| Mystery and Crime Fiction posted July 11, 2022 | Chapters: |
2 3 -4- 5 
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New home for Sinclair
A chapter in the book Sinclair Pickens-Smythe
Meanwhile . . .
by damommy
Synopsis of Chapter Three: There’s been no trace found of Sinclair, and Arabella hired a private detective. The servants are treating themselves to the best food.
Meanwhile . . .
If it was discovered that he had run away and not vanished by accident or foul means, the general thought might be he had headed for the tropics. But, ah, he had thought of that.
Having done his due diligence for months, he found a small fishing village on a remote island in the north Atlantic. Not north enough to be freezing cold, but definitely remote.
He’d bought a dinghy under the name of Stanley Parsons and more or less taught himself how to sail it. No one would ever know how he fell overboard and was lucky to catch hold of a rope he’d not secured and get back in the boat. How Arabella would laugh at that. She thought him a completely inept person who could tangle himself up in his necktie.
Maybe using the same initials might not have been wise, but it’s too late now. And so, when he arrived on the island of his choice, he presented himself as an itinerant handyman by the name of Stan Parsons. After asking around for a place to stay, he was directed to Mrs. Akna Jordan’s house, an Inuit widow of a fisherman.
His knock was answered almost before he’d finished.
“Yes, what is it you want?”
“Mrs. Jordan, my name is Stan Parsons, and I was told you might have a room for rent. It would just be for a short time until I get myself settled and my business started.”
“Ah,” she exclaimed, “do you have any references? Who sent you here?”
“The fellas down at Fish and Scale sent me, and no, ma’am, I don’t have any references, but I promise to be an exemplary tenant if you’ll have me.”
“Come in, come in. You have an honest face. Let me show you the room, and then we can come to an agreement. Yes?”
“Yes, thank you, ma’am.”
Over coffee and cake, they decided they would get along nicely, and the deal was made. However, there were rules. He couldn’t have visitors of the female persuasion, and the door was locked 10:00 p.m. sharp. Mrs. Jordan was a delightful landlady and the food was excellent, adding some pounds to his little rotund figure. It wasn’t long before he looked like a short keg with legs wearing a newsboy hat.
It was exactly eight days after his arrival that he got work to do. Truth be told, he knew nothing about being an odd job man, but he’d wing it.
His secret was learning by trial and error. But these people were patient and never complained. Until recently, the only tool he was familiar with was his nail clipper. Along with doing a few repairs that seemed to satisfy the customers, he discovered he was a fair hand at gardening, something he came to enjoy.
Very soon, he was accepted at the local saloon, and he felt very much at home with these down to earth, friendly people. When asked about himself, he said, “I come from all over, and I’m looking for a place to call home,” and, as expected, they all hoped he’d found it there.
Maybe I should write Littleman and let him know I’m okay. On second thought, it’s probably best to leave things as they are. The arrangements we made should be safe for me to get money when I need it. I must be very frugal for now. It won’t do to show any sudden wealth. Not yet, anyway.
His days started out very early as he had built a following in the village who welcomed not only his “expertise” but also his friendship. He slowly became an accomplished handyman, and even he was surprised at that. He thought of what his posh so-called friends would think of him now. They wouldn’t recognize me with a tanned face and calloused hands. These people don’t think I’m boring, and seem to relish what tales I created to keep up this person, but it keeps me hopping to come up with new stories.
At night, his thoughts would return to his ancestral home, and he wondered if he’d ever see it again, but for now, he was happier than he’d been for many years. For the short time they’d been married, he’d felt he was trapped in a phone booth with a puff adder.
His plans to return home someday didn’t seem to be as pressing as they once had. Sometimes, he wondered how Arabella was faring. Maybe they think she killed me. That would be a corker!
To be continued . . .
Synopsis of Chapter Three: There’s been no trace found of Sinclair, and Arabella hired a private detective. The servants are treating themselves to the best food.
Meanwhile . . .
If it was discovered that he had run away and not vanished by accident or foul means, the general thought might be he had headed for the tropics. But, ah, he had thought of that.
Having done his due diligence for months, he found a small fishing village on a remote island in the north Atlantic. Not north enough to be freezing cold, but definitely remote.
He’d bought a dinghy under the name of Stanley Parsons and more or less taught himself how to sail it. No one would ever know how he fell overboard and was lucky to catch hold of a rope he’d not secured and get back in the boat. How Arabella would laugh at that. She thought him a completely inept person who could tangle himself up in his necktie.
Maybe using the same initials might not have been wise, but it’s too late now. And so, when he arrived on the island of his choice, he presented himself as an itinerant handyman by the name of Stan Parsons. After asking around for a place to stay, he was directed to Mrs. Akna Jordan’s house, an Inuit widow of a fisherman.
His knock was answered almost before he’d finished.
“Yes, what is it you want?”
“Mrs. Jordan, my name is Stan Parsons, and I was told you might have a room for rent. It would just be for a short time until I get myself settled and my business started.”
“Ah,” she exclaimed, “do you have any references? Who sent you here?”
“The fellas down at Fish and Scale sent me, and no, ma’am, I don’t have any references, but I promise to be an exemplary tenant if you’ll have me.”
“Come in, come in. You have an honest face. Let me show you the room, and then we can come to an agreement. Yes?”
“Yes, thank you, ma’am.”
Over coffee and cake, they decided they would get along nicely, and the deal was made. However, there were rules. He couldn’t have visitors of the female persuasion, and the door was locked 10:00 p.m. sharp. Mrs. Jordan was a delightful landlady and the food was excellent, adding some pounds to his little rotund figure. It wasn’t long before he looked like a short keg with legs wearing a newsboy hat.
It was exactly eight days after his arrival that he got work to do. Truth be told, he knew nothing about being an odd job man, but he’d wing it.
His secret was learning by trial and error. But these people were patient and never complained. Until recently, the only tool he was familiar with was his nail clipper. Along with doing a few repairs that seemed to satisfy the customers, he discovered he was a fair hand at gardening, something he came to enjoy.
Very soon, he was accepted at the local saloon, and he felt very much at home with these down to earth, friendly people. When asked about himself, he said, “I come from all over, and I’m looking for a place to call home,” and, as expected, they all hoped he’d found it there.
Maybe I should write Littleman and let him know I’m okay. On second thought, it’s probably best to leave things as they are. The arrangements we made should be safe for me to get money when I need it. I must be very frugal for now. It won’t do to show any sudden wealth. Not yet, anyway.
His days started out very early as he had built a following in the village who welcomed not only his “expertise” but also his friendship. He slowly became an accomplished handyman, and even he was surprised at that. He thought of what his posh so-called friends would think of him now. They wouldn’t recognize me with a tanned face and calloused hands. These people don’t think I’m boring, and seem to relish what tales I created to keep up this person, but it keeps me hopping to come up with new stories.
At night, his thoughts would return to his ancestral home, and he wondered if he’d ever see it again, but for now, he was happier than he’d been for many years. For the short time they’d been married, he’d felt he was trapped in a phone booth with a puff adder.
His plans to return home someday didn’t seem to be as pressing as they once had. Sometimes, he wondered how Arabella was faring. Maybe they think she killed me. That would be a corker!
To be continued . . .
The newsboy cap, newsie cap or baker boy hat (British) is a casual-wear cap similar in style to the flat cap. Eight-paneled ca
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