Although the BIRD-FLU common room was well furnished with comfortable chairs, the atmosphere within was far from comfortable. Sir Henry Montague Ponsenby-Brown did not notice, however, for he was surrounded by uncomfortable atmospheres wherever he went. It was his gift to the world. He flicked through a few more pages of the dossier in front of him, nodded to himself, and then looked up.
“What do you know of the ALF?” he asked with an abruptness that made it quite clear that conversations about the Centre’s name were most definitely over.
“They’re justified and they’re ancient?” hazarded Miss Mabel Middlebottom.
Alec Watson chuckled. “I think you’re thinking of KLF.”
"The Dutch airline?" she responded, confused.
“No!” frowned Sir Henry, flashing Alec a quick look of disapproval for unauthorised expression of amusement. “The Animal Liberation Front. I take it that you haven’t heard of them.”
“I have,” said Ricky. “The Swansea lot are getting quite militant, I believe.”
Johnson looked slightly alarmed but Ricky just laughed. “We don’t have anything to worry about here, though. This place is locked up tighter than a lamb’s sphincter.”
“How, er, colourful,” commented Sir Henry. “I suspect you’re right. The ALF would be unlikely to be able to break into this place. Not without leverage. That’s why they might have opted for more, how shall I put it, indirect methods.”
Johnson’s eyes widened as the penny finally dropped. For the first time since Sir Henry’s arrival, the professor stopped thinking about his lack of trouserage.
“Gee!” he blurted, collapsing into the leather armchair opposite Watson. “You don’t think this has anything to do with Tony’s disappearance, do you?”
Sir Henry inclined his head. “It’s certainly a possibility. The ALF have made several threats against the centre recently. That’s why I was sent to check security. Has Professor Greywood received any personal threats, to your knowledge?”
Johnson and Miss Mabel Middlebottom exchanged looks. The professor shook his head. “Not that I’ve heard about. Ricky? Did Tony say anything to you?”
Ricky shrugged and shook his head. “I’ve heard nothing like that.”
He sipped his tea. “I hope he’s okay.”
Miss Mabel Middlebottom was beginning to look a little upset.
“I’m sure he’s just ill,” she said. “And can’t get to the phone. Maybe he’s bedridden, with a fever.”
She bit on her finger in anguish.
“He’s a bachelor, you know,” she told Sir Henry. “He lives alone. Oh, the poor man!”
“Perhaps you could give us his address,” suggested Watson. “Then we…”
He was silenced by a glare from Sir Henry. It was not Watson’s place to eat biscuits and it was certainly not his place to make suggestions.
“Miss Middlebottom,” said Sir Henry. “Perhaps you could provide us with Professor Greywood’s address, so that we can investigate this matter further. It seems that our records are not as up-to-date as they should be.”
Watson rolled his eyes and took another hobnob. Miss Mabel Middlebottom nodded and wiped a tear from her eye.
“Of course,” she said, standing up. “I’ll go and get it, right away.”
“Thank you,” Sir Henry replied, softly.
Quite out of character, he found himself moved by the woman’s emotion, and it took him a few seconds to compose himself as she left the room. Taking a slow breath, he returned his attention to Professor Johnson.
“In the meantime, Professor, you need to be wary of ALF attack. You should probably move the larger animals off-site, just to be on the safe side.”
Johnson nodded. “We’ll have to close the labs for the cleanup anyway.”
“We also need to consider any other possibilities,” Sir Henry continued. “Any other potential targets for industrial espionage?”
The bare-legged academic blinked and shook his head with a small shrug of one shoulder.
“Not really. I mean, we’ve got biological samples here but, like I said, we haven’t really got the research up and running yet.” He laughed nervously. “The only really innovation since the centre opened is Ricky here’s new air filter design. And that’s not even finished yet.”
Sir Henry sipped on his tea. “Would Professor Greywood have known anything of plans for the new air filter?”
“Well, obviously he was the one that okayed the installation of a new filter but he hadn’t seen the actual plans. Ricky keeps the plans locked away in a safety deposit box in his bank. Ain’t that right, Ricky?”
Ricky smiled and gave a nod, looking slightly uncomfortable about having his work discussed.
“Wouldn’t be any real point in stealing the plans anyway,” Johnson continued. “The system will only work in one of the Level Four labs on site here.”
The pensive silence that followed was broken by the return of Miss Mabel Middlebottom. Sir Henry set down his cup and saucer and stood to meet her.
“I think we have seen and heard enough,” he said, taking the piece of paper offered by Miss Mabel Middlebottom. “The centre will remain open for now, but be extra vigilant. We’ll be in touch soon. I expect an update the moment anything changes.”
“Of course, Sir Henry,” nodded Johnson, rising to see the visitor out.
“Come, Smithers.” He looked at the address in his hand. “We have a missing Professor to find.”
Showing posts with label #chapter7. Show all posts
Showing posts with label #chapter7. Show all posts
Friday, 24 August 2012
Thursday, 23 August 2012
Chapter 7.5
If Rhys-Morgan was angry before – and he was – then he was really angry now. He had got nowhere with Mr Smeg, and now he had been fobbed off to his partner, Mr Butterworth, the haemophilic annelid. To cap it all off, the vacantly smiling secretary at the front desk was insisting that he waited. The policeman was feeling the desire to arrest someone stronger than he had felt since the great Donut Truck Hijacks of 1994.
He sat down on one of the comfy-looking brown leather armchairs opposite the secretary’s desk. It turned out not be as comfortable as it looked. He scanned the hardwood coffee table next to him for something to browse. All that was on offer was a two-year-old copy of ‘Hello’ magazine and the sports section from the Telegraph. Rhys-Morgan did not believe in sports and he had no time for celebrities. After a couple of minutes, he could not bear it any longer.
“Look,” he said, sharply. “Does Mr Butterworth have an important client in there, or something?”
“No,” replied the secretary. She now wore the expression of someone who had come to terms with the fact that she had to deal with an undesirable and was determined to bear the burden with dignity.
“Then why can he not see me now?” Rhys-Morgan demanded.
The secretary coughed quietly. “He’s, er, having his, erm, lunch.”
By now he was out of his seat. “He’s what?!”
That was the final straw for the tired detective and before the secretary realised what was happening, he was marching purposefully towards the oak-panelled door bearing the gold plaque with the engraved letters ‘B. B. Butterworth. Senior Partner.’ This act was enough for her to lose her composure.
“No, sir!” she cried. “You really don’t want to…”
But it was too late. Rhys-Morgan was already bursting through Butterworth’s door in a fury. Inside, he found himself in a well-decorated office with high bookshelves and filing cabinets on each sidewall, either side of a central desk of fine mahogany. Beyond, a tall window looked out through net curtains into the car park.
