Pogrom

By Clive Newnham

Murder happens; but overkill? The thing is, this one’s snowballed, led to ethnic persecution, a pogrom; and in the fallout there be besotted witches, impossible sorcerers, flaming big monsters not to mention running hoplins. Somehow DI Kalashnikov has to stop it before something nasty happens to him.
‘...quite adult and very wacky in a way that appeals...’
'Really good'
‘Enormous fun!'

• Language: English
• Publisher: Clive Newnham
• Release date: Dec 13, 2010
• ISBN: 9781458151681

Clive Newnham

The great Douglas Adams once wrote of the Earth, 'Mostly Harmless'; which I believe puts me in the Harmless category despite my mind wandering off alarmingly at times into far distant constellations. However I was definitely born in the United Kingdom, England, Sussex, ok Brighton... more years ago than I care to admit (yet). Been to school, done university, and held down a variety of jobs, but always found the best part of the day was reading! I love reading, especially good humorous fantasy and satire. And that said, I encourage you to enjoy my offering of Pogrom; and please don’t be afraid to laugh out aloud.

Book preview

Chapter 1.

The troubles began with an ending, as is often the case. An ending that might have been regarded as of little importance, since the life of this person passed without a fuss, there being little to commend him for, nor ought worthy of condemnation.

The masked assailant snatched the quarrel free from his victim’s chest and, noting the life-blood bubbling out from the small wound an inch below the guard’s left nipple, wiped the missile clean on the dying man’s coat. Satisfied he pocketed the bolt, and then rolled the dying man onto his side in order to carefully pin a small square of paper to the back of his jacket. This time the writing on the scrap did not say ‘kick me’.

Quietly, the door to the gatehouse swung closed. Within, the watchman’s crimson blood oozed through his shirt into a gradually spreading pool upon the floor. It soaked into the grain of the wooden boards and, but for further developments, would have been a sod to remove later. What did matter was that this life had finally arrived at a point of note. The watchman’s existence had reached what in hindsight could be regarded as a significant end.

His attacker had come in silence, crept through the shadows in silence, done the deed in silence, and gone in silence. And still the silence waited.

It was rewarded by the dissent of dry, rusty, oil parched hinges squealing against the night like fingernails scraping down a blackboard. Someone was pushing open the front gates of the warehouse. Retreating steps were followed by a clattering approach accompanied by the clopping of hooves, an announcement of the arrival of a horse-drawn vehicle into the yard. It drew up in front of the gatehouse.

A period of grunting ensued in which things of bulk sounded as though they were being relocated. There was then a brief shuffling between the gates and a partially loaded dray, which had been parked to the side of the gatehouse the previous afternoon. Abruptly, the horse and cart departed, but just beyond the gates they stopped once more. The screeching of the gates indicated their closure; their protest ceased, and a singular loud rap followed.

The man in the gatehouse was not listening; he had ceased breathing, had stopped bleeding. Moments later the horse and cart rattled away up the dark street, and pensive silence returned. It waited.

Behind the corpse a black cat crouched, ears flat. It crept forward; stopped. The tip of its tail flicked from side to side; its nose and unblinking, luminous eyes craned over the still man’s legs. A mouse sat beneath the table on its haunches, nibbled on the crumbs of the deceased’s last supper, unaware of the watcher. The cat’s legs began to bunch up.

Chapter 2.

Midnight struck. Over the city of Lodnun the discordant chimes from the bells of Great Sue drifted; a couple of them were cracked. Below the bell tower in the Coven Hall some of the students at the Witchcraft Institute met to practice their art. Bella appeared to be sketching a scene in shades of black on white. Well, not exactly sketching; she sat back in her chair and watched as a small dark stick scratched its way across the parchment that was tacked to a frame on an easel. In the top left hand corner of the backing board a small piece of paper had been stuck. On it in a rushed scrawl of three lines was written ‘This is NOT a note pad. Touch at your peril! Just Don’t!’ The small charcoal stick moved swiftly, aided only by a certain kind of magic.

The scene became clearer. Pulled by a trotting horse, a buggy was rolling between warehouse fences; behind the cloaked driver were a number of well-stacked cases on which were stencilled ‘74 Shambolay’, the fine sparkling wine served only for the nobs. Whipped into miniature whirlwinds by the vehicle’s speed, the dust and grit of Lodnun were stirred and flung into a pursuing tail. The drawing stopped momentarily, and then began afresh on an adjoining area of clean parchment.

