“Which was?” Detective White interjects.
“Not to PRAT about on the streets in a leotard. As a proud Englishman, I won’t tolerate that nonsense. I should have taken my belt to his backside.”
Detective White coughs and raises his pint glass. “A TOAST. To HENRY WAXFORD, the finest man I have ever worked with. The bravest. Scotland Yard’s best and brightest. To Waxford!”
“WAXFORD,” we all say and sink back our drinks.
The folk singer opens his mouth.
“DON’T YOU DARE!” Rufus cries, and takes off his belt. His trousers fall down around his ankles.
And they all lived happily ever after…
Mrs Charm
I have just returned from a book signing in Edinburgh. Lovely people, wonderful shortbread. The Severed Leg, my most recent novel, has been a marvellous success. I have sent Mr Loveheart several signed copies of my books and he always sends me the most charming letters back.
My Dear Mrs Charm,
As always, you woo me with your wicked tales. ‘The Severed Leg’ is a particular favourite of mine. I was especially fond of the chapter with the jars of Saints’ toes in formaldehyde – what a beautiful touch!
Today I have decided to play a little prank on Detective Waxf?rd. I am writing this letter whilst hiding in a bush outside his cottage. He’s retired, you know – recovering from a nervous breakdown in the sleepy village of Wugglethump, in Kent. He has a cat too, called Mr Lumpy – it is very fat and it is staring at me with its beady eyes!!!!
I miss Detective Waxford.
So I am going to throw a corpse through his window. I dug one up from the graveyard.
I will let you know how it goes!
Love, your dear friend,
Mr Loveheart ?
Oh, isn’t he a sweetie? So thoughtful.
I’ve got a new batch of chutney on the stove: fig and cherry with a dash of sage. Excellent cure for flatulence. I do love it here in Tintagel and I have even acquired a handsome admirer, Mr Horace Sunbeam, a red-haired retired Professor of medieval literature. He is taking me out for tea and cake tomorrow. The Victoria sponge cake is very good at Mrs Gobble’s Tearooms. And he writes me the most beautiful poetry, wrapped up in bunches of forget-me-nots, and puts them outside my door.
I’m loved and I love, and that is all any one of us can hope for.
Pedrock
My ship the Dragonfly has brought me so much happiness. Penny and I are married now, under wobbly stars and a sea full of fish. Together we will sail across the oceans, the great flat mirrors of the world.
My love and I.
My love and I and Dragonfly.
Rufus
Loveheart gave me Zedock’s throne of skulls. It’s in my library and I’m sitting in it drinking a brandy and reading my daily horoscope in the Times Psychic Supplement,
Leo
Today is excellent for gardening and spending quality time with root vegetables, especially those of the parsnip family.
I put the paper down, write my own prediction. Pluck up my quill.
Today you will sit on a giant throne of skulls and pretend you are Ruler of the Universe!
Otto Ink-Squid
My bloody shop burnt down. I’m going to complain to the authoress. Where’s my happy ending? Fifty Ouija boards and a box full of tarot cards went up in flames.
What have I learnt from this story? Don’t try to predict the future.
I make lodgings at the Pear Tree tavern for the evening and a small, very sinister looking child arrives with a package.
“Mr Ink-Squid?”
“Yes,” I reply.
“Compensation,” and he hands me a parcel.
His eyes, I note, are black stars. I untie the package. Inside is a large silver key.
“Congratulations. You are now the owner of a large, moated castle.”
“Who was the previous owner?”
“Professor Hummingbird. I believe you have heard of him. He was a deranged mass-murdering occultist. Impaled on his wedding day.”
“Oh. Thank you very much.”
“The pleasure is all mine.”
Pandora
A man called Mr Loveheart came and took me away from the asylum. Took me away in his magic coach to the fairyland of Cornwall.
I am staying with Titania, Queen of the Fairies, who makes very nice chutney. I am knitting scarves, rainbow colours, miles long. I am inside out with happiness.
Detective White and Constable Walnut down the pub
Constable Walnut and I are in the Nag’s Head, having a few pints.
“I think I’ve gone a bit peculiar,” says Walnut.
“You’ve only just realised that?”
“It’s the beer. Bit frothy. I have quite a delicate stomach.”
“Really.”
“Yes. It’s because I have psychic ability. I’m sensitive to dark auras.”
“Speaking of dark auras, it’s your round, Walnut.”
“The barmaid frightens me. She keeps giving me the eye.”
“Off you go, no excuses.”