Was Humphrey a thief?

by Jon Hepworth

lemon squash

Linda Fairlight reached for the recently published1982 British Railways Timetable and was pleased to find that there was a train leaving Lower Compton for London the next Friday, at ten in the morning. She always liked the ten o’clock trains as they were less crowded than earlier ones and cheaper.

            She was travelling to London to visit her Aunt Agatha. ‘Poor old Aunt Agatha’ Linda would say; poor because her aunt could only afford a bed-sit, and old because her aunt would be shortly celebrating her eightieth birthday.

The next Friday Linda boarded the train at Lower Compton and was delighted to have a compartment all to herself. The journey up to London would take over an hour and so she had brought a book with her. She settled herself in the seat near the window, placed her spectacles with the tortoise-shell frame on the end of her nose and, with great expectation, opened her book titled, The Casebook of Sherlock Holmes.

The train was starting to pull out of the station when there was a bang, someone wrenched open the door of her compartment, clambered in and dangerously leaning out of the train shut the door with a loud crash.

‘Oh dear!’ she said, and with a small nervous laugh, ‘that was rather dangerous.’

The overcoat that had been flapping in her face rearranged its self into the conventional attire of a young man.

‘Yah!’ he said ‘why are trains always on time when it would be far more convenient if they were a couple of minutes late?’

He was about to sit down when he felt a strong tug at his coat.

‘Yes?’ he queried, turning to look at Linda.

‘Yes?’ queried Linda.

‘You tugged at my coat!’

‘Why on earth should I do that?’ asked Linda hugging her book close to herself.

‘I don't know’ he said and raised his eyebrows.

Linda examined the coat, ‘your coat is stuck in the door."

‘Oh!’ he said and looked quite disappointed, ‘I'll have to open the carriage door and...’

‘You'll do no such thing; that would be positively dangerous!’

The train was now travelling at a fast speed. With some difficulty the young man took off his coat.

‘Here, use it to cover your knees,’ he said ‘and I'll reclaim it when we get to London. At least it will keep it off this dirty floor.’

‘Oh I couldn't possibly...’

‘Yes you could!’ And he place part of the coat over her knees. It was cold outside and the heating on the train was frugal, so the coat would be helpful. The pockets felt very heavy.

‘What on earth have you got in the pockets?’ Linda asked, much to her own surprise.

‘Two silver candlesticks, a silver cigarette box and a silver sauce boat in the poachers’ pockets on the inside!’

‘How....! How unusual.’ said Linda, and she looked at him carefully; ‘wouldn't it have been easier to put them all in a case?’

‘Yes, but too obvious - I don't want anyone to know that I am carrying them.’

‘Oh!’ Linda had a strong feeling of apprehension, safer to bury herself in her book, real drama very seldom imposed itself on her well-ordered life and she liked it that way. She opened her book again.

‘I took them this morning from the Grange in Upper Compton!’

Linda looked up. She hoped that she had not heard what she thought that she had definitely heard. She felt the colour of her face turn from a healthy pale pink to an embarrassed red. She took off her glasses.

‘Pardon?’

‘I took them early this morning from the Grange!’

‘Don't be silly! If you did you certainly would not tell me!’

‘Why on earth not? - Why - what would you do about it?’

‘Why pull the emergency cord just above my head.’

‘But I could stop you before your hand had got halfway there.’

‘I could scream and shout for help!’

‘Are your knees getting warm?’ he said, deftly changing the subject. She looked again at his face, full of grins and eyes that were alive.

‘Your teasing me?’ she said, ‘I always believe what people say; I don't like being teased?’

            ‘Look I’ll be honest with you.’

            ‘I do hate it when people say that.’

            ‘Don’t you want me to be?’

            ‘Yes, of course, but when people say that I always wondered what they have not been honest about!’

‘But what I said is true - I did take them from the Grange, but not take as in stolen but take as in carrying. I am carrying them hidden so that they won't be stolen! The Grange is my home. Does all that make sense?’ he asked.

‘Yes,’ said Linda closing her book.

‘I'm sorry,’ said the young man ‘but I found the thought of being a thief exciting. My names Humphrey Kew, my friends call me Den. Can we be friends?’

Sherlock Holmes suddenly seemed uninteresting. She felt all males were inherently chauvinistic and not to be trusted. She was glad that there was a corridor running the length of the carriage she was in. If he became difficult she could shout.

‘Why are you carrying all those valuables hidden in your coat?’ she asked.

‘Valuations, parents want to know what the items are worth - I have an appointment at eleven at Sotheby’s, with Mr. Princetown of the silver department to put some prices on them for insurance purposes.’

‘Oh!’ said Linda, a thought flashed into her mind and then receded, the thought that the explanation was just a bit too detailed

 ‘Oh!’ she said again. She knew that in all the best detective stories fibs were best told with as much truth in them as possible to make them convincing.

