"Hark! laddies," said Blind Harry, leading the way doon the path, an keen tae demonstrate his sharp hearing: "ah kin hear an auld broken-doon nag, bein led doon ahent us, bi an auld hackman wi ginger hair, an acquisitive cast tae his lourin, scowlin features, piercin een an they're as black as sin – am a richt Humphrey?" an Humphrey squirmed at being asked: "c'mon laddie, tell us whit ye see!" sae Humphrey swallowed herd, afore launching intae a torrent o words: "weel Harry it's a horse richt enuff but it's a warhorse bein ridden uphill bi a squire wha's a young loon wi bricht blue een, blonde hair an a straw in his gub an he's gien us a freenly wave. . . . ." but Harry kicked a stane an then said grandly: "ah wis richt – a horse! then he stuck baith forefingers in his lugs, as if howkin oot wax, shook his heid tae dislodge it an growled: "hurry up laddies, ma belly's grummlin fer lack of food and liquor!"
And at the same time – but not in the sense you might think I mean – and hundreds of miles away, on the North West Coast, and hundreds of years in the past - but not in the sense you might also think I mean (because, see if you turn around quickly and slip through that wee gap in the air, you'll likely find yourself there) - in Glen Glum, the Cradle of Chivalry, itself, Blind Harry and the Laddies stood stock still in the heady atmosphere, the glade, in the gloaming, held the weight of it's history like a plaid; "youse laddies look like a Parliament o Indris, but ye'll nae ken whit a Indri is, wull ye, Gibby Lonnegan?" – and Gibby turned scarlet and stared at his feet, as if he expected the answer to creep oot frae between his taes: "naw Harry, ah divnae, but!" and Harry smiled at the laddie's admission: "bit ye, wee Padraig Macaroon, descendant o Kwasi, ane o the maist illustrious Lairds o The Isles, Ah'll warrant ye'll ken weel enuff, um a richt, then?" – and the wee black boy blushed, as he always did when his name and the great Kwasi’s were used in the same sentence: "it's a muckle Lemur, Harry, it's oan wur Coat o Airms, intit?" and Harry nodded: "aye, Padraig, that it is, but dinnae ye ither loons worry that no kennin a answer wull mean sumdy else supersedes ye an gets tae jump the queue an pull at The Lochlann's battle axe afore ye, it's nae goannie work like thon; come awa, ye've aw worked like Picts this forenoon, oo'll hie awa tae a wee hashery ah ken doon in the Glen, they hae guid food an their ain braw Malt an oo'll fortify oorsels fer the Maist Important Task o Yer Lives: findin oot jist which ane o ye's goannie be able tae pull oot the Battle Axe an be King o Scoatland!
At home and quite oblivious to what had just happened, and stopped me, Isa and Milly in our tracks, not to mention – but I will – poor Debbie, who fainted at the shocking sight, our Aunties were hooting with laughter at the radio after listening to the latest soap opera episode in the horse race campaign for the leadership of the Tory Party between Mr Bean and Goldilocks; it had been an unusually gritty, and strangely weird, interview with Goldilocks in which, asked what he did for relaxation, he eventually, after apparently falling asleep and
snoring loudly, began bumbling about painting "things" and "making model thingies, you know, buses," eventually confessed that he played at buses with large cardboard and wooden boxes, which he decorated himself, and the interviewer, TalkRadio's Ross Kempsell, seemed to find this admission more than a mite troubling coming from The Man Who Would Be PM!
