Trick or Treat Part 10

'Depends how much you like splatted dead bodies,' said the first officer through his teeth. 'You didn't hear anything this morning?'

'No, not a thing. Splatted, eh? Fallen?'

'From a great height,' said Jones. 'Old lady in this building saw him dancing on the roof of the flats opposite. Then he said, "I'm a bird!" and took off to fly...'

'Except he didn't,' concluded the first policeman. 'Splatted.'

'Like Dusty says,' confirmed Jones, which told me that his fellow officer was called Miller or Rhodes, and also that someone was dead in my alley. I was shaken. Why choose my alley to die in? Plenty of other alleys in the city. I was beginning to feel hunted, or possibly haunted. Did this have anything to do with Meroe's magical revenge?

'Forensics're on their way,' said Miller (or Rhodes). 'But he had a squashed roll or a cake in his hand and we want to know if it came from your bakery.'

'I'll come in through the apartment,' I said. 'I'll be able to tell if anything is missing.'

I ran into Insula and dead-heated them as they came in through my alley door. They looked around at the shining clean, carefully polished machines, the mopped dry floor and the utter absence of anything resembling bread or cakes or rolls or buns.

117.

'I'm closed over the weekend,' I told them. 'I clean up and polish everything on Friday night and I give all the leftovers to Sister Mary for the Soup Run. If your man has a cake, it didn't come from here.'

'We know Sister Mary,' said (provisionally) Miller, thinking about it. 'She doesn't waste a crumb. Leftovers from the Soup Run go to the community farm chooks and ducks. Not that there are many leftovers. The crips, veggies and losers eat most of it.'

I could tell that Constable Miller was not going to make Sister Mary's list of understanding policemen, but at least he was convinced that my bakery had nothing to do with the unfortunate man's fate. I was now fighting down an utterly unworthy urge. Who was making cakes around here? Who was open all weekend? How could I not tell these eager seekers of forensic truth that Best Fresh was their most likely source?

I struggled with my conscience. Then Daniel, with complete innocence, said, 'There's a new hot bread shop just down the lane. Best Fresh. Why not ask them?' and I was relieved of temptation, just as though St Anthony in the desert had been offered a nice plate of real roast lamb in place of all those visions. Or maybe one of Uncle Solly's salt beef sandwiches.

'Good idea,' grunted Miller.

'Who's the stiff?' asked Daniel as I paused at the top of the steps into my own quarters. I didn't want to go out into the alley.

'Dunno,' said Jones. 'Forensics'll surgically remove our b.a.l.l.s if we contaminate the crime scene. If it is a crime scene. You staying here?' he asked Daniel.

'Yes,' he said, consulting me with a glance and correctly interpreting my enthusiastic nod.

'Okay, we might pop up when the scene of the crime officers have gone and have a chat.' And with that invitation or threat, Miller and Jones exited through the Calico Alley door, tossing my keys to Daniel as they left.

We locked all the doors again and retreated, not to the apartment but to the garden, where Trudi's tulips were waving scarlet banners and there might be some comfortable company.

There we found most of the inhabitants of Insula. Mistress Dread was not present, but Mrs Dawson was there, Professor Monk, Therese Webb, Mrs Pemberthy and Traddles, Jason and both girls. Cherie Holliday and her father were out. Jon and Kepler were in and clearly wished they were not. Meroe was glowering from the rose bower. Mrs Dawson, who had brought not only a fine Glasgow picnic rug but a picnic basket to go with it, was dispensing something from her thermos in small cups. I sipped. It was coffee and whisky, hot and unctuous with honey.

'Used to thaw deer-stalkers who get lost in the Highlands,' she explained. 'Or fishermen hauled out of the North Sea. I got the recipe when I was in Mull. Very efficacious for shock. Has everyone got a drink?'

