Golden Goats

By H E Balinovsky

When her guardian dies in strange circumstances in South West France, best-selling author Toots Tomaszewski decides to investigate. She learns that several English people have recently died in accidents in the same area, and she teams up with a policeman who has just retired to do up an old house in Gascony. Together they look for suspects. However, their chief suspect is cleverer, and more dangerous, than they expected.

• Language: English
• Publisher: H E Balinovsky
• Release date: Mar 2, 2018
• ISBN: 9781386804598

H E Balinovsky

Who is Balinovsky - just a writer who enjoys writing. It is said that writing is 1% inspiration and 99% perspiration, well I am a writer who disagrees. Writing may be just 1% inspiration, but I find that it is 99% pleasure. Inspiration comes and brings with it the characters, and it is the characters who lead the development of a story. No formula, no blueprint, just the delight of the story evolving on the page until that final moment that the story says it is complete. However, a story can lead you anywhere, from your own back garden to the ends of the earth, and even into outer space. As you check the backgrounds of your characters, delve further into their motivation, you find your mind - and your world - opens up and leads you to information and places you have never been before. They say you should write what you know, but is that necessarily true? Did HG Wells know about time travel, or Jules Verne about journeying to the centre of the earth; had George Lucas ever visited Tatooine? From the time of Homer, writers have been writing about things that exist only in their imaginations – could the Cyclops really exist? Well, I read somewhere, some time ago, that the ability to work metal was considered magical and the very earliest blacksmiths placed some kind of mark on their forehead, and it is possible that, as tales were told rather than written, this mark turned into an eye. Time and time again, one reads that a few words, or a chance remark, were the idea behind a great work of literature, for it is not where an author starts that is important, but where they finish. When we read fiction, watch a play or a film, we willingly suspend our disbelief. It is not true, but it must seem true. Characters appear from out of the blue and each character is worthy of their past, their motivation and their place in the story. And sometimes when you visit somewhere that is truly important to one of those characters, you can find something that really takes that character, and your story, to another level.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

Daphne Willmington -Carruthers moved in her sleep.  She felt a sudden chill – Gerald had nabbed the bedclothes again!  She tutted and shivered slightly, then she became aware of the light; a feeble, but annoying, glow that filtered through her eyelids.  He must have turned on the light when he got up to use the lavatory.  She turned her head away, as thoughts skittered through her brain like crumble falling onto a rhubarb tart, no morsel big enough to catch.  And then she remembered that Gerald was dead, so someone else had turned on the lights in the bathroom. 

Daphne put her hand out to pull up the bedclothes but found that she was covered by just one sheet, and that the empty space beside her was cold, hard and oddly smooth, like a plastic or rubber sheet - an incontinence sheet, perhaps.  Was she in hospital again?  Another one of her little turns?  She sat up and blinked, looked around her, rubbed her eyes in disbelief and reached for her glasses.  But her glasses weren't beside the bed, in fact, she was not in her bedroom and, moreover, she was not in her bed.

She found herself in a strange room, an old room - some sort of medieval place - lit by a few candles.  It was full of shadows and menace, for although she could not see into the corners, she felt that she was not alone.  And when she noticed the smell, for the place smelt disgusting, her heart began to race and she wondered if it was Count Dracula himself who waited in those shadows. 

I must be dreaming, she whispered, as she looked around the room.  Her head ached slightly as if she had drunk too much, but Daphne was 84 and no longer drank alcohol - except for the odd glass of champagne at Christmas - however, she felt distinctly drunk. 

Where on earth am I, she asked, pulling the sheet closer to her bosom as she realised she was actually lying on a large sheet of plastic spread out on the floor.  Looking around her, she realised that there appeared to be a very large circle drawn on this plastic and she was sitting right in the middle of it.  And there were odd little signs, symbolly things, painted around the circle.  Four black candles, in tall holders, stood at opposing points on the edge of the circle.  The whole thing looked like a set for some film about black magic and witches - and a rather cheap film set at that.  Now Daphne was no prude - she had been happily married for nearly sixty years - but one did not normally lie around like this.  It had to be a dream, as this sort of thing did not happen to women like Daphne Willmington-Carruthers. 

It was cold in the room, she shivered and looked around again. Really, it was all too silly for words, what sort of black magician painted his symbols on sheets of plastic? 

