Greed, obsession, murder, and . . . a new British mammal?! This mystery sounds unusual, to say the least, and today, you can read an excerpt from The Last Lemming. Or, if you like, you can watch author Chris Chalmers read the excerpt. (I’m crossing my fingers that the YouTube embedded video actually shows up correctly on the blog! I haven’t done this before.) Thanks to the author for the video and excerpt from his novel, and to Anne Crater for inviting me on the tour!
TV naturalist ‘Prof Leo’ Sanders makes it to his deathbed without a whiff of scandal — then confesses his career-defining wildlife discovery was a hoax. A National Treasure shattering his own reputation on YouTube is enough to spark a media frenzy, and the curiosity of part-time journalism student Claire Webster who makes him the subject of her dissertation.
Her investigations lead to Prof Leo’s estranged family, and a high-flying advertising guru he also slandered in the video. Ultimately Claire uncovers the truth behind the discovery of the Potley Hill Lemming — the first new species of British mammal in a century. It’s a mystery spanning four decades; a tale of greed, obsession and long-forgotten murder at a lonely beauty spot.
‘A revered TV naturalist with a guilty secret, a cute critter, a brand of stout and a lovelorn personal trainer all collide with tragi-comic results in this witty whydunnit. The Last Lemming combines pathos, humour and mystery to irresistible effect.’ Suzi Feay, literary critic
From The Last Lemming
Exmoor, July 1987
Leo blamed Esther Rantzen for the run on japonicas. He hadn’t seen the like of it in twenty years of market gardening. The clamour for Mountbatten roses, featured in Princess Di’s wedding bouquet, ran it a poor second.
Every Sunday night for weeks, the set of the That’s Life show had been swamped in torrents of said gaudy shrub. They were the prompt for a long-running gag, whereby the programme’s resident so-called poet attempted to outdo himself with ever-fruitier doggerel, always ending in a rhyme for ‘japonica’. Needless to say, Esther and her retinue of Nancy-boys-in-ties all fell about at the antics of his ‘Great Aunt Veronica’, ‘a pig on harmonica’, or ‘eating bratwurst with Erich Honecker’. Eleven million viewers appeared as enchanted by the shrubs themselves, a significant proportion of whom had taken to turning up at Sunny Styles Garden Supplies in Epsom, demanding Camellia japonica or its nearest taxonomic relation.
‘I’ve had enough of this,’ Leo told Mrs Sykes, his branch under-manager. ‘If I see two more pensioners re- enacting El Alamein over a ninety pence seedling, I’ll not be responsible for my actions!’
The fact that head office were sending down an accountant the following Monday was his second, undisclosed motive for taking three days’ annual leave. Mrs Sykes, as she never failed to tell him when a pallet of something exotic turned up in the delivery, had a degree in Geography. Leo looked forward to hearing how far that got her with Bolshy Bailey from accounts.
This particular week his wife had signed up for a tennis tournament. Pamela said she would forgo it when Leo mooted the idea of an extra trip to the moor. But her sigh, as she offered to phone her doubles partner and break the news, left him in no doubt she spoke from loyalty alone.
He wasn’t about to push it. Pamela had not been her best of late, for reasons he could guess but wasn’t minded to probe. Besides, their regular fortnight at Loch Ness was only six weeks away. It was no great hardship for him to go it alone.
In the third week of July, with the high season in full swing, he expected to grub around for accommodation in Withymead. But by a stroke of luck The Bells had a cancellation — a single room to boot. Fate was well and truly smiling.
Leo was up with the lark on Saturday morning, with time to deadhead the petunias and give the aphids on his Climbing Lady Hillingdon what-for. By quarter to eleven he was hammering down the M5, one perky elbow up on the Montego’s open window. The journey passed without a hitch, and he was checked in at the pub and unpacked just in time for lunch. Even his favourite table was free, beneath the glassy stare of the landlord’s cherished twelve point stag. Moth-ridden and forlorn it was a beast without mystery, yet for Leo it symbolised his perfect escape from the world.
