County Caught

By Robin Gilbert

The Vast Cast...

The Injured Parties...

The Pea-Soopes; His Lordship, an upright and honest, spaniel loving man, his wife, Lady Melinda, short in stature, thin of limb and brandishing a mass of red hair that suggests an inevitable toppling. Their daughter Emily Jane who is, like, so in love, yeah, and their son Stanley, a spotty boy prone to bouts of phallus studying (mainly his own) and sulking, in equal measure and often undertaken simultaneously.

The Pea-Soopes’ Factotums; Pansy the Cook, a large and cuddly old lady with a dislike of onions and a tendency to talk to herself. Lucy and Abigail, lesbians and a lovely pair of buxom maids. Lance the flatulent footman and his inexplicable penchant for obfuscation, and Jacob the senile old butler who appears to be perpetually confused.

The Loostockings; Agnes, an angry man hating spinster perpetually disappointed with her daughter Deardree who by all accounts is quite simply a slut.

The Hoot-Kaykes; Captain John, a wife beating ex-soldier, his son Buck who is just like his father and dear, sweet Dafney, terribly oppressed and as loyal to her two men as a well trained spaniel.

The Wettgrass’; Douglas the inoffensive father with a testicle fixation, his pregnant wife Flower, the boss of the household and knower of all things. Their daughter Rose, a beautiful vet-to-be, Pansy, just as bravely pregnant as her mother, poor Tom, vewy bwight but with a little speesh pwoblem, younger Bill with his weapons fixation and habit of making traps then immediately forgetting where they are, and highly spirited Douglas Junior who wants to be an explorer, mainly of some exotic place he’s heard of called the nether regions.

The Adjudicators...

Tiddly Loosebottom, alcoholic and out of work actress, Anna Rowbik, fitness fanatic and time obsessive, Richard “Dick” Fondler, builder, sexual pervert, Professor Regius intellect and lover of precisely cut sausages, Brimful Cranium, accident prone student with an eidetic memory, Millie Watt, disastrous inventor and stressed mother, Mrs Doze Murmuring, shop owner who takes no shit from anyone, especially her customers, Chief Nightstick, paranoid about his own baldness and possessing an unhealthy dislike of barbers, Russel Sprout, chef of such unusually unique dishes as stickleback surprise, snake egg omelette and his speciality, beans on toast with a sprinkling of deep-fried newt’s scrotums. Limp Softap, teenage victim of bullying who works in Intimate Parts, you know, that sex shop on the high street? Alice “Thumper” Allfolk, fighter, drinker, fighter, fighter, and last but not least, Nick Lotts, unemployed pickpocket, thief and coordinator of a vastly complex underground network of ne’er-do-wells.

And lest we forget...

An assortment of extras including but not limited to; Betty Swollocks, actress and drinking companion, Bunglespew the baker dwarf, Nurse Penny the inadvertent masochist and Mr Pillpat who owns the newsagents on Frompt Road (50% off a 25g bag of frozen newt’s scrotums with this ad). But none more relevant than the right Honourable Julia Daniel, Second Duchess of Kramd, at whose behest we meet...

• Language: English
• Publisher: Robin Gilbert
• Release date: Dec 9, 2011
• ISBN: 9781465792990

Robin Gilbert

I was born and bred in South Wales (UK) but since 2007 I have lived in Brisbane with my wife and two children. When I'm not writing or trying unsuccessfully to outwit the possums, I work as a programmer for a games company. Thank you for visiting my author page! I do hope you download and enjoy all the free stories...

Book preview

Prologue

(Losing the) Plot

Winter was coming. It was dark in the old manor house. Hiding underneath a bed in the west wing was a man and a women, whispering conspiratorially...

It’ll never work, he said.

What won’t?

You know... the thing.

Maybe not, but...

It didn’t work last time.

Yes I know.

Or the time before that.

Yes.

Or the time before that.

Yes! Alright!

Sigh.

But you’re going to do it anyway? he asked.

Possibly.

You’re a fool, Miss Daniel, just like your mother.

Whack!

