CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The Devil’s Advocate
Lorraine sighed. ‘Rachel’s been like this for ages,’ she whispered to Paul, who’d given up trying to read his book on birds. ‘You know she hasn’t called her friends – or stepped outside the front door since the funerals.’
‘She’ll soon snap out of it,’ he replied unconvincingly.
‘She needs something to take her mind off everything – you know, it’s not healthy mooching around and dwelling on it all –’
The Cooks’ doorbell rang.
At the breakfast table, Rachel stared vacantly into her porridge. As she stirred her spoon, she watched the strawberry jam swirl into the lumpy mess of oats and water. With a jumble of unhappy thoughts still with her, she pushed the bowl aside and sipped on her tepid tea.
The door creaked opened, and George came through. ‘Rachel, can I come in?’ he asked with some trepidation, sensing her sadness.
Rachel raised a faint smile. ‘You’re always welcome here, George,’ she told him. ‘Have you had breakfast yet?’
‘Well, yes – but I wouldn’t call Morag and Elspeth’s breakfast exactly filling or tasty,’ he told her bitterly. ‘No wonder they’re so thin, they hardly eat anything. Next-door’s rabbit eats better than I do, so I’m thinking of moving into its hutch,’ he added with a creeping smirk.
‘Oh, I forgot to ask you, George,’ said Lorraine as she bustled into the room. ‘How’s Reggie’s love life?’ she added whimsically, glancing at the empty space on the wall where the Cooks’ cuckoo clock used to be.
‘Morag and Elspeth are thrilled that Reggie’s settled down at last,’ he chortled. ‘Well, at least he gets to see the love of his life on the hour.’
George and Rachel sniffed the air.
Paul poked his head around the door. ‘Anyone up for a bacon sarnie?’ he asked them with a broad smile. ‘They’re curling up at the edges and looking sorry for themselves, so I’ve decided to cook the lot.’
George looked like he wanted to burst into tears. ‘I would love some sarnies, Mr Cook,’ he drooled, ‘but do you have any brown sauce?’
‘Well, of course, I do – and it would be sacrilege not to put the sauce of the Gods between those fatty buns.’
✽✽✽
Grease dribbled down Rachel’s chin. As she watched her parents potter about in their windy, untamed garden, her mother idly gathered up the whiplashed washing and behind her, looking just as bored, her father battled the elements, holding onto the wicker basket as he stifled another one of his gargantuan yawns, his other hand pinning his hairpiece down.
Rachel gulped down the dregs of her tea and gave her friend a furtive glance. ‘George, have you thought about the island lately?’ she asked.
His face fell. ‘My memory’s still a bit fuzzy,’ he replied, ‘but perhaps my father and brother were just ghosts come back to haunt me.’
‘Your father and brother were real enough,’ said Rachel pressingly, ‘but you’re right – my memory’s started playing up as well.’
‘Well, I’m glad the island’s gone,’ George growled. ‘The more I think about the place – the more my mind wants to forget about it.’
‘I wish I could forget that creature in the fog,’ said Rachel grimly. ‘I don’t know what would have happened if that pony hadn’t come to my rescue. I wonder where Larry and Lydia took them. We owe those ponies a sack of carrots and a bag of sugar lumps.’
‘I heard Morag whispering to Elspeth about an animal sanctuary called Chiefdom Priory that’s high up in the Inklings. They mentioned the pit ponies, so they’ve probably taken them there,’ George told her.
Rachel stared at her parents then back at George. ‘Come to think of it, I heard my parents chatting about Chiefdom Priory only the other day. The Weekly Wrap mentioned something about the theft of some animals,’ she added, feeling quite pleased with herself, as she had remembered the small snippet of news from her father’s local rag.
‘As we’re both fairly new here, I think it would be a good idea if we read up on the local history,’ said George. ‘I know next to nothing about this town – or maybe my mind’s just playing tricks on me again.’
‘My parents were talking about the odd goings-on around town, and what with that sand devil we encountered at Gribble’s scrapyard, it’s about time we investigated, and I think reading some past newspapers would be a good starting point,’ she added poignantly.
‘So, what’s our first step?’
Rachel beamed. ‘Well, we’ll need to visit the town’s fountain of all knowledge,’ she said with a trickle of a chuckle.
‘Where on earth’s that?’
‘Where else, but the town library –’ Rachel began.
Cries of jubilation came flooding in from the cul-de-sac.
Rachel looked through the living room window and spotted Stewart dancing a jig as he held up a newspaper – pointing at the front headline.
The Cooks’ doorbell remained silent, but frantic knuckles knocked on their front door, and Stewart shouted, ‘THEY’VE GOT HIM – THEY’VE GOT THE BOUNDER THAT KILLED JACK.’
