From the journal of Rev. Stanley Sims:
It was a typically balmy Friday morning as I made my weary way back across the frost-encrusted fields from the village, weighted down as I was with a bountiful supply of jam, sugar, tea, milk, scones, and a fresh pack of chilled butter. A hearty breakfast awaited Beckett and I, but behind us lay The Riddle of the Laughing Puppy, and the horrors of that last case still preyed heavily on my mind. O! how those canine chortles haunted my midnight musings! I hoped that our sumptuous spread would prove to be “just what the doctor ordered” (as they say!) and banish such ghosts from memory, so that Beckett and I could settle down to work on Sunday’s sermon.
Thus were my thoughts so directed when I noticed a bundle of mewling rags in the shade of a nearby hedgerow.
“Ho ho!” I thought to myself. “Here’s a fine curiosity!”
Upon closer inspection the rags took on a decidedly queerer hue, for contained within lay the howling form of an abandoned Gypsy Baby!
“Heaven’s above!” I cried aloud. “I must get this Friday’s Child back to the vicarage immediately! If anyone can solve this mystery, it’s Father Beckett!”
And I took up the bundle, and it’s terrible cargo, into my already-laden arms and hastened back home as fast as my clerical legs would take me, hardly daring to suspect the cursed adventure that myself and my good friend Father J. Beckett were about to be plunged headlong into…
To Be Continued...
Wednesday 18 March 2009
Saturday 14 March 2009
A Lesson in Evil
From the journal of Rev. Stanley Sims:
I’ll never forget the day that the shapely Widow Jones (head of the local finishing school to boot!) turned up at the Vicarage, her face a ghastly combination of womanly passions and running mascara, sobbing like a bint!
“My dear girl,” I consoled, ushering her into the parlour, “do sit down! Whatever can be the matter?”
“Oh, Father Sims!” the creature cried. “I have run all the way from Radcliff Hall. I don't know what's gotten into the girls - they're all behaving most queerly. I was lucky to escape! Oh my, I fear that this time I am truly damned! Please, I must speak with Father Beckett immediately!”
“Tsk, tsk! Let’s not have such heady talk on such a fine morning!” said I, pouring her a cup of sweet Indian tea. “Why don’t you start at the beginning and we’ll see if I can’t quell your distress. I’m afraid that Father Beckett is rather busy at the moment.”
At this news, the Widow Jones took on such a lamentable wailing and moaning that I had no choice but to scurry off to the study at the top of the house (receiving a chalky kiss of gratitude on the cheek for my efforts!) where Father Beckett had been holed up for the past two days and nights. I was loathe to disturb that fine man, knowing full well that he was working on the coming Sunday’s sermon, when he planned to address a controversial new pamphlet which he had recently published to much clamour and excitement. Lord Love a Duck: The Church’s Changing Attitude to Bestiality was causing quite a stir in our small rural community, and my good friend, Father Beckett, felt it his duty to clear up a number of misinterpretations before things got totally out of hand in the village.
“Beckett, old chap,” I ventured, knocking on the heavy wooden door, before tentatively opening it a crack and peering into the dark confines.
“The Widow Jones is downstairs, I presume?” asked Beckett wearily, looking up from his desk.
“Heaven’s above, Beckett! How could you possibly –”
“I received this telegram a little over an hour ago,” he said, holding up the ill-fated wire. “It’s from an old acquaintance of ours. You will no doubt recall The Case of the Agnostic Head Tutor?”
I shuddered involuntarily with terror at the memory. “Oh the horror! The horror! Surely we witnessed that rascal perish before our very eyes, along with his Radical views?”
“If this mess,” he gestured at the paperwork laying strewn across the desk before him, “has taught me anything, it’s that nothing is ever that clear cut. I expect the Widow has some explaining to do…Come, Sims, I do believe that it is time we took to class…”
To Be Continued...
I’ll never forget the day that the shapely Widow Jones (head of the local finishing school to boot!) turned up at the Vicarage, her face a ghastly combination of womanly passions and running mascara, sobbing like a bint!
“My dear girl,” I consoled, ushering her into the parlour, “do sit down! Whatever can be the matter?”
“Oh, Father Sims!” the creature cried. “I have run all the way from Radcliff Hall. I don't know what's gotten into the girls - they're all behaving most queerly. I was lucky to escape! Oh my, I fear that this time I am truly damned! Please, I must speak with Father Beckett immediately!”
“Tsk, tsk! Let’s not have such heady talk on such a fine morning!” said I, pouring her a cup of sweet Indian tea. “Why don’t you start at the beginning and we’ll see if I can’t quell your distress. I’m afraid that Father Beckett is rather busy at the moment.”
At this news, the Widow Jones took on such a lamentable wailing and moaning that I had no choice but to scurry off to the study at the top of the house (receiving a chalky kiss of gratitude on the cheek for my efforts!) where Father Beckett had been holed up for the past two days and nights. I was loathe to disturb that fine man, knowing full well that he was working on the coming Sunday’s sermon, when he planned to address a controversial new pamphlet which he had recently published to much clamour and excitement. Lord Love a Duck: The Church’s Changing Attitude to Bestiality was causing quite a stir in our small rural community, and my good friend, Father Beckett, felt it his duty to clear up a number of misinterpretations before things got totally out of hand in the village.