A new vista emerged. It was a view of Water Street, upon which two men were strolling, beside the River Lod. The manner of their walk was that common to all policemen following a beat; an energy conserving swing of heavy boots, toes pointing slightly outward, accompanied by a slow steady rhythm, side by side. You didn’t need to see their uniforms, but the charcoal had drawn the details in anyway. One of them was smoking, as the other spoke: …so I said to her, ‘Wilma, on one dollar a week, you think I’m made of money!’ and she says ‘If Gerty can have a pair of those silk stockings I don’t see why you shouldna buy me some’ and then she throws me dinner at me. Gods of Elma! Take my advice Ollie, don’t get married.

Well I dunno sarge. Seems to me that all you gotta do to get her sweet is to get a pair of them stockings, replied the constable, and inhaled another drag from his cigarette. Might be able to help there, if you want.

How do you mean? asked the sergeant doubtfully. Ollie smiled, as they plodded silently passed a man who was urinating on the rear wheel of his cart. Well, he was outside the ‘no-pee’ zone, and he did have his right hand on the cart’s boarded side, so that was alright. Out of earshot of the man, who now seemed to be struggling with his flies, the constable continued: Well, for fifteen cents, maybe I could get you a pair of those stockings. Get you two for twenty-five!

Gorblimey Ollie, where’re you going to get stockings from at that price? They’re fifty cents each in the market!

Ollie shrugged. Take it or leave it. Same quality though. Nice and, well... he winked with a lascivious eye, slinky. The sergeant furrowed his brow as he appraised his companion. Constable Holmes always dressed smartly, he thought, even on duty. Maybe it was best not to ask too many questions of Ollie. He certainly seemed to have resources outside of his constable’s pay. Instead, he considered the turkey-like legs of his overweight wife in slinky black stockings, and shuddered.

At that moment an explosion rudely ripped apart the silence of the night; a detonation that tore through the sleeping sky to find a faint echo in the sergeant’s underpants. The policemen looked at one another.

Damn. Now you wouldn’t think anything could shatter a peaceful night along ’ere, would you? the sergeant grumbled. Vintners Street area by the sound of it... Oh well, let’s go, constable. Together they ran back along Water Street at a steady, effort sparing pace. Crossing Bridge Road they continued passed the next block of buildings. Perhaps ‘ran’ gives the wrong impression; it was more like a gentle jog, and definitely slower than a purposeful walk. To watch their motion one could be forgiven for thinking that they were actually moving backwards; it was the shuffle of their size twelves. Both men were in fact painfully aware that a policeman who ran invariably ended up being skewered or something. And after all the city didn’t pay them for that, nor to be enthusiastic, so if you wanted to be on the beat the next night, then you weren’t.

It wasn’t that Lodnun was lawless, far from it; after all, this was the capital city of Lodzamonkeze. It was the nation’s seat of power; two buttocks set foursquare upon the dividing river, the city from which the laws of the nation did indeed emanate. Laws that, for instance, forbade a lady to eat chocolates on public transport, or protected rubbish bins from being molested, and decreed that beds were not to be hung from upstairs windows (at least not without a fair trial). Oh yes, Lodnun has laws. Committing suicide in Lodnun is a capital crime, for entertainment and otherwise.

Yet there is a degree of recusance about the city perhaps fuelled by the lawmen, the men on the beat, or rather the lack of them. The policemen in this city being few and being conscious of their scarcity tended toward self-preservation, remaining conspicuous only by their absences; there was never a policeman when you needed one.

Indeed if you found one, invariably there would be a second right behind. Ahead of the two ‘jogging’ men were the commercial wharves of Lodnun, and branching to the right was Vintner’s Street. In time honoured understanding they stopped at the street’s corner; the constable peered cautiously around it, and the sergeant even more cautiously around him. In the starlight they could just make out the hoardings and gateways of a few warehouses on each side, but five plots up it seemed the thoroughfare was partially blocked. There, peeping menacingly over a leaning palisade, orange tinged smoke billowed. Flickering, it began rolling out from a broken gateway to flow over the flattened barriers and drift down the rutted road toward them. Warily the two policemen approached, one on each side of the street, hugging the shadows nervously, trying to hide behind them. Together they moved forward to be swallowed by the fug.

Chapter 3.

Boots scrabbled at the earth with raw bleeding paws, his breathing ragged. He was trapped under a mound of rubble, broken glass, timbers and soil. The darkness was complete; not a glint of light penetrated the hollow, not a stir of air. In short Boots, the intrepid mouser, the cat of a thousand lives, the feline that laughed death in the face, was slowly suffocating, slowly dying alive, terminally. Except…

The sergeant and constable were not the first arrivals to pass over the unhinged gate of the City Wine Warehouse that night. In the middle of the debris strewn yard stood a spectre, a form that seemed to swallow the surrounding light and meld it into its own dark shape. It held a reaping instrument silhouetted against the stars; around it, lumps of smouldering wood licked by flames added their curling grey smokes to the hellish atmosphere.

