Inspector Bliss Mysteries 8-Book Bundle. James Hawkins
but they stopped. In that moment of deathly silence he felt more afraid than if they had continued and a mysterious energy oppressed him, urging him to get out.
Pulling himself together, he rounded a corner and walked slap-bang into a shadowy grey figure striding soundlessly toward him – a tall, erect man with fuzzy features, not six feet away. Immobilised by the rising panic, he felt his body tensing, ready to run, but the ghostly figure had also shuddered to a stop and now hovered a foot or so off the floor. Bliss feinted to his right as if making to slip past the spectre but the figure seemingly anticipated his move and went with him. Nanoseconds stretched into hours as his mind threatened to explode under the pressure of trying to fathom the unfathomable, then the clogs clicked into place. “It’s only a dusty mirror,” he breathed with utter relief, but the blood was still coursing through his temples with the beat of a drum.
Drained of energy, he supported himself against a doorframe, asking: What did you expect? What did you think it was – a ghost? No – not a ghost – a ghostly figure from the past. A man in a Maggie Thatcher mask with a sawn off shotgun – Mandy Richards’ killer. Frowning at his timidity he forced himself forward, telling himself that it was time to move on. You can’t do this. You can’t go through life frightened of every corner, every blind alleyway, every door that creaks open.
“Guv!”
He leapt in alarm at the shout.
“Guv. Are you there?” Patterson’s voice rang out again and he quickly headed back to the landing, steadied himself on the railing and replied in a cracked voice. “Up here.”
“We’ve got a visitor.”
Patterson was at the bottom of the staircase with a gnome-like figure – an ancient man with florid cheeks and a matching jacket, doubled over a knurl-headed walking stick. “What’ye after?” puffed the self-appointed guardian.
“We’re police,” explained Bliss, slipping quickly down the stairs.
The old man scrutinised them warily, twisting his bent head from side to side to bring them into view. “How da I know you ain’t a couple of burglars?”
Bliss got his hand halfway to his pocket before realising he still hadn’t picked up his warrant from headquarters. “Show him your warrant card, Sergeant,” he said to Patterson and caught the look of alarm on Patterson’s face that suggested an explanation was called for. “I’m still waiting for the photos,” he whispered from the corner of his mouth then turned to the old man. “You don’t know about the Major then?”
The old man took a few wheezy breaths, winding himself up for a lengthy reply, then blew out his cheeks. “I live over at Mile-bottom and I ain’t been out fer a day or so – me arfrightuous been playing up wiv the damp.”
“So what brings you here today?”
Arnie, as he introduced himself was, according to him, something of a family retainer. An unofficial arrangement that had existed since the death of his father who’d held a more formal position as gardener and general factotum to Colonel Dauntsey. “Me father did everything ’round here,” he explained as they left the house and stood under the cast iron front porch. “Now look at the bleedin’ mess,” he complained, scanning the surroundings and aiming his walking stick at fallen tree after fallen tree as if it were gun. “That lot came down ten years ago in the ’urricane.” He shook his head mournfully. “What a bleedin mess – Me old man planted ’em for the Colonel. The whole place ’as gone to rack an’ ruin,” he concluded, demonstrating his contempt by forcing a few harsh coughs, then he doubled over as a genuine coughing fit took hold.
“You knew the Colonel?” enquired Bliss when the coughing subsided.
“An’ ’is boy – that little twerp Rupert,” he snorted noisily.
“You would know what happened to him in the war then. We understand he was badly wounded.”
“No more than what ’e deserved, I dare say.”
Strange reply, thought Bliss. “Why do you say that?”
“Talkin’ be thirsty work,” Arnie said pointedly, clearing his throat and spitting drily.
Bliss got the message and checked his watch. “I guess it’s lunchtime, Sergeant,” he said with exaggerated meaning. “Perhaps Arnie would like to join us for a drink.” He paused, looked to the old man for a response and saw the flabby cheeks puff into a toothless smile. “That’s settled then,” he continued without awaiting Patterson’s reply. “We might as well go to the Mitre.”
“I’ll just ’ave a jar a’ Guinness to start. I enjoys me jar,” said Arnie, his eyes roaming the opulent fixtures of the lounge bar in the hotel.
Bliss found himself straining to understand the thick country accent devoid of the “h” sound. “Sit down then,” he said, noticing the way the old man was suspiciously eyeing the deeply padded wing chairs, “The sergeant will get the drinks.”
Arnie wandered a little, gently scuffing the carpet for depth while surreptitiously inspecting his surroundings with the reverent intrigue of someone finding themselves taking tea with the Queen at Buckingham Palace. Apparently satisfied, he cleared his throat, tested the squab of a chair with his stick and lowered himself into it. “I usually drink in the public bar,” he explained, obviously believing an explanation was required.
The drinks arrived and Bliss kicked off by playing up to Arnie’s obvious dislike of Major Rupert Dauntsey. “I’ve heard Rupert, the Major, was a bit of an idiot. What did he do?”
“I were at Amiens meself, but we ’eard all ’bout it,” started Arnie, unaware that his moustache of white beer foam made a comical addition to his red nose and florid cheeks. “The Major were a laffin stock, though t’weren’t nuffin to laff ’bout fer the poor blighters unner ’im.”
“What happened?” asked Bliss barely controlling his mirth at the wizened clown-like face.
Arnie was in no rush to reach the climax of his account, willing audiences needed as much savouring as a good pint, and, if he wasn’t mistaken, his story could run to two or even three pints. Wiping his sleeve across his face, he offered some background information as a filler. “If it ’adn’t bin that ’is old man wuz a Colonel ’e’d ’ave bin canon fodder like t’rest of us,” he said, took a long pull on his drink, then spat, “Toffee nosed little twerp.”
“So,” started Bliss again, glancing at his watch, “what can you tell us about the Major, or the old Colonel?”
“A proud man was the Colonel,” Arnie replied, noticeably stiffening his back in respect. “’E were in the life-guards ... Paschendale, Ypres, Mons ... all the mudbaths. Got gassed in the trenches but wouldn’t come back without ’is men ... so they say. But that boy of ’is, Rupert – the Major, were a big disappointment. ’E wuz nowt but a little runt. Failed the h’university they say. The guards wouldn’t ’ave ’im, even with ’is old man being the Colonel and all. So ’e does the next best and joins the Royal ’orse Artillery.” The old man paused for a short cough and lubricated his throat with the remains of his first pint. “Good stuff that,” he said, then stared wistfully at the empty glass until Bliss gave in.
“Another?”
Patterson scuttled off to the bar without waiting to be asked and Arnie, considering it respectful to await his return, fussed around with his pipe until the second pint sat in front of him. “It were a little after D-Day when it ’appened,” he continued after a short slurp. “They wuz dug in outside Paris when the Major got the order to retreat – the ’igh command had got wind of a counter attack.” He paused and stared out of the window with glazed eyes as he relieved the horror of war. “Massacred they wuz,” he continued, his gaze, his thoughts and voice all very far away.
“Massacred?” echoed Bliss, probing gently.
Arnie turned from the window, his face suddenly pale, his cheeks sunken. “The Jerries was on ’em