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Subject: A Cantabrian Operetta Chapter 10 This story is a work of fiction and only contains characters who are entirely fictitious. You’re not in here, and neither is anybody else you know. I wrote it – I should know. The action of this story takes place early in the 21st century. I have not attended any of the august places of learning mentioned in the text, and the details of those places are accurate only geographically. The fact that a crime takes place in one of them is no reflection on the integrity of that institution. I repeat – work of fiction.It is just possible that activities of a sexual nature may take place, and some of that may be cross generational. There is NO pornography. Look elsewhere for that. If you wish to provide feedback I can be contacted at lfa4321jonah@outlook and please bear in mind that you don’t pay to read these stories, but it does cost Nifty money to provide them. Please consider donating to Nifty fty/donate.html A Cantabrian Operetta. by Jonah Chapter 10. Chorus and Soli Although there were religious services in the college chapel, I liked to go off campus, on Sunday mornings, to attend the Wesley Methodist Church on King Street. I had worshipped at a Methodist Church in London and thought of myself as a Methodist. Yes, I knew there wasn’t really a difference. The anglican services in the college might have been fairly “High Church”, but I was well aware that Methodism couldn’t claim to be a separate religion. Wesley himself was an anglican priest,and the first Wesleyan Methodists only ordained ministers because the Church of England refused to ordain suffficient for the missionary work that Wesley wanted to see done. So I couldn’t give myself reasons for preferring to go to King Street – I just did, that’s all. Of course Jesus College is next-door to a Methodist theological college, and I’m sure I could have found a service there, but many of their students went out on Sunday mornings to one of the two Methodist Churches nearby anyway. That’s how I met Patrick Cawsley. Over coffee, after the service, he introduced himself, and said he recognised me as a Fellow of Jesus. I introduced myself, and asked if that wasn’t what he was training to be. “Ha! Very good!” he responded, “but you know I meant Jesus College, right?” I reminded myself that there are three types of people who don’t get humour. there are those who are too thick, those who think it’s beneath them, and those who believe it’s so laudable that they aspire to it, but are sure that they haven’t got there yet. Patrick was definitely in the last category. I countered with, “You know I was pulling your leg, right?” “Right,” He muttered to himself; then to me he said, “So when can we expect another visit from our favourite police inspector?” “You mean DI.Tremble?” He nodded. “I didn’t know he had visited you,” I said. “He’s about Jesus College so often that I wonder he could find the time.” “Oh he manages,” he replied. “He’s been about our place, on and off, since last October. He’s spent so much time at theological college escort bayan that he’ll probably get ordained before I do.” “But, the first murder wasn’t till January.” “There must have been something else going on. He clearly thought our college was a good place to watch your place from, without you knowing about it.” “He’ll be really pleased you’ve blown his cover then,” I observed. “I don’t get you.” Now there was a surprise. “Never mind.” Sunday afternoon was spent in the hall with a libretto, and a notebook. Notes for the set designer. Notes about costumes and make-up. Notes for principals and chorus. I chalked in the positions for the scenery on the stage, then walked through each scene, playing all the parts alternately. Several chairs stood in and played whichever parts I wasn’t currently playing. At one stage I was really impressed with the performance of the chair playing Dame Carruthers. I wondered if Sue Chatterton would be able to do half as well. I cleared the chairs from the stage for the umpteenth time and Norman Low called from the back. “Encore!. I’d have applauded the chorus in that last bit, but I did think they were a bit wooden.” “If you’ve nothing better to do than stand around there, you’d better come up here and show them how to do it, ” I replied. He strolled forward and climbed onto the stage. “What are we doing then?” “You take Shadbolt,” I replied. “Now Point is on his own at the beginning of the scene and is just soliloquising. He leaves the book there, where you won’t notice it until he picks it up again. Now your entrance is stage left. Up centre to there. ” I pointed and he moved. “And all your lines are delivered from there until the song starts. OK? Right we’ll take it from your entry.” He took the book from me and found his place. “Ah Master Point” I turned to him and said, “Ha! friend jailer. Jailer that wast, Jailer that never shall be more.” I stepped behind him and addressed him from the other side. “Jailer that jailed not, or that jailed, if jail he did, so unjailery that ’twas but jerry-jailing or jailing in joke.” I walked down stage. “Though no joke to him who, by unjailerlike jailing, did so jeopardize his jailorship.” I turned sideways so as to appear to be addressing him directly. “Come take heart, smile, laugh, wink, twinkle, thou tormentor that tormentest none – thou racker that rackest not – thou pincher out of place – come, take heart, and be merry as I am – ” I turned to face the audience and repeated, “As I am.” “Aye,” said Norman, without moving. “It’s well for thee to laugh. Thou hast a good post and hath cause to be merry.” “Cause?” I said, then sat down on the chair that was currently playing the stool on which the book would be lying. “Have we not all cause? Is not the world a big butt of humour, into which all who will may…….” BANG! I pushed the chair over backwards and rolled onto the stage. From the corner of my eye I saw Norman hit the deck. We both lay still. A shower of broken glass had tinkled to the stage near Norman, so the bullet kocaeli escort bayan had obviously caught a standing spotlight. I saw Norman