Extreme Unicorn – Part Two

Chastity woke with a head full of fog and hammers. Sitting up, she instantly threw her hands out to steady herself.

The deck was heaving and she felt like joining it. The strangest part was that, as far as she could recollect – which admittedly wasn’t very far through the brainfog – she hadn’t been on board a ship when she’d fallen asleep. She’d heard tales of folks having one too many then getting press-ganged into the service of some foreign navy or maybe pirates. Or worse, kidnapped and freighted off to be sold into slavery. Her stomach lurched at the thought and the boards beneath her feet just made matters worse by lurching in the opposite direction.

Her mum would be worried out of her wits. Which meant Chastity’s current headache would be nothing next to what would be waiting for her when she finally got home. Maybe a life of piracy or slavery would be okay…

Whatever the exact fix she was in, Chastity supposed she ought to start thinking about getting herself out of it. She also supposed an escape attempt ought to begin with an attempt at standing up. Her head lodged its protest, the blood pounding like a lot of Dwarven hammers trying to beat the iron into some useful shape. She clutched at her poorly gut, where last night’s drink and a hastily snarfed serving of breaded warthog churned about like the seas outside. Her hand felt cool metal, slightly sticky with spilled mead.

“Huh,” she said, and looked down at her front. Apparently whoever had abducted her had tossed her down in this dingy hold with her armour on and – she patted her side to check – her trusty blade still in its sheath. Idiots. They’d pay dearly for that mistake.

Spurred by that first bit of good news, Chastity stood, levering herself upright with a well-placed hand on the table in front of her. She looked around at her swaying, bleary world and decided that perhaps her captors hadn’t thrown her in the hold after all, but dumped her in the galley. It was dark with tables and chairs arranged randomly about the place. At first she thought the furniture was sliding all over the place in the swell, but she couldn’t hear it scraping on the deck so she guessed it was just her blurry vision that refused to stay still.

But yeah, the galley, she reckoned. Or whatever seafaring types called their dining hall. The mess? Well, that fit. Flippin stupid place to throw a prisoner. These idiots, whoever they were, probably expected her to cook for them.

That was another thing they’d pay for. They’d messed with the wrong warrioress when they took her. She drew her sword – then rocked about a bit as the weight of it in her hand did funny things to her balance. “Right, you shumps,” she warned, although she’d meant to say ‘chumps’. She had another stab at it. “Chuh – um – pss. Chumps.”

She touched her fingers to her neck. God, her throat was sore. Dry, like she’d downed a jug of sawdust. And the saw too, come to that.

Figuring that actions spoke louder than words and would be less prone to slurring, she sidled out from behind the table. Focusing hard on the shadows at the end of the room, she was pretty sure she could make out a door so she took a bold stride towards that.

And bumped the front of her hip bone on the table’s edge.

“Ow! God!” She hacked at the table with her sword. The blade bit deep and stuck. She swore at it and tugged on the hilt. It came free, sending her staggering backwards to collide with an untidy row of chairs. Her side folded hard over the back of one of them, which just about prevented a full-on fall. She swore some more, kicked the chair and hobbled towards the door slightly bent over and nursing a set of bruised ribs.

Already black with shadows, the air was now a deep shade of blue and Chastity was suddenly conscious that she’d made an awful lot of noise. She raised a hand, thinking to press a finger to her lips, then realised her sword hand wasn’t the best choice for that. But her injured side still needed the attentions of her other hand. “Shhhhhhhhhhh,” she told herself, without the accompanying gesture.

Silence descended. Her head was still beavering away like a Dwarven forge, but she was pretty sure her enemies wouldn’t hear that. There was no sign they’d heard any of her swearing or crashing about. Maybe they were that dense or, to be fair, maybe it had all been drowned out by the stormy seas. But Chastity didn’t feel like being fair, so she was going with dense.

She waited a moment for the room to stop spinning and go back to just swaying, then she pressed on with her long trek. Weaving her way between the obstacle course of furniture, she finally came face to face with the door.

So far, so good.

She pressed her ear to the wood, listening. Then closed her eyes. “Mmm,” she said, seized by a sudden desire to just rest her head there and grab some more sleep. Twenty winks couldn’t hurt, could it.

Blinking, she backed up from the door and shook her head. “Owwwww!” She clutched at her throbbing skull, massaged her scalp through lanky tangles of hair.

Oh, this was not good. She added the headache to the list of the things her captors were going to pay for. But pain or no, she was going to have to get a shift on

She wondered how far out to sea they must have sailed already. Assuming tossing and heaving about counted as sailing. At her best guess, she’d drunk enough to put her out for a whole night. Could be miles. And nautical miles were longer than land ones, weren’t they? Who knew. Chastity was no sailor, which was just one more reason her kidnappers had been dumb as treestumps to pick her. But up on deck, she reasoned, they would have boats. And even she ought to be able to row. How hard could it be? And she could take one of the pirates or navy types prisoner, make him point the pointy end of the boat in the right direction. Get him to do the rowing even. Yeah.

Wow. She had a plan, all of a sudden. An actual plan. That fact alone cleared her thoughts a smidge and steeled her resolve.

She was getting out of here. She was going home. And as for her mum, well, she’d face that music when she got there.

She gave the door a hefty kick.

It rattled, but didn’t budge. That made her cross. She leaned in for a closer look, spotted what the problem was, then drew the bolt.

Opting for stealth over violence, she eased the door quietly open.

Cold air came as a slap in the face, but there was surprisingly little wind. Gusty breezes at most really. Shouts rode those breezes and she heard the tramp of running feet and the clippety-clop of hooves. The deck outside also appeared to cobbled and lined with buildings, although that might have been a trick of the misty morning light.

Chastity frowned. She stepped outside and tipped her head back, trying to get a look at the sign that was swinging creakily above her.

Something rammed into her and she wheeled around. A motley cluster of bodies rushed past. She swung her fist at the nearest one, but hit empty air. The move spun her and she found herself looking up the hill, straight at a giant beast bearing down on her.

Silver-white like the moon, it reared, hooves up like a boxer’s fists, deadly inches from her head. Chastity got a vivid, looming portrait of some sort of horse-faced monster with a wild mane and a spike in its brow – just before she reeled away and crashed, face forward, on the cobbles.

“Out of my way, you stupid mare!” she could have sworn she heard the horse-thing yell.

And it was at that point she knew, for a stone cold certainty, she’d really overdone things the night before.

Extreme Unicorn – Part One

Some men wore a sword and called themselves a warrior. Barbas called himself no such thing. Fighting, killing, breaking a few skulls, it was all just part of business to him. Although he kind of liked hearing others call him a butcher.

Two of the men were talking about him now, behind his back. Fince, probably setting the new boy straight on a few matters. Every new recruit was the same, full of questions about the boss. Barbas couldn’t care less, as long as they kept it quiet.

They were closing in and he didn’t want their prey getting spooked, didn’t want to give them the chance to turn a simple spot of killing into a fight.

Like he always said, he was no warrior. He had a reputation to maintain.

***

Barbas was a monstrous black bulldog of a man. His skin was pasty, of a complexion that had seen every kind of weather but sunshine. There was ruddiness in his cheeks, fire from too much blood constantly on the rise, with nothing that could be called warmth. There was brown in his eyes, the colour of mud, hard as flint. But the rest of him was black. Thick hair and beard that was all one mass and might have been dipped in pitch, more black hair across the backs of his hands and knuckles. There was steel too, about his person – the axe and sword at his belt, buckles and studs decorating his leather armour – but they weren’t there for any brightness they added.

His back was impossibly broad, like a dam. He clenched and unclenched his hands all the time, as though they were unhappy without a weapon to hold.

It made Dayl nervous as he watched the man walk ahead of them along the forest path. Not for the first time, he wondered what he was doing here. But this band of ne’er-do-wells needed an archer and he needed a job.

“You’ll do fine,” said Fince, flashing his gold tooth and practically beating the air out of Dayl’s lungs with a slap to the back. “At least, you’d better do.”

Dayl nodded. He was very aware that this was a trial period. He trusted in his prowess with the bow, but he knew he had to show these men something more than archery skills.

“Otherwise,” Fince was saying, jerking a thumb towards Barbas, “he’ll kill you as soon as look at you. Sooner, if he can. Oh, don’t get me wrong, he’d not be shy of watching your face squirm, but he does like to stick a man in the back. Specially if it’s a man who’s let him down.”

Fince was a real piece of work, although no artist or craftsman was likely to claim responsibility for him. Gouged cheeks, stubbled scalp, cold-burning eyes that squinted out from between enough scars that some of them actually crossed paths. In a shabby jumble of leather and chainmail, he wore a bow and a jagged-edged greatsword slung over hunched shoulders.

There were a dozen men in all in Barbas’ crew and although all of them were prettier than Fince, there was no mistaking the kind of band he – Dayl – had signed up with. So he was under no illusions, if he was going to have any hope of fitting in with this lot, he was going to have to do more than shoot straight.

He was going to have to kill and take pleasure in it.

***

Barbas spat. The glade stank of harmony and tranquillity. It was the kind of place where peace had taken root and spread like weeds or mildew.

A clearing in a shallow bowl of the forest, the trees were like placid librarians, preserving the stillness, allowing only modest quantities of sunlight through to dapple the ground and sparkle on the surface of a small pool. Breezes whispered through the canopy overhead, gently calling for quiet. Even the few fallen trees looked like they had decided to lie down for a rest and let the moss and ivy play freely over their ancient trunks.

The stealth with which Barbas and his men moved in was a different breed of peace. A sinister, insidious thing, like a disease.

The creatures sensed it, lifting their heads and searching about. They stood beside the pool, the female torn between thirst and nerves. The male nuzzled its mate, attempting to calm her.

Good luck with that, laughed Barbas inside his head.

He motioned to his men to keep their distance as he continued down the gentle slope. The archers, new boy included, should be fanning out, picking their positions and notching up their arrows. Their first shots would win this or lose it. If they missed, well, they had best hope to their respective gods that Barbas ended up impaled on one of these animals’ horns. And if the new boy needed any incentivising, he should just ask himself why they’d had to find themselves a replacement archer.

Unicorns. Barbas had learned to hate them. In that sense, yes, this was more than just business. But there was no sense in holding a grudge against a beast. That’s all they were ultimately, for all their alleged majesty. Moonlight hides and gleaming horns be damned. They were just beasts. Beasts that happened to have, in a manner of speaking, a very handsome price on their heads.

Barbas stepped out into the open, bold as brass.

The beasts tossed their manes, huffing and puffing in indignation at the intrusion. Barbas fancied he could see the decision – fight or flight – weighing in their eyes.

His clenching hands grabbed for his axe and sword, drawing both weapons at once.

That was the signal.

***

Dayl let fly.

From this distance, the eye was little more than a black bead on the moon-hided beast. It had been easy to tell himself he’d seen no light in it, that it was just a target, a marker. A swift, flashing flight and the arrow found that marker and his part in the murder was done.

The animal reared and screamed, a raw, ragged and hellish sound. Kicking the air, it thrashed its head wildly as though fighting to shake the arrow loose. Fince, somewhere to Dayl’s right, was laughing, a cruel and ugly cackle but nothing that could compete with the bloodcurdling din tearing through the forest like a hurricane of torment. Double the hell now, as Dayl’s victim had a companion in its death throes: the mare, her majestic head pierced with three arrows. Messy placement, messy death.

Not messy enough for Barbas’ tastes, apparently. Before the stallion had toppled, he was moving in and raising his axe for a swing at the beast’s neck.

Dayl busied himself shouldering his bow. Men were charging from the trees, descending on the glade to join in the butchery. Dayl picked his way slowly down the slope, pretending to watch his footing. A chill tingle at the back of his neck prompted him to glance around. Several times. Probably nothing, but the more excuses to look elsewhere the better.

Before he’d reached the edge of the clearing, the unicorns had fallen silent. He hadn’t even heard their great bodies crashing to the forest floor, above the roars of the killers.

