Crones

By John Vault

Penelope Darlin, the romantically challenged proprietor of the Lilac Grange nursing home, is regularly murdering her elderly residents in the name of profit. Next on her to do list is ninety one year old Catherine Scrivens, but Catherine is aware of Ms. Darlin's business model and, determined not to go down without a fight, she recruits two accomplices who are hell bent on getting to Penelope before Penelope gets to them.
Meanwhile Linda Hawthorne, a Grange staff member, inherits 'Mac Lir's gate', a strange and ancient artefact with the power to transport her to the Wildwood - a place of Celtic myth and legend. Intrigued by Mac Lir's gate Linda begins to experiment with its power and inadvertently releases the Black Dog, a vicious and predatory creature who wants the gate and who will do anything necessary to possess it.
When the fates of these characters clash the result is the kind of horrific and farcical bedlam that only John Vault's readers are accustomed to.
In Crones there is comedy, tragedy and romance, ably assisted by Banshees, talking animals, Celtic spirits, murder in the tool shed and three delightful old ladies with a dark and bloody secret...
... And a zombie.

• Language: English
• Publisher: John Vault
• Release date: Jun 5, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301762484

John Vault

I'm an Englishman abroad in New Zealand, having moved here from the UK about four years ago. Writing for me has evolved from a means of escapism into something of an obsession. A subject that plays a major part in the content of many of my stories. Yes I'm pretty much infatuated with lunacy. It scares the hell out of me. It's all the unpredictability I think. My writing style is unorthodox and rarely sticks firmly to the genre for which it is presented, which is good because formulaic horror is like an 80's pop single. Same old, same old. I like to flip rapidly between gory horror and farcical comedy. I think that this kind of contrast amplifies the effects of both. It certainly affects me that way. I saw a film once, a long time ago, called 'The old dark house'. It was basically horror comedy but it was done so well that it just creeped me out for months! Another of my favourites (for all the wrong reasons) is 'Eraser head'. The atmosphere in this movie just blew me away. I've been criticised in the past for rampant use of expletives in character dialogue but I don't care. The characters that I write about actually live for me. I get to know them like friends and all my friends swear like troopers!I consider myself a normal man, having a wife, children and several household pets, but I have a real dark side and the best way to appease it is to write horror stories. I don't like stuff where the hero always wins out because justice has no place in horror either. Sometimes the hero and the villain are the same character. Sometimes the villains win and the heroes meet with ghastly deaths. When you see the villain/monster die in flames at the end of a movie, it's over. Why not let it live and enjoy the possibility that it just may turn up at your bedroom window in the middle of the night? Isn't that sooo much sexier?If you want to get in touch please feel free to do so. But no stalkers please. I'm fully booked in that department until somewhere around January 2025! I can be reached via my e-publisher at:[e-mail] - please put 'FAO John Vault' in the subject header and I'll get it.

Book preview

Crones.

By

John Vault.

SMASHWORDS EDITION.

***

PUBLISHED BY:

HiRisk Publications on Smashwords.

Title.

Copyright © 2013 by John Vault.

Smashwords Edition License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author's work.

Discover other titles by John Vault at Smashwords.com

HiRisk Publications has rated this work suitable for readers of 16 years or older.

It may contain frequent use of strong language, horror themes, violence or descriptions of a sexual nature. Reader discretion is advised.

***

This book is dedicated to everyone over the age of seventy.

May your bones remain firm, your wits sharp and your pants dry.

***

Chapter I

If it were possible at this time of year, to look down from above between the endless, dense, gunmetal grey clouds that sit like roosting vultures over the dark and dirty town of Neerthorpe, then the tiny hamlet of Luddensley, a speck by comparison, would be seen to the northwest, nestled between hills clothed in broken and barren stalks that will become as the seasons progress, a lush green pasture.

To the south of Neerthorpe centre is a housing estate composed of perhaps a thousand identical brick boxes sharing a complex web of tarmac threads. Each dwelling, as lacking in imagination and soul as its neighbour, was originally put there by cash gluttonous mill owners who knew only too well how to keep their workers within walking distance of the mills, the vast oppressive monuments to hard labour that cast their malevolent shadows over the cowering houses like the gods of wasted lives.

