Strange Acts of Mercy
Actually, I feel rather tempted to provide you with nothing except a clever little epigram by Humbert Wolfe:
You cannot hope
To bribe or twist,
Thank God! the
British journalist.
But seeing what
the man will do
unbribed, there's
no occasion to.
But that wouldn't seem fair to you, would it? After all, it's the week between Christmas and New Year's eve; and still full of holiday spirit, you've probably entered these realms awaiting a tale of compassion and heart-warming kindness. So, Ladies and Gentlemen, for your reading pleasure, and perhaps to preserve certain anecdotes for posterity, I present you the following:
STRANGE ACTS OF MERCY
A horrific comedy of luck undeserved,
narrated by A. Campion
Dramatis Personae (in order of appearance):
POOR LITTLE ALBERT: Unsung hero of Mystery Mile
MAGERSFONTEIN LUGG: Manservant with a shady past and a surprising desire 'to give the place a bit of a tone'
STANISLAUS OATES: Inspector of Scotland Yard; friend
C. E. HODGE: A Journalist employed by the East Suffolk Courier and man of questionable ethics
Stubbornly ignoring just about any piece of advice handed down from Aristotle to Shakespeare, we shall begin with the interiors of Bottle Street, December 1937, shortly before New Year's Eve. I'd very much like to write there was snow, just to give you a better image, but since any good fairy tale should contain one or two grains of truth to make it more easily digestible, let's simply say that weather once again failed to live up to dramatic expectations.
Our brave hero Albert, however, strangely unimpressed by such nuisances, enters the stage in the best of moods. He's spent an enjoyable evening at Puffins, had Boeuf Stroganoff and Strawberry Sorbet . On his lips he carries a delicious little tune by an American musical composer he is rather fond of. 'Be curious, though interfering friends may frown,' Albert sings in a nice but untrained tenor voice, 'Get furious, at each attempt to hold you down.' He doesn't get any further, as, without warning, a frighteningly large and grim looking individual steps in his way and brutally robs him of his rain-soaked coat, hat and umbrella.
"Any second longer in those things and you'll catch your death."
"Thank you, Lugg. Good evening to you, too. How's the decoration business going?"
Hopefully this bit of inserted dialogue will give you a better idea of the somewhat peculiar relationship between Albert and his manservant Lugg. Please understand, dear reader, that Lugg is not exactly a properly trained domestic, but as a former cat burglar has proven to be such an invaluable source of information and support that Albert is willing to take certain risks.
But on with the narrative…
After being offered a dry handkerchief, our hero now rubs his glasses and takes an astonished look at the various garlands and paper chains hanging down from the ceiling.
"Quite pretty," Albert says. With bouncy gait he then retreats to his bedroom where he exchanges suit and shirt for a more comfortable style of clothing. Once he has returned to the modest but well-decorated living room of No. 17 Bottle Street, he lets himself fall into armchair besides the fireplace. Into our, and also Albert's view, moves the tea-tray carrying Lugg.
"Spiked with rum? Lugg, you are spoiling me!" Albert says smiling as a certain aroma rises into his nose. He reaches for the tea, but suddenly freezes. His keen eyes have spotted something he'd rather not seen.
"What's with the old newspaper clipping on the tray?"
"Ah, that? Found it in one of the drawers when I was looking for garlands. Didn't really know what to do with it. Maybe you'd like to keep it, I thought. After all it's been hiding in that drawer for so many years."
Albert's cheeks, slightly reddened from cosy room temperature and fire, gradually loose all their colour. He picks up the newspaper clipping. As gentle as possible under the circumstances, he asks Lugg to leave.
But why the sudden change of mood, you might ask? What could the good servant possibly have done wrong?
The answer, dear reader, is as complicated as it is simple. Never underestimate the power of old, dark memories suddenly stirred and disturbed in their rest.
See, the article dates back to a time when poor Albert's continued existence on this earth was not very happy. He'd been shot, quite successfully I might add, by a fairy tale crime lord. His lung was pierced; an awful lot of blood and a pair of horn rimmed spectacles forever lost on the marshlands surrounding the island. Needless to say, that with such an unusual accumulation of luck in the wings, the girl that Albert not so secretly fell for, fell for another. When Albert awoke in some Suffolk hospital, he couldn't really move, really breathe, really speak, really see.
