Friday evening
There was enough loneliness, disillusion, and alcoholism in Synne to sustain two pubs, both on the main road—The Seven Wise Virgins at the western end of the Square’s hypotenuse, and The Bear Without A Head, close to the Swithins’ house. The tourist trade divided itself evenly between them, according to whether needing a drink was the initial reaction to arriving in Synne or the final desperate act before departing.
Like many traditional pubs—indeed, like England itself—The Bear Without a Head was divided by class. A frosted-glass screen separated the comfortable “saloon bar” at the front from the chilly “public bar” at the rear, with its own entrance and more spartan furnishings for soiled farm laborers and self-deluding Tory candidates. So when the landlord of the Virgins tried to gain a slight edge by installing a karaoke machine, the Bear’s tight-fisted counterpart had fitted his little-used “public” with some secondhand track lighting from a car boot sale in Edgbaston, and announced that from now on, Friday nights were stand-up comedy nights.
“I’ve always thought I’d be good at stand-up,” said Geoffrey. Mallard’s inquisition was taking place in the saloon, but the PA system was broadcasting that night’s performance at a low level to the entire pub.
“You?” exclaimed Susie. “You can’t tell jokes.”
“Oh yeah? Well, stop me if you’ve heard this one…”
“Stop!” said Oliver.
“But you don’t know what it was going to be,” Geoffrey complained.
“Be quick, then.”
“Right, well, the Pope, the Dalai Lama, and—”
“Stop!” said Susie.
“Oh, you’ve heard it?”
“No, I just want you to stop. I’m being cruel to be unkind.”
Geoffrey grabbed the beermat that Oliver had been idly flipping and catching in one hand, and began to scribble some notes on the back. Mallard smiled faintly, checking the change from the second round of drinks, which Oliver had just fetched from the bar. His afternoon anger had faded now that he knew Oliver hadn’t been seriously hurt. But the midnight assault was no fiction, and he needed to find out more. And he had no idea what to do about Effie. True, she had been insubordinate. But he also trusted her nose for wrongdoing, and surely the previous night’s bloodshed had confirmed that something was indeed rotten in the state of Synne. During the first round of drinks, he’d made the quartet report on their activities over the last two days—the two days, he reminded himself, since he’d forbidden any further inquiries into Breedlove’s death.
“Right,” he said. “I’ve got twenty minutes before I have to get back to Stratford. So let’s suppose that Oliver was attacked by one of Breedlove’s victims, because he or she…”
“He,” muttered Oliver.
“…didn’t want to be found out, even though Breedlove is dead. Who could it have been?” Mallard took a gulp of lemonade and referred to his notebook. “First up, Tweedledum and Tweedledee.”
“We know it wasn’t Sidney who attacked me,” said Oliver.
“Might have been Lesbia,” said Geoffrey.
“There is no Lesbia! And I didn’t hit a woman.”
“Sidney and Lesbia, big question mark,” Mallard dictated to himself, stabbing the final dot into his notebook with a flourish. “Now, what about number two, the vicar’s Jack and Jill group, a vile phrase.”
“Even the open-minded Mr. Edwards would be hard put to rationalize the beating of a parishioner,” said Oliver. “Besides, I already knew his secret.”
“How about one of the other members of his club?” suggested Susie.
“Edwards swore they didn’t know about the blackmail.”
“Has anybody seen Edwards today?” Mallard asked. “Does he look as if he’s been in a fistfight? For that matter, is there anyone in the village sporting cuts and bruises, apart from Oliver?”
There was no response.
“Then on to Mary, Mary, Quite Contrary—Eric Mormal, number three.”
“I think of him as number two,” grumbled Effie, breaking a long silence. “What a piece of work. As far as I’m concerned, you can lock him up right now and throw away the key.”
“So you think he’s the attacker?” asked Susie.
“The what?”
“Eric wasn’t the attacker,” said Oliver. “There were no marks on his face. At least not before I punched him this afternoon.”
“Oliver,” said Geoffrey, reaching for another beermat, “you keep making the questionable assumption that you’re capable of hitting somebody hard enough to leave a mark.”
“Ollie drew blood,” said Effie loyally.
“So can a mosquito. Ha! Improv.”
Oliver ignored him. “However, I spotted something when Eric drove off this afternoon,” he told them. “He works for a co-op farm. That’s spelled with a hyphen, or it’ll be read as ‘coop,’ a place where you keep chickens. Of course, you might find coops on a co-op farm.”
“Is this going anywhere?” asked Mallard, looking again at his watch.
“Sorry. But when we use the full word, ‘cooperative,’ we drop the hyphen.”
“So?” asked Susie.