 ‘Isn’t it silly that Upper Compton is below Lower Compton?’ Humphrey questioned.

‘But it isn’t!’

‘Last time I looked on the map it was at least three miles south of Lower Compton.’

‘Yes, I know!’

‘But you just said that that it wasn’t below Lower Compton.’

‘Our ancestors were not concerned with which village was Northern most. Lower Compton is in a valley whereas Upper Compton is built on a hill; so is higher, hence Upper!’

‘Oh – alright clever clogs!’

‘As a librarian I come across lots of useless information.’

Humphrey, call me Den, chatted on for the rest of the journey.

The landscape and time flashed by and the train quickly arrived in London.

‘Must rush,’ said Humphrey as the train drew into the station. He opened the door to release his overcoat; put the overcoat on, and disappeared into the crowd surging through the ticket barrier.

Linda was placing her glasses in their case when she saw something sparkle on the floor. She bent down and picked up a brooch, it was a fine piece of jewelry, it looked like a diamond and ruby encrusted pheasant. Humphrey hadn’t mentioned it. It must have dropped out of his coat.

‘Oh dear!’ exclaimed Linda. She gathered up her book, still unread, and her handbag now containing the broach. She left the carriage and walked along the platform. She was glad to see that there was a bank of telephones in the station concourse. She asked directory enquiries for the telephone number for Sotheby's and phoned through.

‘Can I speak to Mr.Princetown?’ Linda queried.

‘There's no one of that name here!’ was the reply.

‘From your silver department?’

‘Sorry - no one of that name in the silver department!’

‘Well a Mr. Humphry Kew has an appointment to see someone in your company this morning at eleven and I need to get in touch with him. It's important.’

‘One minute please,’ there was a pause. Linda could hear the rustle of paper and some muffled voices.

‘Hello - no, sorry, no one of that name has an appointment here today!"

‘Oh well, thank you!" Linda slowly put down the phone. She felt fully justified in her view that all males were inherently chauvinistic and not to be trusted.

She left the brooch at the Lost Property desk along with her name and address.

Linda walked out into the torrential rain of a very wet London.

How she wished that crime would stay within the covers of a good read.

 

About the author 

Jon has been writing short stories since joining a Writers Club twenty years ago. He has had one story accepted for inclusion in an anthology and four by Cafe Lit, 18th, 28th June and 7th,15 July.

The Flower Showdown

 by Jon Hepworth

elderflower cordial

 

The question that no one knew the answer to was ‘what happened to Penelope Plantaganat’s tulips?’

Outside the village of Little Compton this pressing question did not disturb a single mind.

Within the village the rumors circulated with an enthusiasm that can only be generated by those without enough to do; it was thought that Henry Prost, the Deacon, could have expressed a little more interest.

I was not sure why I was involved. I was an onlooker and not part of the story. I am still not sure why I was entrusted with the secret, unless the culprit thought that they could only enjoy the secret if it was shared with someone. That is my explanation and whilst I was pleased to be confided in I was not pleased with the position that it left me in. Should I divulge my knowledge to the victim and those parties that were struggling to find the answers?

The Little Compton flower show, held in May, was one of the center pieces of a busy horticultural schedule. Penelope had won the Best Kept Garden category for rather too long and the villagers had thought it was time for a change. However they did have to admit that the success was well deserved.

This year there was to be no flower show due to a variant Y of Coronavirus. The show, including the Best Kept Garden competition, had been cancelled in 2020 as well due to Lockdown.

Cynthia Raymond, who regularly came second in the competition, raised the question, ‘Is it right that Penelope still keep the trophy, won in 2019, when she hasn’t won Best Kept Garden in 2020 or 2021?’

A subcommittee of the Flower Show Management committee was set up to decide the matter. As the subcommittee could not come to a decision the trophy stayed where it was.  Cynthia was scathing of the undecided subcommittee.

This year the magnificent black tulips that bloomed in the flower beds either side of the oak front door of the manor were decimated. The blooms were missing. The green stalks just stopped about three inches above the ground. The tulips had been a centre piece of Penelope’s garden. It was even more of a puzzle as this year there was to be no competition for Best Kept Garden; this made it unlikely that a jealous rival would be the culprit. Cynthia was off the hook, as were other competitors.

The pet rabbit was in danger of being casseroled as it had escaped from the hatch which young Jamie had made. Jamie assured his mother that the rabbit was entirely innocent, and anyway did not like tulips. Penelope decided, at the appropriate time, she would ask Jamie how he knew that.

            Jamie said, ‘It’s the swans from the lake or the pheasants that strut around the garden. They could have done it.’ He did not like to mention that it might be Rufus, the Great Dane, whom he thought was a bit doolally.

