Twelve Gnomes and a Budgerigar

By L Savage

Cricket. Hurling knives. Stray shotguns. And garden gnomes. Margery Millford had only expected one or two of these little annoyances to greet her when she arrived back in her childhood home of Little Pearshire - not the whole lot and more.
Like a spinster sister desperate for a mate ...
Or an undercover detective with no real cause to be undercover ...
Or an old flame (who may not be quite so old) ...
Not to mention a playwright, a redhead, and even a Scottish character! These residents comes together to create the nonsensical countryside village caught in a whirlwind of rumors, love, soup, and above all: a plan to foil the plan to overcome the other plan made possible by this plan sitting on the chair beside me.
Oh, yes, and there is that trouble of a budgerigar ...

• Language: English
• Publisher: L Savage
• Release date: May 24, 2011
• ISBN: 9781458146663

L Savage

L. Savage has lived a relatively strange though normal life so far. Having graduated with a BA in English Literature in 2010, she will soon have a MA in Victorian Literature and, in the Fall of 2012, will be starting her PhD in the same field. Needless to say, when she is not busy being a writer, in her free time she is an academic. 'Twelve Gnomes and a Budgerigar' is L. Savage's fourth completed novel, but the only one she's been so determined to have in some printed form. If she continues to cause her carpal tunnel to flare, she plans to continue writing novels that give her that same determination. Thus, it is simple to say, when not an academic, in her free time she is a writer. L. Savage is from New York but currently resides in England where she studies.

Book preview

Chapter One

In the small village of Little Pearshire there lay and still, to this day, lay two stately homes. It would seem, for one village, one grand stately home is enough but Little Pearshire had decided not only to have Bramton Hall but, down the hill and in clear sight, Millford Lodge.

The village had outdone itself in as many ways that a village can outdo itself in a personifying way.

Of course, the reason for the construction of these two wealthy homes near each other has nothing to do with our story. In fact, it dates almost two hundred years before – straight into the early eighteenth century while we sit comfortably in 1935.

But I’ll tell you the story of it, anyway, as it is of some interest.

There were once two feuding families – a wonderful and overused cliché – who had been at war with each other since the invention of the wheel.

What had originally spawned the war, no one can quite agree on, though it is believed it involved a piece of string and a small swatch of cowhide.

By the 1700s, it was decided that their feud would turn to land – as feuds properly should – and, thus, both families did everything in their power to buy as much as they could to have more than the other and then be able proclaim themselves the ‘better situated.’ But, by the powers that be, both families had decided to start their purchasing in what is now Little Pearshire and bought and bought until each had a fair share of land that sat right beside the other – a situation that had been completely unplanned, yet rather funny to the casual observer.

The families I speak of, if you have not been bright enough to guess, are indeed the ancestors of the Bramtons and the Millfords – their present surnames remaining unchanged. They were the two leading families of biscuit production in England – furious rivals in the world of eighteenth century teatime.

Now, your dear author knows as much about marketing land in the 1700s as a snail knows about walking and therefore cannot comment exactly on how these transactions passed as smoothly as they did without either party knowing the other party’s actions.

All that can be said for sure is that it did happen. Or, at least, it is the story that is told and the one everyone believes.

What can be spoken of without realty loopholes is the reaction of the families to the revelation that they had not only purchased the same amount of land, but that the pieces of land were directly beside one another.

The revelation came when the heads of each family commissioned a fence surrounding their property to be built. Those working for the Millfords and those working for the Bramtons slowly constructed their fences on opposing sides of their respective estates until the two groups met – their fences, if they had been finished, were so exact to each other that they could have been connected.

The work, of course, was quickly called off and the head of each family marched angrily in their high boots through the Pearshire mud to the parting in the fences.

Ready for a fight, both patriarchs spoke in shouts, though there was little to argue about. All land had been bought fairly and the fence lay precisely on the dividing line of their estates – all of this, of course, was shouted over the three and a half hours the men stood working this out in the rain.

They finally parted ways when it began to thunder and died of pneumonia a month later – give or take a day each – from having stood in the cold for so long.

Thankfully, both also left sons – a vital necessity of that period.

Within several years of their deaths, construction of both Bramton Hall and Millford Lodge went underway – overseen by the eldest sons, each of whom now held a grudge against the other for they believed the reason for their fathers’ illness was the relentlessness of the one father who made the other father stand for so long in the rain shouting.

