“I might have known it,” he growled. “Doctor Halfpint, and Urban-S***. What the f*** are you doing at my crime scene?”
“Sir Godfrey invited us,” replied Urban-Smith levelly. “He was in need of my professional assistance.”
“Ha! Bang up job, you’ve done,” snorted Gadget. “I wouldn’t hold your breath for a thank you card.” He wagged his finger at each of us in turn. “I hope you muppets haven’t disturbed any evidence.”
“We did make an examination of a dragon figurine in the living room upstairs, but other than that, we have touched nothing.”
“What’s this?” DCI Gadget stooped to inspect Sir Godfrey Pingum’s message. “Dwagon? What’s that supposed to mean?”
Although we were unable to furnish the Inspector with a satisfactory explanation, we did recap for him the events that had led us to number three, Bullbrass Place.
“So, let me get this straight,” said DCI Gadget, “Sir Godfrey, Member of Parliament, pillar of society and screaming bender contacts you two f***wits, claiming that he has information pertaining to a terrorist organisation, The Fervent Fist. He insists that you come round to his house, and you happen to arrive just as he is being stabbed to death by a female intruder who ransacks his dining room and escapes through the back door.
“In the meantime, Sir Godfrey is leaving crossword clues on the kitchen floor, rather than, for example, phoning an ambulance or trying to crawl to the front door. Then, you boot Sir Godfrey’s back door in, and decide to go traipsing through the house, searching for mythical beasts before contacting us.
“Have I missed anything?”
“No, Chief Inspector Gad-jay,” confirmed Urban-Smith. “That is the nub and gist of the whole matter in a nutshell.”
“Do you realise,” sneered the DCI, “that I could charge you with perverting the course of justice? Accomplice to murder?”
“Now steady on,” I spluttered. “We were summoned here by the deceased.”
“Can you prove that?”
“Surely it would be a simple matter to retrieve the telephone call that Sir Godfrey made?”
“Hmmm.” Gadget glowered at me. “I don’t like it. I don’t like it one bit. Do you have any idea how much of a ****storm this is going to cause? An MP stabbed to death in their own home; in Westminster.”
I said nothing.
“Abbott and Costello.”
“Yes, Sir?” chorused the two constables.
“Get these ****s out of here, seal the place up until forensics arrive, and let’s start knocking on doors. Someone must have seen something.
“And you two,” growled Gadget, eyeing Urban-Smith and I severely, “don’t leave town. I might need a couple of scapegoats, and you two fit the bill perfectly.”
*
As ever, it was with the greatest relief that we left the company of Detective Inspector Gadget. Fortunately, I was not on call, and it would fall to one of my colleagues to make a fuller examination of Sir Godfrey’s body, both in situ and at the mortuary.
“Do you not wish to undertake the autopsy yourself, Rupert?
I shrugged. “I fail to see any point of interest. Clearly, he has died from exsanguination following a penetrating injury to the abdomen or chest. The rest is just detail.”
“Detail is everything, Rupert.”
“Indeed it is,” I agreed, “but today it is somebody else’s turn to wade through it. I shall acquire a copy of the completed autopsy report when it becomes available.”
“As you wish, Rupert.” He checked his watch. “It is a little before ten. Are you due at St Clifford’s.”
“Indeed I am. I have to prepare for coroner’s court tomorrow. It’s the inquest of that chap who was beaten to death with his own prosthetic leg.”
Urban-Smith nodded sagely. “I read about it in the news. As I recall, the police were stumped.”
*
9. The Silver Dragon
Tuesday the 30th
As expected, the papers were brimming with news of the tragedy. I descended to the kitchen for breakfast and was virtually brained with the morning edition of The Scrump, which Urban-Smith was brandishing with unbridled enthusiasm.
“See the headline, Rupert,” he cried at my approach.
“A QUEER BUSINESS,” shrieked the headline.
“Handled with The Scrump’s usual tact and good taste,” I observed, accepting the newspaper before Urban-Smith had somebody’s eye out with it.
