Posts Tagged ‘mystery’

A Case For Sherlock Holmes?

January 12, 2012

Geoffrey’s glasses:
The mystery of the missing lens.

Today I called at the nursing home to see Geoffrey. I was told that the day before had been his 89th birthday. I was also told that he was quite bright today. Recalling how sprightly he seemed the week before I was looking forward to meeting him again. But when I reached the lounge where he sits, I found him to be quite tired. It was difficult to communicate. He also had a problem hearing what I said. Not surprising really. A lady in the room was making loud noises as though in distress — she seemed to be taking her shoes off and then struggling to get them back on. A cleaner was at work with mop and vacuum cleaner removing the dinner debris from the tables and floor. Some residents were moving around and muttering in their own distinctive way. The radio then began making loud music. I thought it better not to stay long as Geoffrey tended to start shouting at the others out of frustration at not being able to hear my words. And when he did, he had problems comprehending what I said. However, he did agree to have his photograph taken. Unfortunately he was not spruced up this week but rather the opposite — he was wearing a loose pink jersey. Even so, I think the photograph has turned out quite well in the circumstances.
Geoffrey was sitting at a table with a lady resident. I offered her one of the jelly babies I had taken for Geoffrey. She bit its head off and passed it back. I assured her it was okay to eat it and so she put it back in her mouth. All this time she had been fiddling with her glasses. I feel sure she had removed one of the lenses and was trying to get it back. She pushed the glasses away and started sucking on something. I concentrated on Geoffrey. When I looked across the table I saw the loose lens had disappeared. I looked on the floor and around the area. An assistant was near and I told her that the lens was missing. She told me they were Geoffrey’s glasses. Had he been given a new pair? She said they would find the missing lens and then got on with her work. I looked at Geoffrey’s companion. She was still sucking something. She passed me bits that she had previously chewed. Another assistant came near and I told her about Geoffrey’s glasses. She started looking all around for the missing lens.
“Do you think she is sucking it?” I asked.
“No, surely not.”
She asked the chewing lady what she was sucking, but she just ignored the question. So the assistant stuck her little finger in the woman’s mouth to feel what was in it. A bit of wriggling with the finger produced the missing lens! Glasses and lens were taken away to be washed and mended.
I thought it better to go and leave Geoff to have a nap. Poor chap, it had been a noisy room to have a conversation and most of what he said reflected his worries that he was doing nothing when he thought he should be doing something useful. Conducting a service? Gone are those days. So sad. Before I went today, I had looked him up on the Internet again. I found his name on a number of articles published in a prestigious journal. I recalled some sketches I had done for him years ago — they were to illustrate an article he had done for one of his journals. We often worked together conducting services too.
I kissed his forehead and said goodbye. Maybe my next visit will be more like the one I had last week? I hope so. My word, the people who work in that place are angels! I doubt I could cope.

Geoffrey — now 89!

The Seeds of Ammon — short story by G B Hobson

June 20, 2011

The Seeds of Ammon came in the night from the deserts of Egypt, borne on air currents to fall on the meadows of the Vale of Eden. Even as the spores of a Lycoperdales-type plant — secretly grown in the Oracle Temple of Ammon at Siwah — were breathed in, so the people of the Vale began to prophesy.

Martha Langton, watched her neighbouring farmer, Jake Wood, mount the few crumbling steps of the ancient monument set in the centre of Eden’s Market Square. She noted an unnatural brightness to his pale blue eyes, which went well with his long silver hair flowing from both scalp and chin. He may be old and bent, his clothes old and shabby, but to her he would always be a giant among men. She felt, as much as saw, Jake unbend his painful arthritic joints to stand his full six feet of height. Trembling with an inner urge to join him, Martha waited in awed silence as Jake began to speak.

“Listen, all you blessed with hearing.”

A few people nearby glanced up but the pull of the market with its offerings of fruit and vegetables, bread and cakes, local cheeses, fresh fish, bags and trinkets, shoes and socks, women’s clothes, scarves and hats, sweets and books, had too great a hold. Stallholders continued to shout out their wares above a cacophony of voices. Martha knew that money burned in pockets as beckoning aromas wafted under noses, and paint-box colours caught the eye. Shoppers had come to shop and gossip, and they had no time to listen to a croaking old man. Something had to be done to make them listen.

