He may have been considered a paragon among the city's bibliotaphs, for his vast collection of the works of Nostrodamus and even The Predictions of True Thomas, one learned in the Gramarye, a Black Belt in Necromancy, and something of a Soothsayer in his spare time, but, so engrossed was he in his study of the Crow's Feathers he had found at the foot of the old tenement, that he failed to hear the cry of “Gardyloo” from high above and, as a consequence, was drenched by the contents of the night's Piss Pot, and so Sir Parlane MacFarlane, with a loud curse and shake of his fist in the general direction of the pourer, up-the-way – who was already back a-bed with his Doxy, and heard none of it – scurried back home to his House, which stood many yards above the oubliette where Sister Evadne Eglantyne sat in chains and ordure, to change his soiled silks and satins for a long, brown, hooded robe which rather gave him the appearance of a Franciscan Friar – oh! the irony! and smirked smugly at his own treachery as he ordered his Man, Dominic Doubleday, to evict the entire tenantry from that stair unless the one who had polluted his person, should own up – or be named by one of his neighbours!
“How did he get here?” cried Tavish, catching his first sight of the latest apparition in the cavern; “you know him?” asked Bernie; “he's a stain on Edinburgh's civic pride, that Man,” said Tavish, displaying a bitterness not not normally heard in his voice, “Assistant Chief Constable Duncan Doubleday, or DoubleCross to anyone who's had the misfortune to work with him; he has his fingers in every piece of corruption, of vice and depravity you'll find under the mask of respectability the City wears; he's more bibulous than W C Fields ever was, owns several hectads populated by thieves, fences, prostitutes of all ages, drug dealers and crack-houses, money launderers fronted by granite and marble banking houses; even my brother Pherson, who shot me, hadn't a good word to say about ACC DoubleCross and Pherson is Emeritus Professor of Criminology at the Uni, so he's smelt many a stink in the Capital and when you hear a Nocturne playing in your head and Ladies of the Night are plying their trade, behind them, behind the Pimps and Ponces, the Puppetmaster pulling their strings is Old DoubleCross,” he spat phlegm onto the rock floor; “but if he's a Police Officer,” asked Tammy, “how does he get away with it?” and Tavish grunted, then said: “he has enough dirt on every bent Politician, Lawyer, Copper and Judge, not to mention Businessmen, Tax Dodgers, Givers and Takers of Bribes and Kickbacks and Insider Traders in anything that can be bought and sold, from Cobbles and Gratings lifted after dark from the High Street, to pre-pubescent boys and girls from Eastern Europe or The Philippines and Thailand; his Mentor was Martin Elginbrod – not the present one, his Father – when DoubleCross was a DI in Vice and first got a taste for the more extreme forms of Paedophilia, his tastes were guided and refined and access made easier by Elginbrod and his friends, including Jimmy Savile, one of whose people opened a Specialist Club financed by a Russian Oilygarch, former KGB Handler, Boris Goodenuv, they all had a predilection for young boys and girls and The Club – named, incidentally, The Gents which should give you an idea of the kind of place it was - gave them a safe haven to practice what they preached and act out their fantasies and suddenly young DI Doubleday was right in the centre of the action, but instead of collaring the lot of them he became one of their most dedicated members and they had him by the short and curlies – oh, he was made, set up for a life of unbridled sex with anyone he fancied, and they had a noose around his neck – when Elginbrod's fingers snapped, Doubleday's heels clicked – he was their Gopher, Finder, Fixer and Minder and his pockets were lined with cash and condoms”; “so how do you know all this about him?” asked Tammy, back home the Chief Investigative Reporter on The Scotsman whose finest virtue was that most of the words which issued from her mouth were framed as Questions, suddenly realising that there was a gap – nay a chasm - in her knowledge of what was supposed by her colleagues and friends to be her Mastermind Specialist Subject – The Underworld of Scotland's Capital City – which was not a picturesque reference to the network of streets, closes, nooks, crannies and oubliettes still existing far beneath the cobbles and tartanalia of The Royal Mile and it's fine buildings, homes of Scotland's National emblems of – Crown, Commerce, Religion, Law, Governance, and Militaria!
