old englesh bar

the murder in a murder mystery

He walks down the darkened street, lit only by the small lanterns placed staggered down along the sides. Their small flame, though bright, are cold, lifeless gas, twinkling behind the small panels of glass set in a cast iron housing dangling from the pole bending down towards the earth and planted, as if a singular metal tree trunk, into the ground. The stone buildings behind them, look like one long building of old grey stone. Shadows dance across it, cast by the flickering of flame of the lanterns. The street cobbled and slippery after the rains of this evening, its hard to walk on them. The wind whips his face,  it feels like cold icicles ripping into his cheeks.

 

He rubs his forearm across his nose, just to keep it warm. As he rounds the last bend he sees the warming orange light of the Hogs Tooth Inn. He smiles to himself knowing that warmth is just a few meters away. The Hogs Tooth Inn, a place of raucous laughter and fun. A place where all men are brothers, be they rich man or poor, black man or white.

 

The light from the Inn a bright beacon of warmth, orange and filled with life, and its flickering with the fire that lights it. As he approaches he can hear the jolly making inside, singing of the half drunken man, the most inviting sound he has heard all day.

 

He worked as a tax collector, the most hated position in all of great Britton, men would attack him for a few pounds indebted to there name, it was bad times, there was no money anywhere, and a man needed to do what he could to scrounge and save every last penny. But then he came to take it away. He could understand why men would hate him as they did, for he had been in that situation not two years ago. He would have to save work all day and most the night to have enough to even feed his wife and chilled boy, but now, working for the king, he makes quite a living.

 

he shakes his head to get the thoughts of the days work out of his head, it was a particularly harsh day. He had a whole street of young men chase him out, and a brading ear bashing from his, somewhat barbaric, warden. A man that, if he where to in role for his countries coin, they would put him to the front line just to be rid of him and his incessant ranting. But a pound is a pound, and he needed it all.

 

Getting closer he can hear the sound of the basic instruments of the working class people, fashioned together with items that in no way represent the instruments they’re meant to be. The singing of the men got louder and louder as he took every step, mostly singing the songs of the fallen heroes the men once had.

 

Now the land was had law and structure there where no bandits, no highwaymen, inside the castle walls anyway.

 

The poor where in a never ending and vicious circle, where they would save up a penny or two, buy a little bread and have nothing more. He new that the pub would not have any of the men he had to deal with though the day, they where too poor to afford the ale.

 

The Hogs Tooth was known for it phenomenal wine and mead, but that’s not what he was looking for he just needed a cheap drink, and a kind word with someone not yelling at him. It was a stressful job, especially for a quiet loving man.

 

Stepping into the arch of flickering light, cast by the door, he could see a room filed with men and women. A bar to the left of the room, with large barrels of different types of ale and mead behind it. The rest of the room was filled with tables made to seat two an six people, all made out of the same dark old wood of the bar across the way, infused with the smell of many years alcohol spilt on it. 

 

The smell was almost enough to knock a man over, the smell of heat of the wood fire crackling in the back of the room, opposite the door, you could hear it roar under the grandiose mantel, of old rose wood and oak. Carved, to show the stories of a fallen hero of the land, of which he did not know. A large hogs head is mounted above it, probably a great hunt of the hero’s, but it was where the pub got its name he thought.

 

Stepping into the large arched door he could feel the heat, the noise of the drunken and half drunken men singing was enough to bring a smile to any ones face. He smiled and he stepped up tho the bar, looking to his right he saw a man almost passed out leaning on the bar. He was older, with longer salt and pepper hair to his shoulders, dressed in a brown robe that touched the floor with dirty tails. His face, nothing special, the sort you would pass in the street without notice, a drunken smile upon his face of a good days drinking.

 

To his left there where two men talking into each others ears, one man had his back to him, in a white robe with his hood up, there was something odd about it but he took no notice, the second man was blocked from view.

 

The barman stepped up to him and across the bar, he was a thin man and seemed to be the only person there that did not seem intoxicated. He wore an apron of brown leather, and his shirt stained. The barman smiled as he looked over the bar and said in a jolly and full voice “so what will you be having today my good sir?” he almost had laughter in his eyes, truly a barman born for his job

 

“just a pint of your renowned ale” he said to the barman, somewhat less enthusiastically, a hint of pain in his voice, for the days work had left him with a broken rib. The barman saw this and quickly changed his air, getting the pint he asked for. The barman placed it on the bar, making the lathered foam cascade down the side of the mug and onto the bar. “that will be a piece” he rummaged through his coat pocket to pull out a single copper coin to throw it on the bar. The barman smiled and took the copper piece away.

