Kiss of the Water Nymph Read online

  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 youn
g 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. The sailor was captivated. He had never seen or heard anything so beautiful.

  ““I am Myrtle,” she sang. “Bring me fresh twigs and I shall be your lover.”

  “In a trance, the sailor plodded off in search of what she required.

  “They spent happy years together until at last rescue came. The sailor could not bear to be parted from his mermaid bride and Myrtle begged him not to leave. But the pull of the land was too much. The sailor longed for home.

  ““Come with me, my love,” he implored. Myrtle said she would follow.

  “For years, their love continued in secret. At night, the sailor would slip down to the beach and in a secluded cove they would be reunited. The arrangement was less than satisfactory and inevitably someone found out and threatened to expose the mermaid to all the world. Myrtle screamed at the intruder until his ears bled and his heart gave way. The sailor knew he must get his bride away from there and protect her at all costs.

  “He bought this estate and installed a lake surrounded by a wall of trees. And here he lived out the rest of his days. After his death, the estate was given over to the public, and Myrtle pined away. Or so it seems. Now, she seeks a new companion to replace the love she lost. Therefore flee, I beseech you, before she casts her spell on you and drags you to the bottom of the lake.”

  The young man baulked at so fantastical a tale but his hand still felt like ice. The curlew cried again. The park keeper listened. “No, my love,” he murmured.

  “Go!” he said, turning the young man out of the gate.

  The young man noticed then that the keeper was wearing gloves - thick, oilskin gloves - and through them his touch was like winter.

  ***

  By the time Miss Clarissa had reached her climax, quite a group had gathered. Some had pulled up stools; others stood around, leaning on each other. Unfortunately, among their number and elbowing her way to the front was the aforementioned governess Miss Seton, whose stern features looked as though they had been hacked from wood. She kept her overcoat wrapped around her with both arms - heaven forfend we should glimpse the nightdress beneath!

  She seemed to communicate with her charge through scowls alone.

  Abashed, Miss Clarissa got to her feet, giving rise to exclamations of protest from her appreciative audience. She followed the governess back to their cabin with the downcast demeanour of one sent to her execution without any supper.

  I declared the contest over for the night and retired to my bunk. I retold myself Miss Clarissa’s story and jotted a few notes. The premise had potential but above all, it imbued me with the sense of pride and certitude that I had been altogether correct to instigate the contest in the first place.

  Chapter Two

  Miss Clarissa and, by default, Miss Seton were also travelling first class on the Orient Express. I waved to the girl from my table along the aisle of the restaurant car. She returned the gesture and received for her pains an unspoken reprimand from her governess. She did her best to appear chastened and abashed but even from a distance I could see the twinkle in her eyes and her barely suppressed smirk.

  I returned my attention to my notebook. I was recording Miss Clarissa’s tale as best as I could remember it. Thus far, she was in pole position but then again, her story was the only entry.

  I had just put the cap on my fountain pen when a gentleman in a safari suit appeared before me and asked if he and his wife might share my table. He had a pleasant, tanned face and an appealing smile so, gathering up my papers, I gave my consent. I got to my feet while his good lady, who was similarly attired, installed herself in the seat nearest the window.

  “Bickers,” the tanned man held out a coarse hand for me to shake. “Charles Bickers. The ball and chain here answers to the name of Esme.”

  “Delighted,” I said and introduced myself. My guests removed their pith helmets and placed them on the tablecloth like a pair of mismatched breasts. I tried not to look at them - a gentleman doesn’t (and further to which, such things do not appeal to me).

  “We’re naturalists,” announced Mrs Bickers, showing white teeth in a sun-kissed and freckled face. I received this information with what I hoped was a sagacious nod. Her bright eyes saw through it at once and she supplied an explanation in a casual manner as if I had no need of one. “We bimble about, hither and yon, cataloguing wee beasties.”

  “Butterflies and things,” Charles added. “If it creeps or crawls, we nab it.”

  “That must be fascinating,” I smiled, although my skin was already beginning to itch.

  “And what do you do?” Mrs Bickers enquired with a bat of her eyelashes. “How do you put the crusts on your table?”

  “Oh...” Here it comes; I steeled myself. “I write,” I admitted, hoping against hope that we could leave it at that.

  “Marvellous!” Mrs Bickers enthused. Her eyes sparkled as she regarded me afresh, and I knew then how one of her specimens must feel beneath her magnifying glass. “What do you write? Will we have seen any of it?”

  The questions were like pins going through me but unlike her winged victims, Mrs Bickers had not been humane enough to gas me first.

  “Oh,” I shrugged modestly. “The odd adventure serial. Nothing too lofty.”

  “Marvellous!” Mrs Bickers clapped. “We have oodles of odd adventures, don’t we, Charles? Perhaps you will write about us, Mr Mortlake? Perhaps you will preserve us forever in the glass case of one of your stories?”

  “Perhaps,” I conceded.

  Charles meanwhile had been ransacking his own pockets. He found the object of his search and placed it on the table. It was a small wooden box, unprepossessing enough, such as one might come across at any jeweller’s.

  “This little beauty...” he tapped the lid with his finger, “we found in Glasgow. How on Earth it found its way up there, we do not know.”

  “I imagine there are box makers everywhere,” I said. Mrs Bickers let out a trill of laughter and deemed me silly.

  “It’s w
hat’s inside,” said Charles, cutting through my levity with a frown. He took the little cube in his meaty fingers and. more gingerly than I might have expected, opened the lid on its delicate hinge.

  Iridescence caught the flickering sunlight through the trees passing our window. I thought it might be some jewel or glittering bauble. Perhaps Charles was going to propose to his wife a second time.

  He held the box towards my nose and I saw then it was no engagement ring but a shiny-shelled beetle, gleaming black and green and blue. Charles tilted the box and the creature changed colour, giving off glints of red and gold. It was rather beautiful in its repellent kind of way. I felt sorry for the creature, impaled on what looked like a hatpin.

  “What is it called?” I asked, feeling that I should.

  “Scarabus iridius,” breathed Charles with no small amount of pomp. I suspect he was making it up. My eyes flickered to Mrs Bickers for a translation.

  “Rainbow scarab,” she obliged. “Extremely rare. This is the only one we have ever encountered in the flesh.”

  “And it’s not a native Glaswegian, you say?”

  Charles grunted at my preposterous question. “The Egyptian side of the Clyde, more like. Thousands of miles away.”

  “And thousands of years ago,” added his wife. “They are supposed to be extinct.”

  “We’re taking this beauty to Rome to get him formally identified. It should be quite a big deal for us if we are proved correct.”

  “Gosh,” I said. “Fame and fortune! But couldn’t the British Museum...? Haven’t they insect wallahs to do the job for you?”

  A sour expression clouded both their faces and a warning glance passed between them. I had struck a nerve.

  “Short-sighted fools,” was Charles’s offhand dismissal. He snapped the box shut and replaced it in his pocket.

  “But what about you, Mr Mortlake?” Mrs Bickers resumed her pleasant smile. “What is the purpose of your journey? Is there one?”