The Adventure of Medusa Hollow

By D.J. Culling

This third book in the Esther Morstan-Eyre series sees Esther and Sam working on their most fiendish cases to date - not only the murder of a close friend of Sam’s, but the poisoning of a gardener at a mysterious house called Medusa Hollow...
With Esther undercover as a housemaid and Sam trying to unravel a gangland mystery with their new friend, Abigail Lugg, expect twists and turns galore as Esther and Sam’s lives are changed...never to be the same again...

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Dec 17, 2019
• ISBN: 9780244245498

Book preview

The Adventure of Medusa Hollow

The Adventure of Medusa Hollow

- CHAPTER ONE -

The Bandit And The Birthday

I sprinted down the bright, sunlit alley, chasing the man with the crooked nose and the ragged frock coat as fast as my legs would carry me! He had a head start and he showed no signs of slowing down, despite his age and seeming lack of physical strength. Nevertheless, I felt I was gaining on him with every corner he twisted and turned in his efforts to escape me.

The moment he had come into Miss Bilbie’s bookshop I had been on the alert. It is a strange thing to note, but working in a shop somehow gives you a sort of sixth sense - a sense of which people are genuine customers (likely to buy something), which people are there to kill time and which people are there with a criminal intent. My senses had started tingling the second the shop bell had tingled to herald his entrance. The fine hairs on the back of my neck had immediately risen and my eyes had narrowed as I had proceeded to watch him like a hawk. The fact that he had been wearing a long frock coat on what had been the hottest afternoon of April so far had been the clincher. ‘This man either has terrible circulation problems or he means to conceal something in that large coat of his,’ I had reasoned. I had seen him walking up and down the road several times in the prior few weeks, but he had never come into the shop before. I had the peculiar feeling that I knew him somehow, or at least knew his type. (I had probably seen him in some catalogue of wanted felons when ensconced in a police station myself.)

Abi, of course, had been completely oblivious to him. She had, as usual, been engrossed in telling a protracted story to Miss Bilbie, who was nodding and twinkling kindly in her direction. I always seemed to be the main target of these jolly monologues. Miss Bilbie would receive them very occasionally, smiling and nodding at the appropriate moments. Sam never had to endure this facet of her character. In fact, Sam’s appearance in the shop would, for some reason, instantaneously make her stop talking and shuffle away.

How different she was now from the crying girl we had seen through a window of a cottage in the heart of Epping Forest. Then, she had scarcely uttered a word. She had held her hand up to the inside of the window and I had held mine up to the outside. It had been a tragic, but beautiful moment, one which I could easily conjure into my mind’s eye when a melancholic or nostalgic mood overtook me.

It had taken her a month to pluck up the courage to heed our invitation to leave her horrible family home and come to live with us in Miss Bilbie’s bookshop. But leave she had, which had taken extraordinary bravery, found her way to London on foot and sought out the address on the card we had given her.

What you must understand is that Abigail Lugg (now called Abigail Hunter to conceal her true identity) was lovely. She was kind, she was generous, she was sweet, she was gentle, she was compassionate; she was more ‘girly’ than I was, but no matter; she was always smiling, always positive. She was, in short, adorable. It’s just that, somehow, for some reason I could not quite explain to myself, let alone you, she annoyed me. Naturally, as her father had recently died in particularly gruesome circumstances, I kept these feelings to myself. I hated myself for being annoyed with her for no real reason but, nevertheless, there it was.  You and I never have secrets from one another and, much as I should like to cloak this facet of my character from you, I cannot and must not. To me, Abigail Hunter was lovely, but… she was also, perplexingly, irritating. I frequently found myself being short or cross with her for no very good reason and this, in turn, made me cross with myself.

The crooked-nosed man had done exactly what I had anticipated he would do. He had walked straight over to the area of the bookshop where the most expensive books were on sale (first editions, rarities and so on) and had promptly begun trying to surreptitiously take them off the shelf and thrust them into his coat, hoping that no-one would notice.

