I've been wanting to write about The Croft Brothers for months now. I've been putting it off. Mainly because people would call me mad if they read half the stuff we did together. As I have no good ideas at the moment for future books. I thought it might be a good memoir, a nice trip down memory lane.
There was a ceremony dedicated to them last week, I could've stood on stage and spoken about them but I didn't. I couldn't. I had no idea what to say, let alone out loud and in front of such a large crowd. I needed to be alone, behind my screen, and type my thoughts.
I can't talk about The Croft Brothers without talking about my background. It would be like writing about my knee without mentioning my leg.
My name is Alician Lionstring.
I was the third heir to a throne of nonsense, daughter to a corpse that's resting place was at the bottom of our garden and was hated by my entire family.
I'd say my friends call me Alice but I had none of those. Except for The Crofts but I hadn't known them yet. My hobbies consisted of reading, writing, and staring at a wall, or another wall, or the ceiling, maybe. A thrilling life I know.
A life with a stepmother as sickly as spoilt milk and two older brothers (well half-brothers), who were obnoxious and tolerable at best. I spent the beginning of my life locked away in Lionstring Manor. A place I was forced to call home.
Being a Lord's child did have its advantages, the comfy beds and the large rooms that I didn't have to share with my two annoying brothers. Also the books, the food, and the music. Oswin, our robot servant, was a massive help when I needed to get a book off a high shelf. My main problem was with the people.
As previously mentioned I had two older brothers.
The oldest, Sterling, was by far the worst of the two. His ego if put into a balloon could lift a house, and his fake posh voice (to try and impress guests) grinded my gears immensely. Although I hated him, Sterling ever since he left the womb was strong-willed, stubborn (just like me), and was very easily aggravated, which at times was very entertaining.
I remember on one summer's day, Sterling was watering the plants in the back garden, I was watching from the open study window. As I watched him struggle to pull weeds from a flowerbed, a Waterquil sat on the window ledge beside me happily tweeting away. A Waterquil is a tiny, bird-like creature, kind of like a magpie but its beak is like a bucket that picks up water from rivers to drink. I had given it a jug of some nice cold water and swiftly befriended it through whistling (yes whistling, I had heard it on the radio. Apparently my Waterquillian wasn't half bad). The Waterquil was very friendly towards me but not to Sterling. It disliked him so much that the Waterquil later sprayed water all over him. Watching my hoity-toity brother scrambling around in the garden, waving his arms about at the bird, like swatting a pesky bee was very funny. Hilarious in fact. This only made it worse for him of course because Waterquil's if threatened double the pressure of the water being sprayed. So, when he entered back into the house that day, it looked like he had fallen into a river.
Then, there's Ambrose although being the younger of the two, he actually looked a lot older. Mainly because Sterling would drench his face in so many different moisturisers, his skin would never wrinkle. Ambrose was thinner than Sterling and a little taller, he was less boisterous but more sly. He was the type to scheme and sit silently in the corner. That's why I never told Ambrose anything, he acted like a friend but secretly, if it benefitted him, he would backstab anyone. He also thought that if his loyalty to our father was comparable to a dog's to its master, he would be respected by the family and the rest of The Isle. He was wrong. Obviously. It just made him look like a power-hungry child trying to please a father who couldn't care less. Not to mention his snarky remarks and barrage of insults he'd hurl at me on the daily. I'd like to believe I have thick skin however some of his comments made my blood boil like water in a kettle.
If you were thinking it could get any worse, did I mention they were wannabe actors?
Nothing was as despicable in this world as my stepmother, Nicole. I refused to call her a mother and for good reason, if she had her way I would've been kicked out at 10 years old. Ever since I could remember she treated me like an outsider, she never defended me, never loved or cared about me. I wish I could say otherwise about my father but he was the exact same. Although not as rude he too didn't care about me. I don't think he cared about any of us.
Talking about my father, our father. He was the corpse at the bottom of the back garden.
The dead Lord of Diddlysquat, which surprisingly is an actual place in The Andrina Isle. Sadly, I can't tell you if it's worth the trip with the family, I never could be bothered to go.
Often he'd leave on business trips, sometimes for weeks at a time. There's not much to remember of my father whose name I've actually forgotten so I'll just call him Jon from now on. Jon never really spoke at the dinner table, he never spoke at all really to us, he spent most of his time studying and working. The definition of too busy to care.
He was 45 when he died. He had grey hair everywhere thanks to the stress of his working life. I remember his cleanly cut grey beard, his thick eyebrows that were like curly, hairy caterpillars, and his wrinkly skin (he didn't have time for moisturisers like Sterling). All I can really remember of him was his strictness. He used to wander the halls like a headmaster in a schoolyard. I never heard him laugh or cry, no emotion ever came from him.
And worst of all, out of everything, was me. At that time in my life, I felt like The Ascendants (our gods) purposely turned their back on me. Left me to rot on an island for what? Being born?
I was fed, I was cleaned and I had a bed, that's all I was grateful for.
