Short fiction: Who Killed Walter Williams?

Don’t ask. Even now

“So – who did kill Walter Williams?” thought Amy as she walked up the riverside path. “I mean, I posed the question in the headline. And I wrote the article. And I bet I’ll be asked.”

She looked at her watch. It was just on ten, and she was not expected at the studio until eleven. And it was one of those beautiful bright October mornings when, just for a day, summer fights back, refusing to yield to mellow fruitfulness. It was a weekday and schoolday and there were few people about, but the odd paddleboarder passed by. A family of swans splashed past; the cygnets were getting flying lessons. They weren’t doing very well. “Pull back on the stick! Hard!” thought Amy, and giggled. She sat down on one of the benches. On the City bank opposite, there were still a few old warehouses and workshops, some dilapidated, others cleaned up and still in use. But Pepperdine’s had long been razed and where the factory had been there were blocks of luxury flats.

Mike Robbins

She gazed across at the site where Pepperdine’s had been, and where her grandfather, a lathe operator, had once worked; and his father before him. Back then small sea-going coasters had come this far up the river; it seemed too small for them, yet they’d come. with coal from the North-East and timber from Sweden, and newsprint from the Baltic for the printworks farther up. In fact they had come for a thousand years, bringing stone from Normandy for the medieval Cathedral, textiles from Bruges, salted herring, cereals from Prussia and German beer, and furs – sable and ermine from Russia; and amber; much of it bound for the Hanseatic League’s warehouse that had once stood not far from Pepperdine’s, where the crash and hum of machinery had once marked it as one of several engineering shops along the river that made machine tools, and fabricated aircraft parts and forged beams and trusses.

Then forty years ago the ships had gone; the works buildings had closed and, in time, been torn down, and now there were paddleboarders and luxury flats. That was the only river Amy had known.

She stood and walked slowly towards the city centre, trying to look at the river as Walter Williams would have seen it on that last day of his life – 94 years ago, 70 years before she was born.

*

She was sat in front of a microphone and had a heavy pair of headphones clamped over her long brown hair. A big mug of coffee steamed on the desk. Slightly to her alarm, there was a webcam pointing at her. “I know it’s radio,” said the presenter, a bubbly woman in her 40s called Carly. “But nowadays people follow us on YouTube sometimes, or listen later on Spotify and they can see you too. Are you ready?”

She faded out the music that had been playing and said: “I’d like to welcome Amy Tyler from the Daily Press. Amy, it’s lovely to have you.”

“Thank you.”

“And Amy has come to tell us about a murder. In today’s paper she has a feature on a death in the city 94 years ago – an unsolved murder that was notorious once, but has now been forgotten; that of Walter Williams. Amy, how did you stumble across this?”

“I was looking for interesting stories about our city,” said Amy. “In the newspaper archives in the British Library. Every now and then we’ve made the national papers. But people today often don’t know. About us having an early woman MP, for instance.”

“Yes, I remember your story on her,” said Carly. “That was fascinating. So is this. But it’s a bit grisly, isn’t it? Tell us about the Pepperdine’s murder.”

“Well, in the spring of 1933, they were dredging the river just downstream of the city,” said Amy. “Today it’s done very carefully, and only in the winter, to do minimum damage to fishing and to nesting birds and riverbank mammals. They weren’t so fussy then.  One day in April a dredger was at work a few miles downstream, near Westham Bridge. It was a steam-powered bucket dredger, a big boat that dredged the riverbed with buckets that ran on a continuous loop. The mud was dropped into a barge moored alongside. And of course stuff came up with the mud…”

“Old bikes,” said Carly. “Prams.” She chuckled.

“Of course! But that day, something nastier dropped into the barge. It was the bloated, partially decomposed body of a man, unidentifiable after many weeks in the water. At first the crew thought it was a large dog, or a farm animal. Then they realised otherwise.”

“But the police found out who he was,” said Carly.

“Oh yes,” said Amy. “They suspected it was the body of Walter Williams, an overseer at Pepperdine’s who had disappeared just before Christmas. “

“But they didn’t have our ways to check then, did they? There was no DNA analysis.”

“No,” said Amy. “But they had plenty of other tools. Believe it or not they could take fingerprints from a badly decomposed body, even then. They matched them up with prints from Williams’s home. And they checked with his dentist. It was him. He was 42 and had been apprenticed at Pepperdine’s in 1904. They were doing war work so he had been exempt from conscription when it was first introduced, but later the Army needed men badly, and he had to go to the Western Front. But though he had a head wound, he got back. Not everyone did, of course, so he was promoted. He became a chargehand, then in his 30s a foreman. He’d have had a lot of power over the workmen in his shop.”

“And someone made away with him?”

“Yes. On Thursday December 22 1932, he went into work as normal. He was still in the plant when the whistle blew at 5pm. No-one saw him leave. But he never came home. His wife had his tea ready as normal – they had no children – but she never saw hide nor hair of him. She thought he might have gone to the pub. But when he didn’t come in after closing time, she went and spoke to the night watchman at the works, but there was no trace of him. And there never was. Until the following April.”

“And did the police establish how he’d died?” asked Carly.

“Yes. A blow to the back of the head with a blunt object. I suppose now we’d call it blunt-force trauma.”

“Oh my goodness. So someone came up from behind him?”

“It looked like that,” said Amy. “A heacy implement, maybe a hammer or spanner. Of course the blow could have been due to a fall. But if so, why was the body in the river, weighted with a heavy chain? The inquest concluded that this might or might not have been murder, but was either that or manslaughter. As no-one knew, the coroner recorder an open verdict. The case has never been closed.”

“My goodness,” said Carly. She gave an involuntary shiver. “Listeners, an unsolved death from long ago. Has anyone heard of this death, maybe from older relatives? Does anyone have memories of Pepperdine’s? Do tell us. If you’re watching on YouTube, do comment below, or on our website, or call us on….”

She had cued up a Paloma Faith track. While that was playing, a call flooded in.

“And here’s a caller – it’s George from West Badger’s Neate. Hello George!”

“Hello Carly,” said a deep, slow voice with a strong local accent. “I wanted to say something about Walter Williams.”

