Banker's Draft

  Banker’s Draft

  by

  Clive Mullis

  Cover design by Glenn Young

  http://www.gydesign.co.uk

  Copyright 2012 Clive Mullis

  All rights reserved.

  Table of contents

  About Gornstock

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  About the author

  Come and join me at THE BLACK STOAT'S VIP CLUB, where you can download a FREE exclusive short story about the founding of Gornstock. As a member of the best pub in Gornstock, you will also receive updates about what’s new in the bar as well as anything new coming from me.

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  ABOUT GORNSTOCK

  The Twearth is a small bright blue marble of a planet circling its sun in its own unique universe. Other planets frequently come close to it before shooting off back into space with a jaunty wave; all that is except its moon, which is ever-present and stays close to see what happens.

  The problem with our universe is that the big bang misfired, and now it’s in touch with every other universe that exploded into creation. There’s a rift in the fabric of being which allows it to be a peeping tom into all the other universes and the people on Twearth are quick to exploit the anomaly.

  On the banks of the Sterkle, a wide flowing river which feeds into the Blue Sea on the Island of Inglion, a poor unfortunate trader was counting down until his last breath sighed from his body; he had been robbed of his cart as well as his stock of leather accessories. The arrow in his side slowly gnawed its way into his internal organs just as a company of Morris men jangled along the same path. Our unfortunate trader could only point to where his cart had disappeared to and stammer feebly, G… G… Gone, S… S… Stock,’ before expiring with a grunt. The Morris men nodded sagely, then they buried him in the nearby woods and danced a jig in remembrance — and there the city of Gornstock began to grow.

  CHAPTER 1

  ‘“…Where stays the shimmering crystal stream, on light that gazes open seems, Oh what in that which hopeful roams, a guiding light to send you home.”’

  Jocelyn Cornwallis III slowly closed the brown frayed leather book with a sigh. The book, whose title “Poetry and Thoughts for Today’s Modern Man” scarred black into its dull brown cover, was thoughtlessly cast onto the old oak, once polished desk; on which his boots were presently resting. The tome slid to a halt amidst the dusty paperwork sending motes swirling into the air.

  ‘Yeah, right,’ responded Frankie Kandalwick, Cornwallis’ friend and employee, grimacing at the tortuous lines. ‘So tell me, why do you read such rubbish?’

  ‘Because, my dear Frankie,’ answered Cornwallis, casting his eyes around the room and waving a distracted arm, ‘it gives one a sense of perspective. This particular poem shows how nature can guide the most wayward, a simple star in the sky, a speck of light, and it can help a weary traveller find home. Those of us who are fortunate enough to be educated recognise the beauty of language.’

  Frankie snorted disdainfully. ‘Anyway, if that’s what you call education, I’ll happily stay ignorant.’

  Cornwallis slowly shook his head in resignation, he steepled his fingers and then tapped the index fingers against his lips in thought. ‘You know, Frankie, I sometimes wonder why I let you work for me.’

  ‘That’s ‘cause no other bugger’s stupid enough.’

  ‘That’s about the only sensible thing you’ve said so far today.’ Cornwallis pulled at the neck of his shirt hoping for a draught of air to cool him down, it had been a hot day and there didn’t seem to be much air circulating around the room, the window was fully open but the wind decided to go on strike.

  Jocelyn Cornwallis III, a tad over six feet tall, lean and clean-shaven, presently sat relaxing in his chair with his feet crossed and planted firmly on his desk. The room, his office, hadn’t seen a broom or a duster in months; it was just the way he liked it. He had dark equine features with dark brown shoulder length hair and dressed in a coal black suit which contrasted with the crisp white shirt. He could have a razor sharp mind, but only when he wasn’t too distracted. Born to lead a different life, the son of a noble, he suffered the normal upbringing afforded to his class: brought up by a nanny until old enough to attend “School” then destined for a seat in the Assembly. But Cornwallis had other ideas; he decided against following tradition and began a life far removed from that which his father had planned. He decided he wanted to work for a living. On the door to the office, a cardboard sign proclaimed the word Investigator in faded lettering.

