Normal For Norfolk

Chapter One

Chapter One

Little Acre was all abuzz with news about the murder of one of their native sons. Derrick Pickles, long-time proprietor of The Black Stag public house in the adjacent village of Kelton Market, had been found bludgeoned to death. Pickles had lived in the village since the day he was born, the pub having been in his family for generations. He’d taken it over from his father, who’d taken it over from his father, and so on and so on. The Pickles family was a Norfolk institution, and Derrick was well-liked and respected in the community. Not even the taint of his only son going off to work in The City rather than positioning himself to one day take over the reins of the family business could dampen the locals’ affection for the family, though forgiveness wasn’t always as easy to come by. Feelings and memories ran deep in this part of the world, despite young Pickles’s defection to London taking place nearly two decades before, which, at least to the locals, might as well have been yesterday. Not even the death of his mother many years later could bring young Pickles back in line. But old Derrick stubbornly clung on, running the pub long after most publicans would have sold up and retired to Spain or Portugal—especially a widower with no one to stay behind for.

Being the only pub in the village, The Black Stag was a magnet for the locals, not to mention tourists in search of some local colour. Kelton Market was conveniently situated in the county, what with the ruins of an old castle located just outside the village and a bustling crafts and antiques market taking place on weekends, so it was a rare day, indeed, when the pub wasn’t busy. The fact that a murder had been committed was not something the residents of this part of Norfolk were accustomed to. The most crime they ever got was of the sort involving the theft of a cockerel from a farm or some youths out joyriding on a tractor. But murder? No. Murders happened in London and Birmingham and Glasgow. They did not happen in Kelton Market.

Therefore when Thelonious heaved open the heavy glass door of Little Acre’s one and only newsagents in his quest to buy a copy of the local newspaper (or as local as he could get), he discovered quite a crowd gathered inside the cramped little shop. A trio of men representing three generations and an elderly woman who had to have been pushing the century mark were gathered in front of the till, talking animatedly and all at the same time, the garrulous din being added to by a frumpy sixty-something woman behind the counter. She appeared to be refereeing the conversation, her heavy arms flapping and waving about as if she were attempting to direct a newly landed plane to an airport gate.

The youngest of the men was dressed in a white beekeeper’s suit, the hood of which had been pushed back behind his head. Hair the shade and texture of the round bales of hay Thelonious had seen in the fields of the surrounding landscape kept falling down over his eyes, causing him to reach up to swipe it away, whereupon the same thing happened all over again. He had the open and guileless mien of someone who’d grown up in the country and had little to no experience with big city life. The oldest of the trio had a pickled and world-weary look about him that could only have been achieved from a lifetime of heavy drinking. His deeply creased face was the colour of cured tobacco leaves, his overall appearance untidy and unwashed. He clutched an unlighted cigarette between the fingers of his right hand, the skin and nails stained a sickly yellow-orange from nicotine. Had it not been for his expensive-looking leather jacket, Thelonious might have mistaken him for a homeless man. The third fellow was aged somewhere between the two and, judging by his collar, appeared to be a vicar. He kept trying to get the group to quiet down, his pale palms making circles in the air as if he were washing invisible windows. Instead of having the desired effect, the group became even more animated, as if seeking to exorcise the vicar’s fruitless attempts at calm.

The elderly woman to whom no one paid any mind bashed the rubber-tipped feet of her Zimmer frame against the worn linoleum floor until she was in danger of toppling over. Nevertheless, the accompanying staccato of protestations coming from her shrivelled maw continued to fall on deaf ears. Her hunched form looked as if it might crumple into a heap of ancient bones as she slammed the rattling frame of steel to the lino again and again, her grey head bobbing up and down on her withered neck like a nodding dashboard dog. But no matter how much she crashed and banged and spluttered, she could not be heard above her village compatriots, who were determined to get their points across despite the fact no one was listening to anyone.