The deer in the park were suspect, but there were no hoof prints to show that they had been into the garden. Slugs and snails were added to the list and so the list grew longer and longer.

In despair Penelope turned to Bert.

Bert worked in the garden. Buffy, that is Penelope’s husband, called Bert a gardener, but that would be a gross exaggeration and unkind to gardeners. The main challenge for Bert was never to be seen to be doing anything that could be described as useful. Bert would be lighting his pipe, or walking from the garage to the greenhouses or cleaning a spade or sharpening a scythe.

Bert would lurk and practice the art of being invisible.

Bert had been employed on the estate’s farm as a GFW that is as a general farm worker. The farm manager soon found out that this was a misnomer. Bert was always seen, that is if he could be found, about to do work, but never appeared to be actually working. After much subterfuge by the farm manager Bert had been transferred to garden duties.

It was feared that Bert was not entirely happy with this move, which was true. Deep within the recesses of his inscrutable mind resentment was building.

The grubby peak cap hid a wrinkled, grizzled and weather worn face. Hair sprouted from the sides of his cap in some disarray, undecided whether to straggle upwards or downwards, so in the end did both. The cap never came off. The clothing was a demob suit, its dark blue colour now faded to a grubby grey. A once white collarless shirt peeped over the top of a waistcoat. In a heat wave in midsummer or in the freezing cold of the winter the clothing never changed.

Buffy rather liked Bert; ‘Good chap’ he’d say.

They would spend time in the greenhouses examining the tomatoes and potted plants. People found it difficult to understand what Buffy was talking about as his voice would trail off into a mumble halfway through a sentence. Bert was the only one who could translate the mumble and understand; probably because Bert tended to mumble too.

Buffy was fond of the black tulips. "A good reminder of investment policy" he would say, which would baffle the uninformed.

His ancestor Bertrand Urquhart Fortescue Plantaganat (not to be confused with the Plantagenets) was given the nickname "Buffoon" as a result of being caught up in the Tulip Mania of the 18th century. That was a time when the madness of crowds took over and fortunes were made and lost over speculation in tulips. The Plantaganats only survived due to some judicious marriages and certainly no thanks to Buffoon Plantaganat. The black tulips which graced the front of the manor house each spring were a reminder of those days.

Buffy was not a suspect in the case of the decimated tulips; Bert was.

Bert, on the other hand, accused Henry Prost, the visiting deacon. Henry had arrived early for tea at the Plantaganat manor and had knocked loudly at the front door. No one replied so he had walked briskly up and down the gravel path in front of the house, swinging his umbrella with angry impatience. Bert said that the umbrella, with its sharp point, created mayhem and that he, Bert, had removed the evidence. No one could be sure if the damage had been noticed before or after the deacon came to tea. The Deacon did seem very uninterested in the conversation about the tulips. Penelope did not feel up to asking the deacon and so the matter rested until I came along.

I should explain that Penelope was quite happy to observe social distancing, wearing of masks, washing of hands and all that sort of thing. However she felt the social value of tea parties was sacrosanct and not included in ‘that fellow Johnson’s ban on gathering’.

About a week after the tulip incident I was walking through the garden which, even without the tulips, is a picture. Bert was lurking by the yew hedge sharpening his shears.

‘Hello Bert’ I said, by way of being polite, ‘lovely day - pity about the tulips’.

Bert sidled over to me, tilted his head slightly to one side and fixed me with bright, sparkling eyes. I stopped, mesmerised. His old weather-beaten face became even more lined as it creased into a smile and his few remaining teeth showed the stains of too much tobacco chewing. Then he shared his secret, he obviously had to with someone. The delight in the knowledge that he had radiated from his face, the look was almost one of ecstasy. The knowledge was too much for one man to carry alone, it had to be shared.

With his toothy smile he proudly announced, ‘I chopps all their ‘eads off!’

About the author

Jon has been writing short stories since joining a Writers Club twenty years ago. He has had one story accepted for inclusion in an anthology and three by Cafe Lit, 18th, 28th June and 7th July. 

Shaken

 

by Jon Hepworth

milk shake

 

The early morning fog was dense and all that Ed could see were swirling shades of grey. Even the grass looked grey.

Ed did not believe in ghosts.

His Wellington boots made a flopping sound as they smacked his bare legs with each step. It was supposed to be very warm that day so Ed had decided to wear his shorts. The cold air raised goose pimples on his bare skin.

The fog sapped the sound out of the air. The peace only disturbed by the sound of cattle moving and the rasping noise as somewhere they grazed the grass.

Ed’s obedient Collie, trotted along by his heels and covered the ground in easy loping strides. He whispered, ‘Go way back,’ and waved his hand, pointing into the distance. He did not want to disturb the stillness. The Collie knew what was required and darted into the fog to round up the cattle and push them towards the farmyard. Ed noticed the grazing sounds stop and heard scuffing noises as the cattle started to trot towards the buildings.

