Florence Tangles with Pandora

By Tom Pierce

When Aunt Florence mysteriously vanishes, her nephew, retired Detective Superintendent Matthew Rawlings, is drawn into a perilous and bewildering situation. Concerned for her safety, Matthew’s investigation plunges him and his family into the midst of a series of murders, confronting them with danger of an unnervingly peculiar nature.

As surreal echoes from the past intertwine with long-held resentments, the drama unfolds on the city streets. Without the familiar support of his former police colleagues, Matthew finds himself vulnerably exposed and inadvertently entangled in a web of murderous intrigue. His quest for answers becomes a race against time, as the line between friend and foe blurs in a world where nothing is as it seems.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: Feb 2, 2024
• ISBN: 9781035816590

Tom Pierce

Tom Pierce, an artist trained at Hornsey Art College and going on to work in a London studio, felt the need for change: joining the Herefordshire Constabulary led to new adventures and a wealth of rich experiences. After setting up a television unit in the early days of police and media involvement, the world of serious crime, including murders, became a regular occurrence during his working life. Armed with a large camera and pack, he filmed all manner of situations, some of which became cause célèbre in press and Parliament. Retirement and tragic family loss gave him the urge to write; the words kept flowing and what better subject to draw on than the wealth of his own personal experiences.

Book preview

Pandora

Greek Mythology tells us Zeus ordered the creation of the first woman on earth; an act of revenge for the theft of fire by Prometheus. Endowed by the Gods with many talents, she was to be known as Pandora: all-gifted.

Zeus presented her to the brother of Prometheus, and she was given a container with strict instructions never to open. Overcome by curiosity Pandora did indeed open it, and in doing so released all the evil it contained, which in turn fell to earth; leaving only one thing to remain: Hope.

Chapter One

Blood on the Floor

One single spot of colour: the pigment, a glistening red; darkening as it sets. In its liquid form known by all and yet if released by another’s hand quite capable of inducing fear, loathing, and sorrow. A manor house, prominent in the village, with its diamond leaded lights one of which was clearly broken; through which the wind blew freely where none had passed before. Its lead and a glass shard swing precariously to tell the tale. The noble building having survived for three centuries facing both the extreme belligerence of weather and rising tides of civil strife, now conveyed a mystery.

One single pane, an insignificant occurrence maybe, but then the resultant fine particles of glass had enraged the dignity of at least one of its residents; damaging the immediate flat surface of a fine bureau: topped as it was with a deep lustre of French polish. Curiously a pair of ornate silver candelabra still remained, sitting unabashed close by. Inspection at the site had raised distress and anger in one resident, to the other a mere shrug of indifference.

This aside, two small-framed items it would appear had been taken from the wall; the sun’s bleaching showing the exact position and size: something more difficult to dismiss. Poo-pooed by one of the householders, as senseless; indeed, they further compounded the mystery, when questioned closely, as to whether any such items had ever existed. The matter had finally come to the notice of the local Constabulary, being responsible for the well-being of the residents in the sleepy village of Buxton-under-Hill.

-o0o-

Although unaware of this particular incident, Florence, residing in her hilltop idyll across the valley, was never of course in any doubt regarding the manor and its incumbents. She had on more than one occasion been quite vociferous over the nature of the occupants of ’The Laurels’, stating with a sniff of disparagement, their antecedents appeared not to be quite as they might be. The provenance of ‘The Laurels’ was however at that moment, far from her concern, as she faced a far more personal and immediate difficulty. Though not one to abide by the modern idiom of flagrantly using expletives, she had often retorted they were used like confetti: shaken in everyone’s face to the detriment of good order. Nonetheless, now seemed an appropriated moment to make an exception, finding herself liberated enough to indulge, she cursed begrudgingly under her breath. The leakage of blood, her own, was now causing deep concern. The circumstances in which she found herself was both annoying and to her mind thoroughly unnecessary.

Her agitation deepened as she considered the stupidity of the man, whom she had openly invited into her home: it was all beyond the pale. She had found nothing to cause alarm in his manner, even though on entering her home he had barely spoken more than a few words. Florence had merely shrugged off his ineptitude and assumed that this insignificant soul was himself preoccupied, indeed she recalled, he had only mumbled, Now Missus! Where’s the kitchen?

