8. THE RIDDLE

The girls might know an answer

Sarah and Jane were at a loss as to where to go. The canal was still out: they had no desire to bump into any other dead bodies, naked or otherwise. And the park, with strange men in women’s underwear prowling about, that was out to, at least for the time being.

So they decided on the shops.

It wasn’t that they wanted to buy anything, in fact they couldn’t have afforded to buy more than a few penny chews if they wanted to, but there were plate glass windows to look in, plans for the future to be laid as they stared at this or that desirable something.

Like the big clothing store and its display of summer outfits for ladies too thin to be real if you were to believe the mannequins they were displayed on.

“I’d really like a pair of those,” pointed Sarah at some jeans that someone seemed to have taken a hacksaw to and mutilated beyond attractiveness.

“They’re worn out before you wear them!” protested Jane, “mum says they’re plain daft. And look how dear they are!”

“My mum says the same, but she’s not with it at all,” confided Sarah, “she’s stuck in the stone ages.”

“Why, it’s the two girls who keep finding interesting people as they run about,” said a voice behind them. “Sarah and Jane, isn’t it?”

They both recognised the voice. It was Sergeant Stone and he was smiling at them.

“My eldest bullied me into buying a pair of those,” he added, “and they cost me a fortune! I could have bought a cheap pair from the market and taken a blade to them myself but our Primula says they’d look cheap and she’d never hear the end of it from her friends...”

“Oh,” replied the girls in unison.

“I don’t suppose you’ve found any other little oddities on your travels?” he pursued. “That man from the park, we can’s make any sense out of him at all. He’d just what you’d expect a grown up baby to be like, but there aren’t any such things as grown up babies, are there?”

“Not old man babies anyway,” confirmed Sarah.

“Though there’s a man on our street who everyone says is in his second childhood,” said Jane slowly, “he walks along talking to himself and if you were to ask him the time of day he wouldn’t know, even though he usually wears a big silver watch on his wrist.”

“Ah, but would he understand your question?” asked sergeant Stone.

“Oh, he seems to know what you’re saying to him but he doesn’t always know how to answer,” nodded Jane, “they say he’ll die soon. That’s sad, isn’t it? People dying like that, growing old and coming to the end.”

“It is, but I wouldn’t worry too much about the man from the park,” murmured the Sergeant, “he’s hale and hearty and shows no sign of doing anything permanent like dying. But he only seems to be able to get his head round two words other than mamma and dadda and goo-goo, and then not often enough for us to make sense of what he’s burbling.”

“He could do with a pair of those jeans,” grinned Sarah pointing into the shop window, “after all, he was only wearing pants!”

“Girls pants at that,” giggled Jane.

“That’s another thing,” said Sergeant Stone, wondering if he ought to carry the conversation much further. “Did you notice anything about those pants? And the body you poor girls found in the canal?”

“Red. They were both red, which was spooky,” admitted Sarah. “They might almost have been the same pair!”

“It’s best not thinking about it,” advised the officer, “thinking about what underclothes people wear isn’t a very sensible way of using our brains, to my mind.”

“It’s funny though,” smiled Jane.

“Not as daft as these jeans in the window though,” said Sergeant Stone, changing the subject. “Look, girls, I’m off to the station and try not to stumble across any more lost souls, will you?

“We didn’t do it on purpose!” complained Sarah, “it’s put us off our two favourite places. At least, they used to be our two favourite places in the world, but they’re not any more.”

“What were the two words you told us about?” asked Jane, “you know, the two words that the strange park man managed to say?”

“I suppose it’s all right to tell you. They don’t make any sense at all. He said ‘dolly’ on one occasion and ‘ruby’ on another. Dolly and ruby. It’s not that he was ever a young girl with a favourite doll, and what have red gemstones got to do with anything?”

“Dolly and ruby? Just a minute, that rings a bell...” murmured Sarah slowly, thinking.

“I know what they mean,” interrupted Jane.

”You do?” asked the sergeant, “because if you’ve any idea I’d be glad to hear it, because we’re at a loss at the station to make any sense of the man at all. We don’t even know what to do with him. We can’t lock him in a cell for ever because he hasn’t really done anything wrong.”

“Except for wear ladies knickers,” grinned Sarah.

“And I don’t think that’s a crime. So come on, what do you think dolly and rubies mean when you put them together?”

“Our favourite place,” said Jane slowly, “is walking along the canal tow-path and looking at the boats that chug along it, and waving to the men and women on them. And if you walk along far enough there’s a wall higher than a tall man, and a gate that leads to the big house’s garden. It’s quite a strong gate and hard to climb over, so we don’t.”

“It would be silly to climb something you’re not supposed to climb,” advised the sergeant.

“Well, there’s a sign that says who lives there. The people are called Styx, which is a river that runs through the underworld according to old legends. He is a clever man, a professor, and his name is Reuben and he is married to a lady called Dolly Styx. And that’s what I think the man means. Reuben and Dolly.”

“Dolly and Reuben,” murmured Sergeant Stone thoughtfully, “you just might have something there. It’s another connection to that house, and very interesting.”

“Another?” asked Sarah.

“I can’t say any more now, but thanks very much for your insight. It might prove to be very helpful indeed! Why didn’t we think that? Reuben and Dolly Styx?”

And saying no more to the girls he turned about and almost ran off, going in the direction of the police station.

“Thank you again!” he called over his shoulder as he charged along.

“Well, of all the cheek!” complained Jane, “and I still don’t want any of those torn jeans.”

© Peter Rogerson 18.09.19