6. One Spike too Many

BOB SKELLINGTON’S REMAINS Part 6

D.I. Rosie Baur spent a restless night pondering and then dreaming about the dreadful so-called addiction clinic in which the younger brother of the collection of bones being drooled over by the pathologist, Doctor Greaves, spent his life, it seemed, out of his mind on strong alcohol. At least, that was the impression Rosie had gained from her wasted (in her mind) visit to the place. Although wasted may not be quite the right work because she had learned the the bones belonged to a man who spookily called himself Bob Skellington and that was alkl she really needed to know.

She also gathered that his brother’s intention when he had lost touch with his family (in the shape of the alcoholic resident in Dr Griping Grohns addiction Clinic) was to become quite important in the world of politics.

Feeling that she might have spent the night dreaming of wandering through the many rooms of an insane asylum and bumping into endless hirsute inmates, she made her way to her office in Brumpton to see if anything could be done about a body interred beneath the overgrown turves of a madhouse’s lawns.

DC Robinson was delighted to see her and said she needed advice regarding the other brother of Mr Skellington �" she was also delighted to be able to give the grisly remnants from beneath the caravan a name.

“But first,” said Rosie with a perplexed intonation, “I have to problem of a psychiatric doctor who has apparently had a funeral in his own front garden. I need to check whether this has been approved by whatever authority is supposed to approve of such things.”

“I think it’s the council,” Sheila told her, “my uncle Sebastian wanted to bury his lodger in the garden but wasn’t allowed because of the water table.”

“I’ll bet the loony woman at the asylum didn’t give a moment’s thought to water tables,” Rosie told her, “and I was told that the gardener’s dead as well. I hope he isn’t propping up the daisies there too or we’re in danger of a massive outbreak of typhoid or something even worse decimating the Brumpton population. Look: I’ll help you with the one brother if you help me with this one.”

“It sounds fascinating. At least, more fascinating than the life and times of Brother Poppledickem. That’s the only name I’ve got for him so far, and it took most of yesterday for me to get that far.”

“You poor thing,” sympathised Rosie, “I tell you what, it’s not far to the madhouse … I know it’s not politically correct to call such institutions by that name, but this one truly is … you come along and help me get to the bottom of Selwyn Montclare, and we’ll bring a few uniforms with us because I’ve a feeling there might be a little digging that needs to be done.”

“You make it sound quite intriguing,” smiled Sheila, “what else did you found out about our bunch of bones?”

“Apparently he had a large whatsit,” grinned Rosie, “Selwyn didn’t let on what he meant by that but it does make a woman think, doesn’t it?”

“Ego?” suggested the DC, “maybe that’s what he meant. Or tendency to die under caravans…. It could have meant just about anything.”

“Ego. Yes, maybe, disappointingly, he could have meant that. Come along, then, before the super notices that I’m here. Tell me about your priest as we make our way to a place that will truly shock you in order to exchange pleasantries to the hairiest man I have ever seen.”

They set off with the DC driving Rosie’s car. She smiled at her superior officer, and began.

“Ah, Brother Poppledickem. Way back, in the nineteen sixties when a good proportion of the sons of the well off and powerful took to being religious via the gift of a dozen or more different chemical stimuli, a handful, including at least one minor royal, set up a so-called refuge so they could study the stars, pray to anything they felt like praying to and generally smoke stuff that you and I would run more miles from than our legs could cope with. These kids had so little to do with their lives and spent their time contemplating their navels through a haze of acrid smoke. Harmless but stupid, and short lived because eventually boredom took over and they re-entered the whirlpool of life, except those in one old deserted farmhouse out in the styx where nobody has gone in decades. Instead of re-entering what I called the whirlpool of life they sat themselves down and decided to do the old place up.”

“Creative, at least,” commented Rosie.

“And creative they were. They’ve spent decades working on the old building in between being so spiritual I’m almost jealous of their peace and harmony, and they gave each other names like brother this and brother that, and Howling Hyena changed his image and become Brother Poppledickem.”

“Where did he get a moniker like that from?” wondered Rosie.

“Probably from whatever it was he was inhaling. They apparently made pipes, but I doubt it was tobacco they put in them.”

“So we know a few things about two of the Right Honourable Abram Montclare’s sons,” mused Rosie, “and they seem to have gone bonkers, the pair of them. What we don’t know and really need to know is what was it that sent the third son to go playing hide and seek under a caravan. I couldn’t get much out of the older brother when I called yesterday, but I was so unnerved by the idea of dead doctors being buried in the garden that I chickened out.”

“Not like you, Rosie,” said Sheila quietly.

“I thought the fact that he was alive and told me something about the skeleton, giving him a name, was enough,” replied Rosie, “look, turn down here and its a couple of hundred metres, hidden by a row of trees.”

They had been followed all the way by an ordinary police car, and it pulled up behind them on the pebble-and-weed car-park. Four officers climbed out and looked around.

“We don’t have the paperwork,” Rosie told them quietly, referring to a lack of search warrant, “so we won’t go in heavy-handed. But if there’s any kind of unofficial burial in the grounds I want to know all about it. Meanwhile, we both want another word with Selwyn Montclare. He must know more about his brother than he admitted.”

Much to her surprise the front door was wide open and the whiskery head of Selwyn Montclare dominated the entrance.

He was pressed against the wood of the ancient door and what looked very much like a lance or javelin was holding him firmly in place by one bony shoulder.

“He was such a very naughty boy,” whimpered the ancient nurse, who was standing just behind him and wringing her hands.

“It hurts,” came whispering from where his mouth must have been, lost as it was in a surfeit of grey hair.

© Peter Rogerson 05.02.21