under his fingernails and made his way into the cottage to find some instrument capable of handling such delicate work.
Very quickly the siblings had a fire crackling away in the fireplace. It was voted, by Theresa, that since she had cooked dinner the night before it was now Jasmine’s turn to come up with something. Jasmine disappeared into the kitchen while Charles elected for a nighttime stroll through the property. Grabbing a cigar from his pocket he disappeared out the back door. Theresa grabbed her book from her suitcase in the bushes and curled up beneath a blanket on the rocking chair before the fire.
Inspector Wallace Wingham stood gazing about the room, an incalculable amount of garments were strewn across the bed, draped over chairs and crumpled on the floor. In the closet only four or five gowns remained and they were raggedy, faded and twice Mrs. Hill’s size at that. He was doing his best to ignore the shrill rant that was currently escaping from Mrs. Hill’s mouth as he focused on profiling the thieves and searching for clues.
“We left the bedroom as we found it, so you might see what this filthy pillager has done to my beautiful gowns. My poor back, it so aches from that jolty carriage ride. I need nothing more than to lie down on my feather bed and rest my weary bones but I knew how important it would be to catching the thieves so I left it in this condition. I tried to sleep in the guest room but I’m afraid my body has grown accustomed to certain standards, certain levels of softness you could say and I really cannot seem to get any rest lying upon that lumpy old mattress we have put in there. Oh it does well enough for our guests, of course, but I’m afraid my derrière is,”
“Accustomed to a certain standard... Yes I know, you said as much two sentences earlier.” Wingham was doing his best to remain cordial but what he really needed right now was quiet, the chance to focus and observe and maybe more importantly than that, lunch. As if to reinforce the thought his stomach chose that moment to give a loud rumble and Mrs. Hill’s eyes widened in fright.
“Oh I am so sorry Mr. Wingham,”
“Uh, Inspector Wingham if you please.”
“Inspector Wingham. Here I am going on and on while you work and I’ve talked you right through lunchtime. I’ll just pop down to the kitchen and tell the girls to send you something up.” She slipped out the door and Wingham sighed and let his shoulders relax. Removing his handkerchief from his pocket he lifted his domed cap and dabbed the sweat from his brow, the upstairs being excessively balmy. He walked around the room once more before returning to the bottom of the stairs where a serving girl brought him a tray filled with pastries, cheese and fruit. The Hill’s came out to meet him at the door. Mrs. Hill, wearing her black dress looked as if she was attending a funeral and Mr. Hill beside her, a head shorter and wearing a tux with long tails and cuff links shaped like golden ram heads. He sniffled through his large nose, had no chin to speak of and had beady little black eyes. Wingham wondered for a second how such a small sniveling man could have ever managed to marry such a rare beauty as Mrs. Hill. Money. Wasn’t that the way of it! For a moment Inspector Wallace Wingham was flooded with jealousy. In his youth he dared to dream of marriage and of a family. Yet somehow, here he was, forty years old with very little prospects. While he had never had an issue with his weight it seemed to make him anything but attractive to the younger women he so desperately flirted with. His multiple chins, straining buttons and generally sweaty skin seemed to be the exact opposite of what they were looking for in a husband. And so time had passed, he had risen to an Inspector and had convinced himself he was happy. He stared now at this odd couple and forced himself to smile.
“So you say the only things missing are a few dresses, a book, a box of cigars and a few bottles of scotch?”
“Yes. But the book was extremely rare and the scotch aged to perfection. Please tell me you have a suspect in mind, I should like to think that I can sleep soundly knowing he is locked safely away, rotting in some cell somewhere.” Mr. Hill said, his voice high and quivering with rage.