Behind the desk, a surprisingly young man sat up sharply and quickly pulled his suit jacket closed. He was well groomed, but Rhys-Morgan noticed that he wore no tie and the top three buttons of his pale pink shirt were undone.
“What is the meaning of this?” he demanded, his face displaying a mixture of shock and, to Rhys-Morgan’s surprise and intrigue, embarrassment.
Rhys-Morgan ignored the question. His policing instincts were screaming at him that something funny was going on here. “Mr Butterworth?”
“And who is asking?” came the uptight response.
Rhys-Morgan flipped out his badge. “Detective Inspector Rhys-Morgan. Homicide.” He liked saying that. It generally got people worried, even if they were perfectly innocent.
“Oh.” This was obviously not the response that the young man had expected. “No, I’m Mr Butterworth’s personal assistant.”
Rhys-Morgan snapped his wallet shut without a loud slap. He was not prepared to be passed around any more. “I want to see Mr Butterworth.”
To Rhys-Morgan’s well-trained eye, the P.A. panicked a little. “Er, I’m afraid that Mr Butterworth is…”
Rhys-Morgan leant forward, placing both hands firmly on the desk and looking the man squarely in the eye. “Now.”
“It’s alright, Jonathon,” said a third voice. “I can see the policeman. Let him see me.”
Rys-Morgan stood up and took a step backwards. There were only the two of them in the room. Jonathon continued to look worried and began to unbutton his suit jacket. As it fell open, Rhys-Morgan noticed that Jonathon had his tie draped around his neck. It was what was known as a “power tie”. To Rhys-Morgan’s mind, that was just a synonym for “tasteless”.
The detective’s gaze did not linger on the tie, however. Once the jacket was open, Jonathon pulled open the top of his shirt to reveal his left breast almost down to the nipple. On it, in line with the armpit, was a leech. Twin puncture marks oozed blood next to it.
Rhys-Morgan’s face contorted as if he had just tasted some more McDonald’s coffee. “That’s disgusting!”
Jonathon fingered at his tie, his discomfort plain to see. “I know, and I’m sorry. But it was present from my late aunt, and my mum makes me wear it.”
He sat down on one of the comfy-looking brown leather armchairs opposite the secretary’s desk. It turned out not be as comfortable as it looked. He scanned the hardwood coffee table next to him for something to browse. All that was on offer was a two-year-old copy of ‘Hello’ magazine and the sports section from the Telegraph. Rhys-Morgan did not believe in sports and he had no time for celebrities. After a couple of minutes, he could not bear it any longer.
“Look,” he said, sharply. “Does Mr Butterworth have an important client in there, or something?”
“No,” replied the secretary. She now wore the expression of someone who had come to terms with the fact that she had to deal with an undesirable and was determined to bear the burden with dignity.
“Then why can he not see me now?” Rhys-Morgan demanded.
The secretary coughed quietly. “He’s, er, having his, erm, lunch.”
By now he was out of his seat. “He’s what?!”
That was the final straw for the tired detective and before the secretary realised what was happening, he was marching purposefully towards the oak-panelled door bearing the gold plaque with the engraved letters ‘B. B. Butterworth. Senior Partner.’ This act was enough for her to lose her composure.
“No, sir!” she cried. “You really don’t want to…”
But it was too late. Rhys-Morgan was already bursting through Butterworth’s door in a fury. Inside, he found himself in a well-decorated office with high bookshelves and filing cabinets on each sidewall, either side of a central desk of fine mahogany. Beyond, a tall window looked out through net curtains into the car park.
Behind the desk, a surprisingly young man sat up sharply and quickly pulled his suit jacket closed. He was well groomed, but Rhys-Morgan noticed that he wore no tie and the top three buttons of his pale pink shirt were undone.
“What is the meaning of this?” he demanded, his face displaying a mixture of shock and, to Rhys-Morgan’s surprise and intrigue, embarrassment.
Rhys-Morgan ignored the question. His policing instincts were screaming at him that something funny was going on here. “Mr Butterworth?”
“And who is asking?” came the uptight response.
Rhys-Morgan flipped out his badge. “Detective Inspector Rhys-Morgan. Homicide.” He liked saying that. It generally got people worried, even if they were perfectly innocent.
“Oh.” This was obviously not the response that the young man had expected. “No, I’m Mr Butterworth’s personal assistant.”
Rhys-Morgan snapped his wallet shut without a loud slap. He was not prepared to be passed around any more. “I want to see Mr Butterworth.”
To Rhys-Morgan’s well-trained eye, the P.A. panicked a little. “Er, I’m afraid that Mr Butterworth is…”
Rhys-Morgan leant forward, placing both hands firmly on the desk and looking the man squarely in the eye. “Now.”
“It’s alright, Jonathon,” said a third voice. “I can see the policeman. Let him see me.”
Rys-Morgan stood up and took a step backwards. There were only the two of them in the room. Jonathon continued to look worried and began to unbutton his suit jacket. As it fell open, Rhys-Morgan noticed that Jonathon had his tie draped around his neck. It was what was known as a “power tie”. To Rhys-Morgan’s mind, that was just a synonym for “tasteless”.
The detective’s gaze did not linger on the tie, however. Once the jacket was open, Jonathon pulled open the top of his shirt to reveal his left breast almost down to the nipple. On it, in line with the armpit, was a leech. Twin puncture marks oozed blood next to it.
Rhys-Morgan’s face contorted as if he had just tasted some more McDonald’s coffee. “That’s disgusting!”
Jonathon fingered at his tie, his discomfort plain to see. “I know, and I’m sorry. But it was present from my late aunt, and my mum makes me wear it.”
Tuesday, 21 August 2012
Chapter 7.4
Kippie caught Sister Mary’s eye, and had to try desperately hard to suppress a giggle as Sister Millicent berated the moral fibre of today’s young people. In the end, the two of the managed to duck down a side passage, leaving the old nun ranting to herself as she continued down the corridor oblivious to their absence.
Mary ushered her friend into a small classroom. (One of the form rooms for the house of St Quentin, patron saint of grapefruit. After reading about the activities of the protestant William of Orange, St Quentin believed all citrus fruit to be anti-papist, heretical and evil. His life turned around during a long sea voyage to the Americas when his life was saved by the ship’s supply of limes, the only food they had been left with following a raid by the infamous pirate, Scurvy Graham. St Quentin was martyred protecting a sacred lemon tree from Don Huan del Monte in 1839.)
Sister Mary shut the door behind them. As soon as it clicked shut, both of them burst out laughing.
“I can see she hasn’t changed!” chuckle Kippie, wiping a tear from her eye.