I have often found that part of the story to be rather childish, personally.

And, what was even more childish, were the designs of these two homes.

Less than a mile apart, both homes were in plain sight of the other. Bramton Hall took advantage of the hill on the property and built atop that while Millford Lodge hid itself in the vast gloves of trees that surrounded it. Thus, the Bramtons could easily look down upon the Millfords while the Millfords could stay hidden in their trees and stand on the roof with an expensive telescope that remains at the house to this day and watch the Bramtons.

To think of it, it was like a very large game of cat and mouse that neither team played very well at all. The most ever reported was the planting of the first rose bush on the Millford estate.

By the time that generation had died, the families were beginning to see the errors in their ways and became friendly with each other – which I am sure the reader does not want to hear. There is nothing better than a story about two feuding families and the nonsense (depending on who you are reading, of course) created as seen by their very origins.

What I mean by ‘friendly’ is merely cordial. You would not find Bramton marrying a Millford nor a Millford marrying a Bramton but you can bet they played skittles on the lawn and invited each other to dinners and balls when they were held.

This cordiality lasted through the nineteenth century and into the twentieth. The families no longer were biscuit proprietors – their fortunes having been made long ago and work now completely unneeded – nor did they own as much of Pearshire as they once did, though their land tally remained precisely the same for historical purposes.

The only tiff that remained dated back to the unfinished fence. The small strip of land that stood between the ends of the now dilapidated fences could not be called the Bramtons’ nor could it be called the Millfords’.

At two meters long and hardly half of a single meter wide, it was still cause for controversy.

It was and still is creatively called ‘the strip.’

Then again, I suppose it was not so much ‘controversy,’ in truth, but more of a ‘reminder’ to the states of their families. They had to have a little battle going on to preserve their heritage, even if they were friendly with each other. It was a pastime that continued into the 1930s where our story does, in fact begin as I have previously mentioned.

I say: he that can hold his breath the longest claims the strip for a fortnight. Agreed, Lord Bramton?

Agreed, Sir Millford.

On my count?

On your count.

On three then. One … two – wait, how shall I know you’re not cheating? You could very well breath through your nose.

I could say the same of you. Then we would be standing here all day seemingly defying science.

We shall pinch our noses then.

Right-o.

On my count, Lord Bramton.

On your count, Sir Millford.

One … two … and –

Sir Millford and Lord Bramton both took a heaving breath in, shut their bloated mouths and pinched their noses as they stood on their respective sides of space in the fence.

And it was a tradition.

Every fortnight the two men would meet on a Sunday afternoon and think of a new way to decide who would have the most land until the next challenge. When they were younger – in their forties, that is – they would do far more athletic feats having their valets judge the winner or declare a ‘redo’ when the outcome was unclear. Now that the men had been doing this for over twenty years, though, the challenges became less athletic and the valets unneeded for judging.

Sometimes they played cards. Other times they stared at each other until one of them broke eye contact and laughed. Holding their breath was actually one of the more physical challenges they had set up to date.

And for the next fortnight, the strip would be Lord Bramton’s.

Sir Millford’s stamina gave out and he began to hack up phlegm after letting out his breath through pursed lips creating a sound similar to that of a tea kettle sounding off.

Seeing the two holding their breaths, it was clear Lord Bramton would win no matter what for, unlike Sir Millford, Lord Bramton was fit and toned in his old age. He was stocky and built – even his grey mustache had a muscle in it for its ends curled up too well for mere wax to hold it in place. Sir Millford was hunched a bit and lean – almost gaunt. Facial hair dared not grow and the wisps of longish silver he had on his head stayed safely under his tweedy cap.

All right there, Millford? Overexert yourself a bit? Bramton asked now standing on the strip.

Millford spit out a yellowish wad and pulled himself upright. No, you bloody twat. I believe I may have a cold.

Then why did you suggest we hold our breaths?

I refuse to accept I do, in fact, have a cold.

Ah.

If I accepted it, Millicent would send for the doctor and I won’t have that. Yellow phlegm is the healthy phlegm, correct?

I shouldn’t know. How long has it been yellow?

Millford went into his vest pocket and removed a small memorandum book. Out of another pocket he took out his spectacles and perched them on his long thin nose. With a lanky finger he searched through the little book of scribbles, tapping it when he found what he was looking for.

