Let's Kill Uncle Read online

  His hand hovered over Barnaby’s head as he took a deep breath.

  ‘Now you get this straight! Any more of your didoes and you’ll be off this island so quick it’ll make your head swim.’

  ‘Me?’ Barnaby’s face was innocent. ‘Where’ll you send me? Nobody but the Brookses wants me.’

  That, Sergeant Coulter realised, was unfortunately only too true.

  ‘There are things called reform schools, Barnaby. You just keep on at the rate you’re going and you’ll end up in one. Why did you swear at her? All she said was that they were going to write your uncle that you were a good boy. And what did I tell you about swearing?’

  The boy shrugged. ‘I forgot.’

  ‘Why did you break all those windows? Why did you paint the Iron Duke? What gets into you, anyhow? Why do you do these things?’

  ‘She told me to - Christie. It’s her fault.’

  ‘Yes, it’s always Christie’s fault, isn’t it? I suppose if she told you to jump off the wharf you would. Barnaby, you’re not even trying to be good.’

  Barnaby backed away from him.

  ‘I try but I can’t.’

  ‘No you don’t.’

  ‘But I do, Sergeant. Only I can’t.’

  ‘Why not?’ Hands on hips, Sergeant Coulter leaned over the child.

  ‘You wouldn’t understand.’

  The muscles of Sergeant Coulter’s jaws tightened ominously.

  ‘Don’t tell me what I can understand. Why can’t you be good?’

  ‘My uncle likes me the way I am.’ Barnaby’s face had a guarded look.

  Sergeant Coulter straightened up.

  ‘I’ve had enough of your lying. As a matter of fact I’ve had quite enough of you. To date I’ve found you telling the truth exactly once. It’s always somebody else’s fault, isn’t it? Don’t give me any more of this nonsense.’

  Barnaby mumbled something and raised his hands, palms up.

  ‘What did you say?’

  Barnaby kicked his toes in the gravel.

  ‘I said I told you you wouldn’t understand,’ he replied in a loud, clear voice.

  Sergeant Coulter swallowed and said nothing for a few seconds, then his face relaxed.

  ‘Try a bit harder, Barnaby.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘Yes, sir!’ snapped Sergeant Coulter.

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Christie came bouncing toward them.

  ‘Where have you been?’ she asked Barnaby. ‘I’ve been looking all over for you.’

  She turned to Sergeant Coulter.

  ‘Isn’t he awful, Sergeant? Isn’t he just awful? Agnes Duncan told me what he did. You’re going to get it, Barnaby Gaunt!’

  ‘Maybe he isn’t the only one,’ said Sergeant Coulter. ‘He says you told him to do it.’

  That was a great big fib and Barnaby was a liar, said Christie righteously. All she said was she bet Barnaby was afraid of the bull and he said he wasn’t. And then she said that she bet the Iron Duke would look funny with blue spots, and she bet Barnaby was afraid to paint them on him and he said he wasn’t.

  And what about Lady Syddyns’s greenhouse? Had she or had she not told Barnaby it would be fun to chuck some rocks at it?

  Yes, she had said that. But she sure would never of gone and done that. Would her mother ever get after her if she did anything as bad as that!

  Sergeant Coulter stared down at them.

  ‘I’m warning you both. Any more nonsense and you’ll be sorry. I mean it.’

  As the children stood at the foot of the war monument watching the impressive figure disappear, their eyes were soft.

  Suddenly Barnaby ran after the policeman.

  ‘Sergeant Coulter!’

  Albert stopped and turned.

  ‘I’d jump off the wharf if you told me to.’

  Sergeant Coulter gazed at the upturned face without emotion.

  ‘That won’t be necessary, Barnaby. Just try and behave for a change. And stop lying.’

  He took two more paces.

  ‘Yes, sir!’ shouted Barnaby.

  Sergeant Coulter wheeled as though he were on a parade ground.

  But the child was not mocking him.

  THE PAINT REMOVER had scarcely dried on the Iron Duke’s coat when Sergeant Coulter received a summons from the crankiest spinster on the Island.

  Murder had been done.

  Albert glanced nervously at the twisted grey peach tree which was still latticed against the southern wall of Miss Proudfoot’s house.