This recollection, clouded her judgement by blocking out any realisation of the plight she now found herself in. Florence had always been a forthright person, a stance that had on occasions inevitably worked to her detriment. After clarifying in her mind, the cause and effect, with the subsequent irritation she felt towards the blue-attired workman; the accompanying warm trickle along her forearm now confirmed that all was not well. The ensuing pain, a distinct throbbing, endorsed her concern after absentmindedly attempting to shake the irritant away. Florence’s mind concentrated on the reality after seeing the lurid stream run more urgently down the side of her arm; realising she must do something about it, and quickly. Being more cognisant of her plight, she held her arm steadily upwards, as best one could at such an age, knowing she must stem the flow.

Luckily, and a wry smile crossed her face as a vague thought skipped through her mind, wrestling hard to rationalise her situation: she was wearing short sleeves. She tut-tutted to herself; for once ironically, she was wearing the right attire for a given situation. Her chosen blouse of the day finished at the elbow in a gathered scalloped haze of flowers, though quite how one could foretell when and why a man might cause such discomfort in another, she couldn’t imagine. It was part of her nature though, to be matter of fact, even in emergencies and to verge on the inane whilst intending to be resourceful. Florence had always liked this particular garment and now it seemed highly appropriate in the circumstances. She was nothing if not rational and level-headed in all her machinations.

At that moment however the red poppy motif across the material seemed tantalisingly mocking, as the free-flowing blood along her arm continued sapping her strength: more quickly than she would have liked. It proceeded in its downward path dropping from the elbow to make dark crimson splatters across the flagstone floor. She was aghast. It all appeared strangely surreal and disconnected, Florence, considerably unsteady on her feet reached behind with her good arm, fumbling for a chair. Her troubled face signalled dismay as her hand now failed to connect with what should have been readily available.

The effort of this action was also proving too great, causing her equilibrium to go unfettered and the world to suddenly spin. She pulled herself up sharp, correcting herself and refusing to give into emotions and self-indulgence; whilst noting the giddy turn, this was not the moment for recrimination and self-pity she thought. Florence Rawlings all too aware that time was of the essence, now visibly measured in the calculus of regular droplets of blood on their downward path and for her, it was running out. Her normal ability to be assertive and organise, mainly others, was almost failing her. She would need to make a super-human effort or give in where she stood most probably at her cottage door. Such thoughts were beyond the pale; to be discovered in what she imagined might be days or possibly months: who could tell and certainly she would not be found at her best.

Cursing again at the ineptitude of it, somehow this was becoming a habit, as she thought about the wretched man and her predicament; the wound he had inflicted on her was unforgivable, inconvenient, and at that moment changing in its complexity to become life threatening. He was long gone and unconcerned of course, having left her with an ugly gaping wound running several inches along the forearm. The livid dark flow continued, leaving fingers to experience tingling and a noticeable numbness. The sight of blood was not a difficult matter for her, even her own, but the effect of its loss was more pertinent.

Walking unsteadily towards the door confirmed her declining state and passing her beloved Aga, still glowing with a hearty warmth in the kitchen, Florence grabbed at one of the many tea towels from its front rail. The wounded venerable, stepped slowly and unsteadily out into the stark light of day beyond, where she was forced to gasp. The degree of difference between the lighting in her cosy cottage interior, warm and snug and the Autumn light outside took her breath away. The discomfort to her eyes from the bright sun’s reflected rays pained her: she dropped her head to cope with its’ glare.

Poised between rationality and panic, Florence began for once in her life to despair. There was just a hint of rain in the air, she could see water droplets glistening on the cobbled stones; sighing she knew it would be so easy to give in and do nothing; just sink down and let the world and the imminent rain flow over her. In time they would find her of course, there was little chance of writing a note, so whoever found her would have to surmise the reasons as to why.