Yellow phlegm first made its appearance three nights ago when I was placing a book on the birds of Pearshire back on the shelf in my study. Before that, I was not congested. My notes would say.

Well, you’re not dead yet. I suppose it’s healthy. I would watch for it to change color, though, and then admit to your sister you have a chill.

Mm, perhaps. Millford replaced all of the items and kicked a bit of dirt over the offending lump. Green, maybe.

My Penelope heard from Millicent that your eldest daughter is coming home for a visit?

Not a visit, no. She plans to stay for some time. That’s not what I’d define as a visit.

No. But, I don’t quite blame her, Bramton crossed onto Millford’s land and sat on a fallen tree that served very well as a bench for the two men. Millford, though, remained standing. Her husband did kill six prostitutes in London and, knowing women, the gossip must have been unbearable.

I never liked him.

I don’t believe any of us did. I mean, those at Bramton Hall. Can’t say for Millford Lodge. I remember, faintly, Millicent being fond of him.

Oh yes, my sister was. She’s always been a startlingly good judge of character. But that was solely because he was eyeing a space at Parliament when he met my Margery. Everyone had high hopes for him. Of course, that never happened and he spent the last few years of their marriage boozing and gambling at clubs.

Isn’t that what most boys do now, though?

I don’t know. I haven’t been to London quite some time and I haven’t any sons, said Millford with a shrug. "You’ve two. Well, three if you count your nephew’s boy."

Oh, don’t bring up my lot! I’ve enough trouble thinking about them as I do talking about them – the daughter included. They’re driving me to an early grave.

Luckily your fit as a fiddle. And you own several lovely automobiles so the ride there won’t be terrible.

Joking aside, Millford, you realize I haven’t a grandson by either of those boys. Much less a wedding.

Yes – but that’s hardly precarious to your name. And they’re not old and gouty yet. I’ve two daughters – that’s it. The Millford line dies with them.

That’s a depressing thought.

Yes, well … it isn’t really a big to do as it once was – having sons and all, is it? I mean, the land will go to Margery … Millfords will still own it. Just a different surname.

Don’t put yourself in the grave, yet. Besides – you’re a widower. Marry a girl young enough and the Millford name might not be lost.

I have no sights on marriage. Millicent wouldn’t allow me to, anyway.

Why not?

Millford Lodge is her domain. Brining a new lady into the house would be off-putting and you know how Millicent is when she’s put-off.

Lord, yes.

Millford began to hack again but did not grace the ground again with his phlegm.

"When does Margery arrive?’ asked Bramton, slipping a cigarette out of a thin case and putting it between this thin lips.

"Soon. Margot knows the exact date. Margery’s organizing business at the moment – closing the house in London and such. But she’s promised to be here by the end of the month. Oh, and she has pulled her daughter out of that boarding school she stuck her in, so your nephew will have a playmate."

"Grand-nephew, if we’re being exact, Millford. And I suppose that’s pleasant, though."

Yes. Olive’s seven or so – not quite sure. How old is Willy’s boy?

Oh, twelve I believe. There’s a bit of a gap, but there are hardly any children in Pearshire. I’m sure it won’t matter.

No, children are adjustable creatures. It’s in their nature – constant molding going on until they’re twenty at least. Would you look at the time? Millford had pulled out his pocket watch and flicked it open. Best be off. Millicent is unpleasant when I’m late for dinner.

Right, then. Have a pleasant evening, Millford.

And yourself, Bramton. Pleasant trip to London. Give my regards to Penelope.

With this the two men parted ways – or at least, Millford began to walk towards the Lodge and Bramton remained on the tree trunk, lighting his cigarette and deciding internally to sit there for a bit.

Bramton had in his mind figured out that by the middle of that century, not only the Millford line would be lost, but the Bramton’s line would, too, if nothing was done. That is, if nothing cared to happen. But Bramton was not a man for concocting solutions. Well, concocting well thought out solutions. His side of the family never claimed planning as their forte.

He merely waited most of the time for something to happen and approved or disapproved of it when it did.

Most of the time.

Bramton had already resigned himself to the fact he would die disapproving of the world for the most part and Millford would go the opposite, smiling calmly and being just as passive to his family’s fate.

Or, at least, that is what he told himself.

Most of the time.

Chapter Two

Sir.

Sir.

