Oxford Brookes And The Case Of The Blyth Buddleia Burglar

Daily writing challenge.  Day 56.

Today I didn't have a clue what to write.  I didn't fancy today's writing prompt or any of the ones I've missed out.  I indulged in procrastination.  And then a silly remark made to a friend this morning popped into my head.  I typed four words.  I didn't know what could follow them.  As it turned out, another two thousand words followed.  I'm sure they all make some kind of sense!  So I present to you a short story.

Our buddleia

The Case of the Blyth Buddleia Burglar

Oxford Brookes

Private Detective

The name looked good on the door. It had taken me years to get to this point and I wasn't going to waste it. I had the champagne ready. After years of studying the intricacies and depravities of the human race I gained enough understanding to be able to see past the apparent quandaries a case would present me with. After another three years of working as apprentice to the greatest detective of them all, Lord Comfort, I'd felt ready to move on. Strike out on my own. Be my own man. I'd saved up enough money to hire an office for a year. It was make or break. If I could solve enough high profile cases I'd be set for life. If not, I'd have to give up my dream and become a journalist for a local newspaper.

Or possibly I could write a book about all the unsavoury things I got up to when studying the depravities of the human race. I didn't think you can solve crimes without truly understanding criminals. Couldn't discover the truth about adultery without being an adulterer. And you wouldn't be able to sniff out a drug baron unless you've first sniffed out a wide selection of drugs. Lord Comfort had laughed when I told him all this in my interview. He told me that he had never committed a crime, never taken an illegal drug. He admired my zealousness but not my methodology. If it wasn't for that great man I would never have progressed as I did in the fine art of detection.

I'd even solved the case of the Blyth buddleia burglar. All by myself. I'd taken it upon myself to investigate all on my own when reports came in of someone stealing entire buddleias from gardens in Blyth. I drove to the town and immediately set to work, like all good detectives should. I didn't even take a detour to a restaurant. I didn't spend some hours resting on the beach. And I most definitely didn't get lost on the way there and end up in Blackpool. Definitely not, although Lord Comfort did question me later on why it took me two days to get to my first interview in Blyth and why my driving expenses claim was for three-hundred miles rather than thirty. I explained that it had been a very complicated case and there had been unforeseen clues that needed following up.

The interviews didn't bear much fruit. Each householder told me the same thing. They had gone to bed one night knowing there were buddleias in the garden. The next morning their plants had vanished. Gone. Taken. By person or persons unknown. That person hadn't been seen or heard and hadn't left as much as a fingerprint covered spade or shovel, just a card left at every crime scene in place of the plants. It bore the inscription “Buddleias are us. Get your finest buddleias here.” There was an address and phone number too but I knew from my year spent living with a criminal gang that criminals are dishonest. Those cards could have been left by anyone. Even if they were left by the thieves I knew the information could be forged. Lord Comfort once told me, “If something is too obvious it may be wrong too.” And his teaching had served me well.

As far as clues went, these poor unfortunate souls were perfectly useless. One of them was lying too. I'm almost sure of it, since she lived in a fifth floor flat with no garden. However, since I am a private detective, rather than a policeman, I wasn't able to arrest her for wasting my very precious time, all the more precious since I'd got stuck in a five mile tailback on my way back from not getting lost in Blackpool. She protested that her buddleia had been in a plant pot outside her front door but there wasn't a hint of a sign that a pot had ever been there and she didn't have a receipt from the garden centre.

After the interviews I was left without a lead. Missing buddleias. What was a trainee detective to do? What would Lord Comfort do? I needed time to think and had passed a very nice looking restaurant on my way back from the beach I didn't go to. I would think there. And put the meal on expenses. It was a very fine meal indeed. Four courses because after the first three I still hadn't solved the case. After the fourth I had inspiration. Contact the local drug baron. He would know. And I knew him from my past scholarly examinations of depravity. If anyone was dealing in buddleias on the Blyth black market he would tell me, with proper encouragement. I headed off, without support, independent because I trust my abilities, to see the criminal kingpin.

Their buddleia

It was the right choice. I solved the case. Purely as a result of my finely honed instincts. I didn't even reach the baron. Which is quite a relief because he's a scary man and while I would have done anything to solve the case I didn't want to get injured or be forced to claim the purchase of a quantity of drugs on expenses. Lord Comfort might not have been impressed.