Neerthorpe town itself is a pit into which all hope has fallen with no possibility of escape. It is a mire of petty crime, drug addiction, prostitution and violence, and the brave man who enters the town on a Saturday night in the hope of finding camaraderie and perhaps a nice girl, may as well dangle his testicles into a shoebox full of scorpions and give it a good shake. It is a dark place even in daylight, whereas at night it glitters in the darkness like a thousand tiny diamonds which usually turn out, on close inspection, to be daggers.

Tenuous slivers of black reach out from Neerthorpe like the dendritic arms of an alien mould, feeling their way between the huge hills that have protected Luddensley village from absorption by its overbearing and somewhat cancerous big brother for over two hundred years. The local government cannot afford to bridge the gap. Central government would no more invest in the town of Neerthorpe than wipe its pink and tender arse on a broken bottle, and thus the idyllic fleck of yesteryear that is Luddensley remains unmolested by the ravening maw known as progress.

Some incursion into the space between the frantic urban and the semiconscious rural has been made however, primarily by the aforementioned mill owners who, being far too aloof to wish to live amongst the rabble and yet too mistrusting to move too far from their precious empires, had seen fit to build their lavish mansions on the outskirts, of the outskirts, of the outskirts, of Neerthorpe, in places where the withering combined aroma of raw sewage and lanolin was almost bearable.

In the end all things pass, and Neerthorpe's textile based life force spun its last spindle and flew its last shuttle many decades ago to disappear into the primeval tar pit along with everything else. The tyrannical mill owners, grossly obese and cirrhotic victims of their own success, have long since died, leaving their ornately feathered nests in the hands of others, and despite the unheard ghostly ranting of their swollen bellied, ruby nosed and gout ridden previous owners, life goes on.

In one particular case the enormous house and its expansive gardens has become Lilac Grange, a haven for the elderly, where they can spend their twilight years resting amongst sympathetic peers in beautiful surroundings and quiet security...

Yeah. Right.

***

Penelope Darlin ate like a sparrow. She perched on the edge of her office chair typing manically on a battered old laptop. Beside the machine was a small plate containing a precisely segmented small tomato that had been sprinkled with salt. Every five minutes or so Penelope picked up one of the segments, nibbled several millimetres from its red pulpy flesh and put it back on the plate. She had been eating this particular tomato for the past hour and more than half of it still remained. This was how she ate every meal. She took a very long time to devour very little. She welcomed any distraction that urged her to leave the table and she used any excuse to throw what remained of a meal away. The reason for this was simple, although admittedly very few people actually understood it. Penelope didn't like food.

She'd always been the same even as a child. It had nothing to do with body image, peer pressure or media influence. It was simply that she didn't enjoy the process of eating. She just couldn't tolerate putting things into her mouth. Anything larger that say a baked bean or half a salted peanut evoked a gag reflex capable of jettisoning an adult rhinoceros across the full length of the dining room. After various medical assessments she'd been advised to seek the advice of a psychotherapist to resolve the issue. Several months of in-depth analysis resulted in the therapist attempting to convince her that her oesophageal spasms were a metaphor for feelings of resentment toward men that had fostered a general resistance to any and all kinds of penetration. After considering this she'd told the silly bugger to fuck off and had never gone back. She actually liked men… sometimes… maybe.

It was almost time for that special part of the accounting process that Penelope always looked forward to. Her needlessly complex book keeping method relied on several independent ledger style spreadsheets that fed daily data into a somewhat overwhelmed small accounting package. Her favourite part of the day was entering all the figures and then scrolling the page up to see the final outcome. She closed her eyes, teasing herself, and pressed the PageDn key. She grinned widely, inhaled deeply and then opened her eyes...

She was not a happy bunny.

She was clearly in profit, substantially so in fact, but not enough. It is one thing to be making money, but quite another to be making 'financial progress'. So who or what was the issue?

Well it wasn't her, that much was certain, and all of her staff were under very strict instructions and were almost constantly monitored, so it wasn't any of them. There was no waste, ever.

It had to be one of the clients Penelope concluded. She minimised the accounts package and opened up one of the spreadsheets. It contained the current client list; a list of the entire paying population of the Lilac Grange nursing home. Thirty six old ladies and one old and very much sought after gentleman.

Accompanying each name were various details outlining the terms of their stay. This was after all, a private establishment catering for people of substance. People who in their twilight years could still afford to pay their way. Some were funded by pensions, others by a deceased partner's life assurance policy and still others by caring and affluent offspring. There were two clients however that didn't quite fit that picture.

