The Improbable Crimes of Mr Lavender!

Who printed the Codex Assinorum of Scrotus? And when? And why? These are the questions which plague Professor Donald McQueen of Timor Mortis College, Noxford. But his concentration is broken by tales of the cruel and mysterious Mr Lavender, and by visions of murderous Scotsmen, elderly lady detectives, Darth Vader and a radio-controlled cat, to say nothing of Cherrytop the Sarcastic Horse (who does not appear in this chapter).

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The Adventures of Donald McQueen, Bibliographer

Chapter 8: The improbable crimes of Mr Lavender!

Announcer: The adventures of Donald McQueen, bibliographer … Chapter 8: The improbable crimes of Mr Lavender!

DM: I am Professor Donald McQueen of Timor Mortis College, and Unrewley House, Noxford. I am a bibliographer, and these are my adventures. At the end of the last chapter I had fallen asleep in my room at the Duodecimo Club in Pall Mall – the leading, indeed the only, gentlemen’s club reserved for bibliographers – after a fine luncheon of turkey morocco. I slept on into the afternoon and woke to the sound of the Strickland Gibson clock ringing the hour of six. It was time for dinner. I repaired again to the club’s dining room and perused the menu, in which a new range of delicious, and wittily named, bibliographically-themed food was arrayed. I will not weary the reader by recounting the details … After some thought I ordered the cold collation, with crisp leaves and a covering of diced calf, and a bottle of the house red, maroquin rouge (which naturally, like the Turkey Morocco, contained hints of cannabis). For the sweet course I decided upon Strawberry Hill Press, a mound of strawberries which had been compressed into a parfait. As an accompaniment I naturally demanded a bottle of Schickle’s tomato ketchup – no other ketchup looks like it, or tastes like it – and it is the ideal accompaniment to any dish, savoury or, extraordinarily, sweet.

Apart from the unfortunate encounter with Telemachus Wee that morning, and the still more unfortunate death of Michael Ribwright during the night, I had to admit that I was enjoying my sojourn at the Duodecimo Club. Existence here was a pleasant sequence of sleep in a four-poster bed, fine food and wine, and bibliographical musings, punctuated with visits to the extraordinary world of the Ear-Trumpet of Death. I was making a little progress in my research too, collating my notes on the extant copies and fragments of the first printed edition of the Codex Assinorum and attempting to analyse the patterns of survival of the many different substrates on which it had been printed, by some as yet not-fully-explained means. You will know already, or should do if you have been paying attention to my adventures, that the edition was printed on seven different paper stocks all apparently made in different eras. These are distinguished, of course, by their watermarks – not by the kind or style of watermark, but by specific marks which can be assigned to particular paper-moulds. These are usually held to consist of the images of a badger rampant, a teapot crossed with a hot-cross-bun, Saint Martin ignoring a sarcastic sparrow, a six-legged pig, two whistling radishes, Pythagoras yawning at sight of a tedious geometrical figure (probably an equilateral triangle), and a scutcheon bearing the Coca Cola logo, which few realize is of such antiquity. I had long suspected that two of these had been mis-identified by Pinkelman when he made his pioneering study of the Codex and came up with the much derided stencil-theory. I suspected the two whistling radishes were actually turnips, which would place their manufacture in northern Italy rather than in Switzerland, and that the Pythagoras mark was actually in an earlier state, in which he was clearly yawning at sight of a rhombus! Sadly these revelations made little difference to the dating of these different copies of the Codex, the likely dates of which remained spread out through the 1450s, 1460s and 1470s in such a way that some extraordinary explanation for the production of the edition must be found. Could it be true that a mass of ancient papers, fabrics and stale cheese had been gathered together as late as 1480, long after the death of Crispus Rossfleisch, and his brother Jimbo, by some unknown personage, who printed the entire edition at this time, with an otherwise unknown type, as Flora Van Driver firmly believed? It seemed rather improbable. But apart from this hypothesis, Pinkelmann’s stencils, and the crazed Kleinwald’s caterpillars, there was no other theory. However, I am Donald McQueen, Bibliographer, and it is my business to solve the mystery!