Dayl was a hunter. He’d killed animals without it feeling like murder.

He stepped up beside Barbas and assumed a heartless expression as he looked down on the carcasses. Blood was dripping from Barbas’ axe and sword and running in rivers from the dead unicorns to the pool. The rest of the men were sheathing their weapons, some of them laughing, some patting each other on the back.

“Our new boy did good,” said Fince, who was drawing a large knife and eyeing the unicorn horns greedily.

“He did,” agreed Barbas. He gave his lieutenant the nod and Fince crouched to work on liberating the first of the horns. Barbas’ gaze was fixed primarily on Dayl though. “The lad seems a little pale, mind you. Troubled, are you, boy?”

“No,” said Dayl quickly. “Nothing like that.” He recalled the nervous feeling he’d had and felt it all over again. He scanned the trees around the edge of the clearing. “I don’t know. I just have this feeling we’re being watched.”

Barbas snorted. “That’s a conscience, lad. Get rid of it. You’ll not be needing it where your career is headed.”

Dayl nodded, knowing he would have to work on that.

He forced himself to watch as Fince applied himself to his bloody harvest.

***

Barbas was wrong.

Two young eyes, peering out from the undergrowth, had witnessed everything.

Fun & Bones – Part Ten

Never run on a full stomach, Jocund’s dad used to say. Try using your legs.

Yes, his old dad was the source of many a stitch in his sides when he was a lad and he was getting another one now as he hared down the street. So he slowed himself to a more sensible jog, which would – unfortunately – give Lantisilio every chance to catch up with him, but it wasn’t as if he would have been able to lose the fellow anyway. At full pelt, his coat and hat flapping and thrashing about, the bells would probably give away his position as long as he was in the same quarter of the city.

There were all of two places he could be heading. Jocund wondered if Lantisilio would stick with him all the way to the Town Hall – or to Lusilda’s – where he would have to face the consequences of what he’d done as he stood there and listened to Jocund exposing Lantisilio Gogogoch as the ghoulish creature he truly was. Unfortunately, the idea of exposing him led to flashes of a skeleton chasing after him and Jocund had to make renewed efforts to hold onto his breakfast. Which involved physically holding onto his stomach and slowing up his pace a bit more.

Lantisilio’s partner-in-crime, the ever-present little doggie, was having no trouble keeping up in any case and was enjoying frolicking and yapping around Jocund’s ankles as he trotted along.

Lantisilio was only a short way behind now.

“Wait! Wait now,” the laird urged, in as gentlemanly a fashion as possible while moving at a pace that, while not speedy, was somewhat more than courtly. “Won’t you take a moment to consider? What about our contract?”

“Our contract? What about our contract?” Jocund might have expected a creature of the undead to attack him, drain his life force or – in this case – steal his skin before he was done with it. To have one about to quote the letter of their agreement back at him was something of a surprise.

“Clause Two, I believe. ‘A lord and his jester agree to stick together through thick and thin. Neither one will betray the other under any circumstances.’”

The pain pinching at Jocund’s side was getting worse and he had to ease down to a hurried walk. But he didn’t want Lantisilio to take that as any sign he was conceding the point. “That’s right. A lord and his jester. You’re a laird. If you’re even that.”

Lantisilio gratefully settled into a walk, his long energetic strides maintaining a position just behind Jocund’s shoulder. “Now let us not argue semantics. A laird is a lord. And as to my title and my professions for that matter, I am everything I claimed to be.”

“Okay! But unless I’m misremembering our original interview, you left out the part about being a skeleton!”

“It’s true, I neglected to mention that. But as I say, people have such prejudices against the living dead. And besides, I am really no different to anyone else.” Jocund would have turned his head at that point to stare at Lantisilio but he was afraid that instead of seeing a face he would only be able to see the structure of the man’s skull. “After all, what has changed here except your perception of me? With your other friends, you don’t normally make a habit of thinking about what lies under their skin do you? Your beloved Lusilda, for instance – you don’t – ”

“No! What? No – stop! Ewwww!” Jocund quickened his walk as much as he could and held up a hand as though to fence Lantisilio out. He turned his head aside and closed his eyes, desperately trying to rid himself of the image of Lusilda that had popped into his head. Even his treasured memories of her delicate hands were ruined by thoughts of boney digits.

“They say beauty is only skin deep,” Lantisilio persisted. “And you say you have never thought about what lies beneath that?”

“Her heart and soul, yes! But not bones and stuff!”

Jocund gave a grrr. The dog barked. Jocund looked down at the dog, attempting to focus on its big dewy puppy-eyes as a means of dispelling the skeletal portrait of his beloved that, like a particularly vivid ghost, seemed set to haunt him for some while yet. Right, he decided, just for that – for planting those pictures in his head – he was going straight to Lusilda. Not only was he sure that the sight of her would clear his mind and restore her to her full heavenly glory in his imagination, but he suspected that if Lantisilio had a conscience at all it would be more sharply pricked by having his secret declared before one of the innocents he had hurt. At the next corner, he turned a determined right, marching with a purpose to the Kandinsky house.

Now, rather than trying to hurry away from Lantisilio, he hoped the fellow stuck with him. He wanted Lantisilio right there when he told Lusilda what kind of creature this man was and the full extent of his crimes against her. And, afterwards – after the law had been called – he, Jocund, would hold her in his arms and comfort her and not think at all about the bones that were holding her body upright.

The dog, sensing some impending excitement, some shift in mood, yapped and panted in anticipation.

Lantisilio, meanwhile, didn’t appear to attach any special significance to the change in direction. “Which illustrates my point,” he was saying. “Eyes are the window to the soul. These eyes are mine, as well as a still-lively brain. This particular state of undeath left me that much. It is only the skin – plus a little flesh for padding – that I borrow. Clothes maketh not the man. Aside from the small deception concerning the ‘grave-robbing’, I have been quite truthful in my dealings with you. You have, I believe, seen me for who I am. You take such great care not to think of your beloved Miss Kandinsky’s constituent parts that I daresay you do not really know her. Almost as much care, I would venture, as you take in not showing her your true self.”

“I – !” Jocund stalled. He couldn’t properly defend himself on that point. He had deceived her, it was true, about his circumstances and certain aspects of his nature. She probably had a slightly idealised notion of his generosity towards urchins, for example, and no real idea of why he really availed himself of all the shortbread on offer when he came for tea. Still, he told himself, it was all nothing compared to the deceptions practised by a grave-robbing undead skeleton. “That’s besides the point! Skin is something you wear from birth! And it’s not meant to be a hand-me-down. You really ought to be able to take it with you, without – without people – or – or creatures like you browsing through the cemetery for the best fit! Actually, I don’t even want to think about how you get dressed. I just – you know what – just don’t say anything. You can forget about our contract. I’m turning you in and the local law can deal with you!”

“I’ll want that in writing, naturally.”

“What?”

“The termination of our contract. Until then, I will consider myself bound by its terms – even if you feel disposed to renege on our agreement.”

“What are you – I – I give up!” Jocund threw up his arms in despair. The dog jumped up, in expectation of some object being thrown. If it felt any disappointment when no ball or stick materialised, it hid it well. Jocund was grateful to see they were nearing the Old Mill House. “I’m turning you in and that’s that.”

Steely determination in the jingling of his bells, he marched on and up to the pretty blue gate.

There in the garden he saw his beloved Lusilda. Radiant and, thank the stars, beautifully robed in her familiar, pretty arrangement of flesh and her black mourning dress. She had company, which was a surprise. Standing on the lawn with her, as though the two of them had paused in a stroll around the garden, was Mayor Habius Vincenzo – and that was more than a surprise. It was, for reasons Jocund couldn’t quite pin down, more in the region of a shock.

Oh well, he shrugged – and fired Lantisilio a triumphant look, daring him to come with him into the garden. Unexpected as the Mayor’s presence here was, Jocund would be able to kill two birds with one stone. Report on his successful solving of the grave-robbing mystery to both parties.

He turned to open the gate and was stopped cold. The Mayor and Lusilda had turned to face one another and the Mayor clasped Lusilda’s hand. It might have just been the sunlight glinting naturally, but as she gazed up at the brute her eyes seemed to shine.

The birds had thrown the stone back and struck Jocund in the heart.

***

“Folderol!” bellowed the Mayor, advancing down the garden path and setting all the plants shrinking back as though from a coming storm. “Damn your hide, you had better not be showing your face to me without news of progress!” He spared a glare at Lantisilio as well and didn’t seem to like it that the fellow didn’t flinch. Jocund flinched for the both of them. The dog yapped. Mayor Vincenzo scowled down at it from the other side of the gate. The dog whimpered and hid behind Jocund’s legs. “Remarkable! You found a creature more pitiful and worthless than yourself. Well, Folderol, tell me you found something more!”

Jocund braced his nerves, stood straight and gestured at Lantisilio. “This is Lantisilio Gogogoch,” he declared. And Lantislio eyed him with a wary sidelong glance. “I enlisted his assistance in the investigation.”

Vincenzo looked Lantisilio up and down, a sneer making plain his distaste. “You look a better class of citizen than this wastrel,” he said.

Lantisilio answered with an arch of a single eyebrow. Considering those brows were part and parcel of a borrowed skin, he worked them with commanding dexterity. “Class, I find, is often akin to beauty – no more than skin deep.”

“Eh?!” It was plain the Mayor hadn’t a clue what Lantisilio was getting at, but it was equally plain he understood he was being insulted. Despite everything, the sight of a temporarily stumped Habius Vincenzo was the one moment in this whole sorry encounter that Jocund enjoyed. He almost felt like shaking Lantisilio by the hand, whether it was his own or not.

Vincenzo, stuck for some worthier response to the dig, turned his darkly frowning brow on Jocund. “Well, Folderol? I want results! Not hirelings and hangers-on.”

Jocund held his posture, fighting to maintain perfect stillness. He sensed the shakes wanting to seize him, but not because of Mayor Vincenzo. Or at least, not because of his intimidating bulk or wildness. The bells on his hat tinkled faintly, but Jocund commended himself for doing fairly well under the circumstances. If he leaned to the left, he might possibly be able to see past the Mayor for a glimpse of his beloved Lusilda – but then, he knew, he would tremble uncontrollably and his bells would have a field day. And their music would surely jar.

“Nothing,” he said, just about managing to look the Mayor in the eye. “Even with our combined efforts, we found nothing.”

The Mayor stared, stormclouds in his eyes. “What?!”

“My feeling, your Lordship,” Jocund continued, “is that whoever or whatever was raiding the cemetery has wandered off in search of fresh haunts. It may be connected with Miss Kandinsky’s sighting of the mysterious figure in the marketplace. Perhaps the villain sensed he was in danger of being caught and decided to move on. Either way, my feeling is that he won’t be bothering the good people of Florenberg ever again.”

“Feeling?! Feeling?!” For a moment, Mayor Vincenzo seemed trapped in a fit of silent stammers. Then he rediscovered the power of speech – with increased volume. “Now see here, I am NOT paying you for feelings and suppositions!” He shook a fist for added – albeit entirely superfluous – emphasis. “The reward was for evidence! A conviction! HARD RESULTS! I’ve a responsibility to the taxpayers!”

“I realise that, Your Honour.” Jocund nodded, his own words quiet and fragile in the booming aftermath of the Mayor’s. “I merely came here to report our findings – or lack of them. Not to collect a reward. I feel I’ve collected all the reward that Florenberg has to offer.”

“Good!” As satisfied as he was to hear that, the Mayor still wasn’t finished frowning. “But what the hell did you come here for? Official business should be conducted at the Town Hall, man! You’ve no business here, Folderol! No business at all!”

“I realise that too, Your Lordship.”

But Jocund’s words were barely audible, even to him, as he turned to go and his bells celebrated the newfound freedom of movement, like dozens of little spirits that had been held in one place for far too long.

***

“Here,” said Jocund, holding out the paper without quite being able to look Lantisilio in the eye.