“Tell me about it!” smirked Sister Mary. “She doesn’t seem to have aged since I’ve been here, either.” She leant close to Kippie and whispered conspiratorially. “We think that she really died years ago, but St Peter didn’t want to let her in, so he sent her back!”
Kippie nodded. “I could imagine her telling the Heavenly Hosts to keep the noise down!” Mary took and deep breath and, with some effort, composed herself. “So, I presume this isn’t just a social visit?”
Kippie shook her head, and was suddenly serious. “No.”
“Is it about the robbery?” May asked quietly.
“No, but I heard about that.” Kippie looked at the friend in concern. “Are you OK?” Mary laughed again and tried to make light of the situation but the laugh was fairly hollow. “I’m fine. But it’s not the normal way I’d chose to get tied up. Garden hose gives you bad friction burns!”
Kippie could see through the façade and remained silent, giving Mary the space to say what she needed. Sure enough, the young nun soon dropped the smile.
“Actually, it was horrible,” she confessed. “I could swear that it had been a snake that wrapped itself around me and not garden hose.”
Kippie had read the report, and the official psychologist line was that the stress of the robbery had cause Mary to think that the textured hose she had felt was actually the scales of a snake. After all, as a young welsh nun, Mary was not exactly an expert on snakes. (Not unless you included the one-eyed trouser snake of Bishop Plum. Now, there was a bishop that had really needed to be bashed.) Furthermore, some of her personal habits did leave her prone to hallucinations. Kippie could see the fear in her eyes, though. It was a look she had often seen in the eyes of numerous punters, usually just before Cassidy sank his teeth into their private parts.
Mary dropped her gaze to the floor. “Seems like an awful lot to put someone through just to get hold of a couple of tortoises, some newts and a gerbil.”
Kippie also stared at the floor and nodded sympathetically as her brain processed the information. Then she looked up suddenly as the penny dropped. “What?!”
Mary looked up, slightly dazed. “That’s what was stolen – a couple of tortoises, some newts and a gerbil. I thought you’d know that.”
“I must have skimmed over that bit when I read the report,” explained Kippie, somewhat distantly. “I don’t really do robberies. Well, not unless they’re in progress, anyway.”
She chewed her bottom lip as he made the connection. Two tortoises were stolen from St Mildred’s. (The house mascots of St Percy, patron saint of shelled animals. St Percy died trying to rescue terrapins from the sewers of Cardiff City.) Then one turns up dead in a field with a former employee. Coincidence? Maybe. “In this case, though, there may be a link with my assignment.”
Mary snapped out of reliving her ordeal. “So, why are you here, exactly?”
Kippie tried to push the thoughts of tortoises to the back of her mind for the moment. But tortoises can be stubborn animals with strong little legs, so she resorted to tempting them to the back of her mind with two sticks of celery and a dandelion.
“Mary,” she said. “I need some information about an old caretaker.”
Mary frowned. “Not old Bob Bob?”
Bob Jacobs, known as Bob Bob due to his tendency to repeat himself, was the white-haired old caretaker of St Mildred’s when Kippie was a student there. It was hard to conceive what he could possibly have done to warrant police interest. He would frequently fall asleep in the middle of mowing the lawns or sweeping the corridor. Once he even fell into the fish tank when he fell asleep feeding the fish.
Kippie smiled at the memory but shook her head. “No. I’m interested in a guy called Edwards. Patrick Edwards.”
She watched as Mary opened the classroom door and peered out, alert for the signs of Sister Millicent. Satisfied that they were safe, she returned and sat close to Kippie.
“I do remember Patrick,” she confided. “Lovely fella. I suppose you know that he left in a bit of controversy.”
Kippie consulted her notebook. “Yep. Arrested for possession and then forced to resign, according to my notes.”
Mary glanced nervously at the door and dropped her voice to a whisper. “He was a pagan, you know.”
Kippie nodded. “Yes, I know.”
“It caused a few problems here, I can tell you. I’m sure you can imagine. I mean, I didn’t really mind, and neither did Blow Jo – pagans can get the best gear – but it didn’t go down well with Mother Superior. Or Millicent, for that matter.”
She looked round at the door again before leaning closer to her friend.
“I think that it was Millicent who tipped off the filth, sorry, the police about Patrick’s marijuana,” she whispered, even quieter than before. She sat back straight again. “What’s he done?”
Kippie opened her mouth and then shut it again. She was sure she could trust her friend but the explosion was not yet in the public domain. “He’s been involved in some, er, cult activities.”
“Oh, that.” Mary smiled. “Indecent exposure, was it?”
She leant forward once more. “He asked me along to his cult, once. I must admit I was tempted by the naked frolicking.”
She sat back and shook her head wistfully. “I would definitely lose my job if that came out, though, so I didn’t risk it.”
Smiling again, Mary looked at Kippie. “So what do you need? Character witness?” She frowned. “He was perfectly safe around kids, if that’s the concern?”
Kippie looked at her feet. She did not realise that Mary had known him so well and felt that she was going to have to tell her the truth now. Mary would not spread it around. She took her friend’s hand and took a deep breath. “Mary. I’m not sure how to say this but, er, I’m afraid something’s happened to Patrick.”
Mary frowned. “He’s not got himself arrested again has he? Look, I’d love to help but I’m not exactly in Sister Millicent’s good books as it is.”
Kippie shook her head. “I’m afraid it’s worse than that. Mary, Patrick’s dead.”
“What?” The colour drained from the young nun’s face. “Dead? Wh… how?”
The WPC squeezed her friend’s hand before releasing it. “It was an explosion. We think it was a cult suicide. Please – you’re not to tell anyone. We don’t want the press getting it until we’ve contacted next of kin.”
Mary was still in shock. “Suicide? He never mentioned anything to me about his cult committing suicide. Tended to concentrate more on the naked frolicking, as I recall. And the, um, mind expansion, so to speak.”
Kippie had her pencil out now and was scribbling a few things down in her notebook.
“What did he say about the cult, Mary?” she asked, gently. “Think. It could be important.”
Mary shrugged, the tears slowly welling up in her eyes. “Nothing, really. Just the frolicking really. Getting out into nature for some ‘good cult vibes’, as he used to call them.”
“Did he ever mention anyone else?”
“Not really,” Mary frowned. “There were other people but he never said how many, or who they were.”
Kippie sucked the end of her pencil briefly but quickly withdrew it when she tasted the rubber on the tip. “What about next of kin?”
Mary sagged forward, her head in her hands. When she looked up, a lonely tear was running down her right cheek. “I really don’t know.”
Kippie put her pencil down and placed a hand gently on her friend’s arm.
