20. THE COTTAGE IN THE WOODS

Avretired German policeman and a silly British Inspector.

THE COTTAGE IN THE WOODS

20. Sanity in Brumpton

Brumpton Semi-National Aerodrome would never be in the senior league of airfields because it would never cater for any aircraft of the size needed for international passenger travel because it had never been very large and anway there was no where for it to be expanded without demolishing Swanspottle Manor, which had as many preservation orders on it as existed. But it still offered facilities to smaller craft and even quite a few passenger airlines that operated European services.

Consequently it was never very busy, and sometimes seemed like a ghost station in between often infrequent departures and arrivals. But there were some of the usual facilities you might expect of such a place. Incoming luggage was distributed via a small carousel and passengers had to be checked on arrival by a fearsome looking woman who worked for the Government and enjoyed rejecting the images on passports if the mood took her.

And it was standing near the terminal on this particular aerodrome that Constable Felicia Ruby began to wonder what she was really doing there. She knew that she was waiting for a stranger who could look like anyone descended from the mythical Adam if he was wearing trousers, which was unsettling, to say the least because her only clue was that he would be wearing trousers.

Until, that is, a Scotsman with a black beard but dressed in a swaying kilt sauntered past her, whistling an unrecognisable little tune to himself and paying frequent attention to a silver hip-flask when he wasn’t whistling. She wanted to ask him, in German, if he was from Germany but decided that the clues, including his age and kilt, were sufficient to eliminate him.

The flight that had landed immediately prior to her own arrival had discharged only half a dozern passengers, four of them female, and the sixth after the Scotsman, was an Indian gentleman complete with turban, and he looked to be no older than his mid twenties. Not a geriatric German, then. After he had passed her, smelling of something gorgeously eastern and exotic, the airport was quiet again.

Another aeroplane landed and this time she was more hopeful because she recognised the German language being forcibly shouted by a large lady at an equally large toddler, followed by a second woman who was probably a model from the higher echelons of an industry she tended to consider trivial, mostly because she wlouldn’t have minded being a model herself. After all, she had the looks for it as at least three men had told her during her time in Brumpton Police Force.

Then, without thinking beyond her own confusion, she saw him. It just had to be the old woman’s half-brother because he looked to be so like her the two might have been actually separated at birth, though maybe Winifred would never have succeeded in actually managing a flight from Germany to Brumpton without causing a serious and confused distraction every five minutes.

This newcomer, though, was clearly old enough to be Herman Schmidt, and the stain down the lapel of his jacket, a stain that someone had obviously tried to wipe away but had failed miserably, suggested that he might be subject to a certain kind of mishap.

His walk was equally disorganised as he appeared to be uncertain which direction was forwards because he tended to almost but not quite stagger from one side to the other continually, making progress difficult. He was also carrying a small Gladstone bag which adopted a similar pendulous swing as did his gait. But the most outstanding feature of him was his beard. It was bushy in the same way as privet can be bushy, and it was sandy grey.

As there was nobody else among the thin trail of passengers who could be the man she was waiting for she stepped towards him and smiled.

“Herr Schmidt?” she asked.

His voice, when he replied, was in perfect English with barely a trace of a German accent and as organised as his appearance was disorganised.

“Miss Ruby?” he asked, “Constable Ruby?”

It wa a relief to her that he knew her name because the only person who did would have to be the elderly retired German police officer, so she made her smile a little broader, showing her excellent white teeth, and replied, “Yes, sir, I have been sent to meet you. I believe you are staying at a local hotel?”

“That is quite correct. The Prince Edward, I believe it is called?”

She reached for the bag that he was carrying. “Let me help you,” she said, I have my car waiting and it’s not far. Did you have a good flight?”

“A slight accident with my breakfast just before my departure, hence my untidy appearance, otherwise if was a very short and satisfactory journey,” he said, smiling as if the most important task for him to perform was to explain the stain on his lapel.

“It’s nothing,” she lied, and smiled again. “Come on, then! I’ll bet you can’t wait to meet your sister!”

Meanwhile, Inspector Greengare was in the blackest of black moods as he stood in the Incident room surrounded by the small team that was still supposed to be investigating two unexplained but clearly historic deaths in what he called that damned cottage in Brumpton Woods.

“The Superintendent must know what he’s doing, but he’s sent the young tart Constable Ruby on what seems to me must be a wild goose chase to the airport to meet a German who reckons to be the suspect’s brother,” he began.

“Excuse me, sir, but is she still a suspect?” asked Sergeant Goodbody, “I mean, has she been arrested or anything like that?” Did she do anything?”

“There is nothing like being charged and arrested as you put it sergeant, and you know she hasn’t. The devious witch has got you all wrapped round her little fingers with her ditzy game of playing the fool!”

“And Constable Ruby’s meeting her brother?” asked the sergeant.

“That’s another ruse!” snapped Inspector Greengage, “don’t you think it’s just too convenient, when I’m about to finish accumulating enpugh evidence to charge her with double murder for her to pluck a long lost brother out of thin air?”

“I thought we discovered the raltionship using a DNA database?” put in Constable Pierce, “I mean, DNA can’t lie, can it?”

“When you get my experience behind you you’ll know that it can and does lie, lad!” snapped the Inspector, “I could make it tell lies now, Pierce! I could remove one of those hairs adorning your jacket and place it in that bloody cottage in the woods and claim that you killed everyone inside the place, and outside it as well, because I’ve found DNA evidence! Bah!”

“Inspector!” came the rasping voice of the superintendent who was usually cuddling a mug of coffee in his office, but had decided that as a retired senior officer from another force was likely to be putting in an appearance soon he’d better make sure that things in his station were ship-shape.

“Sir,” growled Greengage.

“A word, Inspector!” rasped superintendent Partridge.

Inspector Greengage knew what was coming. The witch from the cottage in the woods had wrapped the superintendent round her little finger as well as the rest of the idiots in the station and he alone had enough intelligence to battle against stupidity and witchcraft and everything else that he didn’t agree with.

He reluctantly made his way to where his boss was standing, waiting, and frowned.

“Yes, sir?” he asked.

“You will remember who you are, Inspector,” he growled, “you’re no longer the spotty teenager in glowing white shorts running like a demon on the rugby field but a senior police officer with so much evidence around you that you could drown a cat in it!”

“I don’t believe in drowning cats, or any other animal if you don’t mind me saying it, sir,” he growled back.

“Then you will remove Winifred Winterbotham from your list of suspects for a crime that was never committed, and instruct your team to do the same!”

“Must I, sir? What if I’ve got it right and the rest of you are wrong?” he dared to suggest.

“Now, Inspector!” The icy tones from the Superintenent convinced Inspector Greengage of two things. Firstly, he’d best tread a little more carefully where the witch was concerned and secondly he’d do well to ask Doctor Grimm to provide an assessment regarding the sanity of the entire murder squad in Brumpton Nick. Except for himself, of course.

© Peter Rogerson. 11.02.23

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