“Do go ahead.”

“I was born a year or two later,” said the voice. “But I knew about this when I were growin’ up. And I’ll tell you, Walter Williams, he was a right shit.”

There was a moment’s silence.

“Oh dear,” said Carly. “George, perhaps we shouldn’t use that word on air. What did folks say to you about him… George?”

There was a dialling-tone sound.

“We seem to have lost George,” said Carly, her voice bright. ”Let’s go to our next caller. David from Westfield. Hallo David!”

“Hello Carly.” Again, it was a local accent. “I were born ’bout then mesself. Walter Williams was a piece of work. Everyone hated him. And everyone knew who’d done ‘im in. Everyone in the city knew. But they just never said. Not then. Not later. Not now.”

Amy saw Carly’s jaw dropping.

“Now, we shouldn’t make accusations,” she said. She looked worried.

“Don’t you fret,” said David. “All three men long dead. Last one’s sixty year gone now. And may they rest in peace. He were a bad man. And don’t you tell me your lady writer there don’t know who killed him. Whole city knew. She does.”

“I don’t,” said Amy. She bit her lip. Oh God, I think I’ve opened a can of worms, she thought.

“Time for some music,” said Carly, a little brittle. “And here’s some nostalgia. The Beatles, with – “ she gulped slightly – “Maxwell’s Silver Hammer.”

The music began. Carly looked through the window at the producer. “Great choice of track, genius,” she muttered.

*

The studio was in the smart civic centre that loomed above the market square. The square was packed with stalls selling everything from books to cookware, spicy sausages and local cheeses. It had been there many hundreds of years. Sometimes Amy thought how a 12th-century trader from Lübeck or Bruges would feel if they landed in the city today; at first they would be bewildered, but then they would come to the Market Square and understand at once the place and feel at one with the people who worked there. She usually felt very at home in the Market.

But after the interview she felt an odd disquiet.

She lunched on a takeaway from one of the market stalls; she often did this and today she had fish and chips, but it did not agree with her as it usually would. She sat eating on the terrace overlooking the market, in front of the Town Hall, where the War Memorial was. Many people did that, and it was busy and cheerful.

“What have I missed?” she asked herself. “What should I have known?”

Her phone chirruped and she opened the text. It was from her mother.

Will you go and see grandad today

She texted back: Yes in visiting hours after four. All good?

Her mother replied: Tests inconclusive. He is comfortable

Then: He rang just now. He wants to see you today

She frowned as she put her phone away. She looked out across the square. It was the same as ever.

*

Sometimes Grandad put on his dressing-gown and sat in the easy-chair beside his bed, but today he was lying back on the bed itself, propped by pillows. His face was thin. She kissed him on the forehead, then sat down in the easy-chair herself. They were on the first floor; outside a knot of children were playing a ball-game of some kind, and their voices could be clearly heard. The early-evening sun streamed in through the big modern window and cast an apricot light on Grandad’s face.

“Heard you on the radio today,” he said.

“You listened to me?”

“Oh yes. Feel quite proud really. Silly old sod, I am. But that’s how I feel. That’s our Amy on the radio.”

They smiled at each other.

“Didn’t know you’d be talking ‘bout Walter Williams, though. I’d’a told you no. Don’t you talk ‘bout him.”

She frowned.

“You another person going to tell me what a bad man he was?” she asked.

“Oh yes,” he said. “I knew. He was 15 years dead when I was born. But I knew. And I knew who killed him.”

“Do you? I wish you’d tell me,” said Amy. Her frown deepened. “All these hints, here and there, like – OK, who killed Walter Williams, Grandad?”

“Your great-grandfather,” he replied.

She stared.

Outside, a ball hit a car. The children were laughing. “Ha!” yelled one of them. “You ain’t joining the England squad.” The sun was getting lower and it caught the steel rings that held the curtains around the bed, and they shone.

*

“Dad was 22 then,” said Grandad. “When he was five his own dad, your great-great-grandfather, went off to war. He never did come back and Dad was the breadwinner. He’d been apprenticed at Pepperdine’s when he was 14. In the machine shop.” He thought for a minute. ”He’d have done about seven years as an apprentice, so by the time this happened he’d have been a journeyman. Had been for about a year. You know what was happening then? Around the world?”

“The Depression,” said Amy.

“Yes.,” said Grandad. “’Cept they didn’t call it that. The Slump, they always called it. You had a job, you held on to it like dear life. Well, in them days a machine shop was run on piecework. You know about that? There’d be a rate for the bits of work you did. And the fights they had over fixing those rates. You don’t want to know. But it wasn’t just that. You heard of ca’canny?”

“What?” asked Amy.

“No, you’d not have heard of it,” he said. “Mind you by the time I grew up the worst of all this was gone. Well, ca’canny – it’s a Scots phrase – it was the workers balancing their speed so they didn’t make the piece rate look too high, or too low. Very careful they were. And if the foreman saw a skilled man slowing his lathe to keep the piecework rates high, he’d quite likely hand him his cards. He’d be out. Foremen could do that then. You’d be out on your ear. Fourth winter of the Slump, you didn’t want that. You didn’t want it. You didn’t, didn’t, didn’t want to lose your job.”

“So what happened, Grandad?”

Mike Robbins

“There were three of them. Dad, Josh Spencer and John Crowe. Williams’d been picking on all of them. Dad was too fast so he’d slowed down to protect the piecework rate, and Williams noticed. Spencer was a Bolshie and Williams hated him. Crowe – well, he was a nice enough lad by all accounts, but he was never very fast. Dad had to look after his mother and his younger sister. Spencer had three children and Crowe had two. Williams called them in at the end of the shift – it was the last shift of the day, everyone was leaving – and told them they’d be getting their cards. He was pretty nasty about it, from what Dad said. Thirty years later, he were still angry. Crowe started crying. Walter Williams was a braggart and a bully. Always was, always had been. Scum who crawled on his belly.