Rachel threw open the front door and Stewart, Alfred and William tumbled over the threshold. They followed her hurriedly into the kitchen and gathered around Stewart, who smartly drew up a chair and slammed a freshly printed newspaper down on the table.
Rachel and George stared at The Weekly Wrap’s overdramatic headline, and they read the news article with more than a pinch of salt:
Fergus Triumphs Again!
As we go to print, we can confirm that Commissioner Fergus McDonald captured the suspected murderer and part-time drunk, Stanley Croom, singlehandedly, when he attempted to evade capture down at the Grumpy Sailor. When interviewing the brave Commissioner, the plucky sixty-year-old said…
Directly above the farcical and outlandish news article, the stark picture of Henry Silverback’s cowering chauffeur, Stanley Croom, knelt in the children’s paddling pool with Fergus leering over him with a pair of shiny handcuffs like some freaky Halloween ghoul.
William elbowed Alfred, and their happy faces bloomed into pure joy.
‘And we’ve got some more brilliant news to tell you,’ Alfred smirked.
‘Well?’ Rachel demanded.
‘Our school’s on fire!’ William chimed.
✽✽✽
‘Madness – sheer madness,’ spouted Paul from the couch as he watched the local evening news with a mug of steaming hot tea in one hand and a freshly made egg and cress sandwich in the other.
Lorraine bustled into the dining room and stared at the television.
‘Gravelings is nothing but a charred shell, but the teachers are still on the picket line demanding better pay and conditions,’ he added.
Rachel sat quietly at the dining room table with her head buried in Lionel Warbler’s book. Like a thirsty dog, she lapped up his discussion about The Whys and Whatnots on Breeding Rare Birds in Captivity.
Breeding the Snotty Speckled Gizzard wasn’t for the faint-hearted:
Rachel had just finished reading the red section on why you must never, under any circumstances, laugh, giggle or chuckle at the Snotty Speckled Gizzard during its mating ritual, when the phone rang.
Her mother picked it up and spent an hour in whispered conversation with the unknown caller. Her porcelain skin flushed as she called Paul into the kitchen. Her mother gave her a hurried smile and then closed the door. Rachel tiptoed furtively to the kitchen door and eavesdropped.
Faint murmurings and then a sharp scream of pain came and went.
With her ear pressing harder against the door, she heard faint sounds of her father crying, and then he said, ‘But what about our daughter?’
‘It’s all in hand,’ Lorraine cooed. ‘I need to speak to Gilbert about her. She’s almost eleven, and she needs to be protected – they all do.’
✽✽✽
The Cooks’ doorbell rang.
‘C’mon, Paul – we mustn’t be late,’ Lorraine yelled.
Rachel opened the front door.
Once again, Ian Inchman stood on the doorstep dressed in his full policeman’s uniform. George stood uncomfortably beside him, garbed in a dreary grey woollen suit that looked extremely itchy.
Rachel gave them a warm smile. Ian hadn’t shaved, and she noticed his hair had grown over the tops of his ears.
Paul rushed down the spiral staircase and adjusted his bowtie in the mirror. ‘Morning all,’ he said, and they all exchanged pleasantries.
‘We better get going,’ said Ian cajolingly. ‘The court hearing begins at eleven o’clock. I’ve already reserved our places in the public gallery.’
✽✽✽
The Motte & Bailey Crown Court stood imposingly on a high outcrop of rocks. The towering charcoal cathedral-sized stone fortress cascaded down to a raised bank of earthworks. Itching to break its banks, the water from a weeks’ worth of rain teetered on the brim of the fortress’s ditch.
Ian’s police car rolled over the flying bridge’s wooden slats. Narrowly missing a couple of jabbering barristers, the police car rumbled over the slippery cobblestones that led into the castle’s grim-looking courtyard.
Rachel stretched her legs in the kidney-shaped courtyard that hadn’t really changed since its historical heydey: the chapel stood back on high, overshadowed by the barracks; the working stables and forges completed the medieval fortress’s austere look.
‘We should have enough time to have a quick cuppa and a bite to eat in the court’s cafeteria,’ Ian informed the Cooks. ‘Try their apple fritters – they’re really scrummy. Barker’s Bakery really know their pastries.’
✽✽✽
Paul took another hefty bite and scowled down at his flaky pastry. ‘The thieving toerag – the audacity of the man,’ he said bitterly. ‘This pastry is definitely my secret recipe. If I ever see Lovejoy again – I’m going to wring his scrawny neck until he begs for mercy!’