It didn’t take long for Thelonious to determine that something was definitely up—and the headline shouting at him from the front page of the Walsham Courier pretty much confirmed it. He pulled a copy out from the news rack and waddled over to the side of the counter, stretching upward on his short legs to hold out some coins to the sour-faced shopkeeper, who abruptly ceased her refereeing to gawp at him. Not that this was unusual—Thelonious got gawped at a lot, especially by people who’d never encountered his sort before. You would think she’d be a bit more discreet when it came to paying customers, he grumbled inwardly, biting back the urge to tell her to get a new front door fitted. The one she had weighed as much as a London bus. His right shoulder was beginning to ache something awful from the impact of it against the glass when he’d pushed it open. He hoped the B&B his publisher’s UK office had booked him into had a bathtub and decent hot water system so he could have a long soak later, because he didn’t fancy looking elsewhere for accommodation, especially at the beginning of the summer tourist season. For him to be able to work, he needed a home base, a sense of order. Chaos was not Thelonious’ style.

With newspaper in hand, he made his way out of the newsagent’s, only to pause outside to examine the cards and notices that had been placed in the shop window (which apparently cost each poster the princely sum of five pounds a week to display). He was curious as to what kinds of items and services people put on offer in these Norfolk villages and expected to see advertisements of either an agrarian nature or for church jumble sales. Not surprisingly, they were positioned too high up for him to read properly, but he did manage to make out a card for an electrician s***h handyman as well as a flyer for a beekeeping school before his neck threatened to join his shoulder in protest.

Thelonious trundled back to where he’d left the Mini, climbed up onto the driver’s seat with the usual fanfare and aggro, then set off down the little high street with its requisite tea shop/café, gift shop, post office (closed due to government cutbacks), and pub, which went by the rather portentous name The Drowned Duck. Within moments he’d reached the Norman church that marked the end of the village high street. It was also the turnoff for Baxter House Bed and Breakfast. Home at last!

The B&B’s small car park was empty save for an ancient bicycle with a chewed-up basket attached to the handlebars. Parking in the shade beneath the overhang of a tree, Thelonious began the tiresome process of extricating himself from the vehicle all over again. He should’ve come here first, parked, then walked over to the newsagent’s instead of making more work for himself. By the time he reached Baxter House’s front door he was exhausted and ready to collapse into bed, and he very nearly let out an angry roar on discovering that the bell had been set too high up into the wall for him to reach.

Not for the first time did Thelonious rage against his country and its continuing inability to accommodate those challenged by height or disability. It was one of the things that upset him most about London—the shameful lack of lifts and ramps and all the other accoutrements that made life slightly more bearable by individuals who weren’t one-size-fits-all or able-bodied. Not that Thelonious wasn’t able-bodied. It was a matter of stature (or lack thereof) that caused him difficulty in a world populated by ignorant and inconsiderate giants.

Visions of relaxing in a steaming-hot bath while enjoying a nice cup of tea quickly overrode any concern for politeness. Thelonious began pounding on Baxter House’s front door as if he were being pursued by a pack of rabid wolves. Even if it had been unlocked it wouldn’t have mattered—he still wouldn’t have been able to reach the handle. After what felt like five minutes of steady pounding from his fist interspersed with an occasional kick from his trainer-clad foot, a shadow darkened the window pane set into the door. It was followed by the pleasing jangle of a key in the lock.

Finally.

The door swung inward, revealing a floral-printed mass of humanity that could have been the newsagent’s younger sister. The resemblance ended abruptly, however, when the woman’s round pink face bloomed into a huge smile that crinkled her eyes, reminding Thelonious of a female Santa Claus. Somehow he couldn’t imagine that vinegar-puss who’d sold him his newspaper ever straining her facial muscles into a smile. The woman bent down, looking as if she were about to give Thelonious’s nose an affectionate tweak, and he jumped out of reach of her chubby fingers before they could do any mischief. The only thing worse than being stared at as if he’d just flown in from Planet Zorg was being treated as if he were a kiddie’s cuddly toy.