The constant bullying and bickering, the endless nights of locking myself in a room to get away from getting beaten up, made me want to live on the streets.
I WAS going to live on the streets.
However, the day came when my father died and I grew to be glad that I didn't leave. Not because I was happy about my father's death, far from it. But because I met the two most extraordinarily brilliant people in my life, The Croft Brothers.
I remember watching from the high window, like a spectator in the royal booth, as their black car trundled up the hill. Their car was definitely vintage. It wasn't dusty or dirty or unappealing, it was actually well-looked after. Even in the rain, the dark car shimmered like a spectre. Her name was Evie, a family car that had been brought down from generation to generation of Croft. The best way to describe how it looked was that it was oddly similar to a Ford De Luxe Five-Window Coupe 1932 (google it).
At the time, I had only seen the car and The Crofts in newspaper clippings, seeing it in person was exciting to me. It would be comparable to one of your favourite celebrities coming to your home.
Croft Brothers Inc was a family-run business that lasted generations ever since the end of The Great Wars. Starting out as a shop selling the relics from the war, it soon turned into a bakery, then a bomb factory, and then into what it's known for today. Mysteries.
The car squealed to a halt while I watched in anticipation.
I couldn't precisely see them as the rain slashed against the window pane blurring my view. The two shadowy figures stiffly stepped out from their car both dressed in rather dark clothes.
Obviously, being my nosey self, I wanted to see their faces but their hats were a pretty good shield against the rain, and my gaze.
I bolted down the stairs. It was the first time, in my life, I had actually felt excitement. Finally, I'd be able to meet people, who weren't uptight, posh, snotty twats. My mind raced until I suddenly found myself planted, head first, into someone's back. The person turned and to my embarrassing surprise, it was Jamie Croft.
I was so used to a snide remark, a bitter stare, or a grunt of anger but instead. I got a chuckle.
"I don't know if you saw me but I was standing there," Jamie chuckled, with a warm smile.
Jamie could be best described as normal. Not ugly, not handsome, just an average guy. His curly brown hair was almost like an afro condensed by his black fedora. His smile even though he had slightly crooked teeth was a kind one.
An honest one.
He was the type of guy to strike up a conversation with a dragon or to arm wrestle a Stone Golem just to lose for the fun of it.
"Jamie Croft, at your service," he chirped, jovially. Throughout his career, he must've stated that line millions of times.
I glanced down to notice he had pulled out his hand for a shake. I shook it.
"Alician Lionstring. Sorry for that." I replied.
"No need for apologies, Alician. I hear you lost your father, you must be deeply saddened by the news."
I was more saddened by the news that a radio quiz I liked had been cancelled that day.
"Yes."
"Well, me and James are here if you need us."
I looked over to see James Croft, who stood in the furthest corner of the room.
He seemed odd. He, if you could even call it a he, stood slightly slanted, his shoulders, unlike anyone else's I knew, were diagonal, he wore a long black suit with red stripes just like his younger brother, and just like his brother he also wore a fedora. James was significantly taller than Jamie, his hat nearly touched the ceiling.
What made him even more unnerving to me was the mask he wore. A pallid, white mask, with a carved smile and slits for eyes. There was no sign of emotion behind it, no eyes peeping through the slits, no sign of a living creature. Just darkness.
James Croft was like a slender shadow in a suit. He never spoke, he only observed. And something was definitely off about him.
James slowly stepped forward and from his suit pocket pulled out a red lollipop tilting his head.
"He wants you to have it, he does it with everyone we investigate. A kind gesture to mellow the harsh news," Jamie explained.
"T-thank you," I muttered, hesitantly taking the lollipop from James' gloved hand. I couldn't look the thing in the face, it just seemed like it constantly was staring at me. It was like James never blinked. Maybe it was the mask, maybe it was its unnerving grin or its slight crack on the forehead. Whatever it was, I didn't want to be alone in the same room as James Croft. Never.
"The living quarters are this way!" exclaimed the shrill and high voice of Dorothy Hawthorne, who then stepped into the room. She noticed me and instantly her face turned sour. She stormed straight to me and pulled me away by the arm, chirping through gritted teeth to the detectives, "Will only be a minute!"
I forgot about Dorothy and Percival. They weren't exactly family but were more like cousins. Percival was very good friends with my father and Dorothy was his wife often they'd come over to stay a night or two. Especially on holidays. And they too hated my guts.
"Stay out of it, Alician!" she hissed, trying to be as quiet as possible, the wall between us and The Crofts was just about thick enough for her to feel unheard.
"What did I do?" I bickered back.
"If I were you, I'd go get them some tea. They are guests after all."
"Why can't Oswin do it?"
I knew why she was telling me to do all the dirty work, even though we had a butler. She wanted me out of the picture.
"Because he's sorting out the blocked toilet. Would you rather be doing that?"
Even though we had two other toilets, I didn't continue to argue back. If I did, it would've spiraled into even more madness. Everyone in the house was against me already. I didn't want The Crofts to join them.
And so I brewed some tea and went off to find them.