Isa turned over the postcard and we saw that it was actually a photograph showing two women sitting outside the Hippodrome Café in Unter den Linden and one of them was Gertie, although the other was a stranger to us; she turned back and we read the message, which was short, but imbued with some meaning: We're looking forward to the fireworks when Prince Paul makes his cavalcade to meet the Fuhrer it's going to be Totally Mega – our friend, the Bulgarian, has arranged a good vantage point for us and the Americans; JAP has been measuring the coffee spoons – wish us luck! Gertie; and below her signature, a smudge which on closer inspection turned out to be a fingerprint, but not in ink – it was some dark substance pressed into a small blob of glue: we'd better get this to Carolina Moonbeam," said Isa, "her technical people will be able to tell us a lot about this," and she turned to Debbie: "is that okay?" she asked and Debbie nodded: you know, the funny thing is, in 1939 it was my Grannie and Grampa living in the house, but see how it's addressed to my mum and dad and me? there's no way she could know that we would be living there – my mum hadn't even been born then!" and Isa reminded her that Gertie had disappeared last year: "so, although she wrote and posted it in 1939, it was with with knowledge of this Time and the adynaton 'Totally Mega' is her kind of hyperbole, and she must have known a way to ensure it wasn't delivered till now!" and Debbie, excitedly said: "of course – the Postie, you know him, Whistling Jack - told my mum he'd found it tucked into a corner of the Sorting Office, but the place was renovated a couple of years ago," and Isa's eyes flashed bright: "she must have found a contraption, a Portal - she passed it through Time and Space, ensuring it was delivered now, today or a day or so either side; I wonder if there's any way we can write back to her - is Whistling Jack still on duty?" – – Milly checked her watch: "if I'm right, he'll be finishing his shift in about twenty minutes," and Isa took the decision: "Debbie, you take the card down North to our house, give it to Auntie Cristo and tell her what we've been talking about, she can call Professor Moonbeam and get it to the Lab, we'll see if we can catch up with Jack, c'mon, chop-chop!" and she started running up South, with Milly and I lagging behind and it was just as we crested the top and could see the North Eildon looming over the town, that it happened: some Smart Alecs say Expect the Unexpected – well this was one hell of an Unexpected that none of us could have Expected!
Achillized by the innuendos and ithyphallic jocularity of the Professor, Isa, Milly and I went for a walk past the Parish Church and down the hill to the Tweed; we sat awhile at the start of the old Mill Lade, gazed at the rushing water over the remains of the old Melrose Cauld, and soaked up the sun which continued to beam at us, and were only roused from our lassitude by the arrival of Debbie Downer, who joined us and asked if we had heard any news about Gertie Mountcastle – our cousin, last heard of in Berlin in 1939: "we got a postcard from her yesterday," said Debbie, "it had taken 80 years so the postie delivered it personally – I mean, instead of simply putting it through the letterbox, he knocked and handed it to my mum," and I remembered that Debbie's mum is an auntie of Gertie on the other side of the family; "can we see it?" asked Isa, suddenly alert, and Debbie produced it from her handbag: "here it is, I was on my way to your house, 'cause I know your Aunties are connected to the investigation," she said, as Isa seized the card and stared at it; the postmark bore a Swastika and the date: Juni 1 1939!
Next morning, Professor Steatopygous, was holding the fort in the living room when I came down, his puckish personality having survived the drink of last night: "please accept my apologies for last night, Theresa," he said solemnly, "I was compelled to achillize the moon around Cauldshiels Loch last night, when the call came from your Aunties and it was a hard run doon here at nicht, so Ah wis puffed oot by the time Ah goat tae yer door," he lied glibly, his smorgasbord of formal English acquired at Oxford overlaid with a strong Greek accent and the lapse into the colloquial tongue of the Borders: "was it worth it?" I asked, expecting some reason for my Aunts' calling him in: "aye," he said enthusiastically: "yon bunny chow o May's is sumpn else awthegethir – be'er than the hair o the dug, eh? nudge, nudge, wink, wink!" but I was already leaving the room, not being in the mood for his innuendo, particularly when added to the fact that Isa, Milly and I hadn't got any of Auntie May's renowned cob loaf stuffed with Bengal Lancer Lamb Curry last night, but he had!
