Stories From The Wythall Writers Group

Here are stories from three of our members.

To Whom It May Concern
Alan Ogden

The Old Rectory,
Little Titterton,
N. Gloucestershire

Having recently received intimations of my mortality I have decided to leave for my beneficiaries some details about my past which I could not reveal in my lifetime. My career as a writer of murder mysteries has already been fully explored in my autobiography, but there is an extra facet of my persona which can be revealed now that I too have ‘shuffled off this mortal coil’. This information is revealed without any restriction – do with it what you will!

It must be the ambition of every murder mystery writer to plan the perfect murder and most of us do this in our stories. What is less common is for one of us to carry out such a plan, but this is what I have done most successfully as evinced by my having lived to a ripe old age without my crime being detected.

This is how it happened.

After the runaway success of my first novel in 1935, and its subsequent conversion to a West End play, I was sufficiently well off to be able to set up in my own home in a flat in Oxford. The sale of the film rights to Hollywood meant that I was then able to buy this Rectory just after the War, when prices of houses in the Cotswolds were still at a reasonable level. My home life with my mother, step-brother and step-father had never been happy, my own father having been killed in the First World War. Like many others who made a success of writing, I had a rather lonely and difficult childhood.

I had great fun in furnishing the Old Rectory and was able to indulge my pleasure in antiques.

I was particularly careful to buy a second hand but still serviceable carpet for the main stairs. The fact that it was slightly frayed on the landing could be covered by a small rug. As an indication of my literary pretensions, I bought a large bust of Shakespeare which stood on an oak pedestal at the bottom of the stairs.

I began planning the murder a long time ago, in the 1930’s in fact. My first move was to obtain a birth certificate of a boy slightly older than myself. The boy’s death was reported in the newspaper and he seemed to have very few family members so was ideal for my purpose. The fact that he was dead was no bar to obtaining a birth certificate which was duly supplied by Somerset House. When wartime came I used the certificate to obtain an Identity Card, which was later utilised to obtain a medical card at the inception of the National Health Service. I thus had all the documents necessary to open a bank account.

This boy was to become my ‘husband’, and when I moved into the Old Rectory I began the routine which was to provide the framework of the murder. My ‘husband’ would leave home for business soon after breakfast, and a little while later my secretary and amanuensis would sweep into the drive in her open topped M.G. She would spend the day typing in the study and I would take our large dog for a walk through the village. Susan would leave about 4.30pm and my ‘husband’s’ Rover turned into the drive about 6.00pm.

Little Titterton became used to this routine. The fact that I was all three people was never discovered. I had shaved my head into the pattern of hereditary male baldness, and with a pair of heavy horn-rimmed spectacles and some special shoes to gain height, I became my imaginary husband. We even had matching wedding rings. In this garb I bore more than a passing resemblance to my step-brother. Fortunately I always had a rather boyish figure.

Each day I would drive ‘his’ car to Cheltenham, a matter of a few miles, where I had bought a flat with a garage in an exclusive residential area. I would enter the flat as a man and emerge a few minutes later as Susan Smith, my secretary, wearing a blonde wig, headscarf and sunglasses to drive the M.G. to Little Titterton. I turned quite a few heads in this manifestation I was pleased to note.

Entering the Old Rectory I would put a number of long-playing records of sound effects onto the radiogram – it would hold eight at a time I recall. The B.B.C. was very helpful in supplying sounds of typing, telephone conversations and general office noises, through a contact I had made when my play was on in the West End. Mind you, I kept my telephone number ex-directory and discouraged my agent from trying to ‘phone me.

I could then reappear as myself in another wig of grey tightly permed curls, and a tweed skirt and cardigan, in which I could busy myself with gardening or sharing a morning cup of tea with Mrs Peabody, our ‘treasure’ who came in three mornings a week to clean. Mrs Peabody was not very imaginative or curious but was an assiduous polisher. She had very strict instructions not to disturb Susan.

I thoroughly enjoyed the theatre of playing three roles. I tried very hard to make things as realistic as possible. My ‘husband’ had subscriptions to some rather esoteric journals and I ordered the weekly groceries from the village stores. Of course I had to cook for two and this is where the dog came in. He was always ready to consume my ‘husband’s’ portions! The dog food which was ordered with the groceries was sneaked out in the M.G. and donated by Susan to the R.S.P.C.A. in Cheltenham.