When Penelope's mother had been a guest of the Grange it had been under different management and the place had been losing money. The previous owners were woolly minded do-gooders who didn't have the first clue how to run a business. Her mother had passed away in one of these very rooms only ten months later and Penelope had used her remaining funds to make the owners a derisory offer and they'd almost cried with relief as they'd accepted. One month later Penelope Darlin was the sole proprietor of the Lilac Grange nursing home, Luddensley. This had been five years ago and things were different now.

When she'd taken over the place it was over subscribed and largely unmanageable. The staff were under trained and lazy and were pilfering from the stock and using the facilities for their own ends. Penelope had sacked the ringleaders and trained the rest to the point that the whole system ran like a well oiled machine, but still she lost money.

There was a time about three and a half years ago when she was close to bankruptcy. The bank was threatening to foreclose on the building despite its considerable equity and she'd been in the process of trying to farm out the clientele to other nursing homes at considerable cost to herself, and herein lay the problem. Almost all of the guests had been inherited from the old regime, an organisation that lacked any form of forward thinking. As a result and due mainly to the longevity of the said guests, Penelope was locked into contracts that didn't pay enough to cover the cost of care and she therefore haemorrhaged money all day, every day, until finally something wonderful happened.

Isabelle McKenzie died.

It was a complete shock. She certainly wasn't the oldest Grange occupant. It was just one of those things. When Isabelle died she made room for a new guest. One who brought in fresh cash and registered just enough extra income for the Grange to put the bank into a holding pattern. Four weeks later Penelope's prayers were answered again when Lizzy Finch passed away from a stroke, thus allowing yet more cash into the coffers. It occurred to Penelope then that having done everything in her power to cut costs and having stifled all possibility of losses due to pilfering and wastage, there remained only one factor between acceptable profit and complete ruin: Client turnover.

Old clients were a drain on resources, whereas new clients equalled new and substantially higher charges for care, it was that simple. The place hit a bit of a depression (albeit a profitable one) over the next year or so because the clientele suddenly began dropping like flies and turnover went through the roof. So much so in fact that people were afraid to sign contracts in case the place was cursed. Even the locals had taken to calling the place Lilac Graves, and Reverend Blasely was there so often that people actually assumed he'd moved in! Luckily things eventually levelled out and the bad reputation was forgotten. The guests were old after all, and like it or not, dying is what old people do.

In the space of two and a half years Penelope had 'seen off' twenty nine elderly people and had replaced them with bright and shiny new ones, each with bags of lovely cold hard cash.

She nibbled on a segment of tomato, grimacing as a couple of slimy seeds traced their way across her tongue like minute green-brown slugs. She put the rest of the segment back on the plate and revisited the client list. There were two who were still on the old contract. She located the oldest of them and sighed deeply. Catherine Scrivens was the widow of Major Nigel Scrivens OBE, who was something of a local war hero and was funding her stay from beyond the grave with a substantial military pension, none of which was currently coming Penelope's way.

Catherine was, at ninety one years old, the picture of health. She could still walk to the local shops unassisted and did so almost every day. There was nothing wrong with her head either. She looked like someone who would in all likelihood be around to receive her congratulatory telegram from the Queen. Penelope lifted the tomato to her mouth again and thought better of it as soon as the acidity of its juice registered on her pale narrow lips. This was problematic she mused, difficult even. But like it or not, and despite all evidence to the contrary, if the profits were to remain healthy Catherine Scrivens would have to be dead and replaced before the end of next month.

***

Linda Hawthorne sat quietly in the waiting area of the Neerthorpe office of Rogers and Hepple Solicitors. The receptionist cum legal secretary was typing frantically at her computer keyboard and putting deliberate emphasis it seemed on hitting the Enter key, which bashed out a random slapping sound just frequently enough to be regarded as bloody annoying. The place felt dusty and smelled of old paper. Like the religion and philosophy section of Neerthorpe public library, it was a place where normal people didn't go. The typist obviously had a lot to do though Linda noted, so somebody must be having a good time. Either that or a great many houses were being bought and sold.