  Frankie had no choice in the matter, a product of the gutter, or if not the gutter, standing precariously on the kerb looking down, a life of lawlessness beckoned. As a youth and a man, he lived up to expectation and forged himself quite a career, until the day Cornwallis and he became reacquainted, and then his life changed; he became honest. It happened suddenly down a back alley with a pocket full of silver jewellery, filched from the house of a dealer in antique curios and novelty items, who had short-changed his brother when he had been trying to offload a stack of lead piping. He couldn’t understand how the knife got there, pressed to his throat, but Cornwallis did, he being the one holding the knife. He had seen him leaving by a side window, and negotiations, as they say, continued. His mum used to be a char at Cornwallis’ father’s city house and they had played together as kids. Built like a brick outhouse with cropped light hair and large calloused hands, few argued with Frankie, and those that did rapidly regretted their decision. The broken nose and puffy ears suggested he sometimes came off second best, but looks could be deceiving, he was a mountain of a man who could move mountains and in their line of work, he was more than useful. He played up to his image of being slow in thought, but many had cause to re-think that assumption, there was more to Frankie than met the eye. He balanced the chair on its two rear legs and reclined against the wall, he sighed and then pitched forward, stood up, and headed over to the dart board — boredom had set in, nothing had happened for days now.

  ‘Triple twenty,’ he announced, standing back to the chalk line on the floor.

  Cornwallis grinned as he watched.

  Frankie screwed up his eye and threw. ‘A five. Bugger.’

  ‘Try something easier,’ suggested Cornwallis. ‘Like the wall.’

  ‘It’s these darts of yours, they ain’t balanced,’ he countered, taking aim again. This time he concentrated harder, he licked his lips but left the pink tip of his tongue hanging out. The dart thumped into the board. ‘Single twenty,’ he announced, triumphantly. ‘Getting closer.’

  Cornwallis pulled out half a dollar and slapped it on the desk. ‘Next dart, and I’ll make it easy for you, sixteen or higher.’

  ‘If you want to throw yer money away, then I’ll have it. Yer a loser waiting to lose.’ He took his time, concentrating as hard as he could, flexing his arm a few times and then slowly pulling the dart back to his face. His hand shot forward and the dart flew unerringly towards the board, it felt smooth and graceful, a perfect release — the dart hit a seven.

  Cornwallis shook his head as Frankie paid up, a nailed on certainty that he would miss. It didn’t really seem fair to take the money, but then again… ‘Well, Frankie, I don’t know about you, but I feel a thirst coming on.’

  Frankie didn’t need to think. ‘So long as you’re paying,’ he said, a
s he watched his half-dollar disappear into Cornwallis’ pocket.

  They made their way down the stairs from the second floor of the four-storey house; Cornwallis had bought the house a few years previously and rented out the ground and first floor whilst keeping the top two floors for himself. The address was in one of the more fashionable areas of the city, Hupplemere Mews, right on the corner with Grantby Street and only a few streets away from the seat of government, so there were always a steady stream of takers for the vacant rooms. At present, a workers agency, a marriage broker and a gentleman’s surgical appliance fitter rented the spare rooms and only last week a rather attractive lady who spoke to the dead paid a month’s rent in advance; he did think that the surgical supply fitter might have to start reinforcing some of his wares should some of the clientele walk into the wrong room, but that wouldn’t be his problem.

  Frankie couldn’t have been more wrong, something had happened at the offices of Mssrs Critchloe, Flanders, and Goup, Accountants, Greenwalsh Avenue, Gornstock. Miss Eliza Knutt, 51, spinster of the parish, had been found dead in the first floor inner office, and the circumstances were not natural. Miss Knutt had been a cleaner, and she would most definitely not be happy with the state of her former body. The pool of blood surrounding her, and soaking into the richly embroidered deeply piled and very expensive East Pergoland rug began to congeal nicely. Mr Goup, who found Miss Knutt, not a particularly robust man, stared in abject horror at the two paper-knives sticking out of the back of Miss Knutt’s neck. He struggled to stop his lunch from making a dramatic re-appearance as it churned in his stomach and then make a short foray up his gullet before deciding whether to go for broke. As Mr Goup stepped back from the door his stomach won the unequal battle and an explosion of half-digested pea and ham pie, together with a half bottle of his favourite Pinket Gregorio wine, came rushing forth.