The article dominated the front page, and read as follows,
‘Police spokespersons remain tight-lipped about the circumstances surrounding the death of Sir Godfrey Pingum, Conservative MP for Upper Clefton, whose body was discovered at his home yesterday morning.
According to witnesses, Sir Godfrey had been stabbed to death in the kitchen of his 1.2 million pound Westminster house. Although the motive is believed to be robbery, speculation is rife on social media that Sir Godfrey may have been the victim of a violent domestic argument.
Sir Godfrey, who has never denied his homosexuality, and was a fierce advocate of gay marriage, allegedly entertained a string of young men at his home, which he jokingly referred to as, “The Mantrap.”
Full story on page 5.’
I turned to page five and read the rest of the article. It had not escaped notice that all three recently deceased Members of Parliament were homosexual and, as usual, I was astonished by the accuracy of The Scrump’s information.
“Their journalistic sources are indeed impressive, Rupert.”
“For Heaven’s sake, Fairfax,” I muttered in annoyance. “Have you now developed the ability to read my thoughts?”
“No, Rupert, merely your expression.” He paused to sip at his tea. “I too was impressed by the article’s uncanny level of detail.”
“How did they come to discover the sexuality of Kevin Ferno and Bernard Ashman?”
“There are ways and means, Rupert. Two politicians; they are sure to have enemies, enemies who would be happy to circulate gossip and rumours should it be to their advantage. Text messages or telephone calls might have been intercepted, or there may have been unguarded remarks from one of the investigating officers.” He reached across the table for the marmalade. “It grows harder and harder for public figures to maintain any semblance of a private life. Perhaps Sir Godfrey had the right idea in that respect; to simply lay it bare and hang the consequences.”
“Oh, look,” I exclaimed. “You have received a mention. Apparently, you were observed assisting police with their enquiries at the scene.”
“Indeed,” he agreed. “I am nothing if not helpful.”
“I’m not sure Gadget would agree with you, Fairfax.”
“In time, Rupert,” he mumbled, retrieving his newspaper. “In time.”
*
I spent the whole day at the Coroner’s court, giving my opinion on the injuries sustained by the victim while he was beaten with his prosthetic leg. The alleged perpetrator of the assault was not present, but his solicitor was, and I spent a lively half hour in the witness box, fiercely refuting his claim that the victim may have committed suicide.
“You cannot be certain, Doctor Harker,” the solicitor insisted, “that the victim did not inflict these injuries upon himself.”
“I concede that it may be possible for him to have beaten himself unconscious,” I replied, “but I am supremely confident that he would not then have insisted upon chopping himself into pieces and wrapping himself in plastic bags.”
“Madam,” said my interrogator, whirling about to address the coroner, “Doctor Harker presumes to know the victim’s state of mind at the time of their death. I move to strike him as a witness.”
The coroner lowered her spectacles and gazed over them. “Mister Jeffries,” she said softly, “if you believe that this man beat himself to death and subsequently dismembered himself, then I think we should be more concerned about your state of mind. I suggest a recess; perhaps you should go and lie down for a while
.”
*
I arrived back at number sixteen, Chuffnell Mews a little after six, expecting to be greeted by Gonzáles’ frenzied yapping and the smell of roasting meat, but was a little perturbed to be greeted by neither. I removed my shoes and overcoat with the intention of proceeding to the kitchen, but my attention was attracted by a movement from the living room, the door to which was ajar.
I pushed the door open to be greeted by a tall, slim gentleman, who was examining Urban-Smith’s latest atrocity upon its easel. I was struck both by the man’s height, but also the tightness of his blue denim trousers, which hugged his buttocks with such conviction and proximity that I wondered whether he had required a shoehorn to spoon himself into them. His height was accentuated by a pair of Cuban-heeled, brown leather boots. Despite the inclement weather, on his upper half he merely wore a white cotton teeshirt, having discarded his blue denim jacket onto the sofa. Topping off the grisly ensemble was a fluffy bouffant, sculpted with an almost surgical precision until it squatted upon his scalp like a great brown meringue.
I cleared my throat, and the man whirled about, dazzling me with a set of enormous ivory teeth that shone like beacons in the lamplight. His eyes glinted playfully, and I gasped in wonder at the bushy handlebar moustache perched upon his upper lip like a great, furry horseshoe.