“Beckett, old chap,” I ventured, knocking on the heavy wooden door, before tentatively opening it a crack and peering into the dark confines.
“The Widow Jones is downstairs, I presume?” asked Beckett wearily, looking up from his desk.
“Heaven’s above, Beckett! How could you possibly –”
“I received this telegram a little over an hour ago,” he said, holding up the ill-fated wire. “It’s from an old acquaintance of ours. You will no doubt recall The Case of the Agnostic Head Tutor?”
I shuddered involuntarily with terror at the memory. “Oh the horror! The horror! Surely we witnessed that rascal perish before our very eyes, along with his Radical views?”
“If this mess,” he gestured at the paperwork laying strewn across the desk before him, “has taught me anything, it’s that nothing is ever that clear cut. I expect the Widow has some explaining to do…Come, Sims, I do believe that it is time we took to class…”
To Be Continued...
This Be The Verse
From the journal of Rev. Stanley Sims:
“Another crumpet, old man?” I enquired of my dearest friend, Father J.Beckett, as we sat, wrapped in towels, shivering by the parlour fire, our clerical robes and underwear drying slowly on the clotheshorse beside us. It had been one of the most traumatic christenings in the history of our Parish, nearly costing Beckett and I our very sanity! One day, Gentle Reader, I shall record The Flapper's Last Dance for prosperity, but today I reflect upon the queer events that immediately followed that uncanny episode, when our evening’s recuperation was rudely interrupted by a sharp rapping upon the Vicarage door.
“Good Lord, Beckett! Who on Earth could that be?” I cried, clasping the towel tightly around my chubby little waist as I hobbled awkwardly to the entrance-hall, leaving a damp trail in my wake.
“If that’s a certain Ms. Celia Smythe,” called out Beckett, ruefully, “I do believe that I am currently delivering a sermon in a town some miles away from here!”
“Oh, Beckett!” I chortled. “Whatever next!”
However, upon answering the door, my good humour died instantly, usurped by complete and utter dumbstruck horror! For there, upon our steps, stood a stooped, dwarf of a man, ancient of years, reeking of cheap gin, and clothed in the ill-fitting garb of a labourer!
“Is this th’ ‘ome of the priests?” he asked, ungraciously.
“Indeed it is,” I replied, standing my ground.
“Good! Take me to Beckett!”
Obviously, this old ‘ragamuffin’ and manners were not close acquaintances!
“I say!” I cried indignantly, as the ‘hobgoblin’ attempted to force his scrawny body over our threshold.
Alerted by the commotion, Father Beckett suddenly appeared in the hallway behind me, towelled-up like an Arabian Prince, with a face so stern that it froze the old man in his tracks. The creature immediately ceased his struggling and squinted up at Beckett, an awful sneer spread across his features.
“ ‘Ello, Jim,” wheezed this unkempt paradigm of ill-sought pleasures.
“Heaven’s above, Beckett! Surely you don’t actually know this morbid sinner?”
“I’m afraid I do, Sims. I’m afraid I do,” replied my friend, grimly, before addressing the ‘wizard’: “I suppose you had better come in…Father!”
To Be Continued...
“Another crumpet, old man?” I enquired of my dearest friend, Father J.Beckett, as we sat, wrapped in towels, shivering by the parlour fire, our clerical robes and underwear drying slowly on the clotheshorse beside us. It had been one of the most traumatic christenings in the history of our Parish, nearly costing Beckett and I our very sanity! One day, Gentle Reader, I shall record The Flapper's Last Dance for prosperity, but today I reflect upon the queer events that immediately followed that uncanny episode, when our evening’s recuperation was rudely interrupted by a sharp rapping upon the Vicarage door.
“Good Lord, Beckett! Who on Earth could that be?” I cried, clasping the towel tightly around my chubby little waist as I hobbled awkwardly to the entrance-hall, leaving a damp trail in my wake.
“If that’s a certain Ms. Celia Smythe,” called out Beckett, ruefully, “I do believe that I am currently delivering a sermon in a town some miles away from here!”
“Oh, Beckett!” I chortled. “Whatever next!”
However, upon answering the door, my good humour died instantly, usurped by complete and utter dumbstruck horror! For there, upon our steps, stood a stooped, dwarf of a man, ancient of years, reeking of cheap gin, and clothed in the ill-fitting garb of a labourer!
“Is this th’ ‘ome of the priests?” he asked, ungraciously.
“Indeed it is,” I replied, standing my ground.
“Good! Take me to Beckett!”
Obviously, this old ‘ragamuffin’ and manners were not close acquaintances!
“I say!” I cried indignantly, as the ‘hobgoblin’ attempted to force his scrawny body over our threshold.
Alerted by the commotion, Father Beckett suddenly appeared in the hallway behind me, towelled-up like an Arabian Prince, with a face so stern that it froze the old man in his tracks. The creature immediately ceased his struggling and squinted up at Beckett, an awful sneer spread across his features.
“ ‘Ello, Jim,” wheezed this unkempt paradigm of ill-sought pleasures.
“Heaven’s above, Beckett! Surely you don’t actually know this morbid sinner?”
“I’m afraid I do, Sims. I’m afraid I do,” replied my friend, grimly, before addressing the ‘wizard’: “I suppose you had better come in…Father!”
To Be Continued...
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