Storyteller - Colin & Anne Brookfield (ebook and pdf reader .txt) 📗

began, as he proffered his hand. “My name is Sahid and I’m the British representative of the Royal House of Saudi.”

Inviting Eddie to sit down, he continued, “The note that accompanied the letter that you guarded for Charles Phillips’ next of kin, and finally presented to this lady, Margaret Phillips, contained my London phone number. It had been hoped that she would get in touch with me by that means, and she finally did.” Eddie smiled at her.

It appeared that, unbeknownst to Margaret’s husband Charles Phillips, he had saved the life of a Saudi Arabian prince, but at the expense of his own.

Mr Sahid explained. “Our people are now honour-bound to make what reparation we can.” He turned towards Eddie. “Firstly, your meritorious deeds Egidio were beyond the call of duty, and have now been officially documented. Both you and Margaret will be expected in London at the Saudi Royal House in Belgravia, for an official ceremony of appreciation.”

Colonel Mendip glanced in Eddie’s direction and nodded his assent. Nobody heard the happy squeak from Eddie’s pocket.

Within the week, the whole story broke in the national papers; the malevolent deeds of Daphne Phillips and family from the manor had become common knowledge, and they soon became excluded from the notability social circuit and with a police enquiry to follow.

Margaret’s life had also suddenly been turned upside down. She had been approached by a London solicitor who informed her, that an unknown benefactor had transferred a large amount of money to a bank account that he had just opened in her name. “It is indeed a princely sum,” the solicitor added with a wink.

It also appeared that Eddie had acquired some sort of official dispensation. He seemed to come and go almost as he pleased, odd jobbing around for pocket money, sometimes for his friend Martha Parish, and quite often, for a pretty young lady who had just purchased a charming old local watermill – with whom it is said – the unattached Eddie had much in common.

A celebration had also been going on in the summerhouse. Henry had been praised as one of their top adventurers and raconteurs. Moreover, his verbatim accounts remembered from Eddie’s journal, ensured a captivated audience in the summerhouse for many months afterwards.

Wiggy

 

The lovely warm day was being brought to a close by the blackbirds as they began their evening chorus, and Sylvester therefore needed to get the last jottings of the day into his diary, so he meandered into the summerhouse.

Polly was already on her favourite perch in the corner of the room, and not in a good mood.

“Skungee,” she scolded, as he also wandered in, “I’ve got a bone to pick with you; our arrangement is to keep away from the main house office. If that bossy Belinda sees and follows you back here, then this old forgotten summerhouse will be rediscovered by humans, and that will be the end of our hideaway.”

Skungee had other things on his mind and had started fiddling with the old wireless he’d once found in the cupboard.

“Arrh, we’ve missed it,” he grumbled. “It’s the Saturday night short story time, and it’s just finished.”

We were about to commiserate when Henry squeaked, “Hush! There it is again, the same faint violin music that we heard once before.”

“We’re not the only ones,” interjected Skungee. “According to the news on my radio, it’s been heard in different places all over the country, usually playing something they call, ‘Mendelssohn’s Violin and with a bit on the end that I can’t remember. It’s a bit of a mystery really. I’ll have a word with my old friend Wiggy the tramp, he might know something.”

“That’s against the rules,” piped up Polly, “we’re not allowed to speak to people. We could finish up in a fairground freak show.”

“Wiggy’s not people, he’s very nice,” replied Skungee, “although he does have a strange way of speaking; perhaps that’s why he’s shunned by people. More to the point, nobody would believe a tale from Wiggy about a talking Jack Russell. Anyway I feel sorry for him. He was falsely accused of robbery by Mr. Ernshaw, the owner of a jewellers shop in town and sent to prison. What made things worse, is that Wiggy has no memory at all of his background, and the judge thought the tramp was using amnesia as a way of concealing a criminal past.

“Why was he accused of robbery?” Polly enquired.

“Wiggy said that it all started to go wrong when he took his valuable wristwatch into the jewellers to sell, so that he could buy something to eat, but the man tried to cheat him, so he left the shop. Anyway the jeweller saw his chance to claim the watch and phoned the police. But before doing so, Ernshaw forged a letter that was supposed to have been written by his father, Ernshaw Senior – now deceased – passing on the watch to his son. Of course, who would believe the word of a penniless old tramp against that of a respected jeweller?”

“I can add to that,” interjected Madame Bravatski, “I know something about that watch. The jeweller has a wire haired terrier called Spud, who comes around occasionally for some clairvoyance and a general chat. He told me that on one occasion, he heard his dish-filler bragging about the way he had cheated the tramp out of his valuable watch. So, as you can see, I am a hive of information. I will have a word with Spud the next time he pops in for a paw read.”