Part One

The Injured Party*

( *Parties, if you want to split hairs. )

The Lady of the House

Lady Melinda Pea-Soope was nestled at one end of her chaise longue held in thrall by a modern tome entitled Death by Design that had mysteriously arrived by messenger only the day before. As horrific and explicit as the propositions within it were, the hopeless diagrams made the Lady of the House laugh so much that her diminutive frame was forced into what she referred to as, when discussing her husbands spaniels in ‘proper’ company, uncoordinated bouts of EAV (Emergency Anal Venting). She once invented a machine that measured such anal expletives, which may seem irrelevant to the forthcoming tale but you’d be surprised. The accompanying free and somewhat disconcertingly cheerful pamphlet entitled How to Remove Blood and Bile from your Best Shag Pile, was lying discarded upon the polished wooden floor of the vast library.

When she finished the paragraph that brought an end to chapter eighty seven, she closed the mighty book, leaving her tiny forefinger thrust between the pages like a straw caught between two boulders and yawned. She stretched the side of her that was not weighed down by the book and snuggled herself deeper beneath a vast grey blanket covered in dogs hairs. By the light of a solitary candle, half burnt down, wax dribbling over its golden holder like a baby being sick in an egg cup, she embarked upon chapter eighty eight.

Cold, February rain, thrown about violently by a crushing southerly lashed the giant windows. Clouds sped through the sky as fast as schoolchildren when the home time bell rings. Occasionally a piece of the distant, starry universe peered through at the southern South Walian shire of Pue Damlla, a verdant land enriched by green fields, seams of coal and welcoming sheep at the southern skirts of the strange and magical Vastgreen Forest.

Pea-Soope House was far too grand to buckle under a mere thunderstorm. Quadruplex glazing kept the merest whisper at bay. Heavy drapes of thick, red velvet hung over the windows from countless hooks attached to long metal poles, hiding the goings on of the ordinary folk. Outside flashes of lightening illuminated a well polished garden. A strangely scented warmth drifted around the library. Logs crackled and spat and rolled around on top of each other in the giant hearth. The Springer spaniels, seven in all, snored on the rug before it, legs twitching in pursuit of nightmare rabbits they could never catch and themselves, presumably in response to what seemed like a very real exertion, indulging themselves in some EAV of their own.

Lady Melinda poked a finger and thumb in her eyes and rubbed them, yawned again, then poked a finger and thumb up each nostril and wafted as best should could the tome. But the book was too heavy and too intriguing to waft for long and soon she continued to read, her giggles growing stronger with each passing page.

Suddenly, as if the entire plot was unravelling, seven weeks raced by in quick succession and the night Lady Melinda Pea-Soope had been so looking forward to finally arrived.

The Pea-Soopes & Their Factotums

Pansy Gordon-Blur was crying. Buggering onions, she murmured; a rumbling that began deep within her massive girth and bubbled its way invincibly to the surface like magma through a mid ocean ridge. I’m always slicing buggering onions. She complained, slice, slice, slicing ever on.

Lady Melinda glanced at the grandfather dial; a huge metal contraption of cogs and levers, splinters and shards of glass, piano wire and fishing weights, standing proudly (and terrifyingly) in the entrance hall. It read Wednesday, quarter passed midday and even though she knew it was Saturday, and it was already dark outside she had no intention of going anywhere near the retched thing. The cleaner had tried and lost an arm. The cat hadn’t been seen for a fortnight. She gave it a wide birth and strode off busily towards the kitchen, making yet another mental note to visit a certain Mrs Murmuring who wasn’t quite so intimidating.

Turnips at last. Don’t mind turnips. Yes, turnips are the vegetables for me. Pansy found great solace in listening to her own voice, which was rather fortunate. She talked to herself even when she was talking to somebody else, or when she really didn’t have anything of especial import to impart. She spent most of her time alone and thought it would be nice to engage in some self searching, which is very much like soul searching, but with more ef and less ou.