“The name of the farm is painted on the side of Eric’s van: Pigsneye Cooperative Organic Farms, with ‘Cooperative’ in larger letters than the rest, because they like to flaunt their socialist credentials. The first two syllables of the word ‘Cooperative’ can be read as ‘Cooper,’ which is the word that registered with the Vampire of Synne when a van flashed past him on the night of Breedlove’s murder—a van that could easily have been on its way to or from that service road that leads up to the Shakespeare Race. At the very time the suicidal and octogenarian Breedlove was supposed to be dragging his stepladder up the steep slope of Synne Common.”
“And?”
“I suggest he was stuffed into the back of Mormal’s van for the trip instead, alive or pre-deceased. Culpepper confirmed that Breedlove’s clothes were dusty and soiled. The back of Eric’s van is dirty, because of the farm produce he carries.”
“Ingenious,” said Geoffrey.
“Thank you, Geoff.”
“And totally wrong.”
“What?”
“Breedlove died a week ago tonight, right?”
“Yes, May the first, Friday night.”
“Then even if it was Eric Mormal’s van that your vampire saw, Mormal wasn’t driving it. He was driving Davina Bennet at the time.”
“I think you’d better explain,” said Mallard.
Geoffrey gathered the beermats he’d been annotating and tapped them on the table, as if straightening a pack of playing cards. “Last Friday, I came home from work and decided to check on Doctor-Peeper-dot-com,” he reported. He’d been forced to admit to his online activities during the earlier part of the conversation. “Eric started broadcasting live with Davina at about eight o’clock, and they went on for well over three hours. And before anyone starts judging me,” he added swiftly, “may I remind you that was the time when all of you, minus Susie, plus Phoebe, were prancing around the Shakespeare Race in the buff.”
“You’re sure it was Davina?” asked Oliver.
“I didn’t know her name then, but it was definitely the one you said was Davina. She’s the only sister with dark hair.”
“How do you know it was live, not a recording?”
“Their television was in the shot when they started. I’d been watching the same program.”
“And this went on for nearly three hours?”
Geoffrey nodded. “It was quite a marathon session, even for Doctor Peeper. They did it three times. After each bout, Davina seemed to get cross about something, and they both got dressed and left the room. But then he persuaded her to come back, and they undressed and started all over again.”
“He’s so leisure,” snorted Effie.
“Hang on, we’re missing something,” said Susie, turning to Geoffrey with astonishment. “You stayed in all evening and watched the same two people boink three times in a row? Have you no life whatsoever, young Angelwine? Why not just sit in a lawn chair and shout at traffic?”
“I will not be disparaged by a woman whose best skill at university was to disguise herself as an unmade bed,” Geoffrey retorted. “Honestly, there was nothing she wouldn’t show you for a half of shandy and a Nuttall’s Minto.”
“Virgin,” Susie muttered, with a suppressed grin.
“Slapper,” Geoffrey shot back.
“Let’s move on,” Mallard cut in wearily. “Okay, victim number four, Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star. Mr. Snopp, the Vampire of Synne. Had he the motive and the cue for passion? He’s already fessed up to Effie about his true condition, believing that she was on official police business. Which she wasn’t. Why would he then choose to send Oliver a message about keeping away?”
Effie, the only member of the group to have met Snopp, shrugged without speaking.
Mallard dropped his notebook onto the table. “Well, Ollie, I have to congratulate you. You did it. These are the players. But now you don’t think any of them had either the opportunity or the guts—or both—to beat you up. Is there anything to be gained from identifying that fifth victim?”
“I don’t think we need worry about that now,” said Oliver. “The letter was never delivered.”
Effie stared at him, but he didn’t meet her eye. “Didn’t you say your Dr. McCaw wanted you to identity all five?” she asked.
“That was when we didn’t know who the other four were. Now that we do, we can leave number five in peace. Because no matter who attacked me, one of those four must have murdered Breedlove.”
“If being blackmailed was the motive,” said Geoffrey.
“If he was murdered,” said Mallard.
“We’re not certain about Sidney and Lesbia,” Susie said. “If they’re never seen together, it may not be because they’re the same person. They may just hate the sight of each other. Like Geoffrey and me.”
“There aren’t too many other candidates for the Tweedles,” Oliver sighed. “Breedlove started to blackmail them four years ago, which rules out a lot of potential sins.” He gulped some beer. “Potential sinners, too. The way people move in and out of this village, it’s hard to find residents who go back that far. After only ten years, my parents are almost the village elders. I was just saying that to Mr. Tooth.”
“Who?” asked Susie.
“Mr. Tooth. Old acquaintance of mine. You remember, Eff, we met him in Plumley last Christmas. Nice old chap.”
Effie shook her head.
