A Scarlet In Study

Angela here, hi-jacking Elvis's blog page as he's off on a stag do to Marbella (if his socials are to be believed). I'm not the most tech-savvy person out there, I do what I need to get by and generally faff about until I manage to create what I want - or as near as dammit. Sometimes, I give up and cry into my custard creams.

My previous website offered a free Time Travelling Detectives short story if you signed up to my newsletter, but I have no idea how to do that on here, so I'm posting it instead. It would help if you've read the other books, or at least the first, but you may enjoy it as a rather strange stand alone. So here it is - have fun! Angela

A Scarlet in Study

The swirling blackness spat me out onto grey linoleum and into déjà vu.

“Frinkin’ balloobies.” Weedgie landed beside me, and we swayed together, regained our balance, and looked around.

“We’re back.” My voice threatened to crack. “In limbo.”

“Haw, ah’m no’ shooglin’ aboot ablow a pole. That’s pure mince.”

I closed my eyes and counted to ten. “We’re back where we started.”

The motorway service station, somewhere in space. Swirling blackness outside, Formica inside, and a bossa nova version of ‘Mack the Knife’ belting out around us.

“No one’s here. Last time, Mr Scarlet appeared pretty quickly.”

“Might as well have a seat, then.” Weedgie hopped onto the nearest one, and I sat opposite. “Mebbe they’ll gie us tea and custard creams.”

“Don’t bet on it. The first time was stewed coffee and greasy doughnuts.”

“Ah’ll take that. Ah’m pure Hank.”

“Why have they brought us here, instead of sending us to our next mission?” Worries chased suspicions around my head. Had The Committee decided our time was up? Maybe the experiment had failed in their eyes, and we were doomed to black nothingness for eternity. Perhaps it was the endless arguments. Whose fault would that be?

My money was on Weedgie. I kept that to myself.

‘Mack the Knife’ faded. “Thank God for –” ‘A Whiter Shade of Pale’ started up. “Oh.”

“There’s a door,” Weedgie said suddenly, jumping and looking over my shoulder. “Someboady’s keekin’ ootae it.”

I followed his gaze. “Could be the kitchen – maybe there’s a cook in there.”

“Braw. Let’s go and see if they’ll make us chips.”

We headed across the linoleum. “What happened to custard creams?”

“Ma mooth’s shaped for chips, noo.”

We reached the door, and Weedgie pushed ahead of me into an empty kitchen. Stainless steel cabinets lined the walls alongside sinks, cookers and draining boards. A gleaming workstation stood in the centre. Pots, pans, and evil-looking implements hung from a gantry. An enormous knife block sat on the worktop. I examined it. “There’s one missing. The biggest one with a wide blade.”

“Naeboady’s used this kitchen.” Weedgie ignored me and nosed into cupboards, fridge, freezer, and then the ovens. “There’s nae food. There’s nae nothin’.”

“There’s a meat cleaver missing.”

“There’s a frinkin’ cook missin’. Someboady was keekin’ ootae here, and noo they’ve shot the craw.”

I translated this and agreed it was odd. “If the person we saw came in here, then where can they be?” I opened a cupboard and saw bare shelves. “You didn’t find a dead body when you were looking for custard creams?”

“Naw ah didnae. But they’ll be wan here in a minute if ah don’t get some scran.”

“Let’s go back out –” I stopped as the door swung open and then closed. “Hey.”

We charged across the room and back out into the main concourse in time to see a shadowy figure slip through another door, at the opposite end of the dining area. Weedgie galloped towards it, and I had a sudden, horrible thought. “Weedgie, don’t – it could be a trap!”

He didn’t hear me – or, more likely, he utilised his talent for selective deafness – and belted through this second door. I followed, cursing, and found myself in a gift shop. ‘A Whiter Shade of Pale’ became ‘Sympathy for the Devil’. A rack of Beanie Babies stood to my left, on my right, a board displayed reams of car air-fresheners shaped like Christmas trees. Synthetic vanilla seared my nostrils. I moved away and hurried down an aisle.

“Weedgie?” I said. “Where are you?” No reply. I turned up the second aisle, past keyrings shaped like sputniks, novelty baseball caps and maps of Jupiter, Venus, and Milton Keynes. He was nowhere to be seen. I stood beside the door and scanned the shop. The mysterious person and my partner had both come in here before me and then vanished. Even by our standards, this was weird.