SAMUEL SPRATT.

Yes? the distracted and confused spirit of Samuel Spratt deceased uncertainly replied. He was looking down upon his former residence smouldering under the gatehouse wreckage; the blast had rolled his one-time body onto its back. Sam, the reluctant spirit, felt as if he was centre stage in some theatrical tragedy, lit strangely from all sides.

MY APOLOGIES FOR THE SHORT DELAY.

Delay?

YES; SORRY. BUT IT WAS IMPORTANT, QUITE UNAVOIDABLE I’M AFRAID. BIT OF A RUSH ON AT TWOY, IN THE PALAGEON WAR, DON’T YOU KNOW, d’Earth stated, and then smiled a hollow smile. HOWEVER, NORMAL SERVICE IS NOW RESUMED. THIS IS THE FINAL ACT, AS IT WERE.

Oh? Sam’s silvery ghost appeared puzzled. Er... I kind of expected you; the scythe and that... but... There was something about d’Earth that was, you could say, unexpected; something a bit bony around the hip area, perhaps. Well, maybe not bony, more sort of fat, but not fat, at least not in the flabby sense; wide… width… broad… Broad! That was it! It was the way the dark mantle clung, if that’s the right word; there was a definite bit of girth just around where the hips ought to be. Blimey, Sam’s phantom exclaimed, you’re a woman!

TCHT! I HOPE YOU’RE NOT GOING TO GET SEXIST, d’Earth clicked bending toward him. There was no face to be seen under the cowl, only the ghost of old grey bone hinted at within the darkness; a darkness not dissimilar from a night without stars and moon, and without the reflections under clouds; darkness akin to nothing.

No! Honest, er... honest! Sam choked.

PITY, d’Earth sniffed and straightened. Contrary to the often quoted phrase ‘The smell of death’, d’Earth was virtually odourless. There was not a hint of perfume. Even her hissing simulated breath was practically scent free… you could maybe just imagine a hint of sterile peppermint. Otherwise, nothingness!

She appeared to rummage around beneath her robe, searching for something. Eventually a skeletal hand withdrew and in it was a book, a blood-red leather-bound volume with a spiral spine of bone. On the cover was his name ‘Samuel Spratt’ printed above the title ‘This Was Your Life’, and which d’Earth quoted in full as she presented the volume to him. Accepting it, he seemed to hear a distant spontaneous sound, something like the clapping of several hands far, far away inside a large tin can. The book was very thin. He flicked through the pages. Most of his life seemed to have passed in his first thirty years or so, because his last twenty all seemed to be on its final page.

Do I have to take this? he asked despondently.

HELL NO. YOU DON’T HAVE TO TAKE IT; BUT I THINK YOU SHOULD.

Why?

WELL THE ACCOUNTANTS OF YOUR PARTICULAR CHOICE OF PARADISE, OR PURGATORY, WON’T LET YOU IN WITHOUT IT.

But I’m an atheist!

SO? THERE HAVE BEEN MORE THAN A FEW ATHEISTS, YOU KNOW.

But… er…

OR WOULD YOU PREFER TO END UP IN THE NETHERS FOR EVER? purred d’Earth.

Where’s that?

NETHER; IT’S SO FAR DOWN AS TO BE NEITHER HERE NOR THERE. IT’S WHERE EVERYONE GOES WITHOUT A BOOK, WHETHER THEY REFUSE IT OR LOSE IT.

Oh.

SO TAKE CARE OF IT. IT’S YOUR LIFE. AND NOW YOU ARE FINISHED, YOU HAVE TO GO. In a single fluid motion she swung her scythe. THERE; I’VE SEVERED YOUR MORTAL COIL, SURPRISINGLY THE STRONGEST LINK. With a tinkle of breathy laughter, the ghost of old grey bone lightened beneath her cowl, and she gave him a smiling flash of teeth. GOODBYE. d'Earth twirled away with an exaggerated swish of dark robes accompanied by another burst of disconnected applause; and then the funny surrounding lights went out.

Just beyond the edge of hearing the airy ghost of a watchman’s voice was fading. It whined That wasn’t very fair. I felt I was doing okay. Nothing special I know, but there were others deserved this more than me. And the parlour needs tidying, and my shoes are dirty, and the…

* * * * * * * * * *

One could say that the scythe was swung somewhat sloppily; or it could be said that the movement was expertly executed. One should be very careful about what one says. Many a man, sentenced to death, has felt the executioner’s notched axe. The spirit of night watchman Samuel Spratt was however released from his corpse with customary precision; and incidentally, so too was that of the brain dead mouse that had shared his last supper. Whilst enjoying the crumbs of Sam’s final fortune cookie, the mouse had had the mischance of being decapitated by an exploding bottle.