The exhilarated WPC Isa Urquhart rolled away from the slumbering body of her bedmate and answered her mobile, as she pandiculated to losen her neck muscles – it was a call from DI Brevity and he sounded anxious: “Oh, Isa, I'm sorry to disturb you at this time of the night, or morning, but we've just got the DNA results back from Carolina Moonbeam – the blood you found in the Milking Parlour has been provisionally identified as that of Assistant Chief Constable Duncan Doubleday, and indicate a high level of bibulation, so he may not be sober – which could account for the crash, together with the injuries which may have preceded it; I've been trying for the last couple of hours to trace him; we've called and visited his home, but his wife seems to have left him and we only found a young girl there who doesn't speak English, so we're hoping to find a translator – but we don't yet know what language she is speaking; we found his own car in Morningside, and the Forensic Science Department are all over it as we speak; we're trying to track his movements through his mobile, which seems to have disappeared from the map and – oh, there's no easy way to say this, Isa: I need you here, to co-ordinate that exercise, you're the best bloodhound we've got, can you come in?” And Isa turned to look at the sleeping Meg, who stirred slightly and rolled towards her, eyes suddenly open and a big smile on her face; “half an hour, Guv, that's all I need and I'll head straight in,” “and see if you can rouse Gertie, she's not answering her mobile, will you?” and Isa let her gaze move to the other two sleepers in the bed, who made up the coterie which had thoroughly colligated during the night; Gertie was pressed up against the magnificent bulk of Bess's bosom, “I think I know where she is, Guv, I'll rouse her and bring her with me,” and she could hear Brevity relax: “pure dead brilliant, Isa, you're Wonder Woman!” and Isa smiled to herself, and thought: “I'm not the only one!”
Later, the SOCOs having been and gone, with all their evidence gathered from the Rest Room in the Milking Parlour used by the Mystery Man, copies of CCTV footage, though nothing had been spotted other than grainy images of a bulky figure staggering away from the 'cows' and being helped inside by one of the Mature Milk Maids – Meg – for there were no cameras inside the building, and there was no indication of him leaving, and every inch of the spotlessly clean interior had been examined minutely with only the tang of carbolic Soap in the air; now the meticulous WPC Isa Urquhart together with Trainee WPC Gertie Mountcastle was completing the Timeline, with it's rows for the people who had been at the Milking Parlour from the moment the Mystery Man arrived with the troupe of 'cows' until the discovery of his disappearance by Isa, and the columns which broke down the day into five minute parts, and which showed who had been inside or outside the Milking Parlour throughout that time-frame; and meanwhile DI Gordon Brevity was interviewing the bibulous Farmer Farmer back at The Cowgate and Grassmarket Community Policing Hub (having been thoroughly dissatisfied with the Statement already given to DS Goldy Brevity in his Farm House) and there was a distinct easing of the atmosphere around and within the Milking Parlour when the minatory Farmer farmer's menacing look had been removed – even the Czech and Slovak Milk Maids were singing some of their traditional songs fro their distant homeland and and even Gertie, perhaps not quite an oniomaniac, nevertheless felt her urge to go shopping had eased and she was enjoying a mug of Cocoa with Isa, Meg and Bess, the other Milk Maids having returned to their Hostel in Oxgangs: “I think,” sighed Isa, as she relaxed, her boots and socks removed and her feet on Meg's lap where they were most relaxingly massaged, “I think we did a bit of a bodge this morning, taking so long to believe The Gadfly” - we might have caught up with this Mystery Man if we had listened to him and believed what he told us!” “but surely no-one can accuse us of carelessness and sloppy thinking?” asked Gertie, “as soon as we had confirmation of his story from the Ski Slope's CCTV we got right on to it,” and Isa reached out and took one of Gertie's hands in hers: “cold hand, warm heart – you are truly loyal, Gertie, and I love you for it, but nonetheless, a quicker response might had collared that Dude!” and Bess took Gertie's other hand in hers and opening her bodice, demonstrated her tried and tested - and acclaimed throughout the Dairy Industry – Hand Warming Bosoms, much to Gertie's intense delight!
