

# County Caught

By

Robin P Gilbert

A tantalising insight into the protojudiciary.

Smashwords Edition

Copyright © 2011, Robin P Gilbert

License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

To connect with this author and learn more about his work,

please visit his official website: http://www.robinpgilbert.com

This one's for Lelly, who said she quite liked it.

In the Shire of

Pue Damlla

In the Kingdom of

Southern Walia

In the Year of our Chaffinch

1386

# eBooks by Robin P Gilbert

The Serendipity Trilogy

Double Negative

Single Positive

Nothing Neutral*

(* Forthcoming in 2012 )

County Caught

# FREE eStories by Robin P Gilbert

Slipstream

Elysium

Looking Back on the Summer of '87

Mammon

The Speckledom Recitals

Brightly Falling

Galea Blu

Tales from the Gateway Worlds

The Magic Moonstone

The Belar

More coming soon!

# Prologue

(Losing the) Plot

Winter was coming. It was dark in the old manor house. Hiding underneath a bed in the west wing was a man and a women, whispering conspiratorially...

"It'll never work," he said.

"What won't?"

"You know... the thing."

"Maybe not, but..."

"It didn't work last time."

"Yes I know."

"Or the time before that."

"Yes."

"Or the time before that."

"Yes! Alright!"

Sigh.

"But you're going to do it anyway?" he asked.

"Possibly."

"You're a fool, Miss Daniel, just like your mother."

_Whack_!

# Part One

The Injured Party*

( *Parties, if you want to split hairs. )

# The Lady of the House

Lady Melinda Pea-Soope was nestled at one end of her chaise longue held in thrall by a modern tome entitled _Death by Design_ that had mysteriously arrived by messenger only the day before. As horrific and explicit as the propositions within it were, the hopeless diagrams made the Lady of the House laugh so much that her diminutive frame was forced into what she referred to as, when discussing her husbands spaniels in 'proper' company, uncoordinated bouts of EAV (Emergency Anal Venting). She once invented a machine that measured such anal expletives, which may seem irrelevant to the forthcoming tale but you'd be surprised. The accompanying free and somewhat disconcertingly cheerful pamphlet entitled _How to Remove Blood and Bile from your Best Shag Pile_ , was lying discarded upon the polished wooden floor of the vast library.

When she finished the paragraph that brought an end to chapter eighty seven, she closed the mighty book, leaving her tiny forefinger thrust between the pages like a straw caught between two boulders and yawned. She stretched the side of her that was not weighed down by the book and snuggled herself deeper beneath a vast grey blanket covered in dogs hairs. By the light of a solitary candle, half burnt down, wax dribbling over its golden holder like a baby being sick in an egg cup, she embarked upon chapter eighty eight.

Cold, February rain, thrown about violently by a crushing southerly lashed the giant windows. Clouds sped through the sky as fast as schoolchildren when the home time bell rings. Occasionally a piece of the distant, starry universe peered through at the southern South Walian shire of Pue Damlla, a verdant land enriched by green fields, seams of coal and welcoming sheep at the southern skirts of the strange and magical Vastgreen Forest.

Pea-Soope House was far too grand to buckle under a mere thunderstorm. Quadruplex glazing kept the merest whisper at bay. Heavy drapes of thick, red velvet hung over the windows from countless hooks attached to long metal poles, hiding the goings on of the ordinary folk. Outside flashes of lightening illuminated a well polished garden. A strangely scented warmth drifted around the library. Logs crackled and spat and rolled around on top of each other in the giant hearth. The Springer spaniels, seven in all, snored on the rug before it, legs twitching in pursuit of nightmare rabbits they could never catch and themselves, presumably in response to what seemed like a very real exertion, indulging themselves in some EAV of their own.

Lady Melinda poked a finger and thumb in her eyes and rubbed them, yawned again, then poked a finger and thumb up each nostril and wafted as best should could the tome. But the book was too heavy and too intriguing to waft for long and soon she continued to read, her giggles growing stronger with each passing page.

Suddenly, as if the entire plot was unravelling, seven weeks raced by in quick succession and the night Lady Melinda Pea-Soope had been so looking forward to finally arrived.

# The Pea-Soopes & Their Factotums

Pansy Gordon-Blur was crying. "Buggering onions," she murmured; a rumbling that began deep within her massive girth and bubbled its way invincibly to the surface like magma through a mid ocean ridge. "I'm always slicing buggering onions." She complained, slice, slice, slicing ever on.

Lady Melinda glanced at the grandfather dial; a huge metal contraption of cogs and levers, splinters and shards of glass, piano wire and fishing weights, standing proudly (and terrifyingly) in the entrance hall. It read Wednesday, quarter passed midday and even though she knew it was Saturday, and it was already dark outside she had no intention of going anywhere _near_ the retched thing. The cleaner had tried and lost an arm. The cat hadn't been seen for a fortnight. She gave it a wide birth and strode off busily towards the kitchen, making yet another mental note to visit a certain Mrs Murmuring who wasn't _quite_ so intimidating.

"Turnips at last. Don't mind turnips. Yes, turnips are the vegetables for me." Pansy found great solace in listening to her own voice, which was rather fortunate. She talked to herself even when she was talking to somebody else, or when she really didn't have anything of especial import to impart. She spent most of her time alone and thought it would be nice to engage in some self searching, which is very much like soul searching, but with more _ef_ and less _ou_.

Striding fast and proud down the wide, wooden-walled corridor beside the great staircase Lady Melinda hummed a little tune, rubbing her finger over polished surfaces, between banisters and on the top of picture frames, glancing at it and nodding satisfactorily each time. She pushed open a set of double doors and moved boldly into the spotless, steamy kitchen.

Pansy put out her podgy hands instinctively when she saw the lady of the house enter. She feared no malice, Lady Melinda was very kind; strict, but kind. Pansy was more afraid her Ladyship would fall over. To most folk it was surprising she could stand up at all, being so petite and carrying around that mass of red hair full of clips and beads and bits of garden on her head all the time. "Evening m'Lady," said Pansy, curtsying badly and allowing slithers of turnip to fall to the floor.

"Where's the soup, Pansy?"

"In the sink, marm," Pansy pointed at the large range. She often had trouble with her words.

_"Saucepan_ , Pansy."

"Yes, marm. Oh yes, parsnip, parsnip, parsnip. Very nice." Slice. Snap.

"And it's...?" Lady Melinda advanced towards the bubbling broth.

"Soup, marm?" Pansy replied hopefully.

"Yes. What type of soup?"

"Verges, marm."

_"Vegetables_. And...?"

"Sponges, marm."

"... _spices_? And..."

"And... that's it, marm." Quietly she added, "And _lots_ of buggering onions."

Lady Melinda prodded the soup with a finger and sucked the juice off it. Her eyebrows raised appreciatively. "Needs basil," she said, licking her lips.

"Who, marm?"

"Basil. The Herb."

"Don't know him, marm. Does he live in Pue Damlla?" On a slightly related side note, Basil the Herb had yet to take his magic act to Pue Damlla, for which he was much maligned by his colleagues, much mocked by his so-called friends and much relieved by those in the aforementioned shire.

Lady Melinda sighed, sought out and sprinkled in some basil herself, tasted it again. "And a pinch of salt." She added that too, and stirred. "Where's the wine?"

"Lucy's getting it from the sewer, marm."

_"Cellar_. Lucy?"

"Yes, marm."

"Who told her to do that?"

"That would have been me, marm."

"That _was_ me, Pansy."

"No... it was definitely me, marm."

"Don't do that, it tickles!" Lucy objected mildly, giggling.

"Oh yes? You usually like it," replied the tickler. (To ease your minds, The _actual, infamous and real life_ Tickler remains behind bars for her heinous crimes.)

Lucy giggled.

"See? Don't mind if I do it there, do you?"

More giggling, wince and twist. "Stop it! Somebody will catch us."

"Isn't that what makes it so exciting?"

Chuckle. "Oh _please_ stop."

"You don't really want me to stop, do you?"

Lucy smiled, panting to catch her breath.

"Yes!"

The tickler stopped. "What about on the front?"

"Oh no, Abe, you know how that makes me all—"

"Too late!" Abe moved her hands from Lucy's waist to the plateau between the escarpments of her breasts, running her slender fingers up and down the valley of cleavage.

"Blimey, Abigail! I won't be able to control myself!" Lucy's breathing grew heavier, the valley deeper. The escarpments bulged, threatening to escape their cotton confines.

"So stop trying," Abe said, smiling, moving closer.

"But what if some—"

A pair of lush, moist lips cut short Lucy's protest.

Lady Melinda sighed heavily and strode off purposefully towards a stone stairwell in the far corner of the kitchen. She descended rapidly and spirally and entered the maze of racks, treading softly on the cold cobblestones.

From somewhere in the gloom giggles echoed.

Lady Melinda stopped and listened, her head to one side; she looked very much like spaniels do when you talk to them. And she looked about to topple over.

Somebody whispered. There was a sound not unlike dribbling, then more giggling followed by a soft, pleasurable moan.

Lady Melinda strode forward. "Lucy?"

Gasp. Shuffling. "Yes, m'Lady?" a gentle voice enquired.

"What are you doing back there?"

"I was... um..." Hands moved frantically, buttoning up blouses.

"Um _what_ my girl?"

"Just getting the wine, m'Lady."

"You sound breathless. Is anything wrong?"

"No, m'Lady."

Short delay. "Is there anyone else back there with you?"

"No, m'Lady. Honestly."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, m'Lady."

"Right, well, hurry up then." Lady Melinda turned to leave.

"Yes, m'Lady."

"And make it four bottles, Lucy."

"Yes, m'Lady."

"And Lucy?"

"Yes, m'Lady?"

"Have you seen Abigail?"

"No, m'Lady. Not for a while. I think she's with Jacob, m'Lady."

"Blast. If you see her, be sure to tell her I want her."

"You're not the only one," Abigail whispered.

Lucy smirked. "Yes, m'Lady."

"Good. Hurry up!" Lady Melinda climbed back up to the kitchen.

In the corner of the cellar behind the largest wine rack, deep in the darkest shadow, two girls giggled, hugged, kissed a bit then followed Lady Melinda cautiously up to the kitchen, watching her stomp out the back door and slam it shut behind her before entering the kitchen proper.

"You pair are pushing your luck," Pansy scolded. "You ought to be more careful. Like I am with the onions. Buggering things."

"Did she catch on, do you think?" Abigail asked, tossing lose strands of her long brown hair behind her right ear.

"No, but it's only a matter of time... should get a new peeler, I think."

"We'll be careful, Pansy," said Lucy, her blue eyes dazzling wickedly.

"Just mind you do! Yes, a nice new peeler."

They left, giggling childishly, each carrying two large bottles of red wine.

Lance Coach slipped an EAV Category 1B (humdinger), turned. "Oh, pardon me, m'Lady."

"You really out to get your..." Lady Melinda waved a hand in the general direction of Lance's abdomen, "...bowels and things looked at, Lance."

"Yes, marm, you're absolutely right, of course. The doctor mentioned slithers of digestive bile may have infested the arteria colica and blocked—"

Lady Melinda shuddered, interrupted, "Have you seen his Lordship?"

"Yes I _have_ , marm." Lance winked as if this were indeed a moment to share.

Lady Melinda waited... prompted, "Where was that?"

"On the front lawn, marm."

"Thank you. Is the coach clean?"

"I scrubbed the midpoint buttock sweeps with a mixture of crushed lemon pips and spit and fumigated the back spoilers with those new cobweb shuffles from the market." Lady Melinda stared... "You could eat your dinner off it, marm," Lance concluded.

"As long as it's clean, Lance."

"Spotless, marm."

"Well, I suppose you can go home now then."

"Thanking you kindly, marm."

"Be back bright and early Monday morning, mind you."

"Oh yes, I will, marm." The coachman doffed his cap, strode away.

"And Lance?"

"Yes, marm?"

"Give my best to your family."

Lance beamed. "Right you are, marm!"

Lady Melinda marched off shouting, "Willy!" at the top of her voice.

Lance turned, slipped an EAV Category 2B (wet, with potential for follow through) and rolling a fag, strolled off to get Frank. Even Lance admitted it wasn't the best name for a horse but he'd called him it once by accident and it had stuck somehow. Now the silly old bugger refused to move unless you whispered Frank soothingly. Horses are weird, Lance thought.

"William! Get your nose out of your sister's arse! Henry! You're no better! Get off him! James! What are you doing with that stick? Bring it back, boy, come on! Come on! James, here boy!" Whistle. Hand clap. "Woo! Tabatha! Fetch the stick, girl. This way. Over here. Come on... oh god." Big sigh.

"You really ought to have them trained by now, dear."

"Hello, my love," said his Lordship, turning, sticks in hand.

"We could always send them off to Ken Ells' place."

"The loves of my _life_? Send them _there_? _Never_!"

"I'm only teasing, Willy."

Lord David William Pea-Soope grinned. His red veined nose wrinkled, his podgy cheeks spread and a laugh fell out of his large mouth. A great, booming laugh that started a tremor running the short length of his stocky frame, pressuring the buttons of his waistcoat.

"It's getting cold and our guests will be arriving soon."

"Alright, my sweet. I'll be in shortly." He made an arg sound and quickly added, "I mean soon! I'll be in soon." As much as they loved each other, his Lordship knew his wife could be a little touchy about the subject of her height.

"Be sure you don't catch a chill!" she instructed, pecking her husband on the cheek and setting off through the scores of brightly burning braziers lining the driveway towards their huge abode, pulling her shawl so tightly about her small shoulders that she almost disappeared completely from the hair down.

"Are you really in love?"

Lucy and Abe exchanged glances, nodded.

"Cool! I'm, like, in love too!"

Lucy sat on the bed beside Emily Jane Pea-Soope. "With whom?"

"Can you guess? Bet you, like, have no idea, right?"

"Is it somebody we know?" the maid asked, smiling at the sixteen year old.

Emily nodded, smiled.

"Who do you think, Abe?" Lucy asked.

"Well, you've got so many admirers, Emily, it could be anyone."

Lucy laughed. So did Abe.

"Stop teasing!"

"Who is it then? Tell us." Abe insisted, sitting beside her.

"Yes, go on. Who?"

"Promise you won't, like, say anything? Mum is so down on me right now."

"Promise," said the maids in unison.

"Tom."

"Tom? Well, who would have believed it?" Lucy exclaimed.

"Old Wettgrass' son?" Abe checked.

Emily nodded. " _And_ he's coming tonight. He's going to be, like, here for dinner and everything! That's just so amazing."

"Well, aren't you in for a good night." Abe joked, making the teenager blush.

"Come on, Abe, we'd better go."

"Alright. We'll see you later, Emily."

They left, skipped outside. Before Lucy closed the door, she poked her head around it and said, "Good luck for tonight!"

"Not coming," Stanley David Pea-Soope sulked.

"Why not, Stanley dearest?" asked his mum.

Mumble.

"Pardon?"

"Don't like being called Stanley."

"Sorry, dear."

Silence.

"Why don't you get dressed?" Lady Melinda suggested.

"Not coming!" Louder.

"But its all been arranged."

Mumble.

"Come on. It'll be fun."

"Can I sit next to Bill?"

"Now I've told you about him, haven't I."

"He's my best friend." Stanley scratched his greasy hair before switching his attention to a nasty spot on his twelve year old chin.

"And don't pick your spots!"

Tut. Big sigh.

"Listen, Stanley, you're going to get dressed and come straight downstairs. Do you hear me?"

Nothing.

"Stanley!"

Little nod of the head.

"Stanley!"

"Yes, mother."

"Right! Hurry up then. The guests will be arriving soon."

"Suppose."

When Lady Melinda left, Stanley returned his attention to the spot. Then he pulled out his willy and gave it a good looking at.

"Ah! There you are, Jacob."

"Am I? Was I supposed to be here, m'Lady," replied the fossilised butler in a shaky voice.

"I need you t—" Lady Melinda retreated down a step. "What's that?"

"What, m'Lady?"

"Hanging out of your... um... that thing there." She pointed at his groin.

"Oh dear." He sighed. "Sorry about that, m'Lady. Keeps slipping out."

"... well... be sure it doesn't happen during dinner. Most off-putting."

"Yes, m'Lady."

"Now... um..."

Jacob waited patiently. He had nothing else to do, or, if he did, he'd forgotten what it was.

"You've quite put me off now, Jacob."

"Sorry, m'Lady."

"Oh, never mind." Lady Melinda descended the stairs.

Jacob struggled to the top, leant on the banister to catch his breath. Realising he'd forgotten what he'd gone up there for he went back down again, bones creaking, back snapping, head in a world of it's own.

"I've got it!" Lady Melinda shrieked, appearing from a doorway along the hall.

Jacob swayed with the shock of the sudden ejaculation and had to sit on the stairs.

Lady Melinda jogged to him, helped him to his feet.

Jacob slipped an EAV Category 2F (old but bold) with the effort of standing. "Sorry, m'Lady."

"Um... that's alright, Jacob." Cough. "Have you seen Abigail?"

"Yes, m'Lady. Saw her in the village yesterday."

"No, Jacob. Think! Abigail!"

"What about her, m'Lady?"

"Have you seen her?"

"Is she the one with the arms, m'Lady?"

"Pardon?"

"No. I must be thinking of somebody else."

"Abigail."

"No, I'm Jacob, m'Lady."

"No! Abigail! My maid. Where is she?"

"In with mistress Emily, m'Lady."

"Thank you, Jacob," spoken with a sigh. She trotted upstairs.

Jacob wobbled his way slowly down to the ground floor where he felt much safer.

# The Wettgrass Ensemble

The periphery trees snaking for miles around the Pea-Soope estate were damp and slippery with the previous night's rain, but that didn't deter young Bill Wettgrass. He'd had a few damp and slippery nights of his own recently, without leaving his little bedroom. His foot was resting precariously on the lowest knot of General Wart (a particularly old and gnarled tree), his hands on the trunk, when his mother's voice rang out like a fog horn convinced the world lay in perpetual mist.

"Bill! If you don't come back here this instant..."

If I don't come back here this instant what? thought Bill, seeking a better hold.

His mum, as if sensing this unspoken question replied, "You'll be grounded for a week my lad!"

Bill didn't like the sound of being buried in the ground for a week (not after what happened last time – which is another story). He threw the tree away and trudged homeward, singing a song of his own composition about cutting somebody's head off with a sweeping brush. He stopped to pick up a stick, whacked a few trunks with it to be sure of its strength, and satisfied, starting flaying the skin off it, I mean, peeling the bark.

The windows in the Wettgrass cottage glowed like dragon's eyes, pine scented smoke rose from the stone chimney and the front door stood ajar – welcoming sights for any youngster heading home through a darkened wood. As he entered, an overwhelming sense of panic seized him.

Dark, shadowy figures darted around in disorganised fashion, bumping into each other, dropping things, picking things up, hunting for things they had only seconds ago put down but were no longer there and generally inciting bedlam. Bill thought it might be best to wait outside. He sat on the swinging seat on the small deck beneath the overhanging roof, whipped out his pocket knife and started whittling himself a ruthless stabbing weapon.

"Are you alright, Pansy?" Bill asked when his older sister came waddling out, rubbing her belly and moaning.

Pansy stood beside him, stroking his hair. "I'm alright. Just tired." She looked as if she'd just built a block of flats with her toe nails. She was only seventeen but looked seventy. Her red cheeks were redder than usual and in the washed out light from the full moon her blonde hair looked like snow. She puffed out a long breath between plump cheeks, her mighty bosom rising and falling like swells on an angry sea.

"So, you don't want a sword fight then?"

"Not tonight, Bill. Mum said we should go."

"What about them? Aren't they coming?"

"Yes, they'll catch us up."

"Right." Bill jumped to his feet. "Shall we run?"

"I don't think I can, Bill." She was right, she couldn't.

"Oh. Shall we ambush them when they come out then?"

"Not tonight, Bill."

"Shoot arrows at them from the trees?"

"No. Better not," said Pansy, smiling apologetically.

They set off along the meandering woodland path.

Seconds later Pansy stopped to catch her breath. Being pregnant does strange things to women (and to men who happen to be in _any_ way involved).

"Is the baby heavy?" Bill asked, slashing away at the stick with his knife.

"Sometimes, Bill."

"You mean it gets lighter too?"

"Well, not really."

"Can it change it's weight?"

"No, it grows all the time, but it moves around."

"Does it? It's got arms and legs then?"

"Yes, little ones."

"Oh."

They walked on, breaking through the tree-line and turning left. Pea-Soope House stood tall and proud before them, silhouetted on the brow of the hill by an angry sky.

"Good spot for an ambush here," Bill declared.

"Not tonight."

"Don't stand there!"

Pansy stopped, wobbling slightly.

Bill knelt, pushed aside a few leaves, revealing a length of rope. He grabbed a stone, dropped it carefully in the middle and watched the rope send it sailing off through the trees.

"That was my trap, that was."

"Yes, Bill. Very good. Shall we go?"

"Alright." Bill ran ahead.

"Be sure to tell me if there are any more traps, won't you?"

"There might be, can't remember now."

Oh God, she thought, shaking her head and waddling after him, scanning the ground fastidiously.

Somebody was stalking them.

"Mother?"

"Yes, father?"

"Where are you?"

"I'm in the throne room."

"Where's my tie?"

"Second drawer down, dear."

_"Where_?" Hysterical.

"The second drawer down!"

Douglas Wettgrass rummaged for his bow tie. Dressing up was one of his least favourite things. "Rather get my todger caught in a bear trap," he mumbled to himself, pulling it out (pulling out the tie, from the drawer). After a minute of complete frustration he shrieked, "Mother?"

"Yes!"

"How long are you going to be?"

No reply.

"Mother!"

"Nearly done."

Dug tutted. "Right then. I'll do it myself." He stood in front of a tiny mirror, slung the black tie around his neck and began, "Left over right and under, right over left and under. Twist through left and slip under right, over, through left up and... Sod it! That's not right." He undid it and started again. "Mother!"

"I'll be there in a minute!"

Sigh. "Right then. Come on Dug, it's only a tie," he told himself encouragingly, "You can do knots in rope, pretend it's one of them." He took a deep breath. "Left over right, around up through and down. Right next to knot and up and through and... Sod it! _Mother_!"

An irritated moan drifted through the house.

"Ah. Rose!" said Dug, seeing his eldest daughter stroll passed his bedroom door.

"Your mother's still in the privy. Help me with this will you?"

"Sorry, father, must check on Splinter before we go."

"What?"

"She'll be alone for hours, father."

"I don't know, you and that bloody horse!"

Rose turned away.

"Rose!"

"Yes, father?" she said, turning back obediently.

"Where's Douglas Junior?"

"He's gone with Bill and Pansy." Rose left.

"Right you little bugger," Dug said to the tie. "This is your last chance! Right up and through left down twist back under... hold... hold it there... Left join spin over – Oh for fu... MOTHER!"

The eight year old wiped the badger droppings off his knees, rubbed his hands on the closest tree and moved on, adjacent to the path his brother and sister walked. He'd been reading his favourite book before leaving, _Journeys for the Brave_ by that inveterate explorer, Sir Randy Walkstripping. Douglas Wettgrass Junior wasn't sure if the stories in it were true or not but didn't care. The thought of finding a tomb once occupied by a lost race of elves that had developed spectacular things had captured the youngster's imagination, hurtling him into realms most children visited but few took seriously. He had read of machines that did nothing but clean teeth, vehicles that moved without horses, but still used them, somehow, but best of all, candles that didn't burn down, or lamps that didn't need refilling with oil all the time, and lights that were powered by rivers and wind and things. He also liked the two boxes that meant people on opposite sides of a field could talk to each other without shouting. Come in handy for dad, that would, he had thought.

Often, when he was out in the woods pretending to be Randy (Sir Randy, author and wit), he would imagine himself setting off on some magnificent adventure. He would gather belongings from the sheds and stables, pinch a few buns from the kitchen, pack them all up in a tatty old bag and set off... only... he wasn't keen on being alone; not necessarily a good character trait for an adventurer. But he thought of a solution. Well, not so much think of one as have one pushed towards him.

There was nobody on the estate of his age, and Kramd was too far away for him to have any real friends, so he made some up. Imaginary ones. More accurately, they made _themselves_ up; they just appeared one morning. Two of them. Both with strange names. Claude, was one. New Boy, the other, and both were always by his side when he set off on his little adventures.

He told his mum about them, but she could never see them for some reason. Neither could anybody else for that matter, but Dug Junior didn't mind. He knew they were there and that was all that mattered.

Even now, walking through the woods, he knew they were with him. Behind him, somewhere. He felt them there without having to turn around and check. He pushed on, keeping parallel with his brother and sister, smiling naughtily, grinning broadly, and generally having great fun... until, that is, he foolishly stepped on a small, round pile of well organised leaves.

Flower pulled up her knickers, tipped some ash into the double headed privy and clicked open the latch to leave. Her brow was no less furrowed than it had been before, or in moments during, but then it always looked like a ploughed field. With a flick of her head she sent her plait of long, dark brown hair over her shoulder, sighed with deep satisfaction and went upstairs to help her husband. "Father?" she called, pushing open their bedroom door.

Douglas Wettgrass was whacking something with a mallet.

"What are you doing?"

"Bloody tie thing!" he screamed. Whack!

"That isn't going to help."

Whack! "Makes me feel better." Whack!

Flower walked over to him, took his arm, removed the mallet from his hand and made him sit on the bed. She picked up the bow tie, threw it around his neck and within seconds had tied a perfect knot. "There you are, Father."

Dug mumbled his thanks and went downstairs.

Flower sat on the chair before the dresser and checked herself in the mirror. She wasn't overjoyed with what she saw but it would have to do. If they didn't get a move on they'd be late, and she knew how fussy Lady Melinda Pea-Soope was about guests being late. She called out, "Father?"

"Hello?" he responded.

"Has everybody gone?"

"Rose's checking on Splinter, the rest have gone."

"Then we had better go too," she said to herself, standing up, extinguishing the lantern, wrapping her shawl about her shoulders and walking carefully downstairs. Not being used to posh shoes made her cautious. She took her husband's arm, pecked him on the cheek and they made for the door.

"Want me to get the cart, Mother?"

"No, I think I can make it," she smiled.

Dug touched her bulbous stomach. "Sure you can walk all that way in your state?"

"Stop fussing and open the door, Father."

"Whatever you say, Mother."

Tom Wettgrass was forking hay and whistling. The Wettgrass family had a small stable of their own and despite spending most of his time looking after the Pea-Soope heard – well, picking up what they inadvertently dropped in moments of extreme EAV excitement, he enjoyed nothing more than working in the stable beside their house – well, he was in charge of the hay, anyway, which was a start. "You look hungwy Shplinter," he said, throwing hay in her direction, "You musht eat in order to gwow, you know."

Outside a figure was moving towards the stable.

"And you, Shadow. Yesh, nishe name, Shadow, wolls off the tongue." He threw hay towards the black stallion and placed the fork carefully against the wall where nobody would fall over it, and the horses couldn't eat it. "Awen't you a big boy, Shadow? Tall and stwong."

He forked again.

The stable door slid quietly open.

"Time for mishter bwoom to make an entranshe, what do you shay?" Tom found conversing with horses far more enjoyable than conversing with people. He never thought of it as talking to himself; that was for fools and philosophers and that weird tall women from the bakery who always had small, colourful candles in her hair. And the cook up at The House. His blue eyes scanned the dimly lit stable. He spied the broom, grabbed it with a strong arm and swept, whistling contentedly.

An attentive, smiling face poked into the stable.

"Oh, yesh, bwoom goesh the bwush, woosh goesh the hay," he hummed. "How about we go out for a nishe wide tomowow, Shadow? Jusht me and you. What do you shay to that, eh boy?"

An extremely nubile body followed the grinning face.

Tom stopped brushing, leant both arms on the top of the broom handle, sighed heavily and drifted away (not literally, of course, nor did he die with a sudden peacefulness). His thoughts turned inexorably towards the girl he loved. Perhaps I'm too young to run off to sea, but what an adventure! And with a girl as nice as...

The stable door slammed shut.

Tom jumped.

Rose laughed.

Shadow neighed.

And in all the excitement, Splinter issued an EAV Category 4A (a level of decibels achieved only through dedicated training of the sphincter).

"Wose!"

"Only me, Tom."

"You fwightened me." He put down the broom.

"Sorry. Just came in to check on my boys and girls."

"They'we..." he sighed. "Alwight."

Rose trusted her younger brother implicitly with the care of the horses, but her love for them was greater even than his. She adored all animals. She had never squashed a slug or flicked a woodlice, she had never shooed a hen or swatted a fly, and she never, _ever_ entertained the idea of shooting crows with her father. She understood that crows pecked the eyes of new born lambs (allegedly, she thought, having never been presented with any satisfactory evidence), but was certain that with a little time and patience, the crows could be trained to seek food elsewhere. And maybe the lambs to close their eyes really tight whenever a crow landed on their head.

Her aspirations of becoming a vet were also gaining strength. For years she had been reading all the books her mother could get for her on the subject, and after healing a few cows, a hamster, three pet birds and innumerable horses of varying illnesses, her reputation was spreading too. "That young Rose," folk would say, "looks quite at home with her hand thrust up some arsehole." Often people would come by the house in the evening and ask her advice, which she would freely and enthusiastically impart. "I'd much prefer to have animals about the house than children," she told everybody, but that didn't seem to stop the pregnancies.

"Yes," she acknowledged her younger brother, "they do look well fed and watered, but I'll have a quick look."

Tom put down the broom, washed his hands in a bucket and waited.

"Hello Splinter," Rose whispered soothingly, stroking her brown mane with a caring hand. "Mummy's got to go out for a little while, but I'll come in and chat with you later. Alright?"

Splinter nodded. She was that kind of mare.

Rose strolled over to Shadow and gave him the same talk.

