Stories From Elsewhere County: vol 1, #1

By Jonathan Alan Solis

Five mystery stories including crime, mystical and ghost themes that take place in a mythical present day place which hides in plain view like some parallel reality. 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jonathan Alan Solis
• Release date: Jan 2, 2024
• ISBN: 9798223715689

Book preview

Stories From Elsewhere County

vol 1

by

Jonathan Alan Solis

©2023 Jonathan Alan Solis.

Elsewhere County appears deceptively ordinary. It can be unwittingly glanced out of the corner of one’s eye. An intuitive itch or oddly pricked curiosity might be a precursor to its discovery or when one realises they're in it. It's found in the most mundane of places, in a shoddy corner café, a station lost luggage room, down an innocuous narrow side street, or when traversing some small town gated park. It can resemble a place anyone may care to pass by or through. That is where similarities end and Elsewhere County begins.

The Antique Emporium

Mr Pye's Surprise

Tabitha Cash

The Log Cabin

Tit For Tat

The Antique Emporium

Potters End is a charmingly discrete neighbourhood. Delightful shoulder-to-shoulder shops contain all manner of unusual wares. A part of town that if it were not for modern painted street markings, signs, and a towered skyline; it could appear to be more than a century old. Quaint dated facades, railings and evenly spaced cast pavement covers where coal used to be dropped, gave it a timeless charm in stark contrast to the modernity all around. Potters Alley stands apart from the sterile contemporaneous comeliness. As one might hazard a guess; it was in a place where potters once worked a craft long since vanished. Tucked away at the end of a street no wider than an alley stood Percy Percival’s Antique Emporium.

The Marvellously cosy and quaint old store was remarkably preserved. An Aladdin’s cave of masterfully arranged and alluringly lit old wonders to suit all tastes. With a name like Percy Percival, one would expect a certain kind of character and so it was. A slender nose, framed by a long slim pail face was in keeping with the tall lean figure wrapped in a smartly fitted three piece suit. Percy’s deep-set bright green eyes twinkled mysteriously with a rooting gaze that drew both interest and slight unease. It was difficult to gauge whether to feel intrigued, impressed or uncomfortable when in his presence.

Percy’s lifelong assistant Mr Spencer was an equally singular, odd and compact character. Seeing them together inspired the humour reserved for an ill matched comedy duo from the monochrome age of film. In contrast to any amusement the pair’s presence may have given; Percy’s antiques were hardly a matter for jest. Any trace of comical notion by anyone was slapped cold upon viewing the impeccable prize pickings collectors would lust after. Percy was the fiery envy of his secret select clientele list. Within the closed clique of antique shop owners; his name was only whispered. Considering the absolute gems he was able to acquire; nobody dared contravene his strict rules for client inclusion. Any display of humour or disdain was kept concretely in check.

Divulgence of one’s name if on Percy’s select client list, personal referral or sharing information about a purchase; would result in instant striking off. Some understandably found it a touch cloak and dagger. None dared tempt the terrible consequence with unbridled chit chat over luxury imported coffee, snobby overpriced chocolates and dainty pastries in embellished club lounges. Many a dignitary, the opulent, commercial and industrial mogul, or even peers of realms would have gladly given a handsome ransom if it revealed how or where Percy obtained his antique gems. It was delightfully infuriating and alluring how Percy had a knack for knowing precisely which type of antique his customers coveted. It went far beyond knowing the collector or collection; it was his astuteness to obtain much desired outstanding pieces.

The sale of an item also followed an enigmatic protocol. Mr Spencer would make a personal unannounced visit to a client’s residence. It was another in a long line of bothersome inconveniences. Bola hat in hand, annoyingly neat hair atop a round rosy cheeked face and thick neck, sporting a faint discrete smile one might associate with a traditional jolly butcher; he presented himself at the main entrance with the Emporium’s card in a neat little envelope. Despite his stiff formal demure; imagining Mr Spencer hacking flesh with a cleaver was no stretch of imagination. Regardless of whoever opened the door, staff or master; the card was to be unquestionably handed in person.

The card and envelope were of fine textured off-white premium stationary. The envelope displayed the clients name in a carefully chosen font. The card inside had the emporium’s title and address on one side, the appointment date and time on the reverse. There was no contact number, website or email address. Punctuality was expected. Percy’s business practice was considered archaic and deeply unpopular. Clients would not display dissatisfaction despite their importance and habit of getting their own way. Percy was unconcerned and unimpressed by client prominence. If they wanted to purchase his antiques; they would have to dance to the same tune. Though he would never disclose it; the charade was an immense source of impish pleasure.