Martha drew in her breath then let forth an unholy wail that reverberated on nearby pots and pans. A shocked silence fell over the area as though a banshee had suddenly arrived to presage doom on all present. Even Jake straightened his back and became more alert.

“Listen, all you blessed with hearing.” No croaking now. Jake’s voice demanded attention. “Hear me and be warned. On the morning of Monday next, a mighty storm will blow through Eden. Did you hear that? A storm like no other witnessed in these parts. Crops ravaged… buildings shattered. A great swell will sweep the river into the town… homes flooded… lives lost.” Seemingly exhausted, Jake sat down on the steps.

The Saturday shoppers now appeared compelled to stand and wait for more. Then someone shouted, “He’s off his bloody rocker.” The ensuing laughter broke the tension.

Fools! When will people learn to listen to ancient wisdom? Martha said to herself. Science thinks it knows it all. Compared to Wisdom springing from the Other, science is fragile and incomplete. The Oracle of Ammon has spoken, and all things shall come to pass. Her skinny body may be no more than a coat-hanger displaying a faded flowered dress, but she was not prepared to listen to the raucous remarks and be silent. Feeling a sudden surge of strength, she pushed aside shoppers and made her way to the centre of the deriding crowd surrounding the ancient Celtic monument. Standing at the top of the steps, the whole of her senses became acutely alive, overpowering her in an aura of contrasting smells and incandescent colours. Suddenly, she felt overflowing with an energy never before experienced. She could see and feel what lay ahead. Above all she could smell fear and death. Surely nothing could stop her from speaking what must be said. That morning, when she left her cottage to catch the hourly bus to town, she knew the Seeds of Ammon had penetrated her mind imbuing her with a sixth sense. If they had not, how would she know about the seeds and from whence they had come? Yes, knowing and her acceptance, gave her power beyond earthly reasoning. She had no doubt whatsoever that the words about to leave her mouth were those of the Oracle of Ammon. But first must be silence. She repeated the mournful wail.

The laughter ceased. She was aware of how she looked to others: a mere five feet tall bag of bones with hardly any hair to blow in the soft breeze. Wrinkles, like a contour map, greeted her every morning in the mirror. The curious eyes of bystanders may silently stare at her, but she could see lips ready to crack into laughter at any moment.

“You are foolish — everyone of you — not to heed Jake’s warning,” she began. “The believers at the far end of our valley are at this moment moving their sheep and cattle to safety. They know and understand. That is why they are not here today. I warn you all… those with houses by streams and rivers return to your homes and prepare for the flood. You with animals in rotting buildings, move them to stone barns or to the south side of hills. The wind will come from the north but it will whirl and move in funnels… the sky will open and streams will become torrents… rivers will break their banks. Protect your children. Take what you can and drive many miles away. Hear me… nothing is safe…. The Oracle of Ammon has spoken.” She closed her eyes as a deep sigh put an end to her message.

Opening her eyes again Martha saw the faces in front of her had turned rigid with fear. Then, breaking the silence, a stallholder started to laugh. The shocked moment now shattered, men, women and children howled with mirth.

“Oracle of Ammon? Who’s ’e when ’e’s at ’ome?” yelled a customer at the fish stall, holding up a piece of haddock. “Sounds a bit fishy to me.” More bellowing laughter.

“Aye, a right load of codswallop,” said the red-cheeked fishmonger, as he wrapped up his customer’s purchase.

Soon shouts and whoops accompanied puns and laughter. Angrily, Martha grabbed the arm of a small, thin girl and dragged her up the few steps. “If will not listen to either me or Jake, then hear the words of an innocent child,” Martha yelled, her lightning shriek now rolling with thunder.