My ‘husband’ and I even managed to go to church. He, of course, was Catholic and went to early Mass whereas I went to the Church of England service in the late morning. I even discussed the problems of mixed marriages with the Rector.

There remained but one hurdle – the doctor. I had a medical card for my ‘husband’ but there were no medical notes. I overcame this difficulty by visiting our village doctor with an embarrassing female complaint. While he was washing his hands I slipped a man’s N.H.S. ‘Lloyd George’ type folder, form EC5, off his desk and into my bag. Dr Brunning was a kindly man but organisation was not one of his strong points. It was not difficult to obtain a duplicate folder through a contact I had made whilst researching another of my novels involving a forger. In this folder I fabricated a suitable medical history for my imaginary husband and on my return visit to report the success of my treatment I slipped both sets of notes into the pile on the doctor’s desk. Everything was now prepared for the murder of my ‘husband’. The only thing lacking was a corpse.

I must now reveal something which I have never told to anyone before. When my mother remarried she was presented with a step-son slightly older than myself. He was always resentful and truculent, an unpleasant bully in fact. My mother was quite incapable of controlling him and she did not want to listen to my complaints about him. His father on the other hand thought he was wonderful and would not hear any ill about him. This allowed him to begin to sexually molest me until I was able to escape from home into higher education and then into a place of my own.

He was the person who was to provide the corpse. Maybe he was surprised when I telephoned him one winter’s night but such was his egotism that he was not suspicious when I said that I would like to see him again. I told him that my husband would be away for the weekend, told him not to come by car in the unpredictable Cotswold winter and arranged to pick him up from the station in Cheltenham. I settled the dog down in the garden shed.

We arrived back at the Old Rectory as night was falling and I gave him a hot meal from the Aga with some excellent wine while we talked of our parents and our divergent lives.

After the meal I settled him on the settee in front of the TV with a bottle of single malt and excused myself to go to change. He was completely relaxed and confident of his mastery over me so that he did not hear me come up behind him with the bust of Shakespeare in my hands. I raised it high and brought it down on his bald head. All the resentment of all those miserable adolescent years was in that blow. I raised the bust again but he was unconscious or dead.

I slipped a plastic bag over his head and carefully tied it round the neck to keep the blood off the furniture. I then poured myself a large single malt and sat down to look at him. He did look very like my imaginary husband and the blood running down his face would make recognition difficult.

I carefully went through all his pockets and removed any evidence of his real identity then planted a few items of my own – a wallet, some membership cards and ‘his’ wedding ring. Summoning up all my strength I dragged him to the foot of the stairs and arranged poor old Shakespeare and his plinth appropriately. I rucked up the rug on the landing, removed the plastic bag and let out the dog.

The doctor came straight away of course, pronounced my poor husband dead and as I expected said that he would have to report the matter to the coroner. The police came and soon sized up the situation. The drink, the frayed carpet, the rug, why, it was obvious that he had tripped and fallen down stairs. What bad luck that he had dislodged the bust of Shakespeare which had fallen on his head. The priest came and said a prayer before the body went off to the mortuary. It was all very civilised.

The doctor produced a medical report from the notes which matched the details of my husband/brother’s post-mortem – his operation for appendicitis and the old fracture he got playing rugby. Everyone was so sympathetic over my loss but rather surprised when I had him cremated – him being a Catholic.

So that is the story of my perfect murder. My step-brother was reported missing but no one was very surprised as his business dealings had been a bit shady at times. I feel no guilt, indeed I am rather proud of what I have done. There is one tiny thing of which I am slightly ashamed. My ‘husband’ was insured against accidental death. At last I could have a new stair carpet.

Emmeline Greay
November 1983

The Traveller
Jane Love

‘Which way do I go?’
His voice echoed in the lonely silence. He waited for an answer though there was none to hear his question.

A breeze rustled the leaves at his feet but they only drifted round in tumbling circles.

Dark clouds hung low and heavy, slowly rolling southward, the direction from which he had come. But there was no path for him that way. There was no going back.

To the west lay woodland; dark bare trees where wild boar rooted for acorns among the leaf litter, and crows circled above.

Circles again, always circles. But he needed a straight path to follow.

To the east, a broad valley, a fertile plain that beckoned. But it was too soon to settle; too near his past. He turned from such temptation.