It must have been something I ate, she mumbled.  "My stomach is not really up to this French food, all these moules and gesiers.  I probably didn't cook it properly.  But then I never was much good at cooking, that was why Gerald so frequently ate at the Mess." 

She thought back over the last meal she had eaten; a little dinner party with her new, and most interesting, friend.  She'd cooked something called a daube, and about half an hour after Gwendolyn had left, Daphne started to feel a little unwell and so had gone to bed.  She stared into the shadows as the crumble of thoughts still scattered through her mind.  I do hope Gwendolyn is not suffering.

There was a slight noise in one of the corners and Daphne, suddenly frightened and imagining a vampire that could have walked straight out of the Hammer House of Horror, turned towards the shadows; she tried to get up, but her legs gave way and she sank down again.  Then she felt afraid, more afraid than she had ever been in her life.  Is there anyone there? she asked, her voice quavering, her breath coming in shallow gasps as the terror of what might appear suddenly overcame her.

As if in answer, two figures stepped out of the shadows. 

One wore a white Venetian carnival mask, the features were blank but the forehead was heavily decorated with gold; while the other wore a Doctor's plague mask; they both wore long, black robes, that reminded Daphne of a pair of curtains she had once owned, and each had a hood pulled up over their head.  They approached the old woman slowly, one from each side until they stood over her. 

Who are you?  Daphne gasped as she looked up, from one to the other.  From the blank, white face of the carnival mask with the lips that did not open, to the long, sinister, bird-like mask fashioned from black leather. 

What am I doing here?  What do you want?  She could hardly speak for the pounding of her heart, which made her feel faint, and so she reached for the comfort of the cross around her neck, but her fingers touched only a round pendant.  As she held it between her thumb and forefinger and squinted at it, she found she it was engraved with something that looked like a goat.  A little golden goat. 

The figure in the doctor's mask picked up a black-handled knife, knelt down and held it at Daphne's throat.  She felt the cold steel against her jugular and it seemed to clear her head a little.  Is this really happening?

The figure in the white mask knelt down beside her, picked up a pen and placed it in her right hand, closed her fingers around it, and then placed a piece of paper on the floor beside her. 

Sign it.  The voice sounded strange and rough.

Why?  Daphne dropped the pen, but the knife was pressed deeper against her neck until she could almost feel the blade cutting into her skin.  She felt as if her heart would explode, and then sanity prevailed and she wondered what people would say if she died there, naked, on a piece of plastic spread out across a stranger's floor.

White Mask picked up the pen and placed it in her fingers again.

Daphne gazed from one blank mask to another.  She was cold; she felt strange, not quite there, almost as she felt when she had that little stroke.  'That's it,' she thought.  'This is a dream, just a dream.  I must have had another little stroke.'

White Mask held her hand close to the paper as Doctor's Mask pressed his fingers into her neck.  Daphne did not know how she knew it was a man, perhaps it was the smell of him or the width of his hands, but she knew he would kill her if she did not submit.  Oh, the shame of it, to be found dead in such a place, and so she gave in and scribbled her signature at the bottom.

The two black-robed figures got up and left her side.  Daphne sat, breathing heavily until Doctor's Mask returned holding a chalice.  He knelt down beside her again and held it out to her.  She turned her head away only he grasped her chin and held the chalice to her lips, forcing her to drink.  Daphne's heart was pounding so much she choked on the liquid, it spurted from her mouth, down his arm and onto her breast.  The man pushed her away and she fell back on to the floor.  She looked up at the two of them as they gazed down at her and slowly her eyes closed as sleep overcame her.

As her breathing again became regular, the figure in the white mask cut off a large chunk of Daphne's hair.

When the two masked figures were certain that Daphne Willmington-Carruthers was asleep, they retired to an antechamber and removed their masks.  Gwendolyn Teasdale, for it was indeed Daphne's new-found friend, breathed deeply, quickly adjusted the wig that covered her white hair and placed the paper Daphne had signed in a drawer. 

Now, she said, let's get the old bag back home.

Her grandson, Marcus, placed the black-handled knife in a different drawer, removed the Doctor's mask and yawned.  At twenty-five, he could think of a million things he would rather be doing than scaring the life and money out of these old birds, but he had to help his grandmother for, in truth, he was scared of her.