 

The man turn around leaning on the bar, to watch the raucous laughter happening at the tables in front of him. There where men playing some sort of dice game down closer to the bar. They would, at times, yell out there elation and misfortune losses, he chuckled to himself at the acts of the gambling man. He looked around the room, looking at the men to the right, just past the door, falling over at an obviously funny  joke one of the four said, “must have been quite a leg puller” he thought to himself, “either that or there absolutely rotten.”

 

The white cloaked man walked fast past his sight, again, never showing his face, but revealing the man behind him he wasn’t as well dressed as the rest of the cliental in the pub, he was more of a well dressed farmer. This didn’t strike him as odd, so he rased his pint in greeting and took a long swig of the dark bitter beverage. The man did not return the greeting and walked off, following the cloaked man.

 

As the night wore on, he found that he was slowly getting inebriated, the room stated to get softer and he started to lose the strong foundation of his neck. A drunken smile stretched across his face, and he felt warm all through him.

 

He thought of joining the men up the back corner, it was the lager group in the pub, probably 6 or 7 men and a woman. One man hat a lute out, playing the songs they all new, and the rest singing along and making jolly.

 

He would wait till he herd a song he recognized, so he could join in.

 

“Then fears avaunt, upon the hill
My hope shall cast her anchor still
Until I see some peaceful dove
Bring home the branch I dearly love
Then will I wait
Till the waters abate
Which now disturb my troubled brain
Then for ever rejoice,
When I've heard the voice
That the King enjoys his own again

Yes, this I can tell
That all will be well
When the King enjoys his own again”

 

It came that time, the barman now with a more serious gaze on his face, yelled out “LAST CALLLL!!! YA BUNCH OF DRUNKARDS!” the shout was quite against the bartenders demeanour, and he was not expecting it, several moans came from the very drunken men as they slowly stumble toward the door.

 

Only five people remained in the pub, two bar maids, the bar tender, the drunken man leaning on the bar, and himself. He slowly progress towards the bar sloppily, light in his shoes due to the immense amount of mead he had imbibed that evening.

 

He lent on the bar and helped the barmaid wake the sleeping man, not very successfully. Upon the noticing the man was not going to wake up, he sauntered toward the door slipping his posture just slightly “yough pepol haves a gwood night” slurring his speech.

 

He could still hear people outside, they most likely forgotten how to get home, but continued to talk and chatter outside the pub. He smiled and chuckled for no apparent reason, just the pure amount of mead going through his veins. He stepped out into square in front of the pub, the large stone clock tower standing silently, with only the distant sound of the mechanism tick, tick ticking away.

 

He looked up at the clock face, but being extremely dunk he was not able to see the face. He stumbled down the street that he traversed at the beginning of the night. Warmed by the alcohol coursing though his vascular system. Getting to the corner he turned down a cat ally he had travelled many times before. It was cold colder here, like the old stone of the cobblers and the bluchers sucked the heat from the alley. It was dark, the fire of the street light had gone out, which brought a shadow to the alley.

 

His footsteps echoed off the walls, so he didn’t notice the person coming up behind him. “Harkless?” a voice emerged, from the darkness surprising him, he tried to spin on his heals but that didn’t work, finding himself leaning on the wall with one hand he heres the voice again. “Mr. Gilbert Harkless?” the rock which his hand laid on was Cold, as was the wind blowing up the back of his un tucked shirt. The figure he looked at was black, as the light from the street was behind it.

 

“yesssh, tath be me” the figure rushed forward. There was a flash of steel. He started to panic as he could not draw a breath. He gargled on his own blood, seeing it jet up the walls of the alley. His brain got heavy, as his sight greyed than dimmed to just a tunnel of light from the street in front of him. Falling to his knees as he can’t see. Panic like no other he had ever felt. Hart rushed to pump. Thump, thump, now all he could feel, thump, thump. Slowly weakening. Thump, thump…… toes, legs, hips, torso, arms, face all humming with numb. Sound fading. Death. “just one more second……..”

Reviews

[Matthew Ian Herrawood W]

this is good though i think the scene of the man in the bar was drawn out a little too long but i dont know the only mystery's ive ever read are sherlock holmes and 2 minute mysterys. I started to loose intrest about half way through perhaps a way to keep your reader hooked would be to give them reason to expect somthing with your charector reacting in a certin way then it turnes out to be nothing the charictor was just over reacting because of his druken state? just an idea. I dont recall many spelling mistakes though there was one or two and the grammar i didnt really notice so i cant help you there. i'm not sure who it was that said "just one more second at the end it might be a good idea to make that clearer. its a bit of a hook for my what was gonna be said what did it mean? this is good and i would definetly continue.