Shadow was more interested in the hay.

"Weady?"

Rose sighed, kissed both horses on the nose and left. She slipped her arm in Tom's and together they followed the rest of their family towards Pea-Soope House.

# A Right Pair of Loostockings

"He's a lying _feckin_ bastard!" shrieked Agnes Loostocking. To say the sixty year old spinster hated men was like saying foxes get a little chafed when caught by hordes of blood lusting hounds. She would much rather find herself in the fox's position than, well, in any position with a man, especially a compromising one of a sexual nature. The closest she'd ever come to being chatted up since the breakdown of her rather disastrous marriage (which had lasted almost seven hours, and is also another story) was when the Reverend Jollytuft had put a hand on her shoulder and said how sorry he was her mother had died. Even that had sent shivers through her. To say she was bitter and twisted would be the understatement of the century. A thousand bedsprings soaked in the zest of a million lemons might come close.

"Oh Ma..." her thirty year old daughter Deardree despaired, pulling a silk kerchief from between her upwardly thrusting bosom. The gown she wore was a size too small and especially tight on the stomach, having an anti-gravity effect on her prides and joy.

"Don't you Ma me my girl!" Agnes scolded. "I've warned you about them before! But did you listen? No! You knew best, didn't you? Well, I hate to say I told you so but I _feckin_ told you so."

The horse drawn carriage rumbled along the beautifully illuminated driveway, mother and daughter secreted warmly inside.

"Oh, Ma, how could you?"

"How could I what?"

"Say such things!"

"Because it's true. They're all bastards!"

A tear rose in Deardree's eyes.

"Pull yourself together girl!"

Deardree dabbed her eyes with her kerchief.

"They're all the same."

"But Selwyn was different, Ma."

"No he wasn't!" Agnes snapped. "Only different in your mind."

"He was kind and gentle, and he loved—"

"Don't say it!"

"Why, Ma? What are you so afraid of?"

"Afraid? Me? Pah!"

"Just because you've never known love."

"How dare you!"

"But it's true! You're always moaning at my happiness. You had your chance and you blew it, and now you hate me for taking mine."

"Happiness? _Happiness_? That's a joke!"

"You're just jealous."

"I'm not jealous!"

"Then why do you always ruin everything?"

"Ruin...? For you...?"

"You do! All the time!"

Agnes sobbed. "How could you accuse your own mother of such things?"

Deardree sighed.

The carriage jumped a stone. Both rocked right then left. It rounded a bend. Deardree stared out the window. Splinters of Pea-Soope House could be glimpsed through the trees. A short but awkward silence passed. Deardree thought of Selwyn's proposal. Perhaps Ma was right, she thought. After all, I _have_ only known him since Tuesday.

Agnes sniffed, sighed heavily. "I only do it for your sake."

Deardree shook her head, feeling a damn good argument coming on.

"When I met your father, I—"

"Oh please, Ma, not this one again!"

Agnes waited a moment, then continued. "When I met your father, I was twenty two years old. I had never had a boyfriend before, or the desire to have one."

"Had a few girlfriends though, didn't you?"

"We were just friends. In those days. Things were different then."

"But that's what I keep trying to tell _you_ , Ma—"

"Don't interrupt!"

"But today things are—"

"Listen! I didn't have any relationships with other woman, right!"

"I thought you said—"

"Never mind what I said. I'm telling you now."

Deardree sighed again.

"Anyway, that was after your father left us."

"Ran away more like," Deardree whispered.

"He did not run away!"

"Then why did he go?"

"Well, um... he just left! Up and left us alone."

"But why, Ma?"

"Look, I'm not going into that now. I was going to tell you something."

"You scared him off, didn't you?"

"Scared him—"

"I remember you shouting at him, and hitting him."

"How dare you—"

"Dad used to tell me he fell over all the time, but I never saw him fall once. There were nothing wrong with his legs. Until you whacked him in the groin with your knickers elastic that time. He never walked the same way again. Poor man, spending the best hours of his life with a maniac like you."

Agnes found herself lost for words. How had her daughter found out about the elastic?

"He left because he found out about you, didn't he?" Deardree continued.

"What do you mean?" Agnes tone was slightly concerned.

"About you and..."

"And who, my girl?"

"Violet! There, I've mentioned her name. Again."

"Violet was a great comfort to me when your father left."

"Yes, I bet she was."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Well, I can remember her staying with us all the time."

"She comforted me."

"What? All day and all night?"

"I was upset."

"For eleven _years_?"

"Yes," Agnes said tritely.

"Come off it, you two were..."

"Were what?"

"Well, sleeping with each other."

"We did on occasion find ourselves in the same bed. In my darkest moments."

"Occasionally? I wouldn't call every night for eleven years, occasional!"

"Anyway," Agnes wanted to change the subject.

Deardree was having none of it. "You were lovers, weren't you?"

"Well, as I was going to say about your father. When he left, he—"

_"Weren't_ you, Ma?"

"Oh look, we've arrived. We'll talk about this later."

"Then I'll take that as a yes."

"Take it any way you like. You usually do."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Well, all those men all the time. Disgusting!"

"That's none of your business."

"It is while you live under my roof young lady."

"Young lady? I'm thirty six, Ma! What do you expect me to do?"

"Well, pick one and stick with him for more than a fortnight would be nice."

"I want to do that with Selwyn, but—"

"But what? Go on! Say it!"

"You scared him off too! Just like all the others."

"I did no such thing!"

"Mother, threatening to ram a sweeping brush up his backside if he ever touched me below the neck is not the usual way a mother-in-law greets her daughter's boyfriend."

"I'm fed up of people taking advantage of you."

"But I like it."

"I know and that makes it worse."

Big sigh.

"You'll thank me one day. You mark my words."

"I'll never find another Selwyn."

"Well, it won't be from lack of trying, will it?"

"Mother..."

The coach stopped sharply, then rocked.

A second later, Burt the footman opened the door on Agnes' side.

"Just behave yourself tonight, Deardree. I don't want to find you with your head thrust down between some poor man's legs the second we've finished dinner." Agnes struggled out of the coach before Deardree could reply.

# Like Father Like Hoot-Kayke

"Where's my sword, woman!" Buck growled.

Silence replied, sweeping ghostlike through Hoot-Kayke Mansion.

_"Woman_!" Buck glared at himself in his floor-to-ceiling mirror.

"Yes, dear?" came the piteous reply from a distant room.

"Come here! I need you!"

The rapid patter of tiny feet approached, then a door slid quietly open.

"What is it, dear?" Buck's mother asked, entering his capacious bedroom.

"My sword! Where is it?"

"Where you left it, dear," she replied sheepishly.

"Don't try and be clever with me, woman! Go and find it!"

"Yes, dear." Dafney left.

Buck adjusted his medals (a few purchased, the others stolen) and smiled.

Dafney scampered off, searching frantically.

"Hurry up, woman! I haven't got all night!"

Dafney opened a spotless ottoman at the top of a magnificent stairway.

"Woman!" Captain Kirtland John Hoot-Kayke called.

"Just a minute, dear, I'm looking for young Buck's sword."

Loud, overly dramatic sigh.

"Hurry, woman!" called the nineteen year old.

Dafney pushed aside fresh sheets, found the scabbard and sword, grabbed it between frail, rheumatism riddled hands, closed the ottoman and ran back to her son's room. "Here you are, dear," she said, handing it over carefully as if the teenager were royalty.

Buck snatched it. "Well, it's about bloody time!"

Dafney jogged back to her own room.

_"There_ you are!" was her husband's greeting.

"What is it, dear?"

"I want sex before we go."

"But I've just done my hair, dear."

"What?"

"And I've—"

"Bend over, woman! I haven't got all night!"

"Very well, dear."

"Not there for Christ sake! I can't reach down that far! What do you think I am, some kind of circus act? Bend over the bed!"

"Yes, dear." Dafney bent over the bed.

"Well, lift your dress up! Am I to do everything?"

"Sorry, dear." The Captain's wife obediently pulled her dress up over her head.

"And drop your bloody knickers, woman, sharpish!"

Dafney obliged.

"Right then, out you come you randy little bugger," Captain Hoot-Kayke said to himself, unbuttoning his uniform's trousers.

"Please be gentle with me, dear."

"You'll take what I give you, woman, and be damn pleased about it!"

"Yes, dear."

Captain Hoot-Kayke thrust himself forward.

Dafney braced herself.

The onslaught came, short and sharp. Within half a minute Captain Hoot-Kayke fell on top of his wife, panting and perspiring as if he'd just climbed a rope ladder using his teeth.

"That was... lovely, dear," Dafney said, struggling to breath under him.

"Of course it was!" came the sharp, panted reply.

"I really ought to get ready, dear."

"Just a minute! I need to catch my breath."

"Very well, dear," said Dafney from beneath her husband's bulk.

"Woman!" Buck's voice echoed from his room.

"Yes, dear?" Dafney struggled to call out.

"Here! Now!"

"Just a minute, dear."

"What?"

Captain Hoot-Kayke laughed at his son's call, then rolled over.

Dafney scrambled to her feet, pulled up her knickers and ran for the door.

"I'm waiting..." Buck shouted.

"Coming, dear." Dafney glanced at her husband.

"Well, woman? What are you waiting for?"

Dafney nodded and left.

Captain Hoot-Kayke rolled over, buttoned up and went downstairs.

"What is it, dear?" Dafney timidly asked her son.

"I don't want you calling me dear tonight!"

"Why's that, dear?"

"Why? _Why_? Because it makes me sound like a little girl! That's why!"

"What should I call you?"

"Well, Buck, obviously, you daft old trout."

"Very well, dear."

"Uh! Uh!"

"Sorry. Very well, Buck."

"That's more like it. Aren't you ready yet?" he asked disappointedly.

"Nearly."

"You're not wearing that old thing, are you?"

"I was going to, Buck."

"You look like a tramp. Go and change woman, it's embarrassing."

"If you think so, Buck."

"I do! And put some bloody perfume on. You stink!"

"Alright, Buck."

Dafney left.

Buck smiled, stared at himself for one more second, then joined his father.

"Where is the old bitch?" Captain Hoot-Kayke asked.

"Changing her dress, father."

"What was wrong with the one she had on?"

"Bloody shambles!"

"Yes, was a bit I suppose. Woman!"

"Yes?" a feint, tired voice replied.

"Hurry up!"

"Going just as fast as I can, dear."

"Well, it's not fast enough!"

"If you're not down here within a minute you'll have to walk!"

"Coming."

Captain Hoot-Kayke laughed.

His son joined in.

"Butler! Get us both a quick one, sharpish!" the Captain ordered.

"Right away, Captain!" the old butler ran off towards the dining room.

Upstairs a door slammed.

"Mind the bloody paint work, woman!" Buck screamed.

"Sorry." Footsteps across the landing.

"Butler!" Buck cried.

"Here we are, sirs," he said, returning with two glasses on a tray.

Father and son snatched one each, emptied the contents in one hit and slammed the empty glasses on the tray, just as Dafney reached the ground floor.

"You smell like a whore, woman!" the Captain complained.

"But I just—"

"No time to do anything about it now. Come on, thanks to you we're late!"

"Sorry, dear."

"And just what do you think you look like?"

"It's my best dress, dear, I just changed out of—"

"I suppose it'll have to do," the Captain interrupted.

"Well, woman?" Buck asked.

"What, Buck?"

"Run ahead and open the door for us!"

"Oh, right, of course, Buck." Dafney lifted her dress and raced ahead.

"Bloody woman," the Captain mumbled. "I would have left her years ago if it wasn't for your sake, Buck." He instigated the gentle stroll towards the massive, open doors and their waiting carriage.

"I understand, father. The sacrifices you make for me are quite overwhelming."

"Bloody right they are."

"Why don't you find yourself a fancy woman?"

"A slut, you mean?"

"Not necessarily. Another woman to keep you warm at night."

"Have the two of them in there with me you mean?"

"Well, that's not what I had in mind, but well, what the hell? It is nearly the fourteenth century, after all."

"I've got a better idea!"

"Oh?"

"Yes, I could get _two_ new woman and the old bitch could sleep out in the wood shed."

"An excellent idea, father. And with mother outside, do you think I might..."

"Have a woman to keep you warm too?"

"It _would_ be rather pleasant."

"I'll see what I can do."

# Arrivals

The Wettgrass family were massed around the huge sofa in the Pea-Soope's reading room like iron filings on a magnet. Flower and Pansy sat either side of Tom, Douglas Junior and Emily Jane, while Dug and Rose stood behind. All of them nervously cradled drinks – the wrong drinks – provided over a ten minute period by a mumbling Jacob who, thankfully, wasn't exposing himself. Young Bill Wettgrass, however, was sitting in the far corner of the room engrossed in a deep conversation about facial torture (specifically nose bungs and eye gougers and their relative effectiveness) with Stanley David Pea-Soope, much to Lady Melinda's annoyance. She couldn't even beckon her husband to request his intervention; he still readied himself upstairs, nor could she intervene herself; her and Rose were engaged in a thrilling conversation about the virility of a stallion's scrotum.

"Well, the scrotum encloses the testicles, marm," Rose was saying, one arm just to the side of the lady of the house in case she suddenly, inexplicably yet inevitably fell over.

"I see," said Lady Melinda, glancing momentarily behind. "And the..."

"Penis, marm?" Rose suggested.

Flower and Rose gasped.

Tom nudged Emily and both giggled.

Dug nearly choked on his crème de menthe (he'd asked for half a bitter).

"Yes, the um... why is it so..."

"Big, marm?"

"Rose," her mum whispered.

Rose didn't hear, "Well, because of the enormity of the mare's vagina, marm."

"Oh, of course, and..."

"Yes, marm?"

"How do they..."

"Copulate, marm?"

A green liquid sprayed the back of the sofa as Dug bent over, wheezing and dribbling from his nose, and, at first glance, it seemed from his eyes too.

Dug Junior joined in the giggling, not understanding the conversation but not wanting to be left out.

Other faces blushed.

_"Rose_ ," her mum whispered loudly (which never has been nor ever will be a paradox).

"Well, the stallion mounts the mare from behind, thrusting his—"

A bell rang in the hallway, interrupting.

"I'd better go," said Lady Melinda. "Before Jacob gets there." She turned quickly and practically ran for the door. Unfortunately, when she got there, Jacob was already pulling it (and I don't mean the door).

"For goodness sake, Jacob, do you have to do that now?"

"Sorry, m'Lady, it needs adjusting. Out of my control, it is."

"Well, adjust it quickly and put it away. Goodness sake."

Jacob struggled with his buttons but bending over and concentrating simultaneously made him dizzy, and he wobbled.

Lady Melinda caught him as he fell towards her, but his weight, although slight, caught her off balance and she fell to the floor. Jacob landed on top of her, his hands still holding himself, caught now between their squashed bodies. At that moment, as Sod's Law (not to be confused with Murphy's Law, which is exactly the same) dictates, the door swung open and somebody walked in.

"See what I mean? Look at that filthy _feckin_ pervert!" said Agnes Loostocking, pointing at Jacob's struggling old body writhing atop Lady Melinda. "Oh, Melinda, didn't see you under there, dear." She glanced behind as her daughter came through the door, then leant forward and whispered, "Need a hand?" Agnes lived with her daughter in a cottage within the Pea-Soope grounds, and their familiarity with the goings on in the Pea-Soope household were seconded only by those who lived there. Agnes had originally owned all the lands now utilised by the Pea-Soope throng, and many more lands besides, but had sold them off to cater for her intended laziness in old age. Besides, she was determined to have a bloody good go at spending Deardree's inheritance.

Lady Melinda couldn't speak. She nodded furiously.

Agnes moved forward, ushering Deardree to Jacob's other side. Each took one of the old butler's arms and lifted him to his feet. He stood there for a moment as if returning from some distant place, then, as if only just realising Lady Melinda was there, said, "So that's four teas and some biscuits, m'Lady?"

Lady Melinda struggled to her feet, red faced and dishevelled.

"You drooling pervert!" Agnes scolded the old man.

"Oh, Madam Loostocking, I was just getting some tea, would you like some?"

"Never heard it called that before," Deardree mumbled through a grin.

"Getting some tea! You disgusting _feckin_ bastard! Piss off!"

"No tea then?" Jacob wobbled, scratched his groin.

"No! And put that stinking thing away!" Agnes pointed at his groin.

"Sorry, Madam, trouble with my buttons today."

"It's disgusting!"

Jacob strolled off towards the kitchen, mumbling about boiling water.

"Sorry about that, Agnes, Deardree. He took a fall."

"Never heard it called that before _either_ ," Deardree mumbled again.

Lady Melinda glanced her way, waiting for a louder rendition.

But Agnes interrupted. "Are you alright, dear? You look a bit flustered."

"I'm, fine, really. Poor dab fell over, that's all."

"Men do that, you know," Agnes said.

"Legs are a problem for men, apparently." Deardree smirked.

"Anybody else arrive yet?" Agnes was taking off her coat.

"The Wettgrass', about five minutes ago."

"Oh well," she sighed. "Better go and say hello."

Lady Melinda took the coat and handed it to Lucy who'd appeared from nowhere (not _nowhere_ , obviously, although such occurrences within the Vastgreen Forest were not uncommon). Both her and Abigail looked a little flushed, which Lady Melinda ignored, thinking them witness to her recent embarrassment. Abigail had an unusual glint in her eye, and her hand on Lucy's bum, which explained the atrocious curtsey Lucy performed for Deardree's benefit when she found herself buried beneath her coat too. Lady Melinda hastily gained stride with Agnes. Deardree followed, scowling at her mother's back, determined to finish their earlier conversation.

Jacob returned from the kitchen wearing an apron, carrying a bowl of fruit and boasting a silly grin. His wrinkled brow rippled like an ocean as thoughts struggled out of his brain and charged with utter desperation towards his mouth. But they were lost en route. He put the bowl of fruit in the middle of the hallway and started walking around it, humming. He was beginning to feel dizzy when a gentle hand took his arm and slowed him to a stop.

"Why don't you go and have a lay down, Jacob?" Lucy suggested.

"What about the fruit, miss Lucy?"

"I'll look after that. I think you need a rest." Lucy lead Jacob towards the stairs.

Abigail came out of the cloakroom and went into the kitchen, exchanging a wicked grin with Lucy as she passed.

The bell rang.

Like lightening Jacob was over there, turning the knob, opening the door, pulling it open and trapping himself between it and the wall. Despite Lucy's frantic attempts to get there, Captain Hoot-Kayke marched proudly in, pushed the door open further, full into the butler's face, marched inside oblivious to Jacob's crumbling body, passed Lucy without a second glance, towards the dining room and the splendour of the drinks cabinet within.

Buck was close behind, marching equally as proudly and thoughtlessly as his father, and swishing his sword about like a deranged infantryman. He followed the Captain into the dining room, staring blatantly and without shame at Lucy's escarpments as he passed.

Dafney smiled sweetly at the maid and whispered a soft and apologetic, "Hello." She helped get Jacob to his feet.

"Thank you, marm," said Lucy.

"That's alright, dear. What happened to Jacob?" The Hoot-Kayke's were the Pea-Soope's closest friends and not uncommon visitors to the magnificent house.

"He—" Lucy verged on telling Dafney about her husband's thoughtlessness when entering, but knew better of it. Dafney defended her family like a mother goose, never hearing a bad word said against either of them. "He slipped and caught his head on the table, marm."

"Love him. Will he be alright?"

"I'll look after him, marm. Why don't you join the others?"

"Where are they?"

"In the reading room, marm."

"Alright, Lucy, thank you."

"You're welcome, marm."

Dafney limped off, her arthritic hip most discomforting.

"Come on, Jacob, come with me," Lucy said softly.

"But what about the chickens, Graham?"

"I'm Lucy, Jacob. You've had a bit of a knock."

"I'm not bad with eggs, you know."

"Up the stairs. One at a time."

"I used to boil eggs for Mrs Angel all the time."

Lucy smiled sadly, remembering Jacob's late, lovely wife. "I know, Jacob."

"But she told me... Jacob, she said, Jacob, when I... um..."

Lucy waited, their careful ascent continuing.

"No, it's gone."

"Never mind, Jacob. Tell me all about it later."

"Alright, Graham, I'll do that."

As they reached the landing, their conversation trailing off into incomprehension, downstairs, the Captain and his son burst in on proceedings, each carrying a heavy glass of liquor.

The Captain slumped into a chair. His son walked straight up to Rose, forcibly snatching and kissing the back of her hand without a sniff of gallantry, then stood before her, very close, breathing alcoholic fumes at her and salivating.

Rose was forced to take a step back.

"Perhaps you'd like to sit here, Buck?" Dafney suggested.

"Be quiet, woman!"

"Yes, Buck." Dafney sat down, smiling at all who glanced her way.

Agnes glared at Buck, venomous eyes spitting invisible poison.

She was being watched in similar fashion by her daughter.

Trickles of conversation started up again, forming a stream of gentle noise.

Moments later, Lord Pea-Soope joined them.

And not long after that, Pansy Gordon-Blur waddled in and banged a gong, with an onion.

# Starters

The seating arrangements in the magnificent dining room had been as cunningly planned as the EAV categorisation manual. Lady Melinda had been most insistent that name tags be written in large, legible letters and placed on every warmed plate prior to dinner commencing. The massive oak table could comfortably hold twenty but only sixteen were sitting tonight, leaving plenty of elbow room. She had positioned herself at the head of the table farthest from the main door. Behind her, dominating the north wall, was a tapestry depicting ancient bow and arrow battle scenes, complete with gruesome decapitations and mutilations. It was hundreds of years old, and looked it. Either side of this, two tall, oval-topped windows looked out on green pastures like the tired eyes of an old man whose head was shaped like a big house. Pictures of all shapes and sizes adorned the wall to her right, depicting various landscapes and portraits, but no hunting scenes. Neither her nor her husband were even slightly tempted to follow that persistent trend. To her left, running the wall's length, were brilliantly constructed mahogany dressers, some fronted by sliding glass panels, all displaying antique plates, vases, cups and figurines – mostly blue in hue. From her position she could watch events unfold. At least that was her intention. Starting from her left and running clockwise around the table, were sat the following:

Douglas Wettgrass, a crème de month, two sherries, a glass of milk and a half pint glass of gin better off than he had been before his arrival, had felt his tongue loosen, his voice rise an octave and gain a deeper, alcohol-induced strength and with a boldness borne out of such situations was mumbling something to Lady Melinda about the state of the southern stable.

"We need to ram something large up it, marm," he said, his speech slurring.

"I beg your pardon!" Lady Melinda snapped from her momentary daze.

"Above the doors, marm."

"Oh, the doors, of course. What about them?"

"Structure's weakening, marm. We need to strengthen it."

"Really?" Lady Melinda wasn't that interested.

"Which means we'll have to buy some timber, marm."

"Of course. Get some after the weekend, Dug."

"Right you are, marm."

Next to Dug sat her children, Emily, then Stanley. She watched them sitting there, occasionally commenting to one another, playing with their cutlery. She smiled a smile only mothers can when faced with such simplistic childhood behaviour. But then a paper dart with a vicious point sailed through the air and caught Stanley on the temple. He jumped, turned, but saw no offender. Lady Melinda scanned too, but seeing everybody engaged in varying matters gave her no clue as to the perpetrator. Her scan of the dinner guests continued.

Pansy Wettgrass, complete with stomach bulge, was slicing open her bap – with the wrong knife, Lady Melinda noticed. She sighed, smiled. She liked Pansy, thought her extremely good with children. As she watched she noticed her son drag her into their little conversation, but doubts were cast when Pansy blushed. What had Stanley said to her? Not another of his rude jokes, surely!

Next to her was Captain Hoot-Kayke. She hated the way he treated poor Dafney. She remembered just recently calling there, unexpectedly, to find the poor woman cleaning the kitchen floor with a tooth brush, naked but for a few curlers in her withered hair, while he and his friends made snide remarks about spots she'd missed. That had been a most embarrassing situation. Almost as embarrassing as the Jacob incident of earlier.

Rose, the brightest, prettiest girl Lady Melinda had ever seen. So kind with animals, so unassuming. She regretted her choice of seating her between the Captain and his wife but swiftly remembered her prior deliberations and the need for her position there. Still, when dinner was over and the table cleared, things would change.

Then poor Dafney. Melinda stared at the dishevelled woman, twelve years younger than her husband, yet looking twelve older. Not a day had gone by in the last eight weeks when she hadn't pictured the poor devil on her hands and knees, exposing herself to the world, encouraged by a group of drunks – with men like that around she fully understood Agnes' attitude towards them.

Sitting opposite her, at the head of the table proper, was her husband. She stared at him longest of all, but, knowing him as deeply as she did saw no new characteristics in his behaviour. She could almost feel the love pouring from his pores.

Working back down the table. Deardree Loostocking. Now, putting her next to the man she most dearly loved in all the kingdoms might have been a mistake. If promiscuity was a river of passion, she could drown kingdoms with her lust. She dismissed the thought, as Deardree was currently being interrogated (Lady Melinda's interpretation of their conversation) by Captain Hoot-Kayke sitting opposite her.

Young, shy Tom Wettgrass, sat in silence beside Deardree. For him she felt great pity, but tried desperately not to show it, which, on reflection, she thought, probably stood out more. Nevertheless, young Tom, a teenager of a few years, would continue to struggle through life, never having the confidence to talk. Her heart bled for the boy every time he opened his mouth. Surely something could be done for him? But then again if one's worst affliction is to say 'shit down' whenever guests arrive at your home, there must be countless others in a far worse state than he.

Lady Melinda's concern for the boy had led her to place him next to his mum, Flower Wettgrass, a dominant female if ever there was one. Nobody, not even the Captain or Buck would dare say a spiteful word to him with his mother there. She'd just punch them full in the face if they tried, and they new it. Yes, she was a tough woman, but a caring one too, especially where her family was concerned. And in a few months time she was going to have another child herself _and_ become a grandmother. How would she cope?

Then Buck, who she merely glanced at. She couldn't bare to look at him.

Douglas Junior was phased by nothing, she had learnt over the passed few years. Despite his tender age (he'd be nine on Monday) he was the most sensible young man, including her husband, that she knew. Her father would do well to learn from him. Perhaps soak up some of his calming aura. He should be a healer with an air like that about him.

The word 'bastard' had been echoing through the general hum of conversation all evening, and Agnes Loostocking was the reason. And the reason for her use of the word, was men. Those older than her, or under the age of eight, of which there were very few, were reasonably safe from her wrath. Those she had known for more than ten years and never been touched by, which, for those men who had known her for more than ten years the lack of touching could only be described as an undisguised blessing, also found themselves beyond the old spinster's most heated outbursts. God help the others.

And last but not least, sitting at Lady Melinda's right was Bill Wettgrass. She had put him next to herself instantly – the first seat to be allocated. There she could keep an eye on him. Ensure his inability to corrupt her darling son. But just then, as that very thought flickered across her glazed mind, another paper dart left his hand and sailed down the table, striking Captain Hoot-Kayke on the cheek.

Lady Melinda leant towards him, beckoned him forward and whispered in his ear, "If that had hit anybody else, I would have been most annoyed. Do not do it again, please."

Bill laughed, then nodded more seriously, placing his hands on the table and staring directly ahead.

The door to the kitchens swung open and in walked Lucy, Abigail and Pansy, each carrying trays holding bowls of vegetable soup. They were evenly distributed. Napkins were thrown on laps and the meal began.

# The Main Course

Having consumed numerous beverages, Dug's quiet explanations to Lady Melinda on the finer points of equine reproduction had escalated into a table wide conversation concerning Mans role in events. Her interest had been kindled during her earlier discussion with Rose, and although her sensible side told her not to say anything to Dug, she had done, and now regretted it. His voice carried with it great strength and gusto, and with the subject matter so delicate their conversation became compulsive listening. The whole table witnessed the exchange between the down-to-earth farmer and the old spinster who had entangled herself after overhearing some trigger words, like testicles. Agnes opened her tight lipped mouth to reply to one of Dug's sharp comments, but wasn't quick enough.

"There's nothing wrong with having testicles, Madam!" said Dug Wettgrass defiantly, pushing his empty soup bowl aside as if to open up a line of sight.

"Not for horses, perhaps," Agnes argued.

"Or _men_ , Madam!" Dug was irate and determined to prove a point – especially against Agnes. "I mean, Madam, where do you think you came from? Dropped by a low flying stalk, perhaps? Or the fairy baby?" For his own amusement he quietly added, Or the arse end of a donkey? "If your father hadn't inseminated your mother you wouldn't be here, Madam." Dug persisted. "You're here, thanks to testicles."

Agnes shuddered disgustedly.

From the other end of the table came a few words from Dafney, like the buzzing of a fly. "Woman should have a say in the propagation too."

Captain Hoot-Kayke turned, slapped her viciously across the face with the back of his hand and snarled, "When spoken too, woman! Sorry, Douglas old boy, do carry on."

"Thank you, Captain." His lowly position demanded he thank the Captain, however much he disliked him. He turned an especially warm if slightly drunken smile on Dafney, and answered her politely, "Of course they do, Dafney." Dug was eager to put that abusive spectacle behind him. "To say woman have a say, er, goes without saying. It's testicles, though, that's my point."

"Testicles are not the only factor, Father," said his wife.

"Is this a fitting conversation for the dinner table?" Rose asked quietly.

There were murmurs of agreement but also encouragement.

"What are testicles?" Douglas Junior asked Agnes.

"Ask your Father."

"Dad?"

All the dinner guests stared at the farmer.

Nervously Dug answered. "Well, son, you see, if we, that is, when we're born, as men, that is, we are each given, no, not given really, born with, certain things woman don't have. Well, no, that's not quite right either, you see, um, they have some things, other things, that are different from ours, in that they can, well..."