Nothing in the world, not alien invasion, nuclear accident or the sudden arrival of the Duke of Edinburgh, could deflect Mrs Dawson from being the perfect hostess. She would undoubtedly find some suitable refreshment for the aliens- a little more methyl mercaptan in that, my dears? Perhaps a pinch of sulphur?-and the Duke would probably appreciate a gla.s.s of the good whisky while she rang the palace to come and collect him. And in the event of the end of the world, then her view would be that we might as well be agreeably occupied while it happened since there was nothing else we could do to avert our fate. A good view, I thought.

119.

Jon sipped and grinned at me. 'Shall I call the meeting to order?' he asked, with gentle irony.

'By all means, my dear chap,' said Professor Monk.

'It's a scandal,' whimpered Mrs Pemberthy. 'He fell...he fell right past...'

Kylie, of all people, patted her hand. Therese cast a few lengths of good woolly shawl around her. Even Traddles seemed shocked. He did not offer to bite anyone, nor was the sight of Lucifer on Trudi's shoulder enough to rouse him.

'Tell us what happened,' instructed Mrs Dawson. 'It will make you feel better.'

'I heard someone singing,' said Mrs Pemberthy, shaking her perm until her earrings rattled. 'Down in the alley.'

'Wa.s.sail, wa.s.sail?' asked Jason keenly.

'No. Soul cake, a soul cake,' said Mrs Pemberthy, singing a sad but monotonous little air. Meroe drew in a sharp breath and folded her arms under her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. 'So I looked out. Then I heard someone saying, "I'm a bird, I'm a bird", and he was on the roof of the flats opposite. He was dancing,' she said.

Poor old Mrs P, I found myself thinking. Although she was one of the most genuinely irritating people I had ever met, this was a bit above the odds for anyone over seventy. Or under it, of course. Kylie, Goss and Jason weren't looking very chipper either. Of all of us, Daniel, Mrs Dawson, Jon and Kepler and Professor Monk were seemingly unaffected. Jon and Kepler because they dealt with disasters every day, Mrs Dawson and the Professor because of their past, which had been difficult, and Daniel because he had been a soldier, perhaps. Me, I felt faintly sick and faintly drunk. Better not to have any more Hebridean Fisherman Defroster.

Mrs Pemberthy went on: 'Then I opened the window and screamed at him to get away from the edge, but he didn't listen, or he didn't care, these young people are so careless, and he... jumped. Threw himself into the air. And he fell right past my window. Right past and down and hit the ground.'

'How awful,' said Jon, conventionally. The right thing to say to a conventional person like Mrs Pemberthy.

Kylie expressed my feelings by saying, 'Euw!'

'What time was this?' asked Daniel.

'Nine,' she said. 'I just put the Sunday service on. I always listen to the Sunday service. Since Mr P...went away, I don't go to church.'

Mr Pemberthy was confined in a bin for the incurably loopy, and a good thing too. But we did not mention this.

Professor Monk patted Mrs Pemberthy on the shoulder. 'Bear up, now, my dear,' he told her. 'I saw him fall too, and it was not a nice experience. But we mustn't give way.'

She sniffed bravely into his best handkerchief. I suspect Mrs P has a soft spot for the Professor. Kylie and Goss conferred.

'We were asleep,' they said. 'And you can't see into the alley from our place. But we've been hearing that little song around.'

'Around where?' asked Daniel, too quickly. They drew in their tiny horns like affrighted snails.

'Just, you know, like, around,' said Kylie. 'We've got to go,' she said, getting up. 'We've got to learn our lines for tomorrow.'

'We don't know anything about it,' added Goss, and they both scuttled away.

'd.a.m.n,' said Daniel. 'My fault. My timing is off,' he added.

'No matter, they'll come around,' said Therese Webb. 'If they've got a story they won't be able to resist telling it in due course.'

121.

'True,' I agreed. 'Jason, did you hear anything?'

'No, or see nothing. I was up here, helping Trudi with the weeding. I never did any garden stuff before. It's sick,' said Jason, Nature Boy. He was, now I noticed, grimy around the edges.

'You never cease to amaze me,' I told him.