Last night, after the emotional rollercoaster of the Scotland v Argentina match in which we led by 3 goals to 0, then gave away two goals and in the dying seconds had a penalty given against us! what a con – there seems to be a policy in this Women's World Cup where we've been punished by a dubious penalty in each match! DOOMED again! naebdy likes us, abdy hates us, but we dinnae care! oh, but we do – the penalty was saved by our brilliant goalie, HOORAY we had won 3-2, Here's tae us, wha's like us? gey few an they're aw deid! but then – the referee ordered it to be retaken and Argentina equalised, the whistle blew and we were out of the competition; ROBBED as usual! later, I relaxed reading We by Yevgeny Zamyatin and my thoughts returned to the Journal we had examined earlier: it was rather gallus, the language I mean – and the content – I think Maude may be right, the woman seems to have been a procuress for de Sade, but also engaged in a series of physical exertions with MacFarlane and become quite close to him (obviously she must have shared his perversions – hussy! but what can you expect from someone so intimate with the Marquis?) and then came the Fortune Telling: she was quite specific about him not living to see the year 2020 – if she had written 1820 there would have been nothing remarkable, but 2020! he must have told her about his Time Travelling, but would she have truly believed it? and that was when there was an insistent ringing from the front door bell, as if someone was leaning on the button with all their weight – and when I opened the door who should be doing just that, but Hermeneutic Steatopygous, Professor of Ancient Greek at He riot-Watt University in Galashiels, with all the demeanor, and appearance – wild eyes and unruly hair, of a man absolutely mullered! – he fell through the doorway and lay prostrate on the carpet so I called for Isa and Milly to help me drag him in and put him in the recovery position for our Aunties to deal with, for ii was obviously them that he would have come to see.
PS: we took a break from considering Daphne and Maude's unexpected findings in Register House, to watch the BBC 'Debate' between the Five Guys Named Moe who want to be our next Prime Minister: sitting on bar stools and dressed almost identically, there was Big Fat Moe, Long Legs Moe, Four-eyed Moe, Brother Moe and look at Mister, look at Mister, Look at Mister Mojo Moe! we really did expect them to start singing hits from their long-gone Boy Band days, but instead there was the usual philippizing, gurrier asides, shouting each other down, challenges to step outside and settle insuperable differences with a punch up the bracket and the expected ettle for the Tory Backwoods to think of the good of the country instead of their own self-interest – some hopes! by the time you read this, they'll be down to a Quartet, but Jonathan Freedland in the Guardian this morning wrote of the 'terrifying truth: one of these men will be PM!'
When Maude eventually pulled the sheet of paper out of one of those Scotland's Records envelopes in which you've probably received copies of your own or your ancestors' Birth, Marriage or Death Certificates (obviously the latter not being your own!) we were all fairly crowded around her and certainly I felt slightly disappointed at what was apparently a photocopy of an old Diary or Journal, showing a double page spread which, so far as I could see was written in French! "and the other, please Maudie," prompted Daphne, and from her bag Maude drew another envelope, this one marked Republique Francaise – Charges d'Affaires Ecosse, Edinbourg and took out a sheet of paper with the same official heading: "it's a translation, not ours, but theirs," said Maude, "just in case anyone thinks we're playing silly buggers," but no-one laughed; it was Auntie Cristo who broke the silence: "well, isn't one of you going to tell us what you are playing then – Daphne? Maude?" and when Daphne sat back, with one of her rather smug expressions, it was Maude who explained: "you know my chum Lettice?" no-one bothered to confirm the obvious, so she continued: "well, when she was helping out with some tidying up in the Archives – I mean the real Archives, the ones no-one is allowed to access without extremely High Permission – she came across a box of stuff which had come over from France at the beginning of the German invasion in August '14 – it had originally been deposited with the British Embassy in Paris some time after The Terror but before Napoleon, by a Scottish nobleman who had been trying to find out what had happened to relatives during the Revolution, and it