A few days later, the news broke that Wiggy had again been arrested for being in possession of a very valuable article that he could not possibly have legally owned, due to his lowly status. This information had been discovered from a newspaper in a dustbin by Peri, and that it indicated Wiggy’s case would be heard in four days time.

There was much disquiet in the summerhouse over this matter, and Madame B soon put a plan together and gave a few instructions. “The village is a bit of a distance for a feline, so I’ll need a taxi.” Alice groaned in anticipation. “Alice is about the right size, so she’ll do.”

That evening Mr. Ernshaw the jeweller, checked his front door locks, and then settled in his easy chair with a bottle of whisky. As he tuned the radio to his favourite programme, he heard his dog Spud coming in through the makeshift dog-flap in the kitchen door. At least that’s what he thought he heard.

“Stick your hands up,” said a shrill voice from behind him that was trying to sound gruff. The man spun around in panic expecting to look into the business end of a gun. His eyes did a double take at the sight of a talking cat with a sort of dog’s duvet on its head, and a mystical patterned shawl.

“Can’t be right,” he rambled loudly. “No more whisky ever again, I’m having delusions.”

“Dream on,” said the vision as it waved a paw that sparkled at the end. The man felt his eyes and mind going a bit odd, as Madame’s sonorous invitations to sleep took effect.

The last he heard was his own voice saying, “That’s a good quality gem, I can give you a good price...” then his mind went blank.

Mr. Ernshaw was awakened the following morning by Spud’s doggy breath, and the anxious tongue that was trying hard to lick some life back into its master’s face.

“Gedorff me!” The awakened man screamed as he brushed Spud off the arm of the chair, and onto the floor.

Ernshaw sat there for a while trying to work out why he had slept in his chair instead of going to bed. There were also some vague thoughts in the back of his mind concerning the Rolex Oyster wristwatch in the shop safe, which prompted him to check its contents. He was mortified, when he discovered that it had gone.

The usual early morning summerhouse rush had arrived for breakfast, this time, with some goodies that Skungee said had fallen off the back of a lorry. The only disturbance in our morning was Madame B. She had two customers queuing outside of her little office, though she seemed in no hurry to get there.

“Feeling a bit off colour this morning Madame?” enquired Millie. “There’s a poodle and a black and white tomcat out there wondering if you’ve forgotten the time.”

“Not according to my new watch,” she replied, and flicked a hidden Rolex into view. “It’s Wiggy’s watch, and what’s more, I persuaded the jeweller to unscrew the back-plate. If the police had bothered to do that, they would have found this inscription, ‘Zum gefeierten Geiger Paul Lehmann, München Philharmonischen Orchesters’. That alone, would have started further investigations.”

They were flabbergasted at her multilingual ability and other accomplishments, and further intrigued at the possible connection between the name on the watch and that of “Wiggy” the tramp. They asked her how on earth she managed that little operation!

That question obviously fell on deaf ears, as Madame continued, “Alice the taxi has a very comfortable back and quick on her feet, and that will serve my next purpose.” Then looking around she added, “We’re not at a dead end with this watch business, I’ve got another way forwards. Must go now – business calls.” With that, she scampered out of the door, leaving them as mystified as ever.

There was even more mystery that evening as Madame prepared herself for another visit somewhere.

“Need a taxi?” enquired Alice.

“Not this time. I’ll flag you down if I do,” she replied impishly.

“Secret mission is it?” inquired Polly.

“Course not!” replied Madame, “I just need to get the services of the office lady Belinda. I want to give her some instructions and a bit of amnesia to follow for the sake of our anonymity.”

“That sounds horrible,” muttered Skungee. “Is it contagious?” Ignoring him, Madame slipped out into the darkness.

Belinda had just finished the day’s accounts in her office when she became aware of purring sounds from somewhere behind her. She turned around and burst out laughing.

“Who on earth has been dressing you up you poor creature? And who put that sparkling thing on your paw you’re pointing aaaat meeee.... zzzzzzz....”

“Dressing me up? Some people have no sense of haute couture,” grumbled Madame to herself. Meanwhile Belinda just stood there in hypnotic standby mode. Madame picked up from where she had left off. “I have a little investigation job for you Belinda; it concerns a German gentleman called Paul Lehmann. I want you to trace the man’s background, even back to Munich in Germany if necessary.”

“Consider it done,” replied Belinda in a quiet monotone voice.

“When you have this information,” Madame continued, “put it in a drawer and forget about it for the time being. On the day you do this, I want you to place a red rose in your office window vase. You will not remember my visit and will wake up one minute after you hear my claws click together.”

It was one day away from Wiggy’s court appearance when Madame B noticed the red rose in Belinda’s office window, and that evening, paid a