“Mr. Tooth’s the man I’ve seen around the village in the last couple of days,” Oliver continued. “He was waiting to get a drink at the bar. Hope you don’t mind, Uncle Tim, but I treated him to a slimline tonic out of your twenty. Apparently, he’s trying to locate residents who are committed to staying in the village, but everyone seems to be either just arriving or planning to move on. It’s the one way Synne is like Manhattan. Well, that and the skyscrapers.”
“Skyscrapers?” Geoffrey asked.
“A surreal joke, Geoff,” Oliver explained. “The point being that Synne is completely unlike Manhattan in the vertical architecture department. There isn’t even a steeple on the church.” He took another sip from his glass.
“I don’t get it,” Geoffrey admitted.
“Ah, Geoff,” sighed Susie, “I always feel that there’s less to you than meets the eye. You have hidden shallows.”
“Well, I still insist that you leave Breedlove’s death to the capable Culpepper,” said Mallard. “But Oliver’s attack is another matter, and this Snopp chap seems the most likely suspect to me.” He looked over his notes. “Snopp can’t decide if he’s a vampire or a cancer survivor or a leper, he lives in a dark, gloomy mansion disguised as a monk… There’s something a little too Stephen King about this lazar-like existence.” He glanced at his watch again. “Effie, you’re going to pay another visit to Mr. Snopp, unannounced, and this time I’m coming with you.”
It was the first time for several minutes that he had addressed her directly.
“I thought I was supposed to be off duty,” she said, looking up. Mallard’s face was expressionless, his eyes unblinking behind the spectacles.
“That didn’t stop you interviewing Snopp the first time,” he said quietly. “Or using a regional crime lab for unofficial business. But if you suddenly want to go by the book, Sergeant Strongitharm, your leave is suspended as of tomorrow morning, nine o’clock sharp, until we’re finished with Mr. Snopp.”
“You think I need supervision, Superintendent Mallard?”
They held each other’s gaze, but Mallard was satisfied that he saw apprehension as well as defiance in Effie’s cold eyes. “I think you need company,” he said. “And I need to satisfy my curiosity. Clear?”
She swallowed. “Clear. Sir.”
Mallard drained his glass and got to his feet, already regretting the flare of displeasure that had forced him to publicly remind his adored Effie of the gulf between their ages, ranks, and experience.
“Meanwhile, Oliver,” he continued, glaring at his nephew, “you can stay safe by cutting out the midnight voyeurism. It cannot come to good. Synne already has two peeping Toms. They don’t need the competition. Work on that trivial book instead.”
“Ooh, I thought of one earlier,” Susie interrupted. “Eskimos have thirty-seven words for snow. Everybody seems to want to tell you that.”
“Good night, ladies, good night, boys,” Mallard said with a brusque nod and headed for the pub door. A second or two after they’d seen his figure stride past the front window, Effie’s mobile phone rang.
“Have you heard the one about the—?” Geoffrey began, as Effie listened to her caller.
“Yes,” said Oliver.
“Understood,” Effie said with a small smile.
“That’s not fair! I didn’t get the chance to tell you what it was.”
“Okay, what is it?”
“It’s the one about the duck who goes into the library.”
“Heard it. Anyway, it’s not a duck, it’s a chicken. Susie’s right, you can’t tell jokes.”
“Then I’m going to the toilet,” Geoffrey muttered.
“Careful, that’s how Elvis Presley died,” Susie shouted after him. She chuckled. “Hey, is that another example of your MindSpam, Ollie?” she asked, reaching for her drink.
“Yes, and for once, it’s true. A lot of people died on the toilet. Elvis. George II. Lenny Bruce. Catherine the Great, it is thought.”
“Oh, but I’d heard…”
“No. On the toilet.”
Susie seemed disappointed. “Have you figured out why people remember these things?” she asked.
Oliver settled back in his chair. “I think the goal is to know as little as possible about as much as possible. And that extrapolates to knowing one fact about every conceivable topic. Russian history? Catherine the Great’s demise. The Inuit peoples of the Arctic regions? Lots of words for snow. Marine biology? The shark has to keep moving forward or it will die. Egyptology? Ancient Egyptian mummifiers would use a metal pick to pull the deceased’s brains out through his nostrils.”
“Ew!”
“Ew, maybe. But everyone wants to tell you about it. A lot of MindSpam seems to be about death, and not just deaths on the toilet. Everyone remembers—and wants to tell you—that Mama Cass choked on a ham sandwich. That Sweden has the highest suicide rate. That Walt Disney’s head is cryogenically preserved somewhere in California. None of this is true, incidentally.”
“Truth seems to be an irrelevance.”
“Thus runs the world away.”
“Geoffrey’s taking a while,” Effie commented, tuning in late to the conversation. She had been thinking about the phone call and Mallard’s crisp instruction to make sure no harm came to Oliver.