“Well, Williams turns toward the filing cabinet to get their cards. And Dad, he had this hammer in his hand, he’d been fixing something when he’d been called in. Big heavy hammer it was, he said. They never did find that. Didn’t think about it, he said. Red mist.You’re not going to swing for that miserable bastard, Spencer said, and he wasn’t joking; you could hang then. They got a chain off the shop floor and weighted the body with it, and tossed it in the river outside the factory. Truth be told, I think they panicked; it wasn’t the best place to put it. But the current dragged it downstream, and it wasn’t found till spring.”

He stopped talking and looked away. Voices came from the children outside, and from around the ward. “Mr Clark, it’s time for your medications,” a nurse was saying to someone. “Dad, you’re looking a bit better,” said someone else’s visitor. There was a grating sound as the curtains were drawn round a patient’s bed.

*

“He told you all this?”

“Yes,” said Grandad. “He died in 1961. He told me not long before. He knew he was going. He was only 51. But he’d not been the same since – well, he said he never thought there’d be foremen as bad as Williams. But he bloody well met them on the Burma Railway. He wasn’t going to be old. Not after that.”

“I’ve got some tissues,” said Amy. She opened her bag.

“Thank you,” said her grandfather.

“What happened to the others?” she asked, after an interval.

“Josh Spencer was killed in Spain,” he replied. “They said he died fighting, but I heard he fell off a lorry. Crowe stayed at Pepperdine’s. He was in a reserved occupation. So he was still in the machine shop when the Germans bombed it. He was crushed under a steel roof truss. Dad was the last to die. But people knew, you know. I don’t know who talked. Not your great-grandad. Maybe Spencer. But I reckon it was Crowe. It was a burden, like. He wasn’t a strong man.”

“People seem to know,” said Amy.

“Yes,” said her grandfather. “But it’s funny, you know, people often do but they don’t talk. Walter Williams wasn’t unusual. When times are hard, the scum always float to the surface by looking after the powerful’s business. But people have a way of sticking together.”

A nurse in scrubs approached. She was young and vital but tired.

“It’s time for your pills, Mr Tyler,” she said. She looked at Amy. “Maybe he should rest now.”

“You kicking me out?” asked Amy.

“In the nicest possible way,” said the nurse. She grinned. “Scram.”

“I suppose she’d better then,” said her grandfather.  He turned towards Amy. “Do you ever walk along the Riverside?”

“Yes, often. Did this morning,” she said.

“Remember what was there,” he said. “The ships and the forges. And what we were. Walter Williams was scum but let the dead bury the dead. But don’t forget who we were and where we’ve been. Or we lose our soul. Do you understand?”

“I think so,” she said.

She kissed him, stood and then paused for a moment beside his bed. Then she went out through the hospital’s main entrance. The children had gone and it would soon be dark. Autumn was on the air and the season would soon change, as it had so many times before.

More short fiction from Mike Robbins

A Difficult Life When the world dislikes your birth

Come and See the Chickens A rather English love story

In Search of a Plot  Be careful. Elspeth may put you in a bacon slicer

A Question of Character Pity the nation...
The End A gun on a brownstone roof
The Last Time A figure skater leaves the ice
After the Flood An end? Or a beginning?
Remembered Time The past is a dangerous place
A Train Journey One's sister comes to visit
Time After Time When you have to warn the children
Fashion Wokeness and subversion. With style
A Time of Darkness History doesn't repeat itself. But it rhymes
Another Time A tear in the fabric
Evolution The world is turning
When Time Stands Still A hurricane lashes Pershing Square
Parallel Worlds Heat pumps and lentils. And a nice glass of Marsala
A Man for All Seasons Net zero. The Stranger's Bar. And a three-line whip
A History Lesson Why do we study it? So we can spot it happening
The Creatives Meeting a tech bro
Cold Everything is cold here
Homecoming A sort of love story
Solitude A Cold War memory
Rhodri Hactonby's Maps A question of social geography
Hiraeth A yearning…
Strange Places A spirit in the sky 
A Sideways Journey Things might have been different
Displaced Encounter on E94th Street
Belonging Do you? Where?
Leaving Home A house has memories

Mike Robbins is the author of a number of fiction and non-fiction books. They can be ordered from bookshops, or as paperbacks or e-books from Amazon and other on-line retailers.
Follow Mike on Twitter and Facebook.

Short fiction: A Difficult Life

Around midday the sun came round to the gap where the Masonic Hall had been and shone into the church through the two remaining panes of stained glass; not all had survived the blast. Those that had, split the sun into a beam of multicoloured light that spread slowly up the aisle; it caught the grain of the wood in the pews and the motes of dust in the air.

Sometimes Margaret’s mother would wait for this hour to do the hymn-books. Then she clapped them against each other to remove the dust, because she knew Margaret liked to see the clouds rise from them and catch the sunbeam. But now she was on her knees in the aisle, scrubbing away the dried mud left by the boots of those who had come to Evensong after it had rained the night before.

Lionel Walden (1862-1933), Cardiff Docks (1894)

The pews were empty but for Margaret, who sat in the back one beneath the organ-loft; she had a book her mother had got her from the library. She kicked her legs gently back and forth.

In the organ-loft stood the vicar, a small man with large eyebrows. With him was the organist, an elderly dispensing chemist with very hairy ears. Margaret couldn’t see them but could hear their voices, and that of the vicar’s wife’s; the latter was not loud, but was as sharp, clear and cold as a winter’s morning.

The vicar said something largely inaudible, but she caught the words: “Really, Edna, she cleans well and does no harm.”

 “Well, I say she’s a damn trollop,” she said. “Her with a child out of wedlock, and from one of them, too.”

Her husband’s rejoinder could not be heard.

“Come now,” said the organist. “It wasn’t unusual. With our own chaps away for the duration and everything.””

 “I don’t care,” said the vicar’s wife. “They’re all the same, these little tarts. She should have it sewn up.”

There was the sound of heels click-clacking on the tiles at the back of the nave, and then the vicar’s wife was gone, the heavy church door clunking-to with a snick of the latch.

The vicar sighed. His footsteps  went to the front of the organ-loft. “Mrs – er, Miss Simpson?” he called.

Margaret’s mother was on her knees with a cloth, facing the altar. She turned and, still on her knees, looked up at him across her shoulder; the coloured light from the stained glass danced on her face.

