Kiss of the Water Nymph

William Stafford

Description

Seeking inspiration, hack writer Hector Mortlake embarks on a journey across late 19th century Europe. He invites the people he encounters to submit short stories to a contest but soon the travellers find themselves at an isolated hotel and caught up in a series of suspicious deaths. Could there be something to the local myth of the water nymph after all? Influenced by Hammer horror films and riddled with innuendo, this humorous tale is the first in a new series from prolific author William Stafford.

Sujets

• Humour

Informations

• Publié par: Andrews UK
• Date de parution: 20 janvier 2015
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781785381072
• Langue: English

Extrait

Title Page
KISS OF THE WATER NYMPH
A Hector Mortlake Adventure

William Stafford



Publisher Information
Published in 2015 by
Andrews UK Limited
www.andrewsuk.com
The right of William Stafford to be identified as the Author of this Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1998
Copyright © 2015 William Stafford
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated 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. Any person who does so may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.



Chapter One
The journey had been fraught with difficulties from the start. Quite honestly, I had reached the point of giving up on the whole bally business and turning around and going home and hiding under the bed. But home seemed like such a long way away; I had come too far. It was like that chappie says in the play, returning is as tedious as going on - or something very like.
I left Blighty two weeks ago, waving a fond farewell to Dover’s white cliffs like they were the adored faces of loved ones come to see me off. No one had come to perform that office; I am alone in the world and no blighter cares whether I’m alive or dead - until I overdraw from my chequing account and then they raise a stink and make a fuss and demand to be apprised of my whereabouts and intentions.
In France I boarded the Orient Express at Calais, swapping steamboat for steam train - marvels of our age, the both of them. If anyone had told my grandfather when he was my age (twenty-nine) that we would all be riding around in giant kettles, he would have clubbed them insensible.
My destination was Greece. I fancied pottering around among old stones or indeed getting stoned among some old pots. I was in no particular hurry to get there but that does not mean I was not put out by every delay or detour my journey was forced to undergo.
I am a writer. Nothing highbrow or edifying, you understand. Just jolly japes and romping around. Derring-do and all that kind of fodder. My name is Hector Mortlake. You won’t have heard of me.
The revelation of my profession never fails to bring about the same reactions. There is the show of mild interest, and a charade of being impressed by what I do - I say ‘mild interest’ because no one knows quite what to say to a writer, not even other writers. “And what have you written?” is the inevitable question and when I rattle off a long list of sensational serials, published on a weekly basis by one of the less reputable organs of the press, you can see their faces fall like snow from a roof during a thaw. They move away quickly. Some of them cover their children’s ears. It’s always the same but I imagine someone must be buying the periodicals and reading my stories - I make quite a pretty penny from it, I can tell you. I would be unable to fund this trans-European trip without the filthy lucre earned from the outpourings of my febrile and fertile imagination.
After several years of hard work and perspiration, my well of ideas finally ran dry. My editor pulled me up on it, saying the serials were repetitive and predictable, that I was rehashing hackneyed ideas. It was a fair cop. My muse must have fallen asleep on the job and without her to egg me on and entice me with a crumb trail of ideas, well, I was just swinging the lead. I had become a peddler of old rope and my editor was no longer willing to string me along. Up perhaps but not along.
“I’m burned out, old duck,” I told him, helping myself to one of his cheap and nasty cigars. “The old noggin needs a bit of a breather, don’t you know?”
He told me that old one about travel broadening the mind and I said, do you know, you just might have hit upon something there. I directed my feet to the travel agent’s side of the street forthwith.
A change, we are told, is as good as a rest, and a rest is as good as a - well, I don’t know what a rest is as good as because, two weeks later, I was still to have one.
I tootled down to Dover. It pained me to leave my dear little Benz there but (and the travel agent confirmed my supposition) there would be stretches of my journey inaccessible to automobiles so I would have had to leave it somewhere. And I preferred to say my goodbyes to it on British soil - not from any xenophobic bias, you must understand - because it did my heart good to know that at least my dear Bessie would be awaiting my return.