Four Milk Maids stood meekly in a row as the two police officers approached, but looked blankly at her when the inquisitive WPC Isa Urquhart asked them if they had been on duty between 8 and 10am that morning – one yawned widely, another stuck her tongue out, the third scratched her head under her mop cap, while the third whistled what might have been a tune; Farmer Farmer spoke up: “I'm sorry, Sergeant, but these girls are either Czech or Slovak and don't have a word of English between them, other than 'piss off' or 'fuck off' which seems to be de rigueur these days, I might suggest speaking with the two Mature Milk Maids, over there,” and he indicated two sonsie lassies standing by the door of the Milking Parlour; Isa made a quick decision: “I feel in my waters that this may be a dzud, with a dearth of reliable information and a whitewash to follow, but we'll just have to do our best – Gertie, you have the one in Red and I'll tackle the one in Blue, 30 minutes tops then we'll compare notes,” and they took the women to opposite ends of the plant; Isa studied hers for a minute, and then got stuck in: “what's your name?” “Meg, whit's your'n?” which Isa, professional to her roots, ignored; “how long have you been a Milk Maid?” “since ah wiz nae mair'n fower or faive,” “where did you train?” “Xanadu,” “where's that?” to which Meg indicated South-East with her thumb, adding: “ma Faither's Fermentation, aboot twal mile ower thae hulls,” “and how old are you now?” “fuck aff, ah'm urny tellin ye!” “there's no need to be impertinent!” “nor's ther ony need fer yow tae be so impident, asking a daecent body her age!” “it's a more than decent body, Meg, and I apologise for venturing where you feel I shouldn't, though perhaps if I explain to you, then you may feel more inclined to help me,” “whirraboot?” “a man,” “ah hate them! hate them aw! an thon Fairmer Fairmer, he's the wurst o them aw, a greedy pig, ye ken he wurks us till oor hauns is bleedin, tak a luik at thon,” and she showed the sympathetic WPC two hands, scrubbed red raw, chapped and scabbed where they had bled, “he'll no let us use ony moisturisers, jist carbolic soap, Carbolic Soap! in this day an age? whaur's yer Elfin Safty at Werk wen itz needit? nae-fuckin-whaur! yin pair of disposable gluvs a week, each, coz oor jist weemin, an thae Checks and Slaveys, urny in the Unyin neeva, they cannae tok tae us n oo cannae tok tae thaem, it's Divide n Fuckin Rool, that's yon Fairmer Fairmer's wey, beleev ye moi, its Asset Strippin, thon's whit's gaunin oan heer! aw they Wankers wi their fuckin massif omnibuses like pigs in a truffle an him cryin hissel a Goormay Fairmer, he's yin o they ithir thingies, yow'll ken, Sargent!” this last with a wink, and Isa winked back, “you mean gourmand, greedy pig you said,” “too fuckin right, he's oot tae gourmandize his ain fuckin pockets on the backs o the wurkurs, me n Bess n them poor Checks n Balances, he's got The Instychute peyin him ower the oads fer his weed patches an wha gets tae sell the mulk tae the Whale Sailors, Fairmer-fuckin-Fairmer thatz wha,” “would you like me to ask our Fraud Squad to investigate?” “aye, invest-aw-ye-like, it'll aw be in sum taxi van like thae Seashells, bit gie him a couple of sleppless nichts if ye like, Hen,” and Isa knew she had won the Milk Maid over; “when the cows came in this morning, did you see an injured man, he'd been involved in a car crash in the field where the cows were and we think he might have perhaps used one to help him make his way from the vehicle,” “aye, ye shood've seyd ye wiz looking fer him, his heid wiz aw bashit and there wiz blud aw ower him,” “where did he go?” “nae whaur,” “do you mean he's still here?” “aye,” “where?” “in oor rest room – itz the ainly facilitation The Instychute gied us, soas we kin hae a wee lie doon when we've wir periods,” “can you show me?” “aye, it's jist alang heer,” “in here” “aye, jist push ton door, that's it,” but when she got there, the cupboard was bare, though there were signs that The Man had lain on the bed, streaks and stains of blood and vomit on the starched white sheet, on the gleaming white towels, even on the intense white walls, a Hand Print, but of The Man, nothing, she turned to find Meg almost pressing against her, trying to see over her shoulder, full and vibrant breasts pressing against Isa in the doorway, lips only inches from her own, “is there another rest room?” “aye, next door, dae ye want a wee lie doon? itz the Men's yin bit ther's nae men heer less ye coont Fairmer Fairmer an he nevva cums inside, cum oan Hen, ah'll gie ye a haund,” and the door closed behind them with a satisfying click as Meg turned the lock, and in the remaining twenty minutes Isa conducted a thorough in-depth investigation of Meg and discovered all her secrets of Milk Production!