was only regarded as a temporary holding, but the chap never came back for it, which was why it was still there when the war broke out, I've got no idea why or how it was sent to Edinburgh, or ended up in the Archives; it looked to Lettice as though the box had never been opened for 100 years: it was marked as the property of Sir Pontius MacFarlane and the Journal was that of a Mlle Eunice Eglantine!" this produced a gasp – could she have been a descendant, surely not, of Sister Evadne Eglantine? more likely she was descended from a relative of the Scottish nun murdered by Sir Parlane in the oubliette under Edinburgh's Royal Mile discovered by Daphne a couple of years ago: "anyway," said Maude, "according to the translation we got from the French Attaché, she was at the château of the Marquis de Sade when two Scotch travellers visited him and during their visit she read MacFarlane's fortune and told him, apparently, that he would never live to see the year 2020!" this brought another gasp: it is known that Sir Parlane and his servant, Dominic Doubleday, used Worm Holes in the Space/Time Continuum to travel backwards and forwards in time. and obvious aliases wherever they went but, true enough, although he was known to have been in various parts of the Earth in the 2030s and even further in the future, there was no record of either of them being around in 2020: "how could this woman in the years after the French Revolution – remember that de Sade died in the Asylum of Charenton in 1814 – make such a prediction, unless she knew that she was dealing with a Time Traveller?" it was beyond belief, beyond reason, it was incredible! "well, " said Daphne, we've had a read of it on the train – we only received it yesterday – and even for the time, the language is rather gurrier – of course we know nothing yet of this woman, but she rather philippizes, it is possible, I daresay, that she was one of the Madames who procured girls for de Sade, or indeed was one of the girls herself, but that is conjecture – we only have the one volume, perhaps others will turn up in the Archives. . . . ." but Auntie Cristo held up a restraining hand: "nothing is insuperable to women such as we, if we put our minds to it, perhaps Maude, dear, you could summarise the most relevant parts of the Journal for us, while Daphne explains exactly what she is ettling us to do about it!"
Last night, Ludmilla Lermontova, in a spirit of Gastrodiplomacy, made a huge pot of Borscht which we ate with freshly baked Soda Bread to her Irish mother's recipe and, of course, Auntie Cristo brought out her bottle of Laphraoigh; with what might have been simple curiosity or, rather, Socratic irony, Ludmilla pondered the relative merits of Scotch and Irish whiskies – that really sett the cat among the pigeons, as everyone tried to explain why their favourite tipple was best: as so much about whisky is a matter of taste, and nothing to do with measurable differences, it got pretty raucous – as Isa and Milly were there, too, and our Embra Aunties, Daphne and Maude had arrived earlier with Father Mungo and Lulu (he has lost his driving licence so she has now assumed the permanent role of Driver, Distance no Object, except when her removal business has a job on) followed closely by Gordon and Goldie Brevity; Father Mungo insisted that anyone who didn't appreciate that Irish Whiskey – or better still, nudge-nudge, get the pun? poteen - was superior to Scotch Whisky was Midas-eared at which Gordon pooh-poohed such a "boilerplate argument," insisting that it was like comparing tea and coffee, or bread and butter, or even rose-water and Holy Watter! – which, fortunately Mungo took as a great joke and the two went out for a smoke and an exchange of hip-flasks: "you know," said Auntie Daphne, "now that the men have given us peace, I wanted to ask you all about something that Maude and I found deep in the bowels of Register House – but don't worry, it's not an example of civil service bumbledom, nor a tasty morsel about a Moderator of the Church of Scotland flouncing about the General Assembly with his cassock caught in the elastic of his g-string, which we did see one time but we're naming no names, while the children are still here! no, there used to be a bit of an Ice Age in there, but since the new Registrar General took over, things have definitely thawed, she greets us by name, which her predecessor never did, in twenty years of passing us in corridors, or sitting at the same table in the ref, oh a cold fish, Doctor Tunnock, but no, it's about Sir Parlane MacFarlane meeting his Waterloo, go on, Maudie, show it them," and Maude duly did!