Report.

Nothing to report, sir.

It was raining in London. It had been raining for the first few minutes of daylight the city was experiencing though calling it daylight merely puts to use a synonymous term for morning. No sun could be seen – only its bright glow behind a smudge of gray clouds.

Two men stood in Hyde Park under two black umbrellas. One was aging and very thin and tall with gray curly hair under a smart bowler. Two was a similar height though younger and a bit bumpy near the tummy area with light brown hair brushed back under a cap to hide the fact he was balding.

But only a little.

Nothing to report? asked One with an air of complete dissatisfaction that lay in the fact he was standing in the rain and cold of early morning to merely hear the word ‘nothing.’

Nothing, sir, replied Two. But, ah –

Yes?

She is thinking of going to her family’s estate in the country. Well, no, she’s quite set on it to be sure.

What? One wanted to be sure he heard right. It was raining hard and it was thundering in the distance. Two could have said ‘she knew about the murders’ for all he hoped.

Mrs. Spencer has decided to go to her father’s estate. She plans to remain there, her father’s – I mean, until she can find a suitable home for herself and her daughter that isn’t in London. She is thinking Bath, but –

Get to the point! One demanded

Sir, I really don’t think she has anything to do with the murders at all. I do believe she is completely innocent and me following her to her family home is very unnecessary. Plus, I don’t like lying to her. We’ve become very good friends and – Two went on, but his words faded out.

But One, hearing only the first two sentences Two had spoken, would not have it. Oh no – they hung the woman’s husband for murder over a year ago now and the very sight of those swinging twitching feet made the detective all giddy for another cracked open case. There had to be more than just a well-to-do gent murdering six prostitutes – where was the fun if it was as straight-forward as that?

"The wife had to know something, said One. My Marianne can tell when I’m lying and when I’m not – when I’ve been to the pub and when I’ve lost my shirt. It’s all in the demeanor, Chuckie Boy, all in the demeanor."

"Of course, sir. I wouldn’t know, sir, being a bachelor all forty-so years of my life but, I was in the house when Mr. Spencer was still alive and –"

Yes?

Mrs. Spencer seemed entirely indifferent to him and he to her so … so your talk of ‘demeanor’ may not be as relevant –

You said it yourself: you’re a bloody bachelor – don’t presume to know what it is like to be married until the ball and chain is firmly attached to your ankle – thank-you-very-much-sir!

My apologies, sir. I’ll – um – be sure to enjoy Sir Millford’s garden whilst I am there. It is rumored to be spectacular and –

You will continue to look into Mrs. Spencer is what you’ll do – especially if she is leaving the city.

Yes, sir. Sorry sir.

"And when she goes back to her family – if she doesn’t go off on the run – if she is truly going to her family, we can only hope she will be comfortable enough to reveal something to them that we have yet to uncover. If not then – well, then she will run off in America and we’ll know she’s guilty and move on from there. Justice – Chuckie – this is for justice."

Right, sir. Justice.

Now, Once checked his pocket watch, go back to work.

Charles Potter had worked as detective at Scotland Yard for twenty years of his bachelor life and had not grown so much as a wisp of a reputation, though his hair wasn’t in that terrible a state. He had neither heated nor cooled a case and thus went through life under the radar in his profession. He found more excitement in the ending of an Agatha Christie novel than there was in his own job, which was mostly concerned with how he sat behind a desk.

He supposed it was his rather ordinary existence that pushed him straight to the center of the Spencer Murder Case – or what was then called, for popular publicity reasons, the Son of Jack the Ripper Slayings. When Mr. Spencer had become a suspect, Charles was slipped into the house as Spencer’s new valet – completely coincidental, of course, that the man was in search of one.

The detectives called it ‘getting lucky.’ Charles didn’t know if that was an official term or not, so he only assumed that it was.

Charles liked having something exciting to do – listening in on phone conversations discretely, following Mr. Spencer here and there in his plush Rolls Royce, reporting in the wee hours of the morning to his superior, tasting some of the wine left over from the grand dinners Mr. Spencer liked to hold. Oh, it had been a good job then. He felt important and well taken care of on top of it.

But it was a job that Charles believed should really have ended once Spencer had spilled the beans after being caught wooing a prostitute in an alleyway. Charles was quite sure Mrs. Spencer had nothing to do with her husband’s indiscretions. As he had told the detective that morning quite plainly: the woman was indifferent to her husband and their marriage was held together only for reputation and monetary purposes like most marriages of their society in London.