His hand flew to his chest and he giggled like a child.
“Dearie me, you’ve made me all atwitter.” He peered at me keenly. “Are you Mr Urban-Smith?”
“I am not. I am his lodger.”
He winked at me cheekily. “Lodger, eh? Is that code for friends with benefits?”
“Absolutely not,” I stormed, affronted. “Not that I see it as any of your concern, but our friendship is purely platonic.”
“Glad to hear it, handsome.” He gently stroked the side of his bouffant to ensure that it had not been disturbed. “After all, three’s a crowd.” Another wink.
“Clearly, Mr Urban-Smith is not here,” I said haughtily, drawing myself up to my full height and noticing, with some annoyance, that the top of my head barely reached the man’s chin. “I suggest that you return at another time.”
“Sorry, honey, but a date’s a date, and you….” He pointed his finger at me, his polished pink nail glinting in the lamplight. “You are cramping my style.” He dismissed me with a wave of his hand, and turned away from me to further examine the painting upon its easel. “Run along, sweetie.”
“How dare you!” I fumed. “I demand that you leave, or so help me, Sir….”
I left the threat hanging in the air.
“Really, Rupert,” he tutted. “Surely there’s no need to become so hot beneath the collar.”
“Fairfax?” I gasped in disbelief, and he whirled about, simultaneously pulling the moustache from his face and the teeth from his mouth.
“The very same.” He pocketed the false moustache and mouthware, and carefully straightened his striped Eton tie, which I had failed to notice. “What say you of my disguise, Rupert?”
“It is uncanny,” I spluttered. “I should never have suspected. But what is the meaning of this deception?”
“Tonight, Rupert, I shall venture to The Silver Dragon, Soho’s premiere gentlemen’s gentlemen’s Club.”
“Gentlemen’s gentlemen’s club?” Here was a term with which I was unfamiliar.
“That is correct, Rupert, although I do believe that they also cater for ladies’ ladies. However, it is those gentlemen who may have made the acquaintance of the late Sir Godfrey that are of interest to me tonight.”
“And do you believe that this is the dwagon to which Sir Godfrey was referring?”
Urban-Smith shrugged. “I cannot say.”
I looked him up and down.
“Well, your current attire is most assured to attract attention. I daresay you shall be beating them off with both hands.”
“Let us pray,” he muttered, raising an eyebrow, “that it does not come to that.”
*
Urban-Smith changed back into his regular clothes, and had just reappeared in the living room when Mrs Denford arrived home with Gonzáles, who insisted upon charging about the house, barking loudly while Mrs Denford prepared a light supper.
Urban-Smith and I ate in front of the television in order to enjoy the daily Channel Four news, which started at seven.
The headlines commenced with a photograph of the late Sir Godfrey, smiling benignly into the camera as the newsreader intoned, “Police launch a London-wide manhunt for the killer of Sir Godfrey Pingum.”
Sir Godfrey’s picture was joined by one each of Kevin Ferno and Bernard Ashman.
“Security is tightened at the House of Commons as gay MP death toll climbs.”
The trio disappeared from the screen to be replaced by footage of a scuffle between several men, with much arm waving and pushing in evidence.
“Violence erupts at police press conference.”
“Ha,” I cried. “DCI Gadget, no doubt.”
“This should be fun,” cackled Urban-Smith, rubbing his hands gleefully.
We sat patiently as the newsreader brought the viewing public up to date with all the day’s developments until, at last, it was time for Detective Chief Inspector Gadget to entertain us.
The press conference commenced in the usual fashion, with DCI Gadget introduced to a crowd of eager journalists sat in rows upon plastic chairs in one of Paddington Green Police Station’s meeting rooms. The air was thick with camera flashes, waving hands and shouted questions. The DCI indicated an eager journalist in the front row.
“Chief Inspector Gadget…..” the journalist began.
“Not Gadget,” howled the DCI like an enraged ogre. “GAD-JAY. It’s French, you ****!”
