Zackery Grimm Investigates: The Peculiar World of Billy Peanut

The author spent her formative years in West Yorkshire, indulging her passion for horses, dogs and teaching. Following university, where she read law, management and education, she enjoyed a varied and senior academic career, teaching nationally and internationally for over twenty years. She now lives and writes in North Yorkshire.

C.D. Field is the author of the Medicine Tree series

&

The first in the Z-G series, Zackery Grimm Investigates: The Ghost of Agapantha Claypole

www.cdfield.eu

Dedication

To all readers whose interests lie in myth, folklore or legend and who seek to discover their hidden truths.

C. D. Field

Zackery Grimm Investigates:

The Peculiar World of Billy Peanut

Copyright © C. D. Field (2017)

The right of C. D. Field to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

Any person who commits any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

ISBN 9781787103245 (Paperback)

ISBN 9781787103252 (E-Book)

www.austinmacauley.com

First Published (2017)

Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd.

25 Canada Square

Canary Wharf

London

E14 5LQ

Acknowledgments

The good folks of Whitby for their variety of wonderfully quaint shops, inviting window displays and tempting goodies of all kinds.

To Judith for being such a rich source of material for the cello lady.

Terrie, for her recipe of the ‘mouldy scones’; they are exceedingly good!

Mike for his endless patience.

Beware those who speak falsely, whose intention it is to mislead.

Be cautious of the pooka; do not be enchanted by its beauty.

Fear the vengeance of the Selkie, for it is absolute.

Stand fast, trust in no-one but yourself

As you venture into the world that lies beyond belief.

Remember, when ancient fears awaken

Have faith and stay strong,

For the greatest fear is fear of the unknown.

Chapter One

Zak sat bolt upright, his scalp prickled with fear. This time, the noise was closer. If the noise was closer, so was whatever was making it. The mournful keening stopped. Zak took a deep, shuddering breath, then crept across the room to the bottom of the staircase, listening.

‘Who are you, what do you want?’ he called.

Silence.

Zak sighed, convincing himself the strange sound was simply the wind blowing through the eaves of the old farmhouse. He turned back towards the comforting warmth of the log fire and his book. He stopped abruptly. This time the muffled sobs and sighs were directly above his head. Zak bounded up the stairs and stood, breathless, outside Amelie’s room. He knew the room was empty; his eight year old cousin was shopping in the village with the rest of the family.

Slowly, Zak edged closer to the door, listening intently. There it was again; someone crying from inside Amelie’s bedroom. His hand closed around the brass door knob. With one bound, Zak stood inside the room, his heart pounding as he gasped for air, quickly scanning the empty room. Nothing. He walked to the window, framed by pretty, frilled curtains, and looked down onto the garden below, where a large, fat pheasant pecked idly in the grass. He turned to the bed, the dresser, but nothing was disturbed. Running a shaking hand through his curly, dark hair, Zak walked back towards the door and then stopped; a small puddle of water was spreading across the wooden floor. He knelt beside the puddle and sniffed; there was no smell. Gingerly he reached forward and dipped a fingertip into the water and tasted.

How can a puddle of salt water get into a bedroom, in a farmhouse, in the middle of the North York Moors? he thought.

****

Car tyres scrunched on the gravel drive, cars doors clunked in quick succession.

‘Zak, we’re here,’ called Amelie excitedly, running into the lounge. ‘There’s a shop in the village that’s painted all purple and they’re selling fancy outfits for the festival. Your mum’s bought me one. It’s a ghost’s dress.’

Zak smiled and closed his book; the mysterious salty puddle, forgotten.

‘Why do you always associate me with all things spooky, Amelie?’

Amelie jumped up and down, blue eyes sparkling, blonde ponytail bouncing, as she tore open the elaborate paper bag containing the costume.

‘Because you can see ghosts and stuff, Zak; everyone knows that.’

Uncle Steven popped his head round the door, his jacket in his hand.

