Author Archives: wrightba

It’s the Way it Is: by B. B. Wright

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shoreline A

It’s the Way It Is

Sharing some thoughts

by

B. B. Wright

 

The rhythmic sound of the waves lapping against the shore still casts its hypnotic spell upon me.

The ocean’s mist comes to me and stains my soul with its sludge of distorted life and predictable death. Once, my nostrils welcomed the ocean’s unique, defining self but now I shed tears in its passing.

Was it only yesterday when the tide rolled in carrying life’s creations that burrowed and buried their future within the sand and crevice-filled landscape? No, it was not. Now they are relegated to digital books in the halls of learning.

The shore-line stretches its lifeless black snaking ribbon into the distance until it dissolves in the fiery blood of a setting sun.

I breathe deeply, my hugged knees drawn closer, and I let this moment wash over me.

Overhead, the seagulls still call their familiar call, engraved within an aging and precarious time work.

Eternal, night’s layers gently begin to blanket the evening’s cloudless sky; I await night’s ghost-jeweled carpet overhead unfolding.

A school of fish jump in the distance; while a colony of starving seagulls gleefully plot their route.

Upon this hill where I sit, barely a handful of bees—one of life’s essential ingredients—gather the last of their day’s pollen; late in the summer, they are the first I have seen.

This new air fills my lungs. I’ve been told it is refreshing and cleansing. Will my mind and body ever really know? Or will I be lulled by a modern day  magus into accepting it is so?

My pond has run dry not far from where I lie. When did the Whole become infrastructure thoughts and credit-default swaps? Grist to the mill I’ve been sold, where economic efficiency trumps all in its obscurantism and exclusion of everything else. Cost to all and benefit for few, an obdurate mind consciously chooses the equation he used; propagandized within carefully crafted words and images explored, its intent is to unobtrusively bend and reshape my mind-filled spirit for support. I will not.

Night’s carpet is unfolding in the sky; I am lonely among the ghosts. The death of a star heralds its footprint by its light from a deep history millions of light years ago.

My footprint with others are recorded differently on this grain of sand and may never be known.

I root my feet in at the top of the hill and reflectively breathe in this world which I’m part. And I wonder: Are we (figuratively speaking) witnessing the last tree to be felled on Easter Island? A premature death carelessly imposed.

If I am the product of what I was when, then so must be the world’s decision makers.

Can we learn to think differently?

It is already happening.

Angel Maker: Part Three by B. B. Wright

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Pocket Watch

 Angel Maker

A Short Story of Fiction by B. B. Wright

An Inspector Alexander Collier Mystery

Inspector Alexander Collier Mysteries will often provide a choice for the reader. If you want to obtain a deeper understanding or a ‘feel’ for the period follow the embedded links (high-lighted blue and underlined) found in the text of the story.

Part Three

The Killing Time

The front door opened and closed and Lila could hear the floor boards creaking under his weight as he made his way along the hallway to the kitchen. She glanced up at the clock on the wall and shook her head.

“Sandy,” she called out, “you sure took your time about it. I tried to keep your breakfast warm but I’ll make no apologies for the result. As for your tea , you’ll just have to wait.”

Putting on her oven mitts, she opened the oven door and pulled out a plate of dried up wrinkled bangers, eggs and toast and placed it on the table. She returned the oven mitts to the drawer and had just placed the kettle on the stove to boil the water when he wrapped his arms around her and lifted her off the floor.

“Put me down you silly old thing before you do harm to the both of us!” she chortled.

He held his grip fast and snuggled into her neck showering it with kisses as he turned her around. “Oh how l love you.”

“You had jolly well better,” she giggled, cupping the back of his head with her hand and pulling him closer. “Now put me down. You’re making me dizzy.”

When her feet landed back on the floor and he had released his grasp she turned and looked up at him.

“Now that’s better,” she said with a lascivious look as she rose on the balls of her feet and kissed him full and deep.

“Wow!” He glanced over at the table while still holding her in his arms. “Breakfast can wait. Don’t you think?”

He undid the sash around her waist and let it drop to the floor.

She stepped back and playfully swatted him with the tea towel and said:  “Oh it can, can it? Not much of a leap to know where your mind’s going.”

“Nor yours with that kiss,” he replied, taking off his jacket and draping it across the back of his chair.

Stepping closer to her, he reached out to undo the buttons on her top when the high pitched whistle from the kettle on the stove conspired with the telephone ringing in the hall to shatter the moment.

Briefly, they looked at each other in exasperated silence and shrugged before breaking out in laughter. She then turned to make the tea and he trundled off downcast to answer the phone.

He let out a long sigh as he placed the receiver on its cradle. Slowly, he returned to the kitchen but stopped short of entering. Leaning against the door frame to the kitchen, he crossed his arms. “That was Sergeant Snowden. He told me he had called several times. Why didn’t you tell me?”

Her back to him, she picked up the tea cosy from the counter and put it on the teapot before turning. “Sandy…” she began, biting her lower lip before she continued.  “Today of all days you should know why. You should be marching in today’s ceremonies.”

She placed the teapot on the table and waited for his reply.

He walked into the kitchen and put on his jacket. “Lila, it’s my duty. No one knows that better than you!”

“Duty is it?! You also have a duty to yourself, Sandy. Was it your duty that kept you so late this morning?! Tell me, Sandy, where did you go after dropping off our niece?”

He lowered his eyes and chewed on the inside of his cheek. “I was going to tell you over breakfast. ’Queenie’ I went to see ‘Queenie.’

Her eye brows rose in astonishment.

“What on earth for?”

“After Kristallnacht…I needed to…know…her powers might have told me, Lila, if our son, Richard, was safe.”

Lila sat down and asked softly: “And… you really believe she is able to do that… better than our contacts in London?”

He pulled out his chair and sat down and reached across the table and placed both her hands in his.

“No, not really,” he confessed, “but we’ve heard nothing and I really didn’t think a visit would do any harm.”

She withdrew her hands from his and looked at him long and hard.

“Should I be worried about you?” she asked with a disconcerting look. “It’s not like you to cavort with the likes of her. My god! She’s been in jail. She’s known for swindling gullible people. Where’s your head, Sandy?”