He was pleased to see the Italian chef hadn’t lasted. The unpronounceable desserts had gone from the menu and, when the swing door opened, he glimpsed the same woman from the village who had been in charge of the kitchen in previous years. Tucking into gammon, chips and garden peas, Leo allowed himself a smile of satisfaction; the forecast for the next few days was good. Following a report in his subscription copy of last week‘s Exeter Herald, he planned to set up cameras on a new part of the moor; a sizeable paw print had been found by a hiker at Radcombe. If he got out this afternoon that gave him four nights to strike lucky, not to mention four days of fresh air and excellent tracking opportunities. Leo’s new theory was that his quarry had made its lair in derelict mine workings, east of Heasley Mill. He would begin by focusing on the pit’s known exits, then conduct a fingertip search for more.
As he left the pub the landlord was putting on Grandstand, for the rest of the clientele who were settling in until he called time at three o’clock. The sunshine bathed Leo in a golden warmth. With his theatre of operations only two miles hence he struck out on foot, detouring to the car park for his sunglasses. He ditched his khaki jacket on the backseat while he was at it, tutting at his Englishness: weather-wise, he always packed for the worst.
Walking down the lane, past the war memorial and out of the village, Leo’s mind turned to the third reason for his unscheduled foray to the moor … Pete Glossop, arguably The Crypto Club’s least observant field observer, scored an unlikely coup on a recent recce to the Lake District. Rumours surrounding the Windermere Worm had resurfaced of late, along allegedly with the creature itself. Only an insufferable chancer like Glossop could have been out on the lake, camera in the right direction, when the famous Worm put in an appearance. Leo, yet to see the prints, was sceptical, but two of the chaps had sounded convinced. Four shots apparently showed a grey, stalk-like head protruding from the water at a distance of eighty yards. As was often the case, there was nothing useful in shot to give a sense of scale. The setting sun had thrown the object into deep contrast, and Pete was yet to explain why no one else aboard the crowded pleasure cruiser spotted it. The first rule of the Club was that significant field evidence be examined by a quorum of the Club Executive before release to the media. They had their good name to consider, and forever ran the risk of ridicule from some smart-alec hack.
A mile further on, Leo consulted his map. He left the lane and made a beeline across the undulating moor. The grass here had thickened in the last three months, to the evident nourishment of the resident sheep whose droppings lay in abundance like spilled prunes. The moor’s copper mines had lain abandoned since the nineteenth century, but miles of subterranean tunnelling still criss-crossed the earth beneath his feet. Was it too much to believe that one or more shy creatures habitually retreated to this underground world, emerging only at night?
Chris Chalmers was born in Lancashire and lives in south-west London. He’s been the understudy on Mastermind, visited 40 countries and swum with marine iguanas. His first novel, ‘Five To One’, was winner of a debut novel competition and nominated for the Polari First Book Prize; his latest, ‘The Last Lemming’, is out now in paperback and ebook. He has written a diary for 42 years and never missed a night.
Click on a reading from ‘The Last Lemming’, or a Five-To-ONE-MINUTE-MOVIE for a 60-second intro to the main characters and themes of ‘Five To One’. Or search ‘chris chalmers novelist’ on YouTube, for clips of Chris reading from his other books, poems about Christmas Eve and butcher’s shops, and fox cubs dancing to ABBA. (Yep, it’s as high-brow as that.)
TV naturalist ‘Prof Leo’ Sanders makes it to his deathbed without a whiff of scandal — then confesses his career-defining wildlife discovery was a hoax. A National Treasure shattering his own reputation on YouTube is enough to spark a media frenzy, and the curiosity of part-time journalism student Claire Webster who makes him the subject of her dissertation.
Her investigations lead to Prof Leo’s estranged family, and a high-flying advertising guru he also slandered in the video. Ultimately Claire uncovers the truth behind the discovery of the Potley Hill Lemming — the first new species of British mammal in a century. It’s a mystery spanning four decades; a tale of greed, obsession and long-forgotten murder at a lonely beauty spot.