‘Wait till she gets to Whitby and sees all the real life, living and breathing Goths at the festival, all parading about in their finery; not to mention Dracula.’

‘As long as she doesn’t want to be one, Steve,’ Aunty Laura laughed from the kitchen, as she unpacked food for dinner, with Zak’s mum, Bethany.

Zak wandered into the small kitchen, Amelie skipping behind, holding up the gossamer, grey dress with ragged hemline to her chin.

‘I don’t think she’s here, you know, Zak,’ she said.

‘Who?’

‘The lady ghost who lost her brooch in Scarborough and was always crying.’

‘That’s because she got her brooch back, Amelie, so now she’s happy,’ he replied, casting sideways glances at his mum and his aunt.

‘Does that mean she’s not a ghost anymore?’

‘Well, sort of.’

‘Do you think we’ll find some more ghosts here?’

‘Like who?’

Amelie peered out of the ancient cottage’s kitchen window.

‘Zombies could be staggering about up that big hill, Zak. There’s plenty of places for them to hide up there, in the bushes and the trees and they’ll get cold.’

‘I don’t think zombies feel the cold, Amelie. Anyway, zombies don’t exist.’

‘Well, them other things do, you know,’ Amelie protested, pouting. ‘Those really, really, scary, horrible black things that fly about all fluttery. I’ve seen them!’

Zak’s green eyes twinkled with amusement, as he smiled down at his cousin.

‘Those are bats, Amelie. Bats that live in the forest and they won’t hurt you.’

‘Have you thought about trying to research this cottage, Zak?’ said Uncle Steven, munching salad. ‘It’s very old, you know. I was talking to the farmer and he said the house goes back over five hundred years.’

‘Is that why it’s got two staircases, Steve?’ asked Zak’s mum, handing round slices of delicious, handmade game pie.

Uncle Steven shook his head.

‘No, that’s because the original farmhouse was smaller then and was extended about a hundred years ago. The newer part of the house, your room, Beth, was originally the old cow byre; hence two staircases.’

‘So Amelie’s room is in the oldest part of the house, the one with the stone stairs?’ asked Zak, reaching for a jar of piccalilli to complement his pie.

‘Yes, that’s right,’ Uncle Steven replied. ‘Even the name of the cottage goes back hundreds of years.’

‘I remember studying Macbeth at school, Steve,’ said Aunty Laura. ‘The witches on the heath had malkins as their familiars.’

Grey Malkin cottage, that’s over five hundred years old. It must have some kind of myths or legends attached to it, Zak mused to himself.

‘That funny old man and his caravan and his big white dog will know all about the house,’ announced Amelie, tucking into her toffee and fudge award-winning ice cream.

Three heads turned in unison towards Amelie.

‘What old man, where?’

All eyes patiently watched Amelie carefully scrape up the last bits of the ice cream.

‘Well?’

Amelie smiled around the table at her rapt audience and folded her arms.

‘As you come over the bridge at the bottom of the track,’ she began. ‘There’s an old fashioned gypsy caravan, painted red and green and yellow fancy colours, all in swirly patterns and it’s got a rounded top like a barrel. It doesn’t look big enough to sleep inside; more like a play house. Anyway, there’s a funny old man with white, straggly hair and spiky whiskers who lives in it and he sits on the red wooden steps of the caravan and cooks his tea on a camp fire.’ Amelie paused, thinking. ‘Oh, and he wears a battered, black top hat and he has a huge white dog with blue eyes. His name’s Billy Peanut.’

Zak’s mum and his aunt stared at each other, open-mouthed. Uncle Steven rolled his eyes, sighed and puffed out his cheeks.

‘First class honours for imagination, Amelie. I don’t know where you get all this stuff from.’

Amelie smiled, her blue eyes twinkling.

‘I’m not making it all up, Daddy. Billy Peanut really does live at the bottom of the lane and he really does have a big white dog and she’s got some puppies and they’re