Fred turned his damaged head from one side to the other.
The Brentford Scrolls were gone.
And so, too, John and Jim.
Having endured several hours of mind-numbing horror at the house of Dr Steven Malone, Professor Slocombe now leaned back in his chair and allowed himself the luxury of considerable mirth.
Before him, on his desk, lay the Brentford Scrolls, pristine and undamaged. Framed in the French windows stood two individuals who looked anything but.
“Would you mind ringing your little brass bell?” Jim asked.
Professor Slocombe rang his little brass bell. “Come on in,” he said, stifling another chuckle. “Sit yourselves down and relax.”
The two men slumped into fireside chairs. And then they gazed into the fire, shook their heads and reseated themselves elsewhere. They did not, however, relax.
“And where exactly have you been?” asked the Professor.
“Penge,” said Jim.
“Penge?” Professor Slocombe tugged upon an earlobe. “I understand that it’s a very nice place, although I’ve never been there myself.”
“Delightful,” said Jim. “Especially the offices of the Millennium Committee.”
“Ah.” Professor Slocombe nodded. “Of course. It all falls rather neatly into place.”
“The ceiling didn’t,” said Jim, rubbing at a dent in his forehead.
“Then I assume you met Fred.”
“We did.” Omally picked dust from eyebrows. “And Fred is not a very nice man at all.”
“Fred is your worst nightmare.”
“He’s rapidly rising up the chart, yes.”
Gammon entered without knocking.
“Thanks for that,” said Jim.
On Gammon’s tray stood three pints of Large. Gammon offered them around.
“Just the job, Gammon,” said Jim, accepting his eagerly.
“Cheers,” said John, raising his glass.
Gammon placed the last pint before the Professor and stood quietly by.
Jim took a large swallow and said, “My oh my.”
“Oh my,” said John, peering into his glass. “This is splendid stuff.”
Professor Slocombe took a sip or two. “I am no connoisseur of ale,” he said, “but I believe this to be of superior quality.”
“And then some.” Jim did further swallowings. “I’m sure this is how beer is supposed to taste, not that the ale in the Swan is much less than perfect.”
“Where did you get this?” John asked. “Did you brew it yourself?”
“On the contrary. It was a gift from Normal Hartnell. He had a bit of a breakthrough this afternoon with his latest experiments and dropped a barrel round to get my opinion.”
“All hail to the scientific shopkeeper.” Jim raised his now empty glass in salute. “A whole barrel, did you say?”
Professor Slocombe smiled. “Gammon,” he said.
“Yes, sir?”
“Best roll in the barrel.”
“So go on.” John Omally topped up his glass from the barrel that now stood upon the Professor’s desk. “Tell us what you know about this Fred. The last we saw of him, he and his cohorts were being dragged in handcuffs into a police car. Fred looked far from jovial.”
“Well, I doubt whether he will remain in custody for very long. Fred has many friends in high places. And also in low places.”
“Now that would be what is known as a sinister emphasis,” said John.
“About as sinister as it is possible to get. Fred is indeed your worst nightmare. Fred is in league with the Devil.”
Pooley groaned.
“Well, what else would you have expected?”
“Not a lot, I suppose. So what do you propose to do about him?”
“Me? Nothing.”
“Don’t look at us.”
“No, no.” Professor Slocombe sipped further ale and nodded approvingly at his glass. “I have not been idle since last I saw you. I have made several calls to certain prominent persons of impeccable character, authorities in their particular fields. A meeting will convene here tomorrow at ten, for the authentication of the scrolls. Carefully chosen representatives of the media have also been invited. Once the scrolls are confirmed as authentic, the world’s press will be informed. Fred may squirm and plot as much as he likes after that, but he will not be able to stop the celebrations and ceremonies taking place on the final day of this year. Now it is absolutely necessary that no word of this meeting leak out. This is all strictly Above Top Secret.”
“You can trust us,” said Jim, raising two fingers, boy scout fashion.
“Of that I have no doubt at all. But I hope you will pardon me if I ask you not to leave this house tonight. Please stay here, wine and dine, finish the barrel of Large, taste brandy, smoke cigars. But do not take one footstep out of the door until everything is tied up tomorrow at ten. How does all that sound to you?”
“Sounds pretty good to me,” said Jim. “Much obliged.”
“Yes, thank you very much.” John raised his glass. “But then look at it this way, Professor. After all we’ve been through today, what else could possibly happen?”
20
KNOCK, KNOCK, KNOCK, came a knock, knock, knocking at the Professor’s door.
Well, no, actually it didn’t.
I mean, don’t you just hate all that “What else could possibly happen?” stuff. It’s like those dreadful TV sitcoms, where the lead character says, “No way! There’s absolutely no way I’m going to do that!” and the scene fades out and then fades in again to reveal that he is doing just that. And then the canned laughter machine goes into overdrive. Oh, ha ha ha, very funny indeed!
So there wasn’t any KNOCK KNOCK KNOCKing and nothing horrendous whatsoever befell Jim and John for the balance of the night.
All right, so it could be argued that it would have been a lot more fun if something had. But these chaps are only human, you know. And they’d had a very rough day. How much more could they take?
At a little after ten of the morning clock, nearly fifty people stood, sat or generally lounged about in Professor Slocombe’s study. Gammon moved amongst them, dispensing drinks and those Ferrero Rocher wrapped-up chocolate things that are dead posh.
There were Professors a-plenty here. Professors of linguistics, Professors of theology, Professors of history, Professors of this thing, that thing and the other. Learned men were these, who held seats. Seats of this thing, that thing and the other. Media men were much in evidence, Scoop Molloy holding court amongst them. And the Mayor of Brentford had been invited too. He was accompanied by several members of his gang, dubious Latino types with names such as Emilio and Pedro, who favoured sleeveless denim jackets, brightly coloured headbands and impressive tattooing.
And most of the town council were there, and Celia Penn was there, and a lady in a straw hat who had been passing by was there. She was there with her friend called Doris, who had also been passing by. They were chatting with a couple of cabinet ministers, one of whom used to play the blues with John Coltrane. And of course Pooley and Omally were there, and so too was Norman Hartnell.
Fred was not there and neither were Derek and Clive.
Professor Slocombe called the meeting to order, made a brief speech regarding the history of the scrolls and the Days of God, and then invited each Professor in turn to view the documents and make their informed pronouncements regarding authenticity.
One after another these scholarly fellows leaned low over the Brentford Scrolls, cocked their heads from one side to the other, smacked their lips and tickled their noses. Then they withdrew into a little cabal in the corner, whispered amongst themselves, turned as one and gave Professor Slocombe the old thumbs-up.
“Gammon, the champagne,” said the Professor.
By two of the afternoon ticker, the champagne bottles were shells of glass and all the dead posh chocolates eaten, farewells had been belched out, hands had been shaken. Professor Slocombe sat down at his desk. John and Jim stood with their hands in their pockets and quite foolish looks on their faces.