‘A revered TV naturalist with a guilty secret, a cute critter, a brand of stout and a lovelorn personal trainer all collide with tragi-comic results in this witty whydunnit. The Last Lemming combines pathos, humour and mystery to irresistible effect.’ Suzi Feay, literary critic
From The Last Lemming
Exmoor, July 1987
Leo blamed Esther Rantzen for the run on japonicas. He hadn’t seen the like of it in twenty years of market gardening. The clamour for Mountbatten roses, featured in Princess Di’s wedding bouquet, ran it a poor second.
Every Sunday night for weeks, the set of the That’s Life show had been swamped in torrents of said gaudy shrub. They were the prompt for a long-running gag, whereby the programme’s resident so-called poet attempted to outdo himself with ever-fruitier doggerel, always ending in a rhyme for ‘japonica’. Needless to say, Esther and her retinue of Nancy-boys-in-ties all fell about at the antics of his ‘Great Aunt Veronica’, ‘a pig on harmonica’, or ‘eating bratwurst with Erich Honecker’. Eleven million viewers appeared as enchanted by the shrubs themselves, a significant proportion of whom had taken to turning up at Sunny Styles Garden Supplies in Epsom, demanding Camellia japonica or its nearest taxonomic relation.
‘I’ve had enough of this,’ Leo told Mrs Sykes, his branch under-manager. ‘If I see two more pensioners re- enacting El Alamein over a ninety pence seedling, I’ll not be responsible for my actions!’
The fact that head office were sending down an accountant the following Monday was his second, undisclosed motive for taking three days’ annual leave. Mrs Sykes, as she never failed to tell him when a pallet of something exotic turned up in the delivery, had a degree in Geography. Leo looked forward to hearing how far that got her with Bolshy Bailey from accounts.
This particular week his wife had signed up for a tennis tournament. Pamela said she would forgo it when Leo mooted the idea of an extra trip to the moor. But her sigh, as she offered to phone her doubles partner and break the news, left him in no doubt she spoke from loyalty alone.
He wasn’t about to push it. Pamela had not been her best of late, for reasons he could guess but wasn’t minded to probe. Besides, their regular fortnight at Loch Ness was only six weeks away. It was no great hardship for him to go it alone.
In the third week of July, with the high season in full swing, he expected to grub around for accommodation in Withymead. But by a stroke of luck The Bells had a cancellation — a single room to boot. Fate was well and truly smiling.
Leo was up with the lark on Saturday morning, with time to deadhead the petunias and give the aphids on his Climbing Lady Hillingdon what-for. By quarter to eleven he was hammering down the M5, one perky elbow up on the Montego’s open window. The journey passed without a hitch, and he was checked in at the pub and unpacked just in time for lunch. Even his favourite table was free, beneath the glassy stare of the landlord’s cherished twelve point stag. Moth-ridden and forlorn it was a beast without mystery, yet for Leo it symbolised his perfect escape from the world.
He was pleased to see the Italian chef hadn’t lasted. The unpronounceable desserts had gone from the menu and, when the swing door opened, he glimpsed the same woman from the village who had been in charge of the kitchen in previous years. Tucking into gammon, chips and garden peas, Leo allowed himself a smile of satisfaction; the forecast for the next few days was good. Following a report in his subscription copy of last week‘s Exeter Herald, he planned to set up cameras on a new part of the moor; a sizeable paw print had been found by a hiker at Radcombe. If he got out this afternoon that gave him four nights to strike lucky, not to mention four days of fresh air and excellent tracking opportunities. Leo’s new theory was that his quarry had made its lair in derelict mine workings, east of Heasley Mill. He would begin by focusing on the pit’s known exits, then conduct a fingertip search for more.
As he left the pub the landlord was putting on Grandstand, for the rest of the clientele who were settling in until he called time at three o’clock. The sunshine bathed Leo in a golden warmth. With his theatre of operations only two miles hence he struck out on foot, detouring to the car park for his sunglasses. He ditched his khaki jacket on the backseat while he was at it, tutting at his Englishness: weather-wise, he always packed for the worst.