Lady Melinda interrupted. "Testicles are round, sperm producing organs found in all male species, Douglas." It wasn't clear if she spoke to Douglas Junior or his father. Both seemed in need of a solid definition.

"What's _sperm_?" Dug Junior asked, _really_ loudly.

Nobody seemed keen to answer that one and Lady Melinda was forced to respond once again. Nervously, as if walking towards a ravine with a blindfold on she explained, "Well, Douglas, they're male sex cells that unite with the female egg to produce life – babies."

"What's a cell?"

"Well, in the case of sperm... think of them as... tadpoles."

"Tadpoles?"

"Yes."

"You mean dad carries around tadpoles in his testicles?"

"Well, yes, sort of."

"So, testicles are a bit like jam jars then?"

"Yes. Well, no. They're soft and round and..."

"'Cause jam jars are _big_."

"Yes, they are."

"And that would just make dad walk funny."

"You're right, Douglas, it would."

Titters of laughter erupted from the younger guests.

Deardree glared at her mum, the reference to a walking disability churning her thoughts of what her mum had done to poor Selwyn.

"That's enough of that, I think," Agnes interrupted.

"No, I don't think it is, Madam," said Dug.

"What?" Agnes replied, shocked.

"Sex education is important. Especially regarding testicles."

"What's this obsession you've got with—" mumble "—all of a sudden?"

"Testicles, Madam?"

"Yes."

"I'm trying to make a point."

"Trying to disgust everybody I'd say."

"Let him finish, Mother!"

"Oh, very well."

"Thank you. Without testicles, we wouldn't be here, Madam."

"We wouldn't be here without, woman's parts either!" Agnes argued.

"So, you finally agree, Madam."

"That's enough now," Lady Melinda said, placing a hand on Dug's arm.

Agnes sighed.

"So, testicles it is then, marm." Dug smiled, pouring himself more wine.

"Whatever you say, Douglas." Anything to diminish his enthusiasm, thought Lady Melinda. She glanced around. Agnes was pique, that was obvious. To mollify her Lady Melinda said, "Your points are valid too, Agnes."

She mumbled something rude, said, "pah" and finished her soup, chewing unnecessarily upon each mouthful as if crushing the aforementioned organs of a certain gentleman.

A few minutes later (three days, according to the clock in the hall), the swing doors to the kitchen opened and in walked Pansy, Abigail and Lucy. With well practised ease the empty soup bowls rapidly disappeared. Soon the three swiftly returned with great platters of meat, bowls of mixed vegetables and boats of gravy, each placed strategically around the table. The custom in the Pea-Soope household was one of self help, which many preferred. Within minutes all tucked in greedily to a delicious hot dinner of pork, beef, sage and onion stuffing, roast potatoes and turnip, boiled carrots, peas, cauliflower, and spiced, mashed swede.

"Why can't you cook like this, woman!" Buck complained.

"Sorry, Buck. I try my best."

"It's not bloody good enough!"

"Well said that man," said the Captain.

"Thank you, Father."

"This is indeed most wonderful," the Captain complemented Lady Melinda.

"I shall pass on your compliments to Pansy," she said, suppressing her desire to poke him and then his son in the eye with a pair of rusty garden shears.

Buck turned his attentions to Pansy, opposite. He tried stretching out his foot to feel hers, but his legs were too short so he opted for the perpetual stare until she turned his way, and when she did, he licked his top lip. Poor Pansy shuddered. He'll never come near me again, she thought, rubbing her belly.

Buck, witnessing her distress, laughed quietly.

"I remember when I worked for the Mutton-Rollers out in Stillwood," Dug began, "we had great trouble with the bulls."

"Oh?" Lady Melinda responded politely.

"Yes, marm. Randy buggers they were. That's testicles for you."

"Quiet now, Father," said his wife.

"Sorry, Mother."

# Just Deserts

Bill, growing impatient for something sweet, tied a garrotte in his napkin and showed it to Agnes. She was unappreciative of his talent. She tutted, sighed and turned away, staring at her daughter, worried she might, any second, strip naked and offer herself up as desert. It wouldn't be the first time.

"Boring old bugger," Bill whispered.

"What was that, child?"

"Nothing."

"Now come on, I heard you say something. What was it?" Agnes persisted.

"I said, 'I'm looking forward to ice-cream'."

"How interesting. Oh, I do _love_ children."

A short derisory laugh escaped Deardree.

Agnes glanced her way.

"Going to the race on Wednesday, John?" Lord Pea-Soope asked the Captain.

"Of course I'll be there, David. Wouldn't miss it."

"I expect Lucky Star to fare well."

"Care to wager?"

"Indeed."

They negotiated a price as the table was cleared of the main course.

Lucy leaned over the table between Stanley and Emily Pea-Soope to reach some empty bowls, her short black skirt riding up the back of her legs.

Abigail strolled passed, lifted Lucy's skirt and pinched her bum.

Lucy shrieked.

Lady Melinda turned. "You alright, Lucy?"

"Fine, thank you, m'Lady."

"What happened?"

"Stubbed my finger, marm, that's all." She was blushing.

Lady Melinda shrugged, returning to her conversation with Dug.

Abigail was grinning broadly as she rounded the table to collect plates from its far side. She glanced at Lucy, winked, stared momentarily at her chest, then grinned again.

Lucy couldn't stop herself returning the wicked grin.

"May I accompany you to the races, David?" Deardree asked, her voice soft.

"Um, I, well, Melinda will be accompanying me, actually."

"Then may I do anything else for you?"

"Er, not right now, Deardree, thank you." Lord Pea-Soope leant back in his tall chair to facilitate Lucy and Abigail's culinary evacuation.

The Captain leant over and whispered to Rose.

Rose turned away in disgust.

He withdrew, smiling, then pinched Lucy's bum when she stood beside him.

Abigail glared at the Captain.

Lucy ignored him.

Captain Hoot-Kayke stroked her legs.

Lucy grabbed dishes frantically.

Then he pushed his hand right up her skirt.

Nobody else noticed.

Abigail did. With super-human effort she restrained herself, shutting out the contemptible act, desperately ignoring Lucy's horrid plight. Any intervention on her part would most probably result in immediate dismissal for both girls. Or a fate far worse. Lucy stood back, red and tearful, rushed to the kitchen and didn't return.

Abigail gathered the remainders and carried them to the kitchen, dropping them hurriedly in the sink and looking around.

"She ran outside," Pansy offered.

Abigail ran after her.

The night was cold, dark and windy.

Abigail scanned, saw a dark shadow around the corner and made for it.

Lucy was leaning against the wall, covering her tears with trembling hands.

"Alright, Luce?"

Feint nod, but still she shook and sobbed.

"Come here," Abigail spread her arms.

Lucy leant on her, and in the darkness they hugged, Abigail patting her back, kissing her head and soothing her with a stream of, "...there, there..."

From inside the house somebody watched them.

Back at the dinner table Pansy was rubbing her belly. She wanted desperately to eat dandelions and chipped bark, for some reason, and couldn't dismiss the thought. She glared at Buck, then turned to chat with Stan and Emily. Emily seemed extremely upset about something.

Opposite them, Bill was playing with a knife he'd sneaked under the table. He slashed at his napkin with it, then dropped it on the floor. He slipped beneath the table to retrieve it.

Beside him, Agnes was mumbling to herself.

Buck, returning to the room and taking his seat, talked with Douglas Junior, but the little boy was terrified of the big bully.

Tom Wettgrass whispered something to his mum, and she smiled, but then he whispered something else, and she gasped, turning to face Lady Melinda.

And Deardree, her promiscuity finally getting the better of her, placed a hand high on Lord Pea-Soope's left leg and stroked it suggestively from knee-cap to groin.

Lord David stood, excusing himself politely. He stood there for a moment, glancing around the table. His stomach told him something was wrong...

At which point both windows burst open, the wind howled in extinguishing all the candles and plunging the room into utter darkness. Bedlam ensued. It was a whole minute (February, with a hint of thunder, according to the hall clock) before the windows were closed and the candles relit.

When the flickering, orange glow expanded to fill the dining room, five people lay dead.

Five!

# Part Two

The Adjudicators

# Tiddly Loosebottom (#1)

A sodden moth fluttered miserably outside The Irritable Bowel, an infamous tavern down by the River Taff in Kramd's Welts District. Kramd possessed eighty three districts at the last count. At four in the morning on a cold, wet, windy night only such a forlorn little pest would be seen dead in those dangerous alleyways. Battered by noxious gusts, swamped by rain and troubled with gout, its mood was grim. It spied a crack in a nearby window, flew towards it and slipped through, into the smoky warmth of the tavern.

After navigating the tatty old and soiled sheet that doubled as a curtain it scanned the grim interior, seeking food, warmth and a place to rest. Tiddly Loosebottom inadvertently offered all three.

Tiddly spun on the bar stool with alarming speed and with a hand the size of a cow's arse, slapped herself on the neck. "Fu...! Wa...!" she slurred loudly, drawing unfocused glances from the tavern's other inebriates. But she failed to make direct contact with the damp insect and instead rocketed it across the room where it crashed into the far wall, briefly defied gravity, slid to the floor and was just thanking it's luck when a spider leapt on him (this mesmerising insight goes some way to explaining the absence of the expression, "It's a moth's life," from the English language).

Tiddly spun back to face her drinking companion and in a drunken mutter I won't ( _cant_ , if I'm being perfectly honest) even attempt to translate into phonetically appropriate letter collections said, "What were you saying?" She rocked gently back and forth like a pendulum (the sort of pendulum you'd find in most hall clocks), her mounds of fat miraculously in sync with the waves in the distant harbour.

"I was explaining about my hair," replied Betty Swollocks, brushing a few crumbs of ale (you had to go to Hops Castle if you wanted a descent drink) from the corner of her mouth. She took another swig, crunched on something, swallowed. "I wish you'd pay attention. Anyway! Penny says to me, she says Betty! Hair's a man's best friend. What? I says. Hair's a man's best friend! She says. Have you ever heard such _tripe_?"

Tiddly pitched impossibly to one side, struggling to raise her bushy eyebrows to see who was speaking. "What was that again?" she asked, finally focusing on something beside her. "I slipped into one of those... wosnames, then. You know... wosnames."

"Well, what I was saying, basically, in a nutshell, was..." Betty frowned, strained herself, tapped her head a few times with the heel of her hand. "No, it's gone."

Tiddly swung for her tankard, missed, swung again, caught the edge of it and spun it about a bit, swung a third time and grabbed hold so tightly you'd swear she'd die if she ever let go again. She propelled it automatically to her mouth, gulped deeply, coughed, slammed it back on the bar. "Look at that!" she bellowed, waking poor Fips the barman, dozing in a chair in the corner by the dying embers of a fire. "Will you just look a that thing there!"

"What is it?" Betty asked, leaning over to investigate.

"Its a fu... wart!"

"Na. It's just a pimple."

"It's a wart! A great big fu..."

"Na. There's no hairs on it."

"Not all warts have hairs."

"Who told you that?"

"Bloke in work!"

"Oh, must be true then."

"Bloody warts," Tiddly grumbled.

Betty shook her head, lost balance, grabbed the bar tightly and waited for the motion sickness to pass.

"Corr!" Tiddly dribbled lasciviously. "I'd do him."

"Who?"

"Um... Wosname. The bloke from work who told me about the warts. Handsome he is."

"Is he Tidds? There we are then."

"Short green hair, one brown eye, lips that go on and on and, according to one of the girls in the back office, a _massive_ willy." Tiddly grinned mischievously, although how such a small muscle (the _musculus buccinator_ , to be specific) was capable of moving such a huge mound of facial fat was quite bewildering. She downed the rest of her ale in one mouthful, slammed her tankard on the bar and said, "One more for the road?"

"Na. Best be off."

"Go on, Betts, just one."

"One."

Tiddly slapped Betty on the back, nearly breaking her spine, turned towards Fips. "Give us one more of them... wosnames each and we'll be out of your hair, dear! He's a lovely boy, isn't he?"

Betty nodded.

Fips struggled to his foot (it is quite bewildering to wake up one morning with only one foot left and he still hadnt quite come to terms with it... he hadn't touched the Hops '62 since, though), and hopped over, yawning. He grabbed a tankard from the bar, slipped it beneath the tap and pulled, dribbling absently into the beer. Fair play to the man though, it was gone four in the morning and he only had one eye (which he _could_ account for), and that was in pretty bad shape.

His trousers were undone.

Tiddly was staring at both his groins, deciding which one to make a grab for when Betty fell backwards off the stool. Tiddly thought that was the funniest event of the evening and rocked with laughter. The laugh turned to a cough, followed by a mighty sniff, a spit, and a headlong charge in the general direction of the ladies room.

She burst through the door, almost knocking it off its hinges, and ploughed on towards the nearest cubicle. She barged in, turned around and yanked up her stained frock in one totally uncoordinated movement, before slumping onto the wooden bench and relaxing. Her head thumped. She rubbed it, running her fingers through her tangled mass of brown hair complete with white strands. She picked at one ear with a dirty nail.

A few minutes passed.

When she returned to the bar, knickers lost behind the intricate network of pipes and pumps that filled the back of the tavern, Betty was back on the stool, head on the bar. Fips was back dozing in the chair by the fire.

Something flew at her.

She ducked, wobbled, slipped and fell sideways, knocking a table and chairs to one side. She waved her arm before her like some possessed juggler. The strange little thing flew off towards a corner table, disappearing from sight. Tiddly tutted, steadied herself, then meandered towards her mate. She had to use all her strength to lift her mighty buttocks high enough to slip onto the stool. "Betts!" she shrieked, dragging her friend back from the pit of unconsciousness. "Tell me if you heard or not, about that bloke what killed them farmers."

"Um... do you mean that farmer what killed the woman?"

"No, the farmers."

"The farm who killed the farmers?"

"No the farmer. What killed, er, yeah, close enough. Did you hear anything? They said he was a nasty bugger. Bloke from work said he used to drink sheep dip and do stuff to dead animals."

"Na, he used to dip sheep and stuff dead animals, Tidds. Still, either way, you cant blame the poor old bugger, can you?"

"Can't _blame_ the bugger? He murdered that woman in cold blood. All she done was call him names, or something."

"Na, she was his wife."

"His wife? _Oh_ , that explains it." Tiddly thought about it for a few seconds, but as always her mind, in whatever state it found itself, drifted towards what she desired most from life. "Talking of murdering, Betts, I could murder one of them spicy pies from you know, old Tang Mace's place round the corner, the um... you know, The Spicy Wossname."

"How you eat those bloody things I'll never know, Tidds," said Betty, taking another big swallow. "They've got ears and teeth and bits of bum in them, so I was told."

"That must be why they taste so good!" Tiddly chuckled to herself. "I ate three of the buggers before I got here this afternoon."

"Well, you've got to eat _something_ , big boned girl like yourself. You'd waste away to _nothing_ if you stopped eating for more than half an hour."

"Your right there, Betts!" She said, slapping her on the back and loosening a few teeth. "Drink up then!" Without waiting for Betty, Tiddly finished what remained in her tankard (nothing), wiped her mouth and spun around on the stool to face the door. "Come on, I'm starving!"

Betty finished her ale, slipped her arm in Tiddly's and, walking like one year old babies, they aimed for the door. Chairs can appear insurmountable when inebriated, and cause for great concern. With both trying to circumvent them along different paths, their short journey to the door took forty five minutes. When Tiddly stretched forward a massive arm to grab the right-most of the blurred handles and yank the door open, the wave of fresh air that swept in knocked them both to the floor.

They lay in a tangled heap on the damp sawdust for an hour or so. When Tiddly finally came round there was no sign of Betty. She struggled to her feet, scanned the empty bar, shrugged, and once again made for the door. When her hand finally grabbed it, she delayed. She could hear moans and pants and shushing sounds coming from somewhere, the occasional shriek of pleasure, and what was that... that, hopping sound? She sighed, belched, pulled open the door and stepped outside into the rain.

Well, not so much stepped, as fell head first, rolled across the street and into a week's accumulation of rubbish. She moaned for a bit, then giggled, then yawned, pulled a few bags over herself and fell asleep.

She would arrive home ten hours later to find a rather strange letter in her slot (if you'll pardon the expression).

# Anna Rowbik (#2)

Right, that's four miles done, three to go —pant— about sixty percent —pant— and its taken —pant— twenty one minutes so I can expect to —pant— be back in another fifteen —pant— which will mean I've been out running for —pant— just over half an hour, so there is no —pant— reason why I can't be in work by...

Anna failed to notice the foot protruding from the stinking rubbish outside The Irritable Bowel, which is why she fell over. But unlike most people who fall over, arms flailing, eyes wide, landing face first in an embarrassing sprawl, Anna flew through the air like a ballerina, landed, rolled forward and leapt straight back to her feet without so much as breaking stride. Unfortunately, at five in the morning, there's not much of an audience to applaud. Over her shoulder she shouted, "Lazy bastard!" then sprinted off around the corner.

So, we'll say thirty two minutes —pant— just to be on the safe side. No, lets make it forty, because I have to —pant— pop into the bakers for my fresh whole wheat granary —pant— and condensed corn stalk mulch.

In a little under five minutes she was knocking on Bunglespew Bakery. "Come on!" She banged on the door relentlessly. "There's a woman waiting out here!"

Bap Bunglespew shuffled around the counter, walked beneath the hatch without lifting it and ambled towards the door. "Morning Anna, you're a bit earlier than usual," said the dwarf, turning around and going back inside.

"Really?" Anna beamed, following him inside, flexing her arms alternately and shaking out her legs. "Thanks very much! And I had a bit of an accident on the way. Fell over some tramp sleeping in the rubbish." She pushed her neck onto her left shoulder, then her right, ignoring the sickening clicks it made.

"So, you didn't hurt yourself badly, then." Bap sounded disappointed.

"No! I'm perfectly alright thank you. Have you got my order ready?" Anna placed both hands on the counter, pushed her legs back and apart and started doing what looked like vertical press-ups.

Bap sighed. "I won't be long. Wait here." He waddled off.

"Alright!" Anna smiled, her breathing almost back to normal. She moved away from the counter, lay on the cold floor and started doing sit-ups. She always felt better on the floor. On tip toes she stood about five feet. Five feet two, if you counted her black, spiked hair. And she was very pale. Death coloured, her mother kept telling her, and, why do you not eat properly? You need a balanced diet! Stop running around all the time and relax for a change! Get a boyfriend! The latter was all the evidence Anna needed to be sure her mother new nothing of her personal life. If she ever found out about Dianna...

Bap returned, lifting a bag of what looked like rabbit food up onto the counter and calling out. Anna leapt to her feet, wiped perspiration from her forehead, grabbed the bag, told Bap she'd pay later, as she always did, bid him a good morning and ran out of the bakery, pulling her tight, green shorts out of her bum as she went.

The cloud was still grey and heavy but the rain had stopped, leaving the streets looking rather clean for a change. Anna turned left passed the bakery and ran south down Dweeble Street towards the entrance to Fark Park, carrying the bag of food out before her with both hands. She looked like a battering ram. It was far more awkward that way, but Anna had put on nearly half a pound in the last week, and was sure her arms were getting flabby. This ought to help, she thought. I have to get back down to —pant— six stone before the summer, otherwise —pant— I'll be too embarrassed to go outside.

She ran across the grass, dodging the scores of animal droppings and glanced up at the clock on the gazebo. It read five eighteen. She picked up the pace a little and lengthened her stride until she burst through the opposite gate, ran across Glib Road and up Spindlers Way towards home. Fifteen minutes later she slipped the key in the lock (whilst jogging on the spot, of course) pushed open the door and went inside.

On the floor was a mound of letters. "Oh good!" she cried, bending down, picking out those with her name on them and running up the stairs, two at a time. At the top, she turned right, ran along the landing to its end and unlocked the door leading to her apartment. She slipped inside, locked the door behind her, crossed the room and drew back the curtains.

She stood there for a time, as she always did after her morning run, gazing out of the window at the mighty river. The far bank was obscured behind a veil of yellow-tinged mist, but on the near bank a lonely fisherman was rowing away from shore. Anna waved, then dropped her arm quickly, realising the chances of the fisherman seeing her were about the same as her chances of losing half a stone in the next thirty seconds. She sighed and moved to the kitchen.

She tipped the entire contents of the bag into a large bowl, added two raw eggs, a dribble of fresh milk, a thinly sliced apple and two teaspoons of cod liver oil. She mixed it together expertly, walking around the small, immaculately kept apartment, getting undressed as she went. When her breakfast turned its usual brown colour, she drank the lot before stepping into the bathroom.

In one corner she had rigged up what she called a shower. It was a bucket full of tiny holes fed by a foot pump on the floor. She stood beneath it, started pumping and waited for the cold water to fall.

By six she was ready to leave for work. With time to spare she sat in a comfortable armchair facing the huge window and went through the mail. The first letter she opened she had sent to herself, just to be sure the mail woman was delivering. The second one was the same, sent a day later. How did both arrive back the same day? She would have words with her, she decided, wanting to get to the bottom of it. The next three letters were from various health food wholesalers advertising everything from crystal bubbling water to horse dung face packs. She put them to one side for later perusal. The next was a note from the mail woman, asking her not to keep sending letters to herself. It was the last letter she opened that concerned her the most though. Having read it, her first thought was, why would they ask me? Her second thought was, Oh Christ, what am I going to wear?

# Richard Fondler (#3)

Sledge Rammer lit another smoke and offered his tobacco tin around.

Thum Nale was closest. He snatched it from his hand, opened it, pulled out a paper and a cluster of damp, finely chopped leaves, and started rolling. "Hope the rain eases off," he said. "I'm buggered if I'm going to work up here all day in the rain. I mean," he went on, not giving anybody a chance to interrupt, "it's not in my contract! There's nothing in there that says I have to work when it's raining. If he forces me to, I'll contact the BUM." The Builder's Union's Mission.

"If who forces you to?" Sledge asked, picking his bulbous nose with the little finger on his left hand in a rather delicate and uncharacteristic manner.

"Gaffer McAllspine, that's who! Christ! Have you seen the old bugger lately? Contracts this, contracts that. Every time I speak to him I feel the need for an interpreter!" Thum complained.

"What will your wife say?" Richard Fondler stepped in, running fingers over his two day stubble and sniffing up the messy bits of his cold. He was a large man, almost frightening to behold, especially when viewed from behind. It wasn't just his broad shoulders and thick neck, but his long, black pony tail acted like an arrow, pointing towards his bum cleavage, drawing the eye inexorably down into that hellish steaming pit of— well, some things are best left un-described.

"What do you mean?" Thum retorted.

"Well, if you've got no money, the ship won't dock, will it?" Richard said, a sneaky lilt in his voice, a sly expression crossing his face.

"What do you mean?" Thum repeated.

"Well, no money, no pork pies!"

"Well, um... we won't starve, if that's what you mean! It's in the contract, that is, about starving and all. Can't let it happen. We get tools down money if it rains. It says so. In the contracts."

"Tools, yes. Like it. Like it." Richard said, confusing Thum to silence. He looked up at the sky. From his vantage point, half way up the side of the Welts Home for the Elderly and Functionally Disadvantaged, he could look across the nearby roof-tops at a clearing sky. A sharp wind blew in from the south, bringing surprised looking gulls to Kramd. He turned when Thum nudged him, offering him the tobacco tin. He accepted it and began rolling a smoke of his own. "It won't rain any more today, anyway," Richard continued. "And you both know what that means, don't you?"

"What?" Both Thum and Sledge asked in unison.

"Well, the streets will be alive with the sound of scraping thigh." Seeing the rather bewildered expressions on his colleagues faces, he continued. "You know, the lolly walks beneath us!" he winked at them, puckering his lips and nodding knowingly.

"Yes, well, anyway," said Sledge. "Gaffer said we had to get these windows in before nightfall." He flicked his smoke away, watching it sail towards the ground, then stood up, pulled up his trousers (he always dropped them to his ankles when he smoked), grabbed the hammer from his work belt and walked off along the scaffolding.

"Nothing in the contract about finishing things before nightfall," Thum complained. But he stood up and walked off too, leaving Richard Fondler alone.

He stayed where he was, puffing away happily and watching the quiet streets below. The sun had not long risen and most people were still in bed. He pulled out his hammer and banged it on some pipes, just to make a bit of noise. He stopped when he saw a small figure walking below. "Hey down there!" he called out. "Fancy playing with my tool?" He waved his hammer about.

The figure stopped. A small face looked up. There was a shake of the head. The girl walked briskly on. Lazy pervert! thought Anna Rowbik already two and half minutes behind schedule; for the first time in many years she had lost track of time – she blamed the letter.

Richard chuckled to himself, struggled his huge bulk upright and balancing on the single wooden plank, caught up with the others. "Hey!" he called out, stopping them both. "You'll never guess what I got this morning." He sucked in a deep breath and sneezed.

Thum moaned. "Oh you're not going to tell us about those disgusting things you and that prostitute of yours get up to are you? I've only just finished my breakfast! I really don't want to know, thanks all the same."

"Same here," said Sledge.

"No, nothing like that! Well, as well as that, actually. I got a very peculiar note from this place called... County Caught. Ever heard of it?"

Balancing on the wooden plank, Thum and Sledge exchanged a glance.

"No, me either, until today." Richard slipped a hand down the back of his trousers and scratched his bum. Thum and Sledge walked off towards a hole in the side of the building. "Who the hell is that?" Richard called out, again stopping the others in their tracks and making them turn.

On the street below walked two people. The tall, thin man in the front looked liked he carried a cumulonimbus on his head, such was the state of his hair.

"Yes, strange looking bloke, isn't he?" Thum commented more for Richard's benefit than anything. He pulled a piece of paper out of his back pocket and started reading the small print.

"Not him! The one next to him! Blimey!" Richard licked his lips, then called out as loudly as he could. "Hey! Woman! Up here!" He waited for the mother of six to look up.

He put his hands on his hips, thrust his groin forward and as loud as he could, shouted, "The name's Richard Fondler but my friends call me Dick."

# Professor Regius (#4)

Cleff's second aria swept majestically through the vast mind of the professor as, walking swiftly but hunched as if desperately seeking a dropped coin, he made for the small cafe on the corner of Blend Avenue and Nesgold Street. The rumbling in his stomach finally sent the opera careering from his thoughts. He pushed open the door and was instantly annoyed. It was the tinkle of the bell. It always made him feel like a robber whose intentions had suddenly been thwarted. From the back room a man in a creased, stained shirt appeared.

"Morning Professor. The usual is it, sir?" Glibbe, the cafe owner grovelled, rubbing at red-rimmed eyes and scratching an uncombed head of short, brown hair.

Professor Regius nodded and sat at the counter. From a jam jar beside him he drew a few paper towels and proceeded to wipe down the surfaces most proximate, wiping aside grease and bits of black bacon rind (not bacon rind at all but mortar from the ceiling).

Glibbe threw half a dozen sausages into a frying pan and popped the kettle on. "Won't be a minute, sir. Tea, sir?"

Again the Professor nodded, handing over a mass of greasy and stained paper towels. "You should clean up in here more often, Glibbe. One might find oneself open to visits from certain health institutions if one is not careful."

"You're absolutely right, sir. Of course, sir. _Moord_!" He shouted towards the waterfall of coloured paper strips separating the cafe from the dark secrets of the back room beyond. "Moord!" He called again when nobody appeared.

_"What_!" A vicious looking woman snapped, head poking through the cascade.

"Little job for you, dear," Glibbe changed tact in response to the ferocity of his wife's tone. She was a match for any man, woman or beast and Glibbe knew it. "Little spot of cleaning, if you don't mind, dear."

"You do it you lazy little fu— Oh, good morning Professor. Has it stopped raining?"

"The precipitation ceased prior to my departure, Mrs Glibbe."

"So... that's a yes, is it?"

The Professor nodded, much to Moord's relief, then ran a set of long, slender fingers through his expanse of wild, white hair. It would have taken half a dozen wrestlers armed with twelve inch combs a week to get it flat and even then the chances of it springing right back into its favoured, uncontrollable state were startlingly high.

"How many sugars would you like in your tea this morning, Professor?" Moord asked, moving towards the kettle where she felt more comfortable.

"I think five this morning, Miss Glibbe. One has to protect ones teeth on occasion. A colleague of mine at the University, daft old penny but harmless enough, insists enamel decay accelerates proportionately and exponentially in direct relation with the intake of glucose and fructose based substances. Would you not agree, Miss Glibbe?"

Moord stared at the Professor, mouth moving like a goldfish. Then suddenly, from the depths of her mind, a cunning plan was born. She smiled, looked the Professor in the eye, and said, "Yes! I was saying that very thing to Glibbe this morning," before turning away and heading swiftly towards the safety of the back room.

"Here are your sausages, Professor. And a nice hot mug of strong, sweet tea. Not a bad way to start the day, is it, sir?"

Professor Regius cut a sausage exactly in half, then exactly in half again, stabbing one of the pieces with his fork and dipping it into the tangy sauce he had arranged in a most satisfying ellipse on the edge of the plate.

He popped it into his mouth and chewed deliberately.

Glibbe, recognising the look on the old Professor's face, shrugged, picked up the coins the Professor had deposited on the bar, slipped them in the till and disappeared into the back room.

The Professor finished his breakfast with his usual methodical precision, wiped the corners of his mouth with a paper napkin folded neatly into a two dimensional dodecahedron and made for the door. He reached up and grabbed the bell before opening it and slipping quietly through. With a happy smile on his face he walked briskly away then turned down Spoon Street towards the gates of Welts University.

As he walked up the University's impressive driveway he glanced at the clock tower. It was seven fifty seven, as expected. He pushed all thoughts of music aside and focused on the contents of his first lecture due for delivery at nine. A young chap on a bicycle flew passed him, shouting something about breaking distances and the impending contact he anticipated making with an oddly located _Quercus cerris_ , but the Professor was lost in his own little world, and even when the poor chap smashed into the oak tree and fell moaning to the floor, clutching his bloody face, he walked by without noticing / caring.