Behind him lay failure and ruin.

Not all had agreed, but most were against him. They had turned their backs and he could not serve the disenchanted. So he burned his hut and all he could not carry, and walked away.

For lack of a sign, he continued in the direction he had first trodden. Northward. It was a bad time of year to travel, especially to travel north. But he had not even contemplated the life that seduced so many; had blocked his senses against the call of warmth and easy living that lay far behind him.

By day he observed the natural pathways, rejecting those that twisted and turned and deceived the unwary. He followed cattle trails when he could, and sheep paths over the hills when there was no other way. Where the land was high and steep, he’d drink from a stream then follow its path uphill – so long as the course kept the noonday sun at his back.

At night he’d find a safe place near running water. A small spring, as often as not. There were plenty about if you knew how to find them and he had the gift of it. His fingertips would tingle even before the hazel rod twitched.

With precious steel and flint he’d light a fire to cook a meagre ration of grain, adding what root and leaf he’d found by day. Lying back wrapped in his cloak, his stomach full and eyelids drooping, he spoke with the stars. Sirius, so bright, but low on the horizon; Orion, dominant; the Seven Sisters, riding high in the sky by night, when by day the sun approached its winter nadir. But always he turned to the opposite celestial aspect to find his goal. The North Star. Only then could he sleep.

On this journey with so few guiding signs, perhaps that was all he needed. A yearning to follow the North Star.

He woke one morning to a dusting of snow. His lips were blue, but he smiled. A tear froze on his lashes then melted as he blinked at a world transformed. The circle turns. Darkness to light. Failure and ruin can be rebuilt in success. Another day, perhaps two. He’d know when the time came.

Later that same day he crested a ridge and saw the valley. A river ran deep and swift through its centre. Ploughed fields lay in strips to its bank. Half a mile from the river, a hamlet perched on rocky outcrops where the river plain gave way to the hillside.

He stood, still as an ancient oak, and watched. Sheep scratched at the grass, half hidden beneath a blanket of snow. Hens huddled and bickered in their thorn enclosure. A dog barked at the geese that stamped, confused, on their frozen pond, and somewhere on the edge of hearing, the snort of pigs from woodland above the hamlet.

The traveller closed his eyes.

A warmth began. Somewhere deep inside.

When dusk followed the setting sun, he was warmed through. The blue cracked lips now felt warm and were no longer bleeding. The rough, dry hands, cut and torn by flint and thorn, now seemed smooth and sensitive to the finest thread. His cold, wet and blistered feet stepped out lightly onto the last path of his journey.

There were no signs – and yet the land was full of them. He knew which way to go and travelled safely in darkness along the mountain ridge to the valley head.

The people of the hamlet were there, waiting for the rising sun to end the longest night. Waiting for the sun to begin its ascent out of winter. Waiting for a better year than the last, when their shaman had died and taken his healing power with him to the underworld.

And as the sun rose, the people saw the traveller walk toward them. Saw him walk toward them out of the sun. He was their sign; their gift of life and well being for the year to come.

And from the ashes of winter’s ruin far away, he would rebuild a new home for them all.

