The Lower Strangling Chronicles
”Are you sure he came in here, Chief?” Sergeant Becky Fernshaw of Gloucestershire Constabulary asked Chief Constable Stuart Kennedy as they observed a lavender labyrinth.
”Yes, I’m sure of it,” Stuart said.
They had spent the last forty-eight minutes in a high-speed car chase through the Cotswolds, perusing an erratic driver in a battered Jaguar driving at a hundred miles an hour.
The chase culminated at Lower Strangling Lavender, a lavender shop just outside the affluent village of Lower Strangling.
The wanted driver swerved into a parking space and rushed into the shop, with Stuart and his team running after him.
Once the police arrived at the lavender plantation on the other side, the man they searched for vanished.
Their Alsatians sniffed the Lavender, trying to identify any other unusual scents.
”Do you think we should go into the Labyrinth and find him,” Becky said.
”No, that won’t be necessary,” Stuart said. “If he were in there, we’d be able to see over the walls.”
Becky leaned over one of the Lavender shrubs and examined the dirt path underneath.
“He doesn’t seem to be lying on the ground, sir,” Becky said.
”That’s what I thought,” Stuart said. “I think we should continue our search elsewhere.”
The Alsatians barked loudly at the Labyrinth, tugging on their leads.
“Enough, Fido!” Stuart said, trying his best to regain control of his dog.
”Shouldn’t we at least try to have a more thorough search?” Becky said.
Stuart scanned the vast open fields and ploughed pasture surrounding the Lavender farm.
”No, I think we went cross country,” Stuart said.
”You mean we need to trudge through muddy fields,” Becky said.
”Going back to base and asking the public to inform us of his whereabouts would be more productive at this stage, I believe,” Stuart said. “Come along, let’s go back to HQ.”
Stuart and Becky traipsed out of the lavender shop, profusely apologising to the other visitors for their dogs’ hostile behaviour.
Once he knew the police were safely out of the way, private acupuncturist Alexander Edwards rolled out from underneath the lavender and got up.
He brushed off the dirt from his suit and titled his head up.
He clocked a middle-aged couple before him, scrutinising him with raised eyebrows.
Deciding not to explain why they had just witnessed a man rolling out from underneath the Lavender, Alexander smiled and nodded before making his way around the Labyrinth.
Alexander marched out of the maze triumphantly, his head held high, and his chest puffed out.
”You seem proud of yourself,” an elderly lady said to him, assuming that the beaming grin on his face was because he’d successfully escaped a small Lavender labyrinth that seemed relatively easy to navigate.
Alexander nodded his head. “Yes, yes, I am.”
Once he’d breezed into the shop, selling lavender-scented products, he opted instead to buy a bouquet.
He had no one in mind to give them to; he felt compelled to make a purchase, and a bouquet of flowers seemed as good a choice as any.
Alexander stood at the back of the relatively long queue and waited until eventually he arrived at the checkout kiosk on the other side.
Jo Whitely, the shop owner, smiled at Alex as she scanned the bouquet and returned it to him.
”That will be five pounds, please,” she said.
Alexander handed over a crisp fiver.
”Someone’s going to be very lucky next Friday,” Jo said, eyeing the flowers. “They’re beautiful.”
Alexander grimaced at Jo, wrinkles appearing across his brow.
His head jolted slightly upon realising what she was getting at. “Oh no, they’re not a Valentine’s gift. I just thought I’d offer you my custom.”
”Well, I’m very grateful,” Jo said, beaming at the acupuncturist.
Alexander nodded the shopkeeper farewell and withdrew from the premises, but not before leaving a small calling card on the desk.
Jo raised her eyebrows as she examined the card, whipping it off the counter to read the contents.
She nodded as she perused Alexander’s details, intrigued that this stranger was an acupuncturist.
Jo placed the card underneath the counter and served the next customer.
Alexander got into his battered Jaguar, which the police had forgotten about, and drove off to Lower Strangling itself.
He had driven past signs leading to it many times and had seen it from afar, nestled deep in the Gloucestershire countryside, but this was his first time inside the belly of the beast.
Alexander parked his car in the parking lot adjacent to the village pub, the Hangman’s Noose, and made his way into the building.
He scanned the interior of the antiquarian building. A smile reached his eyes as he observed the quaint charm of the 15th-century hostelry.
Alexander eased himself onto a stool. A flier on the bar advertising a village barbecue later in the year caught his eye. He made a note to attend so he could hopefully blend in with the locals should the long arm of the law finally catch up with him.