Sadly for him, I had noticed immediately and had let out a cry to alert him to this fact. The moment I had done so, he had immediately legged it (as Sam would say) for the door, carrying four or five other rare books in his hands. The chase had begun and I had dashed out of the door after him, with Abi ceasing her tale as I did so, Miss Bilbie doubtless drawing her attention to the fact that a crime had been committed in the middle of one of her longer sentences.

And so, here I was, chasing a criminal through the streets! This was becoming something of an occupational hazard with me.

The most irksome thing about the incident was that today was Sam’s 13th birthday. Any moment he would be arriving at the shop where Abi, Miss Bilbie and I had been making special arrangements to celebrate with him. That all had to be dropped to chase after this buffoon.

I was close enough now to hear the man’s panting breaths as he hared through the maze of streets, desperate to escape me. He was losing stamina! He sounded hoarse and harried. Within a few more turns I would have him in my grip!

We charged down a side street, which the sign proudly proclaimed as Hanging Sword Alley. I thought of the Sword of Damocles and the justice that was about to fall on this thief I was pursuing. I was within a few yards now! Just a little further! Ten more seconds and I would be able to jump at him and attempt to wrestle him to the ground, get the books back from him and get back in time for Sam’s arrival…

In an instant it happened. Out of the corner of my eye I saw a red and green shape haring towards me from a side alley. I swerved to avoid it, but too late! I was knocked to the ground, rolling with the momentum of the chase into a brick wall, and smacked my head on a drainpipe which sent shocks of pain searing through my body. My eyes slammed shut and I yelped in pain for several seconds.

I forced my eyes open in time to see the frock-coated bandit disappear from view into another street. He was gone… Lost… There was no way I could catch up with him now. My head throbbed and I realised that I had grazed my arms and knees in the fall. What on earth was it that had pushed me to the ground?

I looked around to see, lying on the other side of the alley, equally injured and distressed, the prone form of Abi - her red hair a mess and her bottle-green dress ruffled and unkempt.

What did you do that for? I yelled over to her angrily, I nearly had him!

She let out a groan of pain and rubbed her head.

I tried to reign in my flaring temper to ask, Are you alright?

Yeah. Sorry. I was tryin’ to ‘ead ‘im off for ya. Saw you go out the door and followed ya, runnin’ as fast as I could! Thought I could go the other way and trap ‘im. But I was runnin’ too fast. Couldn’t stop in time! Sorry, Esther. (All of this said at a rate of knots and with an enthusiasm that someone who had just sustained a head injury should not be able to conjure up.)

It’s alright, I said, my anger dissipating slightly, adding an unconvincing, You were only trying to help.

Didn’t though, did I? Mucked it all up again for ya. Sorry, she said with an innocent and wide-eyed smile.

It’s alright, I repeated, walking over to help her to her feet. Are you hurt?

Banged me ‘ead a bit and whacked me knees, but other than that, I’m right as right can be.

She grinned broadly up at me, sticking her chin forwards and raising her eyebrows to show just how alright she was (which she clearly was not).

You? she added, concerned.

Yes, fine, thank you, I said curtly, still trying to wrestle down the irrational urge to be annoyed with her. Come on… We had better be getting back to the shop.

Don’tcha wanna chase after that bloke? she panted like an excited spaniel nipping at my heels.

No. Well, yes, but he’s gone now hasn’t he? We’re both hurt and we will never catch him.

"I could!" she asserted loudly, making to give chase once more.

I reached out my arm to grab her sleeve just in time to stop her racing off into the distance.

He’s gone, I said. I nearly had him, but he’s gone now.

Sorry, said Abi, more contritely.

You’ve said ‘sorry’, I said, trying not to snap at her. Come on. Let’s get back. Sam might be there by now…

We both dusted ourselves down. I looked down at my grazed knees, which were pulsing with a modicum of pain, but no blood was flowing from them thankfully.

As I looked down I spied one of the books lying on the ground. The bandit must have dropped it in the chase. I bent down to  pick it up and read its peculiar title: ‘Le Grand Grimoire ou Dragon Rouge’. It looked very old and rather valuable. At least we had one of the books to go back to Miss Bilbie with…

We both rubbed our heads and set off, walking side by side with Abi talking most of the way back home.

