I’d take my soul and sell it to the Devil

To be revenged upon him! I’ll get level.

“The Miller’s Tale”

The Canterbury Tales

The stare which met Jayne Brown was cold and expectant. Alexander Grimbourne was unaccustomed to his staff asking for an audience with him; having one demanded was unheard of. As Alexander looked at the thin maid, her hands clasped over her soiled apron as she stood in the centre of the study, from behind his desk, he could detect no outward sign of nervousness. This both rankled and intrigued him. In fact, a knowing smile twitched at the corner of her mouth. It was the smile of a bad card player who, despite being unable to hide their excitement, knows they hold the winning hand.

Alexander raised his bushy eyebrows as he spoke, “Well, Miss Brown, I assume you have marched in here to say something. Spit it out!”

Jayne, not wishing to rush her moment of importance looked around the room at the expensive paintings and solid furniture.

“You’re very rich aren’t you, sir?” said Jayne as she eyed a gilded picture frame.

“My wealth is no secret and no one’s business! Now tell me why you have disturbed my morning, or you will spend your afternoon looking for a new job!”

The chuckle which escaped Jayne appeared to be triggered more by joy than impudence though Alexander glared in reply, nonetheless.

“Oh no, Mr Grimbourne, I fear it is not I who shall be looking for a new job.”

Jayne looked at her master, waiting to see if her words would alter the stony expression on the man’s face. The silence of the room was disturbed by the creaking of the chair as Alexander leaned his tremendous bulk back against it. He stroked his chin as he looked at the girl standing before him. Her greasy hair was parted in the middle and her complexion was pale and lifeless. After a moment’s contemplation, Alexander said, “Miss Brown. Would I be correct in surmising that you have a piece of information about my household that you wish to share with me in exchange for financial compensation?”

“Not just one piece of information, sir. Indeed, there is more than that,” replied Jayne, her mouth twisted into a sneer.

“I’m listening, but I am warning you, girl! You had better not be wasting my time ...”

Jayne glanced at the solid oak door, ensuring it was closed before continuing to speak. Her voice sank to a whisper. Alexander’s cheeks darkened more and more with each word she said, the anger boiling inside of him turning his face to the colour of bloodied pus.   

†

The forest was ancient and dense. The grey light of the moon overlaid the forest canopy like a layer of dirty snow. The two figures beneath the heavy branches were enveloped in almost total darkness. A solitary magpie sat near to them, silent and ignored.

“What is the matter? Why this urgent meeting?” asked the hooded figure, the cold night making their breath cloudy as though they were smoking an invisible cigarette.

“He knows,” replied the other as they rubbed their gloved hands together furiously.

“How? We have been so careful!” strained the voice of the faceless figure.

“Not careful enough it seems. That little witch Jayne told him this afternoon. She found a letter I wrote for you before I had a chance to send it. She’s been nothing but trouble from the moment she arrived, always rooting about, sticking her nose in other people’s business.”

Somewhere not far away a creature scurried, crunching dead leaves as it went.

The magpie cocked its head, its whiteness blurring in the darkness like a grey glow.

“What are we to do?” asked the hooded figure.

“What can we do? Our options seem rather limited, don’t you think?”

1. AN INVITATION TO MURDER

He sent a servant, bidding him to call

His daughter to him, and with ashen face

Deathly and cold, gazed on her lowly grace.

“The Physician’s Tale”

The Canterbury Tales

There is no such thing as winning or losing, there is only won and lost. The truth which haunted him. He remembered the sneering grin of the prosecutor as he whispered those words when the verdict was delivered. Defeat had been thrust upon him when victory had looked assured. The surprise witness, the damning testimony, his own conceited arrogance... but now, four years later he was sure he had learnt his lesson. Yes, thought Edmond Osborn, today in the chamber had gone well, almost perfectly in fact, but he wasn’t counting his chickens; he had not won yet. 

The lawyer was sitting in his favourite fireside chair in the corner of his Mayfair club, swirling a crystal of port. He stared into the ruby-red elixir, his thoughts twirling and sinking into the dark depths. The short walk to the establishment had been quickened by autumn wind and rain driving him encouragingly from behind. Before him lay a newspaper which he had been flicking through for ten restless minutes before neglecting it to focus on the maelstrom in his mind. The exhilaration of the day had caused his mind to replay old defeats and glories. He compared his past cases with his current one, seeking a pattern, a similarity, anything that could help him ensure a successful outcome.