She leaned forward and picked a magazine from the immaculate stack on the small coffee table in front of her. The receptionist cum legal secretary's eyes flicked across to the table and then back to her screen. This is my territory, the glance said to Linda, and those are my magazines which I have stacked perfectly four times this morning and which I will immediately restack once you have left. The magazine was titled 'Extreme Knitting'. It was the September edition from nineteen ninety eight. The free gift with this issue was a small crochet hook of the reader's very own but unfortunately some bastard had already taken it, much to Linda's disappointment. She threw the magazine back on to the table, drawing a small but insistent cough from the receptionist cum legal secretary. The cough said, well you could at least put it back where you got it from, as if I don't have enough to do. Linda reached over, picked up the magazine and placed it perfectly on top of the pile.

'Ah. Miss Hawthorne.' A male voice rumbled from a doorway. Linda stood up, adjusted her skirt and offered her hand to the man who shook it gently. 'I'm Malcolm Rogers. Thank you so much for coming along.' Linda smiled softly and followed him into his small office. It was a very plain room that smelled of pipe tobacco. She took a seat in front of the modest antique pine desk while Malcolm Rogers took his own seat around the other side.

'Right.' He said, pulling open a desk drawer and then closing it again in favour of opening the one on the other side. 'Right, right, okay then.' He mumbled aloud as he pulled several small pieces of paper from the drawer and placed them on the desk in front of him. He fell silent for a few moments, scanning the pages, before picking up a ball point pen. 'Well,' he smiled, 'everything seems to be in order, so if you'll just sign here.' He offered both pen and the paper to Linda, who stared at him blankly.

'Sorry?' She smiled nervously. 'What is this?'

'Excuse me?' Malcolm replied.

'What's this and why am I signing it?' Linda asked.

'It's a receipt…' Malcolm said. 'For your inheritance.'

'Inheritance?' Linda asked, mildly shocked. 'What are you talking about?'

'Well surely you got our letter… or you wouldn't be here now.' Malcolm shrugged.

Linda's black leather handbag hung on a thin strap over her shoulder. She pulled it up onto her lap and opened it. She fished out an oblong white envelope that had been torn open at the top, dipped her hand in and retrieved the letter.

'Dear Ms. Hawthorne,' she read aloud, 'If you will be so kind as to call in to Rogers and Hepple Solicitors of thirty four Bond Street Neerthorpe at twelve fifteen p.m. on Monday the sixth of April you will learn something to your advantage. Yours truly, Abigail Grint (for and on behalf of) Malcolm Rogers.'

'That bloody woman!' Malcolm spat, red faced. 'I told her, I said, send a letter explaining the situation. My god! That sounded more like a summons! Look I really am very sorry about this.' He stood up, walked to the office door and pulled it ajar. 'Miss Grint, two teas please.' He snapped, before closing the door and then resuming his seat. He leaned back in his chair with his hands behind his head and sighed deeply.

'Well?' Linda asked.

'It is with great regret,' Malcolm began softly, 'that I must inform you of the passing of your great aunt Claudia, and while…'

'Who?' Linda asked. 'I've never heard of her.'

'Ah.' Malcolm nodded. 'That explains a few things then, in particular why we had some difficulty tracking you down despite the clarity of her instructions. The paper trail just seemed to fizzle out whenever we thought we were getting close. It was almost as if someone was doing it deliberately.'

'Doing what?' Linda asked.

'Never mind, you're here now and that's what matters eh?' He smiled. 'Anyway since you didn't actually know her I suppose I can dispense with the platitudes and tell you that Claudia Hutton was a woman of considerable, and I mean considerable, wealth.'

'How considerable?' Linda asked.

'Oh, considerable.' Malcolm replied gently.

'Okay,' Linda sighed, 'so how much cash do I get then?'

'Er, none I'm afraid.' Malcolm sniffed. 'Apparently you get something that's more valuable than mere gold. I'm quoting from her will by the way. I've no idea what's in it.'

'In what?' Linda asked, silently marvelling at the level of expertise with which, like all solicitors, he was able to explain things at tremendous length without actually telling you anything of value. He either stretched out each sentence like he was being paid by the word or he skirted around the verbs like a German politician, so by the time you'd discovered the subject matter you'd forgotten what he'd said about it.

'Sorry?' Malcolm asked.

'You said you had no idea what was in it.' Linda explained. 'And I said, in what.'

