The Strange Casebook Read online

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Syd Moore was a lecturer and a presenter on Pulp, the Channel 4 books programme, before becoming a writer. She is the author of the mystery novels The Drowning Pool and Witch Hunt. The Strange Casebook is part of the Essex Witch Museum series, which includes Strange Magic, Strange Sight and Strange Fascination. The next instalment, Strange Tombs, will be published in 2019. Syd Moore lives in Essex, where her novels are set.

  THE STRANGE

  CASEBOOK

  SYD MOORE

  CONTENTS

  Death Becomes Her

  Snowy

  Madness in A Coruña

  She Saw Three Ships

  Jocelyn’s Story

  The House on Savage Lane

  Acknowledgements

  [definition] Strange/stren(d)/

  Adjective: strange

  1. Unusual or surprising; difficult to understand or explain.

  Comparative adjective: stranger; superlative adjective: strangest

  Synonyms: Odd, curious, peculiar, funny, bizarre, weird, uncanny, queer, unexpected, unfamiliar, abnormal, atypical, anomalous, different, out of the ordinary, out of the way, extraordinary, remarkable, puzzling, mystifying, mysterious, perplexing, baffling, unaccountable, inexplicable, incongruous, uncommon, irregular, singular, deviant, aberrant, freak, freakish, surreal, alien.

  DEATH BECOMES HER

  In between the ebb and the flow, the ceaseless repetitions and rhythms of life, death and destiny stalk us. Scientists, priests, astrologers and mathematicians know this. Stacey Winters knew it too. Though, out of all the cops in the City of London, it would quite probably be true to say, she had the hardest time dealing with death.

  Tonight, off-duty and off-guard, a little too stressed and a touch too garrulous, she had let this truth escape her lips at the station’s Social Club. So now she was being reassured that she wasn’t unique in her reaction to death and decay; that none of her fellow officers had an easy time of it; that each and every policeman and woman, though they may appear untouched by the sight of a corpse, yes, each and every one of them was always shaken by the experience. They didn’t get used to it as such, her colleagues agreed, they just got wise to their reaction. Thus distress became more manageable. Smaller.

  ‘You see,’ said her sergeant, in a confidential whisper, ‘people say that it’s love that separates us from the animals, but it’s not. We can’t be sure of much in life, but we all know we’re going to die. No other species on the planet knows it, right? Dogs don’t. Cats don’t. Just us. And because we know it – we fear it. I don’t know why we’re afraid of a fact,’ her boss continued, ‘but I can give you some advice about what to do with fear. You control it, Stacey. That’s what you do.’

  Sergeant Edwards tapped the side of his nose. ‘Nor can you let death control you or you’ll be no good as a copper. No Stacey, you confront it, face it, stare it straight in the eyes. Overcome it. Not straight off, but gradual-like.’

  But Stacey snorted. She meant to laugh, but it came out down her nose. Quickly she converted it into a cough to spare the sergeant’s blushes.

  Thing was, you didn’t control Death by staring it in the eyes.

  As if.

  She should know: she’d stared it out more times than Sergeant Edwards had had cold shivers. She and The Reaper were practically on first name terms for God’s sake. Death, actually, was the reason she’d joined the Force in the first place – to try and foil it.

  It wasn’t Edwards’ fault that he was oblivious to this, so Stacey shrugged her shoulders, took a large swig of her drink and grimaced, remembering the first time she’d seen Death, way back in the fifth form at High School. She was fifteen and studying Classics. Her teacher, an enthusiastic recent graduate prone to unusual teaching practices, would quite often bring such dusty subjects to life by acting out small tableaux, showing videos, doing quizzes and such. She was brilliant like that, Stacey recalled, quite different to the dry, didactic monologues they were used to. No, Ms Topping, it had to be said, was her favourite. On this particular day, she was instructing the class on Roman attitudes to life and death, describing, rather vividly, the glorious returns of triumphant generals to the city of Rome:

  ‘As they paraded into the city, waving to the cheering crowds from their glittering gold chariots, someone, wearing a death mask and costume, would stand by the generals’ shoulders whispering softly into their ears, “Man, remember you will die,” so that, even at moments of ecstasy, they should be aware of their mortality.’