“You wish me to safeguard our contract?” inquired the laird, sounding genuinely perplexed.

“Safeguard it?” Jocund met his gaze then, if only so he could blink at the fellow. “I rather imagined you’d want to tear it up.”

They had stopped on a quiet corner, just three streets from Lusilda’s house – not nearly far enough – when Jocund had realised he had company. He had turned and been surprised to see both Lantisilio and the pooch still following. Then, after a moment’s reconsideration, he realised he wasn’t surprised at all. For a start, he didn’t think they’d ever be rid of the dog – its happy, shiny eyes and lolling tongue spoke of love and/or hopes of its next meal. And of course, so Jocund thought, Lantisilio would deem himself legally bound.

Hence, before he had uttered a word, Jocund had fished in his pocket for their contract. And yet, here he was offering its return and there was Lantisilio regarding the paper as though wondering what earthly use it could be to him.

“As far as I can tell,” said the laird, “there has been no breach. It’s true, you skated close to a flagrant infringement of Clause Two, but what manner of partners would we be if we couldn’t find it in our hearts to forgive the occasional slip.”

Despite weight of the black cloud on his shoulders, Jocund had to laugh. “Our hearts? I’m not sure you have one and I know I’d have trouble finding anything in mine right now.” He laid a hand over the hurt in his chest. “It’s a mess.”

“Our souls then?” There was a glint in Lantisilio’s eyes then that seemed born of more than mere light. Jocund remembered the gentleman’s barbed remark about class, delivered like the slap of a glove to Mayor Vincenzo’s face and he wondered if that wasn’t simply Lantisilio being Lantisilio, but an act of friendship. A laird standing up for his jester.

Not only that, but he thought of that phrase – ‘windows to your soul’. And Lantisilio had stated categorically that, whatever else he had ‘borrowed’, his eyes were his own. For all his strange ways, there was an honesty in those eyes.

“You’d seriously choose to stick with me?” said Jocund. He tugged out the linings of his trouser pockets, exposing their emptiness. “We haven’t earned a bean between us on this job. You get seventy percent of nothing.”

“There will be other cases,” asserted Lantisilio, with the assurance of a gentleman who had just checked his crystal ball. “Besides,” he smiled, “we are not quite penniless. And you, I believe, are entitled to thirty percent of whatever coin we can secure in trade for this.”

He plucked a glimmering object from his pocket and twirled it around on its chain, allowing the sunlight to dance on its surface. Mortimus Kandinsky’s watch.

The dog yapped excitedly for some reason.

Jocund was struck with an image of all the breakfasts they could buy with that watch. He shook his head, his bells breaking him free of the hypnotic spell. He gave Lantisilio a long, hard look. It beggared belief, but he was actually contemplating teaming up with this – for want of a better word – fellow. “And you’re – you’re really a skeleton?”

“That is one of the many things I am, yes.”

Maybe he was dazzled by the spinning, flashing gold. Maybe he was tempted by the idea of extracting some small compensation from Mortimus Kandinsky. Maybe it was because the watch offered some tiny victory in all this, a way of thumbing his nose at Mayor Habius Vincenzo. Whatever it was, Jocund knew his heart might be broken but his mind was made up.

“Then I think we need to add another clause to the contract. Clause Eleven, we’ll call it. No more grave-robbing or” – he shuddered – “dressing up in other people’s skins unless absolutely necessary.”

“Of course. We will have to agree some definition of what constitutes necessary circumstances. For example, in the event I am recognised wherever we go. Or should this current skin lose its – freshness.”

“Fine fine fine.” Jocund waved a hand, not wishing to hear any more. And even if Lantisilio carried on talking at this point, all he would hear was a pleasant if mildly frantic jingling. “We’ll, ah, iron out the details on the way.” A hopeful whimper and a lot of panting drew his attention to the other – unofficial – member of their partnership. “And I guess we’ll be taking him along.”

Lantisilio sighed. A glance at the dog told him the lengths they would have to go to in order to lose the animal. “If we must. But on the proviso that he is your dog. And most emphatically not mine.”

Jocund shrugged. He could easily see how the dog could be a bit of a nuisance, but he was also kind of cute. And if he was really going to consider adventuring with an undead skeleton, he couldn’t very well share Lantisilio’s aversion to an innocent pup.

As for his heart, well, he guessed that would mend – with time and the open road. Adventure, he had to trust, was a great cure-all. Adventure and – he looked at his friends – companionship.

Besides, he perked himself up with a reminder, there had to be a limit to how long anyone could stay sad with a name like Jocund. And to prove the point, as he turned to head off down the street, he privately muttered his name to himself to the jaunty tune of his bells.

Jocund, he repeated again and again until he was almost singing the word in his head.

Folderol.

***

And there concludes our tale of Jocund Folderol, the adventuring jester, and his lord – or laird. I wish I could tell you they set off together into the sunset, but it was still relatively early in the day and in any case they headed east.

They left the great city of Florenberg behind them, but I remained faithfully at their heels every step of the way. Whither we roamed, the road ahead paved with new adventures and other mysteries waiting to be solved.

In the absence of any other name, they eventually took to calling me Sheltie. Which I supposed would do. I did not much care, as long as we were together. Technically, according to an addendum in their contract, I was the property and responsibility of Jocund Folderol. And Lantisilio Gogogoch pretended to have nothing to do with me.

But nothing he could do would shake my devotion. For I was convinced, as I had been since I had first met the fellow, of one essential fact that outweighed every other consideration.

Among his many qualities, I was sure he was a gentleman of taste.

SAF 2010

Fun & Bones – Part Nine

Jocund fought to contain an attack of the trembles, but his jingling bells were a dead giveaway.

“Y-y-you,” said Jocund. With all the musical accompaniment he could have broken into song, except he didn’t feel like it. He had to get a grip on himself, stand firm. “You’re the grave robber!”

“Don’t be absurd.” Lantisilio looked away and tutted. He crouched to pick up the watch. “I glimpsed this in the midst of all those bones and our canine friend here fetched it out.”

Jocund shook his head, which at least took the chimes in a new direction. “No. I would have seen it.” He wasn’t sure of much right then, but he was sure of that. And he felt an urgent need to drive the point home before he started to doubt himself. “The dog was returning it. To you. And you don’t need to tell me where you got it because there’s only one place you could have and that was Mortimus Kandinsky’s grave. I happen to know for a fact he had it buried with him.”

Lantisilio studied Jocund for a while, then slipped the watch into his coat pocket. He sighed through clenched teeth. “I was rather hoping that, as a friend of the Kandinsky family, you would recognise the item.” He cast his gaze groundward, as though in defeat, then scowled at the dog. “Curse this infernal hound.”

The dog licked its chops and perked up some more, flicking puppy-eyed glances from Lantisilio to Jocund and back again. Jocund rather suspected it would be waiting a long time for its next game of fetch. He stared at Lantisilio.

“You admit it then? You’re the grave robber?” His mind was a whirl of questions, but that seemed the most important one.

“I am no such thing.” Lantisilio stabbed the earth with his cane to drive home the point. “There are worlds of difference between the things we do and who we are. I am no more a grave robber than – than you, Jocund Folderol, are a campanologist.”

“Well, I – what?”

“A bell-ringer.” Lantisilo aimed the cane at various points on Jocund’s coat. “You ring bells. All the time. And yet, do you call yourself a bell ringer? Hmm?”

“Well, no. But – ” Jocund was feeling out of his depth. More out of his depth than when he’d had himself buried alive.

“Then I must state plainly that I have robbed far fewer graves,” Lantisilio pressed on, “than you have rung bells. So what does that make me?”

“I – ” Jocund began, but he realised that he didn’t have an earthly. There were still a number of aspects of the case that didn’t add up and arithmetic was never his strongpoint. He always figured he would get better at sums the more coins he had to add up at the end of a show, but so far he hadn’t been granted the opportunity to put that to the test. “I really couldn’t say. But – you do admit that it was you who robbed the graves? You’re the culprit I’ve – we’ve been looking for?”

“Alas, yes.” He touched the brim of his top hat. “You will recollect my disappointment when, shortly after I signed our contract, you revealed that our adventures would not immediately involve travel.”

Jocund nodded slowly. He was anxious to get to the truth, but he guessed he was going to have to take the slower, more patient route. Which actually suited him, since he had a horrible premonition that when he was in possession of the full facts he wasn’t going to like them one bit. “Right. You were in a hurry to get out of town.”

“Indeed. I think I would have readily agreed to less generous terms of employment.”

Now he tells me, thought Jocund. “So when you found out we were investigating the missing bodies – the bodies you’d stolen – you thought you’d try to steer us off course? You tried to frame this little dog?” Jocund’s voice was a perfect expression of his spiralling disbelief.

The dog yapped excitedly.

“Let us be clear on one point,” said Lantisilio sternly. “I did not steal any bodies.”

“Stop.” Jocund put up a hand. His head was spinning so badly now he could count anywhere between fifteen and thirty fingers in front of his eyes. “You’re making me dizzy. And wait – we haven’t even gotten to the part where you explain how Lusilda mistook you for her own father in the market place. That was you, I take it?”

Lantislio flexed his lips awkwardly and averted his gaze. “Yeeeeeeees,” he confessed at length. “But I rather suspect you will need to be sitting down for that particular piece of the puzzle.”

Jocund appreciated the man’s consideration, but the admission had him even more worried. “Fine,” he said and gestured at the derelict house. “Shall we see if there are any chairs inside?”

“I was thinking perhaps an early lunch…” Lantislio let the suggestion dangle on the air like a bacon butty on a string.

“More bread and ale at the Spoon & Badger?” Despite his rumbling belly, Jocund wasn’t keen.

“We can do better than that. I confess I have a few more coins at my disposal than I led you to believe.” Lantisilio offered an apologetic smile. It was weaker than a jug of the Spoon & Badger’s finest. “My finances are not what you would call healthy, but they will extend to a cooked breakfast at the Quail & Galleon. What do you say?”

Jocund was troubled at the prospect of sitting down to dine with a grave robber, but his stomach performed somersaults of joy. There was no contest really.

***

They didn’t allow dogs in the Quail & Galleon and their canine companion whined in protest when they shooed him away at the door. But the little animal planted itself right outside with such determination and devotion in its eyes that they had no doubt it would be there when they emerged.

Soon Jocund and Lantisilio were installed at a table and the waitress – they had waitresses at the Quail & Galleon – brought Jocund a glass of stout and a plate of fried eggs, bacon, beans and sausage, with two heavenly slices of lightly buttered toast. “If I’ve died and gone to heaven,” said Jocund, wagging his knife and fork as a warning,“I don’t want you robbing my grave.”

He sent his nose on a brief flight over his plate, his nostrils coasting on the rich thermals and sucking them in. Lantisilio was not joining him, but appeared content to sit back and watch. It occurred to Jocund that he had not once seen his partner eat. He wondered if that was common among grave robbers, their grisly business putting them off their food. The thought was an unpleasant reminder that they had relocated here to discuss unpleasant things.

“Listen, um, none of this story is going to upset my stomach is it?”

“It might.”

Jocund sagged. He regarded his beautiful cooked breakfast longingly and mournfully. A meal was one of the things in life you could love with all your heart and soul and yet have no desire to see ever again.

“What the heck. I’ll risk it.” He dug in. Between his first mouthfuls he gestured with his cutlery for Lantisilio to begin.

“First of all, I feel I should make it plain that the creature outside is by no means innocent in this affair.”

“Sure, mmm mmmf right.” Jocund’s sarcasm was having trouble making itself properly heard through the bacon and egg. He chewed, swallowed, licked his teeth clean then tried again. “The dog did it. We heard that one already.”

“No,” Lantisilio insisted. “I am not laying the full blame at the beast’s paws. I am merely stating – quite truthfully – that it has its share. I rather suspect that, as you theorised, the creature was one of those mongrels that, out of its boundless devotion and loyalty, frequented the cemetery where its master was buried. In any case, whatever its sad story, the little horror was present when I – when I first began my, ah, activities.”