As she stood beside the Hub Panda, waiting for Farmer Farmer to climb into his enormous black and chrome 4 Wheel Drive Gentlemen Farmers' vehicle of choice, the hawk-like WPC Isa Urquhart noted him speaking on his mobile – and as she climbed into the police car, she remarked to her Trainee WPC Gertie Mountcastle: “I bet he's calling the Milk Maids or someone at The Institute, I told him not to tell anyone we were coming to the Milking Parlour!” and Gertie's eyes shone: “do you suppose he's married?” she asked, and Isa shot her a glance: “if he is, I pity the poor woman, he's so fastuous and a dyed-in-the-wool chauvinist, and probably the opposite of uxurious, whatever that is. . .” and Gertie piped up: “how about 'mulish'? I know it isn't specifically descriptive of a husband's unreasonableness towards his wife, but he does look like a mule – oops, I shouldn't pass judgement on people, should I?” she had blushed to her roots and with her tummy feeling like a whirlpool was on the verge of hyperventilating, not to mention tears, so Isa soothingly replied: “this car isn't wired for sound, Gertie, and what is said between a Trainee and her Mentor, is strictly between ourselves, unless, of course, you are confessing to a criminal act or the intention to commit one – you aren't, are you?” and Gertie shook her head so violently her Trainee WPC Standard Issue Cap fell off over her eyes and she stamped on the brakes so suddenly that the car squealed to a Starsky and Hutch stop which flung gravel over Farmer Farmer's Gentlemen Farmers' Pink Wellies, and Isa murmured, “sweetly done, Gertie, that's put him on the back foot,” and patted Gertie's thigh reassuringly, “and I do believe those strapping young ladies are the Milk Maids!”
The Man's fever caused him to debacchate, slurred sounds, incomprehensible as words, issued in a stream of apparent invective, offering glimpses into his confused perceptions, cries to God and Christ mingling in a kind of henotheism with appeals to Allah and HaShem, Thor and Wotan; his listeners picked up references to their own penetralia – he seemed to know intimate details of their lives, interspersed with wild ramblings, and then after threshing his limbs ineffectually, he sank into an exhausted torpor; Bernie and Tammy held a conclave with Thomas – their other patients were still in the 'sick bay'.
The Man's ragged breathing was stridulous, he seemed as in a fever, flushed, his skin burning to the touch – whether this was caused by the heavy blow struck by Tammy in the Tower Cell which had shattered his skull, or some infection which had made contact with the exposed viscera, none of them could say, they were not doctors; but it was generally agreed that Tammy's blow had probably foreshortened his life, though by how much was moot, and this was to both Bernie and Tammy who had suffered each at his hands, splendiferous – Vive La Nous! though they would like to know why he had tried to kill them!
And it was just at that moment, when her eyes skittered over the luminosity of the Spiral Nebula, glowing across the vastness of the Universe, that she heard a dull whump behind her, like the popping of a distant cork, and, turning. brought her vision down to the bathos of a naked man on the floor of the Cavern and a flash of gratulation made Bernie jump as if touched by electricity and she grabbed The Hunter's dory, fashioned with a spear-head at one end and a spike at the other and it was only the hand of Tammy that stayed her, and she knew that Tammy had also recognised The Man and if he was to die it would be by their Joint Enterprise!
The Farmer was a ruddy faced man named John Farmer – Farmer Farmer; and was not overjoyed to see the two WPCs approach across his clean and tidy yard, but was enough of a Gentleman Farmer to invite them into his office, offering insincerely fulsome praise of Police Scotland Officers whom, he knew were doing a “wonderful job in difficult times”; when Gertie slid the screen shot of a line of cows crossing his field at Hillend, below the Ski Slope which dropped from the height of the Eastern-most Pentland Hill, he laughed – a rich baritone, cut short when Isa spoke, her voice as cold as ice: “you told us, sir, that you kept no cows in that field, can you explain this?” and Farmer Farmer had the good grace to blush; “my apologies, I assure you; I don't know what you are working on and when I received the call from your Constable Clutterbuck, she sounds very pretty, indeed you all look very pretty, and she was enquiring if I kept cows in that field, I told the truth – I keep no cows in that field and have not for several years; if my pedantry has caused you any difficulty I am truly sorry – but the fact is I lease that field, in fact all of my land, to The Roslin Institute,” and the omniscient WPC Isa Urquhart suddenly knew what Farmer Farmer was going to say: “Dolly, the Sheep?” she asked; “exactly,” said Farmer Farmer: “or in this case Robbie the Robot!” and Gertie squeaked in confusion: “you mean those are Robot Sheep?” - Farmer Farmer poured three measures of Irn Bru, although he had the look of a three-fisted whisky drinker himself and handed one to each of his visitors; “not sheep, cows; but not strictly cows either – think Billion Dollar Man and you are getting closer: let me explain,” and Isa nodded encouragement; “these are hybrids; a dairy cow is really just a biological machine for turning grass into milk; so these are the next step in combining machine and biology: they are robot milkers (if you will excuse the nominalization) manufactured to resemble Belted Galloways, just because someone at the Institute happens to like Belted Galloways, and they contain a cloned digestive system so that when they chew the cud – or graze on grass, to reduce it to a degree of bathos which sums the entire process up – it is turned into milk, and as they do not sleep, they can do this all day and night long; the staff from the Institute milk them perhaps six times a day, rather than the traditional twice, morning and night; and unlike conventional high production indoor Milking Plants, they look just like cows in a field and this soothes the mind of environmentalists and tree-huggers, if you will forgive my slip there; every day at a time which is programmed into them, they make their way to the Milking Parlour where two pretty Milk Maids are waiting for them; after the last Milking yesterday they were transferred to a different field: because they are eating grass all day and night and have to be rotated regularly to allow the field to recover;” Isa stood: “thank you Farmer Farmer, can you take us to the Milking Parlour, we will need to speak with the Milk Maids rather urgently, or PDQ if you prefer!” and Gertie leapt to her feet too.