Bring round the wheelchair and I'll dress her, Gwendolyn said wearily going back into the main room.  She was almost as old as Daphne but looked a good ten years younger, for Gwendolyn Teasdale was smart in both looks and intellect.  She was a crook of quite extraordinary talent, but more than that, she enjoyed it.  She remembered the dreadful meal that had been served up to her that evening - along with the usual excuse that Daphne had been brought up with servants and was therefore unable to cook, as if the preparation of an edible meal was the preserve of a servant!  Gwendolyn had simply smiled in agreement, she knew she would not be eating many more meals there.  When they first met down at the new restaurant in the vineyard and she had casually brought the conversation around to the dire state of British pensions and Daphne had told her that she had half a million euros in the bank, her fate had been sealed.  This had been a quick job, everything had been set up and they lacked only one thing – Daphne's signature, something that Marcus had not been able to find during a search of the cottage.  And so, while Daphne was fussing about in the kitchen, Gwendolyn had opened the bezel of the large and showy opal ring she usually wore and sprinkled a little sleeping draught into what passed for the daube on her hostess's plate. 

The candles were blown out, the candlesticks replaced beside the large, open fireplace, then Gwendolyn carefully rolled up the large piece of plastic that had been painted with various obviously satanic symbols.  Within five minutes the room bore no trace of having been used in any rituals; it was simply a large and rather dull basement room, lit by a small window high up in the wall.

When Daphne was redressed in her long, flannelette nightdress and fluffy dressing gown - clothes that Gwendolyn would not have been seen dead in - the old lady was manhandled into a wheelchair, bumped up the steps from the basement and taken out into the walled courtyard of a small castle, loaded into the back of a Lexus and driven through the streets of the quiet Gascon town towards the village in which she lived.

Daphne Willmington-Carruthers had, finally, achieved her dream of retiring to a small house in a quiet village in the South of France; a dream she had held dear ever since she had read Perfume from Provence by Lady Fortescue.  It was a beautiful little house, surrounded by a well-kept garden in which she could potter to her heart's content.  As it was the week before Christmas, she had filled it with decorations; gifts waited beneath the small, artificial pine tree and the mantelpiece and sideboard were covered in Christmas cards.

Gwendolyn barely looked at these, as she and her grandson carried the old woman up the stairs and laid her in her own bed.  Finally, she carefully removed the Golden Goat pendant and replaced it with Daphne's cross.  When she descended the stairs she found Marcus swigging the remains of a small glass of brandy.  She tutted her disapproval; Marcus placed the dirty glass beside the sink and  they left as quietly as they had arrived three hours previously.

Daphne finally awoke as a shower of rain pattered upon the windows.  She sat up abruptly and looked around her bedroom.  Everything was as it should be, even her dressing gown was laid perfectly across the foot of her bed. 

What a strange dream, she said out loud.  It was a habit she had formed shortly after Gerald died, it somehow broke the silence that she seemed to constantly surround her.  She looked at the clock and noted that it was ten o'clock. 

Good heavens, she said.  How have I slept so long?  It must have been something I ate.  My stomach is not really up to this French food, all these moules and gesiers.  I probably didn't cook it properly.  But then I never was much good at cooking,  Perhaps Margarethe was right, I should have asked Cookie for some tips before I married."

She put on her glasses, got out of bed and sat down at the dressing table.  That's when she noticed the dribble of dried-up pink stuff on her chest.  And as she lifted her hairbrush to her sparse, white hair she realised that a very large chunk was missing.  For one moment Daphne doubted her sanity, but she was a well-educated woman, the widow of a Brigadier, the daughter of a Major in the cavalry divisions and she simply did not do 'insane'.  Her hair had obviously grown weak with age and had broken of its own accord.  Besides, she had a cruise to look forward to. 

Pulling her fluffy dressing gown close around her, Daphne went downstairs to make a cup of tea.  To her annoyance, she found a small brandy glass beside the sink.  And it was not the first time she had discovered things were not as she had left them.  She sometimes felt that somebody had been in the house when she was out.  Of course, that was impossible and she wondered if the place was haunted – as many of these old places were.  Unfortunately, she could not discuss this with anyone as people would think she was going slightly bonkers, and within a month she'd be carted off to some home or other, and her delightful life in France would be over.  She washed the glass while waiting for the kettle to boil.  Best to just carry on, after all, a ghost couldn't hurt you.