‘Then you wouldn’t get your recipe book back,’ Lorraine informed him. ‘You know Lovejoy’s hidden it somewhere in the bakery.’
‘I wonder if Ian would raid Barker’s Bakery for me,’ Paul snarled.
‘I think Ian has other problems right now…’ Lorraine replied.
Rachel tried to contain her irritation: the vending machine buzzed as she hit it again, but the chocolate bar refused to drop into the metal bin.
Perhaps it was for best, she mused. Those sarnies were still on her hips.
‘A month off work – impossible…’ the gruff indignant voice said.
Rachel refilled her soda cup and spied on Ian and Commissioner Fergus McDonald, whose anger had reached way beyond boiling point.
‘DS Sandhurst can cover for me, sir,’ said Ian exasperatedly.
‘WHAT!’ Fergus thundered. ‘Have you forgotten that DS Sandhurst is four months pregnant? I’m not having my favourite niece fighting crime and pounding the beat, while you’re sunning yourself on some beach.’
‘But, sir –’
‘– You can have a week off and that’s final – and – and get your hair cut before you come back…’
✽✽✽
The Cooks stood outside the court gallery.
Ian beckoned them to take their places. Rachel hadn’t seen the inside of a courtroom before, so she hadn’t had any expectations.
The gallery’s uncomfortable dark walnut pews certainly didn’t have enough elbow room as loads of people piled inside. The impractical six-pointed arched heraldic windows let in the sallow sunlight, and twenty-four torches flickered dimly as they lit little of the austere room and the faded tapestries that hung limply from every stark black-painted wall.
Rachel wriggled uncomfortably on the knotty bench, and with the falling temperature, it hadn’t helped her grim mood in the gallery: it felt like bags of ice-cubes were lying directly under her derriere.
George tapped her on the shoulder and whispered, ‘We‘re all here.’
Rachel looked over her shoulder. Stewart, Alfred and William were huddled together. Alice and Mary sat with their parents, but she couldn’t see Jack’s parents at all. Rachel had to budge up, as a thin-faced woman squeezed in next to her – cradling her weathered leather handbag.
The gallery door closed, and the courtroom fell silent.
A barrister glided into the courtroom. The short-wigged scrawny man almost tripped over his long black robes as he approached the bench. He adjusted his stiff white wing collar and cleared his throat.
‘That’s Wilfred Silverback,’ snarled George scathingly into Rachel’s ear.
Wilfred came to attention with military precision as a furred scarlet-robed man with a full-bottom wig sauntered to the bench. ‘Would you please be upstanding for his lordship, Judge Henry Silverback,’ he announced regally and bowed to his brother.
Rachel didn’t want to stand, but she rose to her feet with everyone else and dragged George up with her; however, the woman sitting beside her stayed put and seethed – glaring daggers at the smug-looking judge.
Henry pulled up his chair, laid his square black cap on the table and sat down. Everyone followed his lead and sat back down in stilted silence.
Henry glanced around the court with indifference and checked his fingernails. With the speed of a sleepy tortoise, he grabbed his hardwood gavel and smacked it against the sound block. Inside the dock, Rachel watched a gaunt hollow-cheeked man stumble up the short steps. The woman beside her gasped, and she wept quietly to herself.
‘The defendant will rise,’ Wilfred snapped.
Stanley Croom’s lanky frame didn’t budge an inch, so his burly custody officer pulled him up instead.
‘Are you Stanley Croom of Peeler’s Halfway House, Half Penny Lane, Lower-Inkcome-by-the-sea?’ asked Wilfred succinctly.
Henry smiled and flicked a bit of fluff off his robe.
‘Y-yes – yes, I-I am,’ Stanley slurred, slumping over like a ragdoll.
‘If it pleases the court – I will now read out the charges against Stanley Croom,’ Wilfred pronounced.
Henry just nodded and stifled a yawn.
‘Stanley Croom, you are hereby charged with the heinous murder of Jack Partridge, residing at twenty-seven, New Cross Avenue, Lower-Inkcome-by-the-sea,’ Wilfred boomed so loudly, even the back of the gallery could hear his clear, commanding voice.
Rachel heard faint sobbing behind her.
‘How do you plead?’ Wilfred demanded.
The woman beside Rachel suddenly flew off her seat. ‘NOT BLEEDIN’ GUILTY,’ she bellowed with unrestrained boiling rage. ‘DO YOU HEAR ME DOWN THERE – MY HUSBAND’S NOT BLEEDIN’ GUILTY!’
Henry choked on his tongue. ‘S-silence in c-court,’ he spluttered, taken by surprise by the woman’s sudden outburst. ‘I WILL NOT TOLERATE THIS OUTRAGE IN MY COURT.’