  At this point, Stacey had looked up to her teacher, spellbound by the young woman’s words, and saw there, at the school mistress’s shoulder, just such a black shade speaking into her ear. She’d clapped her hands and yelped with delight, appreciative of yet another educational stunt. But, instead of the consensual rapt applause that usually followed such a performance, she was met with confused glances and sniggers from the rest of her form. In fact Stacey was then administered a sharp scolding and an instruction to pay attention.

  At break time, convinced of a conspiracy, she tackled her best friend Lizzie. But, no, Lizzie had assured her, she’d seen no such spectre. Stacey was getting carried away.

  The next day, in assembly, there was a disturbing announcement. With red eyes and much agitation their headmistress sadly informed them that Ms Topping had walked out of the playground and straight under the wheels of an articulated lorry.

  Bewildered and confused, Stacey rationalised the apparition: she simply had an overactive imagination. Her mum said it, her dad had said it and her brother thought she was a fruit.

  Soon a replacement teacher appeared, and Stacey almost forgot about the incident, until a month later, she witnessed the same black shade tailing an elderly neighbour across the High Street. Two days afterwards, Stacey learnt the old lady had died of a heart attack in bed that night.

  Over the next few years, the apparition continued to reappear and disappear, leaving in its wake a series of corpses: Uncle Jack (missing at sea), the paper boy (car accident), cousin Nicky (stabbed in a brawl), her rabbit, Pappy (got by foxes), Bertie the budgerigar (pursued by seven swans) and many, many more.

  But she was a practical girl, not prone to hysterics, and soon became accustomed to spotting Death about its duties.

  However, Stacey Winters was also a compassionate soul and, unable to acclimatise to the grief it left behind.

  So when it came to career options she thought very carefully. There was no point going into the medical profession, she would only catch Death when it was far too late. She needed to be pre-emptive, preventative. She needed to have an authority about her that would make people listen. And thus she entered the Force.

  It was a bitter lesson. Try as she might, Stacey found, she couldn’t outsmart Death. It was irritating and sometimes put her off her dinner. Especially when Death was hovering around the chef. And it had done precisely that, earlier this year, when she’d gone on a blind date at La Fleur restaurant. And that poor bloke had ended up with a particularly nasty exit – on a hook, split open in the cellar. She’d had to go on duty the following day and guard the entrance to the crime scene. The whole thing made her feel guilty. Quite unsettling.

  But today was different. Today was more devastating. She hated it when Death took the young.

  She’d given out a loud moan this morning when, from the window of the panda car, she’d spied Daniel at the roadside, the ‘Hungry and Homeless’ sign on his lap and Death at his shoulder. A familiar weariness descended and, fleetingly she was possessed by the urge to bloody well put Death in its place. Shaking her head, she’d tutted at Daniel and directed, her partner, PC Gaz Maguillo to pull over. By the time she’d got to the young beggar, the spectre had di
sappeared.

  Daniel shivered in his soggy sleeping bag as last-minute Christmas shoppers pelted down the pavement beside him.

  Stacey breathed in. The air tasted like snow was on its way.

  ‘Daniel,’ she told him, ‘you need to look after yourself. Especially tonight. It’s cold. Get a decent meal and a place in a hostel.’

  Then she fished into her purse and hooked out a trio of twenty-pound notes. Even as she handed them over, she could sense the echo of Death around him. Yet the lad’s enthusiastic reaction had been so encouraging she’d returned to the car wondering if just, maybe, perhaps this time she’d foil the old bastard.

  And it was Christmas – the season of good will. Maybe Death would let her have this one as a present. Now wouldn’t that be a thing?

  Despite her good spirits, it really came as no surprise when, this evening, just before knocking off, they were called back to Marble Arch to size up a new corpse.