Perhaps he’d nipped back out when I was at the other end of the shop. I opened the door again and stepped into the dining area. “Weedgie,” I called. “Where the hell are you – aargh.”

A small dark man in a red suit appeared slap bang right in front of me. I leapt away.

Mr Scarlet drew himself up to his not-so-full height and glared. “Where is your partner?”

“Good question. I don’t know the answer.”

Our supervisor looked at the gift shop. “Weedgie’s not in there?”

“He went in, then disappeared. So did the other person.”

“Other person?” Mr Scarlet stepped back. “Did you see who that was?”

“Not sure. Dark, shadowy, moved fast.” I studied his face. “Are you okay? Maybe you should sit down.”

“Yes,” he said faintly and staggered backwards onto a chair. Then he slumped over the table, head in hands, and gave a low moan.

I slid onto the seat opposite him, unsure of what to say next. The gift shop door opened, and my partner strolled out and jumped onto the seat next to me. “Whaur did you get tae?” He spotted our supervisor. “Awnaw. Whit’s up wi’’ him? Ah mean, apairt fae the obvious.”

“Never mind that, where were you? I looked all round that shop.”

“Ye did not. Ah was sittin’ jist ahint the door.”

“You were nowhere near the door.”

“Ah’m pure tellin’ ye –”

“You’re both right.” Mr Scarlet raised his head. “In a way.” He focused on Weedgie. “You followed someone in there.”

“Aye, but they shot the craw and ah don’t ken whaur they went.”

“Ye…es.” He looked to me for confirmation.

“Whoever we saw went into the kitchen and vanished, then did the same with the gift shop. And Weedgie disappeared in there, too.”

“Ah was ahint the door.”

“The shop was empty.”

“Gentlemen,” Mr Scarlet said, in the tone of voice most people save for religious zealots on their doorstep or the odd, smelly guy who sits next to them on the bus and tells them about his corn pad collection. “We have a problem.”

“Ah tellt Marty tae use ointment for that.”

“Or, to be more precise, I have a problem.” Mr Scarlet smiled a thin, cold smile. My spine prickled. He went on, “Which means, essentially, that we all have a problem.”

“Is it the same problem?” Weedgie asked, confused. “Or is it a different yin? ‘Cause ma problem right noo is nae chips.”

“It’s a matter of life and death.”

“Aw.”

“Oh?” I leaned closer. “Another mission?”

“Not officially.” Mr Scarlet’s pale blue eyes darted from left to right. A bead of sweat formed on his forehead. He swallowed. “I have chosen you.”

“Chosen us for what, exactly?”

“To help me.”

A sneaking suspicion surfaced inside me, hung around, put its feet up, switched on the TV and poured itself a beer. I smiled. The smile didn’t reach my eyes. “The Committee doesn’t know we’re here, do they?”

“No.” Mr Scarlet spoke through clenched teeth. “They’re too busy covering up, dealing with damage limitation and public relations. They hope this will go away by itself.” He looked me in the eye. “It won’t. And that’s where you come in.”

“Maybe you should tell me exactly what you’re on ab– hey, the kitchen.” I pointed to the room at the other end of the dining area. A dark shape slid inside, and the door swung shut. “That’s them.”

We all leapt up, pelted across the linoleum, and dived into the kitchen. “What the…how can they be gone?” I raised my arms in frustration at the empty room.

Beside me, Weedgie scowled. “This is frinkin’ jobbie-jooblers.”

“Yes, it probably is, and I have no wish to know what that means.” Mr Scarlet stood behind us. “Marty, has anything changed in here?”

I looked around. “No, I don’t think so. Why?”

“Take a closer look.”

I rolled my eyes and wandered the room, past the cabinets, the cooker, the work station and the freezer. Then I did a double-take and approached the knife block. “It’s back.”

“What is?” Mr Scarlet’s voice shook.

“This.” I pulled out the large, wide knife and held it up. The blade gleamed.

Mr Scarlet went very still. “You mean that was missing before?”

“But it’s back now.” I returned the cleaver to the block. “So, what’s the problem?”

“The problem is it’s still missing. They’ve got it.”

“Okay, first of all, it isn’t missing; it’s right here. We can all see it. And secondly, who are ‘they’?”