'Oh yes. That's right. It's a box, er, full of something more valuable than mere gold… apparently.' The office door suddenly flew open and Miss Grint, the receptionist cum legal secretary, strutted in armed with a silver tray beset with a tea pot and two china teacups which she half slammed onto the desk much to Malcolm's annoyance. She poured hot tea into Linda's cup and then pushed it toward her. Malcolm's cup was already full. She strutted out again slamming the door behind her.

'She seems a little tense.' Linda remarked, pouring a splash of milk into her cup. She lifted the steaming brew to her lips and sipped at it releasing a satisfied 'ahhhhhhh'. Malcolm picked up his drink, took a quick gulp, winced and then spat it back into the cup.

'It's bloody freezing!' He gasped. 'You saw that!' He half shouted, jabbing an accusatory finger at the office door. 'The bloody bitch deliberately made me a cold tea!'

'So you haven't opened it then?' Linda asked, dragging him back to the subject.

'What?' Malcolm asked, still staring venomously at the door.

'The box!' Linda pressed, frustrated. 'Did you open the box?'

'Oh. No. We couldn't.' He explained. 'Well what I mean is, it's in a safety deposit vault in our bank and we were supposed to declare its approximate value for insurance purposes but nobody seems able to unlock it, that is, it doesn't actually have a lock, or a lid, or a door, or anything, and there's no mention in the will about the contents.'

'And you're sure it's a box then, as opposed to just a block of wood?' Linda proposed.

'Oh yes.' Malcolm nodded. 'It's definitely a box because if you shake it, it er, rattles.'

Linda pulled the small document across the desk, picked up the pen and scribbled a quick signature on the dotted line.

'So where do I pick it up?' She asked.

'It'll be delivered.' Malcolm smiled, collecting the paperwork together. 'The courier will contact you about a suitable time. I'll tell Miss Grint to arrange it.'

'Are you sure?' Linda asked. 'I wouldn't want it to end up in Mongolia or anything.'

'Oh don't worry about that.' Malcolm smiled. 'She's only a complete and utter cow to me. Everyone else is quite safe.'

'Is she really so bad?' Linda asked.

'Yes she is I'm afraid.' Malcolm assured her. 'I can't imagine why the hell I married her in the first place.'

'You're married?'

'Twenty two years.' Malcolm nodded, rolling his eyes. 'It's true what they say. Marriage isn't just a word. It's a bloody sentence.'

'Can't you just get a divorce?' Linda suggested.

'Good God no!' Malcolm shuddered. 'She'd take me to the bloody cleaners! Knows more about the law than I do. I'd be over a barrel eating my own balls in a sandwich in ten seconds flat.' He stood up, walked to the office door and opened it. 'Well.' He grimaced. 'That seems to conclude our business.' Linda stood up and walked through the office door into the reception. She turned and shook Malcolm's hand.

'Thank you.' She smiled.

'Thank you.' Malcolm replied. 'And I'd be interested to know what's in that box if you ever figure out how to open it.'

'Absolutely.' Linda nodded, turning to leave.

'Miss Grint.' Malcolm called. 'I'd like to see you in my office please.'

Linda closed the door behind her and walked down the narrow corridor to the top of the stairs. As she descended the stairway she heard Malcolm's desperately frustrated voice behind her, it said:

'MISS GRINT, WILL YOU PLEASE COME INTO MY BLOODY OFFICE!'

***

Catherine Scrivens sat quietly on her sofa. Penelope Darlin sat opposite her on a small stool, staring at her in much the same way that a cat stares at a goldfish.

'And you're absolutely sure that everything is okay and that you feel fine?' Penelope asked.

'Yes, thank you.' Catherine nodded.

'So, no wobbly legs or dizzy spells or anything?' Penelope pressed.

'Nothing.' Catherine affirmed. 'Why do you ask?'

'It's my job to be concerned,' Penelope explained, 'and I take my responsibilities very seriously. One of the domestics told me that you were looking a bit fragile of late and…'

'I'm nearly ninety two.' Catherine interrupted. 'I think we can expect that don't you?'

'Yes, yes, of course, but…'

'If I ever need a doctor I'll call one myself.' Catherine stated calmly, 'And it certainly won't be that fool Clarke.'

'But Doctor Clarke is a wonderful doctor.' Penelope exclaimed. 'He's been treating the guests here for years.'

'And none of them have ever gotten to my age.' Catherine replied sharply.

