Defenestration

It Was A Dark And Stormy Night

By Alex Keegan

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It was a dark and stormy night as Dierdrie Maple, disturbed, stirred in her sleep. Was that a creak on the stairs? As lightning flashed ominously across the night skies, as the wind howled, as the leafless branches of the mysterious, animal-like elms in the garden scratched at the feeble glass of her bedroom window, she woke properly, thinking of
Nigel, his warm, incredible kiss, his dark, brooding eyes. Finally Dierdre woke fully. Yes, there was a creak, a definite creak, but it wasn't on the stairs, it was in her room! My God! Dierdrie shot bolt upright in the bed, reaching beneath her pillow for her hat-pin.

"It's only me, Auntie Dee!" said a sweet, soulful voice.

"Oh, it's you," Dierdrie cried with relief.

It was Annie, her six year old, curly blonde-haired niece, tragically orphaned less than three months ago. Dierdrie had taken her in, promising the authorities that she would bring her up as a Christian and teach her to sing like Shirley Temple.

"What is it child?" Dierdrie queried softly. "Did the nasty storm-man frighten you?"

"Yes, Nanch," Annie confessed in a whisper. "I wath fwightened by the funder and by the whiteling."

"Oh, child, my child!" Dierdrie cried out agonizingly, "Come here and share a Jackson moment with your dear old, silly Dierdrie-poops! I'll tell you a bed-time story. It will be a thriller." she added humorously.

Sweet little Annie climbed up into Dierdrie's huge, soft bed and snuggled against he aged relation's ample bosom. "Nanch," she cooed softly, like an almost falling asleep child, "You mustest be the best Nanch in the ho wide worl." And promptly, as if by magic, she drifted away to the land of Nod.

***

The next day, rising early and briskly brushing her teeth, Miss Maple had a sudden moment of foreboding, an acute anxiety not brought on by her reflection in the mirror. Something was wrong, something seriously bad. She wracked her brain.

"What can it be?" she queried her reflection perplexedly. "Last night, when the storm was at its highest, little Annie came – "

"Oh my God!" she cried in anguish, "It's Annie. She's GONE!"

She wiped her mouth, rinsed twice, then rushed back to the jasmine scented boudoir.

"Annie! Annie my precious!" she called desperately, but there was no reply, no answer, no sweet response from her little darling.

Oh, Annie!

Dierdrie dressed quickly, tidied her hair, then searched carefully through the house. Nothing! There was no one anywhere, absolutely no sign of the sweet, innocent little Annie, nothing but a single, golden red curl alone on a lilac pillow.

"Oh, Heaven," wailed Dierdrie pathetically, "Where, oh where can you be, Annie?"

No one replied. There was just the sudden emptiness of the old manor, the creaking of the eaves. But suddenly, like the night before, Dierdrie sensed, somewhere, somewhere, there was something. Fear flashed momentarily across her eyes, but was replaced immediately by a look of steel, one of total British resolve. Like Churchill, like the Queen, Dierdrie took a deep breath, stiffened her sinews and faced whatever dangers were to come. "Oh," she whispered weakly, "If only Nigel were here now, with his broad, manly shoulders, with his calm but determined manner."

Saddened, by the absence of her good fiend (but could he be more?) but resolved, Dierdrie calmly considered her options. What precisely had Annie said to her in those darkest, frightening moments?

"It's only me, Auntie Dee!" she had gently whispered in her sweet, soulful voice.

Why Auntie Dee? Annie had never called her Auntie Dee before. Was it a secret code? Was Annie trying to tell her something?

And then Annie had muttered sleepily, "Yes, Nanch, I wath fwightened by the funder and by the whiteling."

But Annie had never lithped before!

"Oh, my God!" realized Dierdrie suddenly, "Annie was drugged!" She had stumbled into Dierdrie's boudoir in a desperate attempt to avoid the inevitable, but it was already too late, too late! But why, then had Dierdrie not realized something evil was afoot? She had always prided herself on an acute awareness. She was a sharp-eyed and sharp-eared as a prairie dog so why had she not been alerted to the dangers about to overcome them?

The Horlicks! Of course!

As Annie had snuggled close into Dierdrie's chest, Dierdrie had reached over and taken a draught from her nightly Horlicks. It had been too hot to drink earlier, and Dierdrie, had left the drink restlessly, fitfully, trying to ignore the torm, the creaks on the stairs, and sleep. "OH," she spluttered meaningfully, "I woke when Annie came in, and then
I drank from the mug. That was drugged too! That's why I can't remember telling Annie a bed-time story. It all fits!"

Dierdrie was thinking this, trying to make sense of everything, when she heard a car coming up the graveled drive. She looked from the window. It was Nigel's car, her good, good friend, her warm, companion. She was so glad to perceive his arrival. Perhaps he could help. She moved to go downstairs and as she thought of Nigel, a surge of something quite unladylike passed down her quivering body.

"Nigel! How nice to see you!" Dierdrie laughed cheerfully as she opened the door. She stopped when she saw the state of her friend.

"Hello, Dierdrie" Nigel relied heavily. "I have some bad news."

"What is it," queried Dierdrie, a gasp in her voice and her hand to her mouth. "Oh, but forgive me, please come in and I shall make us some tea."