Walking down the lane, past the war memorial and out of the village, Leo’s mind turned to the third reason for his unscheduled foray to the moor … Pete Glossop, arguably The Crypto Club’s least observant field observer, scored an unlikely coup on a recent recce to the Lake District. Rumours surrounding the Windermere Worm had resurfaced of late, along allegedly with the creature itself. Only an insufferable chancer like Glossop could have been out on the lake, camera in the right direction, when the famous Worm put in an appearance. Leo, yet to see the prints, was sceptical, but two of the chaps had sounded convinced. Four shots apparently showed a grey, stalk-like head protruding from the water at a distance of eighty yards. As was often the case, there was nothing useful in shot to give a sense of scale. The setting sun had thrown the object into deep contrast, and Pete was yet to explain why no one else aboard the crowded pleasure cruiser spotted it. The first rule of the Club was that significant field evidence be examined by a quorum of the Club Executive before release to the media. They had their good name to consider, and forever ran the risk of ridicule from some smart-alec hack.
A mile further on, Leo consulted his map. He left the lane and made a beeline across the undulating moor. The grass here had thickened in the last three months, to the evident nourishment of the resident sheep whose droppings lay in abundance like spilled prunes. The moor’s copper mines had lain abandoned since the nineteenth century, but miles of subterranean tunnelling still criss-crossed the earth beneath his feet. Was it too much to believe that one or more shy creatures habitually retreated to this underground world, emerging only at night?
Chris Chalmers was born in Lancashire and lives in south-west London. He’s been the understudy on Mastermind, visited 40 countries and swum with marine iguanas. His first novel, ‘Five To One’, was winner of a debut novel competition and nominated for the Polari First Book Prize; his latest, ‘The Last Lemming’, is out now in paperback and ebook. He has written a diary for 42 years and never missed a night.
Click on a reading from ‘The Last Lemming’, or a Five-To-ONE-MINUTE-MOVIE for a 60-second intro to the main characters and themes of ‘Five To One’. Or search ‘chris chalmers novelist’ on YouTube, for clips of Chris reading from his other books, poems about Christmas Eve and butcher’s shops, and fox cubs dancing to ABBA. (Yep, it’s as high-brow as that.)
TV naturalist ‘Prof Leo’ Sanders makes it to his deathbed without a whiff of scandal — then confesses his career-defining wildlife discovery was a hoax. A National Treasure shattering his own reputation on YouTube is enough to spark a media frenzy, and the curiosity of part-time journalism student Claire Webster who makes him the subject of her dissertation.
Her investigations lead to Prof Leo’s estranged family, and a high-flying advertising guru he also slandered in the video. Ultimately Claire uncovers the truth behind the discovery of the Potley Hill Lemming — the first new species of British mammal in a century. It’s a mystery spanning four decades; a tale of greed, obsession and long-forgotten murder at a lonely beauty spot.
‘A revered TV naturalist with a guilty secret, a cute critter, a brand of stout and a lovelorn personal trainer all collide with tragi-comic results in this witty whydunnit. The Last Lemming combines pathos, humour and mystery to irresistible effect.’ Suzi Feay, literary critic
From The Last Lemming
Exmoor, July 1987
Leo blamed Esther Rantzen for the run on japonicas. He hadn’t seen the like of it in twenty years of market gardening. The clamour for Mountbatten roses, featured in Princess Di’s wedding bouquet, ran it a poor second.
Every Sunday night for weeks, the set of the That’s Life show had been swamped in torrents of said gaudy shrub. They were the prompt for a long-running gag, whereby the programme’s resident so-called poet attempted to outdo himself with ever-fruitier doggerel, always ending in a rhyme for ‘japonica’. Needless to say, Esther and her retinue of Nancy-boys-in-ties all fell about at the antics of his ‘Great Aunt Veronica’, ‘a pig on harmonica’, or ‘eating bratwurst with Erich Honecker’. Eleven million viewers appeared as enchanted by the shrubs themselves, a significant proportion of whom had taken to turning up at Sunny Styles Garden Supplies in Epsom, demanding Camellia japonica or its nearest taxonomic relation.