D’you fink Sam’ll be excited for ‘is birthday? D’you fink Sam’ll like what we’ve done for ‘im? D’you fink Sam’ll bring that Cartwright boy what you don’t like? D’you reckon Miss Bilbie’ll be alright ‘bout the books? Was them ones rare ones? ‘Ow much d’you reckon they was worth? Etc, etc, etc.

Had Abi ever drawn breath in the middle of her ramble I might have had some answers to give. As it was, there was no stopping her. I thought fondly back to the days when Sam and I would walk along together in total silence for up to an hour. Days, I was beginning to realise now, which were forever lost to me.

We arrived back at the shop, my head now throbbing less (thankfully), to find Miss Bilbie standing behind the till, just where I had left her, as if nothing at all had happened. Her white hair was still tied up in that messy bun which she flung it into of a morning, her floral dress flowing on her light and slender frame.

She smiled at us as we entered, her eyes twinkling away behind her pince-nez, their colour, energy and life belying her age.

Sorry, Miss Bilbie, I said. I… We lost him. We got one of the books back but he got the rest…

Not to worry, my dear, she beamed taking the book from me, Don’t remember owning this book, I must say. How odd! Anyway, they were only books after all. Mere things. As long as you and Abi are safe and well, then all is right with the world and just as it should be.

But the books were worth quite a… I began.

Possessions, dearest. Nothing more, she said, coming around the shop counter to gather both of us into a loving embrace, And as a famous monarch stated as she was about to meet her (rather gifted) maker: All my possessions for a moment of time.

Queen Anne? I hazarded, the name still being fairly fresh in my mind from our last adventure.

Queen Elizabeth, my lovelet, she whispered, smiling, and she took my hand in hers with great tenderness.

To my surprise, and deep concern, the hand that took mine was shaking. Only slightly, almost imperceptibly, but nonetheless shaking. Juddering very lightly from side to side.

I looked Miss Bilbie square in the eyes but she, spotting my sudden look of concern, gently pulled her hand away and changed the topic of conversation with rapidity.

Now then, Esther, I did not get the chance to tell you this morning, but this week’s visitation to the post office was less than fruitful, she said.

I wanted to talk to her about her hand, but, by looking away from me and busying herself with some papers, I felt it was clear that the topic was off-limits. She had no wish to discuss it, although I burned with concern about her.

Oh, was all I could think of to say.

I shall, of course, try again next week.

Miss Bilbie had agreed to check the post office in Sadler Gate (quite a way from the bookshop) for me on a weekly basis. The reason was a simple one, but perhaps deserving of explanation (if you can bear to read one?)

I had, on a whim, told Miss Bilbie what my Aunt Cordelia had told me on our last, fateful meeting. Namely, that my real mother’s name was Sally Cartwright. My aunt had told me no more than that and, despite my best efforts to find out any more, I had come up with nothing. Sam had ‘put feelers out’ (as he put it) to see if he knew someone who could tell me more. Nothing had come of that either.

Miss Bilbie had then suggested that I should write to my aunt and ask her for more information. I had protested and explained that she would tell me nothing more. Aunt Cordelia had been very clear that our time together was forever at an end, that she would not talk to me again and that this morsel of information was a sufficient trade for the years of abuse she had inflicted upon me throughout my childhood.

Despite my protestations, Miss Bilbie did not, and would not, give up.

"Your aunt knows more, my dearest girl, she had said, holding me as I had sat crying in my room one night, and, despite what she said to you, it is a primal human impulse to tell the truth; to get things off your chest; to be like Midas’ barber and scream your secret into a hole in the ground. Your aunt, despite not being a wonderful representation of our species is, nonetheless,  just about, give or take, deep down, human…"

At this I had laughed and Miss Bilbie had gently wiped my tears away with her two thumbs.

Write to her, dearest girl, she had insisted. Ask her what else she knows.

And so, I had written a letter to Aunt Cordelia.

Naturally, I could not put Miss Bilbie’s bookshop as the return address. Other than Inspector Wakefield, the rest of the police force were still looking for me, hunting for me to take me back to my wretched (so-called) father. Miss Bilbie had said that she knew a lady called Katherine Vickers who did odd-jobs at the post office on Sadler Gate.