“I’m neither cavorting nor gullible and my head‘s right where it should be.” When he saw she was about to interject he held up his hand to stop her. “First off, she’s never been jailed. She was arrested for fortune telling but that case was thrown out due to lack of evidence.”

“Sandy, you should hear yourself talk. No matter, it’s how the community sees her. It would not be good for your career if anyone found out. Surely, you know how quickly gossip travels in this community.”

“No one will find out. That’s why I went so early in the morning.”

He shifted uneasily in his chair.

“Lila, when have you known me to turn my back on a possible resource to help solve a crime, no matter how strange the resource may be?”

“So it’s a crime now not hearing from our son?” Lila crossed her arms tightly across her chest as she sat straight up in her chair.

He shook his head. “No, I was just trying to make a point. I’m still steadfast with the Home Office. It is the best and most reliable and logical choice to protect our son while he’s in Germany and to ensure Elsa and he return home safely. That has not changed. Nor will it.”  He took in a deep breath before continuing. “That telephone call, Lila, from the Sergeant…just changed how I now look at ‘Queenie.”

She nodded. “Go on.”

“A little girl has gone missing…from the Ward Diane works on.”

“Oh, Sandy! How horrible! ”

“Right now, all I know is that she’s missing.”

She cupped his hands in hers.

“But, Sandy, what does this have to do with that Mrs Stoddard?”

“Queenie, Mrs Stoddard, told me of reoccurring nightmares she’s been having up until yesterday. In it, a rhyme was recited by whom she called ‘a sinister man in dark shadows’ to a little girl. According to her, the scene and the rhyme reoccurred until the little girl was killed in a rather horrific way (which I’ll keep to myself) in her final dream last night. ”

“What does this have to do with that phone call? Oh, I’m not sure I want to know.” She covered her ears and looked away. “I hate these times.”

He gently pulled her hands away. “Lila, please, it’s important you hear. I want you to understand why I now look at ‘Queenie’ in a whole different light.”

Lila’s eyes bubbled up in tears as she nodded for him to continue.

He sighed deeply before continuing. “The rhyme Queenie related to me from her nightmares was: ‘Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall. Humpty Dumpty had a great fall. All the king’s horses and all the king’s men- Couldn’t put Humpty together again.’”

“But what does that have to do with that girl’s disappearance?”

“Please, Lila, let me finish. She said she had heard it in the movie The Divorce of Lady X. But, I know that’s not true. When she told me the little girl’s name…Rebecca Grynberg…well…that’s when that phone call I just took from Sergeant Snowden sent a chill up my spine.”

His attention momentarily drifted toward the window over the sink before returning to her.

“There’s something else,” he continued. “And if this doesn’t send another chill up your spine, nothing will. She said she saw and heard all these dreams through the eyes and mind of that dark shadowy figure. She told me that she had felt his uncontrolled and raging sickness. Also, pasted across her dreams was a collage of young girls’ faces. And, she got a sense that these faces were somehow connected and carried some sort of meaning for him but that she had no idea what it was.”

“Sandy, she’s a grifter who’s put together a good enough story with just enough drama to suck you in.”

“Maybe you’re right. But I’ve asked her to come to the station later this morning to see if we can get a drawing of those faces in her dreams.” He reached inside the pocket of his jacket and pulled out Stoddard’s book Psychic Glimpses and pushed it across the table to her with a shrug and an awkward smile. “You might want to give it a read.”

Reluctantly, she slid the book toward her and asked: “Tell me, what did she say about our son?”

“That he’s not in the spirit world.”

The bridge of her nose pinched together as she tried to understand what he had just said.

“A huh! Grfter or not, I think there’s part of you who wants to believe.”

She rolled her eyes back. “Just get on with it.”

“It means, sweetheart, that… according to her…our son is alive.”

Mustering up a feeble smile, she then looked away.

The slamming of a car door told him that Sergeant Snowden had arrived. Standing up, he bent across the table and kissed her on the top of her head. “I’d better go.”

She wiped away the tears with the back of her hand and asked: “You haven’t forgotten, have you?”

“Forgotten? You mean tonight’s supper? No. Of course not.”

She nodded, trying to smile while fanning through Stoddard’s book.

He picked up the dried sausage from his plate and took a bite. “Oh, I almost forgot to tell you. Diane and Lanny are engaged.”

“Thank you for the forewarning,” she replied, still wiping away the tears as she followed him down the hall to the front door.  “This may turn out to be a post Guy Fawkes dinner, fireworks and all. I do hope you gave Diane our congratulations?”

“I most certainly did,” he reassured her, stuffing the remainder of the sausage into his mouth.

“I was so hoping to see you march today in the Remembrance Day ceremonies.”

“Can’t be helped,” he replied, picking up his umbrella from the stand by the front door.

”We both know that’s not true.”

“I don’t have time to argue with you.” He swallowed the last of the sausage. “About this evening, don’t worry about my sister. I can handle her. Bye, luv.” And he pecked her on the cheek before closing the door behind him.

“Huh…” she replied skeptically to the closed door, “said the praying mantis to her mate.”

For a moment, she randomly flicked to a page or two in Psychic Glimpses and read it before she walked down the hall to the kitchen and threw the book into the garbage.

Breakfast at Daphne’s Place by B. B. Wright

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Road
Breakfast at Daphne’s Place

by

B. B. Wright

“The walk down to my favorite watering hole this morning somehow doesn’t feel the same. I can see that you are concerned. Don’t be. I’m neither unwell nor unable to do this downhill trek and the more challenging return trek uphill later. As you know, I’ve been blessed with good genes and good fortune. My life has been relatively successful and unscathed by health concerns or misfortune. Sure, some may say it has more to do with blind luck and, in a way, they may be right. But, I’d like to think there’s more to it than that. I see it as having more to do with attitude and being attentive to life’s details. Yes, lineage can be and is a factor but life, I believe, is about how you deal with it and how you deal with it, in my opinion, is what makes all the difference. In other words, it’s about attitude. That’s why the adage I chose to live by is: attitude, attitude, attitude.