Jocund may have been busy munching most of the time, but he wasn’t about to let Lantisilio get away with dressing up his dastardly deeds in euphemisms. “Your grave robbing, you mean. Talk about moonlighting.”

Lantisilio blinked. “Very droll. Should I applaud or continue?”

“Mm mm,” said Jocund, which was mouth-full-speak for ‘Go on.’

“Anyway, the animal indulged in its own thieving without any bidding from me. The creature loves bones. Believe me, it worked more industriously than I ever did, transporting each new supply to its secret cache whenever a body was unearthed. After the first time the animal began to – if you will pardon a pun – dog my every step. Occasionally it would return to its hoard and I would be able to give it the slip. Also, it is perhaps worth saying that I was doing my best to shake the creature off when I ran into your beloved Miss Kandinsky and her maid. But regardless, the animal would always find me again at the graveyard.”

“When you were ready to dig up another poor soul, you mean?”

“One does not usually dig up a soul. The soul has usually departed.”

“Whatever. I’m amazed you did any digging at all.”

“Well, in truth, once I learned of the extent of the dog’s dedicated interest, I allowed it to attend to the digging.”

“Oh, right. Regular partners in crime.” Jocund shook his head. Really, he thought, he should be heading straight to the Mayor and reporting this criminal right now. But he still had a third of his breakfast sprawled seductively on his plate. On top of which, gruesomeness aside, he was genuinely curious. He felt he had come to know this laird a bit and now he wondered if he knew the fellow at all. He had also come to like him and the strangest thing of all was that, as horrified as he was to learn that his partner was a grave robber, the revelation hadn’t driven all that liking away.

He was going to have to turn Lantisilio in, there was no question about that. It might hurt to do so, but the man had robbed the grave of his beloved’s dad. And he was sitting here discussing it calmly as though he had every justification. Luckily there had been no details to upset his breakfast as yet, but Jocund’s gratitude could only go so far.

As soon as he was done here and as soon as he had the full story, he would be heading for the Town Hall. Or maybe to Lusilda. She deserved to know. His poor love! To think, Lantisilio had stood there in her drawing room and declined her kind offer of tea, all the while knowing that he had looted her father’s grave.

“You know,” said Jocund, feeling the anger rising in him, threatening indigestion, “it’s reprehensible, what you’ve done. You deceived me, that’s fair enough – I’ll let you off the hook for that one. But – but – ” He was lost for words. He decided another mouthful of bacon was in order.

“It is not in my nature to deceive. That is to say, I would prefer not to. But the nature of the world dictates that I must keep aspects of my nature hidden.”

“Polite society does tend to frown on grave robbing, yes.”

“Oh, it’s more than that.” Lantisilio waved a hand. And Jocund stared, unable to speak. More? What more could there be? Maybe this was the part where his stomach was going to find the tale rough going. “The grave robbing is an incidental. A necessary evil, you might say. Polite society – or indeed society of most any kind – has a problem with dead people. They will stand at gravesides, honour the departed with flowers and their tears. Some will even kneel and caress the grass or press their hand to the headstone, as though striving for some fleeting touch of their lost loved one. And yet,” Lantisilio sighed, “and yet – the moment the dead are unearthed and above ground, there is all hell to pay.”

“Well, yes,” said Jocund. “People are funny like that.”

“Personally,” said the laird, “I blame the violin. The Vladivarius I told you about. I was careless. A virtuoso is apt to get carried away in the music sometimes. In any case, it meant that the first grave in which a body went missing – in which I had any involvement – was my own. So you can, I am sure, appreciate my aversion to cemeteries. It’s also why I must doff my hat to you for your willingness to box yourself up in a coffin. I could never contemplate such confinement again, least of all for the sake of something so ephemeral and vacillating as love.”

There were several points through that speech where Jocund felt compelled to interject, but he was stuck chewing a stubborn bit of bacon rind. Unless he was mistaken, Lantisilio seemed to be saying he was undead.

Which was strong cause for spitting out his food, but Jocund, in a spirit of waste not want not, fought the urge heroically. Eventually, he managed to swallow the rind with a gulp.

“So, um,” he ventured nervously, “what are you saying? You’re a vampire? But no, you can’t be that. Not if you were walking through the market place in daylight.”

“Really? As I said, you know more of these things than I. But no, I am not a vampire.” Lantisilio cleared his throat quietly. “That entire incident in the market place was unfortunate. I really should have considered the possibility that I might run into someone who knew Mortimus Kandinsky, but as I said I was rather distracted at the time with my efforts to lose the dog. I realised at once I had been recognised, of course. And that, I am sorry to say, necessitated another trip to the graveyard. I was fortunate that some other poor body – some lesser-known member of the Florenberg community – had been commended to the soil that day.”

“Oh yes,” said Jocund with a brave stab at humour. “Dead lucky.”

He washed down his most recent mouthful with a swig of actually very good stout and trusted the heady liquid to keep it down. The gentleman seated opposite had gone well beyond being just a strange fellow. To the extent that Jocund really had no idea who or what he was dealing with. “But, and I know I am going to regret asking this so badly, explain to me carefully now how it is you were hurrying through the marketplace and got mistaken for Mortimus Kandinsky. You did say you never stole any bodies, right?”

“It’s a question of definition.” Lantisilio smiled, again with that weak apology. He drummed his fingers on the table top. “A body, to me, means the whole article. The entire composition. Of, well, not wishing to put too fine a point on it, flesh and bone, muscle and sinew, organs and – an outer covering.”

Much as it pained him to do so, Jocund set down his knife and fork. He sat well back in his chair, but his food continued to waft divine smells in his direction.

He fixed Lantisilio with a stare and began, reluctantly, to appraise him anew. The man’s prominent cheekbones and loose jowls were painting a different and disturbing portrait. “So, um, what exactly are you?”

“Under this skin, I am, for all intents and purposes, the same as you,” Lantisilio assured him with a gentlemanly smile. “I am a skeleton.”

On top of breakfast, that was one morsel of information too many for Jocund. Without fully remembering how he got there, he was out the door and running down the street.

With a hey, ding a ding, ding.

Fun & Bones – Part Eight

The beast was asking to be let in, quite possibly by the hair of its chinny chin chin. And Jocund knew it wouldn’t take much more than another huff and a scuff to have this house made of packing crates caving in.

The huffs and scuffs became thuds and scrapes.

Something was right above Jocund, scratching at the wood with claws.

Suddenly there was a louder THUD! Something or someone heavier landing on the coffin. The wood creaked under the press of footsteps. There was a grunt and a sigh. The panting continued with an air of anticipation. Jocund could practically hear the creature salivating at the prospect of its dinner as what he could only assume was its master repositioned himself overhead, all the better to open up the casket.

More creaks and a sound like rubbing sandpaper as – Jocund was sure – fingers hooked themselves under the lid. He could sense the hand sliding along the gap close to his shoulder.

The lid was heaved aside. A dark stooping figure loomed overhead, straddling the coffin, his feet braced against the sides of the pit. Moonlight was reflected in his shoes where the polish wasn’t caked with mud. He was also partly propping himself up with a cane, its silver tip having collected a similar muddy cladding. Jocund ought to have recognised the lanky top-hatted figure immediately.

“YOU!” he fumed. Frankly he didn’t have a clue what was going on. He just knew he was angry instead of scared witless and he was more than willing to give the anger a whirl. Fear had already had more than a fair run.

“Now, before you go jumping to any foolish conclusions, permit me to help you out of there,” said Lantisilio. He leaned forward, extending a hand.

Jocund wasn’t furious enough to decline an offer of help. He clasped the gloved hand and allowed himself to be assisted towards the vertical.

“Where were you?!” he demanded, once standing face to face with his partner.

“I was right here.” Lantisilio gestured calmly to the left of the grave. “When our culprit there showed up, I thought it expedient to let him dig you out.” He nodded to indicate a point behind Jocund’s head.

Jocund was suddenly aware of a ragged panting from that direction and realised that what he had taken to be the warm night air or possibly his skin flushed with anger, was in fact the wash of hot breath at his neck.

He gulped. And whimpered. And slowly turned his head.

A cold damp canine nose brushed his own.

Jocund squeaked and backed up into Lantisilio. “It’s all right. I don’t believe he’s aggressive.”

From his improved distance, Jocund was treated to a better view of their foe. Where he had expected drool-dripping fangs and a fiery glare, he found shining friendly eyes, a perky pair of ears and a sleek doggy face above a fluffy bib of white fur. Despite the tangles and copious flakes of dirt that had worked their way into the fur, it also had the prettiest patchy coat of browns, tans and black on top of the white. It sat at the head of the grave, its head cocked to one side as it appraised him, apparently not the least bit fazed by a staring jester.

“If anything,” added Lantisilio with a sigh, “he’s insufferably friendly.” The laird proceeded to clamber out of the grave.

Jocund stayed put. Still staring.

One of the other things that struck him about the dog was its diminutive stature. Even with Jocund standing in a hole in the ground, it singularly failed to tower over him. He watched as the dog lost interest in him and padded over to sit in front of Lantisilio. Lantisilio ignored the animal and set about dusting down his coat and tapping his shoes with his cane.

The dog gazed lovingly up at his indifference, its flappy pink tongue lolling from between its smiling jaws.

“It’s a collie,” observed Jocund, his mood in stark contrast with the dog’s. “A pint-sized collie.”

“A Sheltie, I think you’ll find.” He shot the creature a sidelong glance and seemed displeased to find it still fixating on him. “I wish it would refrain from staring at me so. Its eyes go right through you, don’t you find?”

“Oh, so you have an aversion to dogs as well as menial labour, do you?” Jocund hauled himself up out of the grave. The doggie noted his movements but refused to be distracted for too long from Lantisilio. At least somebody liked the fellow right then. “So, remind me again, you thought you’d let this thing dig me out. And you think this is our culprit, do you?”

Lantisilio nodded. “In the absence of any other – ” He broke off, as though reluctant to utter the next word. But after a moment’s struggling for an alternative, he relented. “Leads,” he finished.

“And how was he, bless his little cotton paws, going to open the lid of the coffin exactly?”

“Perhaps I should have allowed him to continue. I fear now we shall never find out.” Lantisilio examined his shoes unhappily. Then gave the ground an emphatic prod with his cane. “The fact remains, we dug a fresh grave – and this specimen was the only individual who took the bait and fell for our cleverly laid trap.”

Jocund looked down at the animal. It turned its bright, hopeful eyes on him.

“Appearances can be deceptive,” Lantisilio pointed out. “For all we know, this creature could be some form of lycanthropic monstrosity.”

“A were-collie?”

“I am reasonably certain it’s a Sheltie.”

“Either way, it doesn’t look overly supernatural.” It really was such a cute little dog, Jocund would have been amazed if appearances ever managed to be that deceptive. “It’s probably just some random dog that happens to hang out at the graveyard from time to time. I’ve heard tales of dogs who return to their masters’ gravesides.”

“Hmm.” Lantisilio studied the animal warily. “It could be. Yes. And perhaps it developed a habit for digging up the remains of the departed.”

“I don’t know. I realise you’re the one with the powers of detection here, but there’s still the question of the coffin lids. I’m sure the little beggar could have clawed his way through my knocked-together bits of packing crate eventually, but old Mortimus Kandinsky would have been buried in the finest oak and securely sealed to keep anyone from thieving his pocket watch or whatever jewellery he had himself buried with. ”

Lantisilio raised a sagacious finger. “If the puzzle fails to make sense, it merely means we are still missing a piece.”

Jocund grabbed his hat from the pole and snapped the thread loose. “If this little doggie is a part of our puzzle, I will eat this.” He gave the hat a good shake, noting with some satisfaction that the bells rang as clear and true as ever and still had the power to annoy his partner.

Unfortunately, they also proved an attraction for the dog. Leaping up in lively fashion, it sunk its teeth into the hat and backed up, pulling and growling in an effort to instigate a game of tug-of-war. “Hey! Let go, you mongrel!”

