The Daily Dormouse. (aka Bike, est. 2007) Part 2516 by Angharad Copyright© 2014 Angharad

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“Whit did ye hae tae eat?”

“A tuna jacket, why?”

“A’ that connoisseur food an’ ye hae a jacket spud, are ye stupid?”

“It was what I like to eat.”

“Crivvens,”

“Don’t believe her, Tom, she had turkey goulash.” Betrayed by my own sister in law.

“That’s right, turkey’s goolies, a bit like sheep’s eyeballs but British.”

“Ye scunner,” he said frowning.

“It was okay, don’t think I’d rave about it, David could do something equally good if not better.”

“Ye’re trying tae confuse me.”

“No I’m not. I had a very nice clear chicken soup, then the goolies, and poached pears in red wine as my just desserts.”

“It disnae soond tae avant-garde are ye sure ye went tae thae richt yacht club?”

“There were no prices on the menu.”

“Aye, it wis thae richt ain, a’richt.”

“You seem disappointed.”

“Aye, jest a wee bit.”

“It was very nice but not special, if you get my meaning.”

“Aye,” he shrugged and went off to his den to read my paper and drink his coffee.”

“D’you want a goulash some time?” asked David, who I’d forgotten was in the kitchen.

“That would be nice sometime.”

“Yeah, haven’t done one for ages.”

“What are you doing for Christmas?” I asked him.

“Presumably cooking your dinner.”

“As you make a better job of it than I do, I’m relieved to hear that.”

“How many are you expecting?”

“I have no idea, I think Pippa will be doing her own thing, quite what Henry and Monica are doing, I have no idea.”

“Okay, I’ll start organising the food.”

“Thank you, what’s for dinner?”

Chilli con carne for the rest, a tuna jacket for you.”

“Thanks, David, you’re a star.”

“Yeah, a falling one.”

“I was born under a falling star...” I began to sing in an off key monotone which had Kiki barking then howling. I quickly slipped into my study and shut the door. Once there, I rang Jim.

“Anything?”

“Absolutely nothing, he’s cleaner than a virgin’s knickers.”

“Not a vicar’s knickers, then?”

“If you’re into men of the cloth who wear long dresses and pristine panties, fine by me, darlin’.”

“I can think of several reasons why I might not be into any of that pristine panties or no.”

“Never mind, oh did you know that men are turned on by high heeled shoes.”

“Duh.”

“Don’t blame me, it’s one of these stupid articles they have in the Guardian, or on their website; though apparently the pc male feminist who wrote the thing doesn’t find them attractive—there’s a surprise.”

“I rarely get to see the newspaper, Daddy disappears with it as soon as it arrives, although I pay for it.”

“Don’t think you missed much although the quick crossword looks more like a cryptic one by the day.”

“So are you turned on by them?”

“What, crosswords? I don’t think so.”

“No, high heels.”

“Having experienced the pain they create, not really.”

“That sounds interesting.”

“No, it was a school play of Charlie’s Aunt, guess who played the aunt.”

“Complete with high heels—I’d love to see the pictures of that.”

“Unlike Charlotte Macbeth, no pictures exist, I systematically destroyed them all.”

“Charlotte Macbeth? Who’s she?”

“Okay, Miss Charlotte Watts, playing Lady Macbeth.”

“Oh—those photos.”

“But you can show yours, you just explain they got your name wrong, but not your sex. Mine were so revolting, I used to place then by the fridge and any mice looking for a late night snack would kill themselves in order to avoid gazing at the photos of the gorgon.”

“Talking of gorgons, I actually thought one of them was called Zola.”

“Zola the gorgon, no—rings no bells for me.”

“Try it the other way round.”

“Gorgon the Zola? No—oh, Cathy, that is so cheesy.”

“Well, you try and be original with two dozen kids waiting for their breakfast or lunch or a breast feed at silly o’clock at night.”

“I’ll take your word for it.”

“So how are we going to dig the dirt on our little friend?”

“Well, your ladyship, absence of evidence doesn’t mean evidence of absence.”

“If that makes sense to you, you’re stranger than I thought.”

“I know what I meant.”

“Oh good, so that’s all right then.”

“I shall just get a longer handled spade and dig a little deeper.”

“Presumably you’ve done his financial stuff?”

“Oh yez, first thing I check after convictions.”

“Surely if he’s working in an environment where we have children and sub adults...”

“So that’s the staff, what about the students?”

“Get back to your excavations and find something.”

“What are you going to do if I find anything? Not the locked room with a revolver?”

“Not likely, knowing him he’d shoot his accuser and attempt to destroy the evidence...”

“Or the absence...” he chuckled.

“Go and do some work, what d’you think you are, a university student?”

“Okay, okay, I’m going.”

Who could I ask about Dominic Gasgoine—only Daddy, except he’d be appalled if he realised I was trying to bring him down. He’d probably tell me that they’d just appoint someone cloned from the same pile of poo as he was. He might well be right. Was I wasting my time?

I decided to clear out an old drawer in my workshop which I’d lined with newspaper. It included a story—well you have to read old papers don’t you, history in action and so forth—the story was of some gynaecologist who had a special watch made which was like something out of James Bond, in that it incorporated a hidden camera. He obviously took photos of women in states of undress—but somehow came unstuck. I couldn’t see how they caught him an oil stain obscured that bit, but what a perv?

I daydreamed that if we got something like that on him, what I’d do with it. I really had no choice, it would be to go to the police. I wonder if he was friend of Jimmy Savile’s? Unlikely. I suspect he’s more of a creep than a perv. He’s more likely to sell university places to illegal immigrants than mess with kiddiewinks. He replaced Godrick wossisname, who died out in India—if you recall his wife nearly did for Tom before she was arrested with that huge gemstone. Then she died a few days later and Tom had a go at me for not telling him she had died.

I wouldn’t forget that episode in a hurry, when Tom actually asked me to leave because I accused her of having a hidden agenda. She could fool a man with tales of sleeping with this celebrity or that, but not another woman. I suppose I could have been a bit more subtle in calling her a cheat and a liar, but I was spot on. When I saw into Tom’s memory of when he’d fallen in love with her when they were much younger, I was appalled by her bare-faced effrontery in giving Tom the heave ho because Godrick would be able to give her the lifestyle she wanted more than Tom, who she saw as a struggling academic.

The phone rang, it was Jim. “I don’t know if this is relevant or not...”

“Well c’mon spit it out.”

“He’s been married twice.”

“Yeah, so?”

“His first wife is now...”

“The Countess Stanebury.”

“How did you know?”

“I’ve seen a photo somewhere of the two of them together only I didn’t twig who it was.”

“Pretty good guess.”

“Yeah, but how do I speak to her?”

“Personally, I’d use my mouth and ears, you might operate differently...”