As far as my cousins and I are concerned, the old tarzy in our Aunts' garden has been there forever and a day – since you and I were young, Maggie, and we used to race home after school to claim the lion's share of the prize; it was theoretically possible, once the old tyre had been added, for two, or even three, to ride it simultaneously, but in those days we lacked that sense of common purpose which allows pleasures to be shared, and if any of us was possessed of that Achilles' heel which was an inability to resist the hostile/covetous stares of three, four or five girls of about the same age, size and strength, she knew better that to reveal it, for we pounced on any weakness in our struggle for the title of Top Cat, awarded once a year on Midsummer, when Auntie May produced a tray of sandwiches, pastries, cheeses and biscuits, to be followed by Auntie Cristo's Strawberry cake with fresh double cream, all washed down with Babycham; the giveaway is the bit pronounced Sham! but we didn't care, believing ourselves from the age of 7 to be sophisticated young Ladies, rather than jist gurrrrls, as the boys in class or street, said it; and though we now may be older, wiser and even settled into a job – or career – there must still be a bit in us of that recidivism that hankers after the security of those golden summer days when we we could pick and chose who, from one end of High Cross Avenue to the other, was permitted to come in and play with us: it may be simply that we were learning how to bestow or withhold favours and so establishing ourselves as Very Important People in that part of Melrose – or as Auntie Cristo said it: "Very Impertinent Bairns!" but as I was idly swinging on it this afternoon – being self-employed has it's benefits – I mused about the security we all have here – obviously myself, Isa and Milly, because we all actually live in the house, but also our other cousins, Elvira, the twins Roxie and Trixie. Ginger, Gertie, Jerry and Nikki, Sammy, Jinty and Pru, Jasmine and Rosie, of whom there are usually at least two most weekends and when it's a proper Holiday Weekend, the majority of them will be around and about, in and out at different times; of course, familiarity bestowing on us three Residents, that contempt which differentiates us from the Visitors, so we also tend to give them first dibs on the swing - something which, as children, would never have entered our childish heads, for we had all learned about the Survival of the Fittest in the great battles we enjoyed during the long summer holidays: High Cross, Darnick, Priors' Walk, Newstead and Dingleton were the five territorial gangs of boys and girls who roamed over, clashed on, battled for, won or lost, the three hills which hunch over our town: "Wir Toon!" – and most days' play would end in a race from the Trig Point on Mid Hill, to our Aunties' house, where all-comers were welcome to pancakes and jam and home-made lemonade – with that sourness that draws in your lips and cheeks; and everyone got a turn on the swing; so I think it represents all that was good about those years and provides the substance that still binds us all together – but now, if I am alone, I will usually be reading a book, with a cigarette and a glass of Laphraoigh close to hand, but the sense of security and belonging is rooted deep in my own heart's core.
And so it came to be, that the Archbishop led his Bishops and their prisoner out of a cave in the mountainside, into a sunlit glade and sat him upon a boulder that had lang syne been severed by lightning storms from the great rocky crag and rolled down to the place where it now stood: "give him watered wine to quench his thirst," said the Archbishop, "and meat to eat his fill, and let us listen to what he knows of Quixote," and he kicked the man's foot and one of the Bishops cut his bonds and held a goatskin to the man's lips and he drank greedily, and another Bishop gave him a platter on which slices of venison were laid; and a third Bishop pulled away the strip of cloth that had bound his eyes and Sir Parlane MacFarlane stared at his captors and sighed, for he knew this place to whence he had been brought and knew that no rescue was possible, he had been here countless times, and even in his oneiric returns, for the dream-state enabled him to repeat his best memories, he knew that this valley was one that afforded an erratic Worm Hole as the only means of escape, but it was risky, because it could lead the unwary to almost the Point of Destruction!; years had passed since he had first gained his knowledge of the Worm Holes, years during which he had travelled further in Time and Space than any other, saving, perhaps, his half-brother Dominic Doubleday, or one of his many aliases: Desmond, Duncan, Django, Doughty (ha ha, such an oxymoron, silly fucker, a Moron for sure) and the Red Etin; years in which he had lived his life to the full, had exploited and profited from