He pushed through the large doors and made for the huge staircase to his left, climbing each step precisely one at a time, counting as he went. The Professor had this strange idea that one day a stair would go missing, or perhaps another would be added without him being told. It was a small thing but one that gave him great concern. He pushed open the door to his private office on the fourth floor, moved around to the front of his huge, mahogany desk, sat down and reached for his mail.

# Brim Cranium (#5)

Nurse Penny sprung the lid off the medicine tin and rummaged around. From its depths she drew a brown bottle, a roll of tape and a small piece of aged white sports sock, cut into a frayed edge square. She put all three on the table beside the apprehensive student as if arranging implements of torture. "Now," she said, "what's wrong with you again?"

Brim stared at her, eyes wide. "It's the cut on my head, Nurse," he said in a shaky little voice.

"Oh yes. I can see it now." Nurse Penny lifted the bottle and read the label.

Unfortunately, it was so old the ink had blurred, making it quite unintelligible. She turned it upside down, then took it to the window where the light was better, but it didn't help.

She sighed, returned to the worried student and slowly took the top off. Brim gulped. "Um... its feeling a bit better now, actually," he said hopefully, glancing around to see if the door was open. He was too late.

When Nurse Penny got her hands on a patient, that was it (Welts University boasted the best attendance record in all of Southern Walia).

The nurse lifted the bottle to her nose and sniffed. She drew back swiftly, her face creased up like a bulldog's. "Better not let you drink it, then," she said to herself, smiling. "I know!" She folded the square of sock, placed it on the bottle top, tipped the bottle upside down and waited to feel moisture on her fingertips. With bottle in one hand, damp piece of sock in the other, she advanced upon Brim.

"It really is feeling much better!" he stuttered. "Perhaps if I could just have some fresh air? That's probably all I—" His shriek of pain echoed through the building, stopping lecturers mid sentence, almost waking Bramble the grounds-man, dozing in his potting shed, and even penetrating the drama class. When Brim had collided with the tree, through no fault of his own (faulty brakes) the pain had been pretty intense. The treatment was proving to be far worse.

Nurse Penny took Brim's shaking hand and guided his finger towards the piece of damp sock. "Hold it there," she said, grabbing the black tape. It took her a minute to get it going, but when she did, she didn't hold back. Five times around Brim's head it circled, each loop getting tighter and tighter until the skin above the wound grew pale. She leant forward, gnawed at the tape for a few seconds then stepped back to admire her handiwork. "There! Nobody would even notice."

Brim jumped off the table and ran for the door. He had just put his hand on the doorknob when Nurse Penny called, "If it's not better in six weeks, come back and see me."

Six weeks? thought Brim, feeling rather dizzy. But he nodded politely and left her alone. She took a swig from the brown bottle before putting it back in the tin.

Brim, limping, grabbed his satchel from the bench outside the nurse's station and headed towards the science block, catching sight of himself in a window. His blonde hair was dark at the ends where the perspiration had soaked it. His blue eyes seemed much wider, thanks to the tape lifting his brows further up his head than normal; he looked in a state of perpetual surprise.

The corridors were empty, the University quiet and ghostly. The lectures had already started. He felt sick at the horrifying prospect of walking into a classroom late and have everybody turn and look at him. And it wasn't just any classroom. It was Mr McIllums' chemistry class!

He turned the corner and began the long, lonely walk towards the science block. Half way along it a rather pretty girl stepped out of a doorway and turned to face him. "Good mor–" hiccup "–ning," he said. The girl took one look at him and screamed, running away as if her life depended on it.

That sort of thing happened to him all the time.

He strolled on.

When he finally reached the door leading to the chem. lab, perspiring, shaking nervously, head thumping, limping, otherwise alright, it took him a long time to pluck up the courage to knock. When he did, he did so very, very quietly. He eased the door open and slipped through.

"Where are you going, boy?" McIllums roared.

Slowly, Brim turned around to face the monster. Piercing eyes stared at him from beneath what looked like a hairy caterpillar stuck to a sharply featured face. It took Brim a minute to stutter his way through, "I fell off my bicycle, sir."

McIllums was unimpressed. "With me, boy!" And off he marched to his private little back room, the dragon's lair to all he taught. Even Brim's classmates, despite laughing when he tried sneaking in and got caught, now wore expressions of concern.

Reluctantly, and with bowels shaking like a jelly, he followed the teacher into his lair.

"Sit down, boy!" the teacher snapped.

Brim sat down sharply.

"Read this, boy!" McIllums thrust a note towards Brim.

Brim read it. Then read it again.

"Did you apply for this, boy?"

"No, sir."

"Do your parents now about it, boy?"

"No, sir. I don't think so, sir."

"Shall I tell them, boy?"

"If you want to, sir."

"I do _not_ want to, boy!"

"Oh."

"The letter says your presence is urgently required, boy."

"Yes, sir."

"Well, boy?"

"What, sir?"

"What are you waiting for, boy!"

"Right, sir." Brim leapt to his feet, took the letter, slipped it in his satchel, rushed out of the back room and then the classroom, much to the astonishment of his classmates, and ran off down the hallway.

McIllums waited for the banter to reach a reasonable level before marching back into the classroom. He slammed a book about rocks on the desk (which might explain why it made such a thump). The room went deathly quiet. All faces looked at him. "Young Brim will not be with us for a while," he said. "He has been chosen to partake in top secret government activities where they take most of your insides out and hang them around your neck! Let that be a lesson to you all!" If that doesn't scare the hell out of them, thought McIllums, nothing will.

You could have heard a pin drop.

Brim ran down the corridor towards the huge doors and pushed through, glad to be out in the fresh air. He descended the slippery steps and turned right, heading towards the bicycle sheds. When he reached them he grabbed his bicycle, lifted it on his shoulder and wobbling under the weight, carried it down the driveway towards Spoon Street.

He suddenly had a very bad headache indeed.

# Millie Watt (#6)

On the western edge of the Welts District at that peculiar, triangular-shaped intersection where the Districts of Boils, Welts and Scabs meet, for those of you who know it, somebody else was about to develop a very bad headache...

Now, thought Millie, if I open this valve another half an inch... light that flame... push the glass tube further through the casing so it touches the bowl of eggs in salt solution... it should start simmering nicely...

The suddenness of the explosion sent her flying backwards over an armchair. Her instincts told her to roll around on the floor with her hands over her face like a fool. Which she did. She always did what she thought was right.

After the initial cloud of smoke had been sucked out of a half open window, Millie leapt to her feet and raced back into the kitchen to extinguish the spreading fire. Instead of using her "flame resistant cushions" or the "sand cups of dampness" she just tipped a bucket of water over the lot.

Everything hissed.

A cloud of acrid white smoke not unlike the shape of a mushroom rose to the ceiling, spread out and then got sucked out of the window after the black smoke. In a distant land (west of the strange and magical Vastgreen Forest) an as yet untouched tribe of pygmies stood up and watched and prepared a smoke response of their own (relating to the large deposits of gold they were looking to get rid of) that was destined to go unnoticed.

Millie sighed, slumped, drooped with disappointment. What went wrong? Again? She crossed to the last piece of broken mirror left hanging on the kitchen wall and looked at herself. Her face and blonde hair were black, her long eyelashes short and singed. She'd lost both eyebrows a week ago playing with hot fat and a teat pipette of water and they hadn't grown back yet. She looked at herself and sighed, then washed in a nearby basin and looked again, relieved to see no long term damage. She could see stars though, sparkling in the room and wondered, briefly, if her experiment had in fact succeeded. In time the stars faded, however, and she thought perhaps not. She could hear a metallic humming of hollow pipes.

She crossed to the window and pushed her head out. She waited patiently for the last of the smoke to clear, then returned inside, closed it and went to see what her husbanded wanted for breakfast now that thermoscrambled eggs on fusionbread was off the menu.

Gerald Watt peered with an impressive casualness borne from years of such experiences over the top of his newspaper, glasses balanced on the end of his nose. He stared at his wife for a few seconds, said, "Just tea, love, thanks," then returned his attention to the sports page.

Millie set about cleaning up the mess. She had installed a rubbish shoot herself only months before and carefully gathering up all the glass, bits of wood and string, and what was going to be breakfast but now looked like the remains of forest fire, dropped it into a box and crossed to a flap in the wall. She pushed the box through.

It got half way and stopped. She gave it a whack with the back of her hand, and it fell, scratching its way down to the large rubbish pile below. "How about some cornsplinters instead, love?" she called out to her husband.

He grunted a reluctant affirmative and turned to the next page.

Millie grabbed the bread.

"You _are_ going to use the knife, aren't you?" Gerald called out. "That slicing thing that chopped the cats tail off cuts out funny shapes."

"It's supposed to, love. Why else do you think I invented it?"

"Look, dear, nobody wants pieces of toast in the shape of elephants, or stained glass windows, or boats, or tents, or things, alright? They just want a nice, rectangular piece of bread lightly toasted, generously buttered and covered in jam. Why oh why oh why must you always complicate things?" He tutted loudly and, well hidden behind the newspaper shook his head despairingly; Gerald Watt could shake his head in twenty seven different ways; he was quite the thing at parties.

"Right then!" Millie snapped. "Plain old boring toast it is." She grabbed the basic, ordinary knife from a nearby drawer. She had only cut one slice when Thomas, her six year old son, came rushing in.

"Mummy! Mummy!" he yelped, plastic boat under one arm, small blanket under the other, small lump of snot beneath one nostril, sleep in both eyes, thin blonde hair sticking out in all directions. "Sherman's stolen my frog!" He flung himself around his mum's hips, gripping for all his life's worth, and sobbed.

Millie lowered a hand and stroked his head. "Sherman!" she shouted to her eleven year old boy, making little Thomas jump. "Come in here this instant! I want to talk to you!"

Nothing.

"Sherman! I'm warning you, my lad!"

Instead, Lucy appeared. She was fourteen. She said nothing. From the floor by the window she grabbed her school bag, threw it grudgingly over her shoulder, mumbled something and left. Her elder sister, Gabby, had already gone. Gerald, sitting quietly on the sofa, turned another page.

"Sherman!" Millie shrieked, continuing with the toast slicing, Thomas still clinging on tight.

An eleven year old, ready for school, peered around the door. He watched, and waited, little green frog gripped lightly in one hand. When his mum called out again, he pushed through the door, dropped the frog on the floor behind a chair, disguising its landing with a cough and a very loud and uncharacteristic good morning, before walking towards his mum, innocence personified.

"Where's your little brother's frog?" Millie asked him.

"Dunno."

"He's got it down his trousers," said little Thomas, meekly.

"Have you?" his mum asked him.

"No! Honestly! He's lost it again and he's blaming me!"

"Did you lose it, Tom?"

Thomas shook his head vigorously, then thrust a hand towards his big brothers groin, grabbed as tightly as he could with his little fingers and squeezed hard.

Sherman yelped, knocked his brother's hand away and stepped back.

"Don't do that to your big brother," his mum told him.

"Are my elephants ready yet?" Millie's husband called from behind the newspaper.

"If you're so bloody hungry why don't you come and make breakfast for a change? I could certainly use the rest."

"He's hurt my you-know-whats, mum," Sherman complained.

"I want my frog!"

From the cupboard above them leapt Fupp, the cat. One of his front paws landed in the butter tub, the other on a piece of toasted tent, and both back paws slid away into what Millie called her 'sink'; a sunken bowl, full of water, used for watering the indoor plants she was experimenting with (the _daffodandelians_ were coming along rather nicely).

Amidst the bedlam came a knock at the door. Millie slammed the knife on the table, disengaged from Thomas, walked around Sherman, avoided Fupp's swinging paw, and stomped over. She yanked the door open.

Nobody there.

As she turned away, something on the floor caught her eye. It was a small, wax sealed enveloped with her name on it. She picked it up, slipped it in her pocket and returned to the kitchen, suddenly much happier, despite her rumbling stomach.

"Sherman! School!" she bellowed in her strongest voice.

He straightened up, left without a word.

"Thomas! Wash and dress!"

He trotted off, picking up his frog on the way.

"Gerald! Toast!"

Gerald put down his paper and strolled into the kitchen.

Millie went into the other room for a lay down.

# Doze Murmuring (#7)

Doze yawned as she rummaged around in her bag for the key to her shop. She was utterly useless in the mornings. If another human being so much as breathed too loudly within a hundred feet of her she became irritable (but lacked the energy to do anything about it). She grabbed the huge key with cold, tired fingers, slipped it into the lock of Dozey Furniture and Jewellery and stepped inside.

The clocks that worked told her it was fifteen minutes before nine. Only forty five minutes late, she thought. Better than usual. She picked up the mail, turned the OPEN – CLOSED sign around and ambled towards the small kitchen in the back. She slipped out of her coat about as quickly as a snake sheds its skin, rubbed her neck with the agility of a new born baby and headed for the kettle in a manner more fitting a ground sloth. She filled it, put it on the hob, sat down, yawned and closed her eyes.

Fifteen minutes later she woke to a high pitched whistling and a steam filled room. She struggled to her feet, grabbed a cloth and removed the kettle from the hob. With what water was left she made herself a half-cup of tea and carried it into the shop. In the corner a potential customer examined a small table.

"Excuse me, madam," said the tall, handsome man, standing up and turning around when he heard Doze enter. "How much is this table?"

"Oh. Now. Let me see." Doze wandered over, leant forward and gave it a damn good looking at. "Oh dear, no price tag. Well, um... Let's call it a nice, round tenner."

"I'll take it!" the man beamed.

"Really? Alright then." Doze sighed, trundled over to the desk, removed a receipt book and grabbed her writing quill. No ink. "You wouldn't happen to have any ink on you, would you?" she asked.

The tall, handsome man strolled over. "Ink? No. Sorry."

"No?" Doze confirmed. "You come into a shop, expecting to buy something, and you don't even have any ink with you?"

"Well, I didn't think I'd need it," the man said apologetically.

"Didn't think! That's the trouble with people these days. No consideration for others." Doze yawned, then looked up at the customer. "Would you mind not standing there. I can't see out of the window."

"Oh, sorry." The man took a few paces to his right, then slipped a hand inside his waistcoat pocket and withdrew a purse. "Ten, you said?" he asked, rummaging around inside it.

"Yes, but without ink we'll have to make it fifteen."

"Why?" the man asked.

"Why? _Why_? Because I own the place, that's why! Now, we'll have no more of your damn cheek young man. Have you got any idea how old I am today?"

The man shook his head, slightly bewildered.

"No, I didn't think so. It's always the same with you youngsters. Well, I'm fifty one. Fifty one! I said."

"My mother turned fifty one a few months ago," the man said bravely.

"Well then why don't you go and buy a damn table off her?" More to herself, and disguised in a tired mumble, she added, "Damn strangers coming in here all day; will you sell this? will you sell that? Gets _right_ on your damn nerves after a while." She yawned.

"I beg your pardon, madam?"

"Mind your own business!" Doze snapped. "Now, do you want the table or not?"

"Well..."

"Right well, bugger off then! Go on, piss off! Bloody time wasters. As if I don't have enough to do!" Doze sidled around the counter and advanced on the poor man, shooing him along like a chicken. "Go on you damnable time waster. Get out of my shop!"

"But I do still want to buy the table."

"Well, you should have thought of that before you came in here!" Doze said matter-of-factly, still ushering the man towards the door.

"But I didn't know it was in here until I came in." He was backing away, perspiring slightly.

"I've got windows, for Christ sake! Haven't you got enough sense to look through them before coming in here and wasting my time? I don't know," Doze sighed, "people these days have no respect for the elderly."

"Can I buy it now?"

"Feck off you middle aged bastard! I won't have the likes of you... you... you _customers_ filling up my shop with crazy ideas about buying this, and how much does that cost? and have you got a matching pair of these? It's bloody disgusting! Go on! Outside with you!" Doze opened the door and pushed him into the street. Passers-by stopped to watch. She shouted loud enough for everyone in Welts District to hear; "And if I catch you sneaking about in here again I'll call the police!"

The man could do nothing but pull up his collar and walk briskly away. Across the street, from the window of a clothes shop, an old lady waved. Doze waved back, exaggerating a despondent look, then waddled back inside.

"Bloody customers..." she mumbled to herself, turning the OPEN-CLOSED sign over. "That table's worth a hundred and fifty of anybody's money. Don't know what kind of old fool he thought I was. Well, that'll teach him!" Doze slipped the dead bolt across and wandered into the back room. She slipped off her shoes, lay on the sofa, pulled a warm blanket over herself and yawned. "I'll open up again after lunch," she said to the empty room. "Oh, and go through the mail, of course." And with that, Doze yawned again and fell asleep.

# Chief Nightstick (#8)

"Touch me there one more time and I'll thrash you to within an inch of your pathetic little life!"

"Sorry, Chief," barber Bayber replied, looking rather worried. "Um... Chief?"

"What is it, man?" Chief Nightstick bellowed. He was a very tall man, broad shouldered, boasting a neatly trimmed moustache, tinged with grey and wearing an immaculate uniform. He visited Bayber's Barbers once a week yet the only hair he had (above his neck) either sat on his top lip or shot out of his ears. It was one of these latter fly-away strands that Bayber was trying to get to grips with.

"I have to hold your ear, Chief, in order to get the scissors—"

Chief Nightstick leapt to his feet, lucky not to cut himself, and turned on the old barber. "Listen, Bayber. How many years have I been coming here?"

"Sixteen, Chief," Bayber replied without having to think. How often had he counted them, over and over in his head?

"Sixteen. And in all that time have I ever told you how to cut hair? No! And how many times have you told me how to police the streets? Once! And how many times have you snitched on people? Countless times. And do you think I keep coming in here for your dribbling little haircuts? Of course not! Then I ask you, Bayber, why do you think I keep coming in here?"

"Er... for the chats?"

"Of course for the bloody chats. No! No, not for the chats, for the _information_ , man! Talking of which," the Chief's tone changed swiftly from angry to almost melodic. "What do you know about the Puft Puft Robbery?"

"The what, Chief?"

The Chief reverted back to angry mode. He was good cop, bad cop, rolled into one with little room in between. "I thought as much. You know who did it, don't you, Bayber?" the Chief pointed an accusing finger. "You and all your barber friends. Yes, I bet you even had a hand in it, didn't you? You and your mates with all those _scissors_!"

"No Chief. Honest. I haven't even heard of if. What was it again? Puft what?"

"Don't play the innocent with me, Bayber, you... you... _barber_!"

Bayber looked at Chief Nightstick with renewed apprehension. He closed the scissors he held, shifting them in his hand to a more offensive position. His caution was unnecessary. The Chief slammed his hat back on his head and stormed out of the shop leaving the door wide open. Bayber said a few choice words under his breath, staring angrily at the police chief's back.

The Chief glanced furtively up and down the street to make sure he wasn't being watched, or followed, then ran across to the waiting carriage. He shouted up at the driver, "Back to the station!" then jumped in.

"Any luck, Chief?" asked young Willams, the trainee.

"Let me give you a good piece of advice, Willstock. Never, and I mean never trust barbers. One day they're there, cutting your hair, nice as pie, the next thing you know, wham! It's all bloody gone!"

"I meant about the robbery, Chief."

"What robbery?"

"You know, the Puft Puft Robbery."

"Don't talk such drivel man!"

"So, he knew nothing, then?" Willams asked tentatively.

"What did I just tell you, Willsmith?"

"Right, Chief."

"I'm hungry!" the Chief bellowed. He thumped on the roof of the carriage, called out, "Driver! Head for Madra's place!" nodding satisfactorily in response to the driver's timid acknowledgment. "Tell me, Willstaff, what pressing matters must I deal with today?"

The trainee grabbed a file beside him and opened it.

"Well," he began, much happier contributing to proceedings, "Mr Bulldrip wants us to go around first thing and see him about those sheep."

"Sheep? Sheep? I'm a police officer, Willstint, I don't go around talking to people about bloody sheep! What else?"

"Well," said Willams, turning to the next sheet in the file. "Mrs Ramgate's, down on Suffrin Place, got broken into again. Apparently most of her stock of special cheeses was stolen."

"Cheeses? What is this town coming to?" Chief Nightstick slapped the chair beside him so loudly the horse pulling the carriage lost control of itself and dumped the contents of its entire lower intestine onto the cobblestones.

Willams quickly turned over and read aloud. "The vandals have been back at work too, Chief. More graffiti on the Welts Bowling Club walls. Quite obscene, it says here."

"I haven't got time to mess about with such trivia. Have the cleaner at the club see to it. Now, what else?"

"That's it, actually, Chief."

"Good. Another fine day's work!"

"There was just this, Chief." Willams handed the tall man a sealed envelope.

The Chief snatched it, tore it open and read it quietly to himself. Then he read it again, before banging on the carriage roof again. "Driver! Head for the Main Square! My presence is urgently required!" Then he looked over at the young trainee and smiled. "Well, Willsand, looks like you'll have to sort out Bulldrip's sheep, Mrs Ramgate's cheese and the graffiti artists by yourself. I've far more important matters to attend to!" He waved the letter at him.

# Russell Sprout (#9)

Breakfast was the chef's third favourite time of the day, behind dinner, without question his first, and lunch. In the small alleyway behind the restaurant he lit the remnants of an earlier smoke and looked about through narrow eyes. A black police carriage shot passed, the driver pushing his horse so fast the poor thing could hardly stay ahead of it. Above him a woman shook a rug out of a window. A chill wind whipped through the dark, back street, blowing the rubbish away, but Russell Sprout rarely felt the cold. His massive bulk was a good insulator. He flicked the smoke into a nearby puddle and strolled back inside.

_Get Stuffed_ had been going five years now, and not a day had gone by when Russell hadn't been in its kitchens, chopping this, slicing that, boiling or frying or steaming or roasting. "Burt!" he shouted. "We need more toenail surprise!"

A weedy teenager shuffled towards the fridge.

A knock on the side door sent the chef plodding over. He opened it with a large, fat hand.

In the alleyway a tall, pale man dressed entirely in tweed was picking his nose. When he saw the chef he dropped his hand and said, "Delivery for you, governor. Best baked beans on the market. Six cases. Bring them in, shall I?"

"And what of my sticklebacks? And my snake eggs? Do you have those too? I can't be expected to run a restaurant like this without even the most _basic_ of ingredients."

"Well, spot of trouble with the sticklebacks, actually, governor. Got you some lovely herring instead."

"Herring! Pah! When I say sticklebacks, I mean sticklebacks. I can't make stickleback flambé with _herring_ , can I?"

"Could call it, herring flambé, governor. No luck with the snake eggs either, I'm afraid," the man went on quickly. "Just can't get them this time of year. You know what snakes are like. If they're not sleeping on rocks, they're bleeding hibernating. Shall I bring in the baked beans?"

Chef Sprout sighed, reluctantly nodded.

"Add pumpkins to the list too, would you?" he called after the delivery man.

"Right you are, governor."

Russell returned to the kitchen and started deep frying toenails. The breakfast crowd appreciated free nibbles. He provided most of them himself and gladly ate the leftovers.

The morning was extremely busy. The lunch preparations descended upon him with startling speed. Before he gathered the ingredients for sprout and turnip salad, custard and bacon pie, boiled rice with roasted apples and his speciality of baked beans on toast on adder skin (when he could get hold of it), he decided to slip out the back for a quick smoke.

He'd promised his wife he'd give it up, or at the very least, cut down. He was now on two a day and two a night. If he arrived in work before six he would allow himself another one, because the day was that much longer than if he arrived at seven. And, if he left after nine, he could have one more then too, because the rules, growing ever more complex as the days went by, had to work both ways. After a week of this Russell had became ill from lack of sleep. His wife suggested he smoke to calm himself.

Rainclouds had been sweeping over Kramd all day, some of them grey, low and carrying rain, others white and fluffy with gaps between them large enough for the sun to look through. But as the afternoon slipped away and the evening descended, so did the rain. Russell stood beneath the wooden stairs of the fire escape, lit up and took a long draw, blowing out a great cloud of white smoke.

Down the alley towards him walked a rather dishevelled looking chap. The chef watched him for a while, wandering whether or not to offer him some leftover baked beans but a voice from the kitchens denied him the chance. Russell pegged the smoke and returned inside.

Waiting for him was the manager, a dark skinned man named Mr Welltadoo. He handed the chef a sealed envelope and walked back into the restaurant. Chef Sprout shrugged, slipped open the wax seal and read the letter within.

# Limp Softap (#10)

Cowering in the doorway, sheltering from the rain and hiding from the gang chasing him, Limp wiped at his bloody nose with a clean, white kerchief. All he could think about was the telling off Auntie Sox would give him for getting it covered in blood in the first place. He took off his cunningly doubled-glued-together monocles and wiped away the rain drops with a clean corner of the bloody kerchief. He quickly put them back on and scanned the alleyway behind him.

There they were! One of them pointed. Limp took off down the alleyway, splashing in puddles, struggling to maintain his grip on the bag of leather incontinence knickers he carried. When he reached the street he stopped and looked behind. They were closing on him, fast!

Which way do I go? he thought. Try and lose them by going home a different way and hope they don't get there before I do, or just run straight home and hope Auntie's there, waiting for me? Straight home! He turned left, crossed over Wide Street and entered Wiggle Way.

Cheers and shouts erupted from the gang behind, pursuing him relentlessly through the sodden streets. Why do they always chase me? thought Limp, growing dangerously tired. _Intimate Parts_ , the shop in which he worked was a quarter of a mile behind but he still wasn't half way home. He reached the end of Wiggle Way, turned onto Frompt Road and dived into the small newsagents on the corner.

As quickly as he could he moved towards the crisps and nuts stand and ducked down beside the newspapers. He peered through a gap in the shelf. Behind him a customer at the counter watched, frowning. Pillpat, the owner, called over to him. "Hey, buddy, come round the back here by me as quickly as you ruddy can now."

Limp stood up, danced his way anxiously around the back of the counter and slipped into the back room. Unfortunately, one of the gang chasing passed the shop happened to glance in and see him go in there. He called out to his mates and they entered the shop.

"Only three little school people in here at any one time. Can't you read the ruddy signs on the window or what." Pillpat asked, running a hand through his greasy, black hair.

"Where's Limp?" asked the tallest boy, wiping rain off his face.

"He's not in here today. I haven't seen him. Why don't you go and pick on somebody else for a change? Go on. Off with you."

"He dropped a book and we wanted to give it back to him," the tallest boy said casually but the sharpness of his eyes and his wicked little grin gave him away.

Unfortunately, Pillpat failed to notice both. "Oh, very well. He's in the back room there. Buddy!" Pillpat called out.

But Limp had overheard the conversation, and apologising to Mrs Pillpat for running through her kitchen, he pushed out the back door, ran down the small garden, leapt the fence and hurtled along a small, muddy path towards Nibblim Terrace.

"He's legged it!" shouted the tallest boy, and they all ran out the front door.

"Ruddy little school people," Pillpat observed, then went over to rearrange the bottles of beer on exhibit in the corner.

Limp burst onto Nibblim Terrace and turned right towards Wide Street. A few people drifted about on Wely District's main thoroughfare, keeping close to the shops to gain the most cover from the rain. Amongst these Limp ran. Wide Street curved gently southeast towards the river. Limp was heading for it, knowing that if he could cross the bridge without being intercepted his chances of getting home without being caught were much improved.

Unfortunately, by the time he got there a crowd of boys had gathered beneath a shelter at the bridge's west entrance. From the seclusion of a shop doorway he watched them. Waiting. Plotting a way passed.

An old woman inside the shop banged the window, shouting at him to get out of the way. He could wait no longer. He had to make a run for it. Just then, in contrast to his usual run of misfortune, a carriage swept into the street behind him. He ran towards it, watched it by, then grabbed at the back rail, leaping up and holding on, hoping nobody had seen him. The carriage was heading for the bridge and he was on the carriage. As he neared the gang his fear of being seen grew. He ducked down, pushing himself as close to it as possible.

When the carriage moved onto the bridge he wanted to shout at the gang, and laugh at them, but was too afraid. Instead he clung on for his life's worth, bag of knickers still clenched tightly in one hand. Soon he was half way across, then going down the far side. When the carriage turned right, he jumped off and ran straight on, along Bridge Street towards home. He'd escaped them. Again.

When he pushed open the door and entered the small living room, he found Auntie Sox crying in her armchair. Crumpled up on the floor beside her was a piece of paper.

"Auntie?" Limp said anxiously, dropping the bag of knickers beside her. "What's the matter? What's happened?"

"They're taking you away from me, boy!" she sobbed. "They're taking you away!"

"What do you mean? Who is? Taking me where?"

Auntie Sox grabbed the crumpled letter between thin, arthritic fingers and handed it to Limp. "You won't go, will you? You wouldn't leave poor little me all alone, would you?"

Limp Softap read the letter, ignoring the fact Auntie had opened it even though it was addressed to him. Well, he thought, even if Auntie doesn't want me to go, it doesn't look like I have much choice.

# Alice 'Thumper' Allfolk (#11)

A heavy fist, complete with a fine set of tattooed and bruised knuckles thumped loudly on the door of The Pickled Liver (a seedy tavern in Welts District's most infamous locale). Nearby dwellers lived in fear of the place, crossed the street to avoid it, and never, ever looked through the windows for fear of making eye contact with anyone inside. But for some, like Alice, it was their local. She feared no thing and no body, dead or alive, and was quick to clarify the fact to any body even remotely interested (of which there were very few).

Night was descending. The rain was falling heavier now than it had done all day.

Most people, even in Welts, were tucked away in cosy front rooms beside roaring fires, reading, sewing, playing darts (a surprisingly and inexplicably popular pastime in Kramd) or entertaining each other in salubrious ways.

Not Alice.