John Granger, the pub owner, who, despite a gruff appearance, had a heart of gold, clocked the new patron in front of him.
”Morning, sir,” John said, leaning on the bar and giving his guest a welcoming grin. “What can I get for you?”
Alexander analysed the range of beers available on tap at the bar. “Yes, I’ll have a pint of Throckmorton Ale.”
”A wise choice,” John said, pouring some of the drink into a glass.
”Do you know who I am?” Alexander said as John gave him the finished pint.
A void expression appeared on the publican’s face. “Not really. Should I?”
Alexander slumped onto his stool, laughing shakily. “No. I’d have been rather concerned if you had.”
”I guess celebrity isn’t for everyone,” John said.
Alexander laughed. “No, it isn’t.”
He took a sip of the beer.
”Can I do anything else for you?” John said.
“Yes, actually,” Alexander said. “Are any of your lovely cottages vacant?”
John squinted at Alexander. “I’ll see what I can do.”
He brought up an extensive red leather diary and flicked through the pages.
”Welgrot Cottage in Economy Drive is free if that suits you,” John said.
“That would be fine, thank you,” Alexander said.
“How long were you thinking of staying,” John said, scribbling something down in the diary.
”As long as possible,” Alexander said. “Forever if it comes to that.”
”Forever isn’t an option, I’m afraid,” John said. “The maximum I can do is a month.”
Alexander beamed at the fantastic news. “Excellent.”
John drew a substantial black line down the pages, marking Welgrot’s unavailable month.
”What’re you planning to do whilst you’re here?” John said. “Anything nice.”
”Yes. I’ll just be exploring the village and generally keeping a low profile,” Alexander said.
“Sounds like a plan,” John said, closing the book and placing it underneath the desk.
”That will be three thousand, five hundred and ninety-six pounds, please,” John said.
Alexander whipped out his card and placed it into the card ready.
John was not surprised that his new guest had the kind of money ready to go in his current account, as Lower Strangling’s typical clientele had that kind of money.
John pushed the front door keys over to Alex, who was just about to settle into his new home when his phone rang.
He froze into position, his heart pumping in his chest.
”Are you ok, sir?” John said.
Alexander said nothing. He retrieved his phone from his pocket and answered it with a shaky hand.
He swallowed some saliva. “Hello,” he eventually said.
After listening to the person on the phone, Alexander’s limbs sagged downwards towards the floor.
He laughed before composing himself. “I’m sorry, I’m no longer practising until further notice.”
John watched as the acupuncturist leaned on an empty table and listened to the person on the phone.
“You need to visit the local NHS hospital; they should be able to squeeze you into a corridor somewhere,” he said.
He laughed once more. “Ok, I’ll talk to you later, bye.”
John grimaced at the man before him, who leapt off the table and traipsed towards the door.
”Just one of my clients wanting to book a session this week, you know what they’re like.”
John stared at Alexander blankly as he slipped out of the pub, for he did not know what his clients were like.
When Alexander finally arrived in the homely 15th-century honey-coloured cottage just a stone’s throw from the pub, he grinned at the cosy living room, nodding at the comfortable armchairs and large fireplace.
He eased himself into an armchair and stared into the middle distance.
At this point, Alexander realised that he had left all his belongings at his house.
His eyes widened as he floundered in his chair, breathing erratically.
But then he eyed the bouquet and relaxed.
Of course, he could ask one of his neighbours to bring him the essentials in return for a bouquet.
So Alexander grabbed the bunch and wrote a small note to his immediate neighbour.
But as he leant over, he heard the creak of wooden floorboards.
”What’s that noise,” he said to himself.
The creaking continued as he moved his body.
Upon realising that the creaking was caused by his feet pressing against the wooden floorboards underneath the nice rug he was on, he took a huge breath and flopped back into his chair.
Gaining strength, he left the cottage and trotted to find a post office.
Alexander wandered through the village, searching for a place to send the bouquet.
But a voice caught him off guard.
“Alex! There you are!”
Alexander stopped in his tracks. His eyes inflated as he scanned his surroundings, trying to locate the sound of the voice.
He spotted a middle-aged man in the graveyard of St Gerald the Damned, smiling at him over the drystone wall.
Archie Langtry was a moderately successful writer and one of Alexander’s regular customers.
Alexander pointed and laughed at Archie before stepping over to him.
He met the writer in the cemetery, as he was in no rush to send the flowers.
”I’ve heard the insolent rumours about you using illegal pseudoscience and committing corporate manslaughter,” Archie said. “A lot of people seem to believe that acupuncture is all smoke and mirrors, but I would disagree.”