Still, with all that having been said, today my life has somehow changed. Not in a seismic shift sort of way—though eventually that may be the case—but through the gentle opening and closing of a door that set me in a different room. To me, life is all about entering and leaving rooms. Sometimes I would linger, sometimes I would not. However long I wanted to stay, I knew I had no choice, I had to move on. What I decided to take with me from one room into the next shaped who I became.

In reflection, I know I wasn’t always too selective or critical in my choices while in my youth; I was too preoccupied with adventure, anticipation and playing the game to win. In a cornucopia of firsts, I greedily ingested without compromise and often without thought. My cup was always half full never half empty; I always saw my cup rising to overflowing with all my dreams and possibilities that were endless and not yet realized. Time had no boundaries, only lessons and those lessons twisted my focus to a much sharper perspective and an introspective journey of self to understand the difference between wants and needs.

The air smells fresh, don’t you think? And the sun, doesn’t it feel warm against the skin? Once there was a time I was too busy to notice. Now time presses differently. I can feel it. My cup now looks half empty in the autumn of my life.

I’ll always have regrets. Heaven knows the multitude of mistakes I’ve made along the way. But even if I could, I wouldn’t change a thing because that’s how I became me. It’s the history of my book. And, I can honestly say, I am okay with who I have become. Are you?

Do you see it? Look more closely. Follow along my arm to where the smoke rises. That’s Daphne’s Place. The same gang should be there or just about arriving—some for the all-day breakfast like me, others for lunch. It’s always filled with a nice cross section of ages at this time. That’s why I’ve chosen to arrive about now. Every day for twenty-years I’ve been coming. It started on this very day. I can see you’re wondering how I know that. Your mother—God rest her soul—has been gone twenty years today. That’s how I know. Yes… time does fly. Did I ever tell you that you look like her, especially around the eyes? There, now I have.

Please come in and stay awhile. Within, there are no pretenses or posturing. At least there’s none that I have ever discerned. Inside, you just are. The talk is tangible and real and the greetings are what I call unconditionally warm and huggable. It feels like home to me and goes a long way to fill the constant loneliness I have felt since your mother’s passing.

Did you know it took time for them to fully accept me? A fault more mine than theirs. Back then, I had trust and anger issues. I’ve been told that Buddha once said: “Holding on to anger is like grasping a hot coal with the intent of throwing it at someone else. You are the one who gets burned.” Wise and true words to hold on to, don’t you think? Have you let go? Can you? All I can say is: ‘I’m sorry.’

I’ve waxed poetic enough for today. So what do you say? Will you linger a while? It is my birthday. And there is birthday cake waiting inside. Don’t hurry off.

Oh…I see…You’ve no time to linger? I…understand.
Thank you for coming.
Give my love to the grand-kids.
Maybe someday, you’ll make room to stay.
Don’t wait too long.
There’s much to say to each other.
It’s never too…
Maybe…Bye… son.”

Kaleidoscope of Miracles

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kcg1974's avatarChronic Conditions & Life Lessons

Shadows of darkness surround me everywhere, yet they soothe my soul.

Not to worry.  I see everything, everywhere.  Up above, my mother’s heart so near.  Pink and dear.  It beats with love, do you hear?  Thump…thump, thump…thump. It’s comforting to me.

Take a breath.  Deep.  Deeper still.  Hold it now.  Close your eyes to imagine picture postcards of the unimaginable.  Trust me enough to view this kaleidoscope of miracles.

Tip-toe through sparkles of ocean sand.  Feel liquid warmth of foaming white trickling over toes…1 to 10.  That’s me!  Brush wispy flying hair away from sweet soft face.  Lift a coral conch shell aloft to your tender ear.  Quiet now.  Listen closely.  Slight waves are washing back and forth.  Shhhh… that’s what I hear.

Swooosh!  My tiny torso just flipped like a fish in the sea.  Swimming… such a small space inside for me.  My mother felt it.  My father could see!  A…

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The Unexpected

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kcg1974's avatarChronic Conditions & Life Lessons

So lovely yesterday, I was able to take my laptop out of doors in order to catch words running away in my sun topped head.  Soothing warm it felt, with more upon my face.  The old wrought iron swing beckoned me.  “Come hither,” it said, squeaking back and forth.  All was quiet in the thick green grass of my rolling back yard, except for echoes of my little forest land.  From century old trees of weathered stripped bark, acorns fell one by one.  “Bombs Away,” they seemed to say.  They plopped to the ground, falling on a carpet of crunchy, dried leaves.  Fuzzy squirrels of brown patiently waited.  Soon puffed cheeks were round and full.  Bushy tails scampered away to stash nuts in secret hiding places for the cold of winter ahead.

Such a change today!  I awoke to splatters of clear rain against panes of glass windows throughout my home…

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Angel Maker: Part Two by B. B. Wright

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Pile of Hebrew prayer booksAngel Maker

A Short Story of Fiction by B. B. Wright

An Inspector Alexander Collier Mystery

Inspector Alexander Collier Mysteries will often provide a choice for the reader. If you want to obtain a deeper understanding or a ‘feel’ for the period follow the embedded links (high-lighted blue and underlined) found in the text of the story.

Part Two

Chilling November Days

Diane Waumsley pulled her woolen hat over her ears and jacked up the collar on her coat to ward off the damp, chilling November wind when she stepped out of the vehicle. Before closing the car door, she leaned back in.

“Thanks Uncle Sandy. But…are you sure you don’t mind? It’s six…and…well …I could’ve found…”

Alexander Collier shook his head and smiled. “I appreciate your concern, Rebecca, but if I’d minded I wouldn’tve offered. I’m up much earlier than this most mornings.”

As was his habit, Collier was already dressed for the day in his 3-piece “London Drape” suit.

“But, Uncle Sandy,  it could be a week…Maybe more.”

“Be off with you. Your Auntie Lila’s waiting with my breakfast,” he lied, knowing that breakfast would not be on the table for at least an hour, “and I dare not test her mood so early in the morning.”

“Especially this Sunday morning,” she added, stretching across the seat and kissing him on the cheek. Her expression took on a more sombre veil as she asked: “Are you… sure you’re ready for today, uncle?”