Jocund’s attempts to yank his hat free only served to encourage the animal. It growled and pulled some more, loving every minute of the game. The resulting jingles added to the fun.

“See what I mean,” observed Lantisilio. “Insufferably friendly.”

Jocund looked at his poor hat, getting all scrunched up and stretched and soaked in canine drool. And he realised he would love nothing more than to find out that this beast was indeed the culprit behind the grave-robbing.

“All right,” he said, trying to tug his hat in different directions to fool the dog into letting it go, “what do you suggest we do next?”

“Once you are done playing your games, I would propose we go for a walk. At some point the dog will be sure to part company with us and head for wherever it calls home…”

“And then?”

“We shall track it to its lair.”

***

There were many things, in Jocund’s experience, that were easier said than done. Tracking a ‘beast’ to its lair when it refused to leave your side was one of them.

For the rest of the morning, the patter of its paws accompanied Jocund’s bells wherever they roamed. After numerous attempts to shoo it away, Lantisilio proposed that they go about their intended business and pretend it wasn’t ‘dogging their every step’. Eventually, he was convinced, it would tire of their company and wander off. At which point, they would discreetly turn about and follow it.

So they paid a visit to the carpenter to return the hammer and collect Jocund’s coat. And the dog was still there. They called in for a spot of bread and ale, which was all Lantisilio could afford in the way of breakfast, at the Spoon & Badger. And the dog was still with them. Jocund put down his mug of ale on the floor in the hope that a whiff of that would drive the animal away. The dog stayed. But didn’t touch the ale. Outside and resuming their walk about town, Jocund rooted around in one of the alleys for a bit of wood and threw it down the street, suggesting as soon as the animal scooted off that they run and duck out of sight around the nearest corner. The dog ran right back to them and dropped the stick at their feet, waiting to play some more.

Lantisilio scowled. “It followed the sound of your blasted bells.”

Jocund decided to give the game of fetch another go, this time tossing the stick high and long over the roof of a row of cottages so that it landed somewhere in a back street. He and Lantisilio watched the dog scamper eagerly away, then crept down the lane beside the Quail & Galleon, a more reputable drinking establishment than the Spoon & Badger. They hid themselves behind a cluster of barrels.

“A fine throw,” Lantisilio commended him in a whisper, “but ideally we needed to keep the thing in sight. If this succeeds we may have our work cut out for us trailing the creature.”

“Oops,” said Jocund. He hadn’t thought about that. “Sorry.”

The point was soon rendered moot, however, by the return of the dog with the stick. Dropping the wood at their feet, it hung its tongue out and panted energetically.

Jocund and Lantisilio stood, exchanging despairing looks.

The furrows piled up above Lantisilio’s brow and he tapped his fingers at his chin. “Wait now. If the creature grasps the principles of a simple game of fetch, perhaps it also understands a few basic commands.”

“It doesn’t grasp principles. It grasps the stick.”

“At this point, anything is worth a try,” insisted Lantisilio. He straightened himself, standing tall over the dog and pointed dramatically in front of him. “Home, boy! Home!”

And the dog was up on its feet, about-facing and scurrying off down the street.

The chase, apparently, was on.

***

As thrilling chases went, their pursuit of the miniature collie – or Sheltie, as Lantisilio would have it – lacked tension and excitement, mainly because the dog would insist on stopping and turning to make sure they were keeping up. Down main streets they raced, across the city’s famous Bridge of Hiccoughs and through several of the snaking avenues of the Artisans’ Quarter. At least in the latter area of town nobody was up yet, so there were no pedestrians or other traffic to impede their progress. Before long, the little dog led them into a large garden that fronted one of a dozen once-grand rowhouses, now all fallen into disrepair. The garden itself was little more than a patch of waste ground, bare except for a few scruffy tufts of grass, small piles of bricks, wood, pipe and roof tiles – and a solitary willow looking all withered and destitute in the corner.

Over to this tree the dog scampered and under its sparse shade he started to dig.

“What on earth could he be trying to show us?” said Lantisilio archly. “Or should I say, what under the earth?”

“This is ridiculous.” Jocund gestured at the busy little excavator. “There is no way – ”

But they were walking over to see the hole for themselves and Jocund could already see what the dog had unearthed in his modest but hastily fashioned pit.

Bones. Dozens upon dozens of bones.

And every indication of more embedded deeper in the soil. A veritable trove of buried treasure, Jocund was sure, from a canine point of view.

Even so, Jocund had to shake his head. “No,” he insisted. “It’s just not possible. How could he have opened the lids of all those coffins?”

Lantisilio frowned at the remains as the dog, apparently happy with his presentation, sat back as though awaiting their verdict. The laird massaged his jowls and crouched down for a closer examination.

Jocund looked at the dog, then turned away to scan up and down the stretch of street beyond the garden railing. It had been a quiet enough route from the graveyard and at night any similar route would have been devoid of life. So it might well have been possible for an industrious pup to ferry the bones of the deceased back and forth between the cemetery and this private stash. But the question of the coffin lids remained the stumbling block. To say nothing of the issue of the skin and flesh. Where had all that gone? A big fat Hellhound might have feasted on the meat, but somehow Jocund didn’t think this miniature collie could have snarfed as many bodies as had gone missing.

Of the dog’s involvement, he could have no doubts now. But there had to be more to this than met the eye. The dog must have had some assistance – perhaps a master. Some mysterious figure whose nature might even explain the alleged sighting of Mortimus Kandinsky in the market place.

Jocund sighed. And to think he had entertained the foolish notion that they might actually have been closing in on the solution to this case. “I think we’re going to have to dig deeper,” he said.

“Well now,” said Lantisilio, his thoughts almost sounding like they were disappearing down into the little dog’s freshly dug hole. Down amongst the bones. “What have we here..?”

Jocund turned to look. And Lantisilio was indeed peering down amongst the bones – quite intently – but the little pooch immediately obscured Jocund’s view by diving in and nuzzling around in there. In moments, the bright-eyed canine was up out of the hole and depositing a shiny gold object on the ground right at Lantisilio’s feet.

Jocund took a step closer and stooped slightly to study the artefact. It was Mortimus Kandinsky’s prized pocket watch. There could be no mistaking it. Old Mortimus was always taking it out with a flourish and making a big show of scrutinising the time whenever he had felt Jocund had outstayed his welcome.

The dog panted eagerly, his tongue hanging out and his tail wagging. Like he was waiting for something. Lantisilio stood, ignoring the animal, but the movement prompted the dog to perk up as though in expectation of action.

In fact, exactly like it was hoping for another game of fetch.

“Wait,” said Jocund, thinking back to his first look in the hole. “All I saw in there was bones and dirt.” He saw it in his mind again and he was more sure of it. He looked at the dog. It looked at the watch and up at Lantisilio. Lantisilio backed away a pace. Jocund eyed his laird with darkening suspicion. “Did you just drop that in there?”

“I did not. What are you talking about?”

Lantisilio’s reply was too quick off the cuff, flying too hastily off the neatly starched fabric. The laird seemed intent on a close study of his fingers, even though they were encased in his fine gloves.

Jocund was convinced of a number of things at once. One, that the dog had fetched and returned the watch. Two, that therefore Lantisilio had tossed the watch in there. Three, that there was only one place Lantisilio could have obtained that watch. And four, that it followed that Lantisilio had another profession he could add to his extensive curriculum vitae.

Grave robber.

Strange though he was, Jocund had begun to develop a measure of respect and admiration for Lantisilio Gogogoch. Now he could only stare, no longer sure what to make of the gentleman standing under the willow.

Willow willow willow.

Fun & Bones – Part Seven

“I have to hand it to you. This is a truly lunatic scheme.”

It was high praise indeed. A gentleman of such broad experience as Lantisilio must have encountered some real doozies when it came to lunacy, so the fact that Jocund had managed to impress him was something. The sun had risen a little more since Jocund had first announced his idea and Jocund had risen too, both to enable some pacing around in a determined manner and to dry off his dew-dampened trousers. Lantisilio stood statue-straight, propping himself up with his cane as though the weight of Jocund’s revelation necessitated the extra support. His (grave) concern was touching and in danger of putting Jocund off the whole idea.

“Are you sure you wouldn’t care to give the matter some more thought?”

“No, no,” said Jocund. “I’ve thought about it more than I care to think about. Now is the time for action. We’ll need shovels.”

Lantisilio coughed lightly into his gloved hand. “Quite apart from the madness of the scheme, I feel I should remind you that lairds do not engage in menial labour.”

“All right then. One shovel.” Jocund put on a smile the way he would sometimes put on a flouncy and ludicrously colourful cravat to brighten his mood on days that didn’t look to be boding well. “I should be able to get it dug by nightfall. Doesn’t need to be especially deep. I think the depth of a grave should be inversely proportionate to the amount of life left in the occupant.”

“Perhaps while you are digging you might unearth the marbles you appear to have misplaced.”

“Now, now.” Jocund wagged a finger. “I need your whole-hearted support. I’ll be counting on you, remember.”

“An awful lot,” admitted Lantisilio. “I am flattered at the trust you place in me – and you have my assurances I will not fail you. But…” Words appeared to desert him for a while. “It’s no use, I must still shake my head at the lunacy of it all.”

“But do you think it’ll work?”

Jocund watched the subtle shift of thoughts play across Lantisilio’s features. A speculative arch of an eyebrow, a twitch of uncertainty at the lip, a grudging concession in the eyes. “It might. But we might also avail ourselves of some bones – perhaps some off-cuts from the butcher’s – and bury those and achieve the same results.”

“I thought about that,” Jocund nodded. He had in fact considered every possible alternative up to and including running away. True to say, he hadn’t thought about the meat option for too long because he just ended up picturing the joints and salivating at the prospect of a lovely stew. But through the hunger he had also come up with some valid reasons as to why it wasn’t a viable alternative. “Scraps of meat and bone won’t be able to alert us to the culprit’s presence. With this scheme of mine, you will be able to remain out of sight, while I will be able to sound the alarm and bring you running as soon as he – or it – strikes.” Jocund sighed. Now he was doing the ‘or it’ business. “I’ll be ready to tackle him from a completely unexpected quarter and you will be able to pounce from above. Between us, we’ll have him trapped.”

Lantisilio let his fingers perform a little tap-dance on his chin. “When you express it with such confidence, I am tempted to believe in our chances of success.”

“Exactly! That’s the spirit!” That was more the sort of stuff Jocund needed to hear. He decided he could use some more and it couldn’t hurt to supply it himself. “And if our mysterious grave robber doesn’t show, well, I’ll at least be able to tell Lusilda what I was willing to do on her behalf. You know, like you say, maybe it’s time I let her know more about my true self. Actually, it’d probably come over better if you told her. I wouldn’t want to sound like I’m bragging.”

“Quite.” Lantisilio gave the ground a decisive poke with his cane. “In any case, that would all be in the event of our failure. Perhaps if we are to proceed with this insanity, we had best focus on a successful outcome. So let us make our preparations. We will need, as you say, a shovel. And we will also need a coffin.” He moved to set off, then stopped and turned to face Jocund again. “I confess to some mild curiosity. Does the prospect of confinement in such a receptacle bother you?”

“No, claustrophobia’s not a problem. My old dad used to get me squeezed into all sorts of boxes for his tricks. The sawing-his-son-in-half act was always a crowd-winner.” Jocund smiled fondly at the memory. It was more much-needed heartening against the formidable reservations warming up in the other corner. “No, it’s the idea of lying there at the thing’s mercy when he pops that lid. That’s what worries me most. I mean, I’m hoping I’ll be a bigger surprise for him. But, ah,” he swallowed on the lump in his throat, “I will be relying on you to swoop swiftly in to the rescue, so to speak.”

“I will be there at the first ringing of your bells,” Lantisilio promised him. “If only to put a stop to that infernal jingling.”

The humour was another welcome spur. Jocund decided he would let Lantisilio continue to do the jokes until this dread business was concluded.