And, as she drove the Hub Panda South, towards the vicinity of Hillend Farm, Trainee WPC Gertie Mountcastle had her own internal narrative: she wondered if she would ever have the charisma of her Mentor, the enthralling WPC Isa Urquhart, who seemed to function as an intrapreneur within the Division, not by virtue of her rank, but rather of her indisputable gifts and talents (“don't hide your Talents under a Bushel,” Gertie's old Grannie used to say, but she wanted to ask “whit Talents. Grannie? When thon things wiz haundit oot by the Guid Lordie, he left me penurious, oh, ah kin sing in the Gaelic and tie Feeshermaun's Knots as Auld Papa Mountcastle tocht me when ah wiz wee, but ma thinkin is trite, ma writtin lacks a certain je ne sais quois'adoxography, ma demeanour too timid and ruly, if no doonricht bathetic an ah look aboot 12,” to which her Grannie would have given her a withering look, sniff and replied: “I don't know where you pick up such Gallus Langwidge, Gertrude Mountcastle, maybe you have School Chums from Corstorphine, but you won't hear such common dialect in Morningside, colourful though it may at first appear to an impressionable child!” – I saw the photo one of the DCs took of DI Brevity trying to show me how to work the computer and I played along until he was just so, so wrong that I had to explain it all to him instead and he looks like a Grandfather and I look like a First Year, it is too, too embarrassing) which is, of course, why, with such a stellar record of achievement in every branch of Modern Policing, the empyreal WPC Isa Urquhart has been inducted into the Police Scotland Hall of Fame and got her picture in The Edinburgh and Leith Police Gazette, The Daily Record and The Sunday Post, to boot! and Gertie glanced to her left and admired for a brief moment the indefinably stirring profile of her Mentor, the justly Proud and Imperial WPC Isa Urquhart!!! (and Teri gave a little prayer of thanks to the Microsoft Engineers who came up with 'Copy and Paste' and 'Drag and Drop' without which life would be so utterly tedious, poured another measure of Highland Park into each Coffee mug, added boiling water and stirred the concoction before floating a swirl of double cream on top, murmuring, “tonight I am free as a bird,” to which Nikki responded: “Amen to that”).
Opening one eye, and sensing morning, Teri groaned, having failed to send her copy in last night - for despite all of her brilliant adoxography, the pain had been severe and demanded prescribed sedation on top of her nightly 'fortified' coffee and, as a result, she slept the whole night through until a stabbing sensation in the vicinity of her left knee drove dreamy vestiges from her head and told her that, costs be damned, she would not allow penury to control her life, for now was the time for this particular literati to sink down into a steaming, hot, fragrant and bubbly bathos!