Until two years ago, every Remembrance Day her uncle had shut himself away in his study and drank. Last year was the first time he had gone to watch the ceremony. She was proud that this year he would later don the uniform and participate in the march.

Remembrance Day ceremonies on the second Sunday of November each year had always been a difficult time for her uncle. He had never spoken about his experiences during the last World War—the so-called war to end all wars—but she had learned bits and pieces from her mom, his sister. Still, she never knew or understood why her uncle had not participated in the ceremonies. All she knew was hinted through family gossip and that it had to do with the loss of his brother, Joe, in 1917. As she grew up, she had come to accept that her uncle was a private man who contained many deep, dark secrets hidden in the antic of his mind.

He removed his Homburg hat and combed his fingers through his salt and pepper hair.

“This day…” His gaze drifted before returning his attention back to her. “Conjures up much that I would prefer to forget…But, it’s time,” he replied with a reassuring smile. “Now, wipe off that concerned look. Aye, I’m ready. I’ll do fine.”

Knowing that he had not touched a drop of liquor in two years, she felt reassured and squeezed his hand to convey her love and support.

“You’ll be coming to supper this evening?” She nodded. “Good. We’ve…invited your mom. I hope that’s okay?” he asked with a disconcerting look.

For a moment she didn’t know what to say and she slipped onto the passenger seat and closed the car door.

“I really don’t…”

“If your mom could have taken back her words…”

“What?! And have her lie instead?!” She interjected, unsuccessfully trying not to raise her voice and firmly folding her arms across her chest. “Obviously, she told you what she said?” she continued, her voice breaking slightly. He nodded. “I’m sorry uncle. But, then you also know that they were cruel, hurtful and anti-Semitic words against my fiancé.”

“I do… Wait a minute…did I just hear you correctly? You and Lanny are engaged?”

“A month ago.”

Taken off guard, he felt hurt to discover about their engagement this way.

“I take it that your mom already knows?”

“No! It occurred after our row.”

“I see…Well…Congratulations!”

He decided against asking why he had not known sooner preferring to wait for a more opportune time.

“I couldn’t be more pleased,” he continued. “He’s a fine young man. I should think supper should be interesting…very interesting, indeed,” he chortled. “Still, it will be a grand time to celebrate!”

He bit the corner of his mouth as he carefully thought out his next words.

“Surely, Diane, you know that your aunt and I would be the last to defend or support your mom in her beliefs. We support you. Always! And that having been said, you can’t solve anything without confronting it head on. I should know. At least tolerate her for this evening. Let’s see where it goes.” He shook his head. “Heaven knows how your mom came about to think that way, though I do have my thoughts on the subject. At least give it try.” He sighed deeply. “Did you know that Richard’s in Germany with Elsa.”

She looked at him quizzically.

He took in a few deep breaths before continuing. “He’s there to help Elsa get her family, her Jewish family, safely out of Germany. I’ve been trying to help through contacts in London. And, in light of what has just happened in the last few days, I’m deeply concerned for their safety.”

“Shouldn’t their British passports be safeguards enough?”

Collier shrugged. “Ninety per cent of the new reality in Nazi Germany is perception especially when it comes to Jews. If Richard and Elsa disappeared, they would be difficult if not impossible to trace. That’s why I’ve got the Foreign Office doing the best they can to keep close tabs on them. That may be the best and only safeguard my son and Elsa have got.”

“Have you heard from them?”

“Not since Kristallnacht on the ninth. I’ve been told that they went into hiding. So, your aunt and I are waiting it out. No news is good news…I guess.”

He adjusted his position to fully face her.

Contrary to his skepticism and logical disposition he had prearranged a visit (his second visit in two years) before breakfast with the psychic, medium Elizabeth Stoddard (a.k.a. ‘Queenie) to talk about his son. And, time was running short. Her book Psychic Glimpses, tucked away in his inner pocket, pressed uncomfortably against his chest each time he moved and acted as an unwelcome reminder.

“Diane, let’s get back to you for a moment. I understand how you feel about your mom, I’m not happy with her either, but shutting her out doesn’t solve anything.”

“It’s worked for me,” she retorted.

“Really?” he asked, raising his eyebrows in disbelief. “So does that mean you’re now not coming to supper?”

Her expression softened as she thought through her reply.

“I’d like to bring Lanny with me, if that’s okay?”

A broad smile creased his face as he shook in head in despair. “Diane…Diane…I wonder at times if you’re really listening. Of course you may. It wouldn’t be a celebration without the two of you present. And, I won’t take no for an answer.” He adjusted his hat back on his head.

“Good, then it’s settled. I’ll…we’ll come. Thank you, Uncle Sandy.”

The two them held hands tightly in silence before she finally exited the vehicle.

As she watched her uncle drive off, she was surprised to see him turn left at the intersection rather than continue straight through which would have been the direct route home. Giving a slight shrug, she turned and ran across the road toward the hospital.

Normally, she would not have begun her shift until 4:00 P.M. and supper with her mom would not have entered into the equation but the shift switch as a favor for her friend, Gillian, had changed all that. Fearful of sleeping through the alarm, she had had a broken sleep and felt tired. The thought of supper now with her mom made her feel frustrated and edgy and she resented this additional concern being added to her day.

Ninety minutes early for her shift, she still hoped to be running at full tilt by the 7:30 patient briefings.

Her stomach growled as she made her way up the steps to the hospital. Mentally, she chastised herself for not accepting her aunt and uncle’s invitation to breakfast. Maybe, she thought, it would have been a more ideal time and location to talk about her impending supper with her mom. She had forgotten that her cousin, Richard, was dating a Jewish girl. And, she was more than surprised to learn from her uncle that the two of them were now in Germany.

She hadn’t grasped the urgency of their mission.

Preoccupied, she misjudged the next step and stumbled but quickly regained her balance.
Composing herself, she looked at the few stairs remaining to the front door of the hospital and attempted to focus her attention on the day ahead but hunger pangs began to press her immediate needs like a thirsty day in the desert without water. Pushing aside The Observer newspaper that peeked out from her oversized purse, she began to rummage along its bottom.

“Ah! There you are you little rascal.”