           Ed was so preoccupied that he failed to notice the appearance of a tall, elderly gentleman at his side who was giving him hearty salutations. Ed, awakened to the present with a shake of the arm, tossed the broadsheet aside and invited the aged Lord Sampson to join him for a drink. After all, Lord Sampson may have retired from the bar but as a former Lord Chief Justice, his opinions and views still held great weight within the circles of the Law, and with those who upheld it. Ed, a young barrister who had already shown great promise, knew it would be wise to humour this great guardian of the courts in the interests of his own career.

“I saw your picture in the newspaper yesterday. This Trevelyan business seems to be of great interest nationally,” said the esteemed gentleman. “How is the case going? A perfectly simple affair if you ask me. Hang the scoundrel! That’s what I say! A truly despicable crime. I don’t know what has become of us since the war. Forty years ago, when I was on the bench, I never dealt with half as many crimes as you young chaps do nowadays.”

“Yes, quite,” replied the handsome young man. “A tricky case for the defence. I think we got their backs up today though. They were a bit stumped when we called the cook to give her evidence this morning.”

Lord Sampson smiled at the man’s competitive nature. He too remembered many cases going well only to fall flat on their face at the last moment. Ed, not wanting to dwell on an ongoing case, decided to change the conversation to safer ground and uttered a few inviting words about the weather. Lord Sampson took the reins of the conversation as forcibly as he did enthusiastically. Rain, rain, and more rain. Anyone listening to his monologue would be forgiven for thinking a flood was coming to rival Noah’s, such was the good Lord’s forecast of the matter. However, Lord Sampson’s ramblings came to an abrupt halt when a smartly dressed waiter came to their table and presented Ed with an envelope upon a silver tray.

Mr Osborn Esq.

Member

The Pitt Club

London

Ed opened it, produced a letter, and read through it with a puzzled expression on his face. He read it again,

1st October 1926

Mr Osborn,

It would be my sincere pleasure if you would honour us with your presence and be my guest (Sunday 10th October) to occasion the wedding of my only daughter Ruth to Lord Frederick Taylor M.C.

If arriving by train seek the porter at the station and he will arrange for a car to collect you.

If convenient come Friday (8th), a room at the Manor shall be prepared.

Sincerely,

Alexander Grimbourne

Treefall Manor

Swinbridge

Rockinghamshire

“How peculiar,” said the young man.

“What is?” asked Lord Sampson.

“This letter from a Mr Grimbourne. He has invited me to his daughter’s wedding at his manor in Rockinghamshire.”

“Well, what is peculiar about that?”

“Well, only that the lady’s betrothed is a dear friend of mine. I had a letter from him just last week and he never mentioned a love interest, never mind a fiancée.”

“Ah well, perhaps it was love at first sight. I’m told it can happen, you know.”

“Perhaps,” replied Ed, his voice carrying little conviction. “I say, you should know who I mean. Lord Taylor. Though I doubt you will have seen much of him in the House, he doesn’t spend much time in London, prefers the country air.”

“Ah yes, Lord Taylor, young fellow like yourself, terrible shame about his father, he was much respected, died before his time,” said the Lord in a mournful tone that only our elders can master.

“Yes, I never met his father. He died whilst Freddie and I were serving at the Front together, a twist of fate possibly. Freddie missed the first day of the Somme because he was home for the funeral. We lost many good chaps that day.”

“A terrible business,” muttered Lord Sampson.

“Anyway, this letter upsets my plans, I shall have to go and sort out a few matters. Awfully nice speaking with you Lord Sampson, I hope to see you soon.” And with that, Ed Osborn strode to the door of the Pitt Club, picked up his umbrella and hat from the stand and once more braved the London downpour.

†

Alexander Grimbourne had just finished writing a letter and had placed it within its envelope upon the out-tray of his desk, when he rang the bell summoning his secretary. As he waited, he surveyed the study in which he sat. The carpet was a deep red and luxuriously soft underfoot. In fact, the whole room shone with expensive taste. Gilded candlesticks, a marble fireplace, a rich mahogany bookcase which took up an entire wall, a fine chandelier in the centre of the ceiling. At the rear of the room, opposite the casement windows sat Alexander behind the enormous antique desk. The master of the manor, small against the room’s ornate grandeur. As he sat, he was reminded of Jayne Brown. He looked at the centre of the carpet where she had stood and thought about the revelations she had spewed.