***

Jocund waited in the cramped darkness. He could feel the coffin lid, bare inches from his nose. So close he was gripped by a sudden irrational fear of splinters when the thought struck him, What if he should sneeze? Get a grip, he told himself, and filed the fear away with the stack of others.

He was boxed. Trapped. Buried.

But everything was set. I’m the trap, he reminded himself. Come and rob this grave, if you dare, he taunted the unknown bodysnatcher with forged bravery that, frankly, would never hold up to scrutiny. The wood creaked at his slightest movement and threatened to reduce him to whimpers. But he knew he had to remain silent and still, no matter what.

Cushions would have helped. He should have fitted his coffin out with cushions.

As it was they had done well to obtain a casket. Lantisilio admitted to being in possession of a few coins, but he proposed that they reserve those for other essentials such as food. “You are going to need sustenance,” he had declared, “what with all the excavation work you will be doing.” And, as it turned out, a spot of amateur carpentry had been required too, when Lantisilio suggested making use of some of the materials they had chanced upon in the alleyways the day before. So after breaking up a few happy rat homes, Jocund had found himself laden with armfuls of wood and having to reassemble several packing crates into a crude coffin. He hadn’t been enamoured with the notion of doing it all on the cheap, but cheap amounted to extravagant living when times were this hard. Some of Lantisilio’s coin had to be spent on nails and they managed to secure the loan of a hammer from a local craftsman, with Jocund eventually being persuaded to leave his coat as guarantee of the tool’s return. “You won’t be needing it,” Lantisilio had explained. “There would be too great a danger of telltale chimes from within the box. And this way your coat will be in safe-keeping.” There was some comfort in the fact that, for the time being, Jocund was able to retain his hat – they would need it for later. And its bells were a constant source of jingly music, jollying him along all afternoon as he dug his own grave.

For sustenance, Lantisilio’s money had stretched to a jug of cider and a pasty. And Jocund would have filled up handsomely if the cemetery caretaker hadn’t appeared, looking for the shovel that had gone missing from his shed and threatening to call the law unless they offered some payment for the use of his equipment. Half a pasty sufficed, but Jocund was sorry to see it go.

Still, he was spurred on by thoughts of Lusilda and the selfless way in which Lantisilio offered to forego his share of the pasty in favour of ‘the workers’. It was at this point that Jocund felt obliged to remind him that he would have to chip in with the hard work when it came to the burying. True to form, Lantisilio went to fetch the caretaker to hire his services. For half a jug of cider, the man was bought. It spoke highly of Lantisilio’s negotiating skills, as well as of the extent of his aversion to menial labour.

More than once, Jocund questioned his own wisdom in entrusting his life to the gentelman. He decided he would hold onto the contract while ‘entombed’.

Planting a stick by the graveside, Jocund bid his hat au revoir then mounted it on the crude pole, running a length of thread – donated to the cause by Jocund’s longjohns – from the hat to the inside of the coffin. They had fastened a rusty length of drainpipe to one side of the coffin and cut a hole in the lid to fit around it. The caretaker had instructions to camouflage the top end of the pipe with flowers, but not under any circumstances to clog the opening. All that remained was for Jocund to climb in and lie back, clutching the thread and hopes of a similarly thin construction, as Lantisilio set the lid in place. “If you need me, just ring,” he said, before shutting out the daylight, which was already fading to dusk.

Then, in darkness, Jocund had listened to the thump thump thump of dirt – like Death knocking – on the ceiling of his new home. The noise grew steadily dulled and distant, the muffled voices of the caretaker and Lantisilio receding farther and farther away.

Jocund idled away some of the time with a few tum-tee-tums and diddle-dee-diddles until he heard word of advice from Lantisilio, sounding all tinny and sinister as it was funnelled down the pipe, telling him to be quiet. Jocund carried on humming and singing in his head.

It was a long, lonely wait. And no matter how merry the tunes he played among his thoughts, they always somehow took on a dirge-like quality.

Dum dum dum dum.

He considered tugging on the thread and giving his hat a test-jingle. But he realised he had completely lost track of how much time had passed and sounding the bells at this stage could bring Lantisilio running prematurely. Then all this would have been for nothing.

Then he panicked, thinking, what if he rang the bells and Lantisilio came running but couldn’t bring himself to dirty his hands with the onerous job of digging him up? He didn’t imagine the caretaker would hang around very long, not for half a pasty and half a jug of cider.

Jocund closed his hand tight around the thread. He wanted out, badly.

This was nothing like hiding all scrunched up in one of his father’s trick boxes. There was no comforting rasp of his father’s saw, for starters.

Travelling down the pipe came the sound of rasping breath.

It was all Jocund could do not to whimper.

He could hear padding footsteps. Or maybe he just imagined he could hear steps. The panting breaths were loud in the pipe, hollow and inhuman. Immediately, Jocund pictured the werewolf of Lantsisilio’s theories and he could feel something like rigor mortis setting in.

Then the digging began. Quick scuffing sounds as the panting accelerated.

Scuff scuff scuff. Huff huff huff. Scuff scuff. Huff huff. Huff scuff huff scuff.

Jocund yanked on the thread. The bells jingled as though from some flying sleigh, soaring high above. Miles and miles away.

The scuffing stopped. The stillness was broken only the creature’s ragged breaths.

Silence.

Jocund strained to listen.

Then the beast was at it again.

Huff scuff huff scuff huff scuff.

Growing louder and louder. Closer. Digging down, down.

Jocund rang the bells again. Ching-a-ling-a-ling-a-ling-a-chingle!

Huffscuffhuffscuffhuffscuffhuffscuffhuffscuff.

Where was Lantisilio?!

Ching-a-LING-a-CHING!

The creature’s scuffs were developing into thuds. Soon it would be knocking on the lid.

Suddenly, crowding in on him along with the crushing fear came the sheer scale of just how dumb his plan had been.

Dum dum dum dum.

Fun & Bones – Part Six

The thought of Mortimus Kandinsky walking around was enough to send chills down Jocund’s spine, before robbing him of it altogether. For a while, he was mute as well as an invertebrate, his mind plagued with images of an undead father forbidding him from having anything to do with his daughter and visiting all kinds of supernatural horribleness on him if he dared venture anywhere near her. Jocund glanced at the door, wondering if he should vacate the premises immediately.

But no, Lusilda was clearly distraught and he could not desert his love in her time of need.

Lantisilio, who had presumably never had the ‘pleasure’ of meeting Mortimus and hence had never developed a healthy fear of the man, had the presence of mind to question Lusilda and even surprised Jocund with the delicacy with which he phrased his inquiries.

“Forgive me, my lady, if I trespass upon your feelings, I must inquire as to the details of this encounter. Could it not have been a shadow of your dear father?” He softened his tone further. “We are accustomed to glimpsing our recently departed loved ones sometimes, out of the corner of our eye. Our wishes can paint them quite vividly upon the air.”

Lusilda studied him thoughtfully, but she was already shaking her head before he had finished. “No, no, no. We saw him in broad daylight. Clear as you are standing there.”

“’We?’” prodded Lantisilio gently.

“Myself and my maid, Mrs Poultice. Vera and I were taking a turn around the market, looking for new fabrics.” She tugged at a couple of folds in her skirt. “She insists on fashioning me a new gown for when I feel able to dispense with this black.”

“Indeed. If we might move on from the purpose of your shopping expedition to the, ah, heart of the matter…”

Jocund felt Lantisilio was veering away from gentle prodding and straying into poking territory there. “Tell us in your own time, my love,” he said, pleased to have rediscovered his voice at last.

“Well,” said Lusilda, casting her gaze to one side, as though watching the scene replaying somewhere in the vicinity of the drinks cabinet. “The first I knew, Vera had turned white as a sheet. I recall it clearly because she was examining a length of Prussian blue silk at the time and the contrast was quite striking. She gasped like the air had turned to ice in her throat. Her eyes went as wide and white as snow globes and she pointed. I turned – and I saw him. Striding between the stalls, his head down, his cape flapping behind him. He was in such a devilish hurry. At first I thought he was hastening towards me. To embrace me. My heart – it soared with hope, but at the same time turned deathly cold in my breast.”

Jocund listened with horrified fascination, distracted only at the end when she mentioned her breast. Hastily purifying his thoughts, he searched her gaze and endeavoured to get back on track with an inquiry of his own. “Did he perhaps rush on through you then? Like a ghost?”

He wasn’t sure whether a ghost would be any preferable to a werewolf. But at least – presumably – they couldn’t claw you and if a case of the shivers was the worst they could do, well, he reasoned he could cure that with a stiff whisky. Fight spirits with spirits, was his motto. Even if, technically, he had just adopted it that second.

“No.” Lusilda shook her head and her eyes hinted of a wish that it had been a mere ghost that she’d seen. “He bumped into poor Mrs Poultice. I don’t think he could have been looking where he was going. And that was so unlike Papa. You remember, Jocund, that prowling way he had about him when he was out walking.”

“Yes,” confirmed Jocund, not wanting to speak ill of the dead but thinking that if the dead couldn’t stay that way then maybe he should be free to speak his mind. “Yes I do. He, erm, always seemed to be on the lookout for whoever might come up to talk to him. Warning them not to bother. Beggars, urchins, jesters, those sorts.”

“Please, Jocund.”

“I am sorry, my dear one. I meant no disrespect.” Jocund dipped into an especially deep bow.

The door opened and old Alloes appeared. “You rang, my lady?”

“Um, no, Alloes,” said Lusilda, with a glance at Jocund’s still tinkling hat, “but I suppose now would be a good time to serve tea.” She looked to her guests. “If both of you would care to join me.”

Alloes regarded his lady’s guests so sourly that Jocund would have been determined to stay on principle, even if his stomach hadn’t been rumbling at the prospect of refreshments.

“None for me, thank you,” said Lantisilio with a courteous tilt of the head. He tapped his temple with a long gloved finger. “I must take care not to over-stimulate the grey cells.”

Huh, thought Jocund. He didn’t see why he should have to miss out just because his partner had passed up the invitation. He noticed Alloes already working on his aloof ‘Let me show you to the door’ routine.

“Personally,” he said, “I could murder a cuppa and a few biscuits.”

***

“I’m feeling quite ill,” confessed Jocund, a hand on his unhappy stomach as they walked down the garden path from Lusilda’s house. At the gate, he paused and steadied himself.

“Colour me unsurprised.” Apparently the real reason Lantisilio had declined the offer of tea was that his cup already ranneth over with sympathy. He tapped his cane on the road, apparently impatient to be getting a move on. “All that rich buttery shortbread.”

“When times are hard, you have to accept any food that’s offered.”

“You could have paced yourself. Slipped some in your pocket for later.”

Jocund mimed a gasp. “And what if Lusilda had seen me doing that?” He glanced back at the windows of the house, in case she might be looking out at them even now. “How would that have looked?”

Lantisilio tossed out an almost melancholy sigh and seemed to watch it whisked away by the breeze. “I sometimes wonder if we wouldn’t get further in society with honesty than we do with maintaining appearances. But, I suppose it is not the way of the world.”

“What are you harping on about?” Jocund experimented with standing straight, but no, his stomach seemed to prefer the slightly bent position.

“Take a look at you, for example. You are so desperately in love with this young lady you are anxious to conceal your true self – and your true circumstances – from her at all costs.”

“Yes, well,” Jocund contended, “my circumstances amounted a stomach as empty as my purse. And now I’ve made a change in the right direction. Next up, the purse.”

Somewhere along the stream, ducks quacked. Lantisilio scanned the fading daylight. “I am tempted at this juncture to caution against enriching your purse as rapidly as you did your stomach, but I will resist. If we are to earn our pay, I suppose we can postpone our graveyard vigil no longer.”

“Hmm.” Jocund was of the opinion that a stakeout in the cemetery would be the last thing likely to settle his digestion. But he also knew his partner was right. Easing himself through the gate, he pulled it closed and courageously let go of its support. “Come on then. I think we can afford a leisurely stroll there. No sense in rushing.”