Kat is just the person for us. She is discretion itself. I knew her when she was just a young, sprightly girl. Now, she is a young, sprightly woman. Mark it for her attention, care of the post office.

This I had done and every week at the same time, first thing in the morning, Miss Bilbie walked the long distance to the post office to check if Aunt Cordelia had replied. I had said that Abi could go at first, but then Miss Bilbie had reminded me that the police were also on the lookout for Abi as well as me, and it would put her in grave danger.

So, Miss Bilbie it was. I always felt terrible that she made this long outing on my behalf, especially as I felt certain it would yield absolutely nothing of any value. She, however, was her usual wonderful self, proclaiming, It keeps my old joints young, dearest girl. They say you can only be young once and it is my mission in life to prove them wrong.

Today’s visit had evidently yielded no result once more. But Miss Bilbie did not seem to mind having made the trip.

Now then, she exclaimed, again not looking me in the eyes lest I should bring up the subject of her hand, young Samuel will be here soon and we must be ready!

I’ve wrapped up me present for ‘im, said Abi, reaching under the counter for a brown paper parcel. Abi had been very secretive about this present for some time now and I had frequently wondered what it could be.

I ran upstairs to get my gift for Sam - a beginner’s guide on how to read. It was intended for infants but I thought Sam would love the opportunity to learn to read (which he could not do yet, much to his annoyance) and I would love the opportunity to go through it with him and be his teacher. I had been very excited about giving him this gift for several weeks now, ever since I had seen the book in Mr. Wermal’s bookshop (our local rival, but needs must).

Coming back down, I saw Abi and Miss Bilbie preparing the streamers we had made for him from old newspapers. Abi had suggested that we should stand behind the bookshelves, hidden from Sam’s view when he walked in, then spring out and throw our streamers over his head. I personally felt that this was something he would absolutely hate, but Abi was so exuberant about it (and so vocal) that I relented.

He should be ‘ere any moment now! enthused Abi, crouching to take up a position behind a bookshelf near the door.

Miss Bilbie turned to look at me and wink, before beckoning me down the stairs to join her behind the opposite bookshelf.

I sighed lightly, worried that Sam would be desperately embarrassed by the whole thing, then shrugged, descended the remaining stairs and picked up the last clump of streamers on my way to the bookshelf.

We stood in total silence for several minutes, Abi quietly chuckling to herself at the excitement of what she felt was about to happen.

I looked over at her and noticed that her cheeks had gone dark crimson and her neck muscles were extremely tense as she tried to suppress the thrill of what she felt was coming.

Miss Bilbie, having seen the same, turned her head to look at me and twinkled a smile at me as if to say, isn’t she adorable?

I smiled back as best I could, which was not much, and Miss Bilbie narrowed her eyes to admonish me for being mean spirited. I immediately felt bad, as if Miss Bilbie had looked into my innermost thoughts, and tried to smile with more sincerity.

I don’t give a monkey’s, Noah, we’re goin’ in!

Sam’s voice! Unmistakable! But Noah - oh no… Sam had brought along his insufferable friends, Noah Cartwright and Peter Simpson. Cartwright was a fourteen year old bully boy, with a hideous cackle (usually directed at someone else’s misfortune) and Simpson was his little lackey, a young boy of nine, with wheezy breath and a very high-pitched voice. Why Sam was friends with either of them I had never been able to fathom. Why, of all people, had he brought those two idiots? They would laugh at my gift, they would make fun of me, they would ruin the atmosphere of the birthday with their stupid remarks and witless laughter…

The shop bell tinkled and the door swung open. We stayed silent behind the bookshelves and, in my mind’s eye, I imagined Sam’s stunned face as he noted the bookshop was completely deserted.

‘Ello? said Sam, perplexed.

Another moment of uncertainty and we would leap out on him.

Or not, as Abi (who could contain herself no longer) jumped out from behind her bookshelf, yelling woo! and threw her streamer over Sam. Miss Bilbie and I had no choice but to follow suit.