Striding fast and proud down the wide, wooden-walled corridor beside the great staircase Lady Melinda hummed a little tune, rubbing her finger over polished surfaces, between banisters and on the top of picture frames, glancing at it and nodding satisfactorily each time. She pushed open a set of double doors and moved boldly into the spotless, steamy kitchen.

Pansy put out her podgy hands instinctively when she saw the lady of the house enter. She feared no malice, Lady Melinda was very kind; strict, but kind. Pansy was more afraid her Ladyship would fall over. To most folk it was surprising she could stand up at all, being so petite and carrying around that mass of red hair full of clips and beads and bits of garden on her head all the time. Evening m’Lady, said Pansy, curtsying badly and allowing slithers of turnip to fall to the floor.

Where’s the soup, Pansy?

In the sink, marm, Pansy pointed at the large range. She often had trouble with her words.

"Saucepan, Pansy."

Yes, marm. Oh yes, parsnip, parsnip, parsnip. Very nice. Slice. Snap.

And it’s...? Lady Melinda advanced towards the bubbling broth.

Soup, marm? Pansy replied hopefully.

Yes. What type of soup?

Verges, marm.

"Vegetables. And...?"

Sponges, marm.

"...spices? And..."

And... that’s it, marm. Quietly she added, "And lots of buggering onions."

Lady Melinda prodded the soup with a finger and sucked the juice off it. Her eyebrows raised appreciatively. Needs basil, she said, licking her lips.

Who, marm?

Basil. The Herb.

Don’t know him, marm. Does he live in Pue Damlla? On a slightly related side note, Basil the Herb had yet to take his magic act to Pue Damlla, for which he was much maligned by his colleagues, much mocked by his so-called friends and much relieved by those in the aforementioned shire.

Lady Melinda sighed, sought out and sprinkled in some basil herself, tasted it again. And a pinch of salt. She added that too, and stirred. Where’s the wine?

Lucy’s getting it from the sewer, marm.

"Cellar. Lucy?"

Yes, marm.

Who told her to do that?

That would have been me, marm.

"That was me, Pansy."

No... it was definitely me, marm.

Don’t do that, it tickles! Lucy objected mildly, giggling.

Oh yes? You usually like it, replied the tickler. (To ease your minds, The actual, infamous and real life Tickler remains behind bars for her heinous crimes.)

Lucy giggled.

See? Don’t mind if I do it there, do you?

More giggling, wince and twist. Stop it! Somebody will catch us.

Isn’t that what makes it so exciting?

Chuckle. "Oh please stop."

You don’t really want me to stop, do you?

Lucy smiled, panting to catch her breath.

Yes!

The tickler stopped. What about on the front?

Oh no, Abe, you know how that makes me all—

Too late! Abe moved her hands from Lucy’s waist to the plateau between the escarpments of her breasts, running her slender fingers up and down the valley of cleavage.

Blimey, Abigail! I won’t be able to control myself! Lucy’s breathing grew heavier, the valley deeper. The escarpments bulged, threatening to escape their cotton confines.

So stop trying, Abe said, smiling, moving closer.

But what if some—

A pair of lush, moist lips cut short Lucy’s protest.

Lady Melinda sighed heavily and strode off purposefully towards a stone stairwell in the far corner of the kitchen. She descended rapidly and spirally and entered the maze of racks, treading softly on the cold cobblestones.

From somewhere in the gloom giggles echoed.

Lady Melinda stopped and listened, her head to one side; she looked very much like spaniels do when you talk to them. And she looked about to topple over.

Somebody whispered. There was a sound not unlike dribbling, then more giggling followed by a soft, pleasurable moan.

Lady Melinda strode forward. Lucy?

Gasp. Shuffling. Yes, m’Lady? a gentle voice enquired.

What are you doing back there?

I was... um... Hands moved frantically, buttoning up blouses.

"Um what my girl?"

Just getting the wine, m’Lady.

You sound breathless. Is anything wrong?

No, m’Lady.

Short delay. Is there anyone else back there with you?

No, m’Lady. Honestly.

Are you sure?

Yes, m’Lady.

Right, well, hurry up then. Lady Melinda turned to leave.