D’Earth’s scythe had swung only once. In the moment that the rodent’s spirit was released, its back legs kicked spasmodically and dislodged some grit from beneath a wooden roof tile. The particles slid, gathering a trickle of sand and earth from the debris. As the slippage gathered momentum small chips of wood and brick joined the cascade. The tile above quivered, hung for a lingering moment, then imperceptibly it tipped forward, slowly rocking to one side then rolling to the other, and back again. In the best traditions of slow motion the tile hung pendulous; it entirely failed to fall forward. Instead the broken bricks and dirt behind it suddenly ran free to drive the tile forward surfing a wave of released detritus and rubble. Slowly the dust from the small avalanche lazily resettled, and a small hole became discernible. Air flowed into its black void, and the walls became fuzzy as if trembling. Abruptly, from the cavity into the eerie, flame illuminated darkness, razor sharp claws thrust out on a black paw. They scratched at the air as if beckoning and then stilled.

With an eruption of the debris the entire cat leapt out, escaping from his internment into the clammy night. He staggered and gasped, fur ruffled and coated in dirt, legs unsteadily and stiffly treading. The air was not fresh, as it should have been, but then neither was Boots; acrid smoke drifted with a sweet hint of barbecued meat, somewhat over-powered by the heady aroma of fermenting wine and enough spirits to blow your head off. Someone somewhere was having a party, but evidently this one was over.

Right now, Boots was feeling very much not the cool party animal, let alone an intrepid mouser, and curiosity could go and hang itself elsewhere. Indeed, still sucking in air and swaying, he desired no more than a cosy warm place to sleep and recover. He began to pick his feline way falteringly through the wreckage, his paws stinging, legs aching and fatigue racking him. Despite hanging below half-mast, the cat’s tail still seemed to maintain a life of its own. Flicking to the left it brushed through a puddle of whisky and flinching back from the wetness, it rashly passed over a burning ember on the other side. A flame leapt to create a thin blue wavering light that engulfed the fur of his normally erect appendage. Drowsily Boots turned his face to study the flickering fiery glow, not quite conscious of the sulphurous tang from singeing fur that wafted to his little button nose. With spitting realisation, legs spinning, he awoke in an instant and was accelerating out of the yard, a thin line of grey smoke trailing behind the streaming blue fire around his tail.

Scampering between someone’s legs, the dark creature skittered down Vintners Street toward the river. The sergeant yelled out before collapsing against a teetering fence; they were his legs. From the waterfront came a drawn out yowl, followed by a soft distant splosh.

You alright sarge? asked Ollie, bending over him. It was only a black cat. That’s lucky isn’t it?

Sergeant Laurel closed his eyes, leaned back into the wooden fence slats and mumbled Didn’t look like lucky…

* * * * * * * * * *

Manifestly, for some reason that has been kept to his… it… herself, d’Earth seems to have an affection for cats; how else to explain why cats tend to get more than one chance at dying? After all, d’Earth carries the scythe.

What has not been said is that d’Earth is old. Not old old, nor very old, not even ancient old. Not even man infestingly old; she’s been around longer than that; longer than grunts and words. She would of course deny being prehistorically old, and curse the suggestion with ‘a lady never gives her age’.

When history began d’Earth was already there, swinging her scythe. And before history started... be assured, d’Earth was present even at the Big Bang wielding her blade (whatever caused that cataclysm, it was bound to be fatal to something). And even before that, d’Earth probably was. The mere notion that she wouldn’t be at the party that started it all seems tenuous to say the least. So she is seriously, originally aboriginally old!

And d’Earth is expected to be the last one out too; the poor sod who has to compere the ultimate show, draw the final curtain, and then switch off all the lights. Whether she has to switch them back on again is a matter for conjecture, as are many things.

But in the beginning her name was not d’Earth. Like the ‘Glob’, she had no name. All she had was her profession, perhaps not dissimilar from that of a litter picker’s, clearing up the congested beaches of half-eaten life, life that belonged dead. And, maybe not surprisingly, an attitude: Yeah, go ahead. Make my stinking day.

But for now enough of d’Earth; she no doubt has much to do back in Twoy, and possibly some very busy days ahead.

Chapter 4.

Holding lanterns aloft, the two men shuffled nervously through the smouldering dark yard of the City Wine Warehouse. One of them stopped; he had three stripes on the left sleeve of his jacket.

Ollie, the sergeant called, over here. I think I've found Sam. The constable carefully crossed the timber and glass-strewn floor to where his comrade was lifting away charred brick, smoking wood and crumbling plaster; all that remained of the gatehouse. Together they removed the rest of the debris until they could view the supine body. It was battered, crumpled and somewhat burnt.