She only played one game, and it wasn't dominos, although it did involve a bunch of fives. "Open up in there, Spud, before I knock the door down!" she yelled, interlocking her fingers and bending them back, gratified by the tremolo click they made.

Nothing.

She hammered on the door. "Spud! I'm warning you, you little bah-ba—" Her outburst was abbreviated by the sound of a sliding dead bolt. Then another, and a third, then a lock clicked, then another, something heavy was dragged aside, then another locked clicked. Finally the door swung open. "Well it's about bah-bloody time!"

"Sorry, Alice. You're a bit early tonight," Spud replied sadly as if he'd long given up hope of finding happiness. He'd considered murdering his wife (there were many locals happy to accommodate him) but the thought of all the resulting paperwork was somewhat discouraging.

"Yes, and give me a shot chaser, too. One of those strong ones." Alice sat in her usual spot at the end of the bar and shuffled herself comfortable before tearing off her overcoat and hanging it on the hook beside her. She started drinking.

After half an hour she was a long way down the road to drunkenness. At least that was how she appeared. But unlike most people after a few swift ones, people who might start a jovial singsong, or recount rude jokes, make up stories, or even undress (of which there seemed an inordinate amount in Kramd), Alice scanned the room through narrow, angry eyes, seeking a victim.

She ignored the regulars. Fighting with them was growing tiresome. She was after new blood, a new challenge, a new adrenalin rush. In the far corner she spied just what she was looking for. She slipped off her stool, sniffed, then, pushing passed old Frank Perruplenose, walked purposefully across the bar.

The tourists were woefully lost. From beneath their brightly coloured Cacs (like Macs in many respects, but without the trademark infringement or royalty payment) they'd pop up their heads, look terrifyingly around, take a reluctant sip of half a beer and withdraw, pining audibly for God Knows What and trying to look like a pair of chairs. Alice sat down beside them and stared.

They were in their thirties, Alice guessed, and well off too, judging by their plush walking attire and small back packs. The man, bearded, fit, clean and wearing spectacles, his lady friend all prim and proper, lovely make-up, recently styled blonde hair. "I was sitting here," said Alice. "Bah-Before you came in."

"Well I'm terribly sorry," the bearded man replied doing his utmost to sound bold and unafraid, "but we are now. And, might I add, we were in the middle of a rather private conversation, so if you wouldn't mind..."

His attempt at effrontery was futile. Alice saw right through him. "If I wouldn't mind what?" she asked, staring at him menacingly.

"Moving along, there's a peach." The bearded tourist turned back towards his neat little wife and whispered something. She giggled. That was a mistake.

"Laughing at me now, are you?" Alice stared intensely at the wife.

Some of the regulars were glancing surreptitiously over, waiting for the inevitable, glad they were not in the tourists' position.

When the woman glanced at Alice, her laughter ceased abruptly. She frowned, looking apprehensively at her husband, then back at Alice. "I was not laughing at you, my dear woman, but at a rather funny anecdote my husband just imparted." She nodded after speaking, as if adding the full stop with her forehead.

"I don't like it when people whisper and laugh at me. What do you have to say about that anecdote then, eh?"

"Now, look, here, my, good, woman," the husband said, slipping into authoritative tone. "We want to be _alone_. Why don't you go off and annoy _some_ body else?"

Alice reached slowly across the table, picked up what remained of the man's stout, lifted it up and emptied the contents over the man's head. Then she knocked back the rest of her whiskey, belched, and leant towards the man whose look of surprise switched rapidly to concern. "You'll bah-be wanting to go to the bah-bar fuh-for another drink now, won't you? Seeing as you've got none left. Mine's a large shot. Do, be, a, good, fuh-fellow!"

"Right! That's it! Come on Deardre, we're leaving!"

"Not so fuh-fast," Alice said calmly, squeezing Deardre's arm tightly. "I haven't had my drink yet, And I don't like to bah-be kept waiting..."

The man looked at the fear in his wife's eyes and knew he would have to regain control of the situation rapidly (not that he'd ever been in control of it). "Look," he said, "let her go and I'll buy you a drink. There's no need for any of this to get out of hand."

Alice squeezed Deardre's arm until she winced. "I'm very thirsty."

Deardre's husband rushed over to the bar and spilled out three times the money required, shouting out, "Please hurry up Mr Barman. There's a maniacal woman over there threatening my wife."

Spud shrugged, grabbed for his poorest bottle of whiskey, knowing it was Alice's favourite.

"I like what you've done with your eyes," Alice said, staring at the traces of make-up on Deardre's lids.

"I beg your pardon?" Deardre retorted, trying without success to free her arm.

"Got any of that stuff in your bah-bag, have you?"

"I... might. If you would just let go..."

Alice released her grip.

Deardre grabbed for her bag, opened it and withdrew a small, round tub.

Alice snatched it, slipped it in her pocket. "Thanks," she said.

"But—" Deardre began, then thought better of it.

Her husband carried a large whiskey back to the table.

Alice snatched it, drank the lot, and asked for another one.

"Now come on," the husband complained. "We had a deal!"

"Did we? What was that then?"

"I buy you one drink, then we leave."

"That sounds alright. I'll have the same again."

"What the—" the husband shook his head and went back to the bar.

"Got any clean underwear in there?" Alice asked.

"Don't be daft!"

Alice shot out a hand, grabbed Deardre's right nipple through her thick, waterproof overcoat, squeezed and twisted it viciously.

Deardre screamed.

Her husband rushed over.

Alice stood up.

The man lunged at her.

Alice stepped to one side, bringing a fist down on the back of the his neck.

Deardre leapt at Alice.

Alice dodged aside easily.

Deardre stumbled into a man's back, apologised, then turned around.

Alice punched her in the face.

Deardre fell on top of her husband.

Both were out for the count.

Cheers erupted.

A few brave regulars slapped Alice on the back, very gently.

Cries of "Well done, Thumper!" echoed from every corner.

A well-drilled team came forward, stripped the hapless tourists of their valuables, carried them behind the bar and out the back, down the street, around a few corners, through a few narrow alleyways and into a small park. They were sat beside one another on a wet bench in the rain and left there. The mob returned to the tavern, singing merrily.

Alice took the make-up and a pair of earrings, letting the others share out the rest. A round of free drinks was poured and the party began. "I'm afuh-fraid I won't be here tomorrow," said Alice. "I got this strange letter this morning..."

# Nick Lotts (#12)

As the sun finally went down on another day in Kramd, opportunities for skulduggery were presenting themselves left, right and centre. Nick chose the one on the left and indicated his choice using quite bizarre yet undetectable hand signals to another dishevelled character fifty feet down the street. Choosing the left opportunity meant Rust's right hand would be closest to the tall gentleman with the cane and the top hat, walking casually down the other side of Blueberry Way. After a quick, furtive glance around at the other pedestrians (victims), Rust activated limp style C, shuffled across the cobblestones and walked towards the approaching gentleman.

About ten yards before reaching him, Rust faked a stumble, but walked on, inching ever closer to his prey. Just as they were passing one another, Rust stumbled again. The man, being a gentleman, and a human being, put out his hands to catch Rust, more to prevent a collision than out of concern for the falling party. Nick had anticipated this and told Rust to do the same and the split second Rust felt hands grab his shoulders, he shot out his right hand, untied the watch from its chain and pushed it up his sleeve, rapidly searched the gentleman's inside pocket, lifting a small purse of money which was also thrust up the sleeve with alarming dexterity, undid and secreted a copper bracelet in the same way, and given another half second, would have taken the gold fillings out of the gentleman's teeth too. By the time he'd righted himself and stood Rust up too, Rust was stepping aside. "Beg pardon, sir," the robber slurred, watching the man walk off down the street, completely unaware of what had just happened. Rust limped on until the man turned a corner, then legged it up the street to where Nick waited.

"Rust!" Nick snapped, wiping spots of rain off his thin, pale face and staring intently through eyes so small and brown they looked black. "I could see every move you made even from this distance! It was a miracle you didn't get caught. I thought I was training a thief, not a bloody circus act!"

"Sorry, Nick," Rust said, head bowed.

"Anyway!" Nick took the watch from Rust and slipped it in his pocket. Then he took the money bag, shared the coins out equally and tossed the purse aside. "Here, Rust, go and enjoy yourself. On a night like this pickings will be slim. We may as well be inside a nice, cosy tavern."

"Where are you going?" Rust asked timidly.

"Um..." Nick thought for a minute, wandering whether or not to tell the truth, or lie. "The Weak Bladder, I think. Pour a great pint of stout in there."

"Mind if I join you?"

"I've... just got a... few things to do first," he said. "I'll see you in there later."

"Alright!" Rust seemed quite pleased with that and, pulling his tatty coat off and throwing it in what looked like a bin but was actually one of many strategically placed and immovable storage containers Nick had secreted about the streets, to reveal a nice clean one beneath and strolled off down an alleyway towards The Weak Bladder.

Nick climbed up a nearby drain pipe to the roof of a house, ran lightly across the slippery slates, moving from one adjoining house to the next, ignorant of the fact the steady rain and darkening skies reduced visibility to almost zero.

Nick always went out at night, and over the years his beady black eyes had grown quite accustomed to fending for themselves. He reached the end of the row, climbed down a short ladder to a spot where he had a rope hanging (cunningly disguised as a clothes line) and untied what he called a Nick-Knot. Nobody in a hundred miles could have untied it. He formed a loop in a well measured two metre length and using a Nick-Pulley dragged himself effortlessly across the gap to the other side. He secured the rope with another Nick-Knot, climbed up a few rungs and jumped onto the roof of a warehouse.

"Um..." he said to himself, looking around, thinking quickly, plotting, planning, scheming. "Right!" he whispered, then ran towards the inverted V-shaped roof's lowest point, and a skylight on its south facing side. He ran slender fingers around its frame.

Seconds later he found what he was feeling for; a small gap beside a piece of the rotten frame. From his back pocket he retrieved a Nick-Pick, slipped it in the gap, pulled it forward, then pushed it left, towards the catch holding the skylight closed. With a flick of the wrist the catch opened and the window too. He glanced around at the dark skies before opening the skylight and dropping silently and unseen inside.

Beneath him was a walkway. He knew that. He'd checked out the place a few times in recent weeks. He also knew that at six of the clock every Friday evening the security guards changed shift; at the main entrance on the far side of the warehouse. He pulled the skylight closed behind him and ran to a flight of narrow stairs leading down into the darkness. Silently, he descended into a maze of crates.

His eyes quickly adjusted to the darkness and within a minute he'd found the crate he sought. With another blade on his small Nick-Knife he levered open one side, ignoring the crumpled bits of paper that fell silently to the floor, pushed his hand into the crate and rummaged around.

A second later he withdrew a small tin from its centre, pushed it inside his black tunic, collected the balls of paper, pushed them back inside the crate, closed it and ran back to the stairs. He climbed them two at a time, opened the skylight, slipped through and closed it behind him. He took long, deep breaths of wet, cold air before racing back across the warehouse roof to his Nick-Pulley and crossing back to the houses.

He didn't follow his steps back to the drain pipe, that would have been too risky. Instead, he moved to the side of the house and climbed down some old guttering. He dropped the last few yards, landing with a soft splash in a puddle. He instantly dropped low, looked around.

Bloomwinkle Road was empty. He ran across it to an alleyway and disappeared into the rain soaked night. He arrived at the back door of his lodging house some ten minutes later. He slipped inside, ran upstairs to his room, opened the door and went in, locking the door behind him. He withdrew the small tin, dropped it on the bed, crossed to the window, pulled a heavy drape, lit a lantern and put it on a bed-side table. He grabbed the tin, rested it on his lap and opened it.

What he found startled him. The gemstones he'd expected to find weren't present. Neither was the roll of money Slinky the Rogue had told him about. He realised he'd been doublecrossed and by a newcomer. How embarrassing!

There was _something_ in the box though.

A sealed envelope.

He picked it up, turned it over. His name was written on the front. Beneath it was a message. "We've been watching you. Better luck next time. Follow the instructions inside and we'll forget all about this unfortunate incident."

Nick pushed the lantern under the bed, crossed to the window and peered through a small gap in the curtain. He couldn't see anybody outside. He was positive nobody had seen him breaking into the warehouse, which could only mean one thing. A set up. He dropped the curtain, returned to the bed, retrieved the lantern and opened the letter.

It went thus:

To the addressee,

On behalf of The Right Honourable J Daniel, Second Duchess of Kramd and all those present in the POO (Police Objection Offices) in the Shire of Pue Damlla (and all its affiliated surrounding shires), in the Kingdom of Southern Walia, we hereby demand your presence in Room 12, Council Building, Main Square, Kramd, at nine of the clock, tomorrow morning.

Signed, for and on behalf of, etc.

PS. Failure to attend will result in serious consequences!

# Part Three

The Affiliation

#  Introductions

Doze Murmuring pushed her hands down on her knees as she climbed the last step of the mighty staircase. She stood as tall as she could, thrust her arms out wide and yawned. Below her the grand entrance hall with its marble floor, tapestry covered walls, reception desk, glass doors and elegant lounge echoed with the sound of clicking footsteps. Women in short skirts, tall shoes and thin legs walked beside smartly dressed gentlemen in waistcoats, wigs, and fat backs, all engaged in whispered conversations, crisscrossing the vast room below like perfectly choreographed ballerinas.

The old widow turned away, feeling a little dizzy and ambled along the corridor in search of Room 12... annoyed that the room was not on the ground floor and that the building was not in fact next door to her home.

She passed a strange, oblong box attached to the wall with a brass tube protruding from its top and a foot pump beneath it. A sign nearby read W TER. She checked nobody watched, leaned in and relaxed a foot on the pump. A violent little spout of water erupted from the pipe with such force it dislodged a ceiling tile.

Doze jumped back and walked briskly away.

The corridor was wide and plush. Potted plants alternated left, right, left; camouflaging wooden benches. The door to Room 12 was all the way at the end of the corridor on the right hand side, just as the patronizing little woman (with a newly acquired bruise on her upper arm) behind the desk in the entrance hall had so dramatically and condescendingly declared. On it was a crudely nailed parchment with the carefully inscribed words...

County Caught

Doze pressed her ear against the door and listened. In the room beyond a woman was speaking. With a sigh of reluctance she turned the handle and poked her head around. Fourteen people turned and looked at her. Doze gulped and was about to retreat when a tall, elegant woman dressed in black called out.

"You must be..." she scanned a list "...Mrs Murmuring. Doze?"

Doze nodded.

"Please, come in."

"You're not going to force a discount on me for being late, are you?"

The woman discarded her confused expression, smiled warmly and walked over. "Of course not," she said, taking Doze's arm and leading her inside. She closed the heavy door behind them.

And locked it.

The room was vast but in its centre was a table so vast itself it made everything else, including the people sitting around it, seem miniature. Well, almost everybody sitting around it; there was rather large gentleman down one end dressed in a chef's apron who looked normal sized. Its polished, solid oak surface glistened beneath the soft glow of a dozen lanterns, dotted equidistant around the walls. Portraits hung between them, all of men in silly white wigs holding hammers or standing near untidy desks.

"Please," said the tall, elegant woman, "take your seat." She pointed at a gap between a spotty teenager and a pale man with small, black eyes.

Doze waddled over and squeezed into a large, oak chair between them. She glanced at the teenager who forced a weak, rather worried smile. "Would you mind leaning back, young man," Doze whispered, "I can't see properly."

"Oh, right," said Limp Softap, sitting back in his chair and turning away nervously.

"For your benefit, Doze, I'll start again," said the woman in black, glancing at a grandfather clock in the far corner.

An emaciated little woman sitting directly opposite Doze tutted loudly at that.

It was nearly a quarter passed nine. "My name is Julia Daniel. I'm a judge. This is The Honourable Jason Stiff," she indicated a corpse-like gentleman to her right, "and this is Gerald Dumpy," she said, pointing at a short, sweaty, bald man to her left who looked barely alive.

"We work for Mr Peter Nudders' Sometimes Wrongright Liberty Office Agency. Now I dare say many of you will be wondering why you have been summoned here this morning. Let me explain." Nobody gave much thought to who Mr Peter Nudders may or may not be, which is fortunate for had they done so the entire plot would have swiftly unravelled. So please, don't give his name another thought. Pretend I didn't mention it. I mean, him.

Miss Daniel pressed on without providing opportunities for interruption. "As it stands, one judge, of which there are many, determines the guilt or innocence, punishment or pardon, for those suspected offenders. But now we're implementing a policy whereby the wonderful people of the great Kingdom of Southern Walia shall determine a person's guilt or innocence. The crimes we intend trying people for are many, ranging from theft, to assault, to even murder! Yes, murder! You have been chosen, at random, by us, to form the very first gathering of its kind, anywhere in the Duchy." Julia spoke with such enthusiasm it was difficult not to share her utopian viewpoint.

She continued. "We do not charge you with this duty lightly. Oh no! Your task is one of the hardest any man or woman can undertake. You twelve, by means of a majority of ten in categories A through F and a simple majority in other categories, must not only decide the innocence or guilt of the person or persons on trial, but you must also determine, from a predetermined short list, who is responsible, and for what. Now, before I impart details of the crime you must adjudicate, I would like you all to introduce yourselves to one another. Perhaps if you would start?" Julia pointed at Chief Nightstick, sitting proudly at the head of the table.

The Chief cleared his throat. "Yes, Jessica," he said mistakenly. "I'm Chief Nightstick, formerly of the TICTACS (Town's Inner Crime & Totally Anti-Crime Squad), now Chief of the INCPAWS (Inner City Police Authority, Welts District). My hobbies include ballroom diving, bridge crossing, and shooting those little birds you find fluttering about on the floor of—"

_"Yes_ , yes, yes, Chief Nightstick," Julia interrupted. "That's all we need to know for the time being." She looked at the woman to his left. "Would you continue, please?" she asked.

Alice Allfolk clicked her fingers, leant forward on the table and looked at each member of the gathering. "I'm Alice Allfuh-folk, and if any of you mess with me, right, you'll be bah-bloody sorry you ever set eyes on me!"

A moment's stunned silence passed. It did so rather quickly, in case Alice got annoyed with it and turned her wrath upon it.

Eventually Miss Daniel said, "Next," and looked at Nick Lotts.

"Um..." said Nick, plotting and scheming behind those narrow, beady eyes of his. "Christ!" he screamed suddenly, pointing at the door. When all eyes turned that way, he leant forward and pinched a writing quill off the table, slipping it up his sleeve. "Um..." he said again, drawing everybody's gaze once again. "I'm... Steve. Yes, Steve. Steve... Stevens. Yes. And I had nothing to do with that supermarket break-in. Just like to point that out. Next!"

"It says on the my list you're name is... Nicholas Lotts."

"Um... Does it?" said Nick, sounding surprised. "There we are then."

"So, are you him?"

"Um... Yes, I am." said Nick, nodding. Then, "Oh Christ Almighty!" he cried, falling off his chair and slipping under the table. He came up seconds later with a small section of carpet wrapped around his upper left thigh. "Um... spot of cramp. That's all. Nothing to worry about. Everything's normal. Nothing. Stolen. Ha ha. Next!"

"Just a minute!" Julia said, trying desperately to retain control of proceedings. "Are you Nicholas Lotts?"

"Um... What day is it today?"

"Saturday. What's that got to do with it?"

"I like Saturday's. Lots of victims out shopping. People. Shoppers. Next!"

Julia sighed, turning to face Doze. "Next!" she said.

Nothing.

"Next!"

Limp saw Doze asleep and gave her a gentle nudge.

She woke with a start. "Call it a nice round tenner," she said.

"Would you like to introduce yourself to everyone else, dear?" Julia asked.

"Don't patronise me! I'm fifty one! And I can still pinch. You ask _her_ out the front."

Julia smiled, switched to diplomatic mode and asked Doze again.

"Oh, very well," Doze puffed, then yawned. "Doze Murmuring. Got a wonderful furniture shop down on Wiggle Way. Get all your furniture there, but don't expect bargains! That's what I say. And don't come in unless you know what you want and how much it costs. I'm a busy woman you know!"

"Um, right, thank you, Doze," Julia said. "Next."

Limp, head bowed, whispered almost incoherently, "I'm Shrimp Limtop- No! Limp Softap. Sorry, bit nervous. I work in _Intimate Parts_. On Friday's. Yes. That's me."

"Nice one, nice one," mumbled a man sitting opposite, momentarily drawing glances from a few. Richard Fondler gave the young boy a wink and a knowing nod.

"Would you mind speaking up a bit?" Julia asked.

Limp repeated himself, this time much quieter.

"I'm afraid we can't hear you."

"I'm Limp!" shouted Limp.

"Like it! Like it!" said Richard.

"Alright, Limp..." Julia checked her list. "Softap. Next."

"Is it alright if I smoke?" the enormous man beside limp asked. "Only my wife says I have to in order that I get enough sleep. Anybody mind?" A few people mumbled. "Right then, good. I'm Russell Sprout, head chef in that fantastic little restaurant on Hembarger Street, _Get Stuffed_. My speciality is beans on toast with sprinkling crunchy newt scrotums. Anybody fancy some now? It wouldn't take me long to rustle up something and I've also got a few scrotum nibbles on me I could use—"

_"Thank you_ , Mr Sprout," Julia interrupted.

"I do a bloody good stickleback surprise—"

"Next!" Julia shouted over him.

Chef Russell rolled a smoke.

"Professor Regius, PONAPAWU (Professor of Neurology and Psychology at Welts University), HOD (Head of Department), CS3 (Chief of Section Three) and lover of Cleff's arias. In all my dreams not once did such a novel idea as this one present itself. Jolly good show, Miss Daniel."

As Julia was about to continue the Professor added, "Please, everyone, just called me Professor."

"Next."

"Yes, well, I'm Millie. Millie Watt. Wife and housekeeper, mother of four, dish washer, cook, cleaner, trouser press, coordinator of playtime activities, underwear folder, coat hanger, decorator and inventor. Look at this." From her pocket Millie withdrew a small, wooden box. She placed it delicately on the table before her, slowly withdrew, and waited for a response.

"What is it?" Julia asked.

"It's a box."

"Er, yes. I can see that. What does it do?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well, you can't just invent a box, can you?"

"Why not? Nobody's done it before."

"Um, yes. That's really good. Next?"

"Well, darling – like what you've done with hair by the way – the name's Richard Fondler, but my friends call me Dick. Builders labourer, (all weather), heavily muscled, fine physique, handsome (even if I do say so myself) and one hell of a good shag—"

Doze sneezed, mumbled something about exploitation.

"Next!" said Julia quickly, nervously.

"Yes, I would just like to point out, before we go any further, that that woman over there was six and a half minutes late this morning yet nobody said anything! Am I the only one who noticed? Well, am I?" Anna clicked her neck and spun it around on her shoulders a few times. She looked like a bewildered chicken. She waited but nobody seemed as concerned by the passing of time as she did. She sighed. "I'm Anna Rowbik, owner of Fit not Flab Health Spa on Wasteline Way. Here's my card." At which point she dipped into a purse and threw a card towards each person around the table much like a highly trained ninja might dispense with shurikens.

Nick, quicker than a flash, grabbed the four cards closest to him, slipped one up his left sleeve, one up his right and two down the front of his trousers. Limp saw him but said nothing. He would rather go without than cause a scene.

"I'm Brim Cranium. Student of chemistry in Welts University. And I got this bump on my head falling off my bicycle yesterday, in case anybody's interested." Judging by the response it seemed that nobody was.

"Next."

"I'll have a half," slurred Tiddly Loosebottom, giggling.

"Your name?"

"No, Tiddly's my name. Tiddly Loosebottom."

"Right then, n—"

"Excuse me, but I wouldn't mind trying that beans on toast thing," Tiddly said, slipping a hip flask to her lips and taking a quick mouthful of strong liquor. "Not sure about the scrotums though. Not partial to them, me."

"It'll be a pleasure, madam," Russell replied, struggling to get out of his chair.

"We haven't got the time!" Julia interrupted. "Maybe when you break for lunch? Now. I think that's everyone. So," she said with a big sigh, "let me explain to you all what's happened and what we want you to do about it."

# Explanations

"Last weekend on the northern skirts of the city in Pea-Soope House, five people died. We think they were murdered." Julia paused there for effect, looking at each member of the gathering in turn, trying to assess their thoughts.

"We know where this happened; in the dining room. What we don't know is why or by whom. Basically, it's your job to determine the facts. We will provide you with any information you need, but we will not, I repeat, not, volunteer this information to you. We rely on your good judgement to request anything of relevance.

"We also have every person who was in the house that night in custody, right here, in this building. We would suggest that you speak to them. But again I stress, who you speak to, if anyone, is entirely up to you." Softly, Julia added, "Although how else you expect to gain knowledge of events without interviewing the people left alive is quite beyond me."

"Did you say five people were murdered, Janice?" Chief Nightstick asked, flicking Anna's business card around in his fingers.

"Yes, five. And the tragedy is, three of them were teenagers. One only twelve."

"And the others? Who were they?" the Chief asked.

"One man, in his fifties, and an elderly woman."

"Can I go to the privy, please?" Limp Softap asked.

Julia shook her head. "Please, let me finish the briefing first."

"It's been running for twenty one minutes... exactly," Anna said.

"Would you mind..." Richard pointed at the chef's tobacco tin.

Russell Sprout nodded, pushing it across the table towards him.

"Gerald, get a few ashtrays, or something, will you?" Julia asked.

Gerald nodded. "Anything else, Miss?"

"Um... A few pitchers of water, a dozen tankards, some quills, ink pots, and a few score sheets of parchment."

"Yes, Miss." Gerald slipped out a side door.

"Your first task," Julia said loudly, then waited for the mumbling to fade, "is to select a chairman. Somebody through whom we interface."

"Well, Janet, that'll be me, obviously," said the Chief.

"Think you're a bit of a leader, do you?" Alice asked him menacingly.

"I don't want to do it," Limp mumbled.

Doze snored happily beside him.

"I want to do it all the time!" Richard chuckled.

"Oh, stop wasting time!" Anna said.

"A number of options present themselves," said the Professor.

"One more word fuh-from you mate, and I'll bah-break your fuh-feckin arm!" Alice shouted. "And as fuh-for you," Alice glared at Richard, "you stinking little pervert—"

"Please, everyone," Julia interrupted. "Please. Let me finish. When you select your chairman, or chair _woman_ ," she glanced at Alice, "that person will be held responsible for the organisation of the gathering. You must also select a vice chairman, should anything extraordinary happen." Gerald returned at that point, pushing a large trolley. He deployed its contents around the table and left, Jason in tow. "Right!" Julia said with an air of finality. "We shall leave you now, until noon. Select your chairman, decide upon your course of action and knock on the door over there if you want anything brought to you. You are not to leave this room! The privy's through there," she told Limp, pointing at a door in the corner. After one last look at each of the gathered, she left, tapping her breast pocket, wondering where her quill had gone.

# Appointments

"Before the debate heightens to monstrous proportions let me share my thoughts with you all," said the Professor, leaning forward, elbows on the table, thin fingertips steepled beneath his chin. "From what I can see we have four options. One. Perhaps there are only a few amongst us who wish to be elected. If there are but two, our problem is solved immediately. Two. We put all the names into a hat. The first one drawn acts as chairperson, the second as vice-chairperson. Three. We each nominate a candidate for chairperson and vice-chairperson. Those receiving the greatest number of nominations are elected. And finally, my recommended course of action, we vote by secret ballot, after each offering reasons as to why we should be chosen." He sat back.

"What a load of fuh-feckin rubah-bbish!"

"We're wasting time!"

"Fancy going to the privy with me, Limp?" Richard asked, winking.

Limp shook his head, moving closer to the huge chef beside him.

"But I want to be chairman!" the Chief bellowed. "I'd be damned good at it!" A little more quietly he added, "I haven't got any hair, I know, but why should _that_ stop me?"

"Don't want to get involved. Still got a headache," Brim rubbed his temples, seeking sympathy, but nobody was paying him any attention.

Nick was trying desperately to get his boot over the top of one of the water urns he'd surreptitiously removed from the table when the arguments had started. It was proving one hell of a challenge.

"Anybody fancy a little drinky?" Tiddly asked.

That was it. The Professor had had enough. He banged his hand on the table. "Quiet! Quiet!" He waited for silence. "Let us each take turns, airing our desires and reasons for election. I shall start, and we will work clockwise around the table."

"Why can't I start?" the Chief asked.

"I'm going to start!" Alice thundered.

"I'd be quite happy to go last," Limp said feebly.

"Alright!" the Professor snapped. "Alice, you go first and we shall work counter clockwise around the table from your position."

"Right!" bellowed Alice. "I want to be chairwoman _and_ vice chairwoman, fuh-for a start. And don't give me any nonsense about needing two people or I'll smash your fuh-feckin fuh-faces in. Got it? Anybuh-body who doesn't vote for me is in real trouble!"

A moment of silence passed.

"I would like to put myself forward as prospective chairman," the Chief said. "Don't let this woman bully you! I can offer good table manners, a nice bald head which nobody seems to notice any more, insight into the technicalities of hair styling and..."

"I'd rather just sit here and drink, actually," said Tiddly.

"My head's so bad I can barely stay conscious. I'd better—"

Anna interrupted him. "I'd quite like to be vice chairwoman, because I seem to be the only one here even remotely concerned about how long this will all take. Do any of you realise we've been in this room for almost forty eight minutes?"

"I propose we decide this in a different way," Richard said slyly. "What we should do is, Anna here," he rested a large hand on her right shoulder, "and I, should start the ball rolling. Whoever can go at it for the longest deserves the right to be chairman."

"No. Thank. You!" Anna said, slapping away his hand.

"Well, please yourselves. Only an idea." He winked at Anna.

"I'd rather not be chairman or anything," said Millie, "but if any of you have ever seen anything like this before..." at which point she withdrew a small ball from her purse and put it on the table, "tell me now!"