  The little stinkers would pick on her. She spelled one word, and one word only to Albert. Trouble.

  During his own boyhood she had caught him with the telltale juice of her stolen fruit still trickling down his chin. After caning him mercilessly, she marched him, like a Crusader with a captive Turk, to his father, who repeated the thrashing.

  Albert the man stood now, notebook in hand, towering over his ancient enemy as he recorded the details of the crime.

  That morning, said Miss Proudfoot, she had put Fletcher out for his usual airing. She noticed nothing untoward at the time, as she placed him in the shade of her lilac bush.

  Grotesque tears rolled down her leathery cheeks as she spoke. It was like seeing a lizard weep, and Albert was both awed and embarrassed.

  After leaving Fletcher, she sobbed, she could hear him chattering, but as he always did that when he heard the birds singing in the garden, she thought nothing of it.

  About ten minutes later, she heard other voices and decided to investigate.

  Fletcher was gone, and that dreadful boy from the store was running down her garden path. Beyond him she saw the goat-lady’s girl.

  She chased them but had been unable to overtake them. A half hour later, having dressed herself suitably to go to the store and complain to Mr Brooks, she opened her door and found Fletcher on her doorstep. Dead.

  Sergeant Coulter leaned down and picked up the ouncelight body of Fletcher. Even in death the eyes were glazed with fright, and the poor little feet with claws like cobwebs clutched for an absent perch.

  He examined the bird carefully as it lay on the palm of his hand. Fletcher’s feathers were ruffled, but there was no blood on him. The pathetic little beak was still open as if he had died with a shriek of terror on his lips.

  Sergeant Coulter nodded in sympathy to Miss Proud foot as he assured her he would investigate the matter imme diately.

  There would be another meeting at the store tomorrow, and in the meanwhile he would call on the goat-lady.

  As he bade Miss Proudfoot good day, his face was sterner than usual. They had apparently outgrown their usual vandal pattern of behavior. This bore the sinister taint of sadism.

  Christie, opening the door to his knock, took a quick look at the beloved Mountie and guiltily claimed sanctuary in her loft.

  ‘Come in, come in,’ said the goat-lady, her broad face amiable. ‘Have some coffee.’

  ‘I’m afraid this isn’t a social call.’ His eyes roamed around the bright kitchen as he seated himself at the table. The goat-lady’s little house was the only one on the Island in which he felt comfortable. As he explained his mission and sipped his coffee, he saw a bright grey eye peeping down at him.

  This time, he said, they had gone too far. They had killed Miss Proudfoot’s pet, a little bird. It went beyond the realm of childish pranks.

  The goat-lady beheaded her own chickens with heartless efficiency and privately thought there was something odd about elderly ladies who made pets of small inedible birds. However, she gave a sage nod, apparently in agreement, and she sighed philosophically as she remarked that children would be children.

  The changeling face peering from the attic disappeared.

  ‘Christie,’ called the goat-lady, ‘the policeman wants to talk to you. You come down.’

  ‘No,’ said Christie MacNab.

  ‘Christie,’ called the goat-lady, ‘it’s about Miss Proudfoot’s budgie. What do you know about it?’r />
  The head appeared at the top of the ladder again.

  ‘Barnaby did it,’ said his loyal little friend, without hesitation.

  ‘Christie,’ said Sergeant Coulter, ‘I want to talk to you. You come down.’

  ‘No,’ said Christie, disappearing once more.

  ‘Christie,’ said the goat-lady again, ‘you come down.’

  ‘No,’ replied a tremulous voice muffled by bedclothes, ‘you come up.’

  The goat-lady sat rocking and knitting.

  ‘Looks like she’s not coming down,’ she said. ‘Unless you want to go up and get her. More coffee?’

  The dignified Mountie had no intention of dragging a screaming child bodily down the ladder.

  He was getting in touch with Mr Rice-Hope again, he said, and another meeting was to be held in the store the following afternoon to discuss the children. Would she come?

  Yes, of course she would.

  Well, thank God there was one sensible, level-headed person on the Island.

  ‘Now I’ll have another coffee,’ he said. ‘This is the only place on the Island you can get a decent cup.’

  When he rose to leave, he called up to the loft.