‘I’ve had enough of this,’ Leo told Mrs Sykes, his branch under-manager. ‘If I see two more pensioners re- enacting El Alamein over a ninety pence seedling, I’ll not be responsible for my actions!’
The fact that head office were sending down an accountant the following Monday was his second, undisclosed motive for taking three days’ annual leave. Mrs Sykes, as she never failed to tell him when a pallet of something exotic turned up in the delivery, had a degree in Geography. Leo looked forward to hearing how far that got her with Bolshy Bailey from accounts.
This particular week his wife had signed up for a tennis tournament. Pamela said she would forgo it when Leo mooted the idea of an extra trip to the moor. But her sigh, as she offered to phone her doubles partner and break the news, left him in no doubt she spoke from loyalty alone.
He wasn’t about to push it. Pamela had not been her best of late, for reasons he could guess but wasn’t minded to probe. Besides, their regular fortnight at Loch Ness was only six weeks away. It was no great hardship for him to go it alone.
In the third week of July, with the high season in full swing, he expected to grub around for accommodation in Withymead. But by a stroke of luck The Bells had a cancellation — a single room to boot. Fate was well and truly smiling.
Leo was up with the lark on Saturday morning, with time to deadhead the petunias and give the aphids on his Climbing Lady Hillingdon what-for. By quarter to eleven he was hammering down the M5, one perky elbow up on the Montego’s open window. The journey passed without a hitch, and he was checked in at the pub and unpacked just in time for lunch. Even his favourite table was free, beneath the glassy stare of the landlord’s cherished twelve point stag. Moth-ridden and forlorn it was a beast without mystery, yet for Leo it symbolised his perfect escape from the world.
He was pleased to see the Italian chef hadn’t lasted. The unpronounceable desserts had gone from the menu and, when the swing door opened, he glimpsed the same woman from the village who had been in charge of the kitchen in previous years. Tucking into gammon, chips and garden peas, Leo allowed himself a smile of satisfaction; the forecast for the next few days was good. Following a report in his subscription copy of last week‘s Exeter Herald, he planned to set up cameras on a new part of the moor; a sizeable paw print had been found by a hiker at Radcombe. If he got out this afternoon that gave him four nights to strike lucky, not to mention four days of fresh air and excellent tracking opportunities. Leo’s new theory was that his quarry had made its lair in derelict mine workings, east of Heasley Mill. He would begin by focusing on the pit’s known exits, then conduct a fingertip search for more.
As he left the pub the landlord was putting on Grandstand, for the rest of the clientele who were settling in until he called time at three o’clock. The sunshine bathed Leo in a golden warmth. With his theatre of operations only two miles hence he struck out on foot, detouring to the car park for his sunglasses. He ditched his khaki jacket on the backseat while he was at it, tutting at his Englishness: weather-wise, he always packed for the worst.
Walking down the lane, past the war memorial and out of the village, Leo’s mind turned to the third reason for his unscheduled foray to the moor … Pete Glossop, arguably The Crypto Club’s least observant field observer, scored an unlikely coup on a recent recce to the Lake District. Rumours surrounding the Windermere Worm had resurfaced of late, along allegedly with the creature itself. Only an insufferable chancer like Glossop could have been out on the lake, camera in the right direction, when the famous Worm put in an appearance. Leo, yet to see the prints, was sceptical, but two of the chaps had sounded convinced. Four shots apparently showed a grey, stalk-like head protruding from the water at a distance of eighty yards. As was often the case, there was nothing useful in shot to give a sense of scale. The setting sun had thrown the object into deep contrast, and Pete was yet to explain why no one else aboard the crowded pleasure cruiser spotted it. The first rule of the Club was that significant field evidence be examined by a quorum of the Club Executive before release to the media. They had their good name to consider, and forever ran the risk of ridicule from some smart-alec hack.