“The dark shape you saw. It’s them.”

“Is it more than wan person?” Weedgie asked.

Our supervisor shook his head.

“Why not say ‘him’ or ‘her’, then?” I said.

“I can’t say ‘him’ or ‘her’,” Mr Scarlet said.

“Is it a man or a woman?” I asked.

“I can’t tell.”

“Why won’t you tell us? This is ridiculous. We need to know something about this person if they’re part of the problem.” I sighed and repeated, “Is it a man or a woman?”

“I can’t tell.” Mr Scarlet said, then held up a hand to silence me. “I mean, I can’t tell.” He shrugged. “I don’t know.”

“You don’t know if they’re male or female?” My voice rose several octaves.

“Ah had a kennel maid like that wance,” Weedgie said. “Or was it a kennel boay…”

“Okay.” I passed a hand across my forehead. “What do you know about this person?”

Our supervisor looked pained.

“Ah ken wha it is,” Weedgie said. He grinned at me and jerked his head at Mr Scarlet. “It’s his mither.”

This made a horrible kind of sense. I turned to Mr Scarlet. “Is it your mother?”

His face suddenly matched his suit. He spluttered and wheezed, and then, when he could speak, he snapped, “How dare you. It is not my mother.”

“Are ye sure?” Weedgie asked.

“Quite. Sure.”

“Who is it then?” I demanded.

He sighed. “It’s a Committee member.”

“A what?” I goggled at him. “Really?”

“Jings bangs.” Weedgie shook his head. “That’s…frinkin’…weird.”

Mr Scarlet turned and stormed out of the kitchen.

We followed him to the dining area and sat down, and I tried to remember if I’d ever thought about The Committee in any detail. I concluded that I hadn’t. “Who – or what – is The Committee? I mean, personally. Who is in it?”

“It’s best if you don’t know,” Mr Scarlet said. “I doubt if I could explain them satisfactorily, anyway. Especially The Secretary.” He shuddered.

“Right.” I gathered my shattered thoughts. “Okay, we can’t say ‘her’ or ‘him’ - what if we just call this person ‘it’?”

“They have a name,” Mr Scarlet hissed, darting nervous glances around the dining area.

“Well, why didn’t you say so? What’s their name?”

“It’s,” he said, and then made a noise like a tone-deaf walrus humming the first few bars of ‘Moon River’.

There was silence. Weedgie shook his ears.

“Right,” I said again. “Let’s just call this person ‘the suspect’.” Mr Scarlet nodded. I carried on. “And what has the suspect done?”

There was another silence. This one stretched like a dodgy piece of knicker elastic. Then Mr Scarlet said, “They want to kill me.”

I bit my tongue.

Weedgie turned a laugh into a cough, then did some silent whistling.

When I could trust myself to speak normally again, I asked our supervisor, “What did you do to annoy the suspect?”

“That could take a while tae answer,” Weedgie said.

“They were The Treasurer, and I reported them to the rest of The Committee.”

“Why?”

“They cooked the books.”

I whistled. “Did the suspect get away with much?”

“What do you mean?”

“How much money did they steal?”

“They didn’t steal any money.” Mr Scarlet looked from Weedgie to me. “What are you talking about?”

“You just said the suspect cooked the books.”

“Exactly. So why are you raving about money?”

“You mean…” I struggled to make sense of this. “What do you mean?”

“How can I make it plainer?” Our supervisor glared at me. “Are you incredibly stupid?”

“Don’t answer that,” I said to Weedgie, then turned back to Mr Scarlet as a horrible realisation dawned. “When you say ‘cooked the books’, do you mean…actually…cooking them?”

“What else could I mean?” He scowled and shook his head. “Half the library is gone. Up in smoke. Sautéed. With a Béarnaise sauce and a side salad. The Chair is furious.”

“That’s an actual chairperson and not a piece of furniture?” I quailed under our supervisor’s expression. “Uh-huh, okay. And why is The Chair furious – were they rare books?”

“No. But The Chair does like a good romance, and those were the books chosen.” He sat back in his seat. “The suspect was involved in a scandal. A love triangle gone wrong – turned into a love rhombus, and they’re notoriously tricky to negotiate. And now the suspect has lost whatever sanity they possessed and decided everything is my fault.”

“Well, you cliped oan them,” Weedgie said. “So, they’re no’ wrang, there.”