Mary wiped the moisture from her eyes and took Kippie’s hand up in her own once more. “Come on. Sister Enid keeps all the records. If anyone knows, it would be her.”
Mary ushered her friend into a small classroom. (One of the form rooms for the house of St Quentin, patron saint of grapefruit. After reading about the activities of the protestant William of Orange, St Quentin believed all citrus fruit to be anti-papist, heretical and evil. His life turned around during a long sea voyage to the Americas when his life was saved by the ship’s supply of limes, the only food they had been left with following a raid by the infamous pirate, Scurvy Graham. St Quentin was martyred protecting a sacred lemon tree from Don Huan del Monte in 1839.)
Sister Mary shut the door behind them. As soon as it clicked shut, both of them burst out laughing.
“I can see she hasn’t changed!” chuckle Kippie, wiping a tear from her eye.
“Tell me about it!” smirked Sister Mary. “She doesn’t seem to have aged since I’ve been here, either.” She leant close to Kippie and whispered conspiratorially. “We think that she really died years ago, but St Peter didn’t want to let her in, so he sent her back!”
Kippie nodded. “I could imagine her telling the Heavenly Hosts to keep the noise down!” Mary took and deep breath and, with some effort, composed herself. “So, I presume this isn’t just a social visit?”
Kippie shook her head, and was suddenly serious. “No.”
“Is it about the robbery?” May asked quietly.
“No, but I heard about that.” Kippie looked at the friend in concern. “Are you OK?” Mary laughed again and tried to make light of the situation but the laugh was fairly hollow. “I’m fine. But it’s not the normal way I’d chose to get tied up. Garden hose gives you bad friction burns!”
Kippie could see through the façade and remained silent, giving Mary the space to say what she needed. Sure enough, the young nun soon dropped the smile.
“Actually, it was horrible,” she confessed. “I could swear that it had been a snake that wrapped itself around me and not garden hose.”
Kippie had read the report, and the official psychologist line was that the stress of the robbery had cause Mary to think that the textured hose she had felt was actually the scales of a snake. After all, as a young welsh nun, Mary was not exactly an expert on snakes. (Not unless you included the one-eyed trouser snake of Bishop Plum. Now, there was a bishop that had really needed to be bashed.) Furthermore, some of her personal habits did leave her prone to hallucinations. Kippie could see the fear in her eyes, though. It was a look she had often seen in the eyes of numerous punters, usually just before Cassidy sank his teeth into their private parts.
Mary dropped her gaze to the floor. “Seems like an awful lot to put someone through just to get hold of a couple of tortoises, some newts and a gerbil.”
Kippie also stared at the floor and nodded sympathetically as her brain processed the information. Then she looked up suddenly as the penny dropped. “What?!”
Mary looked up, slightly dazed. “That’s what was stolen – a couple of tortoises, some newts and a gerbil. I thought you’d know that.”
“I must have skimmed over that bit when I read the report,” explained Kippie, somewhat distantly. “I don’t really do robberies. Well, not unless they’re in progress, anyway.”
She chewed her bottom lip as he made the connection. Two tortoises were stolen from St Mildred’s. (The house mascots of St Percy, patron saint of shelled animals. St Percy died trying to rescue terrapins from the sewers of Cardiff City.) Then one turns up dead in a field with a former employee. Coincidence? Maybe. “In this case, though, there may be a link with my assignment.”
Mary snapped out of reliving her ordeal. “So, why are you here, exactly?”
Kippie tried to push the thoughts of tortoises to the back of her mind for the moment. But tortoises can be stubborn animals with strong little legs, so she resorted to tempting them to the back of her mind with two sticks of celery and a dandelion.
“Mary,” she said. “I need some information about an old caretaker.”
Mary frowned. “Not old Bob Bob?”
Bob Jacobs, known as Bob Bob due to his tendency to repeat himself, was the white-haired old caretaker of St Mildred’s when Kippie was a student there. It was hard to conceive what he could possibly have done to warrant police interest. He would frequently fall asleep in the middle of mowing the lawns or sweeping the corridor. Once he even fell into the fish tank when he fell asleep feeding the fish.
Kippie smiled at the memory but shook her head. “No. I’m interested in a guy called Edwards. Patrick Edwards.”
She watched as Mary opened the classroom door and peered out, alert for the signs of Sister Millicent. Satisfied that they were safe, she returned and sat close to Kippie.
“I do remember Patrick,” she confided. “Lovely fella. I suppose you know that he left in a bit of controversy.”
Kippie consulted her notebook. “Yep. Arrested for possession and then forced to resign, according to my notes.”
Mary glanced nervously at the door and dropped her voice to a whisper. “He was a pagan, you know.”
Kippie nodded. “Yes, I know.”
“It caused a few problems here, I can tell you. I’m sure you can imagine. I mean, I didn’t really mind, and neither did Blow Jo – pagans can get the best gear – but it didn’t go down well with Mother Superior. Or Millicent, for that matter.”
She looked round at the door again before leaning closer to her friend.
“I think that it was Millicent who tipped off the filth, sorry, the police about Patrick’s marijuana,” she whispered, even quieter than before. She sat back straight again. “What’s he done?”
Kippie opened her mouth and then shut it again. She was sure she could trust her friend but the explosion was not yet in the public domain. “He’s been involved in some, er, cult activities.”
“Oh, that.” Mary smiled. “Indecent exposure, was it?”
She leant forward once more. “He asked me along to his cult, once. I must admit I was tempted by the naked frolicking.”
She sat back and shook her head wistfully. “I would definitely lose my job if that came out, though, so I didn’t risk it.”
Smiling again, Mary looked at Kippie. “So what do you need? Character witness?” She frowned. “He was perfectly safe around kids, if that’s the concern?”
Kippie looked at her feet. She did not realise that Mary had known him so well and felt that she was going to have to tell her the truth now. Mary would not spread it around. She took her friend’s hand and took a deep breath. “Mary. I’m not sure how to say this but, er, I’m afraid something’s happened to Patrick.”
Mary frowned. “He’s not got himself arrested again has he? Look, I’d love to help but I’m not exactly in Sister Millicent’s good books as it is.”
Kippie shook her head. “I’m afraid it’s worse than that. Mary, Patrick’s dead.”
“What?” The colour drained from the young nun’s face. “Dead? Wh… how?”
The WPC squeezed her friend’s hand before releasing it. “It was an explosion. We think it was a cult suicide. Please – you’re not to tell anyone. We don’t want the press getting it until we’ve contacted next of kin.”
Mary was still in shock. “Suicide? He never mentioned anything to me about his cult committing suicide. Tended to concentrate more on the naked frolicking, as I recall. And the, um, mind expansion, so to speak.”