Who’s Sam?

Yep! That's him, or was, poor sod, said Laurel, mishearing.

How can you tell? gagged the other.

Always wore those red socks in his brogues, see. Ollie pointed to the corpse's scuffed but mostly charred shoes, and the red stocking cowering in one of them. He was like security for this place.

What a bloody waste, eh Sarge?

Yeah.

Dick ain’t gonna like it, is he Sarge? Ollie said as he wandered away using his boot to dislodge a piece of timber. I mean, us discovering a body like.

Not a bit. A murder that, because they had discovered it, would have to be investigated. It was an example of things that were high on their chief’s wish list of things not to do.

Still, we ought to see what we can salvage first, eh Sarge, before we tell Dick?

What?

Like, for evidence I mean. Ollie lowered his lantern, then bent down and picked something up. Carefully he secreted it into one of the pockets of his great coat. There was a clink.

Constable Oliver Holmes, what have you just put in your pocket? the sergeant demanded.

Evidence Sarge; a sample of damaged produce, that’s all, the constable replied, bending down to pick up another unbroken bottle of whisky, which also disappeared into a coat pocket. The two of them criss-crossed the yard, searching. Ollie stooped every so often to examine something that would often find its way into his coat.

Damned if I can find any evidence, muttered the sergeant suspiciously as he kicked away another broken whisky bottle. The sound of the city fire brigade could be heard approaching, and something else galloping very hard.

Blimey! Dick’s comin’ by sounds of it, called Ollie. Just as well we got ’ere before the fire crew, eh sarge? Just as well we was patrollin’ by the river, eh?

Yeah, sure. Moodily the sergeant turned back toward the street. Behind him, Ollie continued his crusade for evidence and bent down to retrieve three more items in quick succession. As he picked up the third, he muttered to himself: ’s odd? For a moment he looked at the bottle in puzzlement, and then with a shrug, added it to the content of his coat. He turned and followed the sergeant toward the entrance picking up two more bottles of Jolly Runner as he went.

The city fire brigade swarmed in from the street through the broken gates. Hey Ollie! one fireman shouted as their swinging lanterns fanned out across the warehouse yard. Any booze lyin’ around?

Not much mate, replied Ollie in a sulky manner, ’s all been smashed up by the explosion.

They were a motley bunch, the city fire brigade, but all had a highly trained nostril, not to mention eye. The mere hint of smoke in the air, or a fire glow in the night sky, and they would be on their way. Indeed, many a barbecue was attended by such unexpected guests, who were of course never turned away. Each would turn up carrying a bucket of water which on arrival would normally be less than half full. However, once at the scene, they were usually good at reaching a consensus and organising themselves into a chain linking the burning to the nearest source of water, or in the case of a barbecue the sizzling food. It was only when there was more than one water supply that logistical discussions could become more heated than the blaze itself. However, the supply on this occasion would have been from the river but since most of the fires were alcohol fed and almost out, boots and broken timbers would suffice to beat out the flames.

The process of bringing a fire under control met with varying success of course. For small fires a dousing from the buckets was usually, but not always, adequate. In the case of infernos the most usual course of action was to soak any nearby buildings and allow the conflagration to burn itself out. The bucket men were not paid, but they would come anyway to see what they might salvage. And who knows one day it might be one of their homes on fire. The arrival of the fire fighting crew was never unwelcomed.

Moments after the arrival of the firemen, a brown charger thundered in to be reined to a nostril flaring halt in front of the sergeant. Upon this steaming horse, the rider sat exceedingly erect, and slowly viewed the destruction about him. He had a military bearing, as indeed one who has seen action in the hot colonies might have, and he held a pocketknife; he closed it before tossing and catching it repeatedly, in a distracted manner. Of indeterminate age but somewhere between thirty-five and fifty on a good day, his face was strong although rugged, with a scar creasing his right temple. Perhaps handsome; he had the potential look of a lady's man. Evening Sergeant Laurel, he acknowledged, and then dropped his chin to face the man. Now, what do we have here?

Briskly the sergeant saluted him. Sir! Some kind of explosion, sir. It’s destroyed the entire stock in the yard, sir. Also killed one night watchman, Samuel Spratt, and flattened the gatehouse, sir. Not a very nice... A shout of glee from across the grounds interrupted his report. Detective Inspector Curtis Kalashnikov cast an eye in the direction of the source. The bucket men had quickly doused the few spots of flame, and begun the salvage operation; one of them was placing a bottle into his bucket.

