Tristan Merryweather, Cheltenham's Finest Supernatural Detective: A Miner Dispute

By Alex Retter

Tristan Merryweather is enjoying a period of comparative wealth, his days leaden with sipping copious amounts of Oolong and eating imported biscuits while enjoying the very best of daytime television. Some years before the poverty which saw him indebted to his housekeeper and put into the service of Mr. Delaney, when both romantic and financial lives were good. But, being a man to whom strange things regularly happen, such languorous luxury cannot last for long...

A old acquaintance, one wronged something awful by our foppish hero, has a new problem, one which threatens the very sanctity of his ecclesiastical workplace. Prompted into action, and driven by only the very highest of moral fibre (and absolutely not by threats of eternal damnation) our pompous hero once again sets off on an investigation into the curious workings of the supernatural world parallel to our own. A legal dispute twixt mining institutions sets in motion a journey into the secrets of Cheltenham, from its denizens of the paranormal variety to a discovery which will make Tristan realise that, just maybe, he is not the finest detective he always considered himself to be.

This, the overdue second instalment in the Illustrious Investigations of Tristan Merryweather, sets the clocks back but a few years and explores our foppish dandy's relationships to both the church, his benefactors, his enemies, and his own sense of self-importance. Herein he will be inspired not by money, but rather by a sense of duty the likes never before seen for our gangly investigator. The stakes are high: a kingdom's reputation, a people's pride, and our hero's standing in the eyes of God.

Note: While this story is suitable for all ages, there are references to physical attraction and a single distasteful turn of phrase relating to a bodily function.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Alex Retter
• Release date: Aug 8, 2018
• ISBN: 9780463936962

Alex Retter

I am Alex Retter, an author living, working, and being inspired by Cheltenham, England.My current work is the ongoing series: Tristan Merryweather, Cheltenham's Finest Supernatural Detective. These are the whimsical tales of the eponymous hero, a foppish dandy whose knowledge of British folklore and its creatures is largely unparalleled (within a five mile radius of his flat, at least).The series is ongoing, and currently includes the first story: The Brag of Gold. The second: A Miner Dispute, and the third: A Salisbury Night-Hare, are coming soon!Outside of Tristan, who I am currently enamoured by, I write high-fantasy, having completed a series of novels. These may one day see the light of day, but for now my arrogant dandy is my main focus.

Book preview

Tristan Merryweather, Cheltenham's Finest Supernatural Detective

A Miner Dispute

Alex Retter

Also Starring Tristan Merryweather:

The Brag of Gold

Tristan Merryweather, Cheltenham's Finest Supernatural Detective

In

A Miner Dispute

I

It was the heady days of 2012 when I became, you'll be shocked to hear, a celebrated contributor to his Majesty's Courtroom. Now, we have so far ascertained that I am not a man of particular legal bent, and I certainly don't have the money to be buying myself into such a position. You may then wonder just what I, your beloved detective of all matters paranormal, may have done to deserve such remarkable accreditation.

The years twixt these days and those in which you previously found me (potless, indebted to my housekeeper, and soon to be in the services of the rather skewed-of-mind Mr. Delaney) are filled with all manner of instances which are remarkable only in their mediocrity. Since we are now well versed in the manner of my occupation, such tales may not hold a particular amount of amazement for my dearly devoted readership. This particular case, however, may just do so, for it gives not only a fair few thrills but also a little insight into yours truly.

So, to recap. I am Tristan Merryweather, Tristan Julian Merryweather, thank you very much. My friends, those who I keep, would likely describe me as a rather pretentious fellow with two left feet and a nose as long as the M1. I, on the other hand, would characterise myself as a delightful dandy, one with a wonderful sense of both men's fashion and of the finest teas in all of Christendom. This particular morning for example, I was enjoying a cup of the old Oolong over a plate of imported Dutch biscuits. Of course, men cannot afford such luxury without a source of respectable income, and I was, as of June 2012, rather well-moneyed. The folk who make up Cheltenham's more posh quarters would still have looked down their noses at me of course, but in relative terms I was rolling right in it like a pig in muck. Yes sir, these were good days to be Tristan Julian Merryweather. Except for still having that damn middle name, let's not mention it again, eh?

I was even dating, yes, dating! My romantic endeavours have been a matter of fluctuation over the years of my charming adulthood. I would describe their occurrences as consistent, while those amongst my (unfortunately rather numerous as we will soon discover) detractors would prefer the term sporadic I fear. My current target of courtship was a delightful and enchantingly scholarly lady by the name of Marianne Spudwell. Though she sounded as if she may have dropped from the pages of a fairytale, she was to me instead one right out of one of my more pay-per-view dreamscapes. She was a librarian, a woman of letters, and was quite smitten with yours truly. Marianne was also rather beautiful, but such things are arbitrary when intellects meet in such a smorgasbord of mutual attraction.

I settled onto my spotless sofa for a morning of absolutely nothing in particular. My flat was spotless at present. My bed, lodged in its alcove beneath the window, was made, its sheets freshly pressed and changed, while my television sat upon a dustless stand without blemish or crack to note. Even the kitchen pushed up on its far wall, usually the epicentre of particularly stubborn dirt, was sparkling a radiant incandescence which put one in mind of those marvellously arranged abodes you see in up-market property magazines. The housekeeper had come just the day before and had done, as per usual, a wonderful job in remarkably little time. My guilt to come over taking advantage of her generosity was at this point nothing to my mind but impossibility.

The reason for my current largesse was down to a peculiar case which had taken place some miles north in the picturesque masterpiece which is the village of Broadway. This is a tourist-trap village whose centre has been given over to all manner of boutiques selling all sorts of local goods, from jams to jodhpurs, antiques to apricots. While over there I made note of the remarkable amount of Asian tourists, enthralled as they were by the perfectly trimmed village green and the spotless local sandstone from which each and every one of the buildings about it were built. On a summer's day the local traders make a killing on ice creams and their well-sourced crafted fare, a little slice of English heaven though suffering from perhaps a small bout of overcrowding.

Though, of late Broadway had been suffering with a little bit of a problem. See, the local authorities had had reported to them several cases of these vital tourists being accosted on the village's outskirts by some dastardly fellows who had taken to, apparently, throwing stones and pieces of detritus at passing cars. Now, this sounds of course like a matter for the regular constabulary. I cannot abide such wanton disregard for public safety myself, but such matters are quite some way out of my remit to investigate. That was, however, until the head of the parish council, an old associate, got in contact and insisted that the problem was indeed one which fell under my specific area of expertise.

So off I went over to Broadway. After I had entirely stuffed poor Joan (my beloved Datsun Cherry) with enough local produce to run a four star B&B, I undertook a swift and thorough investigation of the highest professional standards. I came to discover that these incidents were largely restricted to happening post-twilight, out on the village's northern side. A stakeout ensued, and for three nights I lay out there in the bushes and the ditches, my eyes and ears pinned like a cautious rabbit for any signs of bother. Just as I began to lose any hope, at last my quarry revealed itself to me. A Bugbear. No, I do not mean to say that it was a problem, but rather a creature known as a Bugbear.

Now, Bugbears are a particular species of Hob. In my previous writing we discussed Hobs briefly, namely the local