Everyone looked at it. Except Doze, who slept peacefully.

"What is it? Some kind of sexual, torture device?" Richard asked, leaning over, ensuring his shoulder touched Millie's. "Oh my God! It's a testicle, isn't it?"

"Er, no. It's a stress reduction tool."

"Is it? Like it. Like it!"

"How does it work, Karen?" the Chief asked.

"You squeeze it."

_"Really_? Like it! _Like_ it!"

"Moving swiftly on," said the Professor. "I can bring order from this chaos and resolve the situation most swiftly. In my role as professor at the University I am more than familiar with the techniques of group organisation. I regard myself as your best choice for chairman."

"I tell you what," said Russell Sprout. "I'll refrain from putting myself forward as either chairman or vice-chairman because I'll be making beans on toast most of the time I'm here. Talking of which...?"

"I'm a bit peckish, actually," Tiddly said.

"Beans on toast, madam?"

"Sounds nice. Can I have a pie with it?"

"Pies I didn't bring with me, madam. I have scrotums?"

"Na. Not keen on vegetables, thanks."

"But they're not..."

"I don't want to do anything," said Limp.

"Would somebody wake that woman up?" the Professor said despairingly.

Limp gave Doze a nudge.

"Fifteen?" she asked, lifting her head off the table.

"Your turn, Mrs Murmuring," said Limp.

"Look, sonny, I've warned you about coming in here before."

"Pardon?"

"Are you going to buy it or what? I can't wait around all day, you know."

"I don't understand."

"Well bugger off out of my shop, then, you—"

"Madam!" the Professor interrupted.

Doze glared at him.

"Would you like to be considered for chairwoman?"

"Chair? I've got lots of chairs, why would I need another one?"

"Very well," the Professor looked at the man beside her. "Nick, is it?"

"Um... No. Call me Jeff. Yes. Jeff."

"Er, Jeff, then. Would you like to nominate yourself?"

"Yes. No! Better stay in the shadows— I mean background."

"Right, well, that's it. Let's vote."

"How?" Brim asked, rubbing the lump on his head.

"Tear up squares of parchment, right a name on it, then toss it on the table."

"Cor blimey!" said Richard. "Can I really?"

The Professor glanced at him.

A piece of parchment was handed to everyone and names were written upon them. All were thrown in the middle of the table then gathered together briskly by Anna Rowbik, keener than most to hurry things along. She opened the first one and read aloud, "Alice," then made a mark next to Alice's name on a list beside her. She opened the next one, "Professor." She made a mark next to his name. The next, "Professor." And the rest, "Me. Me. The Professor. Professor. Professor. Piece of paper with no name on it. The Professor again. Alice. Chief. And me again! Right, lets add these up." A moment of keen silence passed. "Well..." Anna began. "It looks like the Professor will be the chairman, and I shall be the vice-chairwoman."

Alice jumped to her feet, knocking her chair over backwards. Nick Lotts and the Chief both moved away. "Fuh-feckin fuh-fix!" she screamed.

"My good woman, we all voted, did we not?" the Professor said diplomatically.

"Somebody didn't!" Alice was getting red in the face.

"An abstention."

"No it's not! Here it is!" Alice grabbed for and held aloft the blank piece of parchment, waving it at everyone in turn.

"No," said the Professor calmly. "An abstention means the person did not wish to vote. As is everybody's right to do. Or not to do."

"Well it all sounds a bah-bit dodgy, if you ask me!"

"I'll give you something dodgy," was Richard Fondler's contribution.

"I'd rather not get involved," said Limp.

"I think I'm going to faint." Brim wobbled in his chair.

"Listen to me you little pervert—"

"Order! Order," The Professor cried. "Please, ladies and gentlemen."

"I was just going to say that," said the Chief.

"Call it a nice, round tenner," said Doze in her sleep.

"Everyone, please!" shouted the Professor, waiting for Alice to take her seat. "Does anybody want to have another vote?"

Alice raised her hand, but nobody else did. "Come on you bah-bunch of—"

"We live in a democracy. You have been out voted. Sit down and be quiet," the Professor was losing patience, and thinking himself in a classroom, quite forgot who he was speaking to.

Alice stood up and walked around the table to him. She leant forward and, watched by everybody in the room, whispered in his ear. "I know where you live, matey. You make a fool of me again and I'll pop around one night for a chat. Alright?"

The Professor, slightly shaken, nodded his head. Then, thinking quickly, came out with, "Alice has just made a wonderful suggestion. Now we have elected a chairman and vice-chairwoman, we should consider our best course of action. Thank you, Alice. Exceedingly well done."

Alice, somewhat bemused, returned to her seat.

"I wouldn't like to meet her in a dark alley," Richard whispered.

"I'd rather meet her than you," Anna replied.

"Little drinky, anybody?"

"How about beans or toast but with a garnish of sticklebacks?"

"Look! It's almost ten!"

"Very well, then," the Professor said, "Has anybodeeeeeee—" Before he could finish, Alice had flown across the table and now had one of his nipples violently twisted between her powerful thumb and forefinger.

# Formulations

Some time later (sixteen minutes, according to Anna), when things had become even more agitated, half a dozen hands were raised and everyone was speaking at once. The Professor screamed, "Order!" a number of times at the top of his voice, and finally, at five minutes passed the hour of ten of the clock, silence descended. "Let us each take turns. It's the fairest way. And, seeing as it was Alice's idea, why not let her go first?" It might have been a cowardly road the Professor walked, but he wasn't stupid.

"Me first again. Good! Right, we should get all the suspects into the room at the same time and make them fuh-fight each other. Whoever wins gets to pick who done it."

"That's just how we used to do it in the old days," said the Chief, a tearful glint in his eye. "I've lost all my hair since then, though..."

"Whoever vomits after drinking the most must be guilty of something!" Tiddly said, terminating the sentence with a hiccup and a giggle.

"I really do feel quite sick, now," said Brim, "perhaps somebody would—"

"Whichever way turns out to be the quickest is fine by me," Anna interrupted.

"I take my time," said Richard, nudging Anna.

"I think we should speak to them all, like the lady said."

"I agree," said the Professor.

"We could have a stickleback eating competition," suggested Russell.

"I don't know, really," Limp sighed. "But I _would_ like to go to the privy."

Doze was still asleep.

"So what's it to be then?" Alice asked impatiently.

"We should speak to each of the witnesses in turn," the Professor decided. "All in favour?"

Limp put his hand up but only because he wanted to use the privy. The Chief scratched his head and was counted in. Tiddly raised her hand, asked for another half and giggled. Brim rubbed his head and was counted too. And Anna, Richard, Millie and the Professor all raised their hands.

"That's eight," said Anna. "And it's nearly ten passed now, by the way. I normally go out running about now."

"That's an obvious majority," the Professor said.

"I didn't vote for it!"

"That doesn't matter, Alice."

"Saying I have nothing to contribute, are you?"

"On the contrary. You're being most helpful."

"Would you like some beans on toast?"

"Oh fuh-for Christ sake man!"

"I would," Tiddly slurred, taking another sip from her hip flask.

"Can I go now, please?" Limp asked, hand still raised.

"Oh, very well. We'll take a short break."

"Make it eight and a half minutes. It'll be twenty passed by then."

"When we come back, we'll start calling in the witnesses."

"How about twenty." Doze called out.

Limp waddled off towards the privy.

Richard waited for him to get inside, then went after him.

Anna checked her watch, then fell to the floor and did some press-ups.

Nick was pulling the back off one of Doze's earrings.

The Chief, with great reluctance, was arm wrestling with Alice.

The Professor was going through the witness list with Millie.

Brim fainted.

# Part Four

The Arbitration

# Animal Lover

It was nearly half ten when Brim was restored to consciousness. Alice had suggested a good smack around the head, Russell had wafted a few scrotums beneath his nose, the Professor had suggested smelling salts and the Chief had warned everybody to leave the poor boy's hair alone otherwise they would have to answer to him, but Millie, being an experienced mum, new exactly what to do. She leant beside him and, at the top of her voice, shouted, "You're going to be late!" That brought him round but did nothing to alleviate Brim's pounding head. And so, once again, everybody was sitting around the table, eager to continue... I use the word 'eager' quite incorrectly. Doze was asleep. She'd had quite a busy morning by her standards.

"Alright. Is everybody ready?"

"Who's going to ask the questions?" the Chief enquired.

A moments thought. "We should all ask, in turn, starting with Alice as before."

"Then it's me, is it?" the Chief confirmed.

The Professor nodded.

"Despite the hair— thing?"

The Professor nodded again.

"We don't even know who's dead, yet!" Millie pointed out.

"Good point, misses!" Richard said, leering at her.

"I feel dead," said Brim, rubbing his head and looking around glumly.

"We shall ask the first gentleman on the list who died. That will be a free question, following up with Alice's, then the Chief, and so on around the table."

"Should we put a time limit on the question and answer?" Anna asked hopefully, lifting a water urn with alternate arms.

"Better not, I think," the Professor said. "We are, after all, trying to find a murderer of five people. We must be certain who did it. We must be patient with one another though, and let whomever's turn it is to finish _before_ asking our own questions. If you do not wish to ask anything, simply say, 'pass'."

"We're closed," mumbled Doze. "Come back Wednesday."

Limp glanced at her, then at Alice, then quickly faced front. After looking at Alice, Mr McIllums would never seem quite so frightening again.

"Alright," the Professor said, struggling to his feet and walking over to the door. He knocked, and waited. A moment later Gerald opened it. "We'd like you to send in the people on this list one at a time. Starting with him."

Gerald nodded, closed the door.

The Professor returned to his seat.

At twenty minutes before eleven of the clock, the side door opened and in walked Lord David William Pea-Soope. He looked haggard as he entered the room.

"Please, take a seat," the Professor said, pointing at a chair.

Lord Pea-Soope slumped into it, head bowed looking up through red eyes.

"You did it, didn't you!" the Chief said.

The Professor glared at him.

The Lord didn't reply.

"The first thing we want to know Lord; who's dead?" the Professor asked.

Lord Pea-Soope didn't answer immediately. He sat there, rubbing his eyes.

"Come on," Anna encouraged him. "Time is money."

"My daughter," said his Lordship sadly.

"Oh, dear," said Millie.

"Anybody else?" Anna asked.

"Agnes Loostocking, Buck Hoot-Kayke, Douglas and Bill Wettgrass."

"Yes," Anna said, "that makes five."

"Alice? Would you like to ask something?" the Professor said.

"Yes. Did you do it?"

Lord Pea-Soope shook his head.

"Did your _barber_ do it?" the Chief asked.

Another shake of the head.

"Um," the Professor interrupted. "Perhaps our questions should be a little more searching. We are, after all, seeking the truth. Perhaps if we could start again?"

"You ask what _you_ like!" Alice retorted. "I'll ask what I fuh-feckin like."

"It sounded a perfectly reasonable question to me!" the Chief retorted.

The Professor sighed, rubbing long fingers through his wild hair.

"Are you a bah-bit of a fuh-fighter?"

The Lord shook his head.

"Um... next."

"Tell me, my Lord, who cuts your hair?"

"What?" Lord Pea-Soope looked up for the first time.

"Just answer the question, please."

"A man comes to the house."

"Short chap, is he?"

"Quite short, yes."

"I thought so."

"Is there any point to these questions, Chief?" the Professor asked.

The Chief continued unperturbed. "Got a beard has he?"

"Um... a small one, yes."

"And is it brown?"

"No, not really," the Lord sighed.

"Black, then."

"No. Look, what's this all about?"

"I'll ask the questions, thank you very much. What colour is this barber's beard?"

"Grey. But it used to be red."

"Look, Chief, are you quite finished?" the Professor asked.

"Bloody barber's," the Chief mumbled, but nodded.

"What's the most you've ever drunk without being sick?"

Lord Pea-Soope looked at Tiddly and shook his head.

"Go on, you can tell me."

"A few bottles of wine, I suppose," the Lord was confused.

"Pathetic, that is."

"Pass," said Brim in a high pitched voice that made him wince.

"I had lots of questions, but we're short on time, so..."

"No, Anna. You should ask them."

"How old was you daughter?"

"She would have been seventeen next week."

"Oh dear. Pass."

"Was she, attractive, this daughter of yours?" Richard asked.

"She was beautiful."

"Like it. Did she have a boyfriend?"

"She— well— she liked the farmer's son."

"The one that's dead?"

"No, she liked Tom."

"And what did he think of her?"

"Well... my wife would know more than me."

"And what does she look like? Bit of a... you know, is she?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well, we're both men, I mean..."

Lord Pea-Soope shook his head.

Millie had been thinking a little more than the others. "Why?" she asked.

"Why what?"

"Why do you think your daughter was killed?"

"I don't know. Perhaps she wasn't. I can't be sure."

"You think she killed herself?"

"No! How could she have? My little girl..."

"There were five deaths altogether. What would be your best estimate for the duration of darkness following the extinguishing of the lanterns and candles around the room?"

"I would say about two or three minutes."

"Enough time for one person to kill five people?"

"I don't know. I just—" Lord William began to sob.

Around the table, worried and confused glances were exchanged.

"Stickleback anyone?" Russell broke the silence.

Head shakes all around.

"What about you, sir?" The chef persisted, holding out a small, brown paper bag in the direction of his lordship.

"No."

"Do you not like sticklebacks?"

"No!"

"Scrotums?"

"Let's move on," the Professor interjected.

It was Limps' turn. He was very nervous, but said, "We have the... seating plan here, Sir um Lord, and you were at the end of the table furthest from the... dead people. What did you do when the lights went out?"

"I called out to everyone, telling them to remain calm, then left the room to check on the dogs in the next room, where we keep the lantern lighters and spare candles."

Doze was still asleep. And missing a right earring. And a right shoe.

Limp gave her a nudge.

"What do you mean, too expensive?" Doze raised her head.

"Ask your question, madam," advised the Professor.

"What did you pay for your last kitchen chair?"

"A hundred and fifty."

"Bit of a rich bugger, are you?"

"Well..."

"You stay out of my shop then! I don't want your stinking money."

"Oh."

"Got lots of valuables in your house have you?" Nick asked as nonchalantly as he could.

The Lord nodded.

"And where is it, exactly?"

"It's Pea-Soope House."

"How far outside the town?"

"About a mile. Why?"

"Oh, nothing. Call me Edgar, by the way."

"Well, I think that's everyone," the Professor said. "Anybody have any other questions for his Lordship?"

Nobody did.

"Well, in that case, you may leave, sir. Be sure to send the next person on the list in, would you?"

Lord Pea-Soope nodded, struggled to his feet and plodded forlornly towards the door. Outside the door he took a few deep breaths to gather himself.

"Well done, well done," Julia said to him. "From out here that sounded excellent."

Lord Pea-Soope smiled and nodded as a busy little lady advanced upon him with a towel and proceeded to remove the dark makeup from beneath his eyes.

A moment later his wife went into the room.

# Mother Hen

Lady Melinda, her mass of red hair pulled back tightly and falling over her left shoulder like a fox running for cover, sat bolt upright in the chair. If just one of her hair pins snapped, or one of the small bushes she appeared to be carrying around up there fell out her hair would have exploded. She looked at each of the gathered in turn, staring at them intently through red-rimmed eyes. She _looked_ like she'd been crying.

"Firstly," the Professor said, "we would all like to offer you our most sincere condolences at the loss of your daughter. We would each like to ask you a few questions about this horrible affair. If you don't mind."

"Ask," was Lady Melinda's simple response.

"We're still closed..." Doze mumbled.

"Love your fuh-family, do you?"

"Yes."

"A lot?"

"Yes!"

"Do you ever hit your children?"

"Sometimes. If they're naughty. But I'd never...!"

"Never what?" Alice clicked her fingers, as if preparing to fight.

"I'd never hit them... so hard... Only a tap on the bottom, or something."

"Cor," Richard mumbled.

"Smacks on bottoms can hurt. I should know!" Alice blurted.

"Beaten as a child, were you?" Lady Melinda asked.

"That's none of your fuh-feckin bah-business!"

"How come you have so much hair?" The Chief lifted his police cap to briefly reveal a shining, bald head. "I mean, look at me! One visit mate! That's all it took! Bloody barbers..."

Lady Melinda tutted, turned away.

"Did you hit your daughter that day?" the Chief asked, regaining his composure.

"No."

"Did a barber ever hit them?"

"A what...? Of course not!"

"Little drinky?" Tiddly offered her hip flask.

Lady Melinda shook her head.

"Don't drink?"

"Occasionally."

"It's good for you, you know. According to... Wosname's book, it—"

"Is it really," Lady Melinda interrupted.

"Pass," said Brim.

"You don't seem very upset by the loss of your daughter."

"Not upset!"

"Just checking. It is nearly eleven o'clock. We must hurry."

"I like what you've done with your hair," said Richard, fondling his own hair, and, well, his other hand was under the table. "Tell me, how did you wear it that night?"

"I... really can't remember."

"Was it tied back? Or was it down?"

Lady Melinda shrugged, glancing over at the Professor.

"You look familiar," Millie said.

"I'm Lady Melinda Pea-Soope. Perhaps you've seen my portrait somewhere."

"No... did you buy a clock from me?"

Lady nodded, said, "Yes I did."

"...does it still work?"

"Sadly, no."

"Oh. I'll come and have a look at it for you, if you like."

"I'll have a bloody good look at it for you too!" added Richard.

Lady Melinda declined the offer, fearing for the poor woman's life if she got too near it.

"You were seated beside two men, a Bill, and a Douglas Wettgrass. Both were killed. Tell us what you saw, or heard."

"Nothing." Lady Melinda shook her head, then made to say something, but stopped.

"My lady?" the Professor encouraged.

"I... heard, Agnes. Yelp. As soon as the lights went out. But after that it was chaos."

The Professor scanned the list. "Agnes Loostocking. She was killed."

"Yes, she was," Lady Melinda bowed her head. For a moment it didn't look like she'd be able to lift it up again.

"Yet Bill was between you, and he was also killed."

Lady Melinda nodded.

"And this Douglas Wettgrass was on your left side."

Another nod.

"And he too, is dead."

Nod.

The Professor made a little note, then nodded towards Russell.

"What meal was prepared for you that night?"

"Roast pork, vegetables..."

"No... beans on toast then?"

"No."

"Or sticklebacks? Or scrotums?"

Lady Melinda shook her head and a long lost moth fluttered feebly, desperately from its depths. It looked, just briefly, as if she had to stifle a laugh. Or perhaps it was a sob?

"How long has the Wettgrass family worked for you, my Lady?" Limp asked with more confidence.

"They've lived on the estate since I was a child. We've always got along well despite the occasional and I suppose _inevitable_ arguments about land management, crop rotations, drainage... My husband declines to get involved."

Doze woke up and looked around. "What time is it?" she asked.

"Ten passed eleven," Anna replied quickly.

"Oh good," Doze put her head back on the table.

Nick, a hand stretched out around Doze's neck, slipped the back off her other earring. "I'm Ben, by the way," he said. "Tell me, is there a back way into the house?"

"Through the kitchens, yes."

"Is it guarded?"

"No."

"Jolly good— I mean, very well done, thanks."

The Professor looked around at everybody. Nobody seemed to want to ask any other questions so he asked Lady Melinda to leave.

As she neared the door, Russell Sprout called out, "I can recommend stickleback surprise, my Lady, with a garnish of goat's cheese. Wonderful."

Lady Melinda smiled feebly.

# Time to Adopt a New Strategy

"How old are you, sonny?"

"Twelve," mumbled Stanley David Pea-Soope.

"And fuh-for how long have you bah-been twelve?"

Mumble.

"What?"

"Not long."

"What were you bah-before that?" Alice was losing the plot somewhat.

"Eleven."

"Good. Gooooood," she looked up at the ceiling, yawned.

"That's rather a drastic haircut you've got yourself there, boy."

Stanley nodded.

"You think that's bad. Loot at me!" the Chief briefly doffed his cap again.

The youngster continued staring at the floor.

"You know the name of that barber that visits you?"

Stanley shook his head, scratched his chin.

"Well, when you find out, you be sure to let me know!"

Small nod.

Tiddly hiccupped, then giggled. "Started drinking yet?"

Shake of the head.

"My advice would be to start straight away."

"Pass," said Brim.

Anna looked at her watch. "Next. Come on!"

"Starting playing with your willy yet?"

Stanley glanced guiltily at Richard Fondler, then looked at the floor.

"Thought so, randy little bugger. I started when I was eight!"

"Oh."

"What do you like doing with it the best?"

Millie interjected with her question before Stanley could reply. "Tell your mum I promise to come and take a look at her clock. What time did it read the last time you looked at it?"

Stanley shrugged.

"Only I'd hate to disappoint Lady Melinda. She buys lots of stuff from me. Did she seem annoyed that it didn't work?"

Another shrug.

"Were you and your sister close?" the Professor asked.

"She's not my sister. I'm adopted. I belong to elves."

"Oh. Um, did you fight with her?"

"Sometimes." Big sigh.

"Pretend fighting or real fighting?"

"Yes."

"Which one?"

"Both."

The Professor made another note.

"Hungry, are you?" asked Russell.

Stanley shook his head.

"Were you scared when the lights went out?" Limp asked.

Stanley nodded.

"What did you do?"

"Stayed where I was."

They skipped over Doze again.

"Bloody hell!" Nick yelled, pointing at the ceiling.

Everybody looked up.

Nick pinched another quill from the table and slipped it inside his coat.

"Some people call me by my Nick-Name, Stealth. You got a pretend name?"

Stanley nodded.

"What is it?"

Mumble.

"Pardon?"

"Sister calls me, Bum. Used to. When she was alive."

A cold, dark silence passed amongst the gathering.

"You can leave now, Stanley," the Professor said eventually, breaking the silence like the falling of a guillotine, a tear in his eye.

# Cook

Pansy Gordon-Blur waddled breathlessly into the room. Even though she wore a filthy apron she had combed her hair, made up her eyes, applied a sliver of purple lipstick to her lips and the underside of her nose and blushed her cheeks with pink tinge of something, or this latter could have been blood pressure. She waddled across to the chair and poured herself into it.

"Weight?" Alice asked.

"Alright, if you want me to..." Pansy mumbled, added, "For how long?"

"How. Heavy?"

Pansy looked understandably surprised by the question.

"Well?" Alice insisted.

"About—" mumble "—stone."

"How much?"

"Fourteen stone."

"Bah-bit of a porker, aren't you?" Alice chuckled.

"Takes one to know one."

Alice jumped to her feet and walked over, fists clenched, but before she could lay a finger on the cook, Russell Sprout stepped between them. Being a very big man gave him an overpowering presence. "This dear lady is in the same line of work as me. We cooks must stick together. Go and sit down you bully. No stickleback surprise for you!"

Alice glared at him, then pointed menacingly at Pansy. "Just you bah-bloody wait, woman! I'll fuh-feckin have you!" She marched proudly back to her seat, crossed her arms over her chest and glared.

Russell told Pansy to ignore her, then asked if she was alright.

Pansy nodded.

Russell returned to his seat, watched all the way by Alice.

"Do you know this barber that visits the house?" the Chief asked.

"Yes, sir."

"Carries scissors with him, does he?"

"Well, yes, obviously."

"I knew it! Bastards! All the bloody same."

Pansy glanced at the Professor but he was studying his notes.

"His name wouldn't be Snitch, or Storyteller, or something would it?" The Chief persisted.

"No. He's called Graham."

"As in... Graham the Something?"

"No, just Graham."

"Clever, very clever. Bloody barbers! Always one step ahead of you."

"Put lots of wine in your cooking?"

Pansy nodded, then added, "It depends on the meal."

"Er... wouldn't happen to have any on you?"

"No, sorry."

"Just for medin— medricin— medincilar— oh, never mind."

"Pass," said Brim.

Anna sighed heavily. "Well, it's almost half passed eleven and there's no chance I'll get out for my lunch time run now. I don't suppose you do any running, do you?"

"No, Miss," said Pansy.

"Any exercise at all?"

"No."

"It's good for you, you know."

"Running killed my husband, Miss."

"Really! How?"

"Run over, he was, Miss, by a heard of cows."

"Oh."

"Not much of a looker, are you?" Richard said.

Pansy shook her head, looking somewhat forlorn.

"Are there any attractive chef's?"

"Mind yourself!" Russell Sprout shouted.

"Calm down, mate, I was just asking. Fancy her, do you?"

"That has nothing to do with you!"

"Wouldn't mind giving her one, eh? Like it!"

"One more word from you..." Russell pointed a chubby finger across the table at Richard Fondler.

The builder leant back, smirking.

"How long have you worked for the Pea-Soope's, Pansy?" Millie asked.

"Years and years, Miss."

"More than ten?"

"Yes."

"More then twenty?"

"No."

"So, between ten and twenty, then."

"Yes."

"How many, exactly?"

"Eight, last Christmas."

"Oh."

The Professor said, "Pass," then wrote a few notes.

"Do you ever make beans on toast?"

"No, Sir."

"Oh, please, Pansy, call me Russell."

"No, Russell."

"You slice bread, warm it both sides, then pour on beans that have been baked in an oven in a tomato sauce mixture. Fabulous, especially with a garnish of sticklebacks. I'll make it for you, if you like."

"Thank you, Russell," said Pansy, blushing slightly.

"Come to my restaurant one night, _Get Stuffed_."

Pansy smiled.

"Care for a scrotum?"

Pansy shook her head.

They stared at one another for a few seconds.

"Where were you when the lights in the dining room went out?" Limp asked.

Pansy shook herself out of her day dream. "In the kitchen."

"Did you reach the dining room before the lights were re-lit?"

"No."

Doze was still asleep.

"Do you always lock the kitchen door?" Nick asked excitedly.

Pansy nodded. "Lady Melinda's orders."

"Bugger! I mean, good! My name's Jim, by the way."

# Maid in Heaven

"Cor blimey!" said Richard Fondler when Lucy entered the room, walked elegantly to the indicated chair and sat down. She crossed her right leg over her left, adjusted her short, black skirt and smiled as endearingly as she could. Anna swallowed a lump in her throat and completely forgot what time it was.

"You look like a slut!" Alice said, trying fruitlessly to hide her envy.

Lucy raised her eyebrows at her. It seemed to do the trick.

Alice looked away in disgust.

"And you are...?" the Chief asked.

"Lucy," said Lucy. "The maid. One of them."

"Two of you are there? Like it. Like it!"

"Do you know this bloody barber everybody keeps talking about?"

"Um... no. Sorry."

"Christ, this man's like a ghost! We'll never catch him."

"Little drinky?" Tiddly asked.

Lucy shook her head. "No thank you. I don't drink."

"What? Never?"

"No."

"Never ever never?"

"No."

"Poor dab. Here, have a little sniff of this!"

Lucy declined Tiddly's offer.

"Pass," said Brim.

"Er... Lucy," Anna smiled at her. "When did you um... serve dinner?"

"At eight. As always."

"Eight, right..."

"What are doing later?" Richard asked.

Anna glared at him.

"I'll probably get sent back to the cell."

"Oh, that's too bad. Want some company?"

"No. I've got some, thank you."

"Want some more?"

"Not really. Better not. I might get into trouble."

"Trouble. Trouble? I'll give you a spot of trouble!"

Lucy shook her head, looked at Anna's unerring gaze.

Anna smiled at her, then went slightly red.

Lucy smiled. She recognised the look.

"Got any children?" Millie asked.

"No."

"That's why you've kept your figure. Thought so. Nothing child bearing about your hips, are there?"

Lucy shook her head, then looked at the floor in front of her.

"I've got four kids and a husband."

"Really? How lovely. I would like to have children. Maybe. One day."

"Well don't! That's my advice."

"We can start now if you like!" Richard sneered.

Anna whimpered softly.

"No thank you," Lucy said sternly.

"Not even a little practise?"

"No!"

"Tell me, dear," the Professor said. "Where were you when the lights went out?"

"In the kitchen with Pansy and Abe- that's Abigail. She's the other maid."

"And what did you do?"

"When we heard the screams we ran in but lanterns were already being lit."

"So, you saw or heard nothing untoward?"

"No. Sorry."

"Yet there's an adjoining door, is there not?"

"Yes."

"A swing door. And yet you heard nothing?"

"Well, Abe and I were chatting by the back door."

"But even so, you heard nothing?"

"No. The door's on the far side of the kitchen."

The Professor made a few notes, then crossed off a few names from his list.

"Pass," said Russell absently, his mind elsewhere.

"Do you like working for the Pea-Soope's?" Limp asked.

Lucy nodded.

"Why?"

"They're very kind, very fair employers."

"And what of their guests?"

"Well, to be perfectly honest, I quite despise the Captain and his son, but only because of the way they treat poor Dafney, that's the Captain's wife. The rest of the guests are all very nice, although old Mr Wettgrass can be a bit much sometimes, what with all the stories he tells about people..." she trailed off there, sniffed a few times, slipped a kerchief from her breast pocket and blew her nose. "Sorry."

"Are you alright, Lucy?" Anna asked.

Lucy nodded.

Anna poured her a glass of water and carried it over.

Lucy drank some, then handed it back.

Doze, who to everyone's surprise was now awake, asked what time it was.

"About a quarter to twelve, Mrs Murmuring," Limp said.

"You're too young to know what time it is, sonny."

"He's right, though," said the Professor.

Doze tutted, mumbled something about chairs and sat back, yawning.

"The kitchen door," Nick stated. "Is it bolted at night or just locked with a key? Call me Frank, by the way."

"Locked with a key and bolted in two places, Frank, why?"

"Why what?"

Lucy shrugged.

"You can go now, Lucy," Anna whispered. "We'll have this mess cleared up in no time. Don't you worry about a thing." She patted Lucy's arm and watched her leave, sighing when she closed the door behind her.

"How about we break for lunch?" Russell suggested. "I'm famished."

