Monday, 8 July 2013

A teaser from 'Death lurks in Cock Muck Hill' for those considering a download!



The hovel was small, cramped and dark, as Shepherd had suspected. There was only a rickety, well-worn armchair, a crooked three-legged stool and a table that had long seen better days. A grossly inadequate small fire burned in the grate and a kettle hung from the spit that hung across the embers. Shepherd doubted whether the spit had ever seen meat, but then again, he recognised that with a butcher for a son, she probably ate better than most in the other five hovels. A privvie slop bucket sat in one corner, foul smelling, not emptied for some days probably. Poor old soul couldn’t get as far as the outside privvie in the communal yard, and probably safer not to. The bedroom would no doubt be similarly sad and shabby. The whole place smelled of stale urine, predominantly, as came with very old folk and their diminishing physical and mental well being.
Both constables were quickly aware of the insect activity, and the room seemed to be infested with bugs, lice and large black beetles, crawling over every surface, the candle light catching on their scaly surfaces. ‘The old lady must be alive with them,’ thought Shepherd.
‘These two constables are going to keep you safe, Ma,’ said Porky, rinsing out four old jam jars, with chipped and crooked tops, and which had long seen better days! They had once been prized by his Father, who had brought them back from the Napoleonic wars, ‘seized from Napoleon’s own cooks’, his Father had once told him. The rinsing water stood in an old ceramic bowl, and looked grey and murky in the candle-light.
Perkins looked decidedly green at the thought of what was to be offered.
‘You’ll drink out of worse than this by the time we’ve left the Rookeries,’ whispered Shepherd, ‘so now stop

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