A vague smile crossed her worn countenance, the pallor now describing her condition, as she imagined her nephew, ex-Detective Superintendent Rawlings, who would no doubt lead the enquiry; but then again, he was far too important for such an insignificant loss of life. The possibility of receiving help from that quarter seemed tenuous even if she rang him, he would be too far away to assist. But then it was unthinkable for Florence, a woman of high-minded principles to somehow just give in. No, much more contentious was the choice of transport, car or cycle, a dilemma; though her mind was now made up to seek help, she asked herself realistically whether she could at that moment manage either. Whilst pondering this proposition, Florence concentrated her mind on more practical issues by tying a tee-towel tightly around her upper arm, to stop the flow of blood. Working with the one good arm, she pulled an end tightly between her teeth, still her own thank God! To secure a rough knot.

Satisfied that the flow had been stemmed a little, she turned her mind to other pressing matters. Knowing she was no young thing anymore, as once she had feigned to be, there was little time she knew, for making mistakes. The keys to the car, she remembered, were in the pocket of her pinafore, which she was presently wearing, so with the necessary inducement immediately to hand, the decision had been made for her: car it would to be. She knew of course that it would be the preferred mode of transport, indeed far more comfortable, should the journey prove after-all to be foreshortened by failure on her or the car’s part. It somehow lifted her spirits contemplating being found alive or otherwise in her beloved open topped tourer. Whilst lying splayed out through the spokes of the pedal cycle in the middle of the road was not to her mind an encouraging option or fitting end to her life.

The door of the cottage remained open, its dark eye concealing the interior beyond. Many things sprang quickly to mind as the engine spluttered into life, and just as quickly faded into obscurity as she fought to control the frisky machine. Making repeated attempts at correcting its line of travel towards the open road the vehicle finally lurched out from under the overhanging beams of the lean-to garage. Florence hung on desperately with one hand, concentrating on the task of her salvation; even then she could not help noticing, in her peripheral vision, that the cottage was insecure.

Should visitors call, she realised belatedly, the tablecloth was still in place, complete with its crumbs from breakfast: it was also set for a second diner. Was that Jennie, she observed ruefully, sitting waiting patiently for her food; Florence groaned realising she had not left a message for the cat to be fed. The fire was it out? She just couldn’t remember anymore; anyone could just walk in and…Then in what seemed an eternity, though in reality only moments, she rallied and made one last great effort.

Turning the steering wheel into a full left lock as the car careered forwards out of the gateway, where she found herself and the vehicle at long last heading down the steep descent towards the village of Buxton-under-Hill. Gritting her teeth against the searing pain and wrestling with the steering wheel she prayed for a safe arrival, hoping to be found in a dignified state, and at least by her friends.

Gathering speed, the red Sunbeam, hood down, its driver hunched over the wheel, bounced back and forth across the surface of the narrow-metalled road. Florence, weakening further still managed to follow a line of sorts, as central to the lane as possible, anymore more would have met with resistance. At this point, the lane was edged by a steep bank of grass and just beyond this a tightly cropped and pleached hawthorn hedge from two summers past.

Florence had always admired her viewpoint, as she called it, but today it was far from normal, as she gripped the wheel with grim determination and a dogged resolve to persevere and win. Analysing the view and sensing the change in temperature, despite her predicament, she noted the tell-tale signs across the valley floor of heavy rain drifting her way. Finally, her foot lifted from its hard thrust against the accelerator pedal, as the car sensing the downward pull of the hill responded into its own freefall. She bit her bottom lip to fight the pain and found cursing to her surprise a great relief. Florence desperately hoping to arrive safely below, no longer fought as her mind drifted, and with eyes misting she gave way to the inevitable.

The small car bounced ungainly and careered violently towards the offside bank, this time finding that wretched pothole: more normally a daily avoidance. But not today, as the tyres released their grip on the tarmac sending the small red frame spinning once then twice, momentarily gravity free, finally bouncing back to reality on the cruel hard surface. The wheels bit the black and their momentum threw the vehicle violently forward. Florence, no longer able to control steering or its direction and as if shaken by a giant’s hand slid down amongst the pedals into a bloody state; awaiting in semi-conscious stupor for the gyrations of this rodeo to stop. The tormented hulk veered right and leapt for freedom through the gap where the gate should be. On passing it clipped the galvanized post, marking its passage – leaving a leering red gash; then settling back on the level the car made its final dash entering a mature field of maze.

