Through the Apple Store

M. Johnson Wentworth

Description

It seem that someone has murdered an actress. Who would believe the actual truth? Howard thinks a wandering Viking is the guilty party and Donavon Merryville gets the blame. In order to appease mad Albert and solve the murder, Donavon enters on a fantastic voyage through the centuries. He discovers and falls in love with Anneke, a siren from the 1800s. Forced by Albert, driven by love and inexorably channelled by time itself, Don blunders into the Viking wars of East Anglia and discovers a plot to assassinate Winston Churchill, the wartime English Prime Minister. This terrible situation must take priority and Don defeats all odds and befriends Major Howard. Albert again takes control of Don's life and he is forced into marriage. An exciting honeymoon ensues with the bride and groom running away after causing havoc in the 1860's. Eventually Donavon returns to Bloodisland House with his tail between his legs and settles down to married life only to restart the cycle and get the blame for the murder of an actress.

Sujets

• Science fiction

Informations

• Publié par: Andrews UK
• Date de parution: 18 novembre 2011
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781849897860
• Langue: English

Extrait

Title Page

THROUGH THE APPLE STORE




By
Wentworth M. Johnson




Publisher Information

Through The Apple Store
Published in 2011 by
Andrews UK Limited
www.andrewsuk.com

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior written consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published, and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

The characters and situations in this book are entirely imaginary and bear no relation to any real person or actual happening.

Copyright © Wentworth M. Johnson

The right of Wentworth M. Johnson to be identified as author of this book has been asserted in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyrights Designs and Patents Act 1988.



Faraway

Faraway from home in a foreign land, tears streamed down my face as I stood and listened to the Queen’s Own Rifles pipe band playing Amazing Grace . Barely able to breathe as the emotion evoked by the proceedings choked my throat, I watched through clouded vision as the two coffins were lowered into the ground. When the pipes reached a crescendo my heart skipped a beat and felt as though it had stopped. There is no sound on Planet Earth as final and spirit-grasping as the Highland War Pipes.
Scarcely able to control my feelings I saluted, turned and fled the scene. The music stopped, then the preacher mumbled something and there were shots from the rifles of the guard. Suddenly, like a roll of thunder, the band drummed up and played Farewell to Gibraltar . They marched two abreast from the cemetery and formed a parade at the gates. With a swirl of the drum major’s mace, they broke into Scotland the Brave and marched down the drive toward the house.
Never have I seen such a wonderful and moving tribute to the dead. The major and my own father side by side at eternal rest – maybe. According to Father’s journal he still lives faraway and unreachable with his beloved Anneke. Now that the official secrets act is no longer a concern I can tell the whole story. It took me weeks to fathom it all out as the chronology presented a real problem.
My father had been a professional studio technician for a small TV film company in Toronto, Canada. In those days he worked all kinds of hours. You never knew when he was going to be home or how long he would stay. He had a car for his use and Mom had one for herself. We lived a hectic and uneventful life in a detached back split on a subdivision in Oakville, just a few minutes from Toronto.
My life changed forever two days before my tenth birthday. Mom and Dad were often arguing about money and at that age I had no real appreciation of financial problems. I knew my pocket money seemed extremely sparse, even though I did all the chores allotted to me. Other guys always had spare change in their pockets. This time the argument seemed really serious, though they didn’t get to exchange blows.
Dad was a remote man and difficult to know and seldom at home, when he was around he kept his thoughts to himself. It seemed to me that he was either always at work or asleep. I can’t remember any time when he took us out like regular folk. Well, that’s not exactly true, once he took us to a Chinese restaurant by the lake front. Unfortunately the day finished with Mom and Dad arguing – as usual. It was no real surprise when I came home from school one day and found Mom stood beside the sink weeping. She said that Dad had run off with some other woman.
I felt angry and hurt, and hated him for what I thought he had done. When I needed him most he had deserted us. The funny thing is I remembered him clearly. He was a young, virile and energetic man, 6 foot 2, handsome and with slick black hair. There was only one photo of him – that’s the one I kept in my wallet. I think Mom threw all the others away in a fit of spite. Although I felt angry because he’d left us, there remained that longing to see him again.
By the time I reached twenty-two, twelve years after he had left us, I was living in Western Canada. Mother lived with her seventh or eighth boyfriend somewhere near Toronto. I really didn’t know or care where she was or who she slept with. Work had been hard to get and harder to hold down. I had found work in a shoe warehouse and made enough money to live on.
This particular day when I returned to my apartment in Vancouver, an RCMP officer stood waiting by my door. I didn’t know he was a cop at first as he was dressed in plain clothes.
“John Merryville?” he said when I approached him.
“Who”s asking?” I growled.
He looked me up and down suspiciously, then flipped open his warrant card. “Royal Canadian Mounted,” he said between his teeth.
“What can I do for you, officer?”

