Lady FitzFirbolg's ParrotWilliam Blackstone Wildman reached out and lifted the bottle with a shaking hand. I had already listened to him (and recorded his reminiscences) for an hour or two, but he was in fine form this day and not ready to stop talking."More," he said. And I said "Yes." [Guggle, guggle goes the bottle.] "I like birds, stupid and pernicious as they are," he continued. "As you might recall from the story about the geese." [slurp] "The Parrot case is even more interesting. Is your tape machine running? It was in the year 1900, turn of the millennium, or maybe a year before that even depending on how one regards the calendar. Was Christ born in the year zero or the year one? That hardly matters since it was during the reign of Augustus, or was it Tiberius, and they measured such things as dates differently in those days..." ************************************ The year after I was married -- next summer in fact -- I was called to Cheshire for an important business arrangement, for if I haven't said so before, as a private investigator with need of any income available, especially being newly wed, I often undertook tasks such as guard duty, or stake-out as you Americans call it. Jewels, lives, jealous spouses. This was such a case. Desmond FitzFirbolg, or Lord Insheilagh, was an Anglo-Irish peer from County Cork, a Tory of the old school, to whom the idea of Irish independence was anathema if not downright treason. His old estate was huge in area, not in population, but if there were five hundred people in his domain, of the very few non-Catholics more were freemasons than were protestant -- it was such a place. So he lived in a fine Regency manor house in Cheshire, near enough to Liverpool to be able to rule his estates from afar but not that afar. He did not rule wisely or to be frank about it very fairly. An absentee landlord of the worst sort, especially considering his support of the no-home-rule-ever-over-my-dead-body policy. This was after Parnell and before the Easter Rebellion, but it would have made no difference anyway -- he was receiving death threats from Fenians. Hence I was engaged as a 'security advisor' or bodyguard. The Home Office, considering his influence in Parliament, had at least assigned some police protection, such as a local constable constantly on duty near the estate. However, there had been some near-miss 'hunting accidents' that moved his wife, Lady Megan FitzFirbolg, to engage my services as an additional insurance adjuster. She had been schoolmistress to my wife before her -- I mean Megan's -- fortunate marriage, in fact they were good friends. So I went. Firbolg Manor was a small but very fine estate in the hills near Beeston Castle -- actually you could see that excellent ruinous remnant of Norman rapacity, and the ultimate failure of human ambition, from the library windows. Bones such as this last longer than flesh but still come to nothing in the long run... But I digress. The household was rather simple for those days, no more than twelve servants, and the Lord, Lady, two grown children (who didn't live at home), and a scattering of hangers-on such as an ancient maiden aunt, the gamekeeper (Lord Insheilagh's old adjutant from when the Baron was a Major in the Boer War), and the formidable housekeeper, Mrs Macdonald, who had been Lady Megan's nanny. When I arrived, I was first met by Constable Craddock, a local lad but very conscientious about checking out my business before letting me pass -- the Home Office had done its duty very well, considering the vagueness of the threat. While approaching the front door I encountered the gamekeeper, James McCan, cleaning a shotgun near the entrance arch to the stables area. Mrs Macdonald was equally impressive, both in presence and in bosom. I didn't foresee any security problems in this household! A pretty young housemaid named Dolly (whom I was surprised to find out later was married to the gamekeeper) showed me into the sitting room where the Baron and his Lady were waiting. I must admit that this was the most peculiar sitting room I had ever seen. It might have been designed as a great hall in an old castle -- it was huge, and cold, and dimly lit apart from a couple of very narrow windows and a raging fire in a hearth you could have roasted an ox in, well at least an ox haunch. The walls were covered with weapons on mounts, from medieval saxes, to Zulu assegais, to modern elephant guns and hunting rifles, but they were interspersed not with militaristic paintings of Napoleonic generals, admirals, et cetera, nor even portraits of bewigged ancestors looking constipated and bored, but Lautrec posters of all things. Originals, too. I was given one of them at the end... but I'm getting ahead of my story. The most bizarre thing was Lady FitzFirbolg's parrot. It was monstrous and garishly coloured, greens, reds and blues, and very noisy. Its eye (you could only see one at a time, depending on which way its head was turned) was absolutely malignant, and it was cracking walnuts in its nutcracker beak -- don't put your finger near that -- by holding them up in one prehensile claw while balancing on the other. I had never seen a bird before that used its foot as a hand. Lady Megan was delighted at my fascination. I have to admit that Lady Megan, while perhaps my wife's best friend, was a mere sparrow compared to this magnificent creature. Her main concern was for its safety, not her husband's as first choice, apparently, since the bird was being housed at night in the maid's room. But what can I say about Lord Insheilagh? I need more drink, Winston.... [gluggle, gluggle, slurp]Shriveled