27. THE DENTURES

THE CASE OF THE DIAMOND DENTURES 27

What the Curmudgeon trio had forgotten in their wild adventure on the River Thames was that the Tower of London, besides being a jail with its own en suite torture chamber and associated nasties, provided living accommodation for royalty in days when royalty were so much more important than they are today. Why, they even expected a mattress on their beds, which was a luxury denied to the population at large.

And it was to that living accommodation that the trio mindlessly wandered when it might have been much more interesting to see the array of implements designed to make enemies of the state tell their secrets as they bled, even if those secrets had to be made up on the spur of the moment as was often the case. But they made their way to the boudoir of kings rather than the torture chamber of inquisitors.

The Tower is probably fully secure with brutish officers at almost every corner, but for some reason on this particular day there were none in evidence. But then it is perfectly possible for several groups of visitors wandering through a complex maze on a sunny day to never pass each other even though they might sometimes get to be quite close and even detect the aroma from each others armpits. Thus our brave trio of investigators found their way, step by step, to the medieval palace where once upon a time royal heads were laid in sleep to dream peaceful dreams of gemstones and bloody victories.

Blinky, his vision working for once, led the way into what even he called a boudoir. It was medieval to its very core and the single thing that passed through all three minds was just how uncomfortable the bed probably was. But it wasn’t the bed that made them gasp, but the figure lying lazily on it, his fluorescent boxer shorts still dazzling to the eye.

“Igor!” gasped Angelina.

“I was waiting for you,” he said, his whiskers beginning to grow again and his hair, where it had ruffled against a hard pillow, showing signs of the lack of control it had when they had met him by his cave. It was only days ago, but it seemed an age had passed since then.

“What made you think we’d come in here?” asked Angelina.

“Well, I know how much you appreciate a bed with your man,” he grinned. “Remember?”

“And my sister? Where is she?” demanded Angelina. “I never know where she is, from Thailand to your cave. But then, nothing has ever surprised me about her!”

“She’s keeping my cave nice and warm,” grinned Igor, “and with a bit of luck preparing me a nice dish of crispy chips to go with the bottle of bubbly I plan to take back with me when this business is over.”

“One thing I’d like to know,” put in Royston, “is what exactly is this business? We’ve been chasing that damned set of dentures through mud and other, much viler, stuff, been accused of murder and depositing bodies in wheelie bins, been captured and rushed to this place only to find you taking it easy on your bed!”

“It’s not my bed,” protested Igor, “and didn’t I tell you? It’s my own invention and it has, trapped within it, a huge amount of storage space for all minds of data including a full colour and stereo-sounded video (it’s got nothing to do with videos as we know them, but what the heck? I can’t be bothered to invent another word for it), as I was saying, a video of a cabinet meeting at which the Prime Minister...”

“That’s enough!” snapped a voice from the doorway as the Prime Minister himself clumsily barged in with two muscle men behind him. “We mustn’t let our little secrets out, must we?” he added, “and we must remember where we are and, er, what joys there might be in the deepest cellars for miscreants...”

“Little is the appropriate word for secrets,” said Igor. “Prime Minister,” he said in the sort of voice they’d never heard him use before because it was bordering on being crisp, authoritative and filled with control, “you and I know what a stupid, foolish hour is trapped in the crystalline structure of just one of the diamonds in that set of dentures.”

“That’s enough!” snapped the Prime Minister, dribbling down the creased lapel of his grey jacket. “What secrets lurk in that gemstone have nothing to do with anyone but me, and I demand it’s return.”

“You mean, there’s nothing in the national interest inside it?” demanded Blinky, “we were led to believe that mighty secrets that might even lead to war if they leaked out might be discovered in it?”

“Nobody mentioned war, Blinky,” murmured Angelina.

He glared at her. “Maybe not, but that’s what national secrets are normally about, isn’t it?” he asked, “put a cat inside a bag on a nice sunny day and all is well, then let it out of that bag and all hell gets let loose even if it is still sunny. It always happens. And war means death. Young men on battle fields with severed limbs. Lawlessness at home with all the coppers in army uniform fighting like heroes abroad. Bombs falling on precious heads like yours...”

“So it’s best that the contents of that diamond are not let out of any bag, don’t you think?” smirked the Prime Minister. “There’s nothing international, at least nothing that’s quite international involved...”

“I’ve seen it, and it’s terrible...” put in Igor.

“So did the landlord of the Ginger Nut, and he had to die to keep the secret,” said Royston slowly, “tell me, Igor, how does the set of dentures get read? Is there a special machine?”

“I’m not saying. I’m sworn to secrecy,” stammered the prone man on the medieval royal bed. “I signed the Official Secrets Act,” he added proudly, “because, once upon a time, I was important.

“You still are!” snapped the Prime Minister.

“And I know how to read the diamond,” Igor went on to say, “and I reckon it’s about time everyone knew! The trouble with secrets is they cause too much pain to others. Even pub landlords have to be electrocuted in the bath because of them.”

“So Nobby was murdered?” gasped Blinky.

“Of course he wasn’t! But he did died due to an unforeseeable accident involving a mains cable finding its way into the bath he was so foolishly sitting in That Janie Cobweb was a useful if unwitting ally to her Majesty’s Government at its time of need!” grinned the Prime Minister, “the tart who always believed she was in control! But she wasn’t! She was only acting under orders from me!”

“Or your goons more like,” grunted Royston. “But, you know, you’ve just given me one big fat clue, how to read the data on the damned dentures...”

“I have?” said the Prime Minister, unwittingly sounding surprised.

“Of course you have!” snapped Royston, “you told me why the landlord of a nice little pub had to die. It was because he had seen the contents of that diamond. And how, pray, did he get to read the contents of a set of highly technical dentures?

Blinky looked puzzled. “Tell us,” he said after a moment.

“You’ve got all the clues,” insisted Royston, “and you do know where dentures were designed to go, don’t you?”

“In … in … in the mouth!” shouted Blinky, and he looked in his shirt pocket for the dentures.

“They’re not there,” said Angelina, “I’ve got them. They weren’t safe in your hands, sir.”

“Then do it!” demanded Blinky.

“Do what?” she asked.

“Put them in your mouth, you silly girl!” he ordered.

© Peter Rogerson, 07.02.20