”Thank you for your support,” Alexander said, squeezing the flowers in his hand.
”My wife and I noticed that you weren’t having a glass of wine on the balcony as usual and felt somewhat worried,” Archie said.
Alexander chuckled at his remark.
”There’s no need to worry about me,” Alexander said. “I’ve just decided to get some country air for a while.”
”That’s good to know,” Archie said, espying the Hangman’s Noose across the road. “I say, are you hungry, Alex?”
”Yes, I suppose I am somewhat peckish,” Alexander said.
And so the writer and the fugitive bounded off to the pub for a nice spot of grub.
“It is nice to escape the chaos of Gloucester every once in a while,” Archie said as he sipped his Throckmorton Ale.
Alexander nodded but was preoccupied with a bright yellow scooter parked by the church outside.
He finally relaxed and became accustomed to his new life on the lamb.
The fact that yesterday he was a popular acupuncturist seeing his clients and improving their lives had become a distant memory.
The peace was disturbed by the incessant banging of a drum.
A pinched expression appeared on his face. His eyes narrowed as he scanned the room, searching for the source of the din.
In the far enclaves of the pub, a five-year-old was banging repeatedly on a small plastic drum.
He scowled at the child, grumbling as he did so, then turned to Archie.
”How long are you planning on staying?” Alexander said. “I’m more than happy to invite you to my rental cottage for a drop of brandy.”
”That would be marvellous, thank you,” Archie said.
As the two men’s sumptuous meals arrived at the table, the distant sound of police sirens caught his attention.
He peered out of the window and saw a police vehicle zoom past.
“Ah, something in Lower Strangling has caught the attention of law enforcement, I see,” Archie said.
Alexander nibbled on his battered cod as he was afraid to admit that the police were here to see him.
Just like that, Chief Constable Stuart Kennedy and Sergeant Becky Fernshaw barged into the pub.
“Can I please have your attention?” Stuart said. Or rather, he shouted because the person he wanted was testing his patience.
Alexander glanced up and observed Stuart.
He did not have a lovely face, and Alexander knew he wouldn’t treat him kindly if he got his hands on him.
”For the past day, we have been searching for the acupuncturist Alexander Edwards, a suspected criminal,” Stuart said.
The patrons of the pub gawped at the Chief Constable. John perused the diary of cottage bookings.
Becky took a few steps forward.
”We want to know if any of you have seen his whereabouts,” she said.
Hiding behind the menu, Alexander slipped beneath his table. Archie slid his chair to the side so he could cover his friend.
“He’s not here, Constable,” Archie said. “And even if he was, he’s an innocent man.”
Stuart glared at the writer and sauntered over to him.
“Perhaps you think that,” Stuart said. “But the relatives of the seriously ill woman who died whilst he stuck pins in her back would disagree.”
”She was an idiot,” Archie said. “Acupuncture can’t cure illnesses; it just relieves pain.”
Stuart observed the position Archie was sitting in. “I know you’re hiding a secret,” Stuart said.
Archie held his chin up high and stared at Stuart.
”I am doing no such thing,” Archie said. “All I am doing is trying to convince you that Alexander Edwards is a good man who works wonders in the local community.”
One of the patrons in the pub noticed Alexander hiding underneath the table.
So he marched over, grabbed Alexander by the collar, and held him up.
“Is this the man you’re after, sir,” the patron said. “He’s certainly making an effort not to be noticed by you.”
Stuart smiled at Alexander as he squirmed in the patron’s grip.
“Yes, I believe it is,” Stuart said. “Beck’s, if you do the honours.”
Becky made her way behind Alexander. The patron let go of him, allowing her to place the handcuffs on him.
”Alexander Edwards, I am arresting you on suspicion of corporate manslaughter. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not say when questioned, something that you later rely on in court,” she said.
The acupuncturist’s head drooped to his chest, and his arms hung low.
”Sorry, old boy,” Archie said. “I tried the best I could.”
Alexander did not respond; he sighed as Stuart took him out of the building.
Once the drama was over, the patrons in the pub returned their attention to the delicious food in front of them.
Archie finished his meal and decided to finish Alexander’s as well.
John cleared his throat before addressing the crowd.
”Welgrot Cottage is free next month if anyone’s interested,” he said. “Don’t worry about the cost; someone has already kindly paid the expenses.”
Whoever took up John’s offer would notice the vase waiting for them on a table, with a bouquet inside that John had found on the floor where Alexander was sitting, and a welcome note written on a Tipp-Exed bit of card.
The Robinsonverse 