Thompson’s Lost Plimsole

Part 42

Another of Clarence’s paid informers had given him a tip off about an abandoned and derelict farmhouse, about twenty miles from town, just north of the old coaching road, and down a winding rutted farm track. “You might want to check it out, because by all accounts, the old house might have some new occupants, if you get my drift?”. The man gave a knowing wink to Clarence, took the money from him, turned around and scurried off, leaving Clarence with another lead in his private investigation.

Clarence didn’t know the man’s real name, only that he liked to be called John. However, Clarence knew for sure that amongst this fellow’s many money-making activities was a spot of poaching. John had been in the woods near the old farm on a couple of evenings, had seen lights on in the old barn and had observed lots of comings and goings. Tonight, Clarence would don some old clothes and have a look at the derelict farm himself.

It had taken Mr Davies the rest of the day to convince his wife, Francine, that there truly wasn’t anything going on between him and Miss Fudge. The whole thing had been a comedy of errors. She had fainted, he had caught her, and that was the whole truth. The lipstick on his shirt collar was merely a by-product of the fainting fit.

Clarence had parked his car on the other side of the woods and was making his way towards the farm. On this evening, there was a full moon in the sky lighting Clarence’s way. However, the various sounds of the woodland at night also added to the uneasiness that Clarence felt as he tried to move as silently as possible. A real owl hooted, and in the distance, a fox screeched, which unnerved him. Clarence leapt back suddenly, stumbled, and fell to the ground as a small deer broke cover. He stood up again and composed himself. “Bugger”, he attempted to whisper as he tried to wipe off whatever the wet stuff was that he had just fallen into. Clarence was not a man of athletic build, more a man built on pies and ale and a forty a day habit. He was winded from the fall so he leant forward, placed the palms of his hands on his thighs (he couldn’t bend far enough to touch his knees) and broke wind, loudly, twice. Clarence stepped off again, but before he had taken another half dozen steps through the undergrowth, he felt what he thought was a hand on his shoulder. Clarence screeched loudly, in the distance, a fox screeched back. A voice behind him made a shushing sound. It was John the poacher. “Ruddy hell!” exclaimed Clarence. “I nearly shat myself then!”.  “I thought you had”, replied John. “It smelled like something had died back there”. “Very funny”, said Clarence. “How far are we from the farm?”.

“Well” said John, “for a start, you are going in the wrong direction, you must have been going round in circles. Follow me.  Oh yeah, this’ll cost you another ten bob”.

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