As I thought these weighty thoughts my dinner-table was again occluded, not this time by the inhuman shadow of Telemachus Wee but by a rather more agreeable shade. I looked up, hoping to see Daniella Oz – I would have liked to pump her about the events of the previous night, and knew she had already been blanked by some of the more crusty and parsimonious members of the Club for her involvement in Ribright’s death, so that she might have viewed my table as a safe haven in a hostile ocean – but I had been fooled by the slight and willowy shadow, topped with a mass of unruly hair, and saw instead the well-known Australian bibliographer, Budgeridoo Welseley, one of those right-on Australians who has adopted an aboriginal name. He was not quite such a welcome sight as Daniella would have been, but I liked the chap, and found his work tolerable, so I smiled and invited him to join me at the table and have a glass of maroquin rouge.

Budgeridoo: Thank you, Queenie.

DM: The poor chap looked rather glum. I wondered if Ribright’s death had affected him … You look rather glum, Budgeridoo. I wonder why?

Budgeridoo: As you know, I have lost my best friend, my bosom companion of twenty-five years.

DM: Do you mean Ribright?

B: Who? … Ribright? … No, not him.  I mean Mr Lavender, of course.

DM: I realized then to what he was alluding. Mr Lavender had indeed been Budgeridoo’s bosom companion for many years. He was a ventriloquist’s doll, about two feet tall with a merry expression, in whose company the Australian had once travelled the world. Budgeridoo had made all Mr Lavender’s clothes himself – a new outfit for each research trip or holiday, and always with a touch of mauve somewhere in the ensemble, to match the little fellow’s name. He made jaunty hats too, and little shoes and accessories for his artificial friend. At many a bibliographical gathering Budgeridoo Wellesley and Mr Lavender would be the centre of attention, with the Australian causing the puppet to make ribald remarks to the ladies, or to poke fun at the pretentions of our noble profession. Some thought Budgeridoo odd, and his reliance on his puppet a little unhealthy, but I had seen their relationship only as one of the many mild eccentricities of the bibliographical mind. On reflection, it was, however, a little unfortunate that Budgeridoo seemed to have no other friends apart from Mr Lavender. Each year Budgeridoo had created a calendar of photographs of his friend, posed in the various exotic locations they had visited together and wearing the natty outfits which he had designed and tailored for his friend. Here was Mr Lavender in Paris, sporting a beret and stripy jersey, with the Tour d’Eiffel in the background; here he was standing beside a miniature bicycle, as if just dismounted, wearing lederhosen and a cycling helmet in the shadow of a Bavarian Schloss; here was Mr Lavender in the feathers and paint of a native American, sitting cross-legged before the great unfinished statue of Crazy Horse in South Dakota … The photographs in the calendar never depicted Budgeridoo, only his puppet friend. It was, now I came to think of it, the first time I had ever seen Budgeridoo Wellesley without Mr Lavender … What has become of your … friend?

B: We have fallen out!  At any rate, he has fallen out with me!

DM: Really?  How could that happen?

B: You may well ask. He said I was … smothering him. He called me boring and manipulative … and, well, lots of other things too, rude, unrepeatable things …

DM: Who is this we are talking about?

B: Mr Lavender!

DM: Mr Lavender … the puppet?

B: He said that’s what everybody thought! That he was just my puppet! But he was so much more … and he deserved better … but I couldn’t give it to him.

DM: The poor chap seemed on the verge of tears. I had to make him brace up … Brace up Budgeridoo!  There are plenty more … dummies in the sea. You will soon find another friend.

B: Not like Mr Lavender. We were planning to take this trip to England together, to take some photographs for our next calendar. I had his twelve little outfits all ready. But soon after we arrived … he left me …  But I have been following the little fellah, trying to see him, trying to explain … and I have taken these … If I cannot reconcile with my friend, then I will make a calendar out of these!

