The Doveston’s office (my office now!) was on the first floor. A magnificent room, all done out in the style of Grinling Gibbons (1648—1721), the English sculptor and wood-carver, so well known for his ecclesiastical woodwork. As well as the bigness of his willy.
Well, probably more so for his ecclesiastical woodwork. But as I am rich now, I can say what I like.
‘The wallpaper really spoils this room,’ said Norman. ‘Stars and stripes. I ask you.’
‘Oh,’ I said. ‘I chose the wallpaper.’
‘Nice,’ said Norman. ‘Very nice too.’
‘You’re just saying that to please me.
‘Of course I am. It’s something you’ll have to get used to, now you’re rich. Everyone will want to suck up to you. And no—one will ever say anything to you that you don’t want to hear.’
‘Don’t say that!’
‘What?’ said Norman. ‘I never said anything.’
We searched the office. We had the back off the filing cabinet. But the filing cabinet was empty. All the desk drawers were empty too. As were all the shelves that normally held all the paperwork.
‘Somebody’s cleaned out this office,’ I said. ‘Taken everything.’
‘He probably left instructions in his will. That all incriminating evidence was to be destroyed. He wouldn’t have wanted anything to come out after his death and sully his memory with the general public.’
‘You think that’s it?’
‘I do. But you’re welcome to say that you thought of it first, if you want.’
‘Norman,’ I said, ‘is the fact that I am now unthinkably rich going to mess around with our friendship?’
‘Certainly not,’ said Norman. ‘I still don’t like you very much.’ I sat down in the Doveston’s chair. (My chair now!) ‘So you are telling me that you have absolutely no idea whatsoever as to where the secret laboratories might be?’
‘None whatsoever.’ Norman sat down on the desk.
‘Get your arse off my desk,’ I said.
Norman stood up again. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘First one up against the wall, come the revolution,’ he whispered.
‘What was that?’
‘Nothing.’
‘But the secret laboratories must be here somewhere. I’m certain that if we could find them, we would find the answer to everything. I think that the Great Work was what he lived for. It was the whole point of his life.’
Norman shrugged. ‘Well, believe me, I’ve searched for them. Searched for them for years. But if they’re here, I don’t know where they are. The only secret room I ever found was the secret trophy room.’
‘And where’s that?’
‘At the end of the secret passage.’
‘Lead the way.’
Norman led the way.
It was a really good secret passage. You had to swing this suit of armour aside and crawl in on your hands and knees. Norman led the way once more. ‘Don’t you dare fart,’ I told him.
At length we reached a secret door and Norman opened it with the secret key he’d copied for the sake of convenience.
He flicked on the light and I went, ‘Blimey!’
‘It’s good, isn’t it? Just like a little museum.
And that was just what it was. A little museum. A little black museum. I wandered amongst the exhibits. Each one told its little tale of infamy.
‘Hm,’ I said, picking up a pair of specs. ‘These would be the glasses that Vicar Berry “mislaid” before he lit the dynamite instead of the communion candle. And here’s Chico’s aunty’s leather bondage teapot. And the box bound in human skin that Professor Merlin showed us and you—’
‘I don’t want to think of that, thank you.
‘And what do we have here? A badge-making machine and some badges. Let’s see. The Black Crad Movement.’
‘Wasn’t that the terrorist movement that blew up all those cabinet ministers’ houses?’
‘With dynamite, yes. And look at this. Some charred photographs. They look like stills from a video tape.’
‘The ones that the journalist passed on to his editor, who—’
‘Aaah-Choo,’ I said. ‘As in dynamite.’
‘Urgh,’ said Norman. ‘And look at this blood-stained bow tie.
Didn’t that bloke on the TV, who used to expose government corruption, wear one just like this? They never found all of him, did they?’
I shook my head. ‘But — oh, look, Norman,’ I said. ‘Here’s something of yours.’ I passed him the item and he peered down at it.
‘My yo-yo,’ he said. ‘My prototype yo-yo. That takes me back. Who was it, now, who ended up with the patent?’
‘A certain Mr Crad, I believe. No doubt the same Mr Crad who founded The Black Crad Movement.’
‘Oh,’ said Norman. He looped the end of the yo-yo’s string over his finger and sent the little bright wooden toy skimming down. It jammed at the bottom and didn’t come up.
‘Typical,’ said Norman, worrying at the string. ‘Oh no, hang about. There’s something jammed in here. A piece of paper, look.’
‘Perhaps it’s a map showing the location of the secret laboratories.’
‘Do you really think so?’
‘No.’ I snatched the tiny crumpled piece of paper from his hand and did my best to straighten it out. And then I looked at what was written on it and then I said, ‘Blimey!’ once again.
‘What is it?’ Norman asked.
‘A list of six names. But I don’t recognize them. Here, do they mean anything to you?’
Norman screwed up his eyes and perused the list. ‘Yes, of course they do,’ he said.
‘So who are they?’
‘Well, remember when we watched that secret meeting, when the Doveston came out with his idea for the government to take over the importation of drugs?’
‘Of course I do.’
‘Well, these were the six people present. That’s old silly-bollocks. And that one’s what’s-his-face. And that’s the bald-headed woman who usually wears the wig and—’
‘Norman,’ I said. ‘Do you know what this means?’
‘That one of them might know where the secret laboratories are?’
‘No! Don’t you understand? This list wasn’t put into the yo-yo by accident. It was put there for us to find. You and me, the people who watched that meeting taking place. His bestest friends. The stuff in his office wasn’t taken away to be destroyed, it was nicked. By one or more of these people.’
‘I don’t quite see how you come to draw these conclusions.’
‘Norman,’ I said. ‘Read what it says at the top of the list.’ Norman read the words aloud. There were just two of them. The words were ‘POTENTIAL ASSASSINS’.
‘Norman,’ I said. ‘The Doveston did not die in any freak accident. The Doveston was murdered.’
20
Metabolically challenged: Dead.
‘Murdered!’ cried Norman and he whistled.
It was a nice enough tune, but I soon tired of it. ‘Stop that bloody whistling,’ I told him. ‘We have to think.’
‘About what?’
‘About what we’re going to do! Our bestest friend has been murdered.’
Norman opened his mouth to speak, but didn’t. ‘Go on,’ I said.
‘Oh, nothing. I was just going to say that it was how he would have wanted to go. But I don’t suppose it was. Yet if you think about it, it was probably how he was bound to go. He must have made hundreds of enemies.’
‘Yes, but we’ve got the list.’
‘So what? If he was murdered, it could have been anybody.’
‘Then we have to narrow it down to the most likely suspect.’
‘That’s easy,’ said Norman.
‘It is?’
‘Of course it is. You just have to figure out which one single person had the most to gain from the Doveston’s death. That will be your man for sure.
‘But how do we do that?’
‘That’s easy too. I sighed.
‘Would you like me to give you a clue?’ I nodded.