THE CASE OF CHET MILLERBY AND THE MISSING WEEVIL: Chapter Three

The man began to speak, but was so nervous that his lips and tongue had quite dried out, and he found himself struggling to get the words out.

“Perhaps I could offer you a drink”, suggested Chet, the cat who was also a detective. “I’m afraid I only drink milk or champagne, or if you really want to push the boat out, I could make you one of my milk champagne cocktails.”

The man gratefully accepted the offer of the latter, and while Chet busied himself with a gold champagne whisk (the handle of which was engraved “To Chet – Every time I get in a kayak I think of you XXX Pinky”) and his churn of fresh Jersey milk, his guest began to talk.

“I was born in a small village in a country you will never have heard of. We lived on the side of the mountains, at the edge of a dark wood, and my father was a woodcutter. It was a simple life which we shared with a few pigs and goats. The very first day after I was born, my mother decided to dandle me on her lap while she sewed a tapestry depicting an ancient turkey hunt. The legend on the tapestry was a song, which went-“

“When I said tell me your story”, said Chet evenly, sipping on his cocktail , and beginning to regret ever letting this ludicrous figure into his office, “I meant the relevant parts, Mr- I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name?”

The man told him his name, and Chet scribbled something down on a pad, but still it made no sense.

“I’m sorry- to cut to the chase. It was the morning of my seventeenth birthday, the traditional coming of age day in our country. The sun was not yet up, but I was woken by the crows howling outside my window, and my father pushing open the bedroom door, only a fraction of his grizzled face illuminated by the sickly tangerine light of the dying candle grasped in his hand. ‘Come’ he said, ‘it is time.’ I did not question him, but hurriedly pulled on my boots and followed him down the stairs. Outside he thrust a staff into my hands, and we set off up the muddy track into the forest. It had rained during the night, and the earth beneath our feet was moist, and as we brushed against the spiky fir branches, they showered a thousand droplets over us, and by the time we reached the top of the mountain we were both soaking wet. My father did not say a word for the entire walk, but occasionally passed me small crusts of bread torn from the loaf in his knapsack. We emerged from the narrow path onto a small plateau, still encircled by shadowy dense pine trees, although a faint winter sun was beginning to break over the horizon. My father sat down and patted the rock next to him, but still being the obedient son, I squatted in the dirt at his feet. He took a flask of red beetroot wine out of his sack, and pouring a stream onto the ground, rinsed his hands in it as was the tradition, then blessed me three times. Then he fixed me with his old yellow eyes, which had seen so much, and said – “Boy, do you know of the Weevil?”

Here the man paused for a restorative gulp of his curdling cocktail, and Chet paused scribbling for a moment. “Is all this of any use?” the man asked.

“Oh yes”, said Chet, “of great use, of very great use indeed.” And he smiled his distinctive grin, which was not like the grin of the Cheshire Cat, him being a Siamese , but narrower, and much slier.

The man pressed on. “I confessed that I had heard the tales in the school yard, and had often wondered what the primitive tattoo of a small grey beetle on his inner left wrist could signify. My father grunted in satisfaction, and with his stick, drew a circle in the sand. The Weevil Calling Ceremony had begun.”

TO BE CONTINUED...