Well Sergeant, if my eyes do not deceive me it appears that someone has, contrary to your view and perception, indeed found an item of stock intact, a bottle of… ah… spirit no less. He sighed. Big bang, Sergeant. Heard it at quarters; and I fancy it must have woken a couple of the firemen too. There were indeed a few wearing night clothes beneath their jackets. Turning to Holmes he asked, How about you Constable, found anything?

Ollie wanted to spit because he’d missed a bottle, but instead threw his superior a smartish salute. The muffled clink of two bottles touching was heard from beneath his coat, and inwardly he groaned. The detective raised an inquiring eyebrow. Blushing slightly, the constable gingerly extracted two bottles from an inside pocket. He offered up a bottle of Jolly Runner saying, There’s a lot of these lyin’ around smashed, saah! Looking at the other bottle with some disappointment, he held this aloft too for the DI’s inspection adding, and er… just one bottle of Shambolay ‘74, which seems odd sir, especially as it’s intact.

Thank you, Constable. I'll take both of those, the DI commanded with a twinkling eye and an eager smile. After a final toss he pocketed his penknife, before relieving the constable of the two bottles. Ollie released them with a degree of reluctance, a degree that hid the extreme care of one who does not wish to lose any more of his salvaged wealth through the inadvertent clink of glassware. Now Constable, please stand at the entrance and do not allow anyone else onto the premises. Oh, and get a couple of those fire wallahs to remove the gates from the street. Sergeant, you will come with me, he ordered. Whilst Ollie went to secure the frontage, Kalashnikov stowed the two bottles into his saddle bag, and then viewed the scene around him once more before dismounting. Hmmm… the deceased first I think. Must have been a rather large detonation to do all this damage and blow out the front gates, wouldn’t you say Sergeant Laurel?

Yes sir. Was, sir. We heard it from the waterfront, sir.

Quite. DI Curtis Kalashnikov was a tall man, but followed the sergeant with a pronounced limp; he used a solid black cane to prevent himself from toppling over. On reaching the corpse he carefully examined its posture and then slowly gazed once more around the warehouse yard. Seemingly satisfied, he then considered the condition of Sam Spratt’s body and grimaced. The flesh of the hands and face were blackened, as was his clothing, which still smoked in places. In addition there were splints of glass and wood of varying size protruding from him, including the face.

Was he like this when you found him? asked the DI grimacing at the corpse.

Yes sir, more or less. Covered with debris which we removed, but we haven’t touched him, sir.

Fine. Kalashnikov scrutinized the area defined by the boards of the former gatehouse floor. Well Sergeant, I think we can safely conclude that the explosion occurred outside that gatehouse wall there, and he pointed to where the side wall nearest the entrance had stood. It totally demolishes that wall, pushing the debris through the gatehouse, the force of the blast lifting the roof and collapsing the other walls outward: front, back and the other side.

It also knocks out the gates sir, and the fencing a bit.

Quite. The DI frowned down at the body. So what’s he doing here?

Sir?

Mister Spratt should not be lying in the middle of the floor! He was facing the blast; he’s got all that glass and wood in his face and chest... He should have been blown through the other wall; unless... Give me a hand sergeant to put him on his side. Together they rolled the corpse onto a shoulder, and as they held him Kalashnikov swiftly examined the man’s back.

Oh; now what’s this? He reached over and snatched away a scuffed and torn scrap of paper attached to the dead man’s jacket. H E R... A? he read. Now what the devil does that mean?

No idea sir, Laurel replied solemnly shaking his head. Last letter couldn’t be an ‘O’ by any chance?

No. No matter; let him go. They returned the corpse to its original posture. No splinters in his back though; now that’s informative. He must have been lying on the floor facing the explosion and that’s why, Sergeant, the blast didn’t carry him out of the building. He was already dead.

Or unconscious thought Laurel as he stood to stretch his back: How can you be sure of that sir?

Kalashnikov’s eyes widened as he observed another clue; he was starting to warm to this task. Well, four things I see. Firstly, someone pinned that note to his back, and it hasn’t charred. Secondly, the angles and positions of those wood and glass splinters piercing his body confirm his position on the floor; note nothing in his back and little on the right hand side. Thirdly, there is no bleeding from those penetrations. And lastly Sergeant... The DI stood and unbuttoned his coat, before using his cane to carefully lift away the left breast of Spratt’s jacket. The shirt beneath was darkly stained. The policemen’s eyes met. Well, let’s see.

Together they crouched once more beside the deceased, and Kalashnikov drew a sharp knife from a sheath at his hip. He cut through the dead man’s shirt and vest on the right side, before peeling away the wet cloth from the source of the blood to the left. So, we have a murder; although I must admit I wasn’t expecting the murder weapon to be a hoplin’s crossbow.

Sir?