 “I fancy you may need to finish early,” the vicar called out. “There is a choir here at half-past. I’ll leave your money in the vestry as usual.” He turned back to the organist. “I can never quite get used to calling her Miss,” he said, “what with her having a child.”

“Such a pity,” said the organist. “Of course, the nuns send a lot of illegitimate children to the Dominions. But I suppose they won’t take a coloured child. Was it a Yank?”

 “No, he was from the colonies. I believe from the West Indies,” said the vicar. “He was in the RAF.”

“Not aircrew?”

“No,” said the vicar. “A fitter or rigger or suchlike. It was an accident. I’m told he fell off a bomber and onto a hard-standing.” He was silent for a moment. “Actually,” he said, I believe they planned to marry.”

“Well, the girl is a half-caste,” said the organist. “A wedding would not have changed that.”

“No. I suppose she’s – what? – eight now. I wonder what will become of her.” The vicar sighed again. “Hard for the family. And the grandfather with his chest.”

“Gassed, wasn’t he,” said the organist.

“Yes. At Loos,” said the vicar. “When our own gas blew back, if you remember.”

“Oh dear.” The organist was silent for a moment. ”Well, I’d better rehearse the Gloria.”

There was silence then, broken only by the sound of Margaret’s mother’s mop as it went in and out of the bucket. At length the cloud came and the sunbeams went, to be replaced by a flat grey light outside the stained-glass window above the altar, one pane of which was still patched with cardboard.

“Shan’t be a minute, my love,” her mother called out. She came past Margaret, and paused to kiss the girl on the top of her head before going into the vestry to leave the mop and bucket and collect the four and sixpence that the vicar had left for her. Then she took Margaret’s hand.

The child looked up and saw her mother smiling at her.

“Granny’s told me to get the meat ration. So we’ll go to the butcher’s and find out what they’ve got for our tea. Do you want to see the trains on the way?” She paused and bent down to button Margaret’s coat.

They went down the steps of the church. Opposite them was a bomb site where a workshop had been; it has been the same parachute mine that did for the Masonic Hall and blew in the stained-glass windowpane. The blasted walls had been knocked down for safety and the bricks salvaged, but the plot remained rough and scattered with bits of mortar and masonry. In summer it was a jungle of weeds and wild flowers and Margaret liked to play there while her mother cleaned the church. But now it was bleak. There was an east wind. They climbed the iron steps of the footbridge that led across the main line and into the city centre. The wind grew stronger as they reached the top and started across the railway lines. It was a long, narrow footbridge. In the distance, to one side, they could see the clouds of smoke and steam from the afternoon down express from King’s Cross; to the other side, a grime-encrusted engine approached at a gentler pace with a train of coal wagons. The clouds of steam billowed upwards then merged into the grey-white winter afternoon sky.

“Mam,” said Margaret, “what’s a trollop?”

Her mother stopped and looked down for a moment, then said:

“That’s not a very nice word, darling. I’ll tell you when you’re older.”

“Oh,” said Margaret.

They walked on.

“Mam,” she said, “what’s a half-caste?”

Her mother stopped again, and this time she bent down and hugged Margaret to her. She seemed to hug her very tightly. There was a piercing whistle and the express passed below, followed a moment or so later by the coal train; for a few moments they were enveloped in steam and smoke and then the trains were gone, leaving the air thick and sulphurous. At length she let Margaret go, and the girl looked up at her and said:

“Mam, are you sad?”

“No,” her mother said. She passed her wrist across her eyes. “No, my love, I got a silly smut in my eye from the train.”

She smiled.

“Now, come on, let’s go to the butcher’s. Shall we see if he’s got some sausages? Grandad would like that, wouldn’t he?”

“Oh yes,” said Margaret. “Let’s get some sausages. Sausages and mash! Sausages for Grandad!” And she skipped along, holding her mother’s hand.

Read more of Mike's short fiction: https://mikerobbinsnyc.blogspot.com/2025/11/short-fiction-from-mike-robbins.html

Mike Robbins is the author of a number of fiction and non-fiction books. They can be ordered from bookshops, or as paperbacks or e-books from Amazon and other on-line retailers.

Follow Mike on Bluesky, Twitter, Facebook or Substack

Short fiction: Come and See the Chickens

 A love story

“Hospital parking’s a rip-off,” he said. “I mean, it’s not as if anyone chooses to be there, is it.” He turned onto the main road and the tyres hissed on the wet road. It was after nine but not quite dusk; it was June. But it had rained all day.

“It’s a bit steep, £13.30 for eight hours.” His daughter stretched. “Meant to go out for a vape at the hospital then things started moving. You don’t like me to vape in the car, do you.”

“It’s all right today,” he said. “Open the window though.”

They said nothing for a while as they drove back into town. The radio was on a news programme. An MP came on. He was talking about migrants.

“Shut up, you stupid bigot,” her father said. “SHUT UP.” He jabbed the touchscreen had but missed, and jabbed again and again until the radio fell silent.

Paul E. Harney (1850-1915), White Chickens (1912)

The car wobbled.

“Dad. Dad,” she said. She turned to him and reached out her hand. “Dad, are you all right?”

“Yes,” he said. “Yes, I’m all right, Jen. Don’t worry.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.” He frowned. For a minute or two he said nothing, then:

“Have you ’phoned Steve?”

“No.” She looked at her watch. “I’ll call him when we get in so I can talk to the boys before he puts them to bed.”

“You going to tell them? Or leave it till morning?”

“No, better now,” she said. “What was it she said, Dad?”

“When?”

“About an hour before. She didn’t say anything after that, did she, just that last thing and she was sort of smiling as she said it and you freaked a bit.”

“I don’t remember.” They drew into their street and turned into the drive.

“It sounded like – well, I thought I heard ‘chickens’. I don’t know why she’d say that.”

“The Cusacks have got a new car,” he said. “Just saw that. ’Bout time.”

“Yes,” she said.

“They’d had that Nissan thing for ages.”

“Had they?” She saw her sister looking out of the living-room window. “You want to tell Carrie? I can, if you like.”

“No, I’m her dad. I’d better.” He glanced down the street. “Forgot, it’s bins tonight. Must put out the recycling.”