Oblivious to its direction the vehicle disappeared into the overarching leafed canopy until a conspiracy of resistance: plants, mud and the clutch-less pursuit finally stalled its life force. All sounds were cancelled as the vehicle’s engine coughed and fell silent in the subdued darkness below the green canopy; the motionless passenger lying wounded and silent in a bloody heap across the pedals. The muddy track that traced the vehicle’s final passage from gate to obscurity, now felt the intense deluge that had reached the field, which in turn obscured all, ruts, vehicle, and the unconscious occupant lying within.

Chapter Two

A Curious Enquiry!

With the failing light, spectres of doubt caused drivers to deviate, echoing through the very structure of the vehicle. The swerving sudden hesitancy reflected the ‘follow my leader’ motion, as the convoy twitched, braked, and accelerated in equal measure. The column, nose to tail, careered erratically en-masse; red lights glowering demonically at those, too close, too fast, metal boxes; the queue laboured under the yoke of fevered uncertainty.

Drivers huddled behind their steering wheels, lacking considered judgements, parried at one another in the gloom. It was another early winter’s evening drawing to a close, in an all too familiar way. The swirling mass of newly formed mist cloaked the disrupted screaming horde in a white ghostly shroud, as moisture from a fresh downpour evaporated up from the heated tarmac below.

The young DC, keenly aware of what mist, vehicles and indecision might signify, groaned inwardly; he felt the moment was fast approaching when the accident waiting to happen certainly would. After such a fine start to the day, the late downpour was unexpected; the heaving column of traffic paid no heed to the billowing pockets of mist that swirled around them.

Being keenly aware of what obscured vision on the motorway could lead to, he shifted uneasily in his seat; it was not just the significance of weather, drivers, or their indecision that troubled him. Sensing the supercharged atmospherics, the pressure on the surrounding traffic and swell of panic amongst its drivers increased David Prior’s deep concern. He had hoped for an early finish after volunteering to make a call on the way home and had taken the motorway route to avoid a longer country trek. A decision made in haste that he now regretted, as the journey gelled into an urgent, stressful, and potentially involving nightmare. Not long from uniform and keen to make his mark, he in no way wished to revert and deal with a multiple road traffic collision.

The difference from speed enforcement, with its high-profile campaigns and unremitting pursuit of the motoring public, were all significant reasons for his move out of uniform. His choice for a more discrete profile; developing a career chasing would be criminals, made the immediate situation uncomfortable. The thought of disentangling metal, people, and all the surrounding complications that came with it, was something he did not relish.

Although it would be fair to say that his present mission was unlikely to be considered high priority, a would-be burglary at a country house, it could provide some matters of interest. There was always the possibility that a team from the south coast was on the patch, possibly lining up for more; those who were not fussed in regard to other people’s property and its antecedents. But it was the final parting shot from the station sergeant, who standing at the top of the entrance steps, uttering contemptuously down to him, that still rang loudly in his ears.

Doesn’t look much!

It was a jaundiced comment from this disparaging man, screwing his face up in cynicism.

They say nothing’s missing, but you know how these things are, you’ll probably find out more when you get there.

He turned away dismissively and then, momentarily looking back, having remembered something relative.

"Oh! Yes, go easy though, it’s an old manor house called ‘The Laurels’ owned by a couple of maiden ladies! Truth be to tell they seem to be in a dither as to whether anything has been taken or not."

The sergeant added no further observations but remained standing thoughtfully, as he scratched the back of his head. His face still carried a sardonic smile; clearly exhibiting his inner feelings on young progressive officers. Prior sensing antipathy towards him, being well aware of the man’s manipulation: it was disagreeable. The incident caused him to scowl as he pulled clear of the yard in the cramped hire car, they insisted on using: his enthusiasm, which had been buoyant up to that moment, flagged. He knew the utterance was not quite misplaced aggression, but more about the sergeant’s own disappointments in life, than the circumstances in hand.