his knowledge, had corrupted and debauched and depraved, only and exclusively for his own pleasures and now, it seemed possible, that he had reached the End of Times; he didn't know how or why the Spanish Inquisition had tracked him down – he had no knowledge of the poor fellow they were pursuing nor how or why they had chanced upon him – his security had been breached, in much the same way as Dominic's had, when the Shottstown Ladies Quick-Draw Club had found his supposedly secure Love Nest in Edinburgh and spirited away his illicit pleasures, oh yes, that had been the beginning of the End of Times, deceived by Dominic's Achilles heel – a craving for tender young shoots and a misplaced belief that his exalted position in Police Scotland made him inviolate – and it had just been a matter of time until he had reached this point – it was all so silly, random and unfair, but that was probably The Creator's way of getting back at him for abusing that one little error in the Universe to benefit his own appetites; he slowly returned his attention to what was happening in this present time: the Archbishop was giving him the full bloviation, his justification for the Terrors of his Spanish Inquisition – there was no need to listen, until he got to that bit when he told MacFarlane exactly what he needed, the one vital piece of information which, if given, would result in the immediate release of the prisoner – that was the Archbishop's Achilles heel, he needed the information but, alas and alack, MacFarlane did not possess it; how should he free himself from this Unholy hassle? which was when he heard a jingling of harness and in the distance saw a lone knight upon his horse and he said: "hark! is not that the person you seek? just emerged from the same cave as by which you brought me here?" and the Archbishop looked where MacFarlane pointed and he was visibly elated: "yes, indeed! that is the Quixote we seek, that is he, the man whose soul is in jeopardy, you can go!" – and with that, the Spanish Inquisition forgot about Macfarlane and set off towards the old man whose horse looked as weary as any that has carried the weight of a man in full armour, and now unheeded, MacFarlane made his way towards the cave and entered it, glad to be shot of them and hoping only that this time the Worm Hole would would lead him back to his hotel suite, for he still had unfinished business to attend to; ah, but there was a wrinkle in Time and the Worm Hole, as if it had a mind of it's own, took him elsewhere!
In point of fact, as it happens, the four Officers had barely gone a dozen steps before they disappeared from the scrutiny of the others watching by the tunnel entrance, and that was also when Sergeant MacCool glanced over his shoulder to check that Constables Gilliam, Marx and Duncanson were keeping up, only they weren't; before he could call to them, he heard a step ahead and swung back to find that Duncanson, Marx and Gilliam were now in front; automatically, he glanced behind himself - and there they were, where they should have been and that was when he realised that the atmosphere in the tunnel was nitrox, with it's aigre-doux, sickly sweet and sour taste, of course that was why he hadn't realised that the tunnel wasn't a tunnel at all, it was just a very tight circle, so that if he moved slightly faster than his crew, he caught up with them and, if he went slightly slower, they caught up with him; so, he thought to himself, if it's a closed circle, where the fuck's the entrance? and suddenly he bumped into a herm, a square pillar, filling the width of the tunnel and topped with a bust of God and wondered how he could have missed that, but when he turned back, he found that his crew were no longer there and in the distance, several hundred yards away, he could see Constables Hank Marvin and Murray Melvin chatting to the two female Officers who'd first entered the hotel suite and then, just twenty yards from him, an Archbishop carrying a crozier, emerged from the wall on one side, crossed the tunnel, and walked straight through another wall, followed by a group of Bishops dragging a stumbling man who was wrapped in a bed-sheet; and that was when Lorenzo Marx called to him from the other side of the square pillar: "hey, Sarge! how did you squeeze past this thing? there's no way we can manage it!" and all MacCool could see of him was one of his hands wiggling in the small gap beneath God's left ear: "retrace your steps," said MacCool, "that should bring you back to me," but he was met with protests that the three Constables were trapped in what must have been a niche in the wall, with nowhere to go: "it's like one of those refuges in the Tube, Sarge," said Gilliam Gilliam, "for the maintenance guys when a train comes through," and that was when MacCool felt light-headed, leaned back against the tunnel wall and was slowly swallowed up by it, leaving only his Heckler & Koch MP5SF on the floor.
