“Perhaps, but something bizarre is happening,” I state.
Walnut points to the Angel-Eater. “Blimey! She’s still alive!” The Angel-Eater is beating its wings against the glass.
The Professor strokes the glass. “She’s excitable today. It would be for the best if you both left us in peace now.” And he points a finger at the door.
I take my pistol out and point it at his head. “You’re coming in for questioning.”
The Professor pounds his fists on his desk. The walls move, ripple like water.
ZAP!
We are transported in a flash of blue light to the Highwayman pub.
The locals are staring at us, their eyeballs on stalks. I put my pistol down. “Walnut, what just happened?”
“I don’t know, sir, but I could murder a pint.”
After a few moments recovering from the shock, we eat meat pies and mash and wash it down with plenty of ale.
“So we’re dealing with a sorcerer?” Walnut sighs.
“It looks that way. I should have known we’d get something peculiar. He is one of Loveheart’s neighbours.”
“Well, we’ve met some odd balls before, sir.”
That night I dream I am in the Grubweed kitchen with Boo Boo, and she has a knife in her little hands. On the table is a cake, yellow and pink sponge, and she is slicing it and blood is oozing out and dripping on the floor.
“Angel food cake,” she giggles, and I open my eyes.
When I wake up two things occur. A telegram arrives back from Detective Waxford:
PERCIVAL
COME BACK INTO LONDON AND MEET, 38 BIZWIT STREET, NR BAKER STREET.
HENRY WAXFORD
Walnut taps me on the shoulder. “Mr Grubweed has not returned home. He’s officially missing.”
Sunday Sermon
I hold my sister’s hand as Mrs Treacle escorts us to church, Guardian the dog following. The church is about half full. I recognize Mrs Charm and the landlord’s son and his parents. Mrs Treacle points out Mr Pinhole, the apothecary, a weedy looking man near the back row, and Mr and Mrs Tufflehump who own the bakery. The air is cool inside the church and little blue flowers have been placed round the pews. Mr Wormhole ascends the pulpit, flaming eyed, and a respectful silence ensues.
He shakes his head wearily. “Murder!” he cries, arms raised. “Bloody murder! The devil is here in our village. He walks amongst us! Perhaps he hops amongst us; he may even LIMP!”
A voice behind me mumbles, “He’s been on the rum again.”
Revered Wormhole holds a stiff finger aloft. “FEAR NOT, THE LORD WILL STOMP A MIGHTY FOOT ON THE VILLAIN. SQUASH HIM INTO THE GROUND, MAKE HIM A SPLAT!”
The congregation gasp, and I can hear Mrs Charm comment to Mrs Tufflehump, “He’s definitely improved.”
Mr Wormhole continues, “Pray to the Lord to reveal this monster. Show his face to us oh Lord! Help the policemen from London arrest, charge and execute! Oh merciful God, make sure this evil creature is flogged repeatedly in the hell fires. Save us from further decapitation!”
Much nodding of agreement from the heads of the congregation. I turn my head and I can see Mr Loveheart, dressed in lemon curd yellow, standing by the door. He waggles a finger for me to come over to him. Red hearts are all over his waistcoat. I slip away unnoticed while Wormhole begins protestations about being roasted to death by devils with forked tongues and large cooking implements.
Mr Loveheart and I walk out into the graveyard and the dazzling sunshine.
“I thought I had better warn you,” says Loveheart.
“Of what?”
“I think your uncle is dead and I believe the Professor has some sinister plan for your sister.”
“What can I do?” I say.
“You’re too little, Pedrock. Fear not! I have managed to acquire a bomb and I am thinking of blowing him up,” laughs Mr Loveheart.
I really don’t know how to respond to that remark.
Detective White and Detective Waxford compare notes
I find Bizwit Street after some initial confusion. I had travelled down to London immediately after receiving Waxford’s telegram and have left Constable Walnut to take statements from the villagers to see if he can acquire any further information. I knock on number 38 and Henry Waxford, hobbling, opens the door.
“Come in, Percival.” His voice is like roasting wood on a fire, spitting and cracking.
We sit in a very comfy study surrounded by his book collection and he hands me a glass of whisky and props his foot up on a cushion and stares at me.
“So, how is the case developing?”
“Professor’s physician found decapitated in Mr Grubweed’s house and now Mr Grubweed is missing; they both worked for the Professor. The murder weapon, an axe, was found in the hands of a six year-old cousin, Boo Boo, who claims a man called Mr Angelcakes is visiting her at night.”