Trick or Treat
Derek Coleman

There was no getting away from it; Stuart was mean. Not nasty mean, although he could be tight-fisted mean. He was also very wealthy but if he could avoid spending a penny, he would. That was why, on Halloween, his long-suffering wife, Margie, expected a fight when she told him that she wanted to give sweets away to the local kids.
   She didn’t get one. Stuart merely grunted that he didn’t believe in Halloween and that the kids should be locked up for blackmailing taxpayers. Margie was surprised at his reaction; she expected to hear far more venom. She asked him if he was okay but Stuart just shrugged and said that he was fine. He didn’t care what she did because he had a business meeting and would be out anyway.
   What he neglected to say was that his meeting involved a brief visit to an amateur art exhibition with his long-legged secretary followed by an intimate dinner for two. Stuart was confident that he would not be back till morning but he did not tell Margie that.
   When it came to art, Stuart knew what he was talking about. He owned his own gallery and had a reputation as a hard dealer who could spot new talent that others might miss. He never kept his artists long, he screwed too much out of them for them to stay, but he could find them.
Tonight’s soirée was an amateur show put on by the members of a local night school class and was being held in a couple of rooms adjacent to the local library. The moment he walked in Stuart’s heart sank. He had been hoping to find someone with talent here but one look around at the daubs adorning the walls showed him that these really were amateurs.
   Even the free glass of wine he received at the door lacked any finesse and he wrinkled his nose in disgust after the first sip.
   ‘Come on,’ he said, ‘let’s get out of here.’
   ‘Oh,’ Lynette, his secretary pouted. ‘Some of these look really pretty. Can’t I just have one tiny look around in case there’s something I like?’
   Stuart grimaced, Lynette’s idea of ‘really pretty’ meant that he was expected to buy her some awful canvas that should be consigned to the rubbish bin. It would be a waste of money but one look at those sexy green eyes was enough to tell him that it was going to be worth every penny.
   ‘Okay,’ he sighed. ‘But don’t expect me to come round with you, just pick the one you want and let’s get out of here.’ Lynette beamed and kissed his cheek. ‘Thanks, Stu,’ she said.
   ‘And take this rubbish with you,’ Stuart told her, handing her his glass of wine.
   Lynette clicked off in her high heels and after admiring the sway of her hips as she walked away he turned back to the monstrosities hanging on the wall. They really were bad; some of the artists could barely draw. Shaking his head, he wandered into the second room and gave the paintings there a cursory glance. He was about to turn away and dismiss them when one caught his eye.
   It was not a spectacular subject, just a country scene. It showed an ancient looking cottage with white walls and thatched roof sitting alongside a lane that was lined by oak trees. It was not even very big, but among such garbage it shone out with a depth and vibrancy that grabbed his attention and held it.
   Striding over Stuart looked at it closely. The detail was amazing and just for a second he wondered if he was looking at a photograph, but then he saw the delicate brushwork. It was superb, worthy of any of the masters.
   The colours held warmth and a depth that truly reflected nature. Stuart knew instantly that he had found his next great talent.
Pinned alongside each painting was a small card bearing the title of the picture, the artist’s details and a price. This one was called ‘The Witch’s Cottage’. Instead of details though it just bore the name ‘Annie’ and a note saying that it was not for sale.
Stuart grimaced. Most of the paintings were priced between thirty and fifty pounds and he knew that he could get a least fifty times that for this one. He looked around, there was only one other person in the room. She was a short, pretty, blonde woman of about thirty-five.
   ‘Hey,’ Stuart called to her, ‘are you anything to do with the people who did these?’
   The girl frowned; ‘Yes’ she replied, ‘I’m a member of the group. Is there something I can help you with?’
   ‘I want to buy this picture’ Stuart told her, gesturing at the painting. The girl leaned forward to look at it, frowned again and shook her head.
   ‘I’m sorry, that’s Annie’s,’ she told him, ‘she’s very old and she never sells her stuff.’
   ‘Oh, come on,’ Stuart protested. ‘Let me talk to her, I’ll treat the old girl, give her two hundred quid for it.’ He reached for his wallet but the girl was shaking her head again.
   ‘Sorry, she’s not here,’ she said and then she smiled; ‘she told us an old witch like her had better things to do on Halloween.’
   Stuart gave a sigh of exasperation.
‘Okay,’ he said. ‘Thanks anyway.’
‘You’re welcome,’ the girl replied, turning away.
Stuart’s brow furrowed and he stared at the painting once more. It really was excellent. It was almost as if there was a breeze stirring the leaves of the trees and a wisp of smoke eddying from the chimney. He took a small magnifying glass from his pocket and leaned closer.
The detail was magnificent. There were no people but the cottage looked so real, it was almost as if he could reach out and touch it. One of the curtains even twitched as he looked at it.
Stuart jerked back. He grinned and shook his head. It was so good that he had imagined something in the painting had moved. He had to have it. He looked round. For the moment he was alone in the room. Okay, he decided, if he could not treat the old woman, he would trick her. It was Halloween after all.
There was no one around. The picture was small and would easily fit under a folded topcoat. Slipping his coat off, Stuart stepped forward and reached up to unhook the painting.

Lynette came looking for him ten minutes later. She could not see any sign of him except for his topcoat lying on the floor. As she bent to pick it up her eyes came close to a small painting hanging above it. It was a country scene, with trees and a cottage. At one of the windows of the cottage was what appeared to be a screaming face.

These stories are extracted from our anthology “A decade of writing 1997—2007 ”.