"Lets get some of them pies from Wosname's," said Tiddly.

"I'll make everybody some beans on toast if you like."

"Let's get somebody here to make us something," said the Professor.

"I agree," said Anna. "I mean, we haven't got all day have we?"

# Maid in Pue Damlla

Lunch came and went with a few arguments, the addition of some mysterious sauces Russell Sprout carried mysteriously stowed about his person and a number of visits to the privy. By half passed twelve the gathered were seated awaiting the arrival of Abigail, none more so than Richard Fondler and Anna Rowbik, who, having refused lunch and been prevented from leaving the room by Julia Daniel, had ran a few dozen laps of the room, watched in horror by Alice, Russell and Tiddly, who felt dizzy enough as it was.

Abigail, dressed in her maid's uniform, as Lucy had been, entered the room rather timidly, scanned it's interior and occupants, made rather hastily for the chair and sat down. The faintest of smirks crossed her face when she caught Anna's gaze. Lucy had told her about her experience.

"You're another one, aren't you?" Alice said begrudgingly.

"Another what, Miss?"

"Maid type thing. With your fuh-fancy clothes!"

Abe nodded.

"Think you're pretty hot, do you?"

"Thank you for saying so, Miss."

Alice tutted, turned away.

"So, returning to this barber..."

Abe looked at Chief Nightstick.

"Have you ever seen him?"

"Seen who exactly, sir?"

"This bearded barber who comes and cuts peoples hair at the house?"

Abe thought for a minute, then said, "Yes. I saw him once."

"And where was that?"

"I opened the door for him, a few months ago."

"Armed, was he?"

"What do you mean?"

"With scissors!"

"Well, I assume..."

"And did you see him leave?"

"Well, no, but..."

"So he may still be hiding in the house?"

"I doubt it. We would have seen him."

"Don't be so sure. Barbers are devious!"

"Really?"

"Take my advice. Don't. Trust. Barbers!"

Tiddly, having eaten, was now having a little nap.

"Pass," said Brim.

Anna was staring at Abe. After a moment she asked, "Are you comfortable?"

Abe nodded. "Yes thank you, Miss."

"Oh, call me Anna, please. Have you worked at the house long?"

"For nearly two years."

"Do you like it?"

"Yes. Until last weekend, anyway."

"What happened last weekend?"

"The murders."

"Of course, of course. How long has Lucy worked there?"

Abe thought, then said, "Three years."

"Are you close?"

Abe nodded.

"How close?"

"We're best friends."

Anna sighed, looking somewhat relieved.

"You come here often?" Richard asked.

"First time, sir." Abe stared intently at Richard.

"Fancy going out with me later...?"

"No." It was definite.

"Got any children, young lady?" Millie asked.

"No, miss."

"Married?"

Abe shook her head.

"Sensible girl. Boyfriend?"

"Um, not really."

"Good. Very good. Any other friends apart from... Lucy?"

"Quite a few in the village."

"Outgoing type, are you?"

"Perhaps."

"Well, dear, you make sure you enjoy yourself while you're still young!"

Abe smiled at Millie.

"Lucy told us you were in the kitchen when the lights were extinguished."

"That's right, sir," she replied to the Professor.

"Where, exactly?"

"We were at the back door, talking."

"Anybody else?"

"No, just us."

"Where was the chef?"

"Who?"

"Um... Pansy. The cook."

"Oh, she was..."

"Well?"

"She was washing up."

"Interesting..." the Professor made a few notes.

"Poor girl. Does all the washing up as well as the cooking, does she?"

"Yes, sir. We often help, but..."

Russell wiped at his short cropped beard with a podgy hand. "Do you like her?"

"Oh yes. She's a very sweet lady."

"Jolly good. Next."

"Who normally checks the windows in the dining room are locked?" asked Limp.

"Nice one, sunshine," Nick whispered.

"Jacob, usually, but sometimes he forgets."

"Jacob?"

"The butler."

"Right. The butler."

"How much do you get paid?" Doze asked over a yawn.

"Twenty a week, plus free room and board, miss."

"Twenty. Not much is it?"

"I'm thankful to have the job, miss. Many would love it."

"I'm sure they would, but not me. I'm fifty one!"

"You don't look a day over forty, miss."

"...thanks very much."

"I'm Glenn. How many locks did you say were on the windows?"

"One on each window."

"How many windows?"

Abe closed her eyes and counted on her fingers. "Twelve," she said finally.

"And which ones blew open?"

"The four in the north wall."

"North. Right. Good. Thanks."

# Flatulent Footman

"Begging your pardon, ladies and gents," said Lance, letting go a truly violent EAV as he closed the door behind him. It was in no way an auspicious entrance. "Spot of trouble down below," he tried to explain, doffing his cap and wiping back his greasy hair. He shifted uneasily towards the chair and gripping his cap tightly in two white-knuckled fists, sat down gingerly.

"So you're the fuh-footman?"

"Yes, miss."

"That's something to do with fuh-feet, is it?"

"Carriages, miss. As in horse-drawn. We embed the domesticated quadrupeds betwixt the out-thrusting central poles of the main body—"

"Do you _make_ the carriages?"

"No, clean them and steer them where his Lordship wants, miss. I have the entire map of Southern Walia memorised down to the one inch to one mile scale, miss."

"I could do that. If I wanted."

"Ah, it's not that easy, you know," said Lance, glad they spoke of something he had at least a flickering of knowledge about. Besides, talking about all those dead people was becoming tiresome. "You've got to know your horses, too, miss. And..." As he watched Alice approach, he grew nervous. She looked even bigger standing up. "You see... certain positions for buckles and straps and..."

"I can do that!" Alice whispered in his ear.

Lance nodded, swallowed a throat lump and slipped a silent but violent.

"If you say—" Alice sniffed. "If you—" Alice coughed.

Lance shrugged.

Alice returned hurriedly to her seat.

That's one hell of a defence mechanism you've got there boy, Lance cheered himself. Works every time.

"So," said the Chief, "you transport his Lordship around, do you?"

"Yes, sir."

"And do you carry any other passengers?"

"Sometimes."

"Like... barbers, for instance?"

"Barbers?"

"People who cut hair, man!"

"Um, no, never taken any barbers anywhere."

"So I was right! The man could still be in the house."

"What man, sir?"

"That bloody barber!"

"Oh."

They skipped Tiddly, who snored softly, head hanging over the back of her chair. Occasionally her lips would move as if speaking in her sleep and on more than one occasion her hand shot to the hip flask at her side and she would sigh when her fingers touched it.

"Pass," said Brim.

"How long does it take you to get from Pea-Soope House to the village?"

"Don't rightly know, miss."

"What?"

"I could guess."

"Please do."

"About ten minutes."

"Interesting. Being able to tell the time without a watch."

"Why can't we get those two maids back in here?"

"I thought we had no more questions for them," said the Professor.

"Who said anything about questions?"

"Have you anything to ask this man?"

"Me? No."

"Do you have a family?" asked Millie.

"A wife and two boys, miss."

"You poor bastard. Next."

"Yes, at the time the lanterns went out. Where were you?"

"Out the back. Finishing up before leaving. In the stables."

"Anybody else?"

"No. I was outside. About to leave, sir. I was supposed to have gone earlier but the cross shaft snagged a thatch cover turret on the beading..."

"Right. Right. So, you were outside and the maids were by the door."

"Yes, sir."

"Was anybody else in the kitchen?"

"Not that I could see, sir."

"Hmmm..." the Professor put a question mark by a name on his list.

"Tell me about the cook, Pansy."

"It's Lance, sir."

"Yes! Tell me about Pansy. The cook." Russell was trying desperately to push the image of his wife's face from his mind. He reached across the table for his tin of tobacco. It was time for his midday smoke.

"She's quite short, a little bit plump, with blonde—"

"I know what she looks like. What's she like?"

"Um... She gives me scraps for the family."

"That's horrid!" Anna said, making a face.

"Good scraps, miss. Proper bits of meat."

"Kind lady, is she?" Russell pursued.

"Oh yes, sir."

"And gentle?"

"Yes, sir. Unless you walk across her kitchen floor with muddy boots, sir. Just last week I'd been re-sequencing the manure pits around the smidgeons with pole stalks and..."

Russell interrupted. "Live in the house, does she?"

"Yes, sir."

"Excellent. One more thing. What do you think of sticklebacks?"

"Never met him, sir."

"Ah."

"Where did you go when the maids rushed into the dining room?" Limp asked.

"I didn't go anywhere."

"You stayed where you were when all this was going on?"

"Yes. I couldn't go into the kitchen, see sir."

"Why not?"

"Muddy boots, sir. Pansy would have been cross."

"She was in the kitchen, was she?"

"I think so."

"Did you see her?"

"Er... no."

"Then how do you know?"

"Well, she's always in there, sir."

Limp looked puzzled.

The Professor made another note.

"How old are you, sonny?" Doze enquired.

"Forty three, miss."

"It's Mrs, actually, Mrs Murmuring, and I'm fifty one!"

Lance got a bit nervous and slipped a little ripper. "Sorry," he said.

"Essence of cabbage for you!" Doze said.

"Pardon, miss? Mrs?"

"Sort you out in no time. Don't want the likes of you in my shop!"

"Um, no Mrs."

"Hi. I'm Bill. Have you got a shed, Lance?"

"Yes. Where I keep the carriage."

"Tools in there, are there?"

"Some. Not many. Dug keeps mo— _kept_ most of them."

"Where's the shed relative to the house?"

"In the southern field."

"How far away?"

"Two, maybe three hundred feet."

"And Dug's house?"

"On the other side of the estate. A ten minute walk."

"Thank you." Nick scribbled a few little notes of his own. Unfortunately for Julia Daniel they had nothing to do with the case.

Lance reddened, seemed to be holding his breath, then let lose an almighty breaking of the wind. A little piece of the chair fell off.

# Senile Butler

Jacob entered the room backwards, closed the door and stood there facing it, his back to everyone. "Oh dear," he mumbled. "What a tiny little room."

"Excuse me," said the Professor. "Would you mind sitting down?"

Jacob jumped, turned around, waved.

"Please sit down," said Anna. "It's nearly one."

"Oh. Right." Jacob sat on the floor by the door.

"No! In the chair! There!"

"Oh, right you are, Miss." Jacob stayed where he was, waved again.

Alice puffed, ran over, arranged him in the chair as she thought most fit.

"Tell me someth—" Alice began but Jacob interrupted. "Can I get you anything, sir?"

"No! Quiet, I'm talking."

"Are you? I thought I was. Might I sit down? I don't feel quite myself."

"You _are_ sitting down!"

"So I am. That must be it. Did you say something, sir?"

"Um..." Alice had forgotten her question. She tutted and sat back.

"I see your hair's falling out," said Chief Nightstick happily.

"Is it, sir? Sorry about that, sir, I'll just pop it back in." Jacob looked at his crotch, then his knee, then bent forward to do up his bootlace and toppled forward off the chair, landing on his forehead. He stayed like that for a moment then fell sideways. Anna and Millie rushed over and helped him back on the seat. "Glass of water?" Millie asked.

"Just show me where it is, miss."

"No, would you like one?"

"One what, miss?"

"Glass of water."

"Um... Do you think I should?"

Anna sighed, returned to her seat.

Millie followed her.

"So, about your hair, butler," said the Chief.

"Yes, sir?"

"When did it start falling out?"

"Can't rightly say, sir."

"Was it... the last time you visited the barber?"

"Which barber would that be, sir?"

"The one who cuts your hair, man."

"I don't get it cut, sir. It sort of looks after itself."

"I see. When was the last time you let a barber into the house?"

"Last weekend, sir."

"Really?" said the Chief, suddenly very encouraged by his developing theory.

"Or was it the one before that?" Jacob mumbled.

The Chief didn't hear him. "Last weekend, was it?"

"Yes, sir."

"And did he have a beard?"

"No, he was a very tall gentleman."

"No. Facial hair, you know?"

"Know what, sir?"

"Alright then, did he have scissors with him?"

"Um, no, sir. It was just the way he walked."

"What are you talking about man?"

"The man who came to the house about the drains, sir?"

"What was a barber doing coming to see you about drains?"

"Sorry, can't help you there, sir."

The Chief sighed. "Next," he said.

"You sound to me like you like a bit of a drinky." Tiddly said, having just woken. She rubbed her neck which, for some reason, was very stiff.

"Yes, miss. But I always clean it up."

"What's your poison?"

"Sprouts, miss. Very nasty getting one of them caught in your throat, miss. Vegetables can be dangerous, miss. Parsnips, too."

Tiddly looked at him, then turned away and took a sip from her hip flask. It was almost empty, which made her nervous.

"Pass," said Brim.

"How do you keep in shape at your age, Jacob?" Anna asked, stretching.

"Wear bigger shirts, miss. Then you don't need to."

"Do you eat regularly?"

"On Thursday's, yes miss."

"Did you eat any of the food that night?"

"What night would that be, miss?"

"The night of the murders, of course." She glanced at the clock in the corner.

"I expect so, miss."

"You can't remember, can you?"

"Remember what, miss?"

"Next."

"Can you still get it up?"

"Yes, sir, but it does make my legs ache."

"Wow!" Richard beamed. "How old are you?"

"Somebody told me I was sixty once, but that was ages ago, sir."

"Sixty and still going for it. Brilliant!"

"Getting it down is the hard part, sir."

"Cor! Like it! Like it!"

"It's heavy, you see, sir."

"Christ! Just how big is it?"

"Nearly three feet."

"Bloody hell!"

"That's across, sir. It's about four feet long, sir."

"Christ man! I'm surprised you can walk!"

"Oh no, it doesn't move by itself. I have to give it a push, sir."

"...what is it you're talking about?"

"My trunk, sir. Big thing it is."

"Ah. Never mind, then. Doesn't matter."

"You got any family, Jacob?"

"No, miss."

"No grandchildren?"

"Oh, yes, miss. Got lots of grandchildren. Can't remember where I put them though, miss. Still, I'm sure they'll turn up. They usually do."

"He's not being very helpful, really, is he?" Millie whispered to the Professor.

"Maybe we should dismiss him."

"Not just yet. Jacob. Tell me how many people were in the kitchen when the lights went out."

"About three hundred, sir, give or take. And there were the ushers, of course. With their ice-creams, sir. I like strawberry, sir."

"I see what you mean, Vice-Chairwoman. Next."

"Do you get on well with the cook, Jacob?"

"Yes, sir. He's very tall, though."

"No. Pansy. The cook in Pea-Soope House."

"Pansy?"

"Yes. Pretty old girl. Very pleasant."

"I haven't seen her for years, sir. Moved away, I think."

"Tell me. Are you eating properly?"

"I only know one way, sir. Why, am I doing it wrong, sir?"

"No, no."

"What's the last thing you do before going to bed?" asked Limp.

"Lock all the doors and windows young master."

"And you never forget?"

"Forget what, young master?"

"Right." Limp made a note of his own.

"So, you think you're clever, do you?"

"Pardon, miss?"

"It's Mrs!"

"What is, miss?"

Doze sighed loudly. "Just because you're older than me doesn't make you better than me. Now, just answer the question."

"Alright, miss. I will."

Doze waited. "Well?"

"Feel a bit shaky today, miss. Must be the thick carpet."

"What has that got to do with anything?"

"Not all that keen on heights, miss."

"Got any friends, have you?"

"Not of my own, miss."

"Then keep them out of my shop!"

"Right you are, miss."

"If I gave you a fiver, would you unlock a door for me?"

"Of course I would, sir."

"Music to my ears! I'll come and have a word with you later."

# Slut

"Now that's what I call an outfit!" Alice said enthusiastically when Deardree Loostocking breezed into the room on a wave of perfume, sauntered towards the chair and sat down. "Where can I get hold of something like that?"

"I got this from a quaint little dealer in Rochild Village along the eastern highway. Very reasonable too. And the one they had there in yellow would suit you. Oh yes it would!"

"Right! Get me one! And if you don't, I'll punch your lights out."

"Oh. Um, that's not what I..."

"Ever been to a barber's shop?"

"No, of course not. I'm a woman." Deardree thrust her chest forward.

"Yes, I can see what you are, madam. I might not have hair, but my eyesight is as good as it ever was, thank you. A hairdresser, then?"

"Yes. I went to one yesterday."

"And do they have scissors there?"

"Of course. And there's a place right here, in Kramd, that sell hair restoration cream. If you're interested. Personally, I find bald men _very_ attractive."

"I am not bald!" the Chief declared resolutely.

"But you have no hair."

"That's beside the point."

"Is it? I though it _was_ the point."

"Listen, I'm asking the questions."

"I like a man to dominate. That turns me on."

"Do you really." The Chief sounded impressed.

"Yes."

Richard's eyes were wide.

Millie said softly, "I think I'm going to be sick."

"You look like you can drink a fair bit."

"I enjoy a tipple as much as the next person."

"Wouldn't happen to have any tipples on you, would you?"

"No, sorry."

"Bugger!"

"Pass," said Brim.

"Do you always dress like that?" Anna sounded rather irritated.

"Don't you like it?"

"Not really."

"Rather see me with less on?"

"Um... God no!" Anna laughed sharply. "No, not at all!"

"I meant, less jewellery, not less clothes."

"Yes. I know. What you meant. No. Keep your clothes on."

"I will, for now."

"Christ!" Richard whispered to himself, both hands under the table.

"Were you wearing all that jewellery on the night of the murders?"

"As much, yes, but different pieces. This is hardly suitable for a dinner party."

"It's um... very nice," Millie managed.

"Thank you."

"Are you going to take your clothes off now?" Richard asked hopefully.

"Would it help your enquiries?"

"It would certainly help mine!"

Deardree stood up.

"We haven't got time for games!" Anna screamed.

"Here! Here!" Millie agreed, then asked, "Did you know the victims?"

"Of course!" snapped Deardree, sitting down again.

There was a feint tapping sound coming from under the table by Richard.

"How so?"

"My mother was amongst them."

"Was she?" Millie looked at the Professor.

He nodded.

"You don't seem very upset by her death."

"We never got on. That's no secret. She tried to run my life for me."

"Did you hate her enough to kill her?"

"I hated her, but she was my mother. I would never hurt her."

"Never is a long time."

"You'll just have to take my word for it."

"I'll take your word for it!" Richard said, slightly out of breath.

Deardree smiled at him.

"I have no questions for you," said the Professor.

"Neither have I," said the Chef, skinning a stickleback with a peeling knife.

"Did you see Lord Pea-Soope leave the room when the lights went out?"

"Oh, yes. I followed him into the next room."

Limp made a note.

The Professor placed an 'X' next to her name on the list.

"You look like a tart," said Doze. "How old are you?"

"Thirty six."

"Pah! Bloody youngsters."

"You—"

"What is it?"

"You reminded me of my mother, then."

"Oh, yes, how old was she?"

"Sixty."

"You cheeky little bugger. I'm fifty one, I am. Fifty one!"

"Sorry. I didn't mean to..."

Doze scratched her ear. "Where's my bloody earrings gone?"

Nick screamed, clutched at his chest and fell back in his chair.

Everybody looked at him... but made no move to help.

After a moments screaming, he sat up, dropped his hands and said. "It's alright. I'm fine. Don't you all go worrying about me!" Then he nudged Doze. "I can get you some really cheap earrings, if you're interested."

Doze gave him a slap.

# Captain

"Captain Kirtland John Hoot-Kayke (retired). Where am I sitting!" the tall, uniformed man insisted.

The Professor pointed at the chair.

The Captain marched over to it and sat down, bolt upright. "Right. Got some questions for me have you? Well, get on with it. I'm a busy man!"

"Don't you tell me what to do!"

"I'll do what I like, woman!"

Alice stood up and walked over.

Nobody seemed keen to intervene this time.

"Got a bit of an attitude problem, have we?"

The Captain laughed. "You sound pathetic. Go and sit down before you say something you might regret. I fought in two bat—"

The Captain didn't have time to complete the sentence. Alice, with her left hand, picked him out of the chair and slammed him against the wall. Her right hand she swung, hitting him first in the stomach, then in the face. Then she let go, and the Captain, a veteran of two battles, slumped unconscious to the floor. Alice returned to her seat, a little red in the face but looking happier now than she had done all day.

"Bloody good show, Alison!" the Chief cheered.

"It's Alice!" she said, taking her seat.

"Better help him, I suppose," said Millie, and she walked over and tipped an urn of water over him.

The Captain spluttered back to life and sat on the chair. He looked very embarrassed, and very humbled. He pulled an immaculately folded, bright white handkerchief from inside his breast pocket and wiped his face.

"Now," said Alice. "Questions."

"Of course," the Captain said.

"Take your hat off."

The Captain took his hat off. Much to the Chief's delight, he had a bald patch, which he scratched with the tip of his middle finger.

"Now. Buh-bit of a disciplinarian, are you?"

"I'm a trained fighter."

"Trained? By whom?"

"The King's Army. Special Attack Division."

"So, you've killed people buh-before?"

"Yes."

"How many?"

"Um... Well, they weren't, that is, there were not actually, sort of, real people."

"Just _pretend_ , were they?"

"No. But they were made of..."

"Of what?"

"Um... straw."

"That's how vicious the Special Attack Division is, is it?"

The Captain nodded, head bowed. He looked a broken man.

"So you're actually a buh-bit of a poof!"

He nodded again, staring intently at the floor.

The Chief was keen to question him, but Alice went on.

"Ever hit your wife?"

"Yes," the Captain mumbled sadly.

"Buh-but you'll never do it again, will you?"

"No! Never!"

"And you're going to make up for all the times you did, aren't you?"

It wasn't a question, and the Captain knew it. He nodded.

"Jolly good. Or I'll sort you out again!"

"How long have you had your bald patch?" the Chief blurted.

"A couple of years now," said Captain Hoot-Kayke, looking up.

"Well, matey, don't visit a barber's. That's my advice! Before you know what's going on, wham!" The Captain jumped when the Chief brought his hand down hard on the table. "It's all bloody gone. History!"

"I'll remember that. Thank you," the Captain was confused.

Tiddly had emptied her hip flask and dozed off again.

"Pass," said Brim.

"Fit then, are you?"

The Captain nodded.

"Come on then!" Anna stood up and bounced over. "Arm wrestle me!"

"I don't really..."

"Scared, are you?"

"No. Of course not. But I'm just..."

"Just a wife beater. Bastard!" Anna faked a spit at the floor and returned to her seat.

"Listen mate," said Richard. "I like women. I like some men too, but one thing I cannot stand is a beaten woman. They're no fun! You're just spoiling it for everyone else, you know." Richard turned away and smiled at Limp.

"I don't even want to look at the man," said Millie, shivering.

The Professor was examining a sheet of parchment before him. After a minute's silence passed, he looked across at the Captain and said, "From your position at the table, you would have seen and heard most of what occurred. Tell us what you did see and hear."

"Well..."

"Please. The truth."

"It's a little embarrassing..."

"Got a small member, have you mate? Is that why you hit women?"

"Yes. I mean no! It's not that. I..."

"We're waiting," Anna said.

"I hid under the table."

"A soldier! Hiding under the table!" Anna shook her head.

"I'm afraid of the dark!" the Captain blurted.

"Do not expect us to believe that!" said Millie.

"I don't even want to know if he's tried sticklebacks," said the Chef. "And there's no way I'm letting him anywhere near my scrotums."

"I think we know all we need to know about him," said Limp.

"Don't try hiding under any tables in my shop!" Doze shouted. "I'll call the bloody police on you! I don't know. Youngsters..." she tutted.

"I'll show you to the door," said Nick, rather out of character. He moved stealthily around the table, put an arm over the Captain's shoulder and walked him to the door, closing it behind him. When he return to his seat he had to move the Captain's wallet, two medals, and a beautiful gold fob watch to another pocket because they were digging into his piece of carpet.

# Woman

Little Dafney Hoot-Kayke was greeted with such warmth and kindness that she burst into tears. Kerchiefs were offered by half a dozen members of the gathering, water was poured by Millie and the stickleback the Chief had recently skinned was offered, but declined.

Millie brought the chair over from the corner of the room and placed it between herself and the Professor, and with an arm around her tiny shoulders, she told Alice to keep it brief.

"Don't you worry about your husband, Dafney. He won't bah-be bah-beating you up again."

"He's a good man, really," said Dafney.

"Well, he has got a bald patch. I suppose that's _something_."

The Chief drew angry looks for that statement.

Tiddly, despite waking up briefly during the fight, had fallen back asleep.

"Pass," said Brim.

"You just sit here for two minutes and twenty seconds," said Anna. "Compose yourself."

"I don't suppose you like men very much, do you?" asked Anna.

"Only my husband and my son."

"We're very sorry about your son," said Millie, her arm still protectively around Dafney's shoulders.

"Yes indeed," the Professor agreed.

"If there's anything else you'd like with that..." said Russell, nodding his head in the direction of the deep fried crunchy scrotum Dafney reluctantly cradled in her left hand. "...just say the word."

"No, this is fine. Thank you."

Limp shook his head when the Professor looked at him.

Doze had nothing to say.

And Nick was still arranging objects in his trousers. As was Richard, in a way.

After the two minutes and twenty seconds were up, Millie led Dafney to the door and told Gerald, "We want to take a short break until two. And could we have some more water and urns, please? We seem to have mislaid the ones you brought in this morning."

# Boss

At exactly two, Anna tapped her empty tankard on the table and called the gathering to order. Small conversations had erupted here and there, mostly speculating the final outcome, sprinkled with a comparison of notes, but that was quickly pushed aside and the next interviewee called in.

Flower Wettgrass waddled into the room, a hand over her bulging stomach. She groaned and moaned with the effort of sitting down, then pushed her legs wide apart.

"You're um... you're not going to have that now, are you?" Anna asked.

Flower shook her head. "Couple of weeks yet," she panted.

"Cor!" said Richard. "I can see right up your dress from here."

"Get off the floor then!" Millie gave him a nudge with her foot.

Richard climbed back into his seat, grinning broadly.

"Pregnant then?"

Flower nodded, taking a few quick breaths.

"How could you let a man do that to you?"

"Maybe you should try it."

Alice started to rise, but changed her mind.

"What do you want?" the Chief asked.

"What do you mean?" snapped Flower.

"A boy or a girl?"

"Don't mind. As long as it's healthy."

"Well, hope for a girl. Boy's visit barbers, you know."

"Er... right."

Tiddly had slept through the break and woken with one heck of a thirst. She had drunk most of the water, and to her great dismay, was sobering up. She looked around through bloodshot eyes, but shook her head when asked if she had any questions for Flower.

"Pass," said Brim.

"You must be devastated, losing a husband and a son."

Flower closed her eyes and nodded.

"We won't keep you very long. You look like you need a lie down."

The farmer's wife nodded.

"I don't suppose you can have much hanky-panky in your condition?"

"No. Not after three months, anyway." Flower seemed not to care what the questions were. She just kept rubbing her stomach and staring at it, as if her entire world extended no further than her belly button, which was a lot further than it did for most people in Kramd.

Her frank reply sufficed to silence Richard Fondler.

"Were you a— Sorry, _are_ you a close family?" Millie asked.

"Yes."

Millie blushed, asked nothing further.

"You were sitting beside Buck Hoot-Kayke," The Professor stated.

Flower nodded.

"He was one of the victims."

Flower nodded again.

"Did you happen to see or hear anything?"

"It was dark. I saw nothing. Everybody was panicking. It was bedlam."

"I see. Alright."

"Are you happy with your cook?"

"Er... yes. Pansy's excellent."

"Do you think she might need help?"

"Well, no, not really. Lucy and Abe sometimes help her."

"I do a great crunchy newt scrotum surprise."

"Newt scrotums? You wouldn't have one on you, would you?"

Russell was quite taken aback. "No, sorry. Gave my last one to Dafney."

"Got a real hunger for scrotums at the moment. And parsnips. Strange."

"Did you all eat the same food that night?" Limp asked.

Flower nodded.

Limp crossed out a few notes.

"Got any old furniture you want to get rid of?" asked Doze.

"Well, as a matter of fact—"

"Then stay away from my shop! I don't want people's handouts!"

"Oh."

"Um... Who's looking after the house and grounds at the moment?"

"Nobody. As far as I know."

"Excellent. I mean, thanks. I'm Bob, by the way."

"Why do you keep telling people you're somebody else?"

"Force of habit." Nick shrugged.

"Well if I catch you fuh-forcing your habits on me..."

Nick smiled, looked away, pointed at a portrait on the far wall and shouted, "Look! A spy!" Then fell quickly to the floor and grabbed himself another square of carpet.

# Vet

When Rose Wettgrass entered the room, even Alice had to admit to herself that never before had she seen such a pretty girl. She even liked the little beauty spot on her right cheek, and for an instant wished she had one of her own. But she quickly composed herself. "So, who do you think did it?" she asked.

"I'm afraid I have no idea."

"How about that Captain Something?"

"Hoot-Kayke? Well, he's not very nice, but I don't think he's capable..."

"Just what I thought," said Richard, staring at her.

"Where do you get your hair cut, dear?" asked the Chief.

"Um... my mum cuts it for me."

"Cunning! Very cunning. Wish I'd thought of that when I was your age."

"There's nothing wrong with being bald," Rose said sweetly.

"Nothing wrong with it?"

"No." Rose shrugged.

"You try saying that when all your hair falls out!"

Rose bowed her head. She looked very upset.

"Leave her alone!" Anna snapped.

"I'm only looking at her," Richard defended himself.

"I wasn't talking to you."

"Talk to me any time you like, darling."

"Oh, piss off!"

"Like it! Bit of spirit. Can't fault that."

"Got any scrumpy on you?"

"No, sorry," Rose replied, looking up.

"Anything at all? Wine? Mead?"

"Well, no. Nothing."

"What good's that?" Tiddly tutted.

"Pass," said Brim.