Pulling out a Rowntree’s Chocolate Crisp, she quickly unwrapped it and continued to traverse the remaining distance. Though, she had her toast and egg sandwich, sliced and wrapped, and digestive biscuits, the chocolate bar for the moment took precedence—a kind of reward for her just being here at this god-awful time—and she wolfed it down.

After she had changed into her nurse’s uniform in the locker room, she tucked The Observer under one arm, picked up her bag with the egg sandwich, biscuits and thermos of tea and headed to the stairwell for the walk up the three flights of stairs to Ward CH3.

She looked forward to using her extra time before patient briefing for getting her head together and to satisfying the grumbling needs of her stomach in the small lunch room off the hall leading to the nursing station.

When she opened the door from the landing onto the Ward, she was stunned to find the staff in frenzied panic. Whatever had happened, the staff was functioning at critical levels.

Her newspaper fell to the floor when she grabbed the upper arm of one of the nurses she recognized running by.

“Judith, what’s wrong?” Diane asked, alarmed.

“Oh, Diane…She was my patient, under my watch…she’s missing! Please! Let me go!”

Judith pulled away and disappeared into one of a series of patients’ rooms lining the hall on either side before reappearing and heading to the next.

“Who’s missing?” Diane called out, picking up the newspaper and stuffing it under her arm as she scurried after Judith who had disappeared into another room.

“Did you see anyone on the stairwell?” Judith asked when she reappeared.

“No…but…”

“Search the two rooms on that side and I’ll finish up along here.”

“Judith? Whom am I looking for?”

“Rebecca…Rebecca Grynberg,” Judith replied breathlessly, unable to fully avert her eyes from Diane.

“Rebecca? But…how? When? She was too ill to…”

“We know. We all know. Please, Diane, do what I asked. We’ll talk… later.”

For a brief moment the two of them stood in silence facing each other until Diane broke the silence.

“Then…if you all know…that…Judith, what are you not telling me?”

“We think she may have been taken.”

“Taken? Then, the police must have been…?”

“No! The administration told us to thoroughly check the hospital first,” Judith interjected.

Diane’s lunch bag crashed to the floor along with The Observer as if to punctuate the uncomfortable awkwardness that had suddenly been thrown up between them.

Judith knows I’m the niece of Inspector Collier, Diane thought. And, she still expects me to blindly follow these dumb orders? I can’t. “How long do you think she’s been missing?”

“No more than two hours.”

“Two…?! Let’s quickly finish up here so we can call the police.”

“We?! No! You can’t do that! I just told you admin…”

“Maybe you can’t Judith but I can and will!”

 

Dear Reader:
I do hope you are enjoying the story so far. There is much yet to learn about Inspector Alexander Collier and his family as well as the times he lived in.

The procedure used to eventually solve Rebecca’s murder would have been impossible in the United States because of the Fourth Amendment.

The unprecedented growth of discovery, technological and scientific (medical) advances we take for granted in our modern age often blinds us into thinking that this is always the way it was. The link (at “nurse’s uniform”) to the interview with Mildred Brown Shaw R.N. says otherwise. Her experiences, as a nurse in the United States during the 1930’s, provides rare practical insight to nursing during this period and what Diane Waumsley may have experienced during each of her shifts in Ward CH3.

Thank you for giving your valuable time to follow this series. Hopefully you will continue to enjoy the series as much as I do writing each episode.

Best Regards
B. B. Wright

Angel Maker: Part One by B. B. Wright

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Palladium Cinema

Angel Maker

A Short Story of Fiction by B. B. Wright

An Inspector Alexander Collier Mystery

Inspector Alexander Collier Mysteries will often provide a choice for the reader. If you want to obtain a deeper understanding or a ‘feel’ for the period follow the embedded links (high-lighted blue and underlined) found in the text of the story.

Part One

All the King’s Horses and All the King’s Men

A heavy grey mist had settled over Bournemouth and since it was well past the ten o’clock closing for pubs and the last of the trolley buses had been docked for the night, very few people wandered about on its damp, cold streets. The doors to the 550 seat Palladium Cinema had been locked for at least an hour and the marquee which had highlighted that evening’s show of The Divorce of Lady X starring Merle Oberon and Laurence Olivier had been plunged into darkness.

Fish and chips news wrappers and other detritus carelessly tossed aside from earlier that day blew about like tumbleweed. For an ephemeral moment the front page of the Guardian was pasted against a wall by the wind to expose once again what should have been a troublesome headline:

Germany’s Day of Wrecking and Looting
Gangs Unhampered by the Police
Synagogues Burned Down in Many Cities

A young man with a potato sack across his shoulders hurried along Fisherman’s Walk. Lamplight splashed his shadow across the Guardian headline like a stain as he turned into the alley beside the Cinema. He felt the limp, small body he carried in his sack stirring as the chloroform he had given her was beginning to wear off. Quickening his pace, he continued down the alley to the back of the building.

He laid the sack down in a sheltered area in the glow of the light from the lamp above the back door to the Cinema. Untying the sack he took out his knife and slit the sack open from top to bottom. Folding the blade in, he returned it to his pocket.

He liked his prey young, very young and their innocence made what he was about to do to her that much more pleasurable. She was more than just a receptacle to feed his needs; she was an unblemished treat of virgin purity. He sat down beside her and waited for her to wake; he stroked her hair and ran his hand along her white legs and up under her gown. He needed her conscious. He enjoyed their struggle and pain; it made him even more excited.

He had strangled his last victim but, tonight, he had planned a different thrill for himself.

Astride her and fully satisfied, he released his grip on her and stood up and fastened his pants. He watched her as she curled up into a fetal position, whimpering. And he smiled.

“Do you believe in angels?” he asked her softly.

Her nod was hesitant.

The sight of blood on her gown between her legs etched terror on her face as she looked up at him.

“Yes, I thought so,” he continued. “Now there, there, Rebecca. There’s nothing to be afraid of.” He reached out to touch her but she pulled away. “I am an angel maker. That’s right. And, tonight is your lucky night.

He came closer and went down on one knee next to her.

“Have you ever played broken propeller before?” he whispered into her ear.