Commander Reginald Albert Montague III or rather, Commander Montague retired; whose retirement status one might forget considering the nature with which he treated his staff and others about him, sat grumpily in his library leather reading chair. The silence broken only by the soft thud of a swinging pendulum in the grand wooden clock. He toyed with his unlit pipe. Reginald would never smoke in the library. The collection was too valuable to be tainted with a scent or stained with tobacco smoke. Old first editions of a military nature had pride of place. There was more to the library than books. With the prized prints; a large case displayed choice antique firearms. Montague’s hunting dogs received more attention than his enchanting and distinguished long suffering wife who suffered him no longer, petulant children or spoilt delightfully intoxicating granddaughter.

Montague had finished listening to an old pomp and circumstance vinyl by a grand military band. He felt stiff invigoration as he reminisced over former one sided battles in distant lands. His former enemies were held in higher regard than their subsequent leaders who corrupted and exploited their own country. Where entitled at times knighted colourful characters sent offspring to pace prestigious universities while plundering and impoverishing their countrymen without regard. The knock at the door to his study was an interruption he could have done without and he grumbled for the intruder to enter, knowing full well it would be Milford; the third generation family butler whose professionalism and noble soul made him an unperturbed statue in the face of Montague’s conduct. The carpet hushed his footfalls across the room and he appeared silently beside Montague.

‘Sir Montague, Mr Percival’s representative is in the foyer.’

Montague’s pulse quickened with anticipation and he stirred uneasily straight in his chair and squinted up at Milford.

‘That damned Percy.’ The hostility slipped out and he shot another glance up at Milford whose words had been spoken void of emotion.

‘As you say, sir. Shall I inform Mr Spencer you will see him presently?’

Reginald nodded with a grumble, cleared his throat and waved his hand for Milford to depart. Milford vacated the room with equal stealth betrayed only by the door clicking closed before him. Montague’s mind swirled with anticipation. His imagination raced with the possibilities that Percy might have up his Houdini like sleeves. He caressed the crystal goblet holding a special reserve cognac his physician had repeatedly told him to ease up on. He swallowed it down impatiently.

‘Confound that draconian Percival and his surreptitious manner.’ The words tumbled out unrestrained, fuelled also by the alcohol and patriotic music he had been listening to moments ago. Montague was accustomed to do and say pretty much as he pleased without challenge. When it came to doing business with Percy; he reigned in his brutish temperament which played havoc with his blood pressure. He would not risk losing the opportunity to acquire a piece for his doted collection. Reginald stomped into the foyer. Spencer tipped his hat, but did not remove it. He silently handed the small envelope over before tipping his hat again and leaving through the front door Milford held open.

The weekend proved familiarly stressful. Polishing of larger amounts than usual of his special reserve was not an ideal way of handling the anticipation of a potential purchase. His private collection was the envy of an inner social circle. The envelope had been delivered on Friday and the appointment was scheduled for the following Monday. Being forced to juggle his appointments was a further aggravation he could have done without. Deep down, Reginald wondered if Percy had orchestrated the whole show to vex him. Percy’s stiff formality, command of protocol, polished manner and speech from someone considered beneath him; he judged impudent. It underlined the inconceivable fact that he was relegated to follow someone else’s orders. The fellow members of the Rotary Club would take umbrage at Montague for his absence at the scheduled meeting on such short notice.

The chauffeur had received express instruction to be ready at eight thirty sharp. The car was spotless, punctual and idling quietly. Porter stood expectantly erect by the rear passenger door ready to receive Reginald. Milton was in position by the main entrance ready to help Montague with his coat and hand him his hat and cane. Montague marched purposely through the foyer with an intense expression. Anyone would be forgiven for thinking he was off to a stately empire club war room to discuss some stratagem.

‘Good morning, sir.’ Milton offered with stiff politeness.

Reginald grumbled a brusque reply. Wasting time on pleasantries was of no interest. He snatched up the items from Milton before stepping hastily across the gravel path towards the waiting car. Porter put the car in gear and drove off steadily around the gravel path that circled in front of the mansion. Milford had briefed Porter on the destination and also on Reginald’s likely mood. Of course he did not elaborate on the finer details. He was a professional man’s man par excellence. Communication was rendered redundant and Porter was thankful for the silence. He did not look into the rear view mirror. Avoiding silent visual interaction has