A mile further on, Leo consulted his map. He left the lane and made a beeline across the undulating moor. The grass here had thickened in the last three months, to the evident nourishment of the resident sheep whose droppings lay in abundance like spilled prunes. The moor’s copper mines had lain abandoned since the nineteenth century, but miles of subterranean tunnelling still criss-crossed the earth beneath his feet. Was it too much to believe that one or more shy creatures habitually retreated to this underground world, emerging only at night?
Chris Chalmers was born in Lancashire and lives in south-west London. He’s been the understudy on Mastermind, visited 40 countries and swum with marine iguanas. His first novel, ‘Five To One’, was winner of a debut novel competition and nominated for the Polari First Book Prize; his latest, ‘The Last Lemming’, is out now in paperback and ebook. He has written a diary for 42 years and never missed a night.
Click on a reading from ‘The Last Lemming’, or a Five-To-ONE-MINUTE-MOVIE for a 60-second intro to the main characters and themes of ‘Five To One’. Or search ‘chris chalmers novelist’ on YouTube, for clips of Chris reading from his other books, poems about Christmas Eve and butcher’s shops, and fox cubs dancing to ABBA. (Yep, it’s as high-brow as that.)
TV naturalist ‘Prof Leo’ Sanders makes it to his deathbed without a whiff of scandal — then confesses his career-defining wildlife discovery was a hoax. A National Treasure shattering his own reputation on YouTube is enough to spark a media frenzy, and the curiosity of part-time journalism student Claire Webster who makes him the subject of her dissertation.
Her investigations lead to Prof Leo’s estranged family, and a high-flying advertising guru he also slandered in the video. Ultimately Claire uncovers the truth behind the discovery of the Potley Hill Lemming — the first new species of British mammal in a century. It’s a mystery spanning four decades; a tale of greed, obsession and long-forgotten murder at a lonely beauty spot.
‘A revered TV naturalist with a guilty secret, a cute critter, a brand of stout and a lovelorn personal trainer all collide with tragi-comic results in this witty whydunnit. The Last Lemming combines pathos, humour and mystery to irresistible effect.’ Suzi Feay, literary critic
From The Last Lemming
Exmoor, July 1987
Leo blamed Esther Rantzen for the run on japonicas. He hadn’t seen the like of it in twenty years of market gardening. The clamour for Mountbatten roses, featured in Princess Di’s wedding bouquet, ran it a poor second.
Every Sunday night for weeks, the set of the That’s Life show had been swamped in torrents of said gaudy shrub. They were the prompt for a long-running gag, whereby the programme’s resident so-called poet attempted to outdo himself with ever-fruitier doggerel, always ending in a rhyme for ‘japonica’. Needless to say, Esther and her retinue of Nancy-boys-in-ties all fell about at the antics of his ‘Great Aunt Veronica’, ‘a pig on harmonica’, or ‘eating bratwurst with Erich Honecker’. Eleven million viewers appeared as enchanted by the shrubs themselves, a significant proportion of whom had taken to turning up at Sunny Styles Garden Supplies in Epsom, demanding Camellia japonica or its nearest taxonomic relation.
‘I’ve had enough of this,’ Leo told Mrs Sykes, his branch under-manager. ‘If I see two more pensioners re- enacting El Alamein over a ninety pence seedling, I’ll not be responsible for my actions!’
The fact that head office were sending down an accountant the following Monday was his second, undisclosed motive for taking three days’ annual leave. Mrs Sykes, as she never failed to tell him when a pallet of something exotic turned up in the delivery, had a degree in Geography. Leo looked forward to hearing how far that got her with Bolshy Bailey from accounts.
This particular week his wife had signed up for a tennis tournament. Pamela said she would forgo it when Leo mooted the idea of an extra trip to the moor. But her sigh, as she offered to phone her doubles partner and break the news, left him in no doubt she spoke from loyalty alone.
He wasn’t about to push it. Pamela had not been her best of late, for reasons he could guess but wasn’t minded to probe. Besides, their regular fortnight at Loch Ness was only six weeks away. It was no great hardship for him to go it alone.
