Betty Church and the Suffolk Vampire by M. R. C. Kasasian

Author:M. R. C. Kasasian [Kasasian, M. R. C.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781784978129
Publisher: Head of Zeus
Published: 2018-07-11T22:00:00+00:00

57

THE DESTRUCTION OF LININGS

The day after Sharkey set off on his adventure we were joined by identical twins, Constables Algernon and Lysander Grinder-Snipe – ungracefully tall and skinny with gangling legs and dangling arms, unpolished sapphire eyes and floppy long yellow hair, like badly painted poster boys for the Hitler Youth.

‘How will I tell you apart?’ I asked.

‘We ’ave different names,’ one explained.

‘I’m Lysander and I don’t like being called Sandy,’ the one I was going to call Sandy, whether he liked it or not, introduced himself.

‘I’m Algernon and I don’t like being called Algy,’ the one I was going to call Algy, whether he liked it or not, introduced himself.

Their accents did not quite match the gentility of their names.

‘Where are you from?’ I found their letters of transference on my desk.

‘Lancashire, ma’am,’ they chorused and, being from the north, they correctly pronounced it mam rather than marm but made it sound like I was their mother.

‘Whereabouts in Lancashire?’ I pressed.

‘Parbold, mam,’ they chorused.

‘A small village,’ Sandy explained.

‘Near Wigan,’ Algy clarified.

‘Born—’ Sandy began.

‘And bred,’ Algy completed.

‘Oh I have been to Parbold,’ I remembered happily. Aunty M had been raised in the Grange, on the top of Parbold Hill, and I had enjoyed some lovely holidays there. ‘You must know of March Middleton.’

The twins looked at each other in alarm.

‘Must weh?’ Sandy asked.

‘Nobody told us we ’ad to,’ Algy protested.

‘Ohhh dear,’ they chorused.

‘No, I meant that you probably have.’

‘Phew.’ They wiped their brows in exaggerated relief.

‘We ’aven’t ’eard of ’er,’ Sandy confessed.

‘At all,’ Algy confirmed.

I was surprised because it was a small village and my godmother was the only famous person to come from it, except for Joshua Beetle who invented a device for putting the stones back into olives but lost his fortune manufacturing it.

I tried again. ‘Is the Stocks Tavern still open?’

They looked at their watches.

‘Not at this time,’ Sandy told me.

‘Of day,’ his twin contributed.

They stood to attention, shoulders thrown so far back in an effort to puff out their puffed in chests that they were leaning slightly backwards.

‘At ease,’ I said and they flopped, arms hanging loosely, backs bent, heads lolling.

‘So what brings you to Suffolk?’ I tried and they exchanged we’ve-got-a-right-one-here looks.

‘Nothing brings uz ’ere, mam,’ said the one I was almost sure was Sandy – for they had taken my at ease as an invitation to shuffle about while I was looking through their paperwork.

‘We’re already ’ere,’ the one who was probably Algy explained, because Sandy seemed to be the one who always spoke first.

I gave up and announced, ‘We’ll put you on patrol together to start with.’

‘Huzzah,’ they cried with peculiarly emphasised ‘h’s.

I battled on. ‘Constable Walker can show you the route, then you can take over the seafront beat.’ I felt a bit guilty giving them that. Nobody liked it but somebody had to do it. Even in the summer the promenade could be windswept. In the winter it was lashed by gales straight from Siberia, bringing whatever little treats their climate had to offer.

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