I was expecting a knife or a blade, but what we have here is the distinctive wounding caused by a crossbow bolt, albeit a small one, from the smaller weapon, but larger than a handheld.

But where is the bolt?

Actually it’s gone. Pulled out; and that is why Samuel Spratt has bled to death. I think we can presume that the murderer retrieved it.

But why? Why murder him, recover the bolt, and then blow him to kingdom come?

Indeed, why? Kalashnikov cast his eyes about the place again. It does somewhat smack of overkill, doesn’t it? We’d better inspect the general area.

But murders are usually hushed up, commented the sergeant as Kalashnikov limped purposefully about the flooring of the gatehouse. Occasionally he shifted a piece of debris with his stick. However he found nothing more of note within the bounds of the building, and so moved beyond into a pit of scorched dirt. From the crater’s centre debris spread outward; it was the site of the detonation. In the fence before him part of an axle was impaled with a wheel still attached. Another wheel, he remembered, lay by the entrance; he scanned the yard and spotted the incomplete rim of a third wheel, and close to that its hub with only three spokes attached. There was no sign of the fourth wheel. Nearby lay a fractured harnessing pole, but there was otherwise little left to identify the vehicle that had been parked at the site.

Aah, he exhaled, and bent slightly to examine and follow a darker line on the ground leading away from the crater. Although already scuffed and partially obliterated by the comings and goings of firemen, the sergeant and the constable, not to mention his own horse, the line was evident enough to show that gunpowder had been carefully laid from the front gate to the presumed dray, lit and... boom. So a four-wheeled dray was parked here, he guessed, loaded with Jolly Runner, and ready to go. And someone set enough powder kegs beneath it to...

Once more he surveyed the yard, gazed at the broken barrels and pallets of smashed bottles that lined the walls on each side, and considered his findings. Someone quietly walks in, takes Spratt by surprise, shoots him with one shot from a crossbow, and then yanks out the bolt. The killer then loads enough kegs of gunpowder under the dray to annihilate the gatehouse, lays a powder fuse, lights it and leaves. So what was more important? Was it killing Spratt or destroying the dray? And if it was the dray, why not destroy the warehouse itself? Motive? Motive? he whispered to himself. "Powder...

Sergeant, bring your lantern over here. Kalashnikov had carefully walked back to a position which would have been in front of the wagon. Can you see any fresh ruts in the dirt around here?

Wheel ruts, sir? Laurel responded doubtfully, but within seconds excitedly exclaimed, Why yes sir, look... just here!

Yes, they’re fresh enough. Let’s see if we can follow them. But the trail was soon lost. There were a few indistinct horseshoe prints in the dust within the wheel marks, and they did suggest that a vehicle had been parked before the dray. The tracks that they did find however indicated that it had been pulled in a half circle back toward the gate, but any signs that it had passed through in either direction had been obliterated by the explosion and the subsequent traffic. It told him nothing more.

Detective Inspector? Constable Holmes was hovering in his great big trench coat.

What is it, Constable?

It’s the gate sir, there’s a note on it. Might not be related but, thought you ought to see it, sir.

The firemen had moved both gates into the yard, leaning them one on top of the other against a fence post. The left gate was on top, now facing into the yard. Near its centre, beneath the watchman’s peephole, a rectangle of paper had been affixed with an iron pin. On the DI’s nod, Sergeant Laurel retrieved the item and the nail and handed both to his superior. After slowly reading the script on the sheet, Kalashnikov took it to his horse where he consigned both to a saddlebag. Again he cast a searching eye around the gatehouse floor, and about the yard, looking, seeking, and questioning the crime scene.

Sergeant, I’ll return to headquarters to examine our findings. I want you and the constable please to guard the premises against looting. I’ll send the Maria over for the deceased.

Yes sir.

Ah... and Laurel...

Yes sir?

When the site manager arrives please direct him to the station; I’ll be waiting for him. In the meantime, I feel that there is still something to be discovered, so keep looking.

For what, sir?

I don’t know; perhaps a crossbow or bolt, a pen in the dirt, anything that looks out of place really. Curtis Kalashnikov mounted his horse with the ease of one well-versed in riding

Yes sir. Um...

Yes, what is it man?

Begging your pardon sir, but we go off duty at four. My missus worries if I is late.

Sergeant, Mister Samuel Spratt has clocked off permanently. He’s given us a murder to solve, the first one in years; and there’s been a slightly big bloody explosion. You and Holmes will stay here until a couple from the morning shift relieve you to monitor the clean up. Savvy?

Very good, sir.

Good; well keep searching. Maybe you’ll find something. You can take any extra time off in lieu.

Yes sir.