After a few moments of quiet reflection, Alexander’s train of thought was interrupted by a timid knocking upon the old oak door.

“Come in.”

Slowly pushing the heavy door, the threshold of the room was broken by a dark haired, meek looking man. George Campbell stood nervously with his head bowed as if he were a prisoner before Genghis Khan, his fate undecided.

“You called, Sir?”

“Yes Campbell, I did. Have the invitations for the wedding been sent out?”

“Yes Sir, I sent them earlier this morning and a few last night.”

“Excellent,” said Alexander, his lip curling into a smile. “I have another letter for you to send, in the tray there.”

“Thank you, Sir. Was there anything else, Sir?” replied the young secretary eager to leave his master’s presence.

“As a matter of fact, there was…” replied Alexander Grimbourne in a tone of fiendish delight.

†

Elsie Barter, middle-aged and mother of six, was dusting the panelling of the walls in the hall outside Alexander Grimbourne’s study when she heard raised voices coming from inside.

Much to the honest cleaner’s annoyance the verbal exchange was indistinguishable, the words muffled by the thick walls and solid door of the ancient house. However, the articulate woman correctly identified the master of the house as being the owner of the louder of what she thought to be two voices. This was a shocking scenario for Mrs Elsie Barter to comprehend for, although it was common enough to hear Mr Grimbourne raise his voice in anger, she couldn’t possibly imagine who would be so courageous, or stupid, to reply in the same way.

Alexander Grimbourne had a fearsome temper, as the entire household knew. In his view, he was Lord of Heaven and Earth, creatures great and small, he was judge, jury, and executioner. Many staff members of the household had felt his wrath and their tenures had thus been short-lived. He looked with contempt on all those around him whether they were family, villagers or even the local clergy. No one was above his scorn, as Mrs Elsie Barter knew well.

After a few minutes of painful straining to make out what was being said, but without any joy of success and having edged reluctantly closer and closer to the great door with a fear of being somehow detected from within, the noble Mrs Elsie was disturbed from a different direction. Soft footfalls were making their way gracefully down the stairs above the cleaner, giving her just enough time to retreat a few steps away from the study door, lest anyone should get the wrong idea entirely. Thus, Mrs Elsie, a picture of innocence, looked up with a wonderful toothless smile at the young lady of the house as she descended almost mournfully to the ground floor.

“Ah, dear Ruth, how wonderful you look today. You look more and more like your darling mother every day, God rest her soul!” cried Mrs Elsie with great sympathy and warmth.

“Yes, thank you, Elsie,” replied Ruth absently, her attention was fixed on the door of her father’s study. “I say,” continued the lady, the colour fading from her cheeks. “Who is my father with?”

“I’m sure I don’t know dear, why can you hear voices? My hearing is not what it used to be, but I shan’t complain.” Mrs Elsie stated. However, just as this short dialogue was completed, the answer both women sought was presented. The great door flew open and out stormed George Campbell, his face scarlet and his forehead dotted with beads of sweat. If the secretary saw the other two people in the hallway, he gave no indication of this as he rushed past them in a blind fury and turned the corner out of sight.

Mrs Elsie’s fine brain was going hammer and tongs trying to figure the meaning of this extraordinary scene, and this difficult thought process was duly conveyed in a look of helpless confusion upon the poor woman’s face. In contrast with this, Ruth although as equally in the dark as to the meaning of the argument as the cleaner, relaxed her shoulders and some colour returned to her beautiful face. She looked almost relieved.

“Oh my!” cried Mrs Elsie, disturbing Ruth’s frantic thoughts, “I wonder what that was about? A bad business no doubt!”

“Oh, I’m sure it’s nothing to worry about, Elsie, we all know my father can be a little trying at times, Mr Campbell probably just forgot to run some errand or other and father just got a bit prickly about it all. A fuss over nothing, I’m sure,” whispered Ruth, forcing a smile.