Which is how it came to pass that two Metropolitan Police Constables, Mary Godwin and Eunice Campbell, knocked on the door of Sir Parlane MacFarlane's suite and, on not being admitted, used their Enforcer battering ram – a rather unsubtle statement of intent – to force the door and so entered the suite; what they discovered was really an apartment containing an ana, or foyer, a sitting room, three bedrooms and two bathrooms, which probably cost more to rent for a week that the average copper's annual take-home scrilla; in one of the bedrooms a wardrobe lacking it's doors, had no backing: instead it led to a darkened tunnel which, when they shone their torches into it, appeared to stretch to a darkened infinity; when they switched off the torches, the light remained, as if the walls, ceiling and floor of the tunnel had absorbed and stored the light from outside and were now emitting it; they called in a request for armed backup, as the sitting room showed signs of disarray, with furniture knocked over and blood on the carpet; the Armed Firearms Unit arrived a few minutes later, under the authority of Police Sergeant Finn MacCool, who discussed the situation with his Inspector via his police radio; it was all rather equivocal – the information from the Hotel Manager was that there were three residents, while according to a couple next door, only one of the residents was present, along with a group of priests, possibly from the Spanish Inquisition, at which Inspector Garry Noonan snorted with derision: "pull the other one, MacCool!" and then gave one of his regular philippics on the inability of elderly aristos to tell the difference between real life and some stupid cop show that was probably on next door's TV, but then, relenting, because he thought it better to demonstrate that the Met take all calls seriously, no matter how implausible they may be, and especially when the complainant is a cousin of one of the nastier pieces of work in the present Cabinet, who was ever joyful at a chance to snipe at the Old Bill's Boys and Girls in Blue, so, on being given orders to inspect and secure the tunnel, which from the outside looked a bit like a tokamak, being perfectly round and seemingly made of gleaming metal, PS MacCool and three members of his team, PCs Gillian Gilliam, Lorenzo Marx and Isadora Duncanson, entered it and were never seen again!
Lord Philbert Wellington-Boot, his ear pressed against the bottom of the tumbler which, in turn, was pressed against the party wall through which Euphemia could still hear wailing and excited railing, attempted to give her his understanding of what was being said on the other: "Archbishop Charisma, he's the one with the loudest voice, he's definitely Spanish, something to do with the Spanish Inquisition, called the Scotchman a rigwelted sheep – does that mean they've cut of his crown jewels?" his wife snorted: "no dear, just that he's lying on his back, kicking his legs in the air, like that chap in the Kafka story who turn into a cockroach!" but Philbert sook his head: "I don't know that one - "oh! the Scotchman called the Archbishop a crocodile and got severely chastened for his troubles, and one of the others, a Bishop or something, a real crawler by the sound of it, asserted that the Archbishop is quite esquamulose, whatever that means?" and he was informed by Euphemia: "it means smooth all over, not at all scaly, then what?" and still listening intently, her husband laughed: "oh dear, the Archbishop told the Bishop to shut his cake-hole and not discuss his intimate details with such a scabrous creature, I don't think they are on friendly terms, dear!" and then he continued: "oh, it seems the Archbishop suspects the Scotchman of philandery, or corruption or something, he says the Scotchman either has the Midas Touch, or very sticky fingers - they seem to have discovered a cache of valuables looted from some Palace in Spain, but the Scotchman asserts that he won them in a game of chance and. . . . .oh, now he has told them that wardrobe through which they entered his suite is connected to some kind of Wormhole and that he and his friends can travel through Time and Space and that if the person they are looking for has used this Wormhole thingy, he, that is, the Scotchman, would be happy to give them a four-dimensional map so that they can find him; it all sounds rather flimsy to me. he's probably just hoping he can lock them all in the wardrobe and then call the rozzers!" at which Euphemia gave a whoop and exclaimed: "that's how we've never heard any coming and going from that suite - remember the chambermaid told us there were three gentlemen in there, but they never left or returned by the door, and if he's got the Spanish Inquisition in there with him, how did they get in? you've solved it, Philbert – I'll ring the Manager and tell him that if he doesn't get the Police in PDQ, I'll ring Cousin Vinnie myself, he'll put a rocket up someone's behind!"
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