The young DC also knew jealousy abounded over youth and developing careers, a response and attitude that had for the moment soured the young man’s sense of adventure. Always keen to tackle anything that came along, seeing the sergeant’s smirking dial fade from his mirror, the enquiry had somehow dropped to become second league.

This last piece of information had quite dampened his enthusiasm, as it would appear it was not necessarily even a burglary. The gloomy weather compounded the effect, together with the increased traffic flow out of town, building for its nightly jam with only the thought of an early finish compensating for this chore. His destination of ‘Buxton-under-Hill’ lay in direct line to his own home and as such he could make a beeline for it after the preliminaries had been concluded.

Prior snapped quickly from his maudlin reminiscences as the giant blue board appeared out of the gloom, indicating the next junction and his destination. The ticking noise and flashing light gave him a feeling of relief as he pulled off at the last marker post and down onto the slip road. Slowing down away from the motorway, leaving the indecisive drivers as they sped blindly on clutching at the curtain of fog: their rear lights creating a curious glowing aura to the departing mass. At the bottom of the slope, the world changed abruptly from tormented homebound vehicles, into the damp silence of a leaf strewn country lane, completely devoid of people and movement.

Checking his speed through the quiet glade of undisturbed gloom and mists of oozing vapours, Prior felt slightly unnerved by the sudden stillness of it all, but he had to own to feeling competently smug after turning his back on the potential responsibilities of motorway disasters. To raise his spirits and try to boost some enthusiasm he pulled out a favourite CD from his pocket and pushed it into the car’s player. The effect was immediate as he visibly relaxed, with sounds familiar drifting around the interior; blocking out entirely recent thoughts and the remote silence that he was presently travelling through. Music soothed as the memory of his recent jostling with cars, people and their erratic behaviour gradually gave way allowing him to breathe more easily and prepare his mind for the task ahead.

From the junction, it was just two miles to the village centre of Buxton-under-Hill, his allotted destination and despite the patches of swirling mist and grey gloom the remainder of his journey proved uneventful. The officer was familiar with the area as he was presently renting a property in the next village. In the glare of the car’s headlights, he saw the yellow sandstone pillars topped by their welcoming carved pineapples, marking the entrance to ‘The Laurels’.

Finding himself in the drive of the would-be injured party’s expansive property, he turned the steering wheel full lock to travel in a wide arc on the shingled approach. The young DC, leaned forward, turned off the volume and ejected his latest CD, feeling sure his choice of music would not be met with approval, as the good sergeant would have it, ‘Maiden Ladies’: the residents of this stately edifice. He eased up on the accelerator and coasted to a halt by the impressive porch-way fronting the black and white timbered building: its verified pedigree.

The whole structure imposed an effect on him as he sat taking in the view, leading him to finally express a grunt of jaundiced disapproval. ‘The Laurels’ was one of a few remaining Elizabethan dwellings, that were still occupied within the precepts of the village. Situated on the main approach road it was also one of considerable prominence. The house seemed to give an air of permanence and tradition, whilst engaging in all the high mindedness of middle England.

Extracting with great difficulty all six foot of himself from the small car, did nothing to appease his now ill humour. He adjusted his crumpled clothing, and with a quick shoulder check for extraneous scalp debris he managed to finally stand erect and survey the scene. It was as silent as the grave, there were no visible signs of the inhabitants, the solid well-proportioned building withheld any sign of the residents within. Considering himself to be a townie, the house with its well-heeled doors, windows, and tight clipped hedges, represented a group whom he held in poor regard: it was perhaps an easy stance to take when troubled by the green-eyed monster.

Concerned that the opinions he held regarding the county set might show through and impact on his reception, Prior swallowed hard and attempted to soften his stance on such things; hoping to be even handed in the forthcoming contact with people he did not easily align with.

Despite the fact that he was lodging in the next village, he had quite overlooked the time factor, only to find himself facing the realisation that darkness in the countryside is absolute. He shook his head disappointedly for being so ill equipped, without either torch or supportive aid from street lighting he now found the doors and footpath had become strangely elusive. However, lured on by the slight glimmer of hope from the rear of the premises, he walked towards a soft light that filtered across the rear lawns.

Picking his way between the tightly clipped box hedge and a rough cast wall