Kalashnikov departed with the uneasy slow air of an investigator pondering a riddle. As the clip-clop sound of his horse faded into the night, Holmes sidled up beside the sergeant and asked: You still interested in them stockings sarge?

Hmmm.,, Oh, yeah Ollie, yeah, the sergeant sighed, and wandered aimlessly back into the wreckage. And Ollie, he wants us to find more clues, a pen or something…

A pen?

Chapter 5.

The sun had risen to light the morning through an overcast and stifling gloom. Shortly after nine Thomas Snodin, manager of the City Wine Warehouse, was shown into Kalashnikov’s office. The DI, after expressing his commiserations for Spratt’s untimely demise, put forward a question that had been nagging him: You know I’m wondering Mister Snodin, shouldn’t there have been more watchmen on duty?

Yeah.

Yeah? repeated Kalashnikov seated behind his battered old desk.

Hmmm... Snodin gazed distractedly down through the grimy panes of the single window onto the cobbled street below. He really didn’t want to be in this office with the detective inspector, despite the fact that a very serious crime had been committed on his premises and indeed against him. To repair the damage and recover the financial loss was going to be tough. Naturally he was insured, but the insurers tended to be reluctant to depart with their profits just as much as he was. If he hinted at making a claim they’d definitely put his premium up; it was protection money anyway, and it was going to be very difficult to prove to them that the incident was not an act of god; best not to tell them.

The DI persisted: Well, where were the others then?

Dunno.

What do you mean, you don’t know?

Look, they didn’t show up. Or they ran away. I don’t know. But I will be finding out, er... if they show.

So normally there would be how many night watchmen? Kalashnikov inquired.

Four from seven; but we’re two short at the moment anyway, so it ought to be three from five. Sam manages... used to manage the rota. I am recruiting; what with all the booze in there I can’t afford to have less than three on of a night, and armed to the teeth too. How I end up with just the old timer, I dunno!

Armed to the teeth? Mister Snodin, we found no weapons. It would seem almost certain that Mister Spratt was taken by surprise; or he knew his killer. You don’t suppose there might be some collusion there?

I dunno. Sam was the supervisor; but why blow up the lot... and him with it? I’d of thought they’d nick the stuff, not blow it to smithereens! There were a few consignments of Jolly Runner in there you know, not to mention six cases of Shambolay ’74 waiting to go out on the dray this morning.

Doesn’t make any sense to me either... Kalashnikov paused as pieces of the puzzle rearranged themselves in his mind. On the dray you say? he asked, and Snodin nodded. The Shambolay? None in the yard?

No; only on the dray. The rest would be locked in the warehouse.

Hmmm... acknowledged the DI thoughtfully, well I don’t want to worry you, but in view of what happened to Mister Spratt, I’d be very surprised if any of last night’s watchmen show up this evening. You’d better make other security arrangements Mister Snodin.

Yes, I certainly need to get on with that, replied the manager standing up in readiness to leave.

But before you go, if you could let me have the names and addresses of those watchmen who should have been on duty last night, I’ll endeavour to find out why they were not present.

I’m sorry I don’t have that information with me.

But you do have it at your works, yes?

Well... no. As I said, Sam managed the rota.

But you do have the names of your security people.

Er... yes, of course.

Good. I’ll come with you, the DI smiled rising. I’d like to take a look at the site in daylight anyway. Maybe I’ll see something we missed last night.

When they arrived at the City Wine Warehouse, Snodin led the way directly to his dingy but tidy office. He pulled a file down from a shelf as soon as they entered and threw it on the desk. Dust flew off the folder, and he waved a hand to disseminate the particles.

We don’t get much in the way of employee changes, he said as he sat down behind his desk. Opening the document, he flicked through the pages until he arrived at a section for security and watchmen. There you are, he said turning and pushing the folder toward the policeman, you’ll want Bell G, Furseman A, Molloy C and Muddle J. At least two of them should’ve been on duty with Sam, if not three. Now, if you’ll excuse me I have arrangements to make.

But of course, nodded Kalashnikov producing a notebook. As the warehouse manager left the room, the DI began copying. Quickly he scribbled the names and addresses of every watchman who had been employed within the previous two years, a total of eight. After that he left the office, negotiating the shadowy passages between stacked pallets and barrels to return to the yard; the warehouse was certainly well stocked, he realised.

Outside, the clean up was now well underway; all the broken glass, bricks and timber were heaped in the corner opposite the site of the gatehouse. Even the cloud in the sky seemed to have been swept into a corner as the sun now burned down. The duty constable, seeing the DI emerge into the open gave the heap a desultory prod with a broken length of two-by-two.

Kalashnikov strolled over. Jones, anything turned up? he asked, giving the pile of debris a long searching look.

No sir.

"Okay. There is