She shook her head and pulled herself in even closer.

“No, of course you wouldn’t’ve. I just invented it. Tonight you will be first to play it with me. But I must secure you to ensure the game is played correctly.”

He forced her to straighten out and took a rope from his pocket and wound it around her several times so as to fix her arms tightly to her sides. Then after several failed attempts, he finally stuffed her underpants into her mouth.

“That last bite hurt, Rebecca.” And, he slapped her hard across the face making her unconscious. “No!…No!…That won’t do! Damn! You must be awake to play this game!”

Several minutes passed before she regained consciousness.

“Good! Now we can play my game. But, first I must remove your ribbon so that your hair hangs loose.”

Removing it, he placed it in his pocket.

He grasped her slender ankles and began to swing her around and around, the speed increasing with each turn.

“Humpty Dumpty splat on a wall, Humpty Dumpty had a great bawl. Broken propeller,” he yelled out and let go his grasp.

The lamplight over the door highlighted it all until the moment her small foot sliced through it sending everything into darkness as her head cracked against the brick wall.

He stepped closer to observe her lifeless body.

“All the King’s horses and all the King’s men, definitely can’t put poor little Rebecca together again. Now you are an angel.”

Pulling out his knife, he cut off a thick strand of her hair and placed it in a locket and returned both to his pocket.

His trophies of her hair and ribbon in hand, he returned to the loneliness of his flat to wait. He had no idea when the urge would erupt again or who would be his next prey. Yet, somehow in his socially inept mind, living on the edge of society, he understood it would not be long because he had already recognized that the time between killings was becoming shorter.

Murder with a Twist by B. B. Wright; Fateful Choices: The Finale

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evacuees to bournemouth

Fateful Choices: The Finale

Inspector Alexander Collier Mysteries will often provide a choice for the reader. If you want to obtain a deeper understanding or a ‘feel’ for the period follow the embedded links (high-lighted blue and underlined) found in the text of the story.

Duped
A Short Story of Fiction by B. B. Wright

The weeks passed quickly and by Saturday, August 19, 1939, news about the murder of Arthur Brodley and related stories with respect to the capture and incarceration of his murderer, Joseph ‘Philly’ Morris, had slipped into the middle pages of the Echo. Throughout most of the month, the Monte Carlo Ice show, Akhbar’s Indian show, complete with a levitating woman, Max Miller, who was considered to be the rudest comedian that ever lived, and the crowning of Miss Betty Meadus as Queen of High-Cliffe, graced the front pages of the Echo. Toward the end of August the front page of the Echo shifted dramatically with the signing of the ten-year non-aggression pact between Germany and the Soviet Union on August 23. On Tuesday, August 29, the Echo announced: “Children Evacuation to Bournemouth Begins Tomorrow.” Herbert Morrison, leader of the London Country Council, was quoted to have issued this advice: “Children—be kind to each other. Parents: Make the kiddies cheerful. Others: Show a British smile.”  As August drew to an end,  the pages of the Echo were filled with the growing crisis; still, it made room on the front page to report on a jewel heist from Knibbs & Son in Boscombe. No mention was made on any of its pages about the Brodley murder or the compelling circumstantial evidence against ‘Philly’ Morris as argued by his lawyer, Richard Bell, or that the trial would begin on Tuesday, April 30 at the Central Criminal Court in London, commonly known as the Old Bailey.

On Friday, September 1, Hitler invaded Poland. Two days later, on Sunday, September 3, Prime Minister Neville Chamberlain announced in deeply sad undertones that war had been declared against Germany.

Everyone in Britain awaited a calamity after the German invasion of Poland but none materialized; they had expected a robust response to the German invasion of Poland but little of military importance took place. Only stilted sameness existed between people as they went about their daily business trying to absorb and adjust to the torrent of prohibitions of what they could not do and what they had to do. Their transition to this new normalcy ached for relief from the portentous suspension they found themselves in and they willed their attitudes to shift away from Hitler’s machinations to the greater pleasantries and possibilities inherent in holiday planning that smacked with the wholesome and real camaraderie of family and friends. The children who had been evacuated to the Bournemouth area for their protection began to return to their families as reality’s tenuous hold on the preciousness of time regrouped to momentarily follow a different drummer. This period between September 1939 and April 1940 became known as the “Phoney War” or “Sitzkrieg.”

Legal sparring between the Crown and ‘Philly’ Morris’s lawyer, Richard Bell, had pushed the trial to Tuesday, June 25. During that summer of 1940 the fate of Britain hung in the balance as the battle for Britain was fought out overhead between the British Air Force and the German Luftwaffe.

Satiated and exhausted with the daily news of death, the usual curiosity seekers that filled a courtroom during a murder trial had lost their taste for its details and, apart from those actually involved in the trial, the courtroom in Old Bailey was empty.

Norman Steffens had a square face with a jaw line that could chisel granite. Noted for being incredibly outspoken and self-assured, the 34-year old newspaper reporter had developed a reputation for not only his disconcerting ability to analyze events and detect underlying patterns but his uncanny ability for crystal clear language in his articles. As a result, he had developed a sizeable readership. Fixated on this trial, he had turned his finely oiled skills to champion ‘Philly’ Morris’s innocence. His first ‘shot across the bow’ of the Prosecution’s case was a carefully crafted and well received article that challenged the credibility of the saliva test to identify blood type.

On the morning of September 7, Chief Inspector Collier entered the courtroom and nodded in Steffens’s direction when their eyes met as he sat down on the bench at the opposite end to him. Time marched by slowly as Collier reviewed the critical parts of the trial in his mind while he awaited the jury’s verdict. Indelibly seared into his mind were the words of Morris’s lawyer when he had held aloft one of the cigarettes butts and asked the jury “…how is it possible that invisible traces of saliva could even remotely determine the blood type of an individual? In all conscience, could you send a man to the gallows on such skimpy evidence?” Bell’s all-out assault on the credibility of the saliva test had been immediate as seen on the faces of the jurists. It had become quite obvious to Collier that the well-presented case by the prosecution had just been usurped and that it had been reduced to a single scrap of disputed evidence.