Kippie had her pencil out now and was scribbling a few things down in her notebook.
“What did he say about the cult, Mary?” she asked, gently. “Think. It could be important.”
Mary shrugged, the tears slowly welling up in her eyes. “Nothing, really. Just the frolicking really. Getting out into nature for some ‘good cult vibes’, as he used to call them.”
“Did he ever mention anyone else?”
“Not really,” Mary frowned. “There were other people but he never said how many, or who they were.”
Kippie sucked the end of her pencil briefly but quickly withdrew it when she tasted the rubber on the tip. “What about next of kin?”
Mary sagged forward, her head in her hands. When she looked up, a lonely tear was running down her right cheek. “I really don’t know.”
Kippie put her pencil down and placed a hand gently on her friend’s arm.
Mary wiped the moisture from her eyes and took Kippie’s hand up in her own once more. “Come on. Sister Enid keeps all the records. If anyone knows, it would be her.”
Monday, 20 August 2012
Chapter 7.3
Professor Johnson led Sir Henry to BIRD-FLU’s common room whilst Ricky went to store his biohazard suit. Considering the mess that Sir Henry had made and that the janitor was going to have to clear it up, he felt that the fellow was being surprisingly decent about the whole thing. Johnson did not really know the man but that was the reputation he had - calm and unruffled. He just hoped that he wasn't suddenly going to snap and come into work with a shotgun.
The Common Room was one room that had neither swipe-card access nor a security keypad. The ubiquitous CCTV camera was present, however, but it was not this that Sir Henry noticed upon entering the room. Nor was it the presence of Miss Mabel Middlebottom, which he expected. Sitting next to Miss Middlebottom, in the act of dunking a chocolate hobnob into a cup of tea, was Alec Watson.
“Oh, Sir Henry,” said Miss Middlebottom as she spotted him. “I took the liberty of inviting your driver in for a cup of tea.”
Sir Henry frowned. He did not approve of taking liberties. (Not unless it was the liberty of some small third world nation, that is.)
“So I see,” he said, tight-lipped.
“I’m afraid we didn’t have any Earl Grey,” Miss Mabel Middlebottom continued, heaping woe upon woe. “I hope Typhoo will do.”
“That’ll be fine, Mabel,” answered Professor Johnson before Sir Henry could respond, taking the proffered cup of tea from Miss Middlebottom and passing it to the grey bureaucrat. He waved Sir Henry into a seat and almost sat next to him, then remembered that he was not wearing any trousers and decided to stay standing.
Sir Henry sipped his tea and shuddered. His refined taste buds were not impressed. He was a firm believer that you could judge a man by his tea. (Or a woman. Sir Henry was quite egalitarian when it came to judging people.) If you added sugar, you were weak. If you drank it with lemon, although traditional with Earl Grey, you were too fruity. If, heavens forbid, you drank it black, you were clearly trying too hard to be quirky. (Or, worse, were too disorganised to remember the milk.)
Unconsciously aware that they were being silently judged, the other three stared down at their cups, desperately trying to avoid both eye contact and conversation. The embarrassed silence was broken only when Ricky the Janitor entered the room. Even without the bulk of his protective suit, he was quite a burly man and sported a thick but well-trimmed face of hair. He loitered by the door for a few seconds before taking the cup of tea offered to him by Miss Mabel Middlebottom and sat down next to Alec Watson, looking equally uncomfortable.
Professor Johnson watched him sit down and coughed nervously, desperate to break the uncomfortable silence. “You know, Ricky, you should join us for morning coffee more often.”
Ricky looked at his watch and glanced at Sir Henry. "I'm normally home by 10.30, Professor."
"Of course, of course." Johnson replied.
“Ricky works nights,” he followed up feebly, feeling extra explanation was needed. He took another sip of his own tea, wishing it was something distinctly more alcoholic. Sir Henry glared at him and placed his teacup very deliberately onto the low coffee table in front of him, rotating the cup on its saucer to make the handle perfectly parallel to the edge of the table.
“Yes, I know,” said Sir Henry. “You told me earlier.”
"Yes, well, I, er..."
“Tell me what you know about the Director’s disappearance,” Sir Henry commanded in a tone that made it quite clear that he did not really care when the caretaker usually worked.
The Professor cleared his throat again. “Gee, Sir Henry. I don’t really know what I can tell you. Tony - Professor Greenwood - failed to turn up for work yesterday. Mabel followed protocol and called his home. When she was unable to get through, I tried his cell and couldn’t get hold of him either. Again, Mabel followed protocol and raised the alert.”
He looked over to Mabel for support and she nodded sombrely. He coughed again. “To be honest, we were hoping you might be able to tell us something.”
If Sir Henry had any intention of telling Johnson something, he did not show it. “Have you had any problems before this?” he probed.
Johnson thought for a moment, taking another sip of tea to prolong the cogitation. He tried to hide the grimace. Johnson did not even like tea and usually drank coffee but he felt that he already had enough black marks against his name in Sir Henry’s bad books. Had there been any problems before? There was that one incident months ago but that was just kids.
Probably best not to withhold information from a man like Sir Henry, though, lest he find himself an unwilling new recruit in the British Antarctic Survey or something. Did they even taken Americans in the British Antarctic Survey? He was not sure about that but was sure that he did not want to find out. He took a big gulp of tea.
“Professor?” Sir Henry had sounded mildly impatient before but now he was definitely up to a medium or hot level of impatience. Johnson got the distinct impression that he did not want to find out what happened when it reached the top of whatever scale Sir Henry used for these things.
“Umm, there was one incident,” he explained, “but it wasn’t anything major. Not long after I started, there was a legal case brought against us by a local animal rights organisation - HAVEN, or RAVEN or something. It wasn’t particularly aggressive, though. I think they were just trying to get the name changed. Wanted us to change it to, umm,” he paused. “What was it, Mabel?”
Mabel looked up from her cuppa. “I think it was the ‘South Wales Murder Death Camp’,” she answered.
“That sounds about right,” he agreed. “It wasn’t a big deal, though. Our lawyers, Smeg & Butterworth, managed to get them to back down without it even going to court. Professor Greenwood got the whole thing sorted within a couple of days. I’m not sure he would have even mentioned it to the rest of us if he wasn’t so annoyed by the name himself.”
“Interesting,” said Sir Henry in a flat voice that sounded anything but interested. “Any chance of something similar happening again?”
Johnson shrugged. “I don’t think so. As we’re not doing any actual experiments at present, it would be an open-and-shut case. Besides, apart from the mice, all our animals are volunteers these days, anyway.”
“Volunteers?!” Sir Henry did not approve of volunteers. People should do what they were told, not what they wanted to do.