Fortunately, Mr Scarlet had no idea what my partner said. He looked to me, and I told him Weedgie agreed that it wasn’t his fault, and the suspect was obviously deranged. “And The Committee are hushing it up?”

“They want an arrest, but they’re not prepared to back me publicly, so I’m on my own. That’s why I brought you here.”

“As bait for this mad person?”

“No. I’m the bait.” Mr Scarlet looked at me. “You’re here to save me.”

I breathed out. “Our secret mission.”

Mr Scarlet nodded. “Any questions?”

“Is there ony chips?” Weedgie asked.

“Where is the suspect now?” I looked around. “How can they go into a room and then disappear?”

“Haw.” Weedgie’s ears shot up. “They’re there, there.” He nodded to the gift shop, and we saw the door swing closed.

“Hurry up.” Mr Scarlet jumped to his feet. “We must stick together.”

“Why don’t you disappear again and hide?” I asked him. “Or can the suspect tail you wherever you go?”

“Yes. That’s why I want to contain the situation here.” Mr Scarlet strode across the linoleum as ‘Light My Fire’ began playing overhead. I thought about the library again and stifled a grin. We hurried to catch up, but our supervisor reached the gift shop a few seconds before us and disappeared inside.

“Here we go,” Weedgie said.

I pushed the door open, and we walked in.

“Awnaw, ye’re no’ frinkin’ tellin’ me.”

The shop was empty.

Half an hour later, we’d tried on all the novelty baseball caps, juggled Beanie Babies and almost passed out from sniffing air fresheners, but there was still no sign of our supervisor. “Haw,” Weedgie said as I tried unsuccessfully to refold a map of Venus. “Dae ye think that bampot’s got him?”

“The ex-Treasurer?”

“Aye.”

I hadn’t thought of that. I didn’t want to think about that. “No. Mr Scarlet’s probably vanished back to wherever he comes from.”

“He said he wisnae daein’ that. He’s gonnae stay here.”

“Yes, but he can be rather economical with the truth. I bet he’s gone to his mother’s for tea.”

“Aw, here, ye shouldnae have said that. Ah want mair chips, noo.”

“More chips? You haven’t had any so far.”

“Awnaw, ye shouldnae have said that, either. Noo ah want chips and vinegar and wan o’ thae big pickled onions.”

“Dogs can’t eat onions. They’re bad for you.”

“Didnae say ah wanted tae eat it, did ah?”

I felt a headache start. “Let’s go and check the kitchen again.”

Bossa nova hell continued with ‘Congratulations’, which I felt was somewhat premature. We strolled across the dining area, and I looked around. “This is all there is here: the gift shop, restaurant and the kitchen.” I paused and double-checked. “No doors lead outside. Last time we left through glass doors.”

“This place would gie ye ackie-peevie.” Weedgie nudged the kitchen door open, and we went through. “Och, he’s no’ here, either.”

I hesitated and then marched up to the knife block. “Oh.”

“Aw, whit?”

“It’s gone again.”

“The big wan?”

“Yes.” I shivered. “Let’s get back out.”

We left and sat down at another table.

“Y’know –” I stopped short as the kitchen door opened and Mr Scarlet stumbled out and speed-walked towards us. He fell onto the seat next to Weedgie and struggled to breathe. “How did you do that? We just came out of there.”

“I was hiding from the suspect.” He puffed out his cheeks. “It was a close thing.”

“That kitchen was empty.”

“Aye.” Weedgie frowned at our supervisor. “Ye’re tellin’ frinkin’ porkies.”

“There are two kitchens.” Mr Scarlet returned the frown with knobs on, and Weedgie shrank away. “And two gift shops.”

“How does that work?” I asked.

“I don’t know. The suspect has engineered this, and it’ll take a while to fix, so we could enter either room at any time.”

I cottoned on. “And the suspect is in one of those rooms with the meat cleaver.”

Mr Scarlet wailed in a key usually reserved for dolphins. Weedgie shook his ears again and winced. “Sorry,” I said. “Thinking out loud. So, we have to track the suspect down. Simple. We keep walking in and out of each room until we find them.”

“Not so simple.” Mr Scarlet drummed his fingers on the table. “The rooms only change when someone walks in by themselves. The doors react to a single entity.”

