The Daily Dormouse. (aka Bike) Part 1441 by Angharad Copyright © 2011 Angharad All Rights Reserved.

Stephanie eventually stopped crying and I invited her round–she was on leave apparently. She’d have to cry on my shoulder while I did the ironing–I suppose it would mean I wouldn’t have put water in the iron if she wept all over the laundry. See, Sagittarians are optimists, though quite why she’s coming to see me is confusing–it’s to do with the pregnancy–I’ve never been pregnant, gee whizz. Oh well, I suppose I can make her cups of tea and boil lots of water–no–that’s what they do in all the films when someone’s having a baby–dunno what for–I mean, have you ever tried boiled baby–sounds revolting.

By the time she’d got her act together and got to us, I was making lunch–I’d pretty well finished the ironing–being pressed for time–you’re supposed to laugh or groan, don’t care which–I did it quickly, meaning I didn’t do anything which was necessary, like knickers and things. I had one friend who used to iron her bras–I know, well mine usually have that anti-slip stuff on the straps and things and probably wouldn’t like being ironed–let alone the mess you’d get if it melted on the bloody iron–doesn’t bear thinking about.

“Stephanie’s here, Cathy,” called Jenny and she preceded her into the kitchen with an armful of bedding.

“Hi Steph, that’s not more washing is it?”

“Yes, Livvie spilt squash all over her quilt.”

“I only just finished the last lot,” I grumbled.

“That’s it, I’m getting an abortion.” Stephanie turned and walked back towards the front door. I had to run after her then rush back because the croutons I was making were beginning to char rather than brown. She followed me back then smelling the food, she rushed off to the cloakroom. It wasn’t turning out to be a good day–anything but.

Stephanie sat in the sitting room–what else would you do there? Good job we don’t have a drawing room–none of us are any good at art–I’m joking of course, we’re all brilliant, I draw the curtains twice a day. Back to real life–I fed the children and other adults present except Stephanie with soup, bread and croutons. I had some which I gobbled down and Stephanie had some toast and tea. I spent an hour listening to her worries and concerns over the pregnancy and birth, and worse raising a child.

“I thought you were an expert on child behaviour?”

“Other people’s, yes I am.”

“Well won’t yours be similar if not the same?”

“God, I hope not–I deal with psychotic children whose major problem is their neurotic parents, usually but not exclusively mother.”

“That’s put me in my place,” I observed.

“No–it wasn’t you I was meaning–of all the parents I meet, you must be one of the sanest.”

“God help the others then.”

She laughed at me, “You’ve been such a good friend to me, Cathy.”

“I’d have thought it was the other way round–you sort out my kids and I feed you–seems a bargain from my point of view.”

“No, I don’t have many friends, you’re always ready to listen without judgement or even without offering advice. You should train as a therapist.”

“I did, I have my licence.”

“You do, when?”

“Oh for a few years now–the only stipulation is that my clients must all be dormice.”

“You silly fool,” she laughed and her whole countenance brightened up.

“I’d have thought you’d have loads of friends,” I offered.

“Nah, once they discover I’m a psychiatrist they either want free therapy or run away. No you’re about the only woman I can call my friend.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“It’s meant as one.”

“More tea?”

“Please, my tummy feels better now.”

I rose to put the kettle on and the doorbell went, “Someone smelling the teapot, I expect,” I said walking towards the door.

“Good afternoon, I am Chief Inspector Ranjit Singh of Scotland Yard, this is Detective sergeant Brice.” My stomach flipped. “I’m looking for Lady Cameron.”

“I am she, do you have identification?”

He looked aghast but fished into his breast pocket to show me his warrant card as did his sergeant. It looked alright, but then I’ve hardly examined one before so they could be forgeries.

“Did you phone this morning?”

“Why should I do that?”

“I don’t know, but someone using your name called wanting to speak with my husband, or so he said.”

“And did he?”

“Did he what?”

“Speak with your husband?”

“I have no idea, but if he did it would surprise me.”

“Why is that?”

“Because we rumbled him.” He asked how and I explained about calling the local plod and then his lot. “They’ve never heard of you at the Met HQ.”

“That does not surprise me, dear lady.”

“Don’t tell me, last bastion of imperialism?”

“On the contrary, I find everyone very helpful, perhaps you’re confusing us with the House of Commons or the Foreign and Colonial Office?”

I stood and gold-fished.

“May we come in?” he asked and I let him and his sidekick through the door and into the dining room. “A very lovely house.”

“Thank you, there should be about two million children charging about the place creating mayhem–excuse me a moment.” I went in search of assorted brats and found them all–well the mobile ones–sitting with Stephanie who was reading to them. I returned to the dining room and offered our intrepid detectives–I presume they’re intrepid–detectives are suppose to be, aren’t they?

So before any further ado, I made teas for all who seemed to want them, left Stephanie babysitting the whole litter, including Puddin’–her with the expanding vocabulary–and the bigger ones, even Danny–and went to chat with the coppers in the dining room.

I gave the Indian Inspector the number his imposter had offered me and he had his sergeant check it out. They came up with the same result as Jim, only slower. I then asked him why he had come to see me.

“Have you spoken with your husband today?” he replied.

“At breakfast, why?”

“No one has seen him since he left for work–he didn’t arrive there, neither did the safe which was recovered from the bank in Hackney–hence my involvement and not your local force.”

“You’ve checked with his HQ on the Strand?”

“We even spoke personally to Lord Henry Cameron–it seems your husband has disappeared, and we think the coincidence of the safe also disappearing into thin air is too much for pure serendipity.”

“We went up to the site of the rioting and the burnt out buildings–the safe had gone then, and I’m sure Simon spoke to someone to ensure it had arrived where it was supposed to.”

“You are sure of this?”

“No–it’s recollection–I was far more interested in taking photographs and then we were interrupted by some trade union rep for the bank, so we left very shortly afterwards.”

“I see. Do you remember the name of this man?”

“No–but Simon knew him so I assume he was kosher.”

“So he is Jewish?”

“No, I was using it as a slang term–you know–bona fide.”

“Ah, you know Latin?”

“Some, but I’m not implying he was an ancient Roman.”

“No–I understand perfectly.”

“So Simon has just completely vanished–presumed kidnapped?”

“We might assume so, it is possible that he has gone somewhere and forgotten to tell anyone, or been taken ill or had some other mishap, perhaps his car has broken down.”

“If it had he’d have called his office and let me know.”

“You seem to be taking this very calmly, Lady Cameron.”

“Don’t be fooled by appearances–my tummy is churning like a butter factory–it’s happened before but then I got him back.”

“You sound disappointed by his recovery?”

“No–I went and found him and got him back–you lot were worse than quicksand at a beach volleyball tournament.”

“You have a very imaginative turn of phrase.”

“Comes of working with dormice–they have huge vocabularies.”

“Do they now? I didn’t know.”

“Of course they don’t–they’re dumb-fuckers like my idiot husband, what’s he got into now?”