Lisette Rivers & the Crumbling Mansion Affair
by
Brian Sands
Batman, from a Yahoo Group C3C contributor, gag by Brian Sands
Chapter Eleven Breakfast with Fysshe & Chipps
Stirring his teacup viciously, DI Hereward Fysshe contemplated the pretty woman sitting at the café table opposite him. Her story was plausible but there were enough holes in it for pigs to fly, red herrings to leap or wild geese to navigate. He shifted uncomfortably in the cheap plastic chair of the establishment and arranged his worn gabardine overcoat around his legs with his free hand.
“If I understand correctly, Miss Rivers, you have grounds to suspect that one of the residents of Weatherstone Hall, the science fiction writer named Brick Simenov, is accessory in the death of Mr Spencer Forbes - and that Simenov has, to put it colloquially, done a bunk, thereby confirming your suspicions?”
“That’s right,” replied Lisette, her eyes wide and innocent. She had dressed smartly for the interview in a red trouser suit and matching waistcoat to keep out the mid-morning cold blowing in from the sea. A silk scarf fluttered prettily in a loose triangle about her throat.
Yahoo Group, Elegant Silk Scarves
DI Fysshe shifted his gaze to his assistant, Detective Sergeant Poppy Chipps. “What do you think about this lady’s story?”
“Sir,” replied DS Chipps uneasily, “your coffee … ”
The Detective Inspector looked absently at the plastic spoon in his hand, now bent double from the force of being stirred against the bottom of the cup. With a sigh he placed the mutilated object to one side and raised the cup to his lips. It was going to be “one of those days.”
DS Chipps continued. “We interviewed Simenov with the other possible witnesses at the time. He and the deceased were both guests of Weatherstone Hall since it was reduced to the status of a guesthouse: bed and breakfast but with longer-staying residents. As you know, our enquiries are continuing and, while they are in progress, all witnesses by law have to be available for further questioning if it is deemed necessary. When in such circumstances a witness disappears without first notifying the investigating authorities, it is not only a breach of the law; it also throws the witness under suspicion. Therefore, Miss Rivers’ conjectures may be well founded. But I venture to add that we require more evidence than what is essentially hearsay, though it comes from a key witness, this young woman who spent a night bound and gagged, left by the killer in a nearby room.”
Lisette sighed inwardly. This Detective Sergeant Chipps could give Chèrie a run for her money!
DI Fysshe nodded his head slowly, took another sip of tea, and delicately replaced the cup in its saucer. “Run this past me again if you don’t mind. When you phoned the duty sergeant last night, Miss Rivers, you said that you remembered something that you had overlooked during the bedside interview we held after your ordeal. This, um, suspicion you have about the man Simenov … is that what you wanted to tell us? Or was it your other tale of suspicions?”
Lisette shook her head. “No, Detective Inspector. It’s not all … As I said, I found an old leather satchel hanging over the dividing wall between Weatherstone Hall and Swallowtail Cottage where I’m staying, and I thought it was rather odd. I opened it. It was empty but I could smell an odour that made me think it might have contained drugs of some sort. I left the satchel where I found it, and when I returned the next day it was gone. I’m wondering whether there might be a connection with the death, the science fiction writer, and the strange satchel. If drugs were involved, it would explain Simenov’s disappearance. It might also help to explain Fforbes’s death.”
“I see.” DI Fysshe finished his tea, placed the cup back in its saucer, and pushed it to one side. “We shall continue with our investigations, keeping in mind what you have told us of your suspicions. I take it you will be remaining in that cottage?”
“Yes.”
“Good. We may have to interview you again. In fact, DS Chipps will inspect the location where you found the mysterious satchel.”
“At 1500 hours today if that’s convenient, Miss Rivers,” said DS Chipps.
“It’s convenient, thank you.”
“By the way, Miss Rivers,” said Chipps, “have you injured your hands?” The detective sergeant indicated the fine gauze bandage around Lisette’s wrist that could be seen peeping from one cuff of her jacket.
“Oh it’s nothing,” Lisette replied, a little flustered. She pulled the cuff back down to cover the telltale sign of her abduction the previous night. She had chosen the trouser suit in order to hide the injuries to both her wrists and felt chagrined at having been found out. “Just the cat,” she extemporised. “He gets cross when he doesn’t have his dinner on time.”
“Do you think they believed you?”
Lisette was back at Swallowtail Cottage, in the kitchen with Sunny discussing what to do next. In answer to her friend’s question, Lisette shook her head.
“They were very polite but I could see they either thought I was mad wasting their time, or they guessed that I was hiding something.”
“Hiding something?” cried Sunny. “Hiding a lot of facts I should think! Lisa, how can we have police protection if you don’t tell them about following that drug courier and getting caught and tied up?”
“We’ll be all right,” said Lisette confidently. “The gang members will have gone to ground by now. They’ll know that I spoke with the Detective Inspector and the Detective Sergeant – news like that spreads around a small village – only they won’t know that I didn’t tell them about the kidnapping, and the drugs.”
“But why didn’t you? You- you’re not on their side are you?” asked Sunny in consternation.