“Haw, there’s nae need for that sort o’ language,” Weedgie said, scandalised. He turned away from our supervisor, muttering to himself.

I gave this some thought. My headache worsened. “So, what would happen if you walked in by yourself, then I waited ten seconds and walked in – would we be in the same version of the room?”

“No. The room only changes when I walk back out. You would be in the other version.”

“I think I’m getting a migraine. In that case, we’ll never win. We can’t be in the same room together with the suspect.” I pondered the room situation some more. “Or could we? Maybe we can.”

“How don’t we gie it a go?” Weedgie said. “Ah’m fed up waitin’ and ah want ma tea.” He hopped to the linoleum and made for the gift shop. “Follow me in wan at a time.”

“Well, that was decisive.” I watched him go. “We may as well. After you.”

“How you completed eight missions successfully, I shall never know.” Mr Scarlet marched off in my partner’s wake while I made hideous faces at his back. “I saw that,” he called before he disappeared through the door.

I sighed, counted to ten, and followed him. As I walked into the gift shop, a beanie fox hit me in the face, closely followed by a monkey. “Hey.” I ducked, and a lamb flew past my head. “Whoa - what’s happening?”

“Run – they’re here!” Mr Scarlet charged down an aisle, lobbing Beanie Babies right, left and centre. He grabbed my arm and propelled me back out of the shop. We stood together in the dining area and stared at the closed door.

“So,” I said. “You met the suspect. Did they have the knife?”

“Yes.”

“And you fought them off with soft toys?”

“I tried those miniature trees first, but they cleaved them in half…and then ate one.”

“Is Weedgie in there?”

“No.”

“We need to find him. C’mon.” This time, I took Mr Scarlet’s arm and pushed him ahead of me back into the gift shop. We stopped and looked at the floor. “No Beanie Babies or air fresheners.”

“It’s the wrong shop. But I think the rooms are fighting back.” Mr Scarlet nodded, as if this explanation made perfect sense. “The suspect only counted on me being here. Now there are three of us, and Weedgie can move very fast when he wants.”

“We’re in a motorway service station where rooms fight back,” I said. “And someone is running amok with a large knife. How much more fun can this be?”

“Get a grip, Hollis. My life’s at stake here. This is your area of expertise.”

“You said that without rolling your eyes.”

“It took some self-control; I can tell you.”

“Speed,” I said suddenly, as an idea flashed through my head. “Weedgie. He’s fast, you just said so. Maybe that’s confusing the suspect and the rooms.”

“Yes. Right.” Mr Scarlet nodded, then shook his head. “What?”

“We need to move fast and keep moving. Let’s go.” I grabbed his sleeve and hauled him after me, and we burst out of the gift shop and ran across the dining area into the kitchen. “Empty. Back.”

Mr Scarlet yelped in dismay and then trundled after me, and we charged to the gift shop, bounded through the door, found no one there, and raced out again.

“This is the suspect’s plan,” I gasped as we thundered for the kitchen once more. “Get you by yourself in one version of the kitchen…or the gift shop…but they have to time it right…and by now they must be frustrated.”

“Well, I know I am,” Mr Scarlet muttered. “And exhausted. Just how much running do you think I normally do?”

“About the same as me,” I wheezed as we clattered into an empty room and veered out again. Halfway across the dining area, we passed Weedgie streaking in the opposite direction. “Hey…hey…hey.” We skidded to a halt, turned, and galloped after him and found ourselves back in the kitchen with my partner - and a shadowy, cloaked figure wielding the cleaver. “Aaargh.”

We ran around the work station. The suspect dived after us.

We ran around again. And again. Followed by the knife-wielding mad thing.

“Keep going, keep going,” I said as we passed the door for the third time. “This is good.”

“How is this good?” Mr Scarlet overtook me on the inside. “This is terrifying.”

“Yes, but it’s still good – our plan worked.”

“We had a plan?” Weedgie passed me on the outside. “Ye didnae frinkin’ tell me that.”

“Why is everyone running faster than me?” I glanced over my shoulder, and the knife blade flashed. “Yow!” I leapt aside.

The cleaver flew past my ear and embedded itself in the worktop.

“Help ma boab.” Weedgie stopped to stare. “This is a frinkin’ cheap kitchen. That’s no’ real marble.”

Mr Scarlet ground to a halt beside him, hunched over and tried to breathe.