When the jury entered, Collier glanced in Steffens’s direction and found him looking at him with a smirk on his face. It didn’t take long before Collier felt the red-hot heat of anger and disappointment begin to leave its imprint as it crawled up the back of his neck.

In a smog-filled room of cigarette smoke at the Strand Palace Hotel positioned close to Trafalgar Square, River Thames and Covent Garden on the north side of The Strand in London, ‘Philly’ Morris celebrated his newly won freedom with the newspaper reporter Norman Steffens by opening a second bottle of champagne. Well on their way from being just inebriated to blindly drug, Steffens watched as Morris lollopped about the room slurping his drink and singing “Andy The Handy Man.”

“T’is George Formby’s best song, don’t you think? “ He poured another glass and offered more to Steffens.

“Damn it, ‘Philly,’ it’s barely pass noon and I can barely feel the end of my nose,” Steffens chortled, waving ‘Philly’ off.

“Noon…schmoon…who cares.” Bottle in one hand and the glass in the other, Morris flopped down on the couch opposite Steffens, spilling the contents of his glass on himself. “Fock! “ He exclaimed. “What an arsehole, I am!” Placing both bottle and glass on the table in front of him, he wiped himself down with the cushion beside him. More or less satisfied with the result, he poured himself another glass of champagne. “This, my good friend, is for you and me lawyer,” and he began to sing his rendition of the George Formby song:

“Now he’s a jack-of-all-trades as busy as a bee
Should anything need fixing, just get in touch with Steffens
If you’re water cisterns frozen, or the baby’s face turns blue
Ring Lawyer Bell on the telephone, cos he knows what to do
They call me ‘Philly’, Winner ‘Philly’, a lucky man indeed.”

Morris’s face turned red as he choked on his own laughter.

When Morris had stopped laughing, Steffens shifted forward on his chair and leaned across the table separating them. “Tell me something, ‘Philly,’ and this has been something I have never been able to figure out, how do you think the murderer gained access to Brodley’s safe and where does the hair curler figure in?”

Morris suddenly took on a sober demeanor. He finished the small amount of champagne in his glass and returned it to the table between them. Sitting back in the couch, he spread his arms along its back. “My guess… and …I’m only guessing ‘Steffie’ old boy…but I’d put my money on his granddaughter.”

“Hmm…that’s interesting, why her?”

“She gained a lot from the old man’s death.”

“You mean his estate?”

“And its contents. Worth a fortune.” He poured himself another glass of champagne and swirled the contents around.  “I think old chum that the murderer and her were in cahoots….Like you and me…a real win-win situation. Salut!” And, he drank the contents of his glass in one gulp.” As for that hair curler…” He shrugged.

“I think I’d better head off while I can walk,” Steffens said, standing up.

Unable to stand up after several attempts, Morris glared at him. “But, its way too early to go! Stay and celebrate!”

Fending off Morris’s entreaties to remain, Steffens weaved across the room to the door and left.

Several hours later, Steffens was awakened from a deep sleep by someone banging on his door. Disoriented, he stumbled out of bed and after stubbing his toe and tipping over a chair as he made his way across the room, he finally opened the door.

“Jesu… ‘Philly’…” The vomit and alcohol stench was too much for Steffens and he backed away in disgust.

Morris stepped into the room and shut the door behind him. Sobbing and using the wall as a brace to hold himself up, he blurted out: “I can’t live with it anymore…I’ve got to tell somebody. The jury was wrong…I killed the old bastard.”

Appalled, Steffens began to pace the floor. He and the jury had been duped and there was nothing he could do. British libel laws were stringent. He was the only one present to hear his confession and once tried and found innocent, Morris could never be tried again for the same offence. If he reported what he had just heard he knew Morris would deny it making him libel for massive financial damages. And, he had no intention of giving Morris that satisfaction.

The mournful, wailing sounds of air raid sirens echoed across the City as Steffens descended the stairs to the bomb shelter. He felt no qualms or remorse about leaving Morris’s drunken and unconscious body in his room, only despair at being so thoroughly duped. He hoped that if luck worked in his favor, Morris would be found dead amongst the rubble and he could reveal his confession.

Brodley’s granddaughter, Valerie, was in London that evening too, staying in a hotel a discrete distance away from the Strand Palace Hotel. Unfortunately, her hotel took a direct hit and she died before she could leave her room for the bomb shelter.

The outcome of the trial bothered Chief Inspector Collier  until the truth was finally revealed a full decade later. As ‘Queenie’ Stoddard predicted, his career blossomed but, not without much heartache. Confounded by ‘Queenie’s’ uncanny ability to forecast future events, his curiosity and analytical mind finally got the better of him and he visited the Stoddard household.

Fateful Choices: Part Four of a murder with a twist by B. B. Wright

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Half a Mo' Hitler

Fateful Choices: Part Four of Five
Under Lock and Key

Inspector Alexander Collier Mysteries will often provide a choice for the reader. If you want to obtain a deeper understanding or a ‘feel’ for the period follow the embedded links (high-lighted blue and underlined) found in the text of the story.

A Short Story of Fiction by B. B. Wright

 

Entering the summer of 1939, the people of Bournemouth endured a time of suspension greater than the contemplation of the worst as Nazi Germany’s army went on menacing maneuvers. Bournemouth was too busy having a good time to worry about Hitler and said so on signs strapped to the boots of vehicles: Half A Mo’ Hitler Let’s Have Our Holidays First.

Two weeks had passed since Arthur Brodley’s murder on May 21as Chief Inspector Collier poured his tea and sat behind his desk to review his notes on the case.

The autopsy report: assailant had attempted to strangle Brodley first before bludgeoning him with a torrent of hammer blows to the head.

The lab results on the cigarette butts: outstanding.

Brodley’s granddaughter, Valerie: grandfather’s safe contained a large stash of money and a copy of his will. Grandfather had a fondness for entertaining prostitutes; hair curler may have been used during such an occasion.

He lingered here for a moment before writing: Will??? Who benefits??? Then he continued reviewing his notes.

Interviews with local prostitutes, including Brodley’s regulars: dismissed idea of hair curler as part of their routine.

He placed a large question mark beside hair curler.