The front door opened as they hurried up the drive through the rain. “She’s gone, hasn’t she,” said Carrie.

“Yes, about six,” said Jen. “We were with her. She never really woke up after you left. She didn’t say anything – well, not much.” She frowned. Then she shook out her umbrella then pulled the front door shut behind her. “Shall I put the kettle on?”

“Would you, dear? I’d better put the bins out.”

“Sod the bins,” said Carrie.

“They’ll still need to go out,” he said.

“I forgot,” said Carrie. “The Council aren’t fussed if you’re dead, are they. You still got to sort the recycling and put the fucking bins out.”

“Carrie, I don’t think that’s helping much,” her sister said.

“How can you be so fucking calm?” she yelled. “Nice cup of tea and put the bins out, mustn’t grumble. For fuck’s sake! Fuck cancer. Fuck cancer. Fuck cancer.” She put her hands to her face. “Christ, I’m sitting my first A-level the day after tomorrow!”

“Fuck your A levels,” said Jen. “You selfish cow. Think of Dad.”

“Shut your face.”

“That’s enough,” he said. “Don’t talk to each other like that. Not now. Not ever, actually. Jen, go and phone Steve if you want to. Carrie, come in here.” He took her arm and pulled her into the living room. “We’re going to sit down quietly, just for a minute, you and I, see? Then I’ll make some tea and we can heat up some pizzas.”

They sat for a while without saying anything.

“Don’t worry about the A-levels,” he said eventually. “If you stuff them up you can do a year at sixth-form college.”

“Won’t that cost a bit?”

“We’ll be all right.”

She looked at him. “Dad, you never tell us what you’re thinking, do you?”

“What do you want me to tell you?” He had a very slight smile.

“Anything. What’s going on in your heart. Your head. Mum always did. You haven’t ever. You never talk about your mum and dad either. The real ones I mean, not Gran and Grandad.”

Jen came down then. “It was OK,” she said. “They knew their Nan was poorly. John was all right. Gordon sniffled a bit. Actually Steve did himself but he sort of hid it. What happens now, Dad?”

“I’m going to put the bins out,” he said.

“No, silly, about Mum. Will there be an autopsy?”

“No, when someone’s been ill and dies in hospital, the coroner won’t need one. But I’ll go to the hospital tomorrow, there are a few things to sort out and I didn’t get her belongings. Then we can go to the Co-op together and see about the funeral. You can help me choose the music and everything and you can help me tell everyone, all right?”

They both nodded. He stood up.

“I’ll put the bins out,” he said. “Hope Mrs Clotworthy hasn’t parked her car right by the gate again. Makes it hard to get a wheelie bin past. Bugger, it’s raining.” The door slammed behind him.

“It’s funny,” said Jen. “She muttered something. Last thing she said. ’Bout 20 minutes before. And she was smiling and it seemed to – well, it did something to Dad.”

“What did she say?”

“I couldn’t hear properly. Something about chickens.”

“Oh. I don’t know what that would be,” said Carrie. “Maybe Dad’ll say. Jen, aren’t we supposed to be crying and wailing or something?”

“No, that’s foreigners, you moron. We’re English,” said her sister. ”I mean, Dad wailing as he put the bins out. That’d freak out the Clotworthies, eh.”

They looked at each other and started laughing.

“Go and heat up the fucking pizzas,” said Jen. Her sister went into the kitchen.

“And Carrie?”

She turned back in the doorway, leaning on the door jamb. “What.”

“Leave your door open when you go to bed so we can call to each other if we want to. Like you did when you were little. OK?”

“OK.”

Their father came back in. “Bloody bins weigh a ton,” he said.

*

No-one really wanted to talk. About 11 o’clock he said they might as well go to bed. “You two go. I’ll watch the news and come up in a minute.”

So they went. Jen heard her sister shifting and turning in the next room but after a while she seemed to sleep, and Jen started to doze too. Now and then she lay awake for a while and saw random snapshots in her head. Just stupid things, really. Mum in Devon hugging Grandad’s collie, Mum in her classroom singing to her 10-year-olds, Mum coming in from shopping and shaking her umbrella.

She could hear the rain beating on the roof. About five a thin gunmetal light seeped through the curtains. I shan’t sleep again, she thought, and sat up; and realised she hadn’t heard her father come upstairs. She had no dressing-gown, as she’d packed in a hurry when her father rang to say it was nearly over. So she wrapped a spare blanket around her shoulders. She peered into her sister’s room. The rhythmic breathing told her Carrie was asleep. Her father’s room was empty. Uneasy, she went downstairs, treading softly so as not to waken her sister.

The living-room curtains were not quite closed and the cold new light had begun to clash with the soft warm lamp beside her father’s armchair. He was sitting with a photo album on his lap, but he wasn’t looking at it; his gaze was unfocused. As she came in he turned. “Did I make a noise?” he asked. “I hope I didn’t wake you.”

“You didn’t wake me.”

She knelt down on the hearthrug in front of him.

“Don’t get cold,” he said.

“I’m all right.”

“Is Carrie asleep?”

“She is now. Don’t worry, Dad. She’s fine. I’m fine.”

He didn’t reply to this, so she said:

“Are you fine?”

“No.” He looked at her and smiled. “But I will be.”

He leaned forward and squeezed her shoulder.

“Can’t help feeling we should be doing a chant or something,” she said. “To help her find her way over. Some cultures do that, don’t they?”

“Chanting? Your mum would be in stitches.” He leaned back. “You know what she said when I asked what music she wanted at her funeral? Don’t fart about, she said. Toss me in the fire and go to the pub.”

She started laughing.

“In Oncology, when they said six months,” he went on. “I’m sitting beside her wondering what on earth to say. ‘Oh. Better take my library books back then,’ she says.”

She went on laughing, then didn’t. “Oh dear,” she said. “Oh dear.”

“Don’t upset yourself,” he said.

For a few minutes neither spoke, then she said:

“You could tell us now.”

“Tell you what?”