Silence fell over the whole area. To Martha’s satisfaction, more people approached the Celtic cross as though drawn by a compelling force. Dressed in a plain pink dress, the slim girl — a little over four feet in height, huge vacant violet eyes, long straight blonde hair surrounding a thin pale face with small nose — stood with statue stillness. When she opened her small mouth, out came a flutelike voice:

“Look to the sky. What do you see?” She pointed a slim finger upwards and the eyes of all those present followed her gaze. “Clouds, soft and puffy in a perfect blue sky. But a mighty wind will come… darkness will cover this land. The sky will be ripped open… a child of death will be born. Rain will fall in mighty sheets… streams become rivers. Rivers burst their banks… the land will be as the sea.” Her expressionless face turned as her eyes swept the crowd. “The Oracle of Ammon has spoken.” The girl collapsed. Martha caught her in her arms.

“Be warned. Go home and prepare,” Martha called to the crowd. Sitting on the steps she cradled the child’s head and shoulders, whispering, “Blessed of Ammon, rest and be strong.”

Martha watched as people gradually recovered from their mesmerised state. Some were moving towards the car park, others towards the bus stop. A few stood looking at the stalls as though wondering what to do next.

“Go home,” she yelled at them, waving an arm, but they still walked around like zombies. Most of the stallholders were packing up. Others, who had travelled some distance from their stores in major towns, were shaking their heads in disbelief.

Monday morning dawned as previous days, but no bird sang. By eight o’clock a chill wind had sprung up from the north and dark clouds loomed overhead. Within an hour, darkness had fallen over the Vale of Eden. The wind grew stronger and soon tornados were moving down the valleys carrying upwards anything that lay in their paths. Lightning flashed in crooked forks of brilliance against the blackening sky. Suddenly a jagged knife split apart the darkened heavens and released rain such as never before experienced in that part of the country.

Martha stood at the top of a hill, half-sheltered by a cave. Jake, the child, and the child’s family were with her. Rain joined the tears streaming down her face. “We warned them, but the truth lay at their doors begging to enter. They heard the message but they preferred the false security of weather forecasts. We are not to blame. We played our part. Those who received the Seeds of Ammon are safe, the others… ah… if only… if only….”

Hardly able to see through the rain, she could only imagine what was happening in Eden. It would be as the Oracle warned. Uprooting and flooding, death and destruction. Over the years it had happened in other places, now it had come to Eden.

Anger followed the death of Eden. Who was to blame for the terrible destruction? Forty-five dead, over two hundred injured, few houses left intact, Farm outbuildings shattered and blown away, with only stone barns left standing and even those damaged. Animals killed, crops destroyed, fields and homes under water. Never before had Eden been so ravaged by nature. But the blocking of the spillway of the old Eden Mill’s earth dam had made the situation even worse. The subsequent bursting of the overfilled dam caused an even greater surge of water — thick with mud — through the streets of Eden. Only Upper Eden had been spared the carnage experienced by the lower regions and the town.

Martha heard the mutterings and saw the looks that came her way. Many years ago, a scapegoat would be found to resolve anger over failed crops, plagues and other community disasters. The pain and anger felt by Eden’s inhabitants could not be denied. She had warned them. They had not heeded. Unable to accept responsibility for their lack of action, Martha knew who would be accused. As for the blockage, it was surely obvious what had caused that. But the people wanted someone to blame for their own lack of foresight in dealing with potential disasters. The dam would not have stopped the massive surge of water racing down the hills to the valleys and on to the town, but it would have prevented the tons of water stored there from increasing the swell. Who had benefited? Clearly, no one, But fingers were being pointed and the hatred became only too tangible.

All those gifted with the Seeds of Ammon sensed danger ahead. But their powers appeared to be fading. They were far from the oasis at Siwah, far from where the Oracle’s temple kept alive the cult and nurtured the soothsayers. Fear made them vulnerable. Martha knew it but was powerless to do anything about it. Only the child appeared to be fully under the Oracle’s influence. Her eyes still staring, her body still.

Ronald Pickman had lost everything but his wife, family, car and caravan, in the flood. His shop had been utterly destroyed, and with it his business. His insurance had run out and, instead of renewing it straight away, he’d taken his wife and family to the Costa del Sol. He knew all about the Oracle business and saw it as some sort of hocus pocus to hide what was really going on.

“That damn woman’s been against my store ever since it opened. She petitioned against late hours to sell alcohol. And supported the Olde Tearoom against us taking over their premises. This is a personal vendetta.”