  When the young constable pulled back a filthy blanket to reveal the Belsen-thin, blue-lipped Daniel, complete with needle in arm, Stacey smiled bitterly, defeated yet again.

  ‘Overdose,’ her colleague concluded. Then pulling out a small plastic sachet filled with smack, he added, ‘Looks like he came into a bit of money.’

  Stacey Winters sighed. She had, indeed, put Death in his place. ‘You can’t outwit it,’ she thought aloud.

  ‘Come on love,’ said PC Maguillo, catching the deep frown on her face. ‘We’re finished now. Don’t know about you but I could do with a drink.’

  And they had raced to the nick’s Social Club where Sergeant Edwards was just getting into his stride.

  ‘You’ll get used to it soon enough,’ the senior policeman repeated to his charge. ‘You’ll deal with it eventually.’

  ‘You’re right. Let’s change the subject,’ said Stacey, fathoming uneasiness around her. ‘I can tell you most sincerely sir, I’ve had enough of Death today.’

  ‘Quite right. The feeling’s mutual,’ Death whispered in her ear.

  SNOWY

  This was the third white Christmas that Norah had spent alone in Adder’s Fork. Well, not alone. Just without the company of fellow homo sapiens. Not that she minded. She was warm, well-loved and well cared for by her family of doting felines.

  Her own clan of humans had died off years since.

  Sort of.

  She had a nephew, Colin, somewhere in Florida who wrote to her twice a year – once on her birthday and once at Christmas. But they were boastful letters packed with photos of broad rosy children, who got fatter by the year and infinitely less interesting. She was convinced Colin paid her his dues to ensure his stake in any bequest she might leave when she finally waltzed off this mortal coil. Although she had no plans to just yet.

  Norah was quite comfortable in the two parts of the house that she tended to frequent these days: the kitchen and sitting room, with infrequent visits to the cloakroom across the hall. She had given up bathing and the cats didn’t mind, so she only used the bathroom for essential ablutions when absolutely required. A chamber pot under the bed was a useful aid in this regard.

  Putting aside the remains of the microwaved Christmas pud she shuffled to her favourite seat: the high-back armchair, next to the Calor gas heater. It had a view out of the French windows onto the long lawn, the summerhouse and beyond that the orchard with the pear tree, plums and cobnuts. It was a splendid view that she had enjoyed for decades. At first with her husband, David, then after him, with a succession of feline friends and acquaintances.

  Her first was Sooty. A rather unoriginal name it was true, but she had never anticipated having a pet. Not least a cat. She had thought them rather cruel beasts, aloof and haughty and cold. Too independent by far and fickle with their affections. Much, she thought, like herself. Perhaps that is why she had let Sooty into her heart so quickly – she’d seen so much in the cat’s nature that seemed to mirror her own. She had been, it was true to say, utterly overwhelmed in the end by the cat’s persistence, his gifts of a partridge, several mice and a vole. Finally, she found that she was flattered by the fact the creature had chosen her.

  For who was she?

  Norah Davenport was just a little widow, old, with as wrinkled dugs as Tiresias and baggy at the seams like another cat that had delighted children a long time ago. Not someone any right-minded feline might court for company. But then, she had begun to realise, these cats weren’t just your run-of-the-mill furry friends.

  These cats were discerning.

  These cats were hers.

  It had taken a few months to work Sooty out, but eventually it was Mozart that had given Norah the clue. The Marriage of Figaro to be precise. For it had been her sister’s favourite. Black-haired, dark-eyed Lydia had always loved it so.

  It was on the anniversary of Lydia’s birthday that the penny finally dropped.

  In the evening Norah had got out the 78 to honour her sister, in a fashion. She had fixed herself a G and T, settled into her chair, and not noticed the cat staring in rapture at the old gramophone. Not at first. Not until she had flipped the side. Finally, when the needle clicked off she watched in amazement as Sooty twitched her tail and slinked into the garden, not remotely interested in anything else.

