Professor Slocombe smiled up at his elderly retainer. “Thank you, Gammon. Just place it upon the small table.”
“Certainly, sir.”
“And how is Mr Pooley, Gammon?”
“He is recovering, sir. I have just topped up his hot water bottles.”
“And Mr Omally?”
“Still no news, sir. I have followed up the few slim leads we have. I fear for the worst, sir.”
“I also, Gammon. Mr Omally is, I think, beyond our help now.”
“That is very sad, sir, shall I inform Mr Pooley?”
“No, Gammon, I will do so, all in good time.”
“Very good, sir.”
“Thank you, Gammon.”
“Thank you, sir.”
37
It was to be a day to remember and one to be inscribed in the very bestest copperplate lettering upon a nice clean page of the annals of Brentford. The arrival of the athletes from the globe’s four corners, the official ribbon-cut and stadium opening. Brass bands were to play, morris dancers to dance, the biggest parade in the borough’s checkered history. Streamers and spangles, balloons and bangles, flowers and fripperies. An unparalleled extravaganza.
Minions of the town council, all hearts of oak and double time, had been at work half the night, festooning the lamp posts with bunting and flower garlands. The Boy Scouts and Girl Guides had been rehearsing their marching for weeks. The hot-dog hucksters, souvenir programme-sellers, ice-cream vendors, Union Jack wallahs and general wide-boys were already on their pitches. The good people of Brentford had declared the day an unofficial bank holiday and were preparing to line the streets. The mayoral limousine stood polished and waiting before the town hall, upon its gleaming bonnet, the borough flag fluttering in the gentle breeze. The Brentford Olympic squad were bending their knees in the Memorial Park to the rallying cries of Father Moity, and the sun was shining bravely in a sky that was rich and blue and cloudless. This was the big one, the biggest one that ever was.
Jim Pooley sat up in bed supported by several comfy pillows, perusing the latest batch of holiday brochures which had arrived with the morning post. Gammon cleared away the few sparse remnants of Jim’s morning fry-up.
“Will sir be requiring any coffee?” he asked.
“Certainly,” said Jim, “cream and sugar.”
“Then sir knows where the kettle is and can make his own,” said the Professor’s retainer, taking up the tray. “And before sir says anything, the Professor suggests that sir gets on with weeding the west lawn.”
“But,” said Jim, “but… but…”
“The Professor says that sir is swinging the lead,” Gammon continued. “He says that he values my time at ten pounds a minute and begs to enquire whether sir will be requiring my services any further this day.”
“Come on, Gammon, old buddy,” crooned Jim, “I’m not up to any work just yet, I’m still in shock.”
Gammon took out his pocket watch and watched the second hand sweeping the face. “Will there be anything else, sir? Time is money, you know.”
“Certainly not, Gammon, you are dismissed, depart in haste now, I should not want to keep you from your work.”
“Very good, sir.” Gammon left without bothering to close the bedroom door, his undisguised chuckles echoing down the hallway.
“Weed the west lawn,” moaned Jim, “what a carve-up.” He tossed aside the holiday brochures and climbed gingerly from his cosy bed. Here he was just days away from millionairedom and he was expected to weed lawns, it seemed hardly fair. The Professor was definitely having a pop at him. No doubt because Omally had legged it. Jim sought his shirt amongst the untidy pile of clothing which lay at the bedside. It was just typical of Omally to leave him holding the baby. The Irishman would come swanning back all smiles and excuses once Jim picked up his winnings, that was for sure.
But that, Jim considered, was the lot of the millionaire. There was always some “Johnny-come-lately” out to get a share of the booty. The world was full of avarice. Sad times, everybody wanted to cop the pot of gold. This cosmic truth set the lad a-thinking. Now, the Professor was actually paying him to do the gardening, so perhaps a deal could be struck. A thousand or two out of the winnings wasn’t going to hurt the bank balance very much. He could write out an IOU and put his feet up for a couple of weeks. A bit of “tax free” for the old boy and an easy life for himself. Gammon’s services came a mite expensive, he would engage his own servant, an au pair girl perhaps, or one of those Filipino beauties one reads about, or even two.
Smiling and whistling at the same time, Jim unearthed his trousers and a jumper and slipped them on over his pyjamas. “No sense in going the whole hog,” he told himself. “If the Professor agrees, I can be back in bed in ten minutes.”
Professor Slocombe worked at his study desk. He did not look up as Jim entered the room. “Nice to see you up and about,” he said, as Jim dithered in the doorway. “You’ll be a bit hot working with your pyjamas still on, I would have thought.”
Jim chewed at his bottom lip. “I’ve been thinking,” said he.
“Good, then your time has not been altogether wasted. I trust that the conclusions reached during this period of cogitation will be put to practical use in the garden?”
“Might I have a cup of coffee?” Jim asked, spying the turkish pot bubbling at the fireside.
“But of course, Jim. Kindly pour one for me if you will.”
Pooley did so. “About this lawn weeding business,” he said as he placed the Professor’s cup upon his desk, “under the circumstances, I think we might dispense with it.”
“My feelings exactly,” said Professor Slocombe, much to Jim’s surprise and momentary relief. “Under the circumstances.”
“Oh good, that is pleasing to my ears.”
“Yes, we must place lawn weeding as one of the least of our priorities.”
“That’s the stuff,” said Jim.
“Yes, we must channel every ounce of our energy and resources into a matter of a far more pressing and urgent nature.”
“We must?” Already Jim didn’t like the sound of it.
“Sit down, Jim. You will not like what I have to tell you.”
Taking the Professor, as ever, at his word, Pooley settled into a fireside chair. “What do you see here, Jim?” Professor Slocombe rose from his desk and displayed his map of Brentford. Jim perused it with less than passing interest.
“Am I looking for anything in particular?” he asked.
“This.” The sage tapped at the outline of the Star Stadium.
“The stadium?”
“Yes, but what do you see?”
Jim was as ever puzzled. “I see a big star, what else should I see?”
“A five-pointed star.”
“Well, of course I see that.”
The Professor took up his quill and joined the five star points. “Now what do you see?”
“A thingamegig, pentathing.”
“Pentagram, Jim, an inverted pentagram.”
“Ah!” said Pooley. He didn’t know much about the occult, but anybody knew this much. “That’s not good, is it?”
“No, it is anything but. The inverted pentagram is the symbol of diabolism, the symbol of negative energy, negative force, all that is evil.”
Jim was unconvinced. “You see an inverted pentagram, Professor, the world sees an Olympic stadium.”
“I think there is a great deal more to it than that.”
“No,” said Jim, “put such dark thoughts from your mind. The thing is the proverbial work of genius. Eighth wonder of the world. Today the athletes are coming — in fact I thought I’d take a stroll down to join in the festivities myself, why don’t you come too?”
“Does nothing about this stadium strike you as mysterious, Jim?”
Pooley blew out his cheeks. “Well, of course it does, but the world is full of mysteries, what is one more or less to me? We do live in quite extraordinary times, by any account.”