He pulled an envelope from his pocket. “We’ve been looking for you for several days.”
“What have I done?”
He smiled. “It’s about your father.”
“My father,” I gasped, certainly never expecting to hear from him, especially through the RCMP or any other police, for that matter. “What about him?”
He handed me the envelope. “You can see for yourself. Have a nice day, sir.” He walked away leaving me standing like an idiot.
For some reason the communiqué made me tremble. I had not heard from the old man in twelve years and now this. I put my lunch pail down on the sidewalk and tore open the envelope. The words made minimal sense. It was from some lawyer in Toronto. Basically, it said that my father’s estate was being wound up and they needed me to fill in some forms and there was a phone number for me to call.
Looking at my watch, I realized it was far too late to phone Toronto. It would have to wait until morning. Sleep came uneasily that night, leaving me to toss and turn. There were some terrible nagging thoughts that would not leave me alone. When I finally slept nightmares plagued my brain – stupid dreams about Mom and Dad fighting, like it brought back all my childish fears.
The alarm clock went off at seven; that’s ten in the morning in Toronto. First thing I grabbed that letter and dialled the contact number. The lawyer made little more sense than the letter. He thought that my father had been convicted on a murder charge and was dying in some prison hospital in The Fenlands of England. I really didn’t care or want to hear any of that crap. I would not have done anything about it except the lawyer said there was quite a large estate to be settled and it looked as though I could be the only relative.
I could not think how Dad could have gotten rich in just twelve years. By now he would be about 45 years old and we didn’t have any relatives on that side of the puddle that I could think of. England was not a country that I had done any thinking about. Why should I? The thought of going there gave me the shivers – all you ever hear about is the fog and the rain.
It took three months to arrange everything. I had to travel all the way to England and contact a man named Howard at some big house near the town of Downham Market. Britain turned out to be completely different to what I had expected. There were no cobbled roads and the people did not walk about with a piece of straw in their mouths. It was just like Toronto, hustle and bustle. There were cars and traffic everywhere, except the English are a little more insane than Canadians when they get behind the steering wheel.
In London I caught a subway train – over there they call it the Tube – and then a surface train to a place called Ely. As I couldn’t get any farther by rail, I hired a taxi to take me to the house near Downham Market. The taxi driver had never heard of it, but figured it would not be too hard to locate. Downham Market seemed easy to find. It is a sort of country market town near two huge parallel rivers.
The countryside looked beautiful, with trees and lush grass. From Downham we headed west toward the Fens. Fens are a sort of flatland area, almost like an arable desert.
“This all used to be swamp,” the taxi driver said. “They do say that the Dutch helped drain it a few hundred years ago.”
They certainly did a fine job, it was quite dry, but I thought it looked desolate. It was late afternoon when the taxi found its way to my destination. We discovered this large and ancient house on a small hill surrounded by trees. The long sandy driveway from the main road to the house wound its way up a very small hill, rising only a dozen feet or so. Bloodisland House looked a miserable place with a blue slate roof and blind windows. It looked like a mortuary or funeral parlour. There were several outbuildings and a gravel courtyard. Although cared for, it struck me as an unwanted place.
An aged codger with grey hair stood by the front door. He had an ornate walking stick in one hand and a Yorkshire Dale cap on his head. He was not bearded but had an enormous waxed handlebar moustache that drooped either side of his mouth. As the car stopped the old man came and opened the door.
“John Merryville?” he asked in a mumbling, almost shy but very English tone.
“Sure,” I said and climbed from the car.
The old man muttered something to the driver and handed him some money. “I’ll take you up to the house, old boy,” he said.
Up to the house? We were already there. The taxi driver unloaded and leaving all my things on the driveway, drove off in a cloud of dust.
“Welcome to Bloodisland House,” my host said. “It’s your pater’s, don’t you know.”
No, I didn’t know. I couldn’t think of anything sensible to say. He led the way into the building. I felt suitably impressed. The dec