Two security guards edged towards her, but the outraged woman sat back down again. Rachel felt the woman’s coiled rage: it hadn’t tempered but festered as Wilfred pressed on with the rest of the charges.
‘Stanley Croom, you are also accused of being drunk in charge of a motorised vehicle, a silver Rolls Royce Phantom,’ Wilfred added and scrutinised Stanley with an unwavering gaze. ‘How do you plead –?’
A court usher rushed down the aisle.
Henry suddenly took an interest in the proceedings.
The panting usher scuttled up to Wilfred and handed him a note. The usher then stepped towards Commissioner McDonald, who shook the usher’s hand and handed him a rather thick envelope.
Rachel looked on as the usher trotted to the back of the gallery and dropped out of sight. With a stroke of luck, her keen eyes spotted the usher’s reflection in the shiny medieval shield that hung on the wall. The usher’s clear reflection sat down on a black bench, gave the envelope a puckered kiss and then stashed it into a battered brown briefcase.
‘Is there a problem?’ Henry barked at Wilfred.
‘N-no, y-your lordship… well, um… I just need a few moments to read this new evidence,’ he replied, a little hot around the collar.
Henry let out a long overdramatic sigh. ‘It was my understanding that you had this case firmly in your grasp?’ he growled aggressively. ‘You assured me that you had all the facts… facts that would prove that the defendant is guilty beyond reproach – or maybe I misheard you?’
Stanley Croom kept his head down.
Wilfred fumed, but he quickly composed himself. ‘If your lordship is familiar with the case of Johnson vs Johnson vs Johnson, then your lordship must be fully aware that the presiding judge must, in all cases, review said new evidence before the trial commences,’ he told him stiffly. ‘I must therefore ask – did you have prior knowledge of this new evidence against the defendant, Stanley Croom – or did I mishear you?’
Henry’s purple face scowled down at Wilfred.
Wilfred returned his cutting stare. ‘Well, your lordship – did you or did you not have prior knowledge of this new evidence that I now have in my possession?’ Wilfred demanded at once.
‘W-well – well, of course, I had prior knowledge,’ Henry snapped, his right eye developing a sudden nervous twitch. ‘What do you take me for – some kind of blundering buffoon?’ he added gruffly.
Wilfred’s smirk only lasted a moment, but the entire gallery saw his one-upmanship against his younger brother.
‘NOW, WE’VE WASTED ENOUGH TIME ON THIS ALREADY – SO READ THIS NEW EVIDENCE TO THE COURT!’ added Henry thunderously.
The woman beside Rachel fumed uncontrollably. The pockmarked man to her right patted her trembling hand affectionately and whispered soothingly, ‘Will get through this, Doris – we always have.’
‘Stanley Croom, you are also accused of attempted murder of fourteen schoolteachers at Gravelings’ school,’ said Wilfred gravely, ‘and wanton criminal damage by arson,’ he added unsympathetically.
The gallery erupted in riotous behaviour.
‘IT’S A BLEEDING STICH UP – STANLEY WOULDN’T EVEN HURT A FLIPPING FLY,’ a man shouted, his challenge laced with bitter anger.
‘STANLEY TOOK THE PLEDGE YEARS AGO – HE’S NO DRUNK.’
‘THROW THESE OUTRAGEOUS CHARGES OUT OF COURT.’
Rachel felt her heart beat faster; she found it hard to breathe. Sweat glistened on her brow as she fought to keep the crowd’s emotions back.
Henry shot to his feet as the gallery’s raucous noise refused to die down. He banged his gavel repeatedly against the sound block to end the pandemonium. ‘I will have order in my court!’ he screamed, but nobody took a blind bit of notice, apart from Wilfred, whose smirk had returned.
Foaming spittle appeared on Henry’s quivering lips, and his scarlet face scrunched up in a fearful rage. ‘THIS COURT IS ADJOURNED – TAKE THE DEFENDANT BACK TO PRISON WHERE HE BELONGS,’ he bellowed and bashed the gavel so hard against his sound block it split in half.
Weakened by pure loathing and the hate around her, Rachel barely had time to deflect Doris’ throwing knife as it sliced towards the bench.
Ian lunged at Doris as she pulled another knife from her handbag.
As Ian and the two security guards wrestled Doris to the ground, she raged, ‘BY GOD, HENRY – I’LL HAVE YOU – I’LL HAVE YOU BACK WHERE YOU BELONG – YOU SEE IF I DON’T!’
Rachel glanced down, but Henry wasn’t listening: only his full-bottom wig remained – pinned to a gaudy tapestry by Doris’ lethal blade.