In the third week of July, with the high season in full swing, he expected to grub around for accommodation in Withymead. But by a stroke of luck The Bells had a cancellation — a single room to boot. Fate was well and truly smiling.
Leo was up with the lark on Saturday morning, with time to deadhead the petunias and give the aphids on his Climbing Lady Hillingdon what-for. By quarter to eleven he was hammering down the M5, one perky elbow up on the Montego’s open window. The journey passed without a hitch, and he was checked in at the pub and unpacked just in time for lunch. Even his favourite table was free, beneath the glassy stare of the landlord’s cherished twelve point stag. Moth-ridden and forlorn it was a beast without mystery, yet for Leo it symbolised his perfect escape from the world.
He was pleased to see the Italian chef hadn’t lasted. The unpronounceable desserts had gone from the menu and, when the swing door opened, he glimpsed the same woman from the village who had been in charge of the kitchen in previous years. Tucking into gammon, chips and garden peas, Leo allowed himself a smile of satisfaction; the forecast for the next few days was good. Following a report in his subscription copy of last week‘s Exeter Herald, he planned to set up cameras on a new part of the moor; a sizeable paw print had been found by a hiker at Radcombe. If he got out this afternoon that gave him four nights to strike lucky, not to mention four days of fresh air and excellent tracking opportunities. Leo’s new theory was that his quarry had made its lair in derelict mine workings, east of Heasley Mill. He would begin by focusing on the pit’s known exits, then conduct a fingertip search for more.
As he left the pub the landlord was putting on Grandstand, for the rest of the clientele who were settling in until he called time at three o’clock. The sunshine bathed Leo in a golden warmth. With his theatre of operations only two miles hence he struck out on foot, detouring to the car park for his sunglasses. He ditched his khaki jacket on the backseat while he was at it, tutting at his Englishness: weather-wise, he always packed for the worst.
Walking down the lane, past the war memorial and out of the village, Leo’s mind turned to the third reason for his unscheduled foray to the moor … Pete Glossop, arguably The Crypto Club’s least observant field observer, scored an unlikely coup on a recent recce to the Lake District. Rumours surrounding the Windermere Worm had resurfaced of late, along allegedly with the creature itself. Only an insufferable chancer like Glossop could have been out on the lake, camera in the right direction, when the famous Worm put in an appearance. Leo, yet to see the prints, was sceptical, but two of the chaps had sounded convinced. Four shots apparently showed a grey, stalk-like head protruding from the water at a distance of eighty yards. As was often the case, there was nothing useful in shot to give a sense of scale. The setting sun had thrown the object into deep contrast, and Pete was yet to explain why no one else aboard the crowded pleasure cruiser spotted it. The first rule of the Club was that significant field evidence be examined by a quorum of the Club Executive before release to the media. They had their good name to consider, and forever ran the risk of ridicule from some smart-alec hack.
A mile further on, Leo consulted his map. He left the lane and made a beeline across the undulating moor. The grass here had thickened in the last three months, to the evident nourishment of the resident sheep whose droppings lay in abundance like spilled prunes. The moor’s copper mines had lain abandoned since the nineteenth century, but miles of subterranean tunnelling still criss-crossed the earth beneath his feet. Was it too much to believe that one or more shy creatures habitually retreated to this underground world, emerging only at night?
Chris Chalmers was born in Lancashire and lives in south-west London. He’s been the understudy on Mastermind, visited 40 countries and swum with marine iguanas. His first novel, ‘Five To One’, was winner of a debut novel competition and nominated for the Polari First Book Prize; his latest, ‘The Last Lemming’, is out now in paperback and ebook. He has written a diary for 42 years and never missed a night.
Click on a reading from ‘The Last Lemming’, or a Five-To-ONE-MINUTE-MOVIE for a 60-second intro to the main characters and themes of ‘Five To One’. Or search ‘chris chalmers novelist’ on YouTube, for clips of Chris reading from his other books, poems about Christmas Eve and butcher’s shops, and fox cubs dancing to ABBA. (Yep, it’s as high-brow as that.)
Thanks so much for the blog tour support x