He could see nothing more than the swirling fog until he saw the ghost. He stopped. He felt the blood drain from his face and his mouth going very dry. It was definitely there. It was tall with a white robe, the shape diffused by the fog but resembling a man. He had an impression of gold sandals and a gold halter around its neck. It disappeared. Ed decided not to follow the apparition.

It appeared again, but now there were two figures, one in a white and the other in a blue robe. Ed began to wish that he had not drunk so much of Freddie's Elderberry wine the night before. He held his hand up close to his face and blew into it to see if his breath still smelt of alcohol, but there was no trace.

The blue robe beckoned to Ed. Ed noticed that the wide sleeves of the robe were edged in gold. The blue robe came closer and appeared to be carrying some carpets over its arm. Ed was paralysed. The lads in the pub would not believe him - he decided that he would never touch another drop of alcohol.

‘Who are you and what are you doing here,’ asked the blue robe, in an imperial voice that had a heavy foreign accent.

‘Oh dear!’ thought Ed, ‘a foreign ghost as well.’

‘I may ask you the same question,’ said Ed, surprised at his own boldness; encouraged by the sound of his own voice he added ‘and who may you be?’

‘I,’ said the blue robe ‘I am the head servant of Sheik Bedu. Answer my questions.’

The warmth of the morning sun was starting to evaporate the fog into a light mist.

Ed knew that the estate was owned by Sheik Bedu but no one had ever seen the Sheik or his retinue.

‘I'm Ed, assistant herdsman and I'm supposed to be rounding up the herd to bring them in for milking.’

The head servant looked across at the white robe which gestured towards the ground and pointed at Ed. The servant spread out on the carpets on the ground.

‘The Sheik would like you to sit down,’ said the servant.

‘But...’ started Ed. The servant raised his hand, ‘with the Sheik there are no ‘buts’’

Ed sat on one corner of the small carpet. He wondered if they were facing Mecca, if he was sitting on a prayer mat.

So it was that on a cool July morning, in the middle of a meadow, in the middle of England, a Sheik, his chief servant and the assistant herdsman all sat down to watch the day awaken: The sheik pushed back the cowl of his robe and breathed in the pure morning air. His hair was black and framed a long and lined face, which looked immeasurably old; the complexion was dark. But it was the eyes that Ed noticed most, large, brown, sunken and sad. Ed wondered if it was very difficult being a Sheik. They sat in silence absorbing the serenity - sharing the stillness. The sky started to appear in its infinite blue. The black shape of a swallow swooped in a graceful curve in front of them, up far too early to catch any flies.

‘Perhaps he misses the peace of the desert and the freedom of the Bedouin,’ wondered Ed.

Soon the curtain of mist would disappear altogether and they would be seen from the main house. Still the Sheik remained seated on the ground, cross-legged, his hands resting on his knees.

The spell was eventually broken when a large Range Rover raced across the field, bristling with security men, and skidded to a stop a few yards from the Sheik. The armed guards were about to rush at Ed when the Sheik slowly put up his hand to indicate that everyone was to stop. Everyone froze in their tracks.

‘What power!’ thought Ed.

The Sheik said something to his head servant who then got up and went over to the security posse. There was a rapid, urgent conversation with occasional furtive looks at the Sheik.

With a weary sigh the Sheik got to his feet and walked majestically over to the car where one of the guards opened the door. The car drove slowly back to the main house and drove the Sheik to the tumult of the day.

The head servant collected up the carpets and walked back to the servant's quarters in the main mansion. Ed walked back to the farmyard.

The head herdsman was not pleased with his assistant who had not helped with the morning milking and who had given some ridiculous story about sitting in a field with the Sheik. The head herdsman said he was going to see the estate manager to get Ed sacked. Ed tried to make amends by finishing the cleaning of the milking equipment and getting all the equipment ready for the afternoon milking.

It was late morning when he trudged down the farm drive to his home for breakfast. Half way down the drive he was overtaken by a fleet of three stretch limousines with dark tinted windows. Suddenly the cavalcade stopped. A man in a smart Armani suit got out of one car and came over to Ed. It was the head servant whom Ed had met earlier that day.

‘The Sheik would like to thank you,’ said the head servant.

‘For what?’

‘For sharing a moment of your life!’

Ed felt unexpectedly moved, he would have liked to have had some clever remark to make - all he could do was stretch out his hand. The head servant shook Ed’s hand and then returned to his car.

The cavalcade started off again leaving Ed standing there looking down the empty drive, the grassy banks on either side looking verdant in the sun of a summer day.

About the author 

Jon has been writing short stories since joining a Writers Club twenty years ago. He has had one story accepted for inclusion in an anthology and two by Cafe Lit, 18th and 28th June.