DM: He threw a sheaf of colour photographic prints onto the table before me.  Gingerly I looked at them.  The first showed a back-view of Lavender apparently walking away down Carnaby Street, in a very fetching mauve two-piece suit and fedora.  In the second he was much closer to the camera, and had turned and was giving Budgeridoo the finger.  The expression upon his face was not quite so merry as that I thought I remembered.  In the next photograph, Mr Lavender was in the far distance, apparently running away from the camera and glancing back over his shoulder.  In the next print it was evening, and Mr Lavender seemed unaware of the camera as he lounged upon one elbow, apparently in conversation with a pretty rag doll which had fallen from a pushchair and lay propped upon the curb.  The next shot was shocking indeed, appearing to show Mr Lavender and the doll in carnal union beneath a bush in what looked like Hyde Park. Her dress was up around her shoulders, and his pale purple trousers were around his ankles. In the next photograph he was hobbling away again, with his trousers still around his ankles and his little wooden arse shining in the twilight. He had lost his fedora too. This was followed by a further disturbing vision, which appeared to show Mr Lavender, now completely trouser-less, pushing a small child from a tricycle. And in the next photograph the bare-arsed puppet was pedalling furiously away on that tricycle, making his escape from the scene of his crime. It was clear to me that Budgeridoo had staged these scenes, just as he had staged the earlier photographs of postcardish imagery, in order to represent his psychological separation from his former companion …  Surely you and Mr Lavender have staged these scenes, Budgeridoo, but why?

B: Nothing staged about these photos, I assure you McQueen. They show events just as they happened.  I have to add a few more photos, but when I publish my calendar this year the world will see Mr Lavender as a he really is!  I will show him he cannot treat me in this heartless way! 

DM: Might it not be better, old chap, just to let him go?  Shelve your calendar plans this year.  Give up on Mr Lavender and move on, just as he has evidently moved on.

B: Never! I will never give up on … Lavender. He is everything to me! I will follow him until one of us dies … 

DM: This is not going to help your bibliographical studies, Budgeridoo. Think of your work, your legacy, your place in the pantheon of the book …

B: All of that counts for nothing, McQueen, nothing! Oh, Lavender, what have you done to me?

DM: Bear up, bear up, Budgeridoo, and cease this embarrassing display.

B: I thought you might understand, McQueen, and help me win him back!

DM: The best advice I can give you is to have a stiff brandy and an early night!

B: Confound you, McQueen! I will not take your advice. I am going out now, this very minute, into the beating heart of the metropolis, to find my destiny.  I know exactly where the little fellow will be right now …

DM: And so-saying he leapt up and ran from the room.

B (howling): Lavender …

DM: I felt sorry for the poor fellow, who had evidently flipped his lid.  He was having a bit of trouble with his accent too. But I suppose that was due to his disturbed emotions and dwindling reason.  I finished my cold collation, turning over the last of the crisp leaves to check there was no diced calf remaining, and quitted the dining hall. I considered visiting the great Members’ Room to chat with some of my fellow masters of the book, and perhaps to engage in a round of Twister with them (although too young to be President of the Bibliographical Society, I was not yet too old to take part in a game of Twister). However, I decided instead to return to my room to rest and allow myself to be entertained by The Ear-Trumpet of Death.  Once safely ensconced in the four-poster I inserted the instrument into my ear, and allowed by mind to wander.

I must have had, somewhere at the back of my skull, the musical aspirations of my beloved older brother Starwheel. Indeed, I suspect it was all the talk of Mr Lavender which had called to mind my brother’s turn as the possessed ventriloquist’s dummy, Hugo Fitch, in a musical based upon the moving picture Dead of night. In this role he had had to sit upon the knee of a rather smaller man, and sing a song about how much he disliked having that man’s hand up the back of his jacket.  He did it rather well. This was one of a number of amateur musical productions, staged by the Noxford Operatic and Balletic Society, or NOBS, of he was a prime example, and a leading light. Sadly, his attempts to break into the professional theatre were rather less successful, and he had to satisfy himself with a series of leading roles in those amateur productions in which he could act, sing and dance like a maniac.

I remember a particular role, which stretched his talents rather, came when NOBS decided to stage the great rival to the popular musical Cats, called Dogs. It was, of course, based upon the well-known talking picture Reservoir Dogs, and Starwheel was lucky enough to be cast as Mr Blonde, a character about which both he and I knew absolutely nothing before he auditioned for the role. None of the cast could manage the American accents, so the action was switched from Los Angeles to Glasgow, which suited the violent crime of the story-line, and my brother’s natural accent, very well. Mr Blonde turned out to be a wonderful part, with many songs and dances, although the music was a little bit too modern for my taste. The character’s apotheosis was a magnificent compound of horror and pathos, involving a cut-throat razor and several buckets of blood.