Yes, m’Lady.

And make it four bottles, Lucy.

Yes, m’Lady.

And Lucy?

Yes, m’Lady?

Have you seen Abigail?

No, m’Lady. Not for a while. I think she’s with Jacob, m’Lady.

Blast. If you see her, be sure to tell her I want her.

You’re not the only one, Abigail whispered.

Lucy smirked. Yes, m’Lady.

Good. Hurry up! Lady Melinda climbed back up to the kitchen.

In the corner of the cellar behind the largest wine rack, deep in the darkest shadow, two girls giggled, hugged, kissed a bit then followed Lady Melinda cautiously up to the kitchen, watching her stomp out the back door and slam it shut behind her before entering the kitchen proper.

You pair are pushing your luck, Pansy scolded. You ought to be more careful. Like I am with the onions. Buggering things.

Did she catch on, do you think? Abigail asked, tossing lose strands of her long brown hair behind her right ear.

No, but it’s only a matter of time... should get a new peeler, I think.

We’ll be careful, Pansy, said Lucy, her blue eyes dazzling wickedly.

Just mind you do! Yes, a nice new peeler.

They left, giggling childishly, each carrying two large bottles of red wine.

Lance Coach slipped an EAV Category 1B (humdinger), turned. Oh, pardon me, m’Lady.

You really out to get your... Lady Melinda waved a hand in the general direction of Lance’s abdomen, ...bowels and things looked at, Lance.

Yes, marm, you’re absolutely right, of course. The doctor mentioned slithers of digestive bile may have infested the arteria colica and blocked—

Lady Melinda shuddered, interrupted, Have you seen his Lordship?

"Yes I have, marm." Lance winked as if this were indeed a moment to share.

Lady Melinda waited... prompted, Where was that?

On the front lawn, marm.

Thank you. Is the coach clean?

I scrubbed the midpoint buttock sweeps with a mixture of crushed lemon pips and spit and fumigated the back spoilers with those new cobweb shuffles from the market. Lady Melinda stared... You could eat your dinner off it, marm, Lance concluded.

As long as it’s clean, Lance.

Spotless, marm.

Well, I suppose you can go home now then.

Thanking you kindly, marm.

Be back bright and early Monday morning, mind you.

Oh yes, I will, marm. The coachman doffed his cap, strode away.

And Lance?

Yes, marm?

Give my best to your family.

Lance beamed. Right you are, marm!

Lady Melinda marched off shouting, Willy! at the top of her voice.

Lance turned, slipped an EAV Category 2B (wet, with potential for follow through) and rolling a fag, strolled off to get Frank. Even Lance admitted it wasn’t the best name for a horse but he’d called him it once by accident and it had stuck somehow. Now the silly old bugger refused to move unless you whispered Frank soothingly. Horses are weird, Lance thought.

William! Get your nose out of your sister’s arse! Henry! You’re no better! Get off him! James! What are you doing with that stick? Bring it back, boy, come on! Come on! James, here boy! Whistle. Hand clap. Woo! Tabatha! Fetch the stick, girl. This way. Over here. Come on... oh god. Big sigh.

You really ought to have them trained by now, dear.

Hello, my love, said his Lordship, turning, sticks in hand.

We could always send them off to Ken Ells’ place.

"The loves of my life? Send them there? Never!"

I’m only teasing, Willy.

Lord David William Pea-Soope grinned. His red veined nose wrinkled, his podgy cheeks spread and a laugh fell out of his large mouth. A great, booming laugh that started a tremor running the short length of his stocky frame, pressuring the buttons of his waistcoat.

It’s getting cold and our guests will be arriving soon.

Alright, my sweet. I’ll be in shortly. He made an arg sound and quickly added, I mean soon! I’ll be in soon. As much as they loved each other, his Lordship knew his wife could be a little touchy about the subject of her height.

Be sure you don’t catch a chill! she instructed, pecking her husband on the cheek and setting off through the scores of brightly burning braziers lining the driveway towards their huge abode, pulling her shawl so tightly about her small shoulders that she