crawl sideways behind one of the stage legs. The chair seat was all I had for cover, but it was all that was within reach. Having got to cover, Norman thought it was safe to stand up. I didn’t think much to that idea. The fabric of the leg wouldn’t stop a bullet. He needed to keep down to minimise his surface area, and move away from where the shooter had last seen him. I motioned him to keep down. He did so but dropped sideways away from the stage. He’d obviously understood. BANG! So the shooter was still around, but he couldn’t risk being there for much longer. He’d attract attention soon. I couldn’t risk that. If somebody cornered him he might well shoot his way out. The sooner he went away the better for everybody. Laying flat behind the chair I kicked off one shoe and inched it to where I could reach it. Taking it in my left hand I threw it into the wings stage right. BANG! Got him. One of the curtains over the french windows at the side of the hall had twitched and I could now just glimpse the barrel of the rifle. I lay still for a minute more then stood and walked to the steps down to the hall. There was no shot, and I walked into the hall. The curtain concerned no longer had anybody concealed behind it, but the french-window was slightly ajar. “Have you got your phone on you Norm?” I called. “Of course I have.” “Give the boys in blue a tinkle.” I said, ” They wouldn’t like us not reporting that.” As Norman called it in, I slid behind the curtain and surveyed the yard beyond the French -window. The gunman wasn’t likely to be hanging about. He’d know he’d have attracted enough attention to risk exposing his identity, but how easy would it be for him to get out of the college carrying a rifle – if, indeed, he was going out. Of course, if he had ditched the rifle, he could easily get anywhere – in the college or otherwise. There were one or two people around, but they didn’t seem to be taking any notice. I didn’t think they’d heard the shots – people in the foyer or the gardens were more likely to have done that – so they wouldn’t notice a man concealing a gun. I looked around for the most likely places of concealment. On the far side of the yard were four raised flower beds. Alright, he’d have needed to get over to there undetected, but if these people had only just arrived, they wouldn’t have seen him. Not a premeditated plan then. He’d been lucky. Was the whole thing unpremeditated? A crime of expediency, or even desperation? Casually I strolled across to the nearest of the beds. It was a rustic wooden box, roughly coffin-sized, filled with loam. Normally it would contain bedding plants or small shrubs, but in late January, it contained loam. In the absence of foliage there was nowhere in it to conceal anything but , on a whim, I leaned on it and pushed the thing sideways. The back end of a rifle butt was just visible. Quickly kocaeli escort I pushed the bed back into place. Already the sound of police sirens was disturbing the Sunday afternoon. I sat down casually on the edge of the flowerbed and waited for them to arrive. Eventually Sergeant Grant appeared around the corner of the building. He spotted me and strolled over to where I sat. “Bit of excitement Sir?” He queried. “I suppose you could say that,” I returned. “The sort we could well do without for my money.” “Well you will go poking around in things,” he remarked. I looked at him for a moment and then said. “Are you saying that the reason you’re not getting shot at is that you’re not poking around in those things?” He looked at his shoes for a long moment, then finally said, “Why don’t you tell me all about it?” “Is there any point, given that you didn’t answer my last question?” “Yes Sir, there is.” My resistance had come to an end anyway. I did as he bid me. At last he said. “And you’re sure the gunman came this way?” I stood up. “Look under the flower bed,” I said. He retrieved the Rifle, using his handkerchief to hold it. “We’d best report to the inspector,” he said. I followed him across the yard and into the hall through the french window that I had come out by. I had closed it behind me, but they couldn’t be latched from the outside. The inspector was on stage with Norman. “Mr Cummings,” the inspector said. “Can you show me where you were when the shooting was going on?” “Of course Inspector,” I said from the edge of the stage. “I was hiding behind that chair. It was lying on its back at the time, with its legs pointing this way.” “Not much cover.” “No, but it was all there was.” “And the gunman could easily have come out from his position, walked to the stage and picked you both off.” “He was a bit short of time,” I replied,” and he wouldn’t have wanted to reveal his identity unless he could be sure of silencing both of us. He knew where I was, but he couldn’t be sure where Norman had gone to.” “And since he didn’t reveal his identity, he could be anybody in the college,” said the sergeant. “Or out of it,” I ammended. “Yes, it’s inconsiderate of him not to tell us who he is. It might call for detective work.” “How would he have known you’d be here?” the inspector said quickly. “He wouldn’t. Nobody did.” I said. “Even Norman hadn’t intended to be here.” “So he planned this little episode this afternoon at the earliest.” “It certainly looks that way.” “Yes, well don’t plan on leaving the country.” “Inspector,” I said levelly, “if somebody is trying to kill me, you are not going to order me to stay here and let him do it.” “If he was trying to kill you, he’s a rotten shot,” he pointed out. “Perhaps he won’t be next time,” I said. TO BE CONTINUED If you’ve enjoyed this story you’d probably enjoy other stories by the same author, also on Adult/Youth. “Immigrant”, “Marooned”, “Letter from America”, ” Stranger on a train” and “The Boston Tea Party” are all by this author, as is, “The Pen-Pals” (on Young Friends). You would also probably like “A Neglected Boy” by Jacob Lion. Pictures of some of the characters in this story can be found on Jacob’s bly/jonah-stories.html My thanks go to Jacob for his generosity and hard work in making this available.

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