  ‘Listen, young lady, you and your friend’s shenanigan days are just about over. Do you hear me?’

  There was no answer.

  ‘Well, thanks for the coffee.’ He carefully stepped over the tomcat on the porch and paused to pat old Shep’s head.

  The goat-lady stood in the doorway, her arms folded across her pillow-sized bosom, and an expression of tolerant amusement on her face.

  Without turning, she called, ‘You can come down now.’

  ‘Has he gone?’ came the piping voice from the attic.

  ‘No, I haven’t,’ said Sergeant Coulter.

  The old dog thrust his cool black nose into Albert’s palm and tossed his head, begging for a caress. As Albert leaned down to him, there was a flurry in the doorway and a needle-toothed little bundle of rage flashed past the goat-lady.

  The old dog took one look at Trixie and fled with his tail between his legs. Albert glared at the little dog and pushed it back into the house with the toe of his boot.

  The tomcat, one foot poised heavenward like a ballet dancer as he groomed his bottom, paused with detached elegance, then calmly proceeded with his washing.

  ‘Well,’ Sergeant Coulter straightened up, ‘I’ll see you tomorrow at the store.’

  The goat-lady nodded. He hadn’t gone three feet when she called him.

  ‘Sergeant,’ she said, then paused and looked at him shrewdly, ‘Sergeant, that boy - ’ She stopped again, choosing her words carefully, ‘That boy, he’s not a bad boy.’

  No, thought Sergeant Coulter, just a nice, clean-cut little sadist. He nodded and left her standing in the doorway.

  When he reached the lane, he found Shep waiting, his half-blind, milky eyes pleading for a kind word.

  Albert laughed and pulled the dog’s ear affectionately.

  ‘All right, old man, you can walk home with me.’

  The dog’s hindquarters were shaky from age and rheumatism, but he bounded gamely and happily by Albert’s side.

  As they passed Mr Duncan’s fields, Albert paused, as he always did, to admire the mighty and again spotless Iron Duke. The tethered bull stared back with gloomy hatred, but the two great Clydesdales ambled up to the fence companionably.

  Albert drew back. Despite his shining spurs and beneath the impeccable military exterior, he had a shameful secret. Not only did he not like horses, he detested horses.

  He still remembered his R.C.M.P. training days in Regina, and his instructor, a powerful, bow-legged Prairie Ukrainian.

  ‘You,’ the instructor said without malice, and the bananalike finger tapped Albert’s chest. ‘You. We can get dozens of you. You don’t count. But this horse,’ and his eyes lit up. ‘This horse, he’s important.’

  As was required of him, Albert eventually became a competent horseman, but his heart was never in it.

  Now, he backed away from the two gambolling Clydesdales and continued his walk, with the old dog loyally keeping pace.

  They had nearly reached the path that provided a shortcut across the Island, when Shep suddenly let out a howl of anguish.

  Albert looked down at him in surprise.

  ‘What’s the matter, old-timer?’

  The dog laid back his ears and, baring his blunt teeth, he stiffened and trembled from head to foot. Then, with an even more ear-splitting yelp, he raced back the road toward the goat-lady’s house.

  Albert watched the crippled old croup, with the twisted hocks, charging down the road. Shep’s coat stood on end and his coward’s tail was firmly tucked between his legs.

  Albert shook his head in pity; the dog was senile and afraid of his own shadow. He was probably in pain and he should be destroyed, although Albert hoped he would not be called upon to perform the office.

  He followed the path without turning around again.

  Had he looked back, he would have seen, by the dusty side of the road, a large feline footprint. A print like a plaster cast, with the third pad of the right front paw conspicuously absent.

  MISS PROUDFOOT presided at the meeting. With a regal nod to Lady Syddyns, she barely acknowledged the obeisance of Mr Rice-Hope and completely ignored the goat-lady and the Brookses.

  She sat like an Australian bushranger, with her felt hat cocked aggressively on one side. Even in the heat of summer her sharp-cornered frame was decently attired in a heavy tweed suit, and her feet were encased in stout laced gillies.

  Her father, long deceased, had retired to the Island with the rank of admiral, and her four brothers had been killed in the First World War.