Johnson nodded. “From Bristol zoo, mostly. Looking to expand their academic horizons.” He glanced about conspiratorially and leant forward to whisper. “To be honest, most of them are rejects from the Bristol University labs.”
Sir Henry frowned and picked up a dossier from the table. He opened it and turned to the third page. “It seems that Professor Greenwood does not share your confidence. You said he was annoyed by the name of the Centre, himself. According to this report, he has complained several times since it opened. Apparently, he feels that BIRD-FLU is not a very sensible acronym and might attract what he called, the ‘wrong sort of attention’.”
“Gee, well, it is a rather stupid name,” Johnson told him. “I think we’d all have to agree with that.”
He looked around the room and felt gratified to receive affirmatory nods from all but Sir Henry himself.
“I mean, I know we are part of the Brecon Institute for R and D, and this is the Flavivirus and Lentivirus Unit but calling the place BIRD-FLU?” He continued, hoping that Sir Henry himself was not responsible but knowing that he was beyond retreat now. “Really? That’s just dumb. Right?”
Sir Henry was just staring intently. “Go on.”
Johnson’s jaw flapped for a moment in surprise before a nervous chuckle escaped. “Umm, isn’t it obvious?”
“Humour me,” came the humourless response.
“Well,” Johnson explained. “We’re the Flavivirus and Lentivirus Unit. Everyone knows that Bird Flu is in the Orthomyxoviridae family!”
The Common Room was one room that had neither swipe-card access nor a security keypad. The ubiquitous CCTV camera was present, however, but it was not this that Sir Henry noticed upon entering the room. Nor was it the presence of Miss Mabel Middlebottom, which he expected. Sitting next to Miss Middlebottom, in the act of dunking a chocolate hobnob into a cup of tea, was Alec Watson.
“Oh, Sir Henry,” said Miss Middlebottom as she spotted him. “I took the liberty of inviting your driver in for a cup of tea.”
Sir Henry frowned. He did not approve of taking liberties. (Not unless it was the liberty of some small third world nation, that is.)
“So I see,” he said, tight-lipped.
“I’m afraid we didn’t have any Earl Grey,” Miss Mabel Middlebottom continued, heaping woe upon woe. “I hope Typhoo will do.”
“That’ll be fine, Mabel,” answered Professor Johnson before Sir Henry could respond, taking the proffered cup of tea from Miss Middlebottom and passing it to the grey bureaucrat. He waved Sir Henry into a seat and almost sat next to him, then remembered that he was not wearing any trousers and decided to stay standing.
Sir Henry sipped his tea and shuddered. His refined taste buds were not impressed. He was a firm believer that you could judge a man by his tea. (Or a woman. Sir Henry was quite egalitarian when it came to judging people.) If you added sugar, you were weak. If you drank it with lemon, although traditional with Earl Grey, you were too fruity. If, heavens forbid, you drank it black, you were clearly trying too hard to be quirky. (Or, worse, were too disorganised to remember the milk.)
Unconsciously aware that they were being silently judged, the other three stared down at their cups, desperately trying to avoid both eye contact and conversation. The embarrassed silence was broken only when Ricky the Janitor entered the room. Even without the bulk of his protective suit, he was quite a burly man and sported a thick but well-trimmed face of hair. He loitered by the door for a few seconds before taking the cup of tea offered to him by Miss Mabel Middlebottom and sat down next to Alec Watson, looking equally uncomfortable.
Professor Johnson watched him sit down and coughed nervously, desperate to break the uncomfortable silence. “You know, Ricky, you should join us for morning coffee more often.”
Ricky looked at his watch and glanced at Sir Henry. "I'm normally home by 10.30, Professor."
"Of course, of course." Johnson replied.
“Ricky works nights,” he followed up feebly, feeling extra explanation was needed. He took another sip of his own tea, wishing it was something distinctly more alcoholic. Sir Henry glared at him and placed his teacup very deliberately onto the low coffee table in front of him, rotating the cup on its saucer to make the handle perfectly parallel to the edge of the table.
“Yes, I know,” said Sir Henry. “You told me earlier.”
"Yes, well, I, er..."
“Tell me what you know about the Director’s disappearance,” Sir Henry commanded in a tone that made it quite clear that he did not really care when the caretaker usually worked.
The Professor cleared his throat again. “Gee, Sir Henry. I don’t really know what I can tell you. Tony - Professor Greenwood - failed to turn up for work yesterday. Mabel followed protocol and called his home. When she was unable to get through, I tried his cell and couldn’t get hold of him either. Again, Mabel followed protocol and raised the alert.”
He looked over to Mabel for support and she nodded sombrely. He coughed again. “To be honest, we were hoping you might be able to tell us something.”
If Sir Henry had any intention of telling Johnson something, he did not show it. “Have you had any problems before this?” he probed.
Johnson thought for a moment, taking another sip of tea to prolong the cogitation. He tried to hide the grimace. Johnson did not even like tea and usually drank coffee but he felt that he already had enough black marks against his name in Sir Henry’s bad books. Had there been any problems before? There was that one incident months ago but that was just kids.
Probably best not to withhold information from a man like Sir Henry, though, lest he find himself an unwilling new recruit in the British Antarctic Survey or something. Did they even taken Americans in the British Antarctic Survey? He was not sure about that but was sure that he did not want to find out. He took a big gulp of tea.
“Professor?” Sir Henry had sounded mildly impatient before but now he was definitely up to a medium or hot level of impatience. Johnson got the distinct impression that he did not want to find out what happened when it reached the top of whatever scale Sir Henry used for these things.
“Umm, there was one incident,” he explained, “but it wasn’t anything major. Not long after I started, there was a legal case brought against us by a local animal rights organisation - HAVEN, or RAVEN or something. It wasn’t particularly aggressive, though. I think they were just trying to get the name changed. Wanted us to change it to, umm,” he paused. “What was it, Mabel?”
Mabel looked up from her cuppa. “I think it was the ‘South Wales Murder Death Camp’,” she answered.
“That sounds about right,” he agreed. “It wasn’t a big deal, though. Our lawyers, Smeg & Butterworth, managed to get them to back down without it even going to court. Professor Greenwood got the whole thing sorted within a couple of days. I’m not sure he would have even mentioned it to the rest of us if he wasn’t so annoyed by the name himself.”
“Interesting,” said Sir Henry in a flat voice that sounded anything but interested. “Any chance of something similar happening again?”
Johnson shrugged. “I don’t think so. As we’re not doing any actual experiments at present, it would be an open-and-shut case. Besides, apart from the mice, all our animals are volunteers these days, anyway.”