  *

  The Black Stoat occupied a corner of a small piazza down Brindlenook Alley, called Cumerbund Square. Tables spewed out from the interior and covered the forefront of the tavern like a rash. It had a diverse clientele to say the least. It wasn’t a particularly rough establishment, but it could be described as being a little frayed around the edges as the occasional bout of entertainment did occur, but that only added to the ambience. In the opposite corner stood another tavern, The Duke, and that was chalk to the Stoat’s cheese. Only the young and well-heeled frequented The Duke as it considered itself a cut above the rest, serving its drinks in tiny glasses, always with some kind of fruit floating on top. Between the taverns, a variety of premises: a cloth merchant; a candle maker; Fossie’s Take Away; a baker’s; Ying Pong’s noodle shop and an exotic wares merchant.

  Cornwallis and Frankie sat themselves down at a table in the piazza not far from the door of the Stoat and caught the eye of Eddie the landlord. Cornwallis held up two fingers and mimed drinking to order a couple of beers. The late afternoon sunshine bathed the piazza in a golden glow which brought folk out to drink and to cool down, the place just starting to fill up. They could see Big George pedalling away in the corner inside the tavern; the brown bear sitting on a geared contraption which, attached to a fan by a large rubber band, gave just enough waft of air to stir the smoke and give a respite from the cloying heat. Outside though, a cooling breeze gently breathed, and Cornwallis eased back into the chair and closed his eyes, enjoying the moment of relaxation and the anticipation of the cooling beer disappearing down his throat — but only for a few seconds.

  ‘Frankie, do you have to do that?’ Cornwallis opened one eye and peered at his employee. Frankie had his index finger firmly rammed up his left nostril, a deep excavation taking place. Cornwallis watched in distaste as the finger puggled away until it finally slowly unscrewed from the cavity.

  Frankie held up his finger triumphantly before staring at the result with satisfaction, he sniffed, and then deftly flicked the offending article towards the leg of a passing tradesman. ‘Technically, no, but I ain’t got a hankie.’ He sniffed again to check that all was well and grinned back at Cornwallis. ‘You could always lend me one of yours.’

  ‘Gods forbid,’ replied Cornwallis, aghast, ‘I’d have to burn it afterwards. Your snot would just disintegrate my rather expensive silk. No, Frankie, I will not lend you one of mine.’

  Their beers appeared and immediately the conversation ceased as the serving girl sashayed her way towards them. She wore a long pale green dress with a golden tasselled braid wrapped around her slim waist, the gentle curves of her hips accentuated by the silkiness of the dress as she moved forward step by seductive step. Long honey-coloured hair hung loose down her back and she had the biggest blue eyes ever. She stood about five foot nine tall and her skin radiated vitality; but the cut of her dress allowed the imagination to run riot as the material struggled to hold everything in place. She arrived at their table and eased forward to put the tray down, and two pairs of eyes watched eagerly, hoping and praying for a wardrobe malfunction.

  ‘Er, you couldn’t wipe the table for us, my darling?’ asked Frankie, somewhat strained but hopeful all the same, as she positioned the glass in front of him.

  The girl stood up slowly and shook her head; piercing blue eyes seared into Frankie’s, but then flicked over to Cornwallis’.