Halfway across the Channel, the bally boat ran out of coal and we were obliged to wait until some smaller vessels could ferry some to us. Luckily, they were serving alcoholic drinks - luckily for the crew, that is. They would else have had a full-scale riot on their hands and I cannot say without fear of contradiction that I would not have been a ringleader in the insurrection.
Instead, an increasingly convivial atmosphere reigned in the communal area of the stalled steamship, and I think it may have been my third or fourth tot of brandy that nudged my tipsy thoughts in the direction of nascent inspiration.
The people here - my fellow hostages to the incompetence of the steamship company - would be my muse. Everyone has a story to tell (every writer knows this!) and my ears had never been more willing receptacles. I am a writer, I introduced myself, a chronicler of histories. We were to have a contest to find the most diverting tale from among the assembled company. It would be a jolly fine way to pass the time and (I did not tell them this bit) I might find my neglectful muse roused sufficiently from her slumbers and bring a surcease to the dereliction of her duties.
It is not the most original ruse, I know. Dear old G. Chaucer Esq tried it yonks back but the progress of his pilgrims was unfinished. I could only hope my voyage would not meet so inconclusive a fate.
We were treated - if that is the apposite term - to a selection of salacious and ultimately unprintable accounts by some of the more vulgar passengers. They jabbed me with their elbows and demanded to know if that was the kind of thing I was after and I, through gritted teeth, replied I was afraid their tales were not quite the ticket.
But the interrupted sea crossing did not prove entirely fruitless. When the vulgarians had moved on to indulge in some impromptu and illicit gambling or had simply surrendered their consciousness to the workings of Bacchus, I was approached by a young woman who disclosed she was travelling to Geneva with her governess, the formidable Miss Seton who was currently asleep in their cabin.
“I came up for air,” the young lady explained, “and to enquire of the captain or one of his subordinates the cause and potential length of our delay. I understand you wish to hear stories, sir. I have quite the one for you.”
I signalled a white-coated waiter to bring the girl lubrication (for her throat) and invited my new friend and storyteller to sit at my table.
“My name is Clarissa,” she began, “and I have a tale to tell.”
***
Myrtle
The young man stopped rowing; his arms were tired and so he paused in the centre of the lake to rest and admire the view. A low-lying mist covered the water but beyond that he could see the rest of the park with its soft, undulating mounds and its protective ring of trees - sentinels spreading their arms, providing shade and security. It was a peaceful spot. A curlew called forlornly. The water patted the side of the boat, like a dog lapping from a bowl. The young man dipped his hand below the surface, enjoying the cool respite for his aching palm. He felt he could stay out there all day.
A grip of ice seized his wrist. The young man had to hold onto the rowlocks to prevent himself from being pulled overboard. The boat rocked alarmingly; he feared capsize.
At last his hand was released. A ripple disturbed the surface, dispersing the mist as something travelled quickly away. The young man realised he was holding his breath. Composing himself, he rowed back to shore and clambered from the boat. He tore across the grass, towards the shelter of the trees. To feel the solidity of a trunk in his embrace! He threw his arms around a sturdy oak and pressed his face against the rough and craggy bark, gulping in air.
His hand still felt cold.
“Ah,” said the park keeper, happening along. “You’ve been out on the lake. You’ve seen Myrtle.”
“I have seen no one, sir,” the young man gasped.
“She has touched you then? Myrtle’s icy fingers!” The park keeper was no longer cheerful . The young man edged around the tree but the park keeper followed. “You must get yourself away from here. Not just the park, my boy, and not just the city. Go inland - where it’s dry. Keep you away from bodies of water. And wear a glove at all times.”
The young man looked at the park keeper as though he were insane. The park keeper reached for his arm and offered to accompany him to the gate. As they walked, the park keeper explained .
“Long ago, a sailor was marooned. He was the only survivor of a wreck and he washed up on a tiny island in the very middle of the ocean. Without human company, the fellow thought he would soon run mad but at night his sleep was disturbed by singing from the shore. The third time this happened he went to investigate and he discovered a young woman on a rock, combing her long tresses with a twig. She sensed his approach but carried on singing.