“Of course, Mr. Hill,” Wingham talked between bites of cheese. It was a most delicious cheese, well-aged and strongly flavoured, “The chief inspector has assigned me only this case so that I may devote all my time to it,” He grabbed a vine of grapes and tipped his hat, “I promise you a formal report in the morning, and you can expect regular updates.” He backed his fat bottom out the door, spun on his heels and wobbled down the street, slurping up the round purple grapes and hoping the Hills would let him be and not pester him. It was true this was his only case but he had no leads to speak of, only the nagging suspicion that perhaps it had been a woman who had robbed them. It would explain the dresses; but not the cigars. Cigars were far too unladylike. With that train of thought his profiling changed, perhaps it was a man; after all, he had seen men prone to queerer notions than wearing a woman’s gown.
The property surrounding the cottage was peaceful and green. A forest stretched off to one side and a field full of crops to the other. Charles lit up his cigar and puffed happily as he strolled through the outbuildings, the moon filtering through the clouds lighting up the earth in a greenish pale glow. Hearing a ruckus he paused to investigate and found a hen house full of plump juicy hens. Charles’ mouth began to water at the mere sight of so many birds and so he decided to make it his mission to bring one of them to Jasmine to cook.
Slipping into the henhouse Charles surveyed the group of hens for the perfect one. Finally settling upon a particularly fat brown one he sauntered over only to have the hens instantly scatter. He paused a moment, becoming vaguely aware that this was not going to be as easy as he thought. He took another look around the dark henhouse and once again honed in on his hen. This time he hunkered down into a crouch and slowly crept forward. Once within arm’s reach he lashed his arms out like lightening, attempting to scoop the bird up. The bird dodged and the whole henhouse erupted into a shower of feathers and a large outburst of clucking. Charles swore vehemently before calming himself, selecting his hen and crouching down. Once again within arm’s reach he lashed out, felt the bird’s feathers against his hand, lost his balance and fell face first into the dirt and muck. Lifting his face up to glare at his enemy he spit out his now broken cigar. Picking himself up and brushing himself off he refused to admit defeat. This time there was no planning, no preparation and no pride. Stooping down he proceeded to run around the pen wildly until eventually one of the poor birds happened to jump and flap in the wrong direction and he closed his arms around it.
The door to the kitchen burst open, startling Jasmine who was in the process of cutting up fresh garden vegetables while humming softly to herself and dreaming up what sort of cosmetics she might be able to buy in the south.
There before Jasmine, covered from head to foot with dirt and chicken shit, grinning triumphantly, stood Charles clutching a franticly flapping fowl by the neck. Feathers fell like rain as it clucked and squawked and squirmed. He thrust the bird towards her and held it out. Jasmine waited, her eyes shifting about the room not quite sure what Charles wanted and Charles waited, having caught the chicken and now left to wonder why his sister hadn’t already turned it into a delicious tasting meal.
“Well Charles?” Jasmine asked.
“This is for you.” He said, thrusting it towards her again.
“And what am I supposed to do with a live chicken?” She asked as if the answer was obvious.
“Uh…Cook it so I can eat it?” He said, beginning to lose confidence in his accomplishment.
“I can’t cook it alive. It needs to be killed, and plucked.”
“How do I do that?”
“Go find an axe or something.”
Charles disappeared back out the door, slamming it behind him and Jasmine returned to her humming and cutting. When he returned the salad was already finished and half eaten by Theresa and Jasmine. Blood smeared his face and hands, he was heaving heavily and in one hand he held a bloody axe while the other held the leg of what at one point in time had been a live chicken but had now been brutally hacked upon and had been for the most part plucked, though a few stray feathers remained. He set it down roughly on the table before staring at each of his sisters, a dangerous gleam in his eye as he silently dared them to utter judgments and see what happened.
Theresa and Jasmine remained silent. Raising from their seats they quickly prepared a marinade and tossed the chicken over the fire. Almost an hour later they were sitting down before the fire to chew on the overcooked meat. Charles still had not said a word, nor cleaned the blood and dirt from his face and hands. Instead he sat there, staring intently into the fire and eating with his hands. He looked caught halfway between a savage with his bloody hands and mouth, and a gentleman in his top hat and coattails.
