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Authors: Patty O'Furniture
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today,’ he said. ‘They’re going to discuss Terry’s replacement. It might give us an insight into other
people’s feelings about him.’
‘Right,’ said Sam grumpily. ‘Why do they have to act so fast?’
‘There was a big meeting that came up the week he went missing – they were to vote on a series of very important issues. Apparently Terry had the “swing” vote, so to
speak. The future of the town may be at stake.’ Bradley consulted his watch. ‘But we’ve got lots of time before then. We should speak to a few more of the council
members.’
‘So who next, then? The butcher, the baker, the candlestick maker?’
‘Apparently the candlestick maker is in the South of France at this time of year, so he’s out. Lord Selvington mentioned we should visit Major Eldred,’ said Bradley, suddenly
becoming much quieter. ‘He’s a bit potty, but I suppose we should strike him off the list. And you never know what mad people are ready to tell you, that ordinary people
wouldn’t.’
‘Yes, good point,’ said Sam, at first not listening, but then realizing the detective’s voice had fallen to a whisper.
‘I don’t remember feeling this vile since my wedding day,’ said Bradley, holding his leather-gloved hands up so they shook violently.
‘Your mates gave you a pretty heavy stag do, did they?’ asked Sam, smiling.
‘Stag
what
? No, certainly not,’ said Bradley, irritated, and gunning the engine, he took them in a sickeningly swerving route to the major’s house.
Even if the two men weren’t already feeling somewhat weary from last night’s consumption of alcohol, after the major’s performance at the council meeting the previous day they
would still have had heavy hearts when they found themselves pulling the bell of his diminutive cottage. This sensation grew even worse when the sound greeting them was the blast of a foghorn that
scattered all the birds from the copse of ash trees at the summit of the hill half a mile away.
‘
What
?’ said the major, leaning out of an upper window.
‘We’ve come to see you,’ said Bradley.
‘Oh,’ said the major. ‘Right.’ He looked out over the countryside from his vantage point and squinted. ‘Nice day, isn’t it?’
‘Not really,’ said Sam.
‘Hmm, hmm. The cricket’s on later, you know?’
‘Is it really?’ said Bradley, clearly at a loss for anything else to say.
‘Can we come in, please?’ said Sam.
‘Oh!’ said the major, the idea clearly striking him as rather novel. ‘Er . . . yes.’ And he disappeared from the window, only to appear again a moment later, shouting,
‘LOOK OUT!’ as a bowlful of brown lumpy liquid fell directly at them.
They jumped apart and examined their trousers (although Bradley’s were already so daubed with brown slop, it would have been hard to tell if anything had been added to the overall design).
Then they looked up, in disbelief, to find the major’s face staring out at them.
‘Goulash,’ he pronounced shortly, before he disappeared again and descended the stairs, coughing violently. Then the door popped open and he said, ‘Come in, come in!’
ushering them cheerfully through the living room, which was full of dust, furniture piled up with old boxes, huge nineteenth-century firearms propped against the wall and (as far as Sam could make
out) a painting of a bison’s arse above the fireplace.
The kitchen offered few surprises – which is to say, it would have been a surprise had it been a clean, orderly and well-appointed place whose fittings dated from more recently than the
Falklands War. All around there were rusty pans hanging from nails – evidently unused, since there was a bird’s nest in one of them – and on the hob was a gargantuan stock pot
filled with a very large sheep’s head, marinating in what smelled like cider.
Sam sat at a solid old-fashioned cook’s table, whose top was marked with wild scratches and carvings, some of which included
people’s feelings about him.’
‘Right,’ said Sam grumpily. ‘Why do they have to act so fast?’
‘There was a big meeting that came up the week he went missing – they were to vote on a series of very important issues. Apparently Terry had the “swing” vote, so to
speak. The future of the town may be at stake.’ Bradley consulted his watch. ‘But we’ve got lots of time before then. We should speak to a few more of the council
members.’
‘So who next, then? The butcher, the baker, the candlestick maker?’
‘Apparently the candlestick maker is in the South of France at this time of year, so he’s out. Lord Selvington mentioned we should visit Major Eldred,’ said Bradley, suddenly
becoming much quieter. ‘He’s a bit potty, but I suppose we should strike him off the list. And you never know what mad people are ready to tell you, that ordinary people
wouldn’t.’
‘Yes, good point,’ said Sam, at first not listening, but then realizing the detective’s voice had fallen to a whisper.
‘I don’t remember feeling this vile since my wedding day,’ said Bradley, holding his leather-gloved hands up so they shook violently.
‘Your mates gave you a pretty heavy stag do, did they?’ asked Sam, smiling.
‘Stag
what
? No, certainly not,’ said Bradley, irritated, and gunning the engine, he took them in a sickeningly swerving route to the major’s house.
Even if the two men weren’t already feeling somewhat weary from last night’s consumption of alcohol, after the major’s performance at the council meeting the previous day they
would still have had heavy hearts when they found themselves pulling the bell of his diminutive cottage. This sensation grew even worse when the sound greeting them was the blast of a foghorn that
scattered all the birds from the copse of ash trees at the summit of the hill half a mile away.
‘
What
?’ said the major, leaning out of an upper window.
‘We’ve come to see you,’ said Bradley.
‘Oh,’ said the major. ‘Right.’ He looked out over the countryside from his vantage point and squinted. ‘Nice day, isn’t it?’
‘Not really,’ said Sam.
‘Hmm, hmm. The cricket’s on later, you know?’
‘Is it really?’ said Bradley, clearly at a loss for anything else to say.
‘Can we come in, please?’ said Sam.
‘Oh!’ said the major, the idea clearly striking him as rather novel. ‘Er . . . yes.’ And he disappeared from the window, only to appear again a moment later, shouting,
‘LOOK OUT!’ as a bowlful of brown lumpy liquid fell directly at them.
They jumped apart and examined their trousers (although Bradley’s were already so daubed with brown slop, it would have been hard to tell if anything had been added to the overall design).
Then they looked up, in disbelief, to find the major’s face staring out at them.
‘Goulash,’ he pronounced shortly, before he disappeared again and descended the stairs, coughing violently. Then the door popped open and he said, ‘Come in, come in!’
ushering them cheerfully through the living room, which was full of dust, furniture piled up with old boxes, huge nineteenth-century firearms propped against the wall and (as far as Sam could make
out) a painting of a bison’s arse above the fireplace.
The kitchen offered few surprises – which is to say, it would have been a surprise had it been a clean, orderly and well-appointed place whose fittings dated from more recently than the
Falklands War. All around there were rusty pans hanging from nails – evidently unused, since there was a bird’s nest in one of them – and on the hob was a gargantuan stock pot
filled with a very large sheep’s head, marinating in what smelled like cider.
Sam sat at a solid old-fashioned cook’s table, whose top was marked with wild scratches and carvings, some of which included
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