The philosophical WPC Isa Urquhart sat in the passenger seat of the Panda driven by Trainee WPC Gertie Mountcastle as they sped out of the City Centre towards Fairmilehead, thinking of the onomastical pressures which must have surely affected Mr John Farmer in his decision to become Farmer Farmer of Hillend Farm, below the heights of the towering Pentland Hills; the report from WPC Clare Clutterbuck, a cousin of Isa's who had made the initial contact, had described him, in characteristic fashion, as “a whisky-sodden slugabed, previously a Hedge Fund Manager before turning to his present occupation which he describes as that of a 'Gentleman Farmer' so no horny handed Son of Toil,” but then Clare is a Daughter of The Manse, so her opinions can be peppered with hot and fiery Wee-Freeisms, reflected the magnanimous WPC, musing on the ways in which Faith finds it's niche in so many of us, and recalling her old Tutor, Professor Gloriana Tumblety, informing her class of eager, shining faces that “there is no Universe other than that which we perceive for ourselves, as you will learn when you read Bishop Berkeley and jolly old Jeremy Bentham, although the caveat which we may apply to the ultimate solipsism that we are each the Centre of our own Universe, is that it does not in itself deny the existence of the Creator God, for it can be argued that she first created the Mind and within it's illimitable space, she then created the Universe and all that we perceive of it, so enjoy your Powers my Bright, Young Things, and write me an essay each on the Discrepancy between First-Hand Knowledge and Third-Person Hearsay in the Understanding of Materialism within the context of Deism (you can choose your own Gods if you must) by Friday next, Toot Sweet and off you scurry”; and Isa, arm in arm with her cousins all, Roxy and Trixie, Goldy and Ginger, Leigh, Elvira, Clare, Teri and the rest clattered down the spiral stone staircase of what had once been a Kerr of Ferniehirst Town House and so the spiral was the wrong-way-round for those who were right-handed in those days before Political Correctness did away with such distinctions on the theory that the opposite of 'Right' is ever 'Wrong' and who dare call one who is 'Left Handed, Wrong Handed'?and so the search for an alternative still goes on apace, and Isa sensed, rather than saw, their passage over the City Bypass and drew herself together, letting her reveries tear and scatter like the clouds in a Westerly Breeze, girding her loins – as it were – for the soon to be encountered Mr Farmer Farmer!
Farmer Farmer was represented to WPC Isa Urquhart as an unreconstructed Panglossian, so surrounded by an impenetrable fedge as to believe himself to be absolutely inviolable, which, to her rapier-like mind, meant he would have neglected to give himself an outro!
At the Ski Slope, the forceful WPC Isa Urquhart had Trainee WPC Gertie Mountcastle's heart swelling with admiration as her Mentor quickly swept aside protestations of 'confidentiality' and 'breach of trust' proffered by a pimply youth who described himself as the venue's Security Officer (“even if there was real snow here, I doubt he'd leave much of a sitzmark if he landed on that skinny bum,” said Isa to Gertie sotto voce, and the Trainee WPC giggled) and obtained access to the relevant surveillance discs for one of the Security Cameras – “really only for Health and Safety matters relating to our Staff and Customers, we don't snoop on who they may be interacting with” said the embarrassed boy and Isa was tempted to ask him if he ever glimpsed galanthophiles cavorting among the snowdrops, but was too generous of heart to cause him further embarrassment – and they returned to The Cowgate and Grassmarket Community Policing Hub where the pair squeezed into two chairs, and Gertie found her leg pressed tight against Isa's. giving her a glow throughout her body and turning her freckled face crimson; “look here,” said Isa, pointing at the screen, and the picture, from a distance, showed Dr Frangible Arbuthnot, easily identifiable in his pink tutu, standing by the roadside, opposite the empty field, on the opposite side of which they could make out the crashed car wedged into a clump of bushes; and as Isa rewound the video at twice normal speed, they gasped simultaneously, for, sure enough, they saw a file of cows walking backwards into view, to form a small herd around the car and further backward, The Gadfly scampered backwards down the hill, stuck his head into the vehicle, slammed the door shut and retraced his steps to his own car at the roadside; on replaying the entire scene forward, to the time when The Gadfly had taken up his post to await the Emergency services, they immediately spotted a grainy figure emerge from the vehicle in the bushes, surround himself with the small herd, and accompany it out of shot – the cows moving in single file with the inconnu mostly hidden on the far side of one of them; “he was telling the truth,” gasped Gertie; “indeed he was,” responded Isa; “The Gadfly is proving to be our Talisman on this Case; I think we need to confront that Farmer, who was obviously lying through his teeth.”; “Blues and Twos again.” asked the excitable Trainee WPC: “you betcha sweet bippy,” laughed Isa, hortatory in voice and action, and Gertie once more blushed crimson to her roots!
Quadrivial Quandary (QQ) is owned and operated by Rudi Seitz.
Sentences submitted to QQ are the property of their authors. See our page on Copyright Information for details.
Dictionary definitions are the property of their respective sources, presented here via public RSS feeds or otherwise with permission.
All other material is copyright 2015 by Rudi Seitz, all rights reserved.
Use of this site is governed by our terms of service.
Contact: rudi at quadrivialquandary dot com.