'Well, yes.' Penelope agreed. 'But that's hardly his fault is it? I mean…'

'Oh I know it's not his fault.' Catherine smiled fixedly. Their eyes locked in silence for several long seconds.

'Let me make you a nice cup of tea.' Penelope suggested, rising to her feet and turning toward the small kitchen area.

'No thank you.' Catherine grunted.

'Oh come now Cathy.' Penelope laughed falsely. 'May I call you Cathy?' She walked through the kitchen doorway. 'Old ladies love tea, everyone knows that. I remember my dear old mum and how much of it she used to drink. The old kettle never stopped boiling. You know, you remind me a lot of her. I think that once we get better acquainted we'll be best friends, you mark my words…'

'Get out!' Catherine shouted.

'What?' Penelope asked.

'I said get out.' Catherine said. 'Get out of my flat and don't come back. I've lived here for sixteen years and this is the longest conversation we've ever had. I don't need you and I don't want you sniffing around me like I'm a piece of carrion so piss off!'

'Well!' Penelope snorted. 'I think we both know what's going on here don't we Cathy?'

'Do we really?' Catherine shrugged. 'And what would that be?'

'This kind of unsolicited aggression is a documented early symptom of impending dementia and I think that…'

'I said piss off!' Catherine shouted pointing at the door. Penelope turned on her heel and walked out.

'You know,' she shouted behind her as she left, 'it's a good thing you're amongst people who care about you. I'll tell the staff to keep a close eye on you from now on.' Her voice trailed away to nothing as she walked on down the long corridor.

Catherine pulled a tissue from the sleeve of her lime green woollen cardigan and wiped a small tear from the corner of her eye. She'd seen this all before and now it was her turn. Six times at least to Catherine's knowledge, Penny Dreadful, as Penelope had come to be known amongst the ladies, had hung around the dying like a bad smell. She singled someone out for a special friendship and three or four weeks later they were being carried out of the building in a box. Regular as clockwork it had happened. Everyone began to think she was psychic or something. The Grange community avoided Penelope Darlin like the plague. No-one spoke to her and no-one made eye contact just in case she took a shine to them, because you never know.

Catherine knew though. Her best friend Molly Gibbons had been suddenly befriended and had gone mental within two weeks and then fallen down the stairs a week later. The real puzzler was how she got up the stairs in the first place. She could barely even walk. God alone knew how many times Catherine herself had lifted her off the toilet because the staff were too bloody bone idle to do anything but the bare minimum. Catherine had watched Penelope Darlin ever since and had kept a diary detailing all of the coincidental deaths that had occurred since Molly's murder. Oh, it was murder alright, Catherine was sure. And there was no way in hell that she was taking that road out. She'd lived too long and she was too worldly wise and if Penny bloody Dreadful wanted to finish her off then the murdering cow had a fight on her hands.

Catherine stood up slowly and looked around the tiny bed-sit living room before setting off toward the kitchen. Why is it that when you get old your muscles need a four minute warning every time you want to move, she asked herself? She'd swum the English Channel at twenty two, crossed the Himalayas on foot at twenty five, married and borne three children by thirty, raised a family and lost a brave husband by fifty seven and spent the remaining thirty four years almost alone now that the kids had gone off around the world. She didn't blame them. She'd done her thing in her youth, now they could do theirs. She didn't raise them as an insurance policy and they knew that. It would be nice to see the grand kids though.

She walked slowly into the kitchen, her stride lengthening as her muscles warmed. She was strong for her age but that wasn't enough. She pulled open the cutlery drawer and came away with three small vegetable knives. These were very sharp instruments. She could peel a pumpkin with these things so they'd slip through flesh and muscle with virtually no effort. Catherine put one under the centre cushion of the sofa, one under the pillow of her bed and the remaining one she kept in the large pocket of the floral apron that she habitually wore. She had nothing to lose. After all, what were the authorities going to do to a ninety one year old woman?

If the bitch wants a war, Catherine thought, she can bloody well have one!

***

The ring tones dragged on while Penelope, with the handset pinned to her shoulder by her tilted head, nibbled lightly at the corner of a dry cream cracker. The call connected.

'Doctor Clarke's surgery.' The receptionist answered.

'Muriel!' Penelope almost squealed. 'So nice to hear your voice again. I wonder,' she continued without waiting for any acknowledgement, 'if I might have just a moment of Henry's precious time.'