Three streets away from the baron's home I saw two people and in an instant, a brilliant instant of unrivalled detection, I knew I had found my quarry. Not just one thief as the police had assumed. But two. They were unloading a selection of very beautiful buddleia plants from the back of an open truck. The truck door was painted with “Buddleias Are Us” and I cleverly spotted that the phone number was the same as that on those cunningly planted cards. I checked the address too. I used Google maps, an A to Z street map and asked some people in nearby houses as well. I even checked the sign at the end of the street and the number of the thieves front door. Everything matched. Everything. Perfectly. Not even one digit or letter out. Perhaps those cards had been tiny clues after all. Perhaps if I'd gone down that unlikely route and investigated them with due diligence I wouldn't have been able to enjoy a four course meal.

I opened the case I kept in the back of the car and put on one of my best detective disguises. Sometimes it's better not to walk up to potential culprits saying, “Hello, I'm a detective come to make a citizen's arrest.” I thought it better to be in disguise. So I pulled out some glasses, a fake stick-on moustache and a cigar. Groucho Marx makes a particularly cunning disguise. Nobody sees through my Marx, whether Groucho, Karl, or and Spencer.

I walked up to the thieves. At a normal pace. Without trying to hide my presence behind the neighbours bush to observe them for an hour and gather evidence or courage. I didn't do that. Mrs. Mayberry lied at the trial. She did. I wasn't hiding. I walked up to the despicable plant thieves and said, “Excuse me, I couldn't help noticing your beautiful buddleia plants. I'm a great lover of buddleias myself ...” I admit I'd had to find out what a buddleia looked like before my journey to Blyth. “... and I was hoping to be able to fill my garden with them. These are wonderful. I'd love to have them or even come to work for you in the buddleia business. It would be my dream job. Where ever did you get such amazing examples of this horticultural ambience? …” I hoped they wouldn't see through me when I accidentally used an out of place word like ambience. “I don't want to pry into your business secrets and don't want to take over and undercut your prices or anything like that. No, no, not me. I'm just an innocent buddleia lover who bears an uncanny resemblance to Groucho Marx. Where did you get them?”

One of the thieves stared at me. He looked mean. He looked also like he hadn't understood what I'd been saying. Maybe my use of the word ambience had completely stumped him.

The other spoke. He said, “We nicked 'em, didn't we. Went round the town, couple of nights ago and nicked 'em out of people's gardens. Seemed like the best way to start a new business. Ain't our stock the best? People will come miles for all our buddleias. Miles. And loads of people in Blyth are wanting to get new plants so I've heard to replace the ones some gadger nicked.” He laughed.

I said, “Thank you most kindly sir. I would like to buy your plants. Give me an hour while I go to the bank and I'll come back and pay you a fair price.”

But I didn't go to the bank did I? Oh no, not me. I'm far too clever for that. I'd taped the conversation too. I went to the police instead. Told them of my discovery. They were ever so impressed and went off to arrest the thieves straight away. I was a hero in the town. I drove back to Lord Comfort that night knowing I had done very well to solve my first solo case and I only got delayed for two nights in a five star hotel in Scarborough. For the second time in a week I didn't get lost. It was intentional. I promise. Anyway, I needed some pampering after all my mental and physical exertion. Detective work is difficult you know. The hotel would be on expenses so it was okay.

When I returned to his office Lord Comfort didn't seem impressed with my work. I stressed how amazing I had been but he queried every little insignificant detail. The three days I didn't spend in Blyth. The hundreds of miles driven. The restaurant bill. He even seemed worried about the hotel bill and the hundred and twenty pounds extra I'd spent on room service and emptying part of the mini-bar in my room.

The next day Comfort congratulated me on solving my first case. He said I was a fully fledged detective now and said I should be starting my own company. He said I was ready and that it would make him very happy to see me working somewhere else. He said he couldn't bear to think of me still working for him after everything I'd done. I agreed. It was obvious. I'm a genius in the art of detection and it's only one step from buddleias to murder, kidnapping and plots to take over the world.