"There is no time for tea!" exclaimed Nigel manfully, but a little rudely. "For God's sake, woman, the file has gone!"

"The FILE!" exclaimed Dierdrie, "Oh my God!"

Suddenly heavy music, dark, foreboding lurched into the hallway.

"What was that?" asked Nigel, bewildered, rushing past Dierdrie.

"I have no idea," answered Dierdrie in a confused, faint voice. She strode purposefully after Nigel but even in such desperate times she could not fail to notice the solid squareness of his frame, his fine haunches.

"It's coming from the drawing-room" Nigel's voice echoed oddly ahead of Dierdrie as she followed, "It's in—”

And suddenly he was silent, horror-struck.

Dierdrie arrived and put her feminine hand on Nigel's bull-strong arm.

"What is it?" she whispered breathlessly.

"I, c-c, " stuttered Nigel. Dierdrie had never seen him so desperate, so shocked, so lost.

"What is it my darling?" she purred helpfully.

"B-B-Black Magic!" announced Nigel, finally regaining his sturdy, Yorkshireman's gritty balance. "The fiends have returned!"

Later, over a good cup of tea (and four of Mrs. William's excellent bakestones) Nigel explained.

"Dierdrie," he began seriously. "You have not lived in Poppy Nettleton all that long, but 'tis a mysterious place, some say with links back to the beginning of time, and to the Witches of Zoking!"

"The Witches of Zoking?" Dierdrie responded disparagingly, "But they are mythical! They're silly stories like those of the bogeyman. There was only ever one witch, and she was only called that because of her dress sense. She lives in obscurity now in Norfolk!" she added.

"Oh, if only it were true," sighed Nigel. He was so resigned, so soft and gentle, that Dierdrie wanted to hold him there and then. Propriety prevented her.

"Tell me more," she offered.

"Well," Nigel began carefully. "It all happened a long time ago…

"… and that is why no person called Annie, at least no maiden, must ever be allowed to sleep in the village, especially on a dark and stormy night."

"Oh Dear Lord!" exclaimed Dierdrie, "but my newly adopted child, is called Annie!"

"No, she's Pixie," retorted Nigel.

"Annie," insisted Dierdrie gravely.

"No!" announced Nigel his voice almost roaring. "It cannot be!"

So Dierdrie explained how Annie had made her promise not to use her name in front of other people. It would be their little joke, she had said mischievously. Little did Dierdrie realize she had been duped. Slowly she explained to Nigel, about the drugs, the Horlicks. She had though Mrs. Williams had slipped something into the supper drinks.

"What time was this?" Nigel asked suddenly.

"What time was what?"

"You said Mrs. Williams made your drinks…"

"About ten PM," Dierdrie explained.

"My God, it's worse!" Dierdrie's companion shouted.

"Why, man! Tell me immediately!"

"Mrs Williams was found murdered yesterday evening!"

"Oh my!"

"At six o'clock, Dierdre. At SIX o'clock!"

"But!"

"Exactly," Nigel exclaimed. "So who was it made your Horlicks?"

"And who made these bakestones?" Dierdrie added ominously.

"I can answer that," said a familiar voice from the doorway.

They both turned.

"Nigel?" Dierdrie said, both horrified and perplexed.

"Yes!" this Nigel said. "And I am the real Nigel."

"Prove it, you villain," the first Nigel said standing up and brushing bakestone crumbs from his thighs.

Dierdrie was torn, suddenly helpless, very much a frail woman.

"Think, for God's sake, Dierdrie, before it's too late!" the Nigel in the doorway begged. Dierdrie paused. There was something in the voice, a plaintiveness that made her want to believe in him. She reached out a hand, still undecided when suddenly there was a strong gust of wind and the French windows burst open, a small pane shattering.

"Yes, do " said a child's voice, but parodying, malevolent. "We the inheritors of Poppy Nettleton, would love to hear your final choice!"

"My final choice?" exclaimed Dierdrie in a bewildered gasp. "Why?"

"Why? Because we know who you are," sweet Pixie boomed from the French doorway, "Hello Annie!"

"But how? How did you discover? How did you find out?"

"It was easy, once my twin brothers agreed to help," laughed the delightful little girl, her dress whipping in the wind.

***

"So Dierdrie only pretended to be drugged. It was all an act?"

"Yes, Inspector. And that is how she was able to slip out of the house and murder poor Mrs. Williams."

"But that was at six, wasn't it?"

"No, another ruse," explained Nigel as Dierdrie stood there horrified. "Miss Maple shot Mrs. Williams in cold blood, then turned her wristwatch back to 6PM before smashing it. So we were misled into thinking she had died almost five hours earlier than she really did."

"Forensics would have spotted that," added the inspector.

"Yes," agreed the other Nigel, "But by then it would have been too late. Tonight there was to be an eclipse of the 19th Full Moon with Pisces rising. The full metamorphosis would have taken place, and The Witches of Zoking would have been unstoppable."

"We can only thank-you, thank-you all," said the inspector, and his portly assistant nodded. They took away the fuming Dierdrie.

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It has been determined, through the wonders of science, that Alex Keegan is, indeed, absolutely insane. Also, Alex calls this particular story “a piss-take on every mistake in writing,” which we find amusing because it rhymes and contains the word “piss.”