Mr Blonde: I have no boss, you piece of dross!

If you say I have a boss I’ll get quite cross!

Don’t give a toss, what you might know

I will torture you, don’t go, I love it so!

I’m psychopathic – does that come across?

It pleases me to do this to a cop

My gain in pleasure, that will be your loss

What ever you may say, I will not stop

Cos I’ve heard, I’ve heard it all before

I’ve heard, I’ve heard it all before

All you can do is pray for a quick death

A quick death – which you aint gonna get

Chorus: Which you aint gonna get

Do you perchance tune in, to the wireless? 

To Ken Bruce? Who plays those retro songs?

Chorus: Who plays those retro songs?

That is my favourite show, that of Ken Bruce

Of Ken Bruce? Just listen to this song

Chorus: Just listen to this song?

Ken Bruce: Its Gerry Rafferty and Steeler’s Wheel, this bubblegum favourite from April 1974 …

Mr Blonde: And now I am going to dance like crazy, with this cut-throat razor here

And then cut off your ear …

Mr Blonde: Was that as good for you as t’was for me?

Let me whisper in your ear, I have it here!

Do you hear that? Bide here, don’t go awee

I’ll soon be back to burn you, have no fear 

Now what’s the matter, cop? Are you afraid?

I’m psychopathic, did I mentioned that?

Does petrol seem more fearful than my blade?

I’ll pour some on your head and on this mat?

Are you through begging? Watch my lighter’s flame  

A tiny fire, but scary all the same, eh?  … 

DM: I found that exhausting, and not a little disturbing.  However, Mr Blonde was not perhaps my brother’s most difficult role.  That was surely the part of Miss Marple in A musical murder at the Vicarage, which required him both to drag up and to affect the voice of an elderly Englishwoman.

Vicar: Come quickly Miss Marple, there’s been a murder at the Vicarage

Marple: While you’ll concede St Mary Meade looks tranquil and idyllic

It’s rife with crime and human slime, both base and necrophillic

There’s Flo who likes to show extensive knickerage 

And Bob who loves to rob and practice bribery

And now there’s been a murder at Vicarage

                   Thick: At the Vicarage

I am sure to find the body in the library

                   Thick: In the library

Marple: So, tell me, my good man, who are you?

Thick: I am Constable Thick of the Crapshire Police.

Marple: I see.

So who could be responsible, so who could the offender be?

I hope it’s not that charming Mr Endicott or Enderby

Or some chap with a strangely similar name

          Thick: Or some chap with a strangely similar name

There’s sure to be a housemaid or a cook with flattened vowels

Who’s hidden stolen jewellery or spoons among the towels 

But they won’t be the killer all the same

          Thick: But they won’t be the killer all the same

It’s probably that secretary, aristocrat or doctor

Or maybe it’s that actress, or the man who spurned and mocked her

Or maybe it’s the author, out of shame

          Thick: Or maybe it’s the author, out of shame

It’s a murder, it’s a murder, it’s a murder

It’s a murder, it’s a murder, it’s a murder

At the Vicarage!

DM: Starwheel excelled, I think, as an elderly lady detective. But that was not the only role in which he was required to change his voice … Oh that music has gone wrong. I think The ear trumpet of death must be faulty … Or perhaps it is making up its own music, based upon my blurring memories, for I was just about to consider my brother’s starring role as Darth Vader in the NOBS’ production of Star Wars: The Opera. This part was naturally written for a bass, so that he was required to speak and sing well below his natural register. As you will no doubt know, this space-opera is somewhat Wagnerian, and is in three parts, each of which is performed separately; his greatest moment came of course in part two, The Empire Strikes Back …

Darth: Luke I am your father … Search your feelings, you know it to be true!

Luke: Oh No! He is my father!

Chorus: Oh No! He is his father! If he searches his feelings he will find it to be true!