'I was here too,' said Therese. 'And Meroe. We are making rose petal cordial, and we came to ask Trudi for some rose petals.'

'And they not get,' said Trudi. 'Not until the roses just start to fall. Then they are at their best for cordials and for oils. Myself, I saw nothing.'

'But Meroe knows something,' I said, tired of all this secrecy. 'And it's time she told us what a soul cake is.'

'It's the spice bread I've been making from that old recipe,' supplied Jason helpfully. 'It says Soaling Cake on the paper.'

Of course. Jason doesn't know how to spell 'soul'. And he was right, it seemed. Soal was the same as soul. Soaling was the same as souling. Whatever souling was. I was still entirely bemused by the whole thing.

'And it's a folk song,' said Mrs Dawson. 'But there is some other significance to it, is there not, Meroe?'

'Yes,' said Meroe with vast reluctance. 'It's the offering bread for Hallowe'en, Walpurgisnacht, for the feast of Samhain.'

'The feast, as it happens, of the dead,' said Professor Monk without emphasis.

'And someone has profaned it,' said Meroe, and burst into wild, uncontrollable tears.

This was unprecedented. Meroe weeping? For a moment no one moved. Then Daniel gathered our neighbourhood witch into his embrace and rocked her as though she was a child. We all began to tiptoe away.

Therese Webb and I escorted Mrs Pemberthy to her apartment, made her a warm milk drink and helped her into her fluffy pink gown and comfy sheep's wool slippers. I was obscurely cheered when Traddles nipped at me. He missed, but it was a sporting attempt. Therese donated the shawl, which was a sprightly shade of cerise and matched rather well. We left her tucked up on her sofa with the TV on, her phone to hand so that she could call for help if she felt faint (and also to ring her sister for a long session of complaining) and her faithful, if smelly, companion sitting on her lap. Traddles was a rotten little doggie, but he doted on Mrs Pemberthy, possibly divining in his minuscule canine brain that if she didn't feed him, no one else was likely to put themselves to any trouble or expense on his account.

We shut the door on Dr Phil talking about marital tolerance of bondage and discipline-'Would it hurt you to just tie his wrists to the bedhead?'-and looked at each other.

'There is something very wrong,' said Therese. I like Therese. A successful businesswoman for years and years, she retired to Insula to spend her remaining time caring for Carolus and sewing, knitting, tatting, weaving, embroidering and spinning, and here she was in the middle of a black magical farce. I gave her a hug.

'Not to worry,' I said as bracingly as I could. 'Why not take that delightful dog for a nice walk and leave it to me and Daniel and the others?'

'Thank you, dear,' she said, 'but I prefer to go back to my apartment and finish my portrait of Carolus. I'm going to turn it into a tapestry pattern. Those nice young men at Nerds Inc have promised to...now, what was the word? Photoshop it for me? In return for some mending. You'll call me if there's anything I can do?'

122.

123.

I nodded. 'You're a brave woman, to take on the Lone Gunmen's mending,' I told her. 'They subsist entirely on junk food, especially nachos, and everything they own has chili sauce on it.'

'I shall manage, I daresay,' replied Therese stoutly.

I left her at her door.

When I reached the roof garden it contained a reduced cast. The Professor and Mrs Dawson remained, but the others had faded away on, I have no doubt, important errands ordered by that formidable pair. Trudi, Lucifer and Jason were on the far side of the roof, weeding the peony bed. I could hear Trudi instructing my apprentice on the difference between crocus foliage and gra.s.s. Meroe was still weeping and Daniel was still rocking her. Mrs Dawson had removed herself and her picnic into the temple, to allow Daniel and Meroe private occupation of the rose bower. She beckoned to me to join her and the Professor. Nox sat on his lap, a small jet statue of a contemplative kitten in a red harness. I noticed that Mrs Dawson was gently caressing her ears, and Nox was allowing this attention. Mrs Dawson's friendship with the Professor seemed to have gone further than I had thought...

'I've never seen Meroe cry like that,' I said. 'I've never seen Meroe cry at all,' I added, realising this was true. 'What's going on, and do you think there might be any way of stopping it?'