“Indeed.”

They set off walking, Lantisilio considerately reining in his long strides so as to give Jocund’s shuffling gait a chance of keeping up. Street traffic was thinning with the steadily fading daylight and the nearer they approached the graveyard the more they had the world to themselves. And anyway, for reasons best known to himself, Lantisilio was choosing the less-travelled avenues and alleyways. For Jocund’s part, he was all in favour of seeing more of any city or town, away from the more obvious sights and attractions, but didn’t know that it ought to include the backstreets where people put out their rubbish.

Something scurried out of their path, burrowing under a pile of straw and broken packing crate. “Can we not take one of the more well-lit streets? Well, a lit one,” suggested Jocund. “We’re disturbing the rats at their dinner.”

“Our destination will be darker and less welcoming than any of these neglected thoroughfares. Think of this as acclimatisation.”

Hmm, thought Jocund. The fact that there was some method to the fellow’s madness didn’t seem to make him any less mad. Oh well, he – Jocund – was the jester here, so he supposed it was down to him to brighten their spirits and boost their morale. His embattled innards were making the task more of a challenge than usual, but he figured he ought to give it a try. Even if it felt like clutching at a handful of that rat’s bedding.

“At least,” he declared, grateful for the slender ray of optimism that finally broke through his despondency, “in the spirit of being grateful for small mercies, Lusilda’s encounter puts the kybosh on your werewolf theory.”

“Not necessarily. It complicates things, certainly.” Jocund hoped Lantisilio was as adept at dispatching monsters as he was at slaying silver linings. “But what if, for example, we are dealing with a werewolf and Mortimus Kandinsky was infected by a bite shortly before his demise? Perhaps he was seen in daylight in his human form.”

“Well, he was a bit of an old misanthrope when he was alive, so I guess it’s not that big a leap to lycanthrope. But I didn’t think werewolves rose from the dead after they were buried.”

Lantisilio shrugged.

Jocund stared. “What’s that supposed to mean?” It had looked an awful lot like it meant ‘How should I know?’

“While I can modestly claim an encyclopaedic knowledge of a number of subjects, courtesy of my many and varied professions in life, I must own that I have never encountered such supernatural creatures. Nor have I had cause to research the related lore.” He tipped his hat. “Thus I must bow to your superior expertise in these matters.”

“I don’t know anything either. Only what I’ve read in tales. Which reminds me – that cane isn’t tipped with silver by any chance, is it? Just in case.”

“It is, as a matter of fact. But if a werewolf should appear, I am unlikely to attempt to stab it with my cane. I’m sorry if that causes you any disappointment. I would probably do better to throw it and shout ‘Fetch!’”

“I. Do. The. Jokes,” insisted Jocund.

Although when he gave it some more thought, it was fair to say that, with his ailing tum and an impending visit to the cemetery, he wasn’t going to be in the mood for comedy for some little while.

***

Other than Jocund and Lantisilio, darkness was the only living thing in the graveyard and it did not thank them for their presence. Had Jocund not seen the sunset, he would have suspected that the night had risen, vampire-like, from a bed beneath one of these sombre stones to spread his black wings across the land. Glumly, he wondered why he couldn’t muster up a joke or two instead of all this lyrical waxing with which he was managing to creep himself out even further.

The night had no need of his help on that score. The moon had drawn a veil of cloud across her face, afraid to witness whatever was to occur in this unearthly patch of earth. Shadows prowled like beasts between the headstones and the breeze rasped over the graveyard walls like dead men’s snores. The cold was probably half-imagined, but it wormed its way into his bones to quiver and wriggle. Jocund had already pulled his coat as tight around his shoulders as possible and with every passing minute he fought a determined fight against the shivers, not least because his colleague had forbidden any jingling on pain of some unspecified severe consequences.

Misery loved company, so they said. All Jocund had in that department was Lantisilio.

It was going to be a long night. Jocund’s best hope was that it continued to be a lonely one…

***

“Wake up!”

Alarm bells clamoured all around and the ground shook. Jocund opened his eyes and saw Lantisilio’s grim features looming over him.

The man’s hand was clamped around Jocund’s arm and was rocking him from side to side. “Wake up!” he said again, through gritted teeth. Jocund blinked. Around Lantisilio’s top hat was a halo of blue sky. It was morning. A jingle-jangle morning, as it happened.

“What – what happened?”

“Other than you falling asleep?” Lantisilio released his grip and Jocund’s coat and hat bells subsided into a gentle tinkling. “Nothing.”

“Oh.” Jocund sat up. “Seriously?”

“Many a true word is spoken in jest. These are not.” Lantisilio’s tone turned as dry as old leaves. “Grass swayed in the breeze. Owls hooted. Clouds scudded by overhead. I dare say, various activities were afoot in the town throughout the night, no matter the hour. But in the immediate vicinity and as pertains to our investigation, nothing occurred.”

“Oh.”

Jocund’s first feeling was one of relief, both at the news that nothing had happened and that he had ‘missed out’ on what sounded like a long and tedious vigil. Boredom was in some respects worse than fear. Although, to be honest, he knew he would feel otherwise when life next gave him cause to be afraid. But in any case his next thoughts were born of an odd sort of disappointment. Even a measure of dismay. On the one hand, the longer he could put off an encounter with any supernatural horror the better, but on the other hand it meant a protracted mystery, no reward from the mayor and more fretting for his beloved over the fate of her father’s remains.

“What now then? More of the same tonight? Wait until something does happen?”

Lantisilio looked as keen on that proposal as Jocund felt. “I am unsure if that would do us any good. It occurred to me that some crucial element was missing last night that has been common to every night he or it has struck previously. The very thing that might draw him – or it – to this place.”

“I’m all ears,” said Jocund, with a nervous sensation that he was about to be all jelly when he heard Lantisilio’s next words. He’d already made a good start with his insistence on using ‘or it’ at every opportunity.

“No fresh grave,” said the laird.

Jocund was beset with more alarm bells, albeit this time they were all in his head. He gulped. It didn’t help that the air he swallowed would probably have to count as breakfast for today.

“Well, we can’t just wait for someone else to pop their clogs.” He gestured at the view of the town arrayed below them, looking especially sleepy and idyllic in the dream-like morning haze.

Then Jocund had an idea.

It was one of those ideas he immediately wished he could put back. He knew he wasn’t thinking straight and it was a product of a hunger-addled mind, but it kept telling him that it might just work and that anyway it wasn’t going away until he had a hearty meal that didn’t involve buttery biscuits.

And Jocund knew with the certainty of the hard and slightly damp ground under his buttocks, that there would be scant chance of that any time soon.

“I have an idea,” he owned up. And gulped again. When breakfast was that cheap, there could be no harm in seconds.

“I’m not going to like this, am I?” said Lantisilio warily.

“Not half as much as I don’t.”

Jocund knew that once the words were out he was going to go through with the plan and he could feel his heart sinking already.

Down a down down, down down down.

Fun & Bones – Part Five

Jocund was still wrestling with the werewolf theory – and even though he had beefed up his muscles considerably in his imagination he was still losing – when he happened to look down again at the prints in the mud. The spread of the toes shored up his courage and he only wondered why he hadn’t noticed it before. “Aren’t they a bit small for a werewolf?”

“Perhaps a werewolf pup then,” Lantisilio speculated. “Strength would not necessarily be commensurate with size. Either way, we must tread carefully.” His eyes revolved unexpectedly to fix on something past Jocund’s shoulder. He frowned, as though watching someone approach.

“Haha!” parried Jocund, still trying to make up for his embarrassing defeat at the hands – or claws – of an imaginary werewolf. “You’re not getting me with that old ‘Behind you!’ trick.”

“What trick? There is a child approaching.”

“Right. You just happen to offer up this mad theory of a werewolf pup and lo and behold, some ‘young cub’ comes stalking towards us in broad daylight. I’ve got to hand it to you for trying, Lantisilio, old friend, but your merry japes would stand a better chance in the dark.”

Jocund felt a tug at his sleeve. “Oi, mister.”

He spun around, half expecting to find a pug at his sleeve. Instead there was a snotty-nosed, soot-faced urchin. Close. “What is it, sprog?” He was normally good with children, but he was feeling irked that he had fallen for Lantisilio’s crafty double-bluff. Or that he had failed to fall for the laird’s non-existent trick. Or – whatever had just happened.

“Are you Jocund?”

Jocund smiled. He loved getting asked that question. He spread his arms wide and his smile wider. “You be the judge!”

The lad stared up. He curled his lip in a manner that suggested he was about to give Jocund some of it. Instead, he said, “I dint come lookin fer trouble, mister. If yer Jocund Folderol, I was to give you a message, that’s all. Oh, and you was to pay me a shilling.”

“Why you cheeky little whippernapes.” Jocund maintained his smile, but made a pincer of his hand as though threatening to pinch the boy’s ear. “I was to do nothing of the kind.”

“Yes you was! Miss Lusilda, she said you was a kind and gentle soul who’d be sure to give a tip.”

Jocund reeled from the verbal equivalent of a cruel upper cut. Mention of his lady love gave the boy the winning blow. “All right,” he said. He could always prevail upon Lantisilio for a couple of pennies. Call it an advance on his bonus. Then again, he had a better idea. “Let’s hear it then. And I will pay according to the substance of the message and the quality of delivery.”

The boy looked dubious. He wiped his nose on his sleeve. “Awright. The Lady Lusilda Kandinsky begs the pleasure of yer company fer afternoon tea. She has important infermation to impart regarding yer investigation.”

Lantisilio clapped politely. “Bravo.”

Jocund shot him a sideways glare. The boy was beaming, convinced that he’d done a grand job. “A few too many yers and fers for my liking,” said Jocund. But the fact that he had been invited to tea at Lusilda’s softened him to the point that he couldn’t watch the little street-rat’s crestfallen expression any longer. He dug in his pocket and planted a penny in the lad’s hand. “That,” he asserted, “is a magic penny and if you plant it in your back garden, it will grow and grow into a money bush, its branches festooned with shiny pennies.”

“Wow! Fanks, mister!” The lad sprinted off, full of energy and gardening plans.

Lantisilio was looking at Jocund, hard.

“What?” Jocund sighed. He could tell he was going to have to include his laird in the tea invitation. “You can come too. Just, please, don’t mention what occurred here. Ever.”

***

Jocund wanted to skip from cobblestone to cobblestone as he and Lantisilio made their way through the winding Florenberg streets. Lantisilio seemed content to stroll, but Jocund was doing his best to set a keener pace, even at the risk of obliging his beloved to serve afternoon tea a tad earlier than was proper.

His spirits were further spurred by the fact that, as flimsy as the werewolf hypothesis might be, he finally had some progress to report. Clues, evidence. Some hooks on which Lusilda could hang her hopes. And if she only favoured him with a kind word and a gracious smile, well, he would even be able to face a full night’s vigil in the graveyard.

Lantisilio, meanwhile, seemed somewhat less thrilled at the prospect of tea. It was understandable, Jocund supposed, what with his not being in love with their hostess and all.

“Hey, lighten up,” he recommended. “We’re not going to a funeral.”

Lantisilio flashed a paper-thin smile. “Am I to assume that the bounce in your stride is in some way connected with our impending meeting with Miss Kandinsky? She would be the love interest to which you alluded before? Your true love, I take it?”

“Well, I’m not the sort to kiss and tell. And considering we’ve not kissed yet – ”

“Ah, I see. Unrequited. Yes, that can be a potent spur.”

“I’ll have you know she has every intention to requite. There were – hurdles, that’s all.” Actually one hurdle, named Mortimus Kandinsky and known to his lady love as ‘Papa’. But Jocund saw no reason to go into all that just then.

“Well, while I appreciate your ardour, do you know, I examined our contract most thoroughly. All eight clauses. And I found no reference to the fact that I would be required to tolerate your ding-a-linging everywhere.”