'I'm afraid that Hen… Doctor Clarke, is very busy at the moment but if you'd like to make an app…'

'It is… rather important.' Penelope interrupted. There was an exasperated sigh from the other end of the line.

'Hold on please I'll see what I can do.' The receptionist muttered. Penelope nibbled the cracker again. There was a brief pause. 'I'm putting you through now.' She said.

'Hello?' Doctor Clarke's voice said a moment later. He sounded tired. This wasn't Penelope's problem of course so she pressed on regardless.

'Ah Henry!' Penelope squealed again. 'It's Penelope Darlin from the Grange, thank you so much for taking my call at short notice.'

'What can I do for you Miss Darlin?' Dr. Clarke answered curtly. She ignored his tone.

'I'm a little concerned about one of my guests Doctor.' She replied merrily.

'Oh yes?' He asked.

'Catherine Scrivens seems a little fragile of late and she complains of moments of confusion.' Penelope lied.

'Ah.' Doctor Clarke sighed.

'Yes, and I've been visiting her regularly to make sure that she's coping but when I went this morning to make her a cup of tea she became quite agitated and more than a little aggressive, and when I did convince her to settle down long enough to make a drink for her I found that… well…'

'Go on Miss Darlin.' The doctor urged.

'Well, I couldn't find any milk you see and after looking around I discovered that the poor thing had put it into the oven instead of the fridge.'

'Oh dear.' Doctor Clarke said softly. 'That's not good is it?'

'No doctor, not really.' Penelope agreed. 'She's usually so self reliant and strong. It's such a pity.'

'I'll pop in and see her on my way past later today.' Doctor Clarke suggested.

'I'd give it a couple of days if I were you.' Penelope answered. 'She seems a bit upset at the moment and I don't want the poor lady to be unnecessarily concerned. We'll look after her for now and I'll give you a call if things get any worse. It's a good thing she's amongst friends.'

'Yes, yes it is.' Doctor Clarke agreed. 'Look Penelope, I'm sorry if I seemed a little rude earlier…'

'Oh no, not at all.' Penelope reassured him with a syrupy voice. 'I'm sure you've got far more important things to deal with. I'm just glad that I can contact you when I need to. We have a very special relationship and I really do appreciate it.'

'Right. Thank you.' Doctor Clarke muttered. Penelope ended the call and put the handset back onto the base.

Her phone call and the gist of the conversation would now be a matter of record at Doctor Clarke's surgery. The kind doctor would also have remembered the details because she'd interrupted him directly rather than going through the normal channels. When Catherine Scrivens died there would be a paper trail in place illustrating her rapid physical and mental decline. Over the next two weeks Penelope would be creating a great deal more false evidence so that when the dirty deed was done no-one would think of questioning the circumstances.

She pulled open her desk drawer and rummaged around at the back to retrieve a small pill bottle. It was unlabelled, but visible through the tinted brown plastic were half a dozen Ketamine capsules. She'd bought a full tub of them eighteen months ago from that deeply unattractive young man down by the canal bridge, Golem or Golly or whatever his name was. Even in small doses they could create enough cognitive disassociation to fool anyone into thinking that they were going off on a bus trip to la la land.

She stared blankly at the telephone.

'Thank God for fools.' She whispered to herself as she lifted the cream cracker to her lips.

***

Linda watched the rain through the large window as she travelled back to work on the bus. All in all it had seemed a bit of a wasted lunch hour going all the way into town only to discover that she was a beneficiary in someone's will and then to be let down. Honestly, what could be more valuable than gold? It was probably just some old photographs or something. Things of sentimental value rather than actual value. Yes, Linda snorted quietly to herself as the shops flew past. That had to be it.

As the bus stopped to let on several passengers Linda's attention drifted to the front of the bus where the queue of drenched people were trying to get through the doors. Her eyes followed the queue outside to where a remaining few cowered from the driving rain.

There was a young man standing back from the end of the line. He looked quite unconcerned at being out in the cold downpour. He looked in fact as if he hadn't even noticed it. He wasn't there to get the bus either. He wasn't moving with the queue or anything. What he did do however was turn to Linda and stare deeply into her eyes.

Linda turned her gaze away but then returned to him several seconds later to see if he was still checking her out. He