DM: Thoughts of musical science fiction must have taken hold in my mind for, before I knew it, I had ceased to hear extracts from the many amateur musical productions in brother’s back-catalogue, and heard again an episode of that remarkable space drama, The Venus Probe …

Hansom: This is the log of the Starship Venus, Captain Jonathan T. Hansom in command. The year is 2020 and, on a mission to probe the second planet of our solar system, the most well-quipped and advanced Starship of His Majesty’s Royal Astronavy was blown clear across the galaxy by a quantam-explosion on the planet’s red-hot surface. Travelling at a hundred times the speed of light, we managed at last to apply the hand-brake and found ourselves in deep space, with no maps to guide us and no way to return home, or even an inkling of where home now was. We had no choice but to drive on, past psychedelically-coloured planets and strange glowing nebulae, armed only with the finest crew in the Astronavy, and a battery of powerful and terrifying futuristic weapons. This is The Venus Probe.

We’re on the Venus Probe, here on the Venus Probe

This is the Venus Probe, into space

We’re on the Venus Probe, you should have seen us probe

Were on the Venus Probe, into space

We’re on the Starship Venus, by Jove you should have seen us

Our figurehead is gold and red and of the mermaid genus

The Captain’s name is Hansom, he’s worth a prince’s ransom

He let his crew use not a few rude words, but had to ban some

The bosun’s name is Lester, he is a merry jester
 Who shocked the Nurse with bawdy verse, which nonetheless impressed her

Here on the Venus Probe, we’re on the Venus Probe

This is the Venus Probe, into space

We’re on the Venus Probe, you should have seen us probe

We’re on the Venus Probe, into space

Hansom: Captain Hansom’s space-journal, astrodate 20.11 point 3. Chief Engineer Greene has been replaced with a robot by aliens who are keeping him in a cupboard in their spaceship in a crack on the back a nearby moon. After discovering that the alien ship had a cat-flap, the brave feline Doggerel, containing the consciousness of Rear Admiral Devenish, volunteered to enter it on a reconnaissance mission. But he has failed to return, and Ship’s Surgeon Hopper has suggested we complete the robot lady-cat which Greene was developing as a mate for Doggerel, and send her into the ship to seek the truth … This seemed like a jolly good idea, so I instructed Science Officer ffflff to complete the robot, named Queenie, and to meet me on the bridge.

Ha: Flflff, your report please.

Ff:  I have completed construction of Queenie – a remarkable piece of high-level robotics – and can control her every movement with this joystick. On this screen we are seeing everything that Queenie’s twin visi-cameras see, and this loudspeaker will relay what she hears. We can also speak into this microphone and Queenie will appear to utter our words. I have even fitted her with a little blazer, so that she can defend herself if necessary.

Ha: What a remarkably useful invention. If Queenie works as she should we may find many uses for her hereafter, for she can enter in almost anywhere and relay information to us here by radio waves, without risk to any human, or cat.

Flflff: Indeed. But we must remember that Greene designed Queenie as a love-object for a cat, so it would be both technically inappropriate, and unkind to Doggerel, to give her other, more dangerous, duties. If she performs well here, and if we are able to rescue Greene, I suggest we ask him to devise a military version of the robot which we can use for this sort of reconnaissance.

Ha: A splendid plan. So, where is Queenie now?

Flflff: Inside the space-lift, on its way down to the surface of the moon. That’s why we can see nothing. The lights are off. Now, it has landed. And the doors are opening … The moon has a breathable atmosphere, albeit Queenie does not need to breathe, though her flanks rise and fall in a simulacrum of breathing … Now we can see the surface of the moon, beautiful and desolate in the reddish light of the Aldebaran sun. And there is the chameleon-ship.

Ha: I still see no ships.

Ff: Look there, a very faint outline against those mountains. And there you can clearly see the back-door with its cat-flap. Now I am making Queenie skip forward, out of the lift and towards the space-ship. She does move in a remarkably cat-like way. Now we are at the door, and through the cat-flap and into the ship.

Ha: Goodness. It’s posh, isn’t it?