“Don’t you think you’re taking this too personally?” said his wife Hilda. “We’re not the only ones suffering.” She looked around the caravan they had just returned from Spain. “We’re lucky to still have this, and our lives.”

“Yes, and just the clothes we stand up in! Okay, she may not be responsible for the rain, but she lives near enough to the dam to see it was blocked. Maybe she and her buddies blocked it. Oracle of Ammon? Huh, anything to get in the papers. She’ll be on TV next… warning everyone of the end of the world. She’s a menace to society. She wants stopping.”

“I’m going out,” said Hilda. “Our store may be a write-off but Lily’s tearoom can be salvaged. I’ll give her a hand.”

“What? Over my dead body!”

“If necessary,” Hilda said, and, slipping on muddy wellingtons and a plastic cape, she walked out.

In the stone barn of her smallholding, Martha gathered together those who had been blessed with the Seeds of Ammon. She sensed something terrible was about to happen. “In the town there is much agitation, we must be on our guard.”

“Why don’t we go to the police?” asked Jake, looking even frailer.

“And say what? That people in the town are planning to harm us? Actually, the vibes come from one man in particular. Watch out for Ronald Pickman. His hatred flows in an aura so strong it is visible to my eyes.”

“And mine,” said a small piping voice.

Martha looked at the thin child who’d stood with her at the Celtic cross. “Anna, you must keep out of that man’s sight. He is dangerous.”

“Yes, I know. He’s a bad man. But he doesn’t frighten me.”

“Nor me,” said Jake. “What can he do to an old man who is ready for death? But Anna must be protected. People are afraid of her.”

“I don’t need protecting,” Anna said vehemently. “Ammon will shield me.”

“Faith is a fine thing, but we must be cautious.” Martha did not want to subdue a child’s faith, nor an old man’s certainty, but neither did she want to see harm come to those who had spoken at the cross. The Oracle had faded within her but maybe in the child, Ammon was still strong. “I have said enough. You have all been warned.”

Rain had ceased, when darkness fell over the drowned town of Eden, Ronald Pickman slipped on his black Burberry coat that always travelled with him, and crept out of his caravan. He rummaged inside the boot of his car, grinning at his thoughts. At least he’d driven his Jaguar away before the flood arrived. What’s more it looked like he would be getting a new one to replace it. Anger overpowering all sense of moral restraint, Pickman carefully made his way to Martha’s place. He unscrewed the cap of a can and poured petrol through the letterbox and over both front and back doors. He then smashed a window by the front door and threw the half-empty can inside, the contents spilling over furniture and carpet. He stood well back and took out his lighter.

The voice of Hilda sounded just behind him. “What on earth are you doing, Ron?”

Shocked, he turned around, dropping the lighter. A line of flame ran to the house and licked its way through the window. The can blew up. Ron staggered backwards. Hilda screamed — burning debris had set her hair alight.

From nowhere, the child appeared before them. She pointed to Hilda. Mesmerised, Pickman stood back as the flames on his wife’s hair vanished. The child then pointed to a sandbag by the front door. The bag split open, Sand poured out and followed the line of the child’s pointing finger to inside the cottage. As flames disappeared, Martha and Jake arrived with buckets. Neither showed signs of surprise.

Pickman grabbed his wife’s hand and they disappeared into the night.

Martha wrote down the bizarre happenings that had taken place in the Vale of Eden. The evening of the fire, she had been consulting with Jake when they each received a premonition of events at her cottage. Pickman had been arrested and lost his wife as well as his freedom. Hilda had been more than willing to testify. The part Anna played was kept out of it. Who would believe it anyway? Few newspapers mentioned the prophetic warnings. They had enough of horrors and dramatic rescues to report than to dabble in speculative events. The two pensioners could well be senile, even if they did assist in putting out the fire. They did not seem able to predict the time of the next bus, never mind a storm. As for the child, sure she looked odd with those big eyes, thin body and pale skin, but, saying nothing, she seemed as dim as she looked.

Wisdom came to Anna as her psychokinetic powers strengthened. Prophesying could wait. In her mind she could see the dawn of Armageddon. Her powers would be needed. In ten years she intended to travel to Egypt and draw on the power of the Oracle of Siwah. For now, she would be the quiet schoolgirl. Even so, Anna could not resist an occasional use of her psychokinetic powers. But those are stories to be told later.