He heard voices, though. Gentle and worried. Far, far away.
His first clear memory was that of Inspector Stanislaus Oates sitting at his bedside, a bunch of happily bobbing balloons in his hand, reading aloud from a paper: "A guest of the Pagett family received a minor injury to his respiratory system, but is now on his way to a hopefully speedy recovery."
Both men understood what an unexpected blessing this was. A journalist's conscious if not conscientious decision to leave Albert's name and identity out of this to spare him the public attention.
A few weeks later, on a day Albert felt not quite fit enough to join the ranks of the living, but bored enough to undertake a phone call, he rang up the East Suffolk Courier and required to speak to a Mr C. E. Hodge, the news reporter in question. The voice at the other end of the line sounded so young and unsure of its own strength that Albert was startled. 'Not at all like his writing,' he thought and explained what he wanted.
Finally, after a long pause and some swallowing, Mr Hodge gave in.
"Look, Sir," he said. "Let me put it this way. When I was interviewing the locals, an anonymous force made it very clear to me that any form of unnecessary excitement might have easily killed you. And as much as I'd like to move up in this world, I would never want a corpse on my résumé."
"Ah."
Albert didn't really know how to react to this news, just congratulated Hodge for his admirable attitude and bade him a hastened 'Good bye'.
It should be added that up to this very day he has never found the person responsible for the charming little heart to heart talk with Hodge. But perhaps this is just because he doesn't really wish to.
About once a year, on an occasion he is using the name Christopher Twelvetrees anyway, Albert makes a small donation to the struggling socialist newspaper that C. E. Hodge went to after he had left the East Suffolk Courier.
(Edited to add: I shouldn't be joking when I'm dead serious. My sincerest apologies for translating Lugg's language into English. I know it spoils the atmosphere, but the lady who re-types these texts and copies them into LJ sees herself completely incapable of dealing with Cockney)
You cannot hope
To bribe or twist,
Thank God! the
British journalist.
But seeing what
the man will do
unbribed, there's
no occasion to.
But that wouldn't seem fair to you, would it? After all, it's the week between Christmas and New Year's eve; and still full of holiday spirit, you've probably entered these realms awaiting a tale of compassion and heart-warming kindness. So, Ladies and Gentlemen, for your reading pleasure, and perhaps to preserve certain anecdotes for posterity, I present you the following:
STRANGE ACTS OF MERCY
A horrific comedy of luck undeserved,
narrated by A. Campion
Dramatis Personae (in order of appearance):
POOR LITTLE ALBERT: Unsung hero of Mystery Mile
MAGERSFONTEIN LUGG: Manservant with a shady past and a surprising desire 'to give the place a bit of a tone'
STANISLAUS OATES: Inspector of Scotland Yard; friend
C. E. HODGE: A Journalist employed by the East Suffolk Courier and man of questionable ethics
Stubbornly ignoring just about any piece of advice handed down from Aristotle to Shakespeare, we shall begin with the interiors of Bottle Street, December 1937, shortly before New Year's Eve. I'd very much like to write there was snow, just to give you a better image, but since any good fairy tale should contain one or two grains of truth to make it more easily digestible, let's simply say that weather once again failed to live up to dramatic expectations.
Our brave hero Albert, however, strangely unimpressed by such nuisances, enters the stage in the best of moods. He's spent an enjoyable evening at Puffins, had Boeuf Stroganoff and Strawberry Sorbet . On his lips he carries a delicious little tune by an American musical composer he is rather fond of. 'Be curious, though interfering friends may frown,' Albert sings in a nice but untrained tenor voice, 'Get furious, at each attempt to hold you down.' He doesn't get any further, as, without warning, a frighteningly large and grim looking individual steps in his way and brutally robs him of his rain-soaked coat, hat and umbrella.
"Any second longer in those things and you'll catch your death."
