Creative Writers Club

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<h1>Thornton Under Vale Mystery – Part 7</h1>
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&lt;WRAP > <em> &lt;wrap ><a href="/doku.php?id=cwc:thornton-under-vale-mystery-part-1-v2" class="wikilink1" title="cwc:thornton-under-vale-mystery-part-1-v2" data-wiki-id="cwc:thornton-under-vale-mystery-part-1-v2">(Read from start)</a>&lt;/wrap> </em> &lt;/WRAP>
&lt;WRAP > <em>&lt;WRAP size-full wp-image-451 right  ><a href="/lib/exe/detail.php?id=cwc%3Athornton-under-vale-mystery-part-7&media=cwc:fnbearpaw-little-bear-set_1-300x300-1.png" class="media" title="cwc:fnbearpaw-little-bear-set_1-300x300-1.png"><img src="/lib/exe/fetch.php?w=300&h=300&tok=b7c939&media=cwc:fnbearpaw-little-bear-set_1-300x300-1.png" class="media" alt="" width="300" height="300" /></a>&lt;/WRAP>
</em> The internment of the late Robin Cock, in the Anbull family mausoleum, was not appreciated by the grumpy grave digger of the Church of St Genesius. Old Mr Owl was denied his treasured opportunity to spit and stamp on the grave of the man who had almost ruined his life. He muttered white wispy oaths quietly into the chill, snow laid, graveyard, hoping his prayer of internal damnation was heard by dark angels, and no-one else. He had both a strong motive, and a pretty weak alibi… piss drunk in the Church’s gothic porch, with only the raised voices of graveyard ghosts as witness. The local Police had still not caught Cock’s murderer. Owl had no idea when he would be interviewed, or what he would say. His throat was uncomfortably dry again.&lt;/WRAP>
&lt;WRAP >However, he stood, respectfully as instructed by Reverend Castle, at a distance from the ludicrous Egyptian style mausoleum, watching the solemn progress, as the sky colours changed from the orange-grey, with icy flurries of white snow, like spring apple blossom, to a vivid azure blue cloudless sky. He needed a drink, and he knew that Adrian Cock had prepaid for ‘drinks all round’ at the local Pub “The Linnet”.&lt;/WRAP>
&lt;WRAP >While “The Bull”, the only other village pub in Thornton Du Bois, had been given the honour of providing the wake buffet at Anbull Hall after the interment, Beetle & Sons, Undertakers, had organised the funeral & other post-funeral events. Thus local rivalries were satisfied. They specialised in a ‘respectfully speedy service’, and everyone was grateful for that. The gathering was unexpectedly large and although it was too damn cold to be hanging around everyone wanted to actually see the village’s most hated man finally entombed.&lt;/WRAP>
&lt;WRAP >The intention was good, but when Mr Hen, rotund landlord of “The Linnet”, saw the crowd outside the Gothic church he wished he had asked for the more profitable catering contract. He was equally annoyed he was also losing his best attraction – Dolly Dove, the rather flirtatious, and physically well-endowed, barmaid. Although, since Dolly started to show she was “with child”, her previous business value of attracting the local men to the bar had diminished.&lt;/WRAP>
&lt;WRAP >Dolly was walking with the Cock family behind the coffin, which did surprise him. The last time she was with the deceased, he had secretly heard her screaming, “I’ll kill you, rather than my kid, you f…king RAPING BASTARD! In the same spot you attacked me, you total shit!!!”&lt;/WRAP>
&lt;WRAP >Mr Hen heard the bastard laugh cruelly, while Dolly burst into tears. It was a tumultuous affair at the best of times. He couldn’t keep track of Dolly’s moods while she was dating Robin Cock; ‘I love him/hate him’. All in order to make DS Damian Hawk jealous, and get a proper marriage committent… which Damian, understandably, avoided. Marrying the ‘village bike’ would never improve his career prospects. But he was clearly smitten. Poor Sod.&lt;/WRAP>
&lt;WRAP >Despite the best efforts of DS Damian Hawk, Dolly’s claim of rape against Robin Cock never got to Court. Dolly had been too free with her favours in the past according to the Prosecution Service.&lt;/WRAP>
&lt;WRAP >Mr Hen shuddered, not just from a gust of chill wind, but also from the knowledge that many of the village residents would need alibis, including himself. A while ago, he had refused Robin Cock yet another further credit extension on the man’s extensive wine bill, and subsequently had a visit from HM Customs & Excise to check his stock. Just the suggestion of fraud had almost ruined his business and family. He had loudly vowed in front of the whole pub, “I’ll kill that bastard. That ‘Robin the Hood-winker of Anbull Bloody Hall’ if he shows his face in here again!”&lt;/WRAP>
&lt;WRAP >Unfortunately,Robin Cock had shown his face again, not to pay the huge bill, but rather to demand to see Dolly, who, fortunately, was currently over with Reverend Castle discussing her child’s future baptism. Mr Hen had chased him out into the nearby woods with his behind-the-bar cudgel, shouting, “I’ll kill you, Cock! You f..king robber”. This was on the night before Robin’s body had been found in the woods, right by Anbull Hall…. with an arrow in his forehead, and his head bashed in.&lt;/WRAP>