“Volunteers?!” Sir Henry did not approve of volunteers. People should do what they were told, not what they wanted to do.
Johnson nodded. “From Bristol zoo, mostly. Looking to expand their academic horizons.” He glanced about conspiratorially and leant forward to whisper. “To be honest, most of them are rejects from the Bristol University labs.”
Sir Henry frowned and picked up a dossier from the table. He opened it and turned to the third page. “It seems that Professor Greenwood does not share your confidence. You said he was annoyed by the name of the Centre, himself. According to this report, he has complained several times since it opened. Apparently, he feels that BIRD-FLU is not a very sensible acronym and might attract what he called, the ‘wrong sort of attention’.”
“Gee, well, it is a rather stupid name,” Johnson told him. “I think we’d all have to agree with that.”
He looked around the room and felt gratified to receive affirmatory nods from all but Sir Henry himself.
“I mean, I know we are part of the Brecon Institute for R and D, and this is the Flavivirus and Lentivirus Unit but calling the place BIRD-FLU?” He continued, hoping that Sir Henry himself was not responsible but knowing that he was beyond retreat now. “Really? That’s just dumb. Right?”
Sir Henry was just staring intently. “Go on.”
Johnson’s jaw flapped for a moment in surprise before a nervous chuckle escaped. “Umm, isn’t it obvious?”
“Humour me,” came the humourless response.
“Well,” Johnson explained. “We’re the Flavivirus and Lentivirus Unit. Everyone knows that Bird Flu is in the Orthomyxoviridae family!”
Friday, 17 August 2012
Chapter 7.2
“That’s the problem with the younger generation,” said Tony Smeg, putting on his coat. “No discipline.”
Rhys-Morgan nodded noncommittally. “Yes, I...”
“Never would have turned up late for work when I was lad,” Smeg fussed, checking his right coat pocket for something. “Not that he has turned up,” he added under his breath.
“No, I...”
“But young Anthony – that’s my son – he’s forever gallivanting around with some young lady or another.” Smeg looked up for a moment. “There was even a rumour that he was having an affair with my secretary. Did you know that?”
“No, I didn’t...” Rhys-Morgan did not know that and, frankly, did not care.
Smeg patted the other pocket. “Not that I ever really believed the rumour before,” he added. “But it is a bit of a coincidence, is it not? The two them not turning up to work on the same day.” He shook his head. “Today of all days.”
Rhys-Morgan waved vaguely in the direction of reception. His impatience was beginning to get some confusion for company. “But, your secretary’s...”
“Oh, no!” Smeg retorted. “Not the one out the front at the moment. Though he’s probably doing her too,” he sighed.
“Really? Has...” Rhys-Morgan started.
“No, I’m talking about my other secretary, Wendy.” Smeg shook his head. “And she’s old enough to be his mother! I know he’s my son and all, but that is just not right.”
“Quite, but...”
“I mean,” Smeg continued. “If anyone should be having an affair with her, it should be me! I am the one that pays her salary, after all. Well, me and Mr Butterworth, of course, but he’s a haemophilic annelid.”
There was moment of quiet as Rhys-Morgan stood bewildered and Mr Smeg started rifling through the papers on his desk.
After a second, Rhys-Morgan’s brain caught up. “Do you suspect foul play?”
“I’m sorry?”
“Your son and secretary have not turned up to work. Do you suspect foul play?”
Smeg glanced up from his search. “Heavens, no! Anthony’s just upset because I asked him to shave off that ridiculous beard of his. Probably seduced Wendy just to piss me off.”
Smeg resumed his hunt. “But facial hair like that, it’s simply not appropriate for a lawyer. We have a meeting with an important client this afternoon, and he will not want to think that his divorce settlement is being handled by some kind of New Age weirdo.” (Actually, Smeg & Butterworth’s client would probably prefer to be represented by a New Age weirdo. The cause of the divorce was his desire to become One with everything - including his Personal Assistant and next-door’s housekeeper.)
“That’s fascinating, Mr Smeg,” Rhys-Morgan told him. “But I really must...” This time, it was one of Rhys-Morgan’s own thoughts that cut him off mid-stream.
“Wait a second. Did you say beard?” he asked the lawyer.
“Yes,” Smeg replied, not hiding his disgust. “Almost reaches his waist. No other law firm would put up with it. But, he is my son. More importantly, he’s a damned good lawyer.”
Rhys-Morgan frowned. A good lawyer. Now there was an oxymoron, if ever there was one. He probably was damned, though. “I think that bastard got my ex-wife the house when she filed for divorce, a couple of years back.”
“That’s my boy!” smiled Smeg.
“He was probably doing her too,” he thought. Wisely, he kept that one to himself.
“Ah ha!” Smeg finally found what he was looking for: the keys to his Jaguar. (They had been hidden under his signed copy of the international best seller, ‘Who needs a conscience at £200 an hour?’)
“Now”, he said, giving the policeman his full attention at last with a smile that said that he charged by the minute. “What was it you wanted? I am in a bit of a hurry.”
Rhys-Morgan nodded noncommittally. “Yes, I...”
“Never would have turned up late for work when I was lad,” Smeg fussed, checking his right coat pocket for something. “Not that he has turned up,” he added under his breath.
“No, I...”
“But young Anthony – that’s my son – he’s forever gallivanting around with some young lady or another.” Smeg looked up for a moment. “There was even a rumour that he was having an affair with my secretary. Did you know that?”
“No, I didn’t...” Rhys-Morgan did not know that and, frankly, did not care.
Smeg patted the other pocket. “Not that I ever really believed the rumour before,” he added. “But it is a bit of a coincidence, is it not? The two them not turning up to work on the same day.” He shook his head. “Today of all days.”
Rhys-Morgan waved vaguely in the direction of reception. His impatience was beginning to get some confusion for company. “But, your secretary’s...”
“Oh, no!” Smeg retorted. “Not the one out the front at the moment. Though he’s probably doing her too,” he sighed.
“Really? Has...” Rhys-Morgan started.
“No, I’m talking about my other secretary, Wendy.” Smeg shook his head. “And she’s old enough to be his mother! I know he’s my son and all, but that is just not right.”
“Quite, but...”
“I mean,” Smeg continued. “If anyone should be having an affair with her, it should be me! I am the one that pays her salary, after all. Well, me and Mr Butterworth, of course, but he’s a haemophilic annelid.”
There was moment of quiet as Rhys-Morgan stood bewildered and Mr Smeg started rifling through the papers on his desk.
After a second, Rhys-Morgan’s brain caught up. “Do you suspect foul play?”
“I’m sorry?”
“Your son and secretary have not turned up to work. Do you suspect foul play?”