“No, you silly girl, I’m not a member of the gang. But I am covering for a woman who is. She’s playing a dangerous double game with that big man I told you about.”
“Brick Simenov’s employer?”
“Yes. He’s her employer too. Drug running seems to be agreeable to her, but not murder and kidnapping. She wants out, and I’m protecting her by staying quiet about her involvement, for the moment.”
Lisette told Sunny about Regina Ecuestre, the proprietor of Greenmoor Farm, and how the horsewoman allowed her to escape.
“So that’s what happened just before I arrived in your car,” said Sunny. “Thanks for letting me know! You kept me in the dark long enough!”
“I’m sorry, Sunny. I had to. I needed to think it over first before telling anyone, including you, because that woman’s life might be at stake. If the gang caught you it would be better all round if you knew nothing about it.”
“Well I do now, and I’ll guard it with my life.”
“Don’t be so hasty, dear, you’ll tempt the gods … Anyway, I think we’re safe for the present, as I said.”
“I hope you’re right … So, what do we do?”
“Well, Detective Sergeant Chipps is coming at three to inspect the place where I found that drug satchel.”
Lisette looked at the wall clock above the refrigerator, reading the time at first with difficulty because its face was partly obscured by a large mound of white fur. Rasputin Thermodux the First had decided to take up residence atop the fridge, the better to observe the humans below without being readily observed, or disturbed.
“It’s only one, so I thought I’d take a walk down to the cliff by the lighthouse.”
“That’s where the artist lives, and where I saw that man carrying a bag,” said Sunny with a worried frown.
“There’s nothing to worry about. The gang members will be in hiding. I haven’t had time to do much sightseeing so I can at least find out what’s at the end of the lane while we’re waiting for our visitor. Coming?”
“No … thank you. I still feel pretty worn out from last night. It’s a wonder you don’t feel worse than me, considering what you went through. No, I’ll relax with one of the books left by the previous tenant, if it’s all right with you. There’s a French espionage thriller that looks interesting.
“You can entertain Detective Sergeant Chipps if I’m a bit late getting back.”
Kate’s Library
Lisette left Sunny Virtue curled on the sofa in the front room, a copy of Consignes de Prudence and a now sociable white Persian cat vying for favour in her lap.
The lane that branched from Cliff Road was by now a little more familiar to Lisette. She recognised where the stunted undergrowth to either side gave way to a semi-cultivated field to her right. She passed the artist’s cottage. A transparent plume of smoke drifted from the single chimney, to be dispersed almost immediately by the offshore breeze which was picking up in intensity as the afternoon wore on. She contemplated favouring him with a surprise visit but decided against it. Serge Easel might be working, perhaps on another illustration for Agapanthus Woodgreen, and Lisette did not like to disturb him.
Further on she passed the birdwatchers’ hide, stopping to glance within and satisfying her curiosity that no one was inside. From there onwards she was in unfamiliar territory. The undergrowth became lower and sparser. Upon rounding a bend she could see, still at a considerable distance, the topmost level of the lighthouse that showed the railing of its outer platform and the glassy panelling of the dome. It disappeared from sight as she rounded the next bend where the path suddenly descended a steep incline to merge into a squat dark stand of trees and sickly green foliage. Lisette experienced again the strange disjunction of the senses caused by the juxtaposition of fecundity with barrenness that she had felt on first approaching Swallowtail Cottage. It seemed that years had passed instead of only a handful of days. She wondered about the significance of the butterfly plaques found on both the cottage and Weatherstone Hall and made a mental note to ask Sunny about them.
Lisette followed the path into the thicket. The trees hemmed her in on either side. A thin strip of sky led the way above her, illuminating the narrow path at her feet, vying with the shadows cast by the trees. As the pathway began to rise, the trees thinned out to one side and, when Lisette guessed that she had ascended halfway to the crest of the low hill, a narrow-gauge rail track appeared. She stopped to inspect it. The track ran down from the slope ahead of her, parallel to the path until it made a loop and disappeared at right angles into the trees. Lisette could not guess its purpose so she began to follow the rails, soon losing sight of the pathway behind her. Grass and rust told her that the miniature railway had not been in use for a very long time, perhaps for many years.
But it was a different matter when she came to what appeared to be the end of the line. Lisette emerged into an open area where the rails disappeared into the hillside through a tunnel mouth that looked like the set for a gold mine in a B grade western. Here, on entering the clearing, the growth that had clogged the rails back among the trees had been cleared. The earth was packed down as though people had walked in the area regularly, and the rails themselves were shiny and rust-free. They had a used appearance. Lisette approached the cave mouth cautiously. It was not the end of the line, for the rails continued into the darkness of the tunnel.
It was not a natural cave either, she told herself as she stepped through the tunnel mouth and waited for her eyes to grow accustomed to the gloom. The walls were brick-lined and here and there the roof of the tunnel was shored up with crossbeams. She ran her fingers lightly over the wall. The bricks appeared old, their crevices filled with moss. The excavation might have been made generations ago, some time in the nineteenth century or even earlier. She guessed that its purpose, then as now, was smuggling. It was well known that for hundreds of years contraband of one sort or another was shipped across the Channel from the Continent, the cliffs along certain parts of the English coastline riddled with caves both natural and artificial for the storing of booty before it was sold on to the English public.