"Thank you, Lugg. Good evening to you, too. How's the decoration business going?"
Hopefully this bit of inserted dialogue will give you a better idea of the somewhat peculiar relationship between Albert and his manservant Lugg. Please understand, dear reader, that Lugg is not exactly a properly trained domestic, but as a former cat burglar has proven to be such an invaluable source of information and support that Albert is willing to take certain risks.
But on with the narrative…
After being offered a dry handkerchief, our hero now rubs his glasses and takes an astonished look at the various garlands and paper chains hanging down from the ceiling.
"Quite pretty," Albert says. With bouncy gait he then retreats to his bedroom where he exchanges suit and shirt for a more comfortable style of clothing. Once he has returned to the modest but well-decorated living room of No. 17 Bottle Street, he lets himself fall into armchair besides the fireplace. Into our, and also Albert's view, moves the tea-tray carrying Lugg.
"Spiked with rum? Lugg, you are spoiling me!" Albert says smiling as a certain aroma rises into his nose. He reaches for the tea, but suddenly freezes. His keen eyes have spotted something he'd rather not seen.
"What's with the old newspaper clipping on the tray?"
"Ah, that? Found it in one of the drawers when I was looking for garlands. Didn't really know what to do with it. Maybe you'd like to keep it, I thought. After all it's been hiding in that drawer for so many years."
Albert's cheeks, slightly reddened from cosy room temperature and fire, gradually loose all their colour. He picks up the newspaper clipping. As gentle as possible under the circumstances, he asks Lugg to leave.
But why the sudden change of mood, you might ask? What could the good servant possibly have done wrong?
The answer, dear reader, is as complicated as it is simple. Never underestimate the power of old, dark memories suddenly stirred and disturbed in their rest.
See, the article dates back to a time when poor Albert's continued existence on this earth was not very happy. He'd been shot, quite successfully I might add, by a fairy tale crime lord. His lung was pierced; an awful lot of blood and a pair of horn rimmed spectacles forever lost on the marshlands surrounding the island. Needless to say, that with such an unusual accumulation of luck in the wings, the girl that Albert not so secretly fell for, fell for another. When Albert awoke in some Suffolk hospital, he couldn't really move, really breathe, really speak, really see.
He heard voices, though. Gentle and worried. Far, far away.
His first clear memory was that of Inspector Stanislaus Oates sitting at his bedside, a bunch of happily bobbing balloons in his hand, reading aloud from a paper: "A guest of the Pagett family received a minor injury to his respiratory system, but is now on his way to a hopefully speedy recovery."
Both men understood what an unexpected blessing this was. A journalist's conscious if not conscientious decision to leave Albert's name and identity out of this to spare him the public attention.
A few weeks later, on a day Albert felt not quite fit enough to join the ranks of the living, but bored enough to undertake a phone call, he rang up the East Suffolk Courier and required to speak to a Mr C. E. Hodge, the news reporter in question. The voice at the other end of the line sounded so young and unsure of its own strength that Albert was startled. 'Not at all like his writing,' he thought and explained what he wanted.
Finally, after a long pause and some swallowing, Mr Hodge gave in.
"Look, Sir," he said. "Let me put it this way. When I was interviewing the locals, an anonymous force made it very clear to me that any form of unnecessary excitement might have easily killed you. And as much as I'd like to move up in this world, I would never want a corpse on my résumé."
"Ah."
Albert didn't really know how to react to this news, just congratulated Hodge for his admirable attitude and bade him a hastened 'Good bye'.
It should be added that up to this very day he has never found the person responsible for the charming little heart to heart talk with Hodge. But perhaps this is just because he doesn't really wish to.
About once a year, on an occasion he is using the name Christopher Twelvetrees anyway, Albert makes a small donation to the struggling socialist newspaper that C. E. Hodge went to after he had left the East Suffolk Courier.
(Edited to add: I shouldn't be joking when I'm dead serious. My sincerest apologies for translating Lugg's language into English. I know it spoils the atmosphere, but the lady who re-types these texts and copies them into LJ sees herself completely incapable of dealing with Cockney)