The newspaper streamers cascaded down on Sam’s head, flowing down over his peculiarly sad face. ‘I knew he wouldn’t like it!’ I thought to myself, smug that I was right and Abi was wrong.

But that was not it. It was more than mere embarrassment. He was upset. He was deeply upset.

‘Appy birthday Sam! yelled Abi, oblivious as always and turning an ever brighter shade of red.

Sam looked me in the eyes, sorrow marked in them.

What is it, Sam? I asked.

It’s Simpson, Est’, stated Sam simply.

Simpson? What about him?

They found ‘im in Sydenham ‘Ill Wood.

Found him? I asked, fear beginning to pulse through me.

‘E’s dead, Est. Strangled.

- CHAPTER TWO -

The Parting Of The Ways

My first reaction, I am ashamed to say, was a selfish one. I felt guilty for having disliked Peter Simpson so much. I had only met the young boy a handful of times and, because he had always laughed along at Cartwright’s feeble jokes, I had taken against him. In a strange way, I felt that somehow I was some sort of accomplice in his death. That my dislike for him had led to this grisly end. Irrational, but those were my thoughts…

Dead? He was only nine years old for Heaven’s sake… Who on earth could have strangled a nine year old boy in a wood? And why? What possible reason could there be for such a savage act?

One of the streamers had lodged itself on Sam’s right shoulder and he gently removed it, letting it flutter to the floor as he said, He di’n’t turn up to work today. Apparently he ain’t turned up a few times recently.

‘E’s been goin’ somewhere new, chimed in Cartwright, looking at Miss Bilbie instead of me, his voice much more sombre than usual, but I don’t know where…

Where does he work? I asked, wanting to go forward and take Sam’s hand, but holding back for fear of it not being what he wanted.

‘E ‘olds ‘orses, said Sam cryptically.

I inclined my head to show that I did not understand what he meant.

Outside the East India Club, people leave their carriages, what the grooms look after, but some just ride to the club on ‘orseback. Not many these days, but enough. They pay…paid Simpson to ‘old the ‘orse while they was inside the club.

I nodded to show that I understood.

Come and sit down, Samuel, said Miss Bilbie kindly, You look like you have been through the wringer, dear boy.

She ushered Sam and Cartwright over to a table, around which were several chairs. She reached up and turned the sign on the door to show the word closed and joined the rest of us, seated around the table in a solemn, shocked silence.

Abi had gone very pale, all the colour faded from her cheeks and I wondered if images of her dead father were playing around her mind. I took her hand and squeezed it to show that it was all alright. She smiled at me, a tear beginning to glisten in those bright green eyes of hers.

You have no idea where he has been going? I asked, letting go of Abi’s hand in sudden embarrassment.

Sam and Cartwright both shook their heads.

He had no new friends? New acquaintances?

Not that I know of, Est’… came Sam’s reply.

Another silence fell and I hunted around inside my brain for any other sensible questions I could ask.

The trouble with Simps, said Cartwright to everyone but me, was that he was trustin’. Far too trustin’.

Sam nodded his agreement and another silence made its presence felt around the table.

D’you remember, continued Cartwright with a very light chuckle, when ‘is old man told ‘im ‘e ‘ad a treat for ‘im? ‘Course, Simps believed ‘im ‘ook, line and sinker. So ‘is old man took ‘im to London Zoo (snuck in o’ course), but di’n’t tell ‘im that there was a reptile ‘ouse. Took Simps in there, then shut the door and wouldn’t let ‘im out for ‘alf an ‘our?

To which, Cartwright laughed a half-hearted laugh and Sam nodded, a faint flicker of a half-smile making his lip curl slightly.

I, clueless as to what this story meant, asked, Um…Why?

Cartwright stopped laughing and finally turned to look at me, annoyance in his face. Sam stopped him saying anything unpleasant to me by cutting in with, Simpson di’n’t’ like snakes, Est’. ‘E ‘ated ‘em. Terrified of ‘em. ‘Is dad thought ‘e could cure Simpson by lockin’ ‘im in wiv the snakes.

How horrible, was all I could think of to say.