And now it’s drugs, offloaded here and carried on by couriers to Weatherstone Hall, to be distributed via a network of other points such as Greenmoor Farm. But why use a small railway? Drugs don’t take up a lot of space.
Lisette walked deeper into the tunnel. Several paces in, it took a slight bend so that her back was no longer lit by the sunlight from outside. Instead, a faint luminescence thrown from the walls and ceiling enabled her to pick her way gingerly along the metal tracks. Thin tree roots hung like stalactites from the ceiling here and there. After walking about twenty paces, she came to a large wooden tub on wheels mounted on the tracks. The sight of it made Lisette revise her conclusion about the quantity of drugs or whatever else the gang might hide in the place. Drugs in very large quantities would fill several suitcases at the least. She remembered the large hauls that British Customs officials sometimes discovered. Lisette noticed a deep trench by the wall. It had been excavated recently and, when she ran her hand down the sides, she felt imprints in the damp soil that may have been left by boxes.
So the cave’s used to store the merchandise until it can be taken away. I’d better get back and tell that Detective Sergeant when she comes to the cottage.
She turned and retraced her steps to the cave mouth. She stepped into the sunlight, raising one hand to shade her eyes, momentarily dazzled. She heard a faint movement behind her but, before she could react, something metallic pressed against the side of her neck. There was a faint crackle and what felt like a heavy blow, and everything went black.
When she regained consciousness, Lisette’s first thought was: Oh no, not again! Her second thought was: My hands are bound … behind me … my ankles … tied together. Her third thought was: Gagged too. What felt like a strip of canvas had been tied very tightly over her mouth. The material was lumpy and abrasive. It smelled foul and tasted worse when her tongue pushed against it. Lisette’s fourth and fifth thoughts were: Where am I? Am I back in the cave?
She was lying on her face, her head to one side and her cheek pressed into what felt like soft, slightly damp earth. After flexing her hands and discovering that the cords that bound her wrists together could not be shifted, she rolled with difficulty onto her side. The effort brought on cramping in her shoulders and the general area where the stun gun had been applied and she had to lie still for several minutes to allow the pain to subside. When at last she raised her head carefully and looked around her the headache intensified by that movement made her feel sick. She fought back nausea, knowing that it would be fatal to be sick while gagged. The cloth covering her mouth was so tight and scratchy that it was virtually non-slip. It was painful and discouraged her from moving her jaws.
When at last Lisette was able to look about her without bringing on cramping, a headache or a choking reflex, she saw that she was lying inside the cave close to the wooden tub and the slit trench. Looking back down the tunnel, she could see the narrow crescent of hazy light from the entrance reflected off one wall. The luminescent ceiling eased what would otherwise be stifling darkness. She looked at the trench and shivered. A hole like that could be put to uses other than storing boxes of contraband.
She managed to prop herself up on her elbows and began alternately relaxing and flexing her hands and sliding her wrists against the cords that bound them in an attempt to make them loose. But they were inflexible. Her wrists had been crossed upon each other and the cord wrapped about them in a vertical tie which she knew was harder to shift.
She could not slip her hands through, but perhaps she could loosen the knot. She needed something upon which to catch the knot, a sharp projection from the wall perhaps. But the bricked walls were smooth and slick with moisture. Lisette turned her attention to the iron rail tracks beside her. The crossbeams were anchored to the rails with bolts. She tried rubbing the rope against one of them but the iron nub was too smooth for it to catch on the knot. In the end, she chose an axle on the wheeled tub. It was diamond shaped and its rough edges snagged the knot sufficiently to give her hope that it could be affected.
After patiently rubbing the knot up and down and from side to side against the axle nub for more than twenty minutes Lisette was bathed in sweat. Her arms and shoulders ached from the continual movement and her wrists felt raw from abrasions caused when the sharp edges slipped across the knot. But the bonds were loosening fractionally. If only I can weaken the knot a little more, it might be possible to slip one wrist out of the ties. Lisette renewed her efforts. After perhaps another fifteen minutes she could move her wrists about in the loops that held them, but there was still not enough slack created to enable her to wriggle free.
With a sigh of frustration, Lisette sat still and rested. I mustn’t give up. There’s no knowing when whoever it was zapped me and tied me up will be coming back.
The next moment and as though her thought had triggered the action, Lisette heard feet kicking over loose stones somewhere near the entrance to the cave. She listened hard. Footfalls were coming towards her, a rescuer or her captor? Lisette almost cried out through the tight canvas that tied her mouth, but fear kept her silent. A figure rounded the bend in the tunnel. The person was carrying a torch which now came on, bathing Lisette in its arc and blinding her. She turned her head away. The interlocutor came up to her. The angle of the torch changed so that the person holding it could inspect the young woman’s bonds. Lisette raised her head and, blinking tears out of her eyes, managed to see a woman’s face partly lit by the torch’s glow.
It was Mrs Schlüssel, the caretaker of Weathersrtone Hall who lived in the village of Corby’s End.
Next
Back to The Bondage Fiction of
Brian Sands