  ‘I think you know the answer to that; do I look like I’ve got a cloth on me?’ She held her arms out wide in a stance that said frisk me then, but her eyes said you’d be dead if you tried. Everyone on nearby tables turned eagerly to watch, as if they knew something Cornwallis and Frankie didn’t. She smiled sweetly and then picked up the tray; everyone seemed to groan and then turn disappointedly back. ‘Eddie just warned me about you two, you know, but for some reason he told me to be gentle.’ She wagged a finger of admonishment at them before breaking into a wide smile. ‘You two have a lot to learn.’ She swished around, and then without another word, headed back inside. Two pairs of eyes followed her intently, and were rewarded when she turned briefly and gave a coy little look over her shoulder before disappearing from view.

  Frankie groaned and crossed his legs. ‘Where do you think Eddie found her from? She wasn’t here a few days ago, it were that Bertha with a limp and she spilled most of the beer before we got it.’

  Cornwallis’ smile was beatific. ‘I don’t particularly care where he found her, I’m just thankful that he did. She didn’t tell us her name, but I’m sure we’ll find that out soon enough. Francis, I think I’m in love.’

  As soon as Eddie stepped out of the door, Cornwallis beckoned him over. ‘Come on, Eddie, who is she and where did you find her?’

  ‘Looky ‘ere, Jack, I can’t be ‘aving with you chasing after me staff, you know.’ Eddie being one of the few people who were well enough acquainted with Cornwallis to use his soubriquet. ‘She’s ‘ere to work and pull in the punters.’

  ‘And I’m sure she’s very good at it,’ responded Cornwallis, thinking that once word got around this place would be heaving every hour of the day. ‘However… Oh, come on, Eddie, tell us.’

  The pleading look in Cornwallis’ eye was too much for Eddie so he sat down and leant back with a sigh. ‘All right then, her name is Primrose, or Rose for short, she’s my sister’s niece by marriage, meaning, she’s family.’ His emphasis on his last indicated a subtle warning, ‘She’s come up from Dawling for a time, wants to see the big city, got fed up with a nowhere town and wants to live a little.’ He scratched his chin and belched loudly. ‘I’m not so sure I done the right thing now, though. Over the last few days I’ve had more problems than I want to deal with; some of the punters are taking right liberties. She tells me she can handle things, but… I don’t know; mebbe I should find another job for her.’

  ‘No, no, no!’ Frankie almost screamed in horror. ‘You can’t do that; she brings a touch of class to the place. No, you keep her on and if you get any trouble then let me know and I will personally sort it out for you.’ He tapped his chest and sat up straight.

  Eddie sighed a
nd stood up. ‘I doubt you’d ever be needed: she got taught how to defend herself by a little priest from out east; so far she’s broken up three fights and put two people in hospital. She could probably knock seven colours of shit out of the pair of you if she really wanted to.’

  Cornwallis’ mouth hung open as he stared at Eddie’s retreating back.

  *

  The Police had just arrived at the address of Mssrs Critchloe, Flanders and Goup; a large grey stoned terraced building with two pillars guarding the entrance. Four officers marched in and sealed off the premises. Sergeant Jethro MacGillicudy stood at the door to the inner office and gazed down at Eliza Knutt. He was a big man with a moustache and long side whiskers, his reddish-brown hair flecked with grey and he possessed an air of authority that screamed his rank. Nicknamed the Feelers, the police had been founded by Lord Carstairs Fielding long ago. He had decided enough was enough after being robbed at knifepoint as he took home his ill-gotten gains after fleecing the Mayor of several hundred dollars.

  ‘Constable Toopins, if you please.’

  ‘Yes, Sarge.’ The youngest recruit elbowed his way to the front to stand next to his sergeant. A skinny creature with a mop of unruly dark hair, he’d already got the nickname of Dewdrop, due to the seemingly permanent droplet of snot hanging from his nose.

  ‘Tell me son, what do you see?’ MacGillicudy wrapped an arm around his shoulder and swept the other generously around the room.

  ‘Er… A dead woman, Sarge?’ he ventured timidly.

  ‘Yes, yes… and?’

  ‘Er… a lot of blood, Sarge?’

  ‘Well spotted, son, well spotted.’ MacGillicudy knew he had to be patient. ‘Now, shall we try to be a bit more adventurous in our initial examination of the alleged crime scene?’