Margarethe came up for a couple of days at Christmas and Daphne took her to the wonderful restaurant that she had found, set in a beautiful château just a few miles down the road, a place where one met such interesting and nice people.  Then around the middle of January, Daphne was flown to Buenos Aires where she joined Margarethe on a luxurious ship to spend ten days cruising the Antarctic.  As she stood on deck, well wrapped up, and watched the growlers and ice bergs, the nightmare receded and she felt that she really had just eaten something that disagreed with her, and those traces dried, pink stuff she had found on her breast must have been where she had regurgitated a little in her sleep.  After the cruise, she spent a month relaxing on the estate of a famous Argentinian film director and was then flown home.

Soon the winter passed, and spring arrived.  A glorious spring, and as Daphne supervised the young man who did her garden and talked to her friends, she looked forward to Easter and her 85th birthday.  And then one Tuesday, shortly after her return to France, Daphne strolled back from the local boulangerie at the same time as the postman stopped at her gate. 

"Bonjour, Madame, vous avez fait un bon vacance?"  He handed her an envelope.

Bonjour, vous êtes de bonne heure ce matin, she said in the upper-class English accent that gave no quarter to the correct pronunciation of the French language.

C'est l'anniversaire de ma femme and nous rendrons visit au theatre á Bordeaux.

Très bien.  Daphne smiled warmly at him, took the envelope and pottered inside, so she did not see a very annoyed Marcus Teasdale watching the postman drive away.

Hmm, she said out loud.  It's a bank statement.  She put the bread on the table, opened the envelope and glanced at the paper.  What she saw almost shocked the breath from her body. 

She looked at the statement, turned it over and looked at the other side, but what she saw made no sense.  She had Euros 350 in her account.  Where had all her money gone?  She scratched her head then sat down and took her phone from her bag, started to compose a number then stopped and laid the phone on the table.  She had to investigate before she phoned Margarethe. 

Daphne rose unsteadily from the kitchen table and went into her study, fetched the lever arch file that held her bank statements, and took it back into the kitchen.  According to her previous statements, she had had 500,000 Euros on deposit and 1,000 Euros in her current account.  She flipped back through the statements and noticed that the last three were slightly different from the preceding statements.  The paper was different and the font was not quite the same.  Daphne Willmington-Carruthers was far from being a stupid woman but, like everyone else, she kept a running total of her expenditure in her head and simply glanced at her bank statement to verify this.  It was only when she studied her statements, that she realised the last three were different.  And, if she had noticed the change in the statement for January, she would probably have just assumed that the Bank had made the change - as they sometimes did.  But the latest statement was exactly the same as the one sent in December.  Someone had been messing with her money, but rather than rush off to the bank, Daphne picked up her phone and called Margarethe – however, the line was busy so she sent a text. 

Suddenly she heard a noise which seemed to come from the cellar.  She noticed that the door was ajar, which was odd as she was certain it had been closed  before she had gone to collect her statements.

What is that? she asked the air around her.  Is that you, Monsieur Ghost?

She got up and walked to the cellar door and listened.  Is that a cat?  How on earth did that get down there?

She pushed the cellar door wider and the meow got louder. 

How did you get down there, she asked, flipping on the light, but the cellar remained dark. Damn, the light's gone.  It was so typical, she hadn't been down into the cellar for two months, and when she did need to, the damn lamp blew.

Come on, puss, come on, she called down the steps. 

No reply. 

"Viens ici, mon petit." 

Still no response. 

You got in, can't you get out? 

The cat meowed again. 

Alright, I'm coming.  Daphne took a new lamp and a torch from the cupboard and descended the cellar steps.  Perhaps she stepped on the cat, or maybe there was something else on the steps, but whatever it was, she somehow missed her footing and fell, head first, into the darkened cellar.

A moment later, Marcus Teasdale stepped carefully over the body, came up the steps, placed the latest bank statement into the lever arch file, put that under his arm and left the house.  As he carefully shut the back door behind him, he heard the telephone ring.

CHAPTER TWO

Somebody once asked Margarethe Maria Mitchell why a person who could afford to use private planes always stuck the remains of the old bar of soap onto the new one.  Margarethe, or Toots, as she was more usually known, asked what else one was supposed to do with it.  And, rather like those tedious songs that stick in the mind, it was something she always thought about when she boarded a private plane. 

She was a plain woman, of late middle age, with red hair that she still wore long and loose about her shoulders for, like so many women of her generation, she had no desire to grow up - let alone grow old.  She had the pale skin and grey eyes of the people of Northern European along with the heavy-set body of those whose ancestors had inhabited the Eastern Baltic.

A small, curved-end coffin made of wickerwork