There was a wail of feedback from the performance room in the rear of the pub and a smattering of applause. Like many rock singers, the landlord never believed that a microphone could pick up his voice unless it was pressed against his uvula, so they could hear his fuzzy introduction from where they were sitting.
“Now we have a new lad here to entertain us, so give him a chance, ladies and gentlemen, give him a chance. He says his name is Geoffrey Angelhair, like the pasta I suppose, if you like that foreign muck.”
He stopped. “Wine?” the voice resumed. “You say you want some wine? Don’t blame you, mate, we’ve a tough crowd in tonight.” A longer pause, then, “Okay, I’m sorry, people, he now says his name is Angelwine. Wish he’d make his mind up. Hey, let’s see if you whine after hearing him, eh? Ha, ha, he’s not the only one with the jokes this evening. Once again, give it up for Jerry Angelwine.”
Oliver, Effie, and Susie jumped up from the table, but by the time they’d squeezed through the partition into the rear bar, all the chairs had been taken, and Geoffrey was into his routine.
“…said the frog,” he was concluding, and beamed around the room, meeting total silence, apart from the odd, embarrassed titter. His smile faded, and he felt in several of his jacket pockets until he brought out his deck of beermats, which he looked through swiftly.
“Ah, I see. It should have been a chicken, not a duck. My fault.” He shuffled the beermats again. “Ah, here’s the Superman joke, you’ll like this one. My boss told me it. There’s this rooftop bar in Manhattan, which is apparently just like Synne only with skyscrapers.” He paused, noticing the stillness. “I told Oliver that wasn’t funny,” he mumbled. “Okay, there are these two men…”
“Oliver,” whispered Susie, “can’t you get him off the stage? He’s going to be totally humiliated. That’s my job.”
Oliver shrugged helplessly as Geoffrey blundered on.
“So the second guy jumps over the parapet too, falls hundreds of feet and splat!”
He slapped his hands together for the sound effect, forgetting he was holding his beermat collection. Many made it to the side wall before they stopped rolling. The audience began to laugh.
“Never mind. Where were we? Anyway, that’s when the barman turns to the first guy and says, only I can’t do the accent, ‘You know, when you get drunk, Superman, you can be a real arsehole.’ ‘Asshole,’ I mean.” He paused, pleased that the joke was getting a better reception than the first. A thought seemed to strike him.
“That would probably have been funnier if I hadn’t already told you it was about Superman.” He bent over and picked up the nearest beermat. “‘Rocket to the sun’?” he read. “Ah yes, I remember. There were these…” He stopped suddenly, motionless, his mouth poised to issue the first syllable of the next word.
“Oh no,” said Oliver.
“What now?” asked Susie.
“Geoffrey’s just remembered that this joke requires an ethnic group notoriously less intelligent than your own. Several years of corporate sensitivity training have just kicked in, and he doesn’t know what to do.”
But Geoffrey had seen his friends at the rear of the room, and a glimmer of inspiration seemed to strike him. “I have this friend called Oliver,” he began again. “And he’s really stupid.”
“He’s on his own,” said Oliver.
“How stupid is he?” an audience member chanted. Geoffrey was still a little slow to react.
“Erm, well, I was just going to tell you how stupid he is. He told me the other day he was going to build a rocket to go to the moon. I mean the sun. The sun. So I said, isn’t that dangerous? Aren’t you worried you’re going to, you know, burn up? Because the sun is hot, you understand, and in reality you couldn’t possibly…Right. Well. But Oliver said, ‘No, it’ll be okay, because I’m going to travel by night.’” Before the audience could react, he rapidly corrected himself. “By day,” I mean.”
He relaxed, enjoying the polite, largely uncomprehending laughter. Then a look of consternation came to his avian features, and he shot back to the microphone. “No, I was right the first time, it was by night.”
The flashes of merriment continued, partly genuine as some members of the audience decoded the humor buried beneath the stumbles, partly sadistic at Geoffrey’s expense, and partly knowing, from some avant-garde types who thought they were witnessing ironic performance art.
“That was quite amusing, actually,” said Susie.
“Amusing?” snapped Oliver. “There aren’t too many Olivers in this village—they’ll know he means me.”
She prodded him in the back. “Oh, lighten up, Swithin. It’s just a bit of fun.”
“And then there’s my friend, Susie,” Geoffrey picked up. “What a slapper!”
“We’re leaving,” said Susie instantly. She grabbed Effie’s hand and began to push her way out of the bar. Oliver followed, hearing Geoffrey’s voice all the way.
“Eyes you could drown in and a nose you could ski off. She told me just now that the Eskimos have thirty-seven words for snow. Which is odd, because Susie doesn’t have even one word for ‘no’! The closest she gets to it is ‘Wait till the choir’s gone past the end of the pew.…’”