“How. When. Because Gran and Grandad weren’t really your parents, were they? They were Mum’s. But they weren’t really yours. I asked Mum once. She said don’t be silly, that’d have made us brother and sister – we couldn’t have married then, could we? She just said your own mum and dad were family but they were dead. So I suppose they adopted Dad then, I said, and she didn’t answer.” She pulled the blanket tighter around her shoulders. “It was so funny because Mum was always so upfront about everything.”

“Yes,” he said. He seemed to be staring into the middle distance.

“So what were your own mum and dad like? I mean, they were my gran and grandad too, weren’t they.” She bit her lip. “Shouldn’t be asking really. But now Mum’s gone – I mean, you might say now…”

“It was me who wouldn’t talk about it. Not Mum.” He put the photo album down on the floor. “And when Gran and Grandad took me in, my real parents were still alive. They lived into your lifetime, see. My father died when you were quite small, but my mother died when you were twelve. You never met her.”

“They were alive and I never met them? Christ, Dad.” She frowned. “Why?”

“I didn’t like them,” her father replied.

“Dad! Why?”

“Your grandfather was a failed diplomat. Your grandmother was a bitch.”

He said nothing more.  After a few minutes she said:

“I wish you would tell me.”

“I suppose I should.” He nodded. “Make us some tea and I’ll tell you.”

“All right.” She smiled, a little uncertain. “Would you like something stronger than tea, Dad?”

“No.” He smiled back. “Bless you, no. There’s a lot to do tomorrow. …Today now.”

She made them two mugs of strong tea, with plenty of sugar. Then she pulled a pouffe over beside his armchair and sat down, hugging her knees.

“I was 13,” he said. “It was that very hot summer.”

“1976,” she said.

“Yes. Except it was still early June and we didn’t know it’d be like that. That was the day I met Mum for the first time. I was wearing a grey suit that stank of vomit.”

“That must have impressed her,” said Jen. She frowned.

“Actually she burned it in the end. About three years later, I suppose, when I was 16 and she was 14.” He rested his chin on his hands. “That was when I started throwing furniture about and chucking things at teachers and Gran and Grandad sent me to psychiatrists and everything and one night she screamed He’s not mad, he’s unhappy then where’s that suit I’m going to burn it we’re going to burn it and she made a fire in the garden and we watched it burn and she held my hand.”

He stopped talking then.

“Why,” asked Jen, “were you wearing a suit that stank of vomit?”

“I don’t think I want to say any more now,” he replied.

“Would you like to go to bed? Can you sleep?”

“No,” he said. “Sit with me.” And they sat in silence, and he remembered.

*

It was a cloudless day in late spring and very warm. They’d come up the long winding lane from the valley; Uncle Cliff must have seen the car in the distance because he stood in front of the house, in the big yard, with bits of farm machinery and the odd old motorbike to either side, all things he was fixing for neighbours because that was how he got by. Aunt Phoebe came out from her studio in the old conservatory at the back; she was wiping her hands with a paint-stained rag. The car crawled towards them like a beetle at first then resolved itself into Mr Gibb’s elderly Morris Oxford Traveller, the green one in which he ran people into Chagford or Moretonhampstead and sometimes picked up fares from Exeter St David’s.

“I don’t like this, Cliff.” She rubbed a stubborn patch of blue paint on her thumb. “We don’t know what’s happened. What’s he done? We don’t know the boy. What’s he done?”

“I don’t know.” He shrugged. “The school didn’t say much on the phone. Just that Steven was of poor character and they could not keep him. It seems they telephoned my brother in Bangkok or Kuala Lumpur or wherever he is in the East, and Donald said to send him here.”

“How nice of him,” said Phoebe. “I suppose Audrey didn’t want him out there. He’d get in the way of all the servants.”

Cliff looked at the ground.

“But what about this boy?” she went on. “Is he violent or on drugs or what? What about Chloe?”

“I told you, I only know what Donald told me.”

Donald had not known much more. He had taken a call from a teacher named Bullock; the latter was tetchy and brief – he had had trouble booking the call and had had to wait for some hours for it to come through. By that time it was early morning in England. The connection was poor and it was hard to talk through the echo on the line. The boy’s father had sounded vague and bewildered.

“I suppose you must send him to my brother’s in the West Country,” he said.

“We shall have to take him,” said Bullock, “and ensure that his aunt and uncle take responsibility for him.” He sniffed.

“I suppose you had better,” said Donald, helpless. “They live on a sort of farmstead thing. About 20 miles from Exeter.” He flipped through his desk diary in search of the address.

“You must understand,” said Bullock. “We must think of the school’s reputation. We shan’t want fuss or outside interest, and I am sure you don’t either.”

 Bullock ended the call without ceremony and Donald looked, slightly puzzled, at the receiver before lowering it into its cradle. He turned to his wife, who sat on the carved hardwood sofa with her first pre-dinner gin; it had just been served and the glass glistened with condensation. She was slim with short black hair and a sharp face.

“What is going on?” She glared at her husband, who was stroking his receding chin. “Why are they sending Steven to Cliff’s?”

“He is in trouble. They say he is of poor character.”

“Steven in trouble? The boy scarcely has any character. He even looks like you.”

He turned so she did not see the flash of hatred in his eyes.

“He stabbed another boy with a penknife,” he muttered. “It seems the boy had been bullying him.”

“Oh, for God’s sake. Diddums,” she said. “It’s a boarding school for God’s sake. He should accept it.” She swallowed her gin. “Kwang!” she called sharply.

The girl looked through the door into the dining-room. “Yes Madam.”

“Another cold one.”

“Yes Madam. Madam?”

“What?”

“When shall I serve the first course, Madam?”

“When I bloody well tell you to,” said Audrey.

“Yes, Madam,” said the girl, her face a mask. She withdrew.

“Do you really think you should have more than two gin slings before dinner?” asked her husband.

“I might as well,” she said. “I mean, it’s not as if you’re very exciting, are you?”

“You haven’t asked what is to become of your son,” he said quietly.

“Oh, do shut up. Cliff and Phoebe can have him,” she said. “Maybe they’ll even keep him. Phoebe can teach him to daub paint all over the place and his uncle can teach him how to change tractor wheels. Better than being second secretary in a minor embassy, like his bloody father.”