&lt;WRAP >Mr Hen had been in those same woods that murderous night, collecting pheasants from his unlawful poaching traps. Thank God, Damian Hawk was happy to say that they were “drinking together in ‘The Linnet’ at the time of the murder”.&lt;/WRAP>
&lt;WRAP >He hugged his thick black coat, and smiled a little, as the procession past. His two strong, muscular, sons were helping carrying the coffin to the mausoleum. Keeping in with the socially respectable (and, once again, wealthy) old Anbull family was even more important for the future. He had encouraged his boys’ childhood friendship with Adrian Cock to continue, despite feeling rather uncomfortable in the presence of Adrian’s new husband, James, who was also Adrian’s ex-girlfriend, Jenny Snape. His lads had no such hang-ups, he was pleased to see. Attitudes were changing, and he had to change with them. That was Mr Hen’s official position, but, in reality, he thought, ‘Business is business. Don’t bite the hand that can feed you in the future.’&lt;/WRAP>
&lt;WRAP >The heavy bronze doors dragged closed with an ominous thud, completing the rather theatrical entombment. The shivering black clothed attendees hurried respectfully, according to their invitations either to Anbull Hall, or to the warm & cosy ‘Linnet’ public house.&lt;/WRAP>
&lt;WRAP >Mr Hen smiled, as he quickly returned to his half-timbered pub. Business would be good, he thought. The first (free) drink would elicit platitudes of regret over Cock’s demise. The second, would initiate character assassination, and by the third, wild theories about who was the Blessed Archer would be flowing freely, and, with any luck, The Blessed Archer would never be caught if God (or the villagers) had any say in the matter.&lt;/WRAP>
&lt;WRAP >Hen felt a momentary fear that loose tongues in his packed bar could ruin alibis, but he relaxed as he saw DS Damian Hawk and the youthful PC Sidney ‘Spider’ Web, drive away towards Thornton Under Vale. There would be time to move his own poacher’s long bow to a safer, better hidden, location. He kept the bow in the pub cellar. He had not used it in years, but he doubted the Police would believe that.&lt;/WRAP>
&lt;WRAP >Meanwhile, “The Bull” staff were rushing around under Anbull Hall’s dark medieval oak beams laying out the buffet, whose intended variety had been curtailed by the avalanche of allergies they had had to cope with. Ivan, the Bull’s tall and handsome chef, looked on with disappointment. This looked like a cheap street market in his hometown of Kiev rather than a banquet fit for a high ranking family.&lt;/WRAP>
&lt;WRAP >He slipped behind the glass cabinets that held the valuable Cock family Chinese porcelain and, with a deft prison trained twist of his delicate blade, opened the locked cabinets and started to remove the items he felt would improve the display. Very carefully, he selected the tallest vases and matching display plates; so that the same food would be displayed in a coloured tableaux of Porcelain white, Delft blue, Chinese jade, and vivid Imperial yellow.&lt;/WRAP>
&lt;WRAP >He draped evergreen Ivy from the vases, creating Christmas rivers between each setting; snow-washed, freshly picked, Holly Berries gave a flashes of red, while flickering Black candles acknowledged the need for a sombre mood.&lt;/WRAP>
&lt;WRAP >Ivan had a moment of apprehension before the Widow arrived. With the practised grace of a cat-burglar, he changed his stained, white chef apron for a pristine black one. He swept his dark pony-tailed hair back and glanced in the cabinet glass, as vanity required.&lt;/WRAP>
&lt;WRAP >With perfect timing, the Hall door opened. Ivan heard the satisfying gasp from the guests and, especially, the new Widow. He felt all his impromptu art had been appreciated, especially by the darkly elegant Ivana Cock. Their eyes met, like diamonds in a cave. He saw her lips form a slight smile. He blushed deeply, as erotic thoughts tingled thorough his body.&lt;/WRAP>
&lt;WRAP >Lady Byrd’s affected stage whisper, smashed the moment, “I hope we are not poisoned by the Ivy, there’s so much of it to avoid, Ivana dear.” Her entourage quietly sniggered.&lt;/WRAP>
&lt;WRAP >Ivan, thin lipped, looked towards the voice, noted the arrogant woman, and decided that maybe she deserved some special Russian Herbal Tea. There was plenty of ‘Zveroboy’ left in Ivana’s kitchen.&lt;/WRAP>
&lt;WRAP > <em>(Prompts Given: He/she had no idea..; It was a tumultuous affair…; No one could have known…;</em>  <em>There was that moment of …; The intention was good, but…; He/she did not give anything away…;)</em> &lt;/WRAP>
&lt;WRAP > &lt;wrap ><a href="/doku.php?id=cwc:thornton-under-vale-mystery-part-8" class="wikilink1" title="cwc:thornton-under-vale-mystery-part-8" data-wiki-id="cwc:thornton-under-vale-mystery-part-8"> //Now Read Part 8// </a>&lt;/wrap> &lt;/WRAP>
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Authored by: Mark Baker;  Last updated: 2021-07-04T10:12:13(UTC)
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