I got a call from our local locksmith’s assistant, Jeremiah Singh, this morning. Before you ask, his father’s from India, I’m not sure which region, and his mother’s from a long-time local family. They met in town, in a pub, when someone insulted Mr Singh and the now Mrs Singh belted the insulter over the head with her handbag.
There are worse beginnings, and those two have been one of the most irritatingly blissful couples in the area from the day she first brought him home (and her mother made an extremely bad curry to welcome him).
So now they have a son named after his great-grandfather, and a daughter, Shanthi, named after her grandmother.
Jeremiah followed his grandfather into the locksmithing business, and Shanthi is an accountant like her father.
Now, back on track before I give you the family histories of the entire district. Jeremiah phoned. “I’m at the Castle. Lord Mason’s locked inside one of the attics and I think it needs a skeleton key.”
And let’s be clear, Jeremiah has more than plenty of the standard type of master key, along with a myriad of other ways to get through a lock, so when he’s calling on me for a skeleton key. He’s after something a little beyond the ordinary.
I gathered the little box sitting in its own drawer, high out of sight or reach of young Ben, and made my way to the Castle.
Jeremiah met me at the door with an easy grin on his face, the one that sets the hearts of quite half the local girls, and several of the local boys, aflutter. “I’m glad you’re here. There’s something odd about the lock, and I’m inclined to think there’s going to be something odder still in the room behind it.”
Well, he wasn’t wrong.
I pulled out the box and extracted the skeleton key from its resting place. It’s an odd thing, a key made up of slivers of bone. Bone keys are unusual, but not remarkable in most cases. What made this special, and a true skeleton key, was that it was made up of a tiny sliver of every single bone in the skeleton of one inquisitive person.
As soon as it came near the keyhole, it began to quiver and rattle, eager to solve the puzzle of the recalcitrant lock.
To its credit, the lock put up a good fight, but I’ve yet to see anything hold out against my skeleton key and soon enough, the door was swinging open.
Lord Mason was very relieved, if a little sheepish, to see us. He’s spent most of his adult life in countries, and houses, very different to this one, and it’s taking a while for him to get the hang of the place again.
We’ve propped the attic door open for now, and tied the handle to a nearby light fitting for good measure, but the place is going to need a thorough going-over at some point, and by more than just me.
In the meantime, I’m serving the heal-all potion for upset and mild embarrassment, tea.
The DNA of Stories 