There was quite a delay before Anna spoke. "How old are you?"

"Nineteen."

"I'm thirty three, but I try and keep in shape."

"That's a good idea."

"Thanks. What do you do to keep in shape?"

"Mum keeps me busy. And I like to ride."

"Hey, hey!" Richard was positively beaming.

"Horses," Rose added.

Richard smirked. "Whatever takes your fancy!"

"Maybe you'd like to come out running with me sometime," Anna suggested.

"No thank you."

"Oh."

Richard laughed. "How about a bit of horizontal jogging?"

"I thought you lot were supposed to be investigating murders?"

"We are," said Millie. "Please, ignore him."

Rose turned to look at Millie.

"I'm sorry for your loss. Losses."

"Thank you."

"It's a terrible, terrible tragedy. I sometimes wish my husband..."

"What?"

"Never mind. Tell me, did you like Buck... Hoot-Kayke?"

"No. He forever pestered me. And he treated his mum like dirt."

"Did others feel the same way as you?"

"I'd be surprised if they didn't."

"Why do you say that?"

"He wasn't exactly subtle."

"I see. Poor girl."

"Just one question," said the Professor. "Captain Hoot-Kayke was sitting beside you. Where did he go when the lights went out?"

"I... don't remember."

"Did he slip under the table?"

"I don't think so. I think he got up and went towards the fire."

"Really? How interesting." The Professor made another note.

"How much do you eat?"

"Well, I've hardly eaten at all in the last week."

"Beans on toast?"

"Um... I'm not really hungry. Thank you."

"It's because I haven't got any sticklebacks left, isn't it?"

"No, honestly. I'm not hungry."

"Suit yourself. But the offer's open. Or scrotums."

Rose forced a rather weak smile.

"What did you do when the lanterns went out?" Limp asked.

"I headed for the kitchen."

"Why?" Talking to this gorgeous girl was making him nervous again.

"There was light coming from there. I opened the door, so we could see."

"Ah! And how much of the room was illuminated?"

"Just one end."

"Which end?"

"Well, the Lord's end. But he wasn't there."

"Who was there?"

"I only saw my brother. Tom."

Limp checked his table plan. "So, that meant his Lordship, Deardree Loostocking and Dafney Hoot-Kayke were no longer at the table?"

Rose thought for a second, then nodded.

"Oh dear." Limp sighed, then drew a big circle around Dafney's name.

"Got any old farm equipment in good condition?" Doze asked.

"Um... yes. Some."

"Then bury it. It's no good to anybody!"

"Er, right."

"I can't be expected to sell rubbish like that in my shop!"

"No. I mean yes, I will then."

"These horses of yours... fast are they?"

"Shadow, my black stallion, is one of the fastest horses in all of Southern Walia."

"Faster than somebody on foot?"

"Definitely."

"And, say, for argument's sake, a horse drawn police carriage?"

"Oh, yes."

"Excellent!" Softly and to himself, Nick added, "That's the getaway sorted out. Now, if I could just have another word with that butler..."

# Farm Girl

"That's one hell of a beer belly you've got yourself there, girl!" Tiddly slurred.

Pansy Wettgrass blushed, then told everyone she was pregnant.

"Oh my dear God," Millie despaired. "How old are you?"

"Seventeen, miss."

"Oh Christ."

"It's my turn fuh-first!" Alice snapped.

"Sorry," said Millie, wanting to avoid a confrontation at all costs. She had enough of them at home, and after seeing how Alice handled the Captain, well, she thought, I wouldn't like to be on the receiving end of one of her tantrums.

"Pass," said Alice, sighing, crunching the knuckles of one hand in the other.

Millie felt a bit silly, then annoyed, when she saw Alice grinning.

"Just to go back to this barber everybody seems so hung up on," said the Chief.

"Tell me, Poppy, have you seen anybody strange hanging around the house lately?"

"No, sir."

"Ah. Are you sure?"

"Yes, sir."

"Well, that buggers up that idea, doesn't it?"

"Sorry, sir."

"It's not your fault. That's barbers for you!"

"There's something I've always wanted to know," said Tiddly.

"Yes?" Pansy asked, rather apprehensively.

"Can you have a little drinky when your pregnant?"

"You can, but you shouldn't. So mum told me."

"Phew! That's a relief."

"Pass," said Brim.

"How pregnant are you?" asked Anna.

"Oh, completely pregnant, miss."

"No, I mean, how long have you been pregnant?"

"Nearly five months, miss."

"Who's the lucky father?"

"Um... that would be Stan Downwind."

"You don't seem very sure."

"Oh, miss, I am. I'm definitely pregnant."

Richard suddenly asked, "Are you sure we can't have those maids back in?"

"Definitely not!" said Millie.

"Don't see why. I mean, it wouldn't take me long..."

Anna glared at him.

"Where does the father live?" Millie continued.

"In a house, miss. In the Boils District."

"How often do you see him?"

"Almost never."

"Does he not want to marry you?"

"No. He doesn't want anything to do with me."

"That's a bloody disgrace!"

"Yes, miss."

"You know, that absolutely disgusts me!"

"I'm not very happy about it either, miss, but what can I do?"

"Go and see him! I'll come with you. As soon as this thing is over!"

"Oh no, miss. We can't do that!"

"Yes we can! And we will!"

"No, miss, I mean..." Pansy started to cry.

"What? What is it?"

Sob, splutter, sniff, swallow.

"Pansy?" Millie got up and went over. "What's the matter?"

"He's not the real father, miss. I made him up."

"I thought so. Who is the real father?"

"Buck. Buck Hoot-Kayke."

"That little bastard! Oh. Sorry. He's dead, isn't he?"

Pansy nodded. Tears began rolling down her big, rosy cheeks.

"Well I never."

"What is it?" the Professor called out.

"The father of Pansy's child is Buck Hoot-Kayke."

"Really? Very interesting." The professor made another note.

"Who knows about that?" Limp asked.

"Only Buck and I. And now all of you. Nobody else, I think."

"Could anybody have found out?"

"I don't think so."

"Would Buck have told anybody?"

"I... Possibly, I don't know. He does brag. Sometimes. Quite a lot, actually."

"Never mind," said Russell, keen not to miss his turn. "I'll make a spot of stickleback and banana pie for you and your mum. Ideal for a woman in your condition."

Pansy sniffed deeply, thanked him.

"Well, I'm fifty one, so I'd better not ask her anything. Besides, I'm a busy woman. Lots of shop planning to do. And listen matey," she turned to Nick, "if you don't return my shoes, I'll hit you so hard..."

Nick slipped off his chair, pulled Doze's shoes out from under the bottoms of his trousers and threw them towards Limp. When he got back on his seat he said, "Mrs Murmuring. I think you'll find the youngster on your left has taken them." Then he shouted over to Pansy, "I'm Simon, by the way, and I've never stolen anything in my life!"

# Timid Child

"You're very pretty, aren't you?"

Tom Wettgrass shrugged.

"You are a bah-boy, aren't you?" Alice stared.

Tom nodded.

"Don't look like you've bah-been in many fuh-fights."

Another shrug of the shoulders.

"I'm always fuh-fighting, I am," Alice said proudly.

Tom looked around the room.

"I can't help noticing you've got very long hair," said the Chief.

Tom grabbed a blonde curl, lifted it up, then dropped it.

"Has it always been that long?"

Nod.

"Your mother cuts it for you?"

Nod.

"Clever family, you Wettgrass'. Very clever!"

"Started drinking yet?"

Tom shook his head.

"My advice? Start straight away. It's really good for you." Tiddly giggled... yet that old chestnut didn't seem quite as funny as usual.

"Pass," said Brim.

"Did you get on with your brother?"

"Which one?" Tom asked nervously.

"Um... Bill."

"He'sh shupposhed to be dead now."

_"Supposed_ to be?"

Tom looked around nervously... then nodded.

"Yes, dear, I know. When he was alive?"

Nod.

"Did you play with each other?"

"Cor!" mumbled Richard.

"Shometimesh. When it wash shunny."

"What about the youngest one?"

"Na. He alwaysh went off by himshelf."

Tiddly giggled again. "You speak like Betty after she's been drinking."

Tom glanced at her, blushed, then bowed his head.

"Started playing with yourself yet?"

Tom shook his head vigorously, growing even redder in the face.

"Little liar."

Millie cut in. "Don't listen to him, dear."

"Alwight," Tom whispered.

"Tell me young man, did you happen to notice where Deardree Loostocking went when the lights went out?"

"She left with hish Lordship, shir."

"They went into the next room together?"

"Yesh."

"And what did you do?"

"Shtayed where I wash, shir."

"Good lad. Next."

"Getting hungry again now," said Russell, reaching for his tobacco tin. "I don't know about anybody else. Pass me that urn, would you?"

"I haven't got any urns!" Nick snapped instinctively.

Richard pushed it across the table towards him.

Russell poured himself some water then rolled another smoke. He'd decided to take his late afternoon smoke early today and to hell with the consequences. If he couldn't exceed his ration today when could he? He'd convinced himself to make the most of it.

"Did you ever play with the children in Pea-Soope House?" asked Limp.

Tom nodded.

"How often?"

"On weekendsh, mainly."

"Did you get on well with them?"

Nod.

"How about Emily Jane?"

Reluctant nod.

Limp glanced at the Professor then scribbled a little note before asking Tom if they had ever been boyfriend and girlfriend.

Tom shook his head and was about to say something, but didn't.

"Did you like her?" Limp pressed.

Shake of the head.

"Did she like you?"

Nod.

"A lot?"

Another nod.

Limp underlined Emily's name and beside it wrote the letter 'S'.

"Not interested any more," Doze mumbled, then closed her eyes.

"Ever pinched anything from a shop?" Nick asked enthusiastically.

Tom said, "No."

"Neither have I. Stupid idea."

# Explorer

"Christ you're small. How old are you?"

"Eight," said Douglas Junior timidly.

"Well you couldn't have done anything."

"Agreed. Let's move on to the next person, shall we?" the Chief suggested.

"This is the last one on the list," said the Professor.

"Alright then, youngster, off you go. Keep an eye out for barbers, that's all I'm saying."

But even as the Chief spoke, Brim got out of his chair for the first time all morning, and walked over to young Douglas. He knelt beside the little boy and asked him if he was alright.

Douglas stopped rocking his legs back and forth beneath his chair and nodded.

The remaining eleven watched them. Well, ten of them did. Doze had nodded off.

Actually it was more like nine, because Tiddly had raided her last resort store and drank the lot. She wobbled drunkenly in her seat, slurring a song to herself about sea shells.

And Nick was under the table, adjusting his carpet.

So eight then.

"What do you want to be when you grow up, Douglas?" Brim asked, rubbing the lump on his head.

"Explorer," Douglas replied quickly.

"What kind?"

"The kind that goes off looking for things."

Brim smiled. "No, I mean, do you want to go off in boats?"

"Yes."

"Or travel over huge mountain ranges?"

"That too."

"And there's always under the sea."

"Can't swim very well."

"How about Pansy? Can she swim?"

"Not very well. Rose is the best swimmer in our house."

"Did you know about Pansy's boyfriend, Buck?"

"Oh yes. They used to meet in the hay loft. I saw them sneak in there loads of times, when I was out in the woods exploring."

"Did your dad know about it?"

"He saw them going in there once. I saw him see them."

"I see. And what were you playing in the woods that night?"

"Shadow-light-talking. It's a game I made up."

"How do you play that?"

"Well, you say something to the light in the shadows, and wait for an answer."

Brim looked confused, but asked, "Do you ever get one?"

"All the time. The lights always talk back. They're my friends. We're all going to be explorers together."

It suddenly dawned on Brim that these lights Douglas spoke of must be imaginary friends of some kind. For a fleeting moment he remembered his own. He'd had three, all as seemingly real as his flesh and blood friends. Maybe more so, in some ways. "Did Emily Jane ever come to your house?"

"Sometimes. At night. She used to shout up to Tom."

"What did she shout about?"

"I want to see you, or speak to you. That sort of thing."

"And did Tom ever answer her?"

"Na. He already had a girlfriend. From the village. They were going to run away together next year, when they were old enough."

"And did Emily know about this?"

"Dunno. Probably. Everyone else did."

"Did you want to go with them?"

"Not really. Haven't finished exploring the woods yet."

Brim had one more question to ask. Before he did, he glanced back at the gathered. Alice was polishing her knuckle dusters, the Chief was plucking his bushy eyebrows, Tiddly was dozing, Anna was doing some press-ups, Richard was trying fruitlessly to engage Millie in conversation but her and the Professor seemed engrossed by the notes he'd made, Russell was sitting back, one hand over his enormous belly, smoking contentedly, Limp was sitting there, looking somewhat bewildered, Doze was still asleep and oblivious to Nick, who was delicately twisting a ring off her finger. He turned back to face young Douglas. "What did you do when all the windows burst open and the candles went out?"

"I hid under the table."

"Was there anybody else under there?"

"Yes."

"Who was it?"

"Captain Hoot-Kayke, and Agnes, but Agnes wasn't moving. I think she fell off her chair."

"Thanks Douglas. And good luck with your exploring."

"Thanks," replied Douglas Junior, jumping to his feet.

Brim led him to the door and said goodbye before returning to his seat.

# Debate

"Quiet, please!" Anna shouted. "It's half passed two for goodness sake!"

Those in the room fell into a staggering, reluctant silence. Everyone turned to face the Professor who was standing at the head of the table. "Now," he said, "I believe we should all offer opinions as to the perpetrator of these horrific crimes, in turn, starting with Alice as before."

"It's Alice Allfolk! I've told you once matey..."

"Yes... sorry. Do go on." The Professor sat down, replacing some of the more adventurous strands of wild hair that looked intent on leaving his head for better climes.

"Well," said Alice, wearing her most thoughtful expression. "If anyone doesn't think it's that Captain bah-bloke, they'll have to answer to me!"

"So you think Captain Hoot-Kayke is responsible for all the deaths?" The Professor deliberately avoided using the word 'murders'. With the evidence he'd accumulated, he was pretty sure something fishy happened, but was convinced one person could not have killed five others during the brief time the room was in darkness.

Alice nodded.

"Chief Nightstick?" prompted the Professor.

"Well, I think we should concentrate our efforts on finding this barber who's still lurking in the house somewhere. One of the victims was stabbed with a pair of scissors, for a start."

"Well, we don't know for certain scissors were used," the Professor argued. "And another was strangled. The third was killed with a blunt instrument of some kind (possibly the poker). The fourth died from a blow to the head and the fifth is a mystery. How could this so-called barber of yours have killed all five?"

"Well, I'm glad you asked me that. He could have killed the first with the scissors, strangled the second with those little towels they give you after they've stolen all your hair, whacked the third one over the head with the blunt end of the scissors, done the same to the fourth, _and_ the fifth... Well, maybe the old woman died of fright. I tell you, whenever I see barbers I get nervous."

Limp made a quick note beside Agnes' name.

"So you think all the deaths can be attributed to this mysterious barber?"

"Definitely!"

"Very well," sighed the Professor. "Tiddly? What about you?"

"Just a half for me," she said.

"Who do you think did it?"

"Dunno. Wasn't me though. I was in the bar."

"You have no idea?"

"Well... um... er... no. No ideas at all."

"Brim? You haven't said much. What do you think?"

Brim hadn't said anything more than pass all day, but despite his head knock his eidetic memory was functioning perfectly well and he spoke up. "Captain Hoot-Kayke didn't kill anybody. He was hiding under the table."

"I'm warning you..."

"Please, let him finish, Alice," said the Professor.

Brim continued. "Douglas Wettgrass found out who the real father of Pansy's baby was; namely Buck Hoot-Kayke. I believe they fought each other, and killed each other. Bill Wettgrass, seeing his father in a fight, and possibly losing at some point, must have gone to help, and was accidentally stabbed."

"But there were no lights," the Professor interrupted. "How could he have seen them fighting?"

"Maybe he heard them. Or, judging by where the bodies were found, perhaps he saw them from the light spilling in from the kitchen."

"Possibly," the Professor acknowledged. "Please go on."

"Well, that explains three of the deaths. The fourth, Emily Jane Pea-Soope is a bit more mysterious. We know she was in love with young Tom Wettgrass. But Tom loved somebody else; a girl from the village, and shunned all her advances. This must have been most upsetting for her. I think the poor girl reached a peak and could take no more. I think she took her own life."

"And what about Agnes Loostocking?"

"The fright of the sudden darkness and the frenetic activity around her must have been terrifying. I would suggest she died of natural causes."

"Despite her constant bickering with her daughter?" said Limp.

"I don't believe she hated her mother enough to kill her."

"What about one of the men? Captain Hoot-Kayke, for instance."

"What about them?"

"Well, she hated men. That was clear. The Captain hated women..."

"No. He didn't. He oppressed his wife. He liked other women."

"Oh," said Limp, and looked away.

"Some extremely interesting points, young Brim," the Professor congratulated him. I will withhold my views for the moment. Anna? Your opinions?"

Alice was glaring at her.

"Well..." she delayed. "Nobody's mentioned the butler."

"He couldn't harm a stickleback!" Russell argued. "Or a scrotum."

"But don't butlers always do it?"

"Yes, but come on! The old bugger didn't even know what day it was."

"Maybe he was just pretending."

"Pretending to be senile? Hogwash!"

The Professor joined the debate. "Do you think the butler was agile enough to enter the room unseen, kill five people in the space of a minute and leave without being seen? I doubt it."

"Well, maybe the old woman did die of natural causes. Maybe the girl did kill herself. But the other three? He could have done for those."

"Very well, dear. You're entitled to your opinions, obviously. Next." Patronisation comes so naturally to some.

"I'd like that Rose to come back in here," said Richard. "Or the maids."

"Do you think one of those did it?"

"No! I'd just like to search them for hidden weapons."

The Professor ignored that. "Who do you think did it?"

"Oh, I don't know. I'll agree with Alice over there. I say it was the Captain."

Richard, sensing the futility in chasing after Anna and Millie, and deeming Alice to be the third nicest looking woman at the table had decided to concentrate his efforts there.

"Millie?" the Professor prompted.

"Well, lots of what Brim said makes sense. Apart from one thing."

"What's that?" Brim asked tentatively.

"The suicide. How could she have strangled herself?"

"With the tablecloth."

"But wouldn't somebody else have to do it?"

"Why?"

"If she passed out, her grip would loosen, and she'd be able to breath."

"Perhaps. Perhaps not."

"I think she may have been attacked by Buck, and he killed her."

The Professor made a note before beginning his oration. "Much of what young Brim said makes sense, and his conclusions differ from mine in one detail only. A laceration was found on the forehead of Agnes Loostocking. A laceration of that type could have been caused by a poker. I do not believe she received this blow on the edge of the table when she keeled over, but during the struggle between Buck and Douglas, Douglas inadvertently struck her a fatal blow."

Alice mumbled something and turned away.

"It's alright, Alice, I believe you," Richard said.

"As long as Pansy's alright, that's all that matters to me."

"But what about the murderer, Russell?" asked the Professor.

"Well, what you've said makes a lot of sense to me."

"So you agree with me?"

"No. With Millie. I think Buck strangled Emily Jane, but I also think Agnes was killed accidentally, so I agree with you both."

"Very well." The Professor made a note.

Anna glanced at the clock. It was approaching three.

"I think," said Limp, "that Captain Hoot-Kayke, before diving under the table, killed Douglas Wettgrass, because he witnessed or heard him kill his son. I also think that Bill, who was one of the first on his feet, must have been knocked over. He fell and hit his head on the corner of the fireplace, which made the blow look as if it had been inflicted by a poker, but was really accidental. As for Agnes and Emily Jane, I agree with Brim. Agnes died of natural causes, Emily Jane killed herself."

"This is all getting a bit complicated, isn't it?" Tiddly said. "I mean, I don't even remember half the people you've mentioned. Are you sure they were all there?" She was sobering up again, but her local tavern would be open in a few hours. The thought of a long, cold drink of beer with Betty Swollocks was about the only thing that kept her going.

"Of course they were you daft old trout!" Alice did not suffer fools.

Tiddly stared at Alice, then thought better of it and looked at Doze.

"Well, if any of you come within fifty feet of my shop I'll set my dogs on you! As for who killed who? It was probably one of my customers. And the only one amongst them I recognised was the barber the Chief keeps banging on about."

Chief Nightstick grinned broadly.

The Professor shook his head. "And finally, Nick," he said.

"Um... Well, I think there's enough blame in the world without adding more. Let's just call it quits and go home, shall we? Who's that?" He pointed at the door, and when everybody looked, he slipped a tankard down his shirt and a quill up his right sleeve. He was, by now, a walking 'quill and urn' shop, with a small selection of carpet squares in the back.

"You must have somebody in mind," said Millie, turning back to face him.

"Well, Captain Hoot-Kayke sounded a bit dodgy to me!"

"You think he killed them all?"

"Um... Yes, Stan thinks he did it."

"Who's Stan?" Tiddly asked.

"That's me," said Nick.

"I thought you were called Nick."

"No, that's my cousin, that is."

"Oh, right."

"One more time matey..." Alice pointed at him.

"Right," said the Professor, dropping the quill beside his piece of parchment and standing up. "These are our conclusions." He picked up the parchment and read aloud.

"Alice believes Captain Hoot-Kayke killed all five. The Chief thinks it was this mysterious barber of his. Tiddly's got no idea who did what, or what she's doing here. Brim thinks Douglas Wettgrass fought with Buck Hoot-Kayke and they killed each other, and young Bill in the process, that Emily Jane killed herself, and that Agnes Loostocking died of natural causes. Anna believes the butler killed Douglas, Buck and Bill, but agrees with Brim about the other two deaths. Richard agrees with Alice. All five were killed by the Captain." The Professor paused for breath. "Millie believes that before the fight, Buck strangled Emily Jane, otherwise she agrees with Brim. I agree with Brim, but I think Agnes was killed accidentally by Douglas. Russell agrees with Millie, but he also thinks Agnes was killed accidentally by Douglas Wettgrass. Limp agrees with Brim about Agnes and Emily Jane, but thinks Bill fell over and hit his head, and that Captain Hoot-Kayke killed Douglas after seeing him kill his son. Doze actually agrees with the Chief. She thinks a barber did it too." At which point the Professor shook his head, and took another breath. "And finally, Nick agrees with Alice and Richard."

"What are you talking about man?" said Tiddly.

"It's perfectly straight forward, Tiddly, if you'd just listen. Alice believes—"

"Don't run through it again. It'll just make things worse."

"What part didn't you understand?"

"Just that bit about who killed who."

"All of it then."

"Yes. That part."

The Professor read everybody's conclusions again.

"You can change mine now, if you like."

"To what, Tiddly?"

"I agree with him."

"Brim?"

"No, him!" She pointed at Limp.

The Professor made a note beside Tiddly's name.

"So, is that it, then?" Anna asked.

"Well, we have reached a number of different conclusions. Perhaps we are expected to find only one."

"But what if we can't agree? We could be here all afternoon!"

"Then we shall have to be."

"Oh, for God's sake! I'm supposed to be meeting somebody later."

"You should have cancelled."

"I don't want to stay her all afternoon either!" Alice moaned.

A chorus of 'neither do I really's' erupted.

"But if we handed this to the judge..." the Professor scanned the list, "...five people would be executed."

"Rather them than me!"

"But five! That can't be right, surely!"

"Look matey—" Alice was annoyed.

"Let's try and simplify things. That's all I suggest."

"So who are the suspects so far?" Anna asked.

"We have Captain Hoot-Kayke, Douglas Wettgrass, Buck Hoot-Kayke, the butler and this mysterious barber." To himself the Professor added. "And if he did it, I'll cut off my hair and eat it!"

"Lets do one of those hands up things then," Tiddly suggested. Murmurs of approval spread amongst the gathered.

"Very well," said the Professor. "Hands up all those who think Captain Hoot-Kayke killed one or more of the victims."

Five hands were raised.

"Douglas Wettgrass?"

Two hands.

"Buck Hoot-Kayke."

Again, two hands.

"The butler."

One hand.

"The barber who nobody seems to know?"

Three hands.

"Well, in that case, I think we can dismiss the butler."

"Why?" Anna asked.

"Because, out of twelve, you're the only one who thinks he did it."

"So?"

"We need a majority, remember?"

Anna sighed, glanced at the time, then did some stretching.

"And seeing as Douglas Wettgrass and Buck Hoot-Kayke are both dead, that leaves only Captain Hoot-Kayke and this barber."

"And there were three hands raised for the barber, and five for the Captain," Millie recapped. "And as we seem to be working with majority's, the general opinion is that Captain Hoot-Kayke did it."

"But he was under the table," Brim argued.

"Shush!" Doze muttered. "I'll get to you in a minute." She'd fallen asleep.

"Well it can't be this barber. Nobody's seen him!" the Professor argued.

"So you agree with me?" The Chief gave him a wink.

"No! There was more than one murderer."

"But the other two are dead," Limp reminded him.

"Yes. So..." the Professor sighed and sat down. He was getting a bit confused himself.

"So what we should tell that Judge," Tiddly said, "is to hang that Captain Wosname who nobody liked anyway, and tell her to keep an eye out for a barber with a vicious pair of wosnames."

"My thoughts exactly!" said the Chief. "Who agrees with me?" He put up his hand.

Nine others hands joined his.

"Very well," said the Professor somewhat forlornly. "Somebody had better call Julia Daniel; tell her we've reached a verdict." He put his elbows on the table and his head in his hands.

# Part Five

Revelations

# The Missing Minutes

"Action!"

Both the windows in the north wall blew open and in howled a bitingly cold wind. A moment later all the candles were out. The feint, red glow from the low fire barely permeated the darkness.

Deardree Loostocking and Lord David William Pea-Soope rushed out of the room almost together. Deardree practically pushed his Lordship into the semi-darkness of the hall and on down the gloomy corridor towards the small supply cupboard beneath the stairs.

Tom Wettgrass reached out for his mother's hand. She took it, put a warm, comforting around her son's shoulders and told him everything would be alright, not to worry, the candles will be re-lit any moment.

Douglas Wettgrass Junior slipped under the table and on hands and knees crawled towards its centre. He bumped heads with somebody in the dark and started to cry. The person who's head he bumped also started to cry. It was Captain Hoot-Kayke. In the darkness they sat beside one another, trembling with fear.

Rose Wettgrass, seeing the empty chair to her right, slipped along and sat on it, holding her younger sisters hand and kicking out at something under the table. It might have been a leg, but she wasn't taking any chances.

Little Stanley Pea-Soope used the darkness to pick at a spot on his neck. He got the head off and squeezed. It made a tiny 'pop', and he felt beneath his fingertips a sticky fluid. He wiped it on his trousers and sought another.

Douglas, inebriated and annoyed with Buck Hoot-Kayke's attitude not only towards his own mother, but to his daughter, leapt to his feet as best he could and lunged at him. He grabbed him by the scruff, pulled him out of his chair, over the table and onto the floor beside the fire. He reached out a hand for the poker.

Poor Dafney Hoot-Kayke glanced to her right to see what the commotion was just in time to see Dug raise the poker up high and bring it down heavily on her sons head. Shocked and enraged she pushed her seat back, grabbed a knife from the table and advanced on Douglas Wettgrass. "Nobody hurts my family!" she screamed, thrusting the knife at the groundsman.

Bill, like Stanley, was making the most of the sudden darkness. He had his little hand up old Agnes' dress. Rumour had it she kept a small purse there, and it was this he was groping for. Unfortunately, that's not what Lady Melinda thought he was doing. She yanked the boy upright and slapped him across the cheek. This caught him by surprise and he fell back off his chair and caught his head on the corner of a dresser.

At that point, Abigail and Lucy rushed in. Both of them screamed. Seeing what looked to Agnes like some strange, shrieking beast silhouetted in the light from the kitchen was the last straw. Agnes took one last breath, clutched her large chest and fell forward, catching her head on the corner of the table before falling beneath it. With tears rolling down her cheeks, Emily Jane Pea-Soope grabbed the corner of the table cloth, slipped it around her neck, tied it tight and was about to pull when...

"Cut! Alright lovies," shouted Quibly Smythe through his polished megaphone. "Super everyone. Terribly first class. We'll take a five minute break then run it once again from the top. Close the windows back there! That breeze is shooting right up my trouser leg and interfering with all kinds of things it shouldn't be. And somebody get these candles re-lit!"

# Epilogue

Winter was coming. It was dark in the old manor house. Hiding inside a bedroom wardrobe in the west wing was a man and a women, whispering conspiratorially...

"So who did this lot finger?"

"Shush. Keep your voice down. Captain Hoot-Kayke," Miss Daniel sighed.

"Damn. Same as the last lot, eh?"

"Yes."

"And the lot before that."

"Yes."

_"And_ the lot before that."

"Yes! Alright!"

"Let's face it, Miss Daniel, this was an easy scenario, yet that strange policeman managed to create a mysterious barber completely out of the blue!"

"We could..."

"No. No. It was a nice try, but this County Caught thing..."

"What?"

"Well, it's a bit of a non starter."

"Maybe if we..."

"What, Miss Daniel?"

"Maybe if _we_ did it? Maybe, if _we_ decide who's guilty and let them..."

"Let them what?"

"...decide if we're right. Or wrong?"

Chuckle.

"I'm just being foolish now, aren't I?"

"Yes, Miss Daniel. How on earth is a system like that ever going to work?"

"Not sure. Twelve people basing their decisions on hearsay? What was I thinking?"

"You _weren't_ thinking, you were—"

_Whack_!

# # #

# End Notes

_County Caught_ is set in the same, strange and magical Vastgreen Forest through which Bhark Lhoudly and Whindy the Brave adventure in _The Serendipity Trilogy_.

* * *

# Thank you for reading!

Until we meet again you can learn more about my exotic lifestyle (not exotic at all) by visiting my official website here: http://www.robinpgilbert.com