Smeg glanced up from his search. “Heavens, no! Anthony’s just upset because I asked him to shave off that ridiculous beard of his. Probably seduced Wendy just to piss me off.”
Smeg resumed his hunt. “But facial hair like that, it’s simply not appropriate for a lawyer. We have a meeting with an important client this afternoon, and he will not want to think that his divorce settlement is being handled by some kind of New Age weirdo.” (Actually, Smeg & Butterworth’s client would probably prefer to be represented by a New Age weirdo. The cause of the divorce was his desire to become One with everything - including his Personal Assistant and next-door’s housekeeper.)
“That’s fascinating, Mr Smeg,” Rhys-Morgan told him. “But I really must...” This time, it was one of Rhys-Morgan’s own thoughts that cut him off mid-stream.
“Wait a second. Did you say beard?” he asked the lawyer.
“Yes,” Smeg replied, not hiding his disgust. “Almost reaches his waist. No other law firm would put up with it. But, he is my son. More importantly, he’s a damned good lawyer.”
Rhys-Morgan frowned. A good lawyer. Now there was an oxymoron, if ever there was one. He probably was damned, though. “I think that bastard got my ex-wife the house when she filed for divorce, a couple of years back.”
“That’s my boy!” smiled Smeg.
“He was probably doing her too,” he thought. Wisely, he kept that one to himself.
“Ah ha!” Smeg finally found what he was looking for: the keys to his Jaguar. (They had been hidden under his signed copy of the international best seller, ‘Who needs a conscience at £200 an hour?’)
“Now”, he said, giving the policeman his full attention at last with a smile that said that he charged by the minute. “What was it you wanted? I am in a bit of a hurry.”
Thursday, 16 August 2012
Chapter 7.1
William’s head hung dejectedly as he followed the Spandecs, who in turn followed Toby Ron and Duke across the field towards the northern paddock. This was all his fault but he was yet to be punished. He had lost his brother and now he was dead. Perhaps that was castigation enough.
The scene that greeted them when they arrived at the paddock was not quite what William was expecting. His mother was there with a scowl on her face – not exactly the expression of a mourning mother. At the focal point of her scowl was young Billy, pushing up daisies as Toby Ron had said. As usual, he was moaning.
“It’s not fair!” he cried - and not for the first time, if his mother’s expression was anything to judge by. “This is stupid.”
Mrs Goat continued to scowl at her son. “It’s perfectly fair. Mr O’Bee warned you what would happen next time you threw one of your little breakfast tantrums.”
Billy continued muttering under his breath but resumed uprooting the little yellow and white flowers.
Foxy Loxy drew alongside Duke. “What exactly is the point of that?” he asked quietly.
“Toby Ron’s agreed to look after Streppy the incontinent Shetland Pony for Dynamo Joe, of Dynamo Joe’s Petting Zoo and Animal Electrical Experience,” Duke replied softly. “The poor fella’s lost it completely after that break-in a couple of weeks ago.”
Foxy nodded. “That’s a strange case, alright. What’s the deal with the daisies, though?”
“Streppy has a very sensitive stomach. Daisies give him the runs.”
“I say, dear boy!” said Turkey Lurkey, squinting and peering forward. “I know my eyesight is not great, but is that young goat not digging up each flower individually with his little horns? It’s hardly the most efficient method of daisy removal, is it?”
“I think that’s the point,” said Foxy.
“Quite so,” confirmed Duke. “He’s a bit of a moody goat, this one, and kicked over the milk bucket this morning. Not for the first time, mind you. Toby Ron wanted that milk to make some scones.”
“Ah, so this is his punishment?” asked Turkey.
“Sounds a bit harsh to me,” volunteered Weasel. “I figure that bucket probably leaked and you would have lost most of the milk anyway.”
“Well, that’s hardly the point!” said Turkey. “And it’s certainly no laughing matter!”
This last comment was directed at young William. At the sight of his brother hard at work and the accompanying explanation, all the worry and tension in him had drained away. Instead, he found himself shaking with laughter. The more he desperately tried to suppress it lest he also got in trouble, the harder it became, until tears were rolling down his cheeks. Any trouble now, however, seemed wholly trivial next to what he had been expecting - his brother was far too animated to be a corpse.
It was Turkey Lurkey’s turn to scowl and William’s turn to be scowled at. “This is the problem with the younger generation. No respect for discipline.”
The scene that greeted them when they arrived at the paddock was not quite what William was expecting. His mother was there with a scowl on her face – not exactly the expression of a mourning mother. At the focal point of her scowl was young Billy, pushing up daisies as Toby Ron had said. As usual, he was moaning.
“It’s not fair!” he cried - and not for the first time, if his mother’s expression was anything to judge by. “This is stupid.”
Mrs Goat continued to scowl at her son. “It’s perfectly fair. Mr O’Bee warned you what would happen next time you threw one of your little breakfast tantrums.”
Billy continued muttering under his breath but resumed uprooting the little yellow and white flowers.
Foxy Loxy drew alongside Duke. “What exactly is the point of that?” he asked quietly.
“Toby Ron’s agreed to look after Streppy the incontinent Shetland Pony for Dynamo Joe, of Dynamo Joe’s Petting Zoo and Animal Electrical Experience,” Duke replied softly. “The poor fella’s lost it completely after that break-in a couple of weeks ago.”
Foxy nodded. “That’s a strange case, alright. What’s the deal with the daisies, though?”
“Streppy has a very sensitive stomach. Daisies give him the runs.”
“I say, dear boy!” said Turkey Lurkey, squinting and peering forward. “I know my eyesight is not great, but is that young goat not digging up each flower individually with his little horns? It’s hardly the most efficient method of daisy removal, is it?”
“I think that’s the point,” said Foxy.
“Quite so,” confirmed Duke. “He’s a bit of a moody goat, this one, and kicked over the milk bucket this morning. Not for the first time, mind you. Toby Ron wanted that milk to make some scones.”
“Ah, so this is his punishment?” asked Turkey.
“Sounds a bit harsh to me,” volunteered Weasel. “I figure that bucket probably leaked and you would have lost most of the milk anyway.”
“Well, that’s hardly the point!” said Turkey. “And it’s certainly no laughing matter!”
This last comment was directed at young William. At the sight of his brother hard at work and the accompanying explanation, all the worry and tension in him had drained away. Instead, he found himself shaking with laughter. The more he desperately tried to suppress it lest he also got in trouble, the harder it became, until tears were rolling down his cheeks. Any trouble now, however, seemed wholly trivial next to what he had been expecting - his brother was far too animated to be a corpse.
It was Turkey Lurkey’s turn to scowl and William’s turn to be scowled at. “This is the problem with the younger generation. No respect for discipline.”
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