Yeah, well, Simpson’s old man ain’t the nicest…Di’n’t work, of course. Made Simpson worse, said Sam.

Are the police investigating the case, Samuel? asked Miss Bilbie.

Yeah. Not Wakefield ‘though. Some uvver copper. Name of Grover. They found Simpson’s body this mornin’ but, apparently, ‘e was killed yesterday late morning or early afternoon they reckon…

Do you think Simpson’s father might have had something to do with it? I asked, still thinking about the horrible incident in the reptile house.

Sam and Cartwright exchanged a look.

It’s possible, stated Sam.

So… I began tentatively, Should we start there?

Cartwright suddenly stood up from the table, pushing his chair back with a scrape and began pacing around angrily.

I looked to Sam, puzzled.

‘E don’t want you on the case, Est’…

"Too right I don’t! What does she know ‘bout it? She don’t know nuffink about Simps," snarled Cartwright.

I told ya, Noah! snapped Sam, standing up and stomping over to Cartwright, who towered above him by at least a foot. She’s me mate. And, more ‘an that, she’s cleverer than you and me put together.

Boys… said Miss Bilbie, rising to try and bring peace to the surroundings.

"She di’n’t even like Simps!" yelled Cartwright.

So what? ‘Oo gives a monkey’s? If you wanna find out ‘oo killed ‘im then Esther’s your best, your only, ‘ope.

Cartwright glowered at Sam, looking for all the world like he was about to punch him.

You’re right! I found myself saying, jumping up to my feet, I didn’t like Simpson. Mostly, because whenever he was around you, Noah, he laughed at everything you said. And mostly, those things were unpleasant things about me. But I didn’t wish him dead. I’m horrified he’s been killed… If you want me to help you to find the killer I will. If you don’t want me to help you, then you and Sam are welcome to solve it yourselves.

The last phrase hung in the air like a bad smell while Cartwright wrestled with some inner monster. The atmosphere was thick with tension and I could feel my neck stiffening and my shoulders rising with every passing second.

Sam? came a sudden voice from nowhere.

I turned to see Abi, holding up her brown paper parcel to Sam.

I know you ain’t in the mood probably… she continued with a tremble in her voice, But I was wondering if ya fancied openin’ your present…?

I gazed slack-jawed at her, readying myself for Sam to take the present and forcefully throw it out of the door. I mean, what a moment to proffer a present for goodness’ sake… Instead, to my surprise, he walked over, gently taking the parcel from her hands, said fanks, sat down by her side and began pulling at the strings, leaving a fermenting Cartwright and an open-mouthed me looking on.

He discarded the string and unwrapped the layers of brown paper until he uncovered a small cardboard box. Opening that, he reached in and pulled out a pair of handmade, fingerless, red gloves. Abi had clearly knitted them herself, but they were precise and finished with a professional finesse. They must have taken her at least a month to make.

Sam held them up, turning them around, raised his eyebrows and turned to Abi to say, nice. Coming from Sam, this one word was tantamount to him saying, these gloves are the most thoughtful, beautiful gift I could ever have received. You have my undying affection from this moment.

I squirmed inside, thinking of my gift and how patronising and idiotic it was in comparison. Abi’s present was a present made and tailored for Sam, mine was to ‘improve’ him.

Esther’s got you sumfink too, Sam, said Abi and I immediately wanted the earth to swallow either her, me, or both, whole. Sam looked up at me with interest.

Yes, I said, finding my way through somehow, But I don’t think this is the time for it, Sam. We need to talk about Simpson. Not presents.

And, with that, I sat back down again. Abi looked a little wounded and her head sunk down as if she had done something wrong by giving Sam his present. Inwardly hating myself, I carried on talking ten to the dozen.

So, his father is clearly a good place to start, then we go to his usual place of work - the East India Club was it? - and we ask if they’ve seen anyone or anything suspicious…

I stopped mid-sentence as Cartwright plonked himself down in the seat next to me.

…And then, I continued, noticing Cartwright but not acknowledging his presence, We go on from there. See if we can trace Simpson’s last movements. Sound reasonable?

Sam nodded.

Right, where does he live?

Sam opened his mouth to speak but, before he could,