‘Philly’ Morris, one of their regulars, had suddenly come into money. And, lots of it.

He circled Morris’s name several times.

Mrs Stoddard (aka ‘Queenie’) provided no additional information on day of the murder. Suggested I might learn more by attending one of her séances.

In the margin, he scribbled:??? Possibility??? Then, he crossed it out.

Placing the opened side of his notebook face down on his desk and sitting back in his chair, Collier began to mull over the events since the murder when the buzzer on his intercom intruded.

“Yes, Sergeant?!”

“…Jock Mahoney…owner of Hollies Pub…and Quentin Hogg…mortgages at the bank are here, sir.”

“About?” There was a momentary silence. “Did they say what it was about, Sergeant?”

“The Arthur Brodley murder, sir.”

“Hmm…Send the gentlemen along. And, you come along too, Sergeant.”

Mahoney and Hogg reiterated what had already been learned from the local prostitutes, namely that Joseph ‘Philly’ Morris, a person normally strapped for money, had suddenly come into a lot of it and had been spending it freely. According to Quentin Hogg, two days after the murder Morris had waltzed into the bank and had paid off the considerable arrears on his mortgage. Mahoney referred to Morris as a loser and chronic liar and that neither he nor his pub regulars who played the horses believed that ‘Philly’s’ recent affluence had come about from a win on the horses.

Twenty minutes later Sergeant Snowden and Chief Inspector Collier were on their way to the residence of Joseph Phillip Morris.

While the Sergeant remained with the vehicle, Collier went to the front door and knocked. Unkempt, toothless and in a vile mood, Joseph Morris opened the door but refused entry to the Chief Inspector. During questioning, it wasn’t long before Morris launched into a  diatribe against Brodley because he had turned him down for a small loan. As his bilious onslaught continued there were several references to Brodley’s safe. When Collier asked Morris if he minded providing samples of his fingerprints, Morris ordered him off his property and slammed the door in his face.

Collier crossed his arms on the roof of the Wolseley and looked across at Snowden. “Well Sergeant…I’m sure he’s our man…Now to prove it.”

Upon his return to the station, Collier was greeted with good news. The lab results on the cigarette butts had arrived from the London Home Office and their smoker had been a secretor. The analyst, Sidney Greenstreet, had identified the smoker’s blood group as AB, the rarest type, found in less than 3% of the population.

Collier placed the report on his desk and sat back in his chair and let out a long sigh while Snowden looked on.

“Is it what you were hoping for, sir?”

“It’s even better than expected, Sergeant.”

“But…then…why that troubled look?”

“Because, Sergeant, I need a specimen from Joseph Morris and, given his attitude, it may be next to impossible to get.” Picking up the lab report, he began to flip through it in a cursory manner then stopped. “…Unless…Hmm…that just may work. Sergeant, ask Constable Dubin to come in.”

During his interview of Jock Mahoney, Collier had not only learned that Joseph Morris was a regular at Hollies Pub and an alcoholic but that he was also a chain-smoker. So, when Constable Dubin entered his office he wasted no time laying out his plan to ensnare Morris. He instructed the constable to drop into the pub—out of uniform—shortly after eight that evening and befriend Morris by plying him with drinks, cigarettes and talk of horse racing. He reassured Dubin that there was enough money in petty cash to cover his expenses. When the pub closed at ten and the patrons had gone, the constable was then to gather up the cigarette butts in the ashtray left by Morris, place them in a bag and return to the station where he would be waiting to drive the package directly to the London Home Office that evening.

Once the Sergeant and the Constable had left his office, Collier began to initiate the next step in his plan. Picking up the phone receiver, he dialed the number of his long time friend, Sidney Greenstreet, to convince him to remain well after hours at the Home Office to analyze the contents of the package.

The next day Collier returned with the answer he hoped for: Morris was indeed a secretor with blood group AB.

Now, it was time to turn the screws on Morris.

Sergeant Snowden and Chief Inspector Collier returned to Morris’s residence mid afternoon that same day to confront him. Morris angrily insisted that he had nothing to hide and opened his house to a search. During their search they found a set of curlers similar to the one found at the crime scene and a bundle of brown paper bags, the kind that had been wrapped around the murder weapon. When Morris was asked about the items he shrugged and told them that he kept the curlers for his lady friends who stayed over from time to time and that the bags were leftovers from when he had been a grocer. When Morris boldly proffered his hands for finger-printing to demonstrate confidence in his innocence, Collier gladly accommodated him.

When Collier entered the station later with samples of Morris’s fingerprints, sitting on the bench opposite the duty desk was ‘Queenie.’

“Inspector…” she called out.

Collier hadn’t seen her when he entered but he immediately recognized her modulated and fruity voice. He turned and smiled: “Mrs Stoddard, please, just one moment and I’ll be with you.” He turned to Sergeant Snowden and instructed him to bring the fingerprints to Leonard Scoffield for comparison in the Brodley Case. Once Snowden went through the set of doors leading to Scoffield’s office, he turned his full attention to Mrs Stoddard. “Now, Mrs Stoddard, what can I do for you?”

“Nothing…Inspector…It’s what I can do for you…I see you’ve found your murderer. The thumb print will clinch ‘Philly’ Morris’s arrest.”

Collier’s forehead furrowed.

“How…?”

She held up her hand to stop him from going further as she stood up. “It doesn’t matter, you wouldn’t believe anyway. Just remember, you don’t always get what you want, Inspector. Life is full of surprises with all its twists and turns. Your life will be full and successful but not before much sadness. You know where I live, Inspector, if you care to learn more.”

Dumbfounded by what had just transpired, Collier was watching her leave the station when Leonard Scoffield came excitedly through the set of doors that led down the hallway to his office.

“We’ve got him, Alex! The right thumbprint matches the print on the beer glass.”

And, they embraced each other in jubilation.

Forty minutes later, Collier had the pleasure of locking the vitriolic ‘Philly’ Morris behind bars.

 

Dear Readers:

I hope you are enjoying Fateful Choices? So, do you think you know how it will end? I am willing to bet that the finale in September will surprise you. Until then, thank you for following me and I look forward to our time together again soon.

B. B. Wright