He did not reply but stood still, slightly stooped, in the centre of the room. She could see a hint of a tear in one of his eyes and smiled with grim satisfaction.

Back in England Bullock told the headmaster he would wait for Matron to pack Steven’s trunk. “No,” said the headmaster. “Get him off the premises now. She can send the trunk on. Make sure they agree to pay for its carriage.” So Matron gave the boy a clean grey suit. They took a train from Harrogate to Leeds and changed there for Birmingham New Street, where they changed again for Exeter St Davids. It was very hot. Bullock got him some water from the refreshment car, but said nothing unless he had to and followed him to the toilet. He smoked and the smoke made Steven feel sick. At Exeter they found Mr Gibb outside and the car rocked and rolled along the twisty B-road that led from Exeter to Moretonhampstead and thence up onto the moors and the car swayed once too often and Steven vomited over his best grey suit, aiming at his lap lest he dirty the car seats.

Now he stood immobile outside the car. Cliff stood staring back. Phoebe stood behind him.

“I have some papers for you to sign,” said Bullock.

They sat in the kitchen. Cliff agreed to be in loco parentis until further notice. He signed another paper agreeing to pay for the carriage of Steven’s effects, and was given another indemnifying the school for anything Steven had done.

“I cannot sign that,” he said. “It has no legal force. That is a matter for his parents.”

“No, you must sign,” said Bullock. “The School cannot take responsibility.”

“I don’t see who else can,” said Cliff. He would not sign.

Steven stood stock-still outside, beside the car. In his hand he clutched a sponge-bag with his toothbrush, soap and toothpaste. Phoebe looked at him; he resembled his father, thin with a receding chin, a slight stoop and glasses.

“Shouldn’t he have tea or something?” she asked. “Cliff, we must find him clean clothes.”

“We haven’t got anything,” said Cliff. “I suppose an old shirt and trousers of mine might do. I can get something in Chagford tomorrow.”

Bullock refused, with scant grace, an offer of tea and departed with Mr Gibb. It occurred to Cliff that he would not meet Bullock again. The thought did not displease him.

“So what are we to do with you,” he said to Steven.

“Would you like some tea, Steven?” asked Phoebe.

He looked at them but didn’t reply. He looked vaguely around him at the yard, the machinery, the green fields beyond, rolling steeply down into the valleys, and the bracken-clad moorland hills above with their granite outcrops. The late afternoon sky was a deep blue. The sound of baaing came from the sheep that dotted the fields and moorland. The three stood there for a minute or so, no-one sure what to say.

In the distance a small figure approached, skipping; she had red hair and wore jeans and a tee shirt. She had a basket under one arm. In it there were eggs, covered with a cloth.

Skrrrrrrrrrr/Wikimedia Commons

“Henrietta’s laying!” she called out. “She’s laying again! Look!” And she drew back the cloth to reveal the eggs below. Then she stopped, and looked at Steven with interest.

“Who’s this?” she asked.

“Chloe, this is your cousin Steven,” said Phoebe. “He’s come to stay with us for a while.”

“That’s nice,” she said. “How old are you, Steven?”

“He’s 13, darling,” said Cliff. “Two years older than you.”

“What happened to your clothes?” she asked.

The boy didn’t answer. “He was sick in the car,” said Phoebe.

“Oh. I suppose that’s why he’s not very happy,” said the girl. “You don’t look very happy, you know.”

Steven looked at her.

“Cheer up,” she said. “It’s fun here. Would you like to see the chickens?” She gave the basket to her mother. “I’ll take him to see the chickens.” She reached out for his hand and guided him down the hill away from the house.

He came with her, but slowly. She looked at him.

“Don’t cry,” she said. “Everything will be all right. It’s nice here. Don’t cry. It’s all right. Come and see the chickens.”

Read more of Mike's short fiction: https://mikerobbinsnyc.blogspot.com/2025/11/short-fiction-from-mike-robbins.html

Mike Robbins is the author of a number of fiction and non-fiction books. They can be ordered from bookshops, or as paperbacks or e-books from Amazon and other on-line retailers.

Follow Mike on Bluesky, Twitter, Facebook or Substack.

Short fiction: In Search of a Plot

Be careful. She may write you into being

Elspeth looked through the window to the patio. It was nearly dusk. All day, the sky had been leaden with the promise of snow that had not come.

She turned and looked down the long table; she was seated at its head.

“It’s still not a white Christmas,” she said.

“Doesn’t the snow have to fall on the Air Ministry roof or something?” asked her son. “Anyway, who cares.” He raised his glass. “To Mum’s 30th.” He had dined well and was swaying a little. I should really talk to him about that paunch, she thought.

“I’ve just had my 90th, dear,” she said. She smiled.

“No, no, your 30th book,” he replied. He raised his glass. “To the 30th fine murder mystery from the Queen of Crime, Elspeth Gordon.”

Portrait of Lady Hanne Sophie Louise Wiborg (detail) (1903),
by Giovanni Boldini (1842-1931)

“Indeed,” grunted her other son. “To However You Slice It.”

“Though it’s rather grisly,” said his wife. “Your murder victims have ghastly deaths, darling. I mean – well – an industrial bacon slicer?”

“You really should read Ngaio Marsh’s crime stories, dear,” said Elspeth. “A life model knifed from below while posing – that was Artists in Crime, I think. A chap boiled alive in a mud bath. And she had a sheep farmer turn up in one of her own bales. She called that one Died in the Wool. She makes me look an angel of compassion.”

“Well I thought the bacon slicer was really sick, Great-Aunt Elspeth,” said her great-nephew.

“I wish you wouldn’t call me that,” she said. “You make me sound like a stuffed animal in a glass case in the Natural History Museum. Do you mean sick as in wicked, dear? Modern English is so wonderful.” But her eyes were twinkling.

She looked down the length of the table. The light in the room was soft; there was a faint gleam from the crockery and wineglasses, the latter smeared with fingerprints. The white tablecloth was stained a little purple or brown here and there with spots of wine or gravy. Between the plates and bowls lay the detritus of Christmas dinner; crumpled paper hats, serviettes, a gimcrack whistle from a Christmas cracker.