Ff: It certainly is. The corridor is wide and white and decorated with paintings and sculptures. There’s a golden bench, of classical form, about the size a man would need – the aliens who built this ship must have something very like human legs. Now I am making Queenie walk on slowly, looking to left and right. That statue looks very like a woman in a long robe, but that painting is clearly the portrait of an alien with multiple heads and, concomitantly, multiple hats. Here’s a junction. Let’s go left. More statues and paintings, and now a large room with more golden benches and tables, a refectory perhaps. It seems deserted. No, there is a figure at the end there, an alien. It is not a Contradicton, they are shortish and bullet-headed, but this is a taller, more elegant figure. It has seen Queenie. I have stopped her still. See, the alien approaches.

Alien voice: Hello puss puss, where did you come from?

Flflff: Captain would you care to answer? Just speak into this microphone and press the yellow button to be heard.

Ha: Meeeow.

Flflff: Bravo Captain. Excellent cat impression …  Look at that alien.  It is certainly humanoid, perhaps a little taller, with longer arms and hands. The skin looks very pale, almost white. The face is long too, but remarkably like a human face, with two eyes, albeit very widely spaced, almost on the edges of the head …

Ha: What is it wearing?

Flflff: Some sort of robes, patterned with strange symbols, and a fez … Oh, look, it is bending forward. I think it is going to stroke Queenie. Yes. Would you like me to activate the purr-button, Captain?

Ha: Affirmative.

Flflff: Now the alien is picking Queenie up and cradling her in his long arms. We are moving again now, rather faster and with a higher-vantage point. Along another corridor. Look there are other aliens here, very like the first and there, did you see, on the left, a small group of Contradictons. They looked as if they were arguing about something, which is the usual way with Contradictons. Now we have come to a crossroads and the alien has turned right. There are more aliens here, walking to and fro, and there is one sitting down on a bench with something in his lap. It has gone by very quickly, but it looked like a cat, not Doggerel who is jet back, but a little ginger cat with a fluffy tail. Now we are coming into a room. What’s this? Lots of aliens sitting at golden tables, writing something with golden pens and there, on a great red cushion on the floor, that looks like Doggerel. It is! He is fast asleep, curled up on that cushion with his paws over his nose. Now our alien is sitting down and transferring Queenie to his lap … With your permission, Captain, I will compel Queenie to jump down and approach Doggerel. There … He’s sleeping soundly. I will put out Queenie’s paw, claws retracted, and … give him a poke. Captain would you like to address Doggerel.

Ha: Meeeeeeow.

Flflff: Perhaps you should consider addressing him in English, sir. He is, after all, a Rear Admiral inside all that fur. Now Doggerel is waking … He looks confused … He looks … What would you say that look is, Captain?  By Jove, what’s he doing?

Ha: Quickly flflff, he’s going to jump Queenie! 

Flflff: It seems Greene’s invention is every bit as alluring to a Rear Admiral confined in the body of domestic cat as he intended her to be.  I am taking evasive action.  Ohhh … Doggerel is very keen … 

Ha: I want you to make Queenie run away, but in a flirtatious manner, looking back over her shoulder as she runs, and wiggling her tail provocatively, so that Doggerel will follow her.

Flflff: Rather a tall order, Captain, but I will do my best … Ah, I think it’s working.  She’s running … and flirting … and wiggling … and, yes, Doggerel is following. They are racing down the corridor, left at the crossroad  …  ooooh, he almost caught her there … Doggerel is a most amorous feline! Now left, and along to the cat-flap … and out onto the surface of the moon, and into the lift. And close the door … and bring it up.

Ha: Belay that last flflff. Close the door of the lift, but do not bring it up. Give Doggerel and Queenie a few precious minutes together … Turn off the visi-cameras, and the microphone. That’s it. Remember, Queenie was made for love, and Doggerel has not been alone with anything more alluring than a fluffy cushion for nearly a year. Let us give them their privacy … Set your chronometer for seven minutes. That should be long enough. Then bring them up, and we can question Doggerel using the Claudian probe, and learn all we may about the mighty forces that are arrayed against us, and determine the fate of Chief Engineer Greene.

Ha: What tales will Doggerel have to tell of the mysterious alien ship, and of the captive Green. Will the crew of the Starship Venus ever see its Chief Engineer again. Will Queenie survive the amorous onslaught of a passionate and intact tomcat? Join me, Captain Hanson, to find out, in next week’s astonishing episode of The Venus Probe.