  She eyed Albert with disapproval. All the rest had been called upon to make the supreme sacrifice. Albert had been called upon to allow himself to be taken prisoner. He had clearly shirked his military duty by returning alive from battle, and but for him they would have had a perfect score.

  As Mr Churchill had said, it was blood, sweat and tears, in the fields and on the beaches, and Albert had ruined the Island’s unblemished record. It was inexcusable, a subtle, servant-class form of treason, but there he was, bold as brass, an example of the chaos the lower orders introduced when given too much authority.

  Albert, on his part, squared his hat, his shoulders and jaw. He was determined that the tenets of British justice would be scrupulously observed, despite the whole bloody lot of them.

  Mr Rice-Hope, with a glance at Miss Proudfoot, opened the sessions.

  ‘We are gathered here today - ’ he paused and began searching nervously through his pockets.

  While he fumbled for the slip of paper he had written that morning, telling him why they would be gathered together, Albert closed his eyes.

  Lady Syddyns, seeing the minister’s familiar gesture and imagining herself to be attending either a wedding or a funeral, popped a peppermint in her mouth. With a smile she switched off her hearing aid, folded her hands on her silver-headed cane and dozed.

  ‘Yes, here it is.’ Mr Rice-Hope unfolded the paper. ‘The children. Ah, yes. They have been, I gather, rather mischievous again and there have been some claims to - uh- ’

  He paused and looked at Sergeant Coulter.

  ‘Damage,’ said Sergeant Coulter.

  ‘Yes, damage. And, let me see now, Sergeant Coulter has suggested that we all get together and discuss the - uh- ’

  Again he looked at Albert.

  ‘The most sensible way of dealing with the situation,’ said Albert.

  Miss Proudfoot sniffed combatively.

  Actually, said Albert, most of the damage had been settled. On behalf of Mr Brooks and Mrs Nielsen, he had purchased glass for Lady Syddyns’s greenhouse, and Mr Rice-Hope had very kindly installed it, so that was all cleared up. The affair of the Iron Duke was closed. Mr Duncan had declined to attend the meeting and was prepared to forget the incident, if Mr and Mrs Brooks would a
ssure him that that boy would stay off his property.

  That left only Miss Proudfoot and the question of her bird unsolved.

  ‘Only!’ Miss Proudfoot was on her feet. Fletcher might be dead, murdered, yes, murdered, but she was still very much prepared to enter the field on behalf of his memory.

  With the death-stand courage of saints, Mr Brooks now leaped to his feet. It had been an accident. A regrettable accident, but an accident nevertheless, and she was not imprinting the brand of murderer on that innocent child. He and Mrs Brooks were quite prepared to buy Miss Proudfoot another budgie.

  Sergeant Coulter stood up.

  ‘Just a minute,’ he said. ‘Mr Rice-Hope and I talked the matter over this morning. More than money is involved, Mr Brooks. This sort of vandalism can’t continue.’

  Mr Rice-Hope bravely took the floor.

  He and Sergeant Coulter, after discussing the situation, thought a sensible solution would be for the children to work off the amount of money. Thus penalised, they would think twice before committing any more misdemeanors.

  Sergeant Coulter leaned over and gently shook Lady Syddyns.

  She switched on her hearing aid.

  ‘Do you agree that the children should work off the amount of their indebtedness? Some light jobs, several afternoons a week, to keep them out of mischief?’

  Lady Syddyns nodded.

  ‘Keep them busy, keep them busy. Lovely children. Keep them busy.’

  She switched off her hearing aid.

  Sergeant Coulter touched her shoulder and pointed to his ear.

  Click went the switch and Lady Syddyns was again in contact with the courts.

  Did she have any suggestions?

  Lady Syddyns turned her bemused old face to the ceiling and pondered.

  Yes, she did. The graveyard. Sadly in need of weeding. She used to try to attend to Sir Adrian, but the walk from her house was long, and her roses took up more and more of her time. It was a bad year for aphides, consequently Sir Adrian was overrun with weeds.

  Mr Rice-Hope looked pleased.

  ‘An excellent suggestion, if I may say so, Lady Syddyns.’

  He himself had long been distressed with the condition of the neglected little Island graveyard.

  But now the Brookses objected.