So, just a month later, there I was. Back at the very beginning of my story. Those bright red letters had just been painted on the door of my new office. I was a happy man and they looked so good.

Oxford Brookes

Private Detective

I shook up my champagne bottle and pushed off the cork so it could spray everywhere. Like at a Grand Prix except my office is far more important than a silly driving race in which it's impossible to get lost or take a wrong turn. I sprayed that champagne joyfully. It went all over me. All over the painter. All over the corridor floor. I could put the cleaning bill on expenses. And all over my new door too.

The paint was still wet. The celebratory booze washed it away. The painter quit. And the cleaner told me to mop the bloody thing up myself. I spent the rest of the day sorting out the mess. It hadn't been an auspicious first day but the only way was up.

Before I left for the night I repainted the letters on the door. I didn't need to pay a painter for such a simple job. It took another month before I noticed why I hadn't received a string of wealthy clients coming to my door in despair. A month before someone pointed out a little error in those big, shiny, bright red letters. They read

Oxford Brookes

Private Defective

[2035 words]

It Was Beaks At Dawn When The Avocet and Curlew Went To War

Last night I said some random words to my wife.  This morning I've free written from them.  What follows is the result.  I had some ideas as I began to write.  Most of them weren't used.  One idea was to write a bird poem and include lots of bad bird puns.  Instead there's this piece of silliness!

Yesterday (Sunday) I didn't write a post.  Oh dear.  So I'm playing catch up today and need to write a second post this evening.  I didn't write but I did attend a performance poetry workshop for the first time.  And for the first time ever I performed a poem I wrote.  To an audience of poets, to be critiqued.  In many ways that's the safest place to begin.  A bunch of poets isn't likely to say, "Ooh that was total crap.  Get out and don't you dare come here again you fake poet!"  Every one of them knows how hard it is and everyone is there to encourage others to write and perform as best as they can.  Which means that all critique is constructive and even if something is total crap it's a learning experience rather than a damning one.  But I wasn't total crap, either in the words or the performance.  Far from it.  Happily, I should be able to get to the next workshop.  By that time I will have performed at least one short piece before a room full of people.  Another step in the plan without a plan.

Here then is the first piece of writing for today.  You will notice that I've totally ignored the writing prompt list.  That doesn't matter.  This blog is about writing not lists.

______________________________

In the duel between the avocet and the curlew it was beaks at dawn.

Ornithological history does not record which of the birds began the argument. All we know for sure is that one small barb led to another and another until they could hardly bear to inhabit the same piece of waterway. While it is true that each would criticise the other for their plumage, and many suspect that both were jealous, the main sticking point was their beaks.

The avocet would say “Look at you, you're upside down and stupid. That beak of yours is ridiculous. Why would anyone want something as useless as that down-curving monstrosity on the end of your face?”

And the curlew would reply, “My beak is a wonder. It's the stuff of legend. Anyway, it's much better than yours. Yours is up-turned. I suppose that's apt for such a stuck up bird. You've got ideas above your station.”

A curlew. Image from the RSPB

The avocet said, “It's not my fault the bird people made me their emblem. They took one look at me and knew I was best and my beak was perfect.”

“They only did it for the sympathy vote knowing they would get extra donations when people saw just how pitiful you were. So turn your beak round now before I rip it off your face.”

That did it. The avocet didn't want to listen to any more of such talk. The marsh was only big enough for the one of them. So he said, “I challenge you to a duel. We shall fight to the death. Or until one of us gives up.”

“That's easy. I'll win. Tomorrow morning at dawn we shall meet on the waterfront and fight.”

The following morning a crowd gathered. The official duel adjudicator was there too with his case of weapons. The finest of juggling clubs, hula hoops and frisbees were combined with ribbons, bubbles, and a selection of stick on red noses. He was so embarrassed when he opened up the case and everyone saw he had made an error of judgement, bringing everything from his other job as circus clown. The duel was postponed for the day. Nobody minded too much. The birds spent the day playing as best they could. But it's hard to blow bubbles when you're a bird.