Her gaze fell on faces. On her left, granddaughter Ellen, slim, pale and redheaded, in a peasanty blouse, her boyfriend Moses towering above her, his long black hair tied back, wearing a colourful Ghanaian shirt.  Ray, her son, 60 now and flushed with wine, a tax accountant who practised in Manchester and said to be successful yet somehow Elspeth was never quite sure. Beside him his wife Tina, small, already shrivelled at 55, ungenerous. The night before Elspeth had watched, unseen, as Tina moved from room to room examining the paintings and hangings and the Art Noveau figurines. Once or twice Elspeth saw her take her phone and photograph an item then appear to upload it as if seeking information or an evaluation.

Opposite her was Ray’s brother Jeff, Elspeth’s second son; broad, muscular, blonde, with short cropped hair, an engineering firm in Nottingham, and debts, about which he thought Elspeth knew nothing. Opposite him was his wife Liz, small, fearful; Elspeth thought she could see the shadow of a bruise on her cheekbone. Beside her sat Elspeth’s two youngest grandsons and her great-nephew, just into their teens, spotty, awkward and restive. Now and then their parents frowned at them.

“I am a detective writer,” she said, loudly, firmly. “And I have made a deduction.”

The table fell silent.

“My little grey cells tell me that the youngest of us are anxious to leave the table. I have deduced that they wish to watch the Dr Who Christmas Special.”

“May we, Aunt Elspeth?” asked her eldest grandson. “It sounds really – well…”

“Sick?” said Elspeth. Her smile hovered. “All right. If you can work out how to work my new television, which is more than I can do. Why don’t the rest of you go through and sit down too? I shall finish my wine and join you later.”

There was a scraping of chairs. Almost everyone left the table; they formed an untidy gaggle and funnelled themselves into the living room next door. The dining room was left in peace. Elspeth remained, not quite alone; on her right sat her granddaughter, Lisa, 18 and awkward in a tee-shirt and jeans and Doc Marten boots, her blonde curls streaked with green and mauve, her nose stud and nose ring shining dully, a jewel pierced through her cheek. When she spoke one could see her tongue also had a small pearl-like jewel attached. It had occurred to Elspeth that other parts of Lisa’s anatomy might also be pierced; she had decided she did not need to know, but the thought that made her chuckle inwardly and she wondered whether there might yet be another book. A demon tattoo artist, perhaps, or cosmetic piercer whose business was a front for some terrible crime, or was murdered by someone whose intimate piercing had gone horribly wrong. The possibilities started to accumulate, and she took a moment to hear Lisa’s voice.

She snapped out of her reverie.

“Do you not want to watch the Dr Who Christmas Special, my dear?” she asked. “I understand that is what people do. In my day we went to Midnight Mass instead.”

“Actually,” said Lisa, “I was wondering if you would like some tea?”

It occurred to Elspeth that no-one else had asked what she would like.

“Will you have some too, dear?” she said. “There is some Earl Gray in the cupboard, I like that. And there are some herbal teas too, if you would prefer those.”

Lisa was not long. She had made tea properly, in a teapot, and had found the nice china that had belonged to Elspeth’s parents. “I did wonder if I should use these,” she said, with diffidence. “I wouldn’t want them to get broken.”

“No, don’t worry,” said Elspeth. “I have reached the age when it is time to use these things.” And she realised the girl understood exactly what she meant.

“Everyone was asking today what you are going to do in life,” she said. “I think you found it quite hard, didn’t you? I could see you drawing your head into your shell, like a Galapagos tortoise.”

“Except you, Gran. You weren’t asking.”

“That’s because I know you don’t know. You will find out in time.”

“Yes.” She looked back at her grandmother, who sat ramrod-straight, beautifully and simply dressed in a silk blouse, a cameo brooch fastening it at her throat; it was a translucent image of a profile against a pale blue background. Lisa wondered who it was.

“Do you like killing people off in your books, Gran? People seem to think you do.”

“Oh, yes,” Elspeth replied. “It really is enormous fun.”

“How did you start doing it?”

“As a young woman I was, I suppose, rather comely and was surrounded by boys. Most were not safe in taxis or had halitosis or were crashing bores. I started to imagine how one might dispose of them. I had to find out all about poisons and quicklime and things. It was quite difficult. There was no Internet then, you see, we had these things called libraries.” She raised her cup to her mouth then held it there, thinking. “That’s how it began. I wanted to kill bores, but not in real life because that means lots of paperwork. So I wrote.”

She looked up at her granddaughter, who was smiling. She realised she hadn’t seen Lisa smiling much, not since she was a child, but she was now, her head on one side.

“But you like people, Grandma,” she said. “You like writing them. And they’re not always bores. They can be lovely sometimes. That’s why you write really, isn’t it? You like humans and you want to write them into existence.”

“Yes,” said Elspeth. “Yes.”

“You were looking at everyone around the table today,” said Lisa. “You were wondering who they really were, weren’t you? Their hopes and dreams and what will happen to them. You were writing their stories.”

“Yes. Including yours, of course. But you mustn’t be afraid.”

“I am sometimes, Grandma. I don’t know what lies ahead.”

“No. That has yet to be written.”

They sat in silence for a minute and then Lisa said: “Gran! Look!” She turned. It was dark now, but beyond the glass the snow was falling, thick, slow. “Look!” she said again. “Look, it’s a white Christmas!”

“Why, so it is.”

They turned their chairs around and sat side by side, so they could watch the snow.

“From the time we are born,” her grandmother said, “we are – do you know what we are? We are characters in search of a plot. Every one of us will find the one in which we were meant to be.”

“Will I?”

“Oh yes. As surely as Falstaff or Ariel or a Prince of Denmark. Don’t be afraid.” And Lisa felt a hand rest gently on her arm.

They watched the snow settle on the patio outside, a glimmer at first, thickening to a silent carpet of white.

Elspeth isn't real but Ngaio Marsh was. Find out more about her and the other Queens of Crime.

And...

Read more of Mike's short fiction.

Mike Robbins is the author of a number of fiction and non-fiction books. They can be ordered from bookshops, or as paperbacks or e-books from Amazon and other on-line retailers.

Follow Mike on Bluesky, Twitter, Facebook or Substack.