“Yes, I’m sure you’re right, of course,” replied Mrs Elsie, giving her most convincing smile.

“Anyway, I shall leave you to get on with your work, we don’t want you to be getting into trouble as well now do we?” said Ruth playfully and, with that final remark, she walked down the hallway on her way to the kitchens. As she went past her father’s study, she glanced in, the door still being open from Campbell’s dramatic exit. Alexander Grimbourne was sitting behind his desk, his hands clasped in front of him, staring straight ahead towards the windows that looked out to the gardens. His mind seemed adrift in an ocean of thought, but the slightest hint of a smile could be seen on his face, a smile that Ruth shuddered at seeing. It was a smile of malicious intent.

‘Poor George,’ thought Ruth as she turned the corner and proceeded away from the study, before her mind returned to other, more pressing matters.

2. POETRY BY THE POND

Said John, ‘Alas the day that I was born!

We’ve earned nowt here but mockery and scorn.

“The Reeve’s Tale”

The Canterbury Tales

Over a week after these events John Grimbourne, only son of Alexander was taking his daily walk through the woods. He moved slowly, limping on his left leg. It was early afternoon, and the sun was falling from its zenith, its rays unhindered by cloud as they made their way onto the green landscape of the Treefall estate. Despite the pleasant sunshine, there was a cool autumn breeze in the air and the grass glistened from morning rain. John had rather sensibly chosen to wear a thick woollen scarf along with a hunting jacket and mud-splashed hiking boots.

Walking quite aimlessly, albeit with his limp, his mind devoted to troubling matters, John approached an old tree stump beside a large pond, a favourite spot of his on the family estate. Deciding to rest his leg, he flung his satchel down on the ground and sat on the stump, gazing at the golden shimmer of the water as it slithered like a snake with the gentle lapping of the tiny waves. After a few minutes of unsatisfactory reflection, he decided to banish unhappy thoughts from his mind for a time and instead do what he loved doing most, in fact the only thing he loved doing: writing poetry. Reaching into his satchel, he produced a leatherbound notepad, which he rested on his lap, and then a flask of tea.

Surveying the scene in front of himself, John opened the flask and took a sip. The tea was strong and milky: a perfect tonic. The escaping steam clouded his glasses momentarily, the sun’s bright rays mingling with the white steam created for John an almost holy vision, like the entrance to heaven. After setting down his flask and allowing the mist to clear, John took a pen from his pocket and opened his notepad. He cast a critical eye over his latest work as he always did and rubbished himself as a poor poet.

The fish in the stream knows no rules,

He only swims against tides to pools,

An easier life I cannot see

Yet would I exchange my life with thee?

Among life’s sorrow there must surely be joy,

But to seek without finding will only annoy,

Where does the fish seek his meaning?

In the reeds, the soil or is he dreaming,

Of walking abreast with four legged creatures

And exploring the hills, trees, and all earth’s features?

Forthright endeavours men want to be found

But what can men do while their hands are bound?

To break the shackles that hold us tight

Takes courage, valour, and a heart to fight,

But the fish in the stream knows no rules,

I wonder if he knows that men are fools.

‘Awful,’ thought John. ‘I doubt Wordsworth would ever have thought to rhyme ‘creatures’ with ‘features’.’

All thoughts of poetry played on his mind: which words he could substitute, the absolute agony of alliteration, the meaning of verse and its subtlety. He considered the construction of his next poem, a poem to rival Kipling… if only.

John knew that poetry must be true, it must wrench the heart, it must suffocate and stifle the reader, it must be for the poet himself and no one else. It is art; heart and soul must go into it otherwise it is worthless no matter how clever or sophisticated it sounds.

With a sigh he threw down his pen and stared intently at the water. A heron pecked among the water lilies at the far side of the pond, its proud neck straining with intent upon the flora. Ducks bobbed up and down on the water’s surface, nonchalant as to where they were and uncaring if there was ever to be a tomorrow.

‘Oh, to live a life like thee,’ John thought, and a sad smile passed over his lips. Bravely, he took up his pen again and wiped the mud from it on his jacket sleeve. Looking at the heron, he thought about its majesty, its ancestral link to a bygone age where feathered reptiles would roam the sky without fear of bow or gun, where predators bigger than elephants would stalk the lands in a prehistoric age, where game was fair, and fair was game. ‘Still,’ thought John, ‘love didn’t exist before animals’ blood became warm, even if life was much simpler.’