Into The Blast

March 23, 2011

Into The Blast

Not a novel but a rather novel detective story! An intriguing pageturner that can only be compared with those modern writers who delve into history seeking answers to unsolved crimes. Only with this one, most people who knew the dead suspect were still alive to be interviewed.

Writer, Robert Blevins turns detective, and works alongside Skipp Porteous, of Sherlock Investigations.  The dynamic duo put forward what appears to be the final solution to one of the greatest unsolved mysteries of all time — the D B Cooper hijacking of an airliner in 1971 for a $200,000 ransom. We are taken step by step into this intriguing crime. Intriguing, partly because no violence ensued and the man whom Blevins and Porteous puts the finger on, was a kindly person who apparently was a bit of a Samaritan.

This mystery of ‘who was the hijacker D B Cooper?’ now appears to be solved, although the writers accept there can be no absolute certainty.  Even so, following the investigations recoded in this book, Kenneth Christianson appears to be the most likely person.

It becomes clear to the reader that the FBI were totally negligent in their failure to investigate the airline staff. One of the staff was Kenny Christianson, employed as a purser.  This man had received parachute training in the army. He knew everything necessary  for jumping from a plane. And later, he had acquired money from other sources than his low income.

The one big negative in the writing of this book is the failure to wait for the results of a chemical test on the ‘hiding place’ found in the loft of Christianson’s original house before producing the book. The test had been organised during the making of a TV programme  in 2010 concerning the hijacking event. Will the results be published in a future edition?

With or without the test result, a jolly good read, especially for those who enjoy thorough step by step investigations into unsolved mysteries. Lots of photographs too.

Into The Blast — click here, not just for ordering but to find out much more about the writing of book, and it is also possible to hear Blevins being interviewed. Wow, that should get mystery fans reading!

The book is well edited by the author Geoff Nelder.

Still Waters Run Deep, tales of hidden depths

November 20, 2008

COMING SOON!

At last my new book is not only at the the printers, but today we approved the proofs!

Hopefully we will get the books ready for a December launch. At £5.99 it could be a nice little stocking filler, and just the thing to pick up during the long Christmas holiday and read one of the short stories. There is a story to suit every mood. 

 

The tales have Cumbrian settings, although some are imaginary even if based on actual places. Mystery and imagination: humour and horror, love and hate, joy and sorrow, poignancy and lust. Passions run deep wherever you live, and characters may be recognised as someone you know even though they are plucked from my imagination, which has been nurtured by a lifetime of observation of human characteristics — especially those little foibles seldom admitted to.

Each tale has an introduction as to what inspired the story to be written.

Visit Magpies Nest Publishing for all my books

Still Waters Run Deep

October 29, 2008
Still Waters Run Deep

Still Waters Run Deep

“Still Waters Run Deep, and other tales of mystery and passion”

This is my latest cover idea (wrap-around) for my new book of short stories. Title in the clouds and author across the landing stage. Now to consider the book’s retail price!

Bassenthwaite/Keswick area comes into two stories but most of the settings are further South of Cumbria. The stories have an interesting mix of love and passion, light and dark humour. Any thoughts about the cover or better suggestions would be welcome!

See Magpies Nest Publishing for ALL Gladys Hobson’s books. Read the first chapters and reviews. Four of my novels now to be published by Turquoise Morning Press. The Dark Mirror now to be published by Storm Moon Press. All in the name of G B Hobson.

Another of Michael Allen’s detective stories

February 11, 2008

Spence At Marlby Manor by Michael Allen

 Another of Allen’s excellent stories with Detective Chief Superintendent Ben Spence in the leading role. Anyone preferring a contemporary yarn with a detective’s tangled personal life as a main feature must look elsewhere, this is a true classical whodunit with enough suspense and memorable characters to engage the reader without distracting additions.

 

 An ageing Lady of the Manor, her companion and staff, her doctor, plus relatives eager to grasp her money, all play their part in a classical theme of accidents, suspicion, and finally — murder. Clues that lead even the detectives astray, well described colourful characters that turn the reader’s attention one way and then another, keep up the tension right to the last page.