DM: That, as they say, is entertainment!  Well, it passed for such in 1970s. There were those who considered The Venus Probe a little too near the knuckle in its portrayal of swinging tomcats, sexy altos, and even a bisexual cumquat in the famous episode The Planet of the Grapes, in which the grape-people of Oddbin IV rose up against the crew of the Starship Venus and were crushed into a fruity and robust rosé. Others thought The Venus Probe too radical politically, with its suggestions of harmony between the different races of the British Isles – the Englishman, Irishman, Jock, Taffy, Geordie, Cockney, Scally and even the odd immigrant, all getting along swimmingly in a dustbin in space … There were even suggestions of outrageously modern roles for women, with the aforementioned sexy altos, Nurse Lovely and her twin sister Wireless Mistress Lovely, and the ship’s cleaner, Gladys, who was wont to whack male members of the crew with the wand of her electro-mop. But, today, all these aspects of the drama seem a little quaint and reactionary.

That was enough. I wondered if I should be using the ear-trumpet to entertain myself in this way. Indeed, I wondered if I should be using it at all. I could perhaps justify an academic use of the instrument – to which I had no claim to ownership – to aid me in my research, in order to advance mankind and swell the coffers in humanity’s bank of knowledge and wisdom. But for entertainment? Such weighty questions will have to wait for the next chapter of my adventures, when I will, again, pursue the great mystery of the Codex Assinorum with every tool at my disposal, including this thing!

Announcer: That was The adventures of Donald McQueen, Bibliographer. Today’s chapter was sponsored by the Bibliographical Society of London, and by Schickle’s Pickles, purveyors of tomato ketchup to the libraries of the world. It was written and performed by Paul W. Nash with musical themes ‘borrowed’ from Gerry Rafferty, Ken Howard and Alan Blaikley, and John Williams.

Next time, in The adventures of Donald McQueen, Bibliographer …

And now over to Plumb Valley Police Headquarters for a crime appeal.

Nick Buckle: Good evening, my name is Chief Inspector Nick Buckle, and I am appealing for information about a fatal incident which occurred in Noxford in the early hours of this morning. Were you in the vicinity of Brazeknob College at around 3:00 a.m.? If you were, did you see anything suspicious or fatal-looking? And what were you up to, out and about in the city at such an hour? At approximately this time, 3:00 a.m., or thereabouts, a murder was committed. The victim was a visiting academic, an Australian by the name of Budgeridoo Wellesley, who had arrived in Noxford on the train from London Town, just a few hours earlier. It is not known what he was doing in the city, but a student at Brazeknob heard a shrill scream and looked down from her window to see, in the alleyway known as Unlikely Lane, the body of a man stretched out in the moonlight and, running away along the alley, what appeared to be a dwarf, dressed in a purple jacket, but naked from the waist down. She summoned the police, and the body was quickly identified as that of Budgeridoo. He had been stabbed through the heart with a small ivory-handled fish-knife. Since his assailant is believed to have been a dwarf … I mean a person of restricted normality … of height … a little person, challenged in the bigness department, a differently tall … I mean he was a dwarf, a bloody dwarf, alright!  Since he was … not very tall, we have been wondering how he managed this stabbing, and are working on the theory that Budgeridoo may have been kneeling down when the fatal blow was struck. Did you see an Australian kneeling before a dwarf in the small hours of this morning? Did you hear a piercing scream, or see a miniature man without any trousers, and a purple jacket, running around anywhere in the vicinity of Unlikely Lane around 3:00 a.m.? Are you such a man? Have you lost your trousers, and your reason? Have you stabbed anyone lately? Have you lost a small ivory-handled fish-knife? If so, please contact us at Plum Valley Police Headquarters here in Noxford and confess. We are waiting to hear from you. Our streets must be kept safe for all, for Noxfordians and Australians alike … Help us catch this evil dwarf and now I am talking to you, Mr Evil Dwarf, and begging you to give yourself up, hand yourself in, turn yourself over to the law. You will be treated fairly by me and my three strapping Constables. Thank you.