Two of Gadget’s colleagues leapt forward and pushed down on the Chief Inspector’s shoulders to keep him in his chair until his rage abated, while the terrified reporter cowered and raised his palms in apology.
With calm restored, the usual questions followed; do you have any leads? What was the motive? And so on and so forth. DCI Gadget responded to each with the usual answers; we are pursuing all leads, investigations are ongoing, etc.
A soft voice, tinged with a Scots accent, drifted across the room.
“Detective Chief Inspector Gad-jay. In what capacity is the Met seeking the assistance of celebrated detective, author and paranormal investigator and researcher, Fairfax Urban-Smith?”
Thus was the touch-paper lit, and Urban-Smith and I cooed in unison, leaning forward eagerly in our seats to await the eruption. We were not disappointed.
DCI Gadget became very still as if under the Medusa’s gaze, yet his features did not become as stone, but rather his face became at first ghostly white, then rapidly moved through pink and scarlet to a delightful crimson. His eyes widened, his jaw clenched until his cheeks bulged, and I watched fascinated as his ghastly moustache attempted to crawl from his mouth, rising first at one end, then the other, and finally undulating like a dying louse beneath his flared nostrils; all this within the space of a few seconds until, with a great bellow, Detective Chief Inspector Dominic Gadget leapt to his feet and unleashed Hell.
First across the table was Gadget’s chair, which sailed out into the crowd of journalists in a broad, sweeping arc. Next across was the man himself, scattering gentlemen of the press left and right as he threw himself between their chairs, attempting to reach his tormentor. The DCI was followed by several of his entourage, who were undoubtedly expecting such a performance, and whilst Urban-Smith and I rolled about in our seats, crying with laughter, the meeting room of Paddington Green Police Station became a maelstrom of altercation and profanity as DCI Gadget waged battle against all-comers.
By the time Urban-Smith and I had regained our composure, the news had given way to sport, and we swiftly lost interest.
“Well, Rupert,” said my companion, wiping mirthful tears from his eyes with a handkerchief, “I must pour myself back into my disguise, and
wend my sorry way to The Silver Dragon. Or should I say Silver Dwagon?”
“Is it not a little early?” I asked.
“It will take me considerably longer to climb into those trousers than out of them, in addition to which, I must take a detour to purchase social lubricants for the evening’s endeavours.”
“Social lubricants?” I asked.
“Cocaine, amyl nitrate, ecstasy and amphetamines; the lifeblood of London’s social subclasses. Bearing these gifts, I shall insinuate myself into the very heart of London’s gayest club.” He eased himself from his chair and stretched languidly. “Have you plans for tonight, Rupert?”
“Not tonight. Nell is studying, and Clara is supplementing her income, so I am left to amuse myself.”
“Then I wish you a jolly evening, and pray that you retain your eyesight. Toodle-pip.”
*
10. Chris Peabody
Wednesday the 31st
By the time Urban-Smith staggered from his bedchambers the following morning, I had nearly completed my breakfast. The poor man looked quite haggard, haunted even, as he took his seat at the kitchen table.
“Busy evening?” I enquired.
“Indeed,” he replied, rubbing his bleary eyes distractedly. “Rarely have such demands been placed upon me in the line of duty.”
He paused briefly to thank Mrs Denford, who had interrupted to furnish him with a full English and a mug of fresh tea.
“Tell me, Fairfax,” I insisted as he buttered his toast, “did the night’s labours prove fruitful?”
“Oh, yes.” I was heartened to note that his demeanour had brightened visibly since the arrival of his breakfast. “The Silver Dragon proved to be something of a revelation. Allow me to relate the tale, although I must warn you; it is not a tale for the faint-hearted.
“After we parted yesterday evening, I returned to my rooms to prepare for the night ahead.”
*
It is a little before eight when Fairfax Urban-Smith enters his bedroom and removes his twills, shirt and tie. He exchanges his underwear for a less sturdy set, and spends several minutes forcing a skintight pair of blue denim jeans up past his knees and thighs, grunting and straining as he does so. He pulls on a tight white tee-shirt in order to accentuate the slenderness of his frame, and then completes the outfit with a denim jacket and brown boots.
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