little toad. But that's all water under the bridge -- I won't say troll. In any case, we worked out our business deal, which involved a lot of exercise on my part wandering around the hills above the manor, shotgun in hand, looking to shoot rooks and crooks if any should appear. And of course the event happened when I was far away from the place down some side vale.Bang, bang, very distant, but I came running. Two bodies on the lawn behind the library, one writhing, the other permanently still. The constable, Frank Craddock, was dead, and beside him, actually behind -- because the policeman had apparently put himself in front, protectively and heroically -- there was the Baron, badly shot in the hip, thigh, well, Winston, arse. He had apparently turned to run. No, that's not fair to say, since it was apparent that the Baron had been shot first before the constable intervened his own body, so FitzFirbolg may have just turned round at an unconvenient time for the sniper. There were two broken tea mugs on the ground, which implied that the two men had just been sharing a cuppa when the assassin hit. The police were on the scene very quickly -- this house, remote as it was then, actually had a telephone, and they of course were already alert to possible trouble here. Apparently, also, they were in close touch with the politicos in Westminster, because my friend Inspector Aphid from Scotland Yard was present within four hours of the event. The very efficient cordons round the area and extensive interrogation of possible witnesses to some frantic getaway on the part of somebody did not have any results. Nobody really expected that anyway if this were a professional assassination. But it had failed as an assassination, because Lord Insheilagh was still alive, and not that badly injured except in his ... well, you know. Aphid soon determined all the circumstances, including my embarrasing failure to fulfill my commission properly. Lady FitzFirbolg refused to talk to me -- actually hissed like a cat from behind her bedroom door. I would be in deep trouble with my wife, apart from losing professional reputation. But that was irrelevant, because there was something totally wrong about the scenario. How did I know this? Hard to say, but I think it was because they shot the Baron in the arse. That is not a nice thing to do. However, good assassins, if there is such a thing, just don't bungle like that. Aphid and I agreed very quickly that this was possibly a domestic affair (and I was a bit ticked at the time for being hissed at by Lady Megan). So what did we do? Well, what do they always do in classical myteries? We had a showdown in the sitting room. All twelve servants and the rest of the inhabitants. And there we all were, assembled nervously (well, not Aphid and I, but all the others were fidgety), including that stupid parrot, except that Mr McCan was not present yet since he was out 'gamekeeping'. ['Oh, oh,' I interject. 'Do you mean the Butler did it?' 'Well, yes, but don't interrupt my story.' Click, click, resume recording]Well, to cut matters short, since you've spoiled this story, Winston. McCan comes in, two-bore shotgun in hand. The parrot looks at him and says "Dolly Dolly Polly-wan-a-cracka -- Frankie, oh oh oh." At which point McCan shoots the damn bird. Blood and feathers all over the place, people are screaming. He just stands there afterwards while we are gaping. "I done the bastard." End of story.************************************ "That just won't do, Wildman. You've had too much port and you have to go to bed -- but don't leave it like that." "Yass-sah. This story has a bitter-sweet ending. Did I tell you that as a bodyguard I was carrying a revolver? When McCan shot the bloody bird, two guns were drawn on him. Lady Megan had a derringer and she just clicked and clicked the trigger at him but it did not go off, then she screamed "Poll!" and threw the gun at him. He ducked. Then he stood very still, said "I'll be topped for killing a copper. He done wrong to me and got what was coming to him. And you done me wrong too, Dolly." Then he shot the pretty housemaid with the other barrel, blew her head off. And then I shot him dead. I got into a bit of trouble over that and had to leave the country for a while -- Aphid allowed me time to get away -- to go off chasing imaginary assassins -- though he'll never admit it since he's been dead for these 30 years. Megan and my wife Minerva got together not long after the event, had a good girlie chuckle together, and we gained an original Lautrec. "So that's why you went to South America or wherever. But what was this case all about then, if it wasn't assassins?" Wildman slurped up the rest of his port, then relaxed: "If you want to kill a particular bank teller, what is the best way to do it? You rob the bank with a bit of shooting. Then he's just an innocent victim (and make sure you don't get caught for the robbery). Frank Craddock had been sleeping with McCan's wife during this Fenian threat to FitzFirbolg. He took advantage of the situation to get his revenge, and also shoot his obnoxious boss in the arse. That's all. McCan is actually regarded as an Irish hero in some circles, because, you know, Lord Insheilagh died of his wound two weeks later." From the William Blackstone Wildman Collection by Grobius Shortling[Crooked-cop stories are common enough, but this one has a new wrinkle, doesn't it? It was very remiss to toss in the maiden aunt who doesn't even appear in this tale -- what did she do when the parrot was murdered? --Grobius] |
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