Thelonious managed to growl out a few words to indicate that he had a booking for a single en suite room, his voice sounding ragged even to his own ears—though to be fair, he hadn’t been using it much. He wasn’t big on idle chitchat, having found that life was easier if he kept mostly to himself. He hadn’t made a lot of friends in London. Well, he hadn’t made any friends in London, which was another reason why he was so keen to cross big-city life off his list and relocate to the countryside, where he hoped to find people who were honest and genuine and not just out to impress you—people who could actually enjoy themselves without it always being a competition to see who’d fall into the gutter first from drink. Not that Thelonious was a teetotaller by any means. There was nothing he enjoyed more than a pint of real ale, though finding one in a London pub was becoming a challenge, as was finding anyone working behind the bar with a command of spoken English beyond that of quoting the price of a pint, especially in the more touristy areas of central London, which was often where he had an assignment.

Mrs. Baxter, proprietress of Baxter House B&B, showed Thelonious upstairs to his room, assuring him that it had been recently redecorated by her husband and herself, adding with a saucy wink that she’d put him in the one with the nicest view. The room was also located on the second floor (the topmost one) and required a considerable number of stairs to reach. Despite this inconvenience, Thelonious, after undertaking the arduous trek up into the stratosphere of Baxterland, found himself won over by the uninterrupted vista of rolling wheat fields leading to a windmill in the distance. Or at least he was won over once he’d clambered up onto a chair by the window so that he could actually see the view. After all the driving and in-and-out from the car, he was definitely going to need that hot bath, not to mention a nap before venturing out to The Drowned Duck, where he’d decided to spend the evening. Aside from the convenience of being able to walk there, it looked like the perfect place to begin his introduction to Norfolk village pubs. He could hardly wait for his first pint of Norfolk real ale!

As Thelonious scrutinised the chintz-covered twin bed and pondered the prospect of bedbugs, he noticed the framed image of Queen Elizabeth II holding court directly above it. The Baxters appeared to be quite the royalists, for he’d observed in the entry hall a number of photos and knickknacks related to the present Monarch and her family, though he hadn’t expected the Baxters’ affection for the British Royal Family to extend to the décor of the guestrooms. He supposed it could be worse—Prince Charles could’ve been ensconced above the bed rather than dear old mumsy.

Thelonious indicated his approval of the room, though he did wonder just how “recent” this so-called redecoration had taken place. The Queen’s photo had been taken at least fifteen years ago. Returning downstairs with Mrs. Baxter, he signed the guest register and provided an imprint of his MasterCard (he’d be invoicing his publisher for the full amount once his assignment was completed). With that bit of business out of the way, Thelonious enquired with the usual embarrassment he experienced on such occasions whether it might be possible for a chair to be left outside the door to his room so that he could reach the lock and handle. Not that this solved the problem of the B&B’s front door. Thelonious reckoned he’d better not have any late nights or he’d be summoning the Baxters from their bed—and if they were heavy sleepers, he’d be kipping in the car for the night.

Since Baxter House wasn’t exactly five-star accommodation, he knew it was unlikely anyone would help him upstairs with his luggage and camera gear, especially Mrs. Baxter or her husband (who hadn’t yet made an appearance). Since there didn’t seem to be any other staff, Thelonious trudged back outside to the Mini, where, with some effort and a lot of grunting, he managed to pull his suitcase out from behind the driver’s seat. Experience had taught him that this was a more accessible storage area than the boot, which required a bit of a boost-up to reach. Mrs. Baxter stood framed in the doorway like a cherubic matron, beaming as he dragged his expensive case through the gravelled car park, stepping aside and holding open the door so he could re-enter the house. She reminded him of all those supermarket cashiers who sit behind the till picking their noses while the customers struggled to pack their purchases into flimsy plastic bags, delaying the queue of exasperated shoppers behind them. It was no wonder Thelonious had resorted to ordering his groceries online.

By the time he’d finished climbing up the two flights of stairs with his suitcase, the only thing Thelonious felt capable of managing was a nap. He dragged the chair from the window over to the side of the bed, hauled himself up onto it, threw back the duvet, and dropped fully clothed into bed, where he spent the next two hours snoring peacefully and dreaming of sunlit fields of golden wheat.