“You don’t like it?” Dismayed, Jocund imagined that might eat into his bonuses. “But – it’s what I wear. It’s the traditional costume of my profession, albeit modified. I opted for the longcoat and pantaloons over the tunic and stockings. In the case of the former it was a question of style and temperature – the tunic just wasn’t up to some of the colder climes I’ve travelled.”

“And the latter?”

“Oh, I just find the word ‘pantaloons’ irresistibly funny, I had to wear some.” He danced a jingly jig, proving the entertainment value of his garments and that he could throw in such extra flourishes with ease as they walked along. Lantisilio’s expression was often stern, but Jocund took the man’s current frown as a measure of audience appreciation. Perhaps it was time for one of those rare spells in Jocund’s life: being serious. “Anyway, the ding-a-linging, as you put it, reminds me of the walks I used to take with my dear old dad.”

“Allow me to guess. He was a jester?”

“The very best.” Jocund smiled, remembering fondly all those strolls down country lanes, on the way to his dad’s next ‘gig’. The summers hot enough to melt a couple of wandering minstrels, but such happy times, living off the coins that they found among the other objects that people threw at the close of a show. “‘Bells on his jacket, kazoo up his nose, he shall have music wherever he goes.’”

“One of your father’s compositions?”

Jocund nodded. “His signature song.”

Lantisilio was scowling.

“What? Don’t tell me you didn’t like it?” No answer. The fellow seemed quite prepared to scowl until the penny dropped. “Oh, right. I nodded.”

“Precisely. It’s enough, I think, that I must bear the constant jingle as you walk along. If you try to keep your other movements to a minimum, I promise I will increase your bonus accordingly. Alternatively you may find our next adventure centring around the mystery of the murdered jester, discovered in the street with all his bells surgically removed.”

“Your humour is very dry, you know that? Different enough to mine, I’m tempted to allow you to contribute a few jokes to our partnership.”

“I hope I can match your generosity.”

Jocund wondered if Lantisilio’s humour wasn’t a touch too dry and decided it would be best for both parties if they stuck to the terms of the contract for the time being.

For now, in any case, they had arrived.

An old mill house, abutting a tributary of the main river, its grey stones were ageing gracefully under a thickly knitted shawl of ivy. The garden was charmingly lop-sided, with neatly trimmed hedges and rose-bushes giving way on the right to the wilder vegetation that sprouted all along the banks of the stream. Russet roof-tiles, yellow doors and window frames, white trellises flanking the garden path and a pretty little blue gate added to the general abundance of colour. Hanging clumps of weed clogged the rickety-rackety water-wheel and its yellow paint had peeled extensively, but for Jocund it was all part of the enchantment.

It was quite the loveliest house he knew, not least because of the embodiment of loveliness who waited for them within.

Of course, when they walked up and rang the bell, Jocund remembered that they first had to be greeted by Alloes, the crusty old butler.

***

Alloes welcomed them in his usual grudging manner and stowed them in the drawing-room, telling them to wait right there and advising them against touching any of the ornaments. “I’ve kept a detailed inventory and the master has left everything to the mistress. There’s nothing for jesters.” He looked at Lantisilio, trying to make up his mind exactly what he might be. “Nor their hangers on.”

“Thank you, Alloes. That will be all,” said Jocund, as a civil alternative to what he wanted to say to the old man.

Alloes duly disappeared.

“A fan of yours?” queried Lantisilio, with a nod towards the recently closed door.

“Oh don’t mind him. He’s just carrying on his master’s work.” Jocund slumped in an armchair. Alloes’ disapproval didn’t amount to a bean in the face of true love and a butler would have no say in Lusilda’s choice of courters. Still, the grouch had managed to put the dampers on Jocund’s mood.

His spirits were fully resurrected though, only moments later, when the door opened and Lusilda’s radiant figure bustled into the drawing-room. Jocund stood and bowed and ting-ting-tinged energetically.

Wrapped in her billowing black gown, she was all sobs and rustling crinoline as she rushed forward. She only half-registered Lantisilio’s presence and clasped Jocund’s hands. If not for the tears in her eyes, Jocund might have believed his luck was in, but it was clear that the news that had her in such a state was far from joyous.

“Oh, Jocund,” she cried. “My dear, darling Jocund. I am so glad you came.”

Jocund made every effort to keep things calm and professional, while still treasuring the feel of his hands in hers. “We got your message. We came at once.” Lusilda’s eyes alighted properly on Lantisilio for the first time. “This is Lantisilio Gogogoch. My laird and investigative partner.”

Lantisilio doffed his hat. (Alloes, as part of his campaign to encourage a short stay, had steadfastly neglected to relieve them of any of their outdoor garments in the hallway. Jocund was sure the man didn’t treat all of Lusilda’s guests in such rude fashion, and he knew from experience that it was purely personal.) “At your service, my lady. Might I inquire as to the information you have pertaining to our investigation?”

“Steady on, Lantisilio, old chum.” Jocund covered his partner’s faux pas with an apologetic laugh. “Let’s not be so hasty we forget the common courtesies.”

“Oh, by all means, let us jingle some more and waste time with trifles.”

Lusilda smiled coyly and shied away from Jocund, deciding to clasp her own hands instead. “No, your friend is right, Jocund. We shall come to the tea and pleasantries soon enough. But it is true, there is – something I have to tell you. Something – horrible. Dreadful.”

Jocund’s heart was ready to stop at her next words. If they were anything like ‘I don’t love you’ or ‘I’ve met this other gentleman’, then he was reasonably sure he would drop dead right there on her Fargolian hearth-rug. His one final satisfaction would be the look on Lantisilio’s face as he waited for the last few bells to fall silent.

Lusilda’s stares jumped from Jocund to Lantisilio and back again, her eyes flitting about like frightened birds. She wrung her hands and paced in a very tight spot. Finally, she summoned the strength to speak her terrible revelation.

“My father – he – I saw him. Walking, bold as day, in the marketplace.”

Jocund breathed a massive sigh of relief. Was that all?

Then he thought about it some more.

Fun & Bones: The Story So Far…

Apologies for the break over the Christmas hols. I hope everyone had a great time and here’s to a great New Year for you all. Meanwhile, in advance of continuing our story I thought I should provide an opportunity for a recap.

So here, for your convenience are the links to the previous four installments of the story so far.

Fun & Bones – Part One

Fun & Bones – Part Two

Fun & Bones – Part Three

Fun & Bones – Part Four

Look for the next part early next week and in the meantime, happy reading. And Happy New Year!
SAF 2009

Fun & Bones – Part Four

As long as visitors to the Florenberg Cemetery looked out beyond the walls, there was a spectacular view to be had. Sun splashed piazzas, elegant spires, high greystone and tanned stucco buildings, balconies spilling over with floral displays, capped with a mosaic of baked terra-cotta rooftops. The surrounding hills were crowned with trees and a river curled away down the valley like a shining blue pennant caught in mid-flutter.

The panorama was only marred by the sight of the Town Hall, with its ornate clock tower. It was actually a beautiful building, it just served as a reminder that time was ticking by and somewhere inside the Mayor was brooding darkly over his desk and vowing all manner of punishment on Jocund Folderol if he didn’t come up with results soon.

Inside the walls, the place was grim. The day’s sunshine was doing its best to brighten the scene, but frankly it had its work cut out for it. The grass was recovering its natural springiness, its full quota of green restored, even managing to sparkle here and there with the morning dew. Against that, however, too much of it was still matted and blighted with muddy patches. Most of the headstones had dried off, but it struck Jocund that enough of the recent rains had soaked deep into the granite, ensuring a permanent state of dampness. Flowers hung limp and beaten over the lips of jars and vases, like – well, much like he would look after too many bad ales. Besides which, no matter how much sun the sky poured down on the place, grey remained the predominant colour.

Lantisilio Gogogoch, meanwhile, had narrowed his focus to the exclusion of both the picturesque setting and overall impressions of the graveyard. He patrolled the routes between the open graves, head down and peering intently at the ground, as though scrutinising each blade of grass like they were troops turned out for inspection. Those that didn’t pass muster, he would poke with his cane or crush underfoot as he moved on along the path.

Which, had they actually been troops, would have seemed harsh, but as it was Jocund had to admire the fellow’s thoroughness and the remarkable intensity with which he was applying himself. On the down side, his new laird was so preoccupied that Jocund was starting to feel left out and rather alone. And, day or night, that was an unwelcome feeling when standing in a cemetery.

So, as soon as Lantisilio had stopped at the foot of one of the violated graves, Jocund trotted up to join him.

Lantisilio turned a withering eye on him. “Must you make so much noise?”

“Ask not for whom the bells toll,” quipped Jocund, wagging a profound finger. “They toll for no-one in particular. Tis but a side-effect of motion.”

“Tis an annoyance.” He looked down into the empty coffin, its lid propped open against the side of the pit. Then ran his cane along the scuffed and ragged edges of the hole.

“You – um, don’t find them musical?”

“Perhaps if the chimes were arranged in some sort of order…”

“Haha, that would require a mastery of movement quite beyond my capacity as a humble jester.”

“Quite possibly. But once you had achieved that mastery you might then master keeping still.”

Ouch, thought Jocund. If that was Lantisilio’s idea of a joke, then it was a breach of contract and not a little hurtful. Still, he could tell his newfound partner took the matter of investigation very seriously and that ought to pay dividends when it came to keeping the Mayor happy. On that basis, Jocund figured he could take these little jibes on the chin and let the fellow concentrate.

“Right. Sorry.”

“No matter.” Lantisilio tapped the side of the grave, shaking some of the dirt from his cane. “Fortune is smiling upon us and it seems I have no need of quiet to aid my powers of concentration in this case. The clues are laid out before us, in relatively plain sight.”

“Good!” declared Jocund, ready to celebrate. Then, suddenly less sure as he glanced down and saw nothing but disturbed soil and a vacant hole in the ground. “They are?”

“This grave has been dug very roughly. Not with a shovel or any other similarly precise excavation tool.”

Interesting, thought Jocund. Not least because he had never before heard shovels associated with precision. This Lantisilio was clearly a complex and deep-thinking fellow.

“So, erm, how was it done?”

Lantisilio raised and cupped his hands in front of him, then cycled them rapidly in a kind of doggy paddle fashion.

“Excuse me?” said Jocund, not quite sure he was getting the mime. It seemed to indicate that the digger worked by hand, but he just couldn’t picture any self-respecting grave robber toiling in such a crude way. Unless perhaps he’d set out and forgotten his tools. On one occasion, maybe, he could see that happening, but not every night. Jocund gestured around the cemetery. “Were they all dug the same way?”

“Indeed, from what I have been able to ascertain. Come with me.” Beckoning with a crooked finger, Lantisilio turned and led the way back down the path. “As I feared the rains have washed away a great deal of the evidence and there has been too much general traipsing around in the days since the incidents. But,” he said, coming to a halt at one of the bald patches of earth, “these marks can be found in sufficient proximity to two of our open graves to classify them as significant.”

This time when Jocund looked down, he saw the prints in the mud, pointed out by the tip of Lantisilio’s cane. Paw prints.

“What manner of creature are we dealing with?”

Lantisilio assumed that detectively air that signalled he was about to answer with a question. “What manner of creature would make marks like those and has a taste for bones?”

Jocund was never very good at riddles, but even he fancied he had this one nailed. Despite his confidence, he decided to tag on a question mark, just in case. “A dog?”

“A canine of some description, yes.” Lantisilio finally allowed his gaze to roam beyond the cemetery walls, but Jocund didn’t suppose for one minute he was simply admiring the view.

Meanwhile, there was something about the hypothesis nibbling at the back of his mind.

“Hang on a minute,” he said. “How does a dog lever lids off the coffins?”

“Perhaps our canine of some description is not always in canine form…”

Whereas his doubts had nibbled, his next thought came and bit him, right on the nose:

Werewolf.

It was only a theory. And theories were as insubstantial as ghosts.

Which was probably why Jocund found this one quite scary.

Down-diddly-down.

To Be Continued…