By PDM Harrison
First 1200 words
The Burglary at 33
It had scarcely been mentioned in the local news, but all who lived on Abbey Crescent knew something was still very much amiss. Their usually quiet and mundane cul-de-sac had never been involved with or witnessed something so odd and out of the ordinary, or at least, that’s what most of the residents believed. Like many places in Britain, Abbey Crescent was home to regular, compulsive curtain twitchers, who were obsessed with the mildest of disturbances outside their prim and proper detached houses. However, nothing in their time surveilling the area had truly prepared them for the burglary at 33.
Despite being the last house on the Crescent, number 33 was the oldest building by quite a considerable age. As a result, it was very different from the other homes in style, construction, and in subtle ways that only those with a keen eye could tell. It stood four stories tall with a high-pitched roof and had been built with large sandstone blocks that had weathered over time. At the front of the property was a small, unkept garden so overgrown with thick vines and thorny bushes that the entire ground floor was barely visible to passersby. Unlike all the other properties on the Crescent, 33 had no driveway or garage to speak of. Around the back, there wasn’t a garden as such. Instead, the building merged directly into mysterious ancient woodlands.
The break-in happened in the early hours of the 20th of March. According to the official police report, at least two perpetrators had left their footprints in the mud as they entered the building through the back door. The police were unclear on whether this was a planned or opportunistic burglary, as evidence at the scene pointed both ways. Their crowbarred entry was sloppy and rushed, with no care or attention given to what they were leaving in their wake. However, once inside the property, it was quite the opposite. There was no sign of any chaotic searching on the ground floor for valuables to steal. In fact, after entering, the thieves seemed quite considerate, and their footprints did not wander one bit. Curiously, they led directly through the house, up the central staircase, and into a specific room on the first floor. The report noted:
‘Two sets of muddy footprints led directly up and into the first-floor library, but none led out.’
The police deduced that the burglars must have cleaned or removed their boots at some point in the library. However, no solid evidence was found to fully support this conclusion. This was strange, but more perplexing still were the observations made by Constable Drayton on that frosty March morning.
Whilst searching the woodland at the rear, she spotted two black balaclavas dangling from the very top branches of what appeared to be two newly planted, mature birch trees. Upon closer inspection, Drayton noted a curious marking on one of these trees. In style, the marking was that of a cheap love heart tattoo that had the word “Mum” crudely scrawled into its centre.
Witness statements were also collected by the officers at the scene. The one with the most peculiar details came courtesy of chief curtain twitcher Mr Gilbert Loam, resident at number 24. Mr Loam reported:
‘I was rudely woken by the sound of raised voices at about quarter past four, so I got up and went to my window to investigate. I could see that the first-floor lights were on over at 33, and from what I could make out, at least one of the voices was male, and one was female. This quarrelling was followed by an almighty racket that woke the local dogs into a barking frenzy. I’d had just about enough of all of this nonsense, so I decided to go over there and give them a piece of my mind. But as soon as I stepped out across my drive, I saw and heard what must have been fireworks going off inside the property. This was followed immediately by the loudest, most horrific, ear-splitting screaming imaginable. I’d never heard anything quite like it in all my life. I presumed this must have had something to do with the electrics because when the screaming finally stopped, all the lights in 33 went out. But I tell you, Officer, that was far from the end of this trouble. Before I could return to my house, a horse with a rider came bursting out through that mess of thickets in that so-called “front garden” of theirs. That’s right, you heard me correctly. A ginormous black horse with a man on its back appeared from nowhere and galloped straight down the road towards me. In the streetlight, I could see that the rider was hooded and was wearing metal armour like from one of those Lord of the Whatchamacallit films. He was also clutching something under his left arm, which I could have sworn was a child, but I can’t be certain. At this point, I rushed back inside and called for your assistance. “Assistance” that took well over an hour to arrive. It’s not on, I tell you, not on at all!’
Other witnesses on the Crescent had corroborated parts of Mr Loam’s account but not with enough to further extra investigations. Horses and riders were not uncommon in the neighbourhood due to the woodlands accommodating an active bridleway, so this aspect was not treated as particularly suspicious.
As for the owner and occupier of number 33, Ms Lagertha Brokespear, she was initially recorded as “absent” by Constable Drayton that morning. Then, around three o’clock that afternoon, she appeared on her doorstep, visibly shocked and upset by the police presence. In her interview, she claimed she’d been away on a short 24-hour business trip and hadn’t noticed anything suspect before departing. However, none of this was, in fact, true. Ms Brokespear was very much at home during the burglary, and Mr Loam’s statement was inaccurate with one crucial detail. The dawn rider Gilbert saw that day was no man.
That evening, Lagertha made herself a cup of fennel tea and took it to the first-floor library. She sat down at an old, rugged and scorched round table, looked directly ahead, and spoke.
‘I’ve returned, Arkal. The other recruits, did they make it through?’
‘Yes, Laggie.’ Came an echoey reply from the statue of a jackdaw opposite her. ‘Eleven Questers and their guardians are here at Udah Keep. It’s only your party that’s not present and accounted for.’
‘It was Kervakian.’ Lagertha sighed and paused to take a sip of tea. ‘I don’t know how, but he was here, in the sanctum, just before the equinox, along with two crooked folkels. They’d come for the Barrows’ child.’
‘And did they succeed?’ Asked the deep, resonating voice of Jarl Arkal Atlason.
‘Thankfully, no.’ Lagertha replied. ‘Balthazar came to my aid when summoned, and I spirited the boy away upon his back. I’ve left the horse and child at the hamlet with Shemlock.’
‘Ah, good.’ Said Atlason. ‘Alas, this means we’ll be without a member of the Jackdaw clan for this rotation. Nalaphor will just have to wait for the powers of young Ektor Barrows.’