  A few weeks later Snowy had trailed Sooty in through the door. Although, let’s be straight, this was in fact Snowy the first. For there were many that were to follow him. A regal puss with pink eyes and a tail that was brown at the tip, she recognised soon enough the spirit of her husband in him. Snowy liked to play Scrabble. Not with actual words, as David had done. But in cat form, now, he preferred to paw and play with the pieces. And that was enough for both of them.

  After Snowy came Tabby, her mother, with an appetite for game – mostly of the pigeon variety. All slanty eyes and affection, Tabby would purr on her lap and sleep on her pillow, her tail stroking Norah ’s thinning hair, just as her mother had done years before.

  Ginger was a Canadian airman she had met during the war. Wild, picky and mischievous, he’d had a thing for the Andrews Sisters which, post-mortem, expressed itself in a preference for Choosy cat food and an insistence that she didn’t sit under the apple tree with anyone else but he.

  There followed a steady stream: Grey-boy, an English teacher for whom she held great affection; Socks, a black cat with white legs so very like her departed cousin Oliver; Raj, her friendly neighbour who’d got run over the previous year. He’d come back as a beautiful Siamese who was very very affectionate. Albert, on the other side of the cottage went some time back in the eighties. He’d been a gardener. Now he was a cheeky stray. Fluffy was her father, with long whiskers and penetrating glare. And she received regular visits from Tiger, Misty, Edward, Oscar – too many sometimes to count. All her friends and family, returning.

  When Snowy the Fourth had died she had been bereft and had to force herself into the night to dig him a decent grave. Though no more Snowys had come recently, she knew, at some point he would return.

  Therefore it was really no surprise when, after the Queen’s speech and the pudding had gone down, she swivelled her eyes to the white shadow at the door.

  It meowed loudly.

  And Norah smiled.

  Angling her weary bones out of the chair she opened the windows to let New Snowy in. Blond and calm with a gleam in his eyes, he stubbornly refused to enter.

  Instead he retreated into the inches-thick white lawn.

  And stared with familiar pink eyes.

  ‘Follow me,’ he purred into her head.

  How could she refuse such an offer?

  Leaving the house in her bedclothes she waded into the slush.

  There was no coldness out here either.

  And no paw prints, she noted, as she followed his path.

  That’s odd, she thought and checked behind her.

  But no.

  There was nothing back there either.

  No tread.

  No footprints in the snow.
br />   Just an old lady sleeping in the armchair, surrounded by cats, so very wrinkled and baggy at the seams.

  ‘Meow,’ the white cat beckoned.

  When she turned back to him she saw to her surprise, there was nothing but the brightness.

  Everything was white.

  The purest of colours.

  David had, at last, come to take her.

  MADNESS IN A CORUÑA

  As dictated to Samuel Stone, curator of the Essex Witch Museum

  Halloween is the worst time for it.

  You ask me why?

  Walking the streets is one thing. I find myself alert to slipping ghouls, dark-backed creatures, shadows unpeeling from crevices and walls. The taint of real horror that swarms in with them is real and profound.

  Holiday fun, they say.

  Not so for me.

  It brings it all back.

  Sometimes on those nights I must look behind, double lock my doors, light incense and thank God for friends and American travellers.

  Yes, even me.

  And you want to know why.

  Well, your instincts are right. Doctor Bradley said you were smart. Though I doubt you will find any explanation in your books at the Witch Museum. Not for this. No. Though perhaps the old man will understand. Mr Strange, I hear, has led an interesting life.

  All right then.

  I don’t really want to mention how I came to be in A Coruña but I suppose it has some relevance to the story and you will desire to hear of it I expect, so I may as well get it over with.

  I had recently divorced. There. Judge me if you will. It is the least of it.

  Sheila, my former wife, was twenty-five years my junior and a student at Litchenfield University where, as you know, I lectured in semiotics. Before you leap to conclusions, she had not taken my course. Oh no, Sheila read Modern English, my colleague’s department – the much-feted popinjay and television celebrity, Professor George Chin. He was so much more ‘relatable’ apparently and certainly more glamorous than my humble self.