'Have a seat, my dear. I believe this is what the ancients called catharsis,' Professor Monk told me.

I sat down on the warmed marble bench beside his dapper form. He smelt agreeably of tweed. The cloth, not the perfume. And that dangerous Greek coffee to which he is devoted. Mrs Dawson was wearing her signature scent, Arpege, and the two perfumes blended very nicely. We all smelt of honeyed whisky, and very nice it was too. I drank some more.

'Catharsis?' I asked when I regained my breath.

'Purges the soul with pity and terror,' explained the Professor. 'Poor Meroe has been worrying about this soul cake poisoning for days and now she has to acknowledge it. She recoiled from the shock, and there was Daniel.'

'Very good arms to throw yourself into and an excellent shoulder to lean on,' I confirmed.

'Myself, I have always preferred to rest my weary head on a suitably hospitable bosom, but I take your point,' he replied with a hint of mischief. Mrs Dawson smiled sweetly.

'You think it is poisoning, then?' I asked.

'What else could it be, dear?' asked Mrs Dawson, sipping delicately and licking her lips. That heather honey was powerful stuff. 'She says that her ceremony has been profaned. We have heard people singing the soul cake song or the Gower Wa.s.sail from the inaccessible dogleg of the alley and since then we have been inundated with maniacs who have lost their senses very unexpectedly, and are not the people one would have thought would be vulnerable.'

'Not your standard drug addicts,' I said.

'Well, no, they all seem to have been well dressed and so on. Even this man who leapt off the building. Did you see him?' she asked.

'No, the police wouldn't let me, for which I am very grateful.'

'There might have been some clue in his attire,' said Mrs Dawson inflexibly.

I knew what she was suggesting and I didn't intend to do it. 'I'm not going to be allowed to open the back door of my bakery until the scene of the crime officers have been there,' I explained. 'The cops told us that the SOCO would cut off their-I mean, be very upset if anyone even so much as breathed on their crime scene.'

125.

'So I understand,' affirmed the Professor, rescuing me. 'I believe that they work on Locard's principle, and of course opening your door might transfer all sorts of alien matter.'

'Locard's principle?' asked Mrs Dawson. She might have been at a real picnic. Both of my elderly companions were displaying a sangfroid which ought to have given them frostbitten arteries.

'Every contact leaves a trace,' quoted Professor Monk.

'I see,' said Mrs Dawson. 'Do go on, Dion.'

'Well, as I understand it, they will come with bottles and vapours and sticky-tape and collect and test every hair, fibre, drop of liquid and crumb.'

'Then they will be there for weeks,' I prophesied gloomily. 'There's everything in that alley from cat fur to pigeon feathers, sparrow droppings, cigarette b.u.t.ts and the remains of the Mouse Police's tuna. Which would add fish scales. They are going to have a really fun time.'

'Grammar,' reproved Professor Monk. 'And there is of course the soul cake itself. Something has been added to it which, I suspect, is not in Jason's recipe.'

'It was Meroe's recipe,' I interjected. 'He only made the connection between soaling and souling because he hasn't completely got the hang of spelling yet.'

'No matter, English spelling is a relatively new invention,' said Professor Monk. 'Until the nineteenth century it was largely voluntary. One spelt it as one heard it. Just look at Chaucer. As long as the dear boy can puzzle out a recipe, it doesn't matter a great deal.'

'I suppose so,' I replied. 'But he has to pa.s.s exams if he wants to be a pastry chef.'

'I'm sure that we can manage to teach him,' said Mrs Dawson. 'I notice, too, that you and Daniel seem to be reconciled,' she said delicately. 'I trust that all is now well between you?'

'It was a misunderstanding,' I said. 'Due to him innocently importing a gorgeous female friend who had designs on him, which he hadn't noticed.'

The Professor chuckled and Nox gave him a reproving look.

'And then she made me a frightful dinner and tried to get me to sell her half my bakery,' I added.