An avocet.  Image from the RSPB

The following morning a bigger crowd gathered. The official duel adjudicator was there again with his case of weapons. This time he hadn't made a mistake. He opened up the trunk and everyone oohed and aahed over the cache. The finest of wooded clubs was supplemented by a selection of swords, bottles, knives, guns, and even a pair of intricately decorated tickling sticks although the adjudicator later admitted they should have been in his other case.

The avocet and curlew stared at the case and shouted at each other.

“I'm gonna cut you up into tiny pieces. See if I don't.”

“You little ass-wipe. Go get eaten by a cat! One bullet into your bird brain and everyone will tweet and squawk in celebration of my victory.”

They continued insulting each other and the language grew more and more fruity until an entire orchard of trees collapsed under the weight of words. It took until seven in the evening before they could agree on how to try to kill each other and the whole duel had to be postponed.

The following morning a crowd gathered that was so big they could hardly fit in the wetlands at all. A family of capercaillie had travelled down especially on the night train and a video link had been set up because a blood thirsty emu wanted to watch. The duel adjudicator was there again with his case of weapons and a smile on his face because he got double pay for overtime.

The avocet and the curlew approached the chest.

“Take up your weapons,” the adjudicator intoned imperiously.

The two birds bent down over the chest and took up the weapons in their beaks. Each would have a jewel encrusted sword. A gentleman's weapon although neither thought the other a gentleman. It was then that everyone realised there had been a miscalculation.

For whether your beak is upturned or downturned it's not a swordsman's anatomy of choice. Neither bird could pick up their sword. They tried hard. For most of the day. The crowds got bored and would have demanded their money back had it not been for a troupe of eagles laying on an aerobatic display that everyone appreciated. Everyone that is apart from the pigeons who were shanghaied into being part of the display and were dined on that evening. The ice cream seller was happiest of all because she nearly sold her entire stock to hot birds, without once stopping to wonder how the birds happened to be carrying money or how they might have all managed to carry the cones.

The avocet and the curlew were encouraged to try other weapons. But it was no good. The avocet could hang a gun from his beak but such a weapon just fell off when the curlew tried to pick it up. It wasn't really any use for the avocet either because he found there was no way to aim a gun hung from a beak. Let alone reach up with is wing and fire. Even the wooden clubs were impossible.

It was an owl who proposed the solution. “I propose the solution of unarmed combat,” he said.

The curlew laughed. “Unarmed combat? You unwise owl you. Of course it'll be unarmed. Because we haven't got arms to combat with. We've got wings. And that's where the problem lies. Wings are excellent for flight but useless for weapon carrying.”

A penguin and an ostrich from the local zoo were heard to grumble at the mention of flight but that only made some of the other birds turn and laugh at them.

The owl said. “No, no, I meant you should fight without weapons. Bird to bird combat. Just use your beaks as swords and you'll soon see which is better. Or at least which is better for duelling.”

The avocet and the curlew looked at each other and nodded. They would do as the owl said. But it was getting late so the duel was postponed once more.

The following morning a crowd gathered. It was smaller. Some of the birds had needed to get home. The duel adjudicator was there. He had left his case at home, locked up in a big safe. He announced the rules. The two birds would stand back to back and take twenty paces, turn and then charge at each other and fight on his command.

They lined up on the beach happy to face away from each other. They paced. Turned. There was beak hatred in their eyes. The adjudicator shouted, loudly, “Ready … steady … GO!” and the birds ran and flapped, meaning to impale each other.

They didn't get a chance. When they were still ten paces apart a puffin suddenly flapped down between them and cried “STOP! Stop this madness.”

The avocet stopped.

The curlew stopped. Fell over. Ungracefully stood again.

They stared at the puffin. Stared some more.

The puffin said, “There's no need to fight about which of your beaks is the best. You, avocet, look fine in your plumage and with your upturned beak. And you, curlew, look just as good in your plumage and with your downturned beak. There's no denying that. Your beaks are both good so give each other a hug.”

The avocet and curlew approached each other. They had to admit it. The puffin was quite right. So they lifted up their wings and hugged each other warmly before deciding to head off to a seafood restaurant for a make-up meal.

The puffin smiled. As best as a beaked creature can smile.

“My work here is done. I must return to my island now.”

He flew off and as he did so he called back to the crowds.

“Anyone with half a brain can see the truth. My beak is the best in the world.”

[1362 words]