Too, Charles very much watched to return to his little flat in London. There, on the roof, he had been able to grow a small little garden that he was sure was overgrown with weeds by now – even if he had paid his landlady to look at it from time to time. It needed a caring hand, a gardener’s hand – Charles’ hand. He always sighed a very melancholy sigh when he thought of it.

Really, Potter, I’m so thankful you’re here, Mrs. Spencer said to him later that morning. She had been burning up papers in her husband’s study – the paperwork the police had not confiscated and had been cleared as unhelpful and useless. I swear I’ll write you a doozy of a recommendation when the time comes – oh dear, have you been looking yet for a new position?

Not yet, ma’am, no. I thought I would make sure you and your little daughter were settled before I left.

Oh, Potter –

Really, ma’am, I wouldn’t be able to sleep at night if I just upped and left. I’m here as a … a … friend now, if I may say so, ma’am.

Mrs. Spencer smiled kindly. You may. And thank you, Potter. Very much. You’re a very good friend at that. I’ll write that in your recommendation, too. Is it still raining out?

I believe so, ma’am. Same, I’m told, for tomorrow and the weekend as well.

Terribly dreary time to go into the country. And – knowing the mud in Pearshire – quite a messy one. We’ll have to wear dark clothing, Olive and myself … our trunks will be sent ahead, correct?

Yes, ma’am. Seeing them off myself.

I am horribly abusing you, Potter?

"Yes, ma’am, but er … crack the whip if you must."

Mrs. Spencer laughed a little and poked at the fire, her brow furrowing at the sight of the scribbled on paper curling and singeing. Charles did a small bow and left her to her work.

Oh – Potter – one last thing.

Charles turned back around in the doorway.

I was going through the library – picking out books that belonged to Harold. I don’t want them brought with us but I came across a lovely garden book I thought you’d enjoy. You did say you liked to garden didn’t you?

Ah – yes, ma’am. Very much. Of course, I merely admire. Practicing is a bit difficult in my line of work.

I imagine if we had a garden, you would be my first choice in gardener. But, please, have a look at the book and keep it if you wish. There are plenty of those sorts of books, anyway, at father’s.

Thank you ma’am. That’s very kind. Thank you.

He turned with another small bow to go down the corridor but let out a scream similar to that of a prepubescent girl at the sight of mouse – but for Charles it was a female child standing before him.

The little girl began to laugh. From inside the study, Mrs. Spencer shouted: Olive, don’t scare Potter like that!

Potter – Potter, come play cards with me, will you? One last time under the table – please! The girl tugged on Charles’ sleeve, looking up at him so much so that the back of her head touched her back.

Olive, you have schoolwork. Mrs. Graham will not be pleased when we get to Pearshire that you’ve not worked on your multiples! he mother called out after hearing her daughter’s request.

Olive went to fight back but Charles hushed her and nodded his head. Olive smiled brightly and rocked on her tiptoes in excitement.

Yes, mummy!

Olive Spencer was a strange little child and Charles, having been a strange child as well, took to her. When word had gotten out that her father was a suspect in the brutal slayings in the city, Mrs. Spencer pulled Olive out of St. Wilma’s School for Girls, which was located somewhere in the countryside, and set her daughter up with a tutor in the city, so she could be shielded better from the gossip. This, of course, also meant Olive would be completely alone – without the companionship of other children. So, naturally, Olive had filled that gap with Charles.

The problem in pulling Olive out of her school – her home – was that she hardly minded the gossip there. Her parents were strangers to her, having chosen the social world over their small family. And, if one of her parents happened to be a lunatic murderer, it was just an inconvenience to Olive – hardly the end her world as they had never really been a part of it to begin with.

Are you excited to see your Granddaddy? asked Charles as Olive dealt the cards out.

They played under a lace-covered table in the parlor. Charles just fit but Olive was comfortable sitting cross-legged.

Not really, no.

Why not?

I don’t know him very well. We don’t visit. He came once before but with Auntie Millicent. Oh, I hate her – Auntie Millicent, I mean. I don’t want to go. But mummy said that it will only be for a little while and then I’ll go back to school and she’ll move into a brand new home.

Mrs. Spencer had already dealt with