Sitting on a tree stump in the open-air contemplating nature, God, demons and dragons, John was as far away from present as could be. He did not hear the man behind him approaching, nor, for that matter would he have wanted to, given his desire for solitude.

John liked the noiselessness of his surroundings, being able to breathe freely and deep, to think without limitation or constraint, to mourn without interruption. A nervous cough disturbed his dreaming like a twig snapping in the forest. John turned abruptly, his startled face breaking into a half smile when he looked into the face of his sister’s betrothed.

Frederick Taylor offered John a sheepish smile, his hands resting on a fine walking stick. His initials were inlaid with gold on an embedded crest, and a short, cut deer antler formed the handle. He seemed embarrassed, no doubt acknowledging the fact that his appearance was uninvited yet feeling it would be rude to pass his future brother-in-law without presenting himself lest his presence should be noticed. Freddie lived on the adjoining estate, though his rambles rarely took him over the Treefall land.

“John, I was just passing, I didn’t expect to see you. How is the poetry going?” said Freddie with half an eye on the weathered pages of the notepad. It was now John’s turn to be sheepish.

“Oh well, I don’t know if one could call it poetry, sometimes it is simply good to get out into the air and jot down a few things, you know? Whatever comes to mind.”

“Excellent. And what is coming to mind today? Or is it bad form to ask?”

“Well Freddie, I was just thinking about the nature of things, you know, the scope in which we animals live. I was looking at that heron by the reeds and was thinking of the laws of his life and ours, the rules by which we must abide.”

“Interesting, but surely one cannot compare an animal to a human? After all a heron does not live by any rules, it has no one to govern it.”

“But it lives by the rules of nature, the rules of nature dictate its life’s intent, to live and breathe and procreate, to sustain its species for future generations to come. It is true what you say, a heron cannot break the law, for there is no law which it has sworn to uphold, but it is tied to the law of nature whether it likes it or not, much like ourselves.”

“I doubt very much whether it likes it or dislikes it. It is a heron and is a simple creature,” replied Freddie.

“I do not doubt that you are right in what you say, and I don’t wish to argue the point, it only makes me wonder why we are so different. Human beings I mean. Why are we specially chosen to have intelligence when other animals are not? Can men not be fools too?”

“Animals are not fools but they are not wise either, they are what they are,” replied Freddie. “It is a human’s curse to behave wisely or foolishly and to not know the punishment (if there is one) or reward (if there is one) of their actions until the day has come. Or so I believe,” said Frederick solemnly. John, struck by the sincerity of the words just heard nodded in comprehension.

“You missed the war, didn’t you?” continued Freddie.

“Yes. Damned leg. Since birth, don’t you know.”

“Yes, I believe your father mentioned that.”

“He’s not likely to ever forget it. The shame of having a cripple for a son.” John replied, his voice thick with bitterness. “I tried to join up and do my bit of course but the War Office wasn’t having any of it.”

“Perhaps for the best. An awful time. It is hard to know what is just and what is not sometimes in war,” stated Freddie, looking at the mud around his feet.

“So, do you believe that animals are just, Freddie?” said John resuming the earlier thread of conversation.

“Animals are just in their own nature but should not be compared with a man’s nature. A dog may share the same hereditary genes as a wolf, but a dog will rarely attack a child as a wolf might, although they share common ancestry.”

“But a human may attack another human, or animal for that matter, whether provoked or unprovoked,” John replied after taking another sip of tea.

“Yes of course, we are our own masters in that regard.” said Freddie.

“Yes, that is the key which is what makes us so different. If a fox slaughters a coop full of chickens, it has no conception that is a wrong thing to do because it has no moral meter and will not be judged by a higher power. Humans on the other hand know that murder is wrong yet sometimes do it anyway because not all humans believe in a higher power, and so believe the only punishment they will receive is through the courts. If they are caught that is.”

“Ha, and if you committed murder do you think you would be caught, John?” laughed Freddie.

“Oh no of course not, not unless I had to run away quickly from the scene of the crime,” answered John self-mockingly, joining in with Freddie’s laughter.