The suspect wrestled the cleaver back out of the worktop.

“Oh, for crying out loud. We’re off again.” I stumbled forward, then something occurred to me, and my temper flared and took over my brain. “Hey.” I stopped and turned to face the suspect. “How come you’re throwing that thing at me if it’s him you’ve come to kill?” I pointed at Mr Scarlet, then studied the cloaked figure.

They had no face. I wasn’t even sure they had skin. How did they hold the cleaver? I looked down and saw two sets of hooks protruding from the sleeves of the cloak like deformed iron fingers. There were eight of them. The walls swayed. So did the cleaver. I snapped back to life and discovered my mojo. “Oh no, you don’t, you book-cooking bampot.”

I lunged for the knife.

“Aye, ye’re a pure mentalist.” Weedgie joined in and bit the suspect beneath their floor-length cloak. “Gads.” He recoiled and made a face. “That tastes o’ prawn cocktail crisps. Ah like cheese ‘n’ onion.”

“Weedgie, for God’s sake.” I grappled with the suspect and tried to wrestle the cleaver from their hooks. Horrible scraping sounds ensued. Sparks flew. “I could do with a bit of help, here.”

“Shall I fetch the Beanie Babies?” Mr Scarlet said, and Weedgie and I both screamed at him:

“No!”

“Naw!”

“Stay in the room with us,” I gasped as the suspect swung round, taking me with them. We twirled. We dipped. I tried a quick foxtrot. Then a tango. The cleaver fell to the floor, and Weedgie grabbed it and ran around the work station. The suspect flung me aside and leapt after him, and I bounced off a cooker and landed on Mr Scarlet, taking him down with me. We rolled together on the floor. Weedgie rounded the corner and sprang over our heads. Then the suspect followed, tripped over us and lurched forward, head-butting the fridge and sinking to their knees – or whatever they had in the middle of their legs. If they had legs. I scrambled across the floor and flung myself on top of them. “Got you!”

Weedgie dropped the meat cleaver with a clang.

Mr Scarlet rose to his feet and spoke into his cuff. “Operation Mills and Boon terminated. Successful outcome. Send the cloud.”

The suspect didn’t move. I wondered if they were still alive, and then I heard them breathe. It sounded like a choir of frogs practising The Messiah. I sprang away, lurched to my feet, and stood beside Mr Scarlet and Weedgie.

“Well, your secret mission worked out fine,” I said to our supervisor. “Does this mean we get special treatment from now on?”

“No.”

“Well, that’s hardly fair, after everything we did for you.”

“You ran me in circles and threw me around the floor like a mop.”

“We saved your life.”

“Aye, we pure did.” Weedgie curled a lip. “Ye’d better be guid tae us or ah’ll tell yer mammy oan ye.”

“Oh, look, here comes the cloud,” Mr Scarlet said brightly as a blob of swirling red mist materialised in front of us. It hovered over the suspect, swooped down and covered him, and then rose, taking our adversary with it. We watched it shrink to the size of a postage stamp and then vanish. “The swirling blackness should be along any moment now.”

“And that’s it?” I folded my arms and faced Mr Scarlet. “Not even a word of thanks?”

“Thanks.” He coughed the word into his hand, then pointed to the door. “It’s on the table.”

“What is?” We looked at the door, then back at Mr Scarlet. He was gone. “Oh, that…”

“Wee red flinker.”

“Quite.” I moved forward. “C’mon. We may as well see what’s on the table.”

Coffee, doughnuts, tea, custard creams. And a huge bowl of chips.

We sat opposite each other and tucked in.

“I suppose Mr Scarlet’s not that bad,” I said, through a mouthful of biscuit.

Weedgie’s eyebrows rose to meet his quiff.

“What am I saying? Of course, he’s bad. He’s bloody awful.”

“Too frinkin’ right. These chips are guid, but.”

I nodded and poured more tea. We ate and drank and listened to ‘Anarchy in the UK’ bossa nova-style, and then the swirling blackness appeared and floated alongside our table. I drained my cup. Weedgie hoovered the last chip from the bowl. We stood together.

“Our next mission awaits.” I gestured towards the swirling blackness. “Shall we?”

“Aye, don’t mind if ah dae.”

We stepped forward.

No rest for the wicked.

©Angela Cowan 2026