9 Mini-frocks and Testicles.

Christie’s Detective Agency Two THE BODY IN THE LIBRARY

The next day was wet.

There hadn’t been much in the way of rain for a month and most people welcomed it. The air smelled suddenly of freshness and growth rather than dust.

Horace shook himself as he walked up the stairs that led to the Detective Agency and reluctantly decided that he must revert to being Poiry again. So when he walked into the office he was somewhat surprised when Jenny, sitting at her cluttered desk, smiled and greeted him as Horace.

“How did it go last night, Horace darling, and do dry yourself off.”

“Er … Horace?” he mumbled.

“You’re wet. And you’re Horace for the time being, cherub. I’ve been filling in official forms because you work here and I don’t think it right calling you Poiry to the taxman.”

“That’s good, then,” he sighed, pulling his wet coat off, “and as for last night, what a slapper that creature is! Three quarters naked, and in a pub! At her age! Made me stay for an extra pint when she’d gone! And, you know, she was virtually chucked out by the landlord anyway, because a few men complained that it was more than her underwear they could see when she was sitting down with her legs indiscreetly apart!”

“Really? And you objected?”

“I darned well did! And never again! She said she used her wardrobe as a sort of language and the less she wore the more she wanted you. Or it. Maybe she wanted an undefined it!”

“But did she let out any trade secrets? The sort that might help us fathom out who killed the old woman in the library, and get to the answer before poor old Cyril does.”

“Even if we do. Won’t it be him who takes the credit?” asked Horace.

“Of course it will. But we’ll pick up some trade on the back of it. Word will get around, and Cyril will help it on its way, and we’ll be offered snippets that the police won’t handle. It’ll all be good in the long run. And do take your trousers off. I won’t take it as a message.”

“Er… okay. Sorry I’m wet.”

“It happens to us all. You should have seen me when I arrived. Down to my bra and panties I was, but I’ve learned to keep a spare frock in the cupboard for moments like this. So what did you find out.”

“Well, my mum was more help than the dreadful library woman, Damsel. She told me a thing or two about the librarian, Mr leslie. He’s not always been called Mr Leslie. Quite a few years ago, before my mum met my dad and I came into the world, he changed his name. Just like you change mine, but not every five minutes! She doesn’t remember what it used to be, though, or why he changed it. But it’s got to have been because of something earth-shattering, hasn’t it? I mean, people don’t change their names at the drop of a hat for next to no reason, do they? It’s a serious matter.”

“Yes it is. You know, I didn’t know that he’d done that. Cyril might have told me. Well done, Horace.”

“The Damsel woman confirmed it in her own way, when she wasn’t trying to tell me she thought he must be some kind of pervert because he didn’t fall for her when she was flashing everything in front of him.”

“She did that, did she?”

“So she said, at a Christmas do at work. She said she was wearing even less than she did last night in the pub, and that was disgusting enough.”

“Well well. What do you think, Horace?”

“I think he was probably proving himself to be a decent and honourable human being if he studiously ignored her naughty bits when they were flashed in front of him the way she does.”

“I think he still needs looking into if it’s only because he changed his name.”

“That’s my thought exactly.”

“Other than that there doesn’t seem to be much to tell. The other girl there on the day of the murder was a cleaner whose working day was over by the time Leslie locked the library at closing time. But I’ve been thinking. There was a report that a drunk noticed a body when he looked through the window and actually reported it to a policeman.”

“That was PC. Bob Grungeworthy, an old friend of mine, and he said that when he tried to see what it was the drunk had seen he could only make out the black of night. There was nothing there at all. Just shadows.”

“Do we know anything about that drunk, Jenny?” he asked. “I mean, might he have been more than just a drunk. Might he have pretended to be inebriated in order to hide the fact that he was a murderer”

Jenny shook her head. “I asked Bob, that is PC Grungeworthy, that exact question and he told me the bloke, a minor celebrity apparently, though I’ve never heard of him, was definitely out of his mind. Gorgeous Will, he likes to be called. Apparently he achieved fame by eating testicles on a telly programme, and if that’s really what he did he deserves everything he gets. Though he has had a few very minor roles in TV dramas, usually of the non-speaking variety.”

“And he reckoned he saw something while the copper didn’t?”

Jenny nodded. “It seems that if the moon’s out it shines through a side window onto the exact seat where our victim was sitting, and when there’s a cloud about it can’t.” she said, “look, Bob’s a first rate policeman on his way to drawing his pension, and if there had been any cause for him to be alarmed, then he would have been alarmed. That’s all.”

“Gorgeous Will,” mused Horace, “I wouldn’t mind seeing him, just to put my mind at rest, is he a local man?”

“Sort of. And he won’t be driving far, not with a dented car and a drink-driving charge to answer to. It might be a good idea for you to see how stupid celebrities can be, though. I’ll check on his address. They’ll know at the station and Cyril will tell me.”

“If he’s a celebrity how come I haven’t heard of him?” asked Horace.

“A very minor celebrity. You’ll find out all about him for me, then? It’s only right that we’re seen to have followed up every lead. You might like to ask him what testicles taste like. Yum yum!”

“Do people really do such daft things just to be noticed?”

“Wannabe pop stars, fading actors on their way out, they all leap at idiotic things like that in the hope that any fire that’s been left in their names will be rekindled. It’s part of human nature, I suppose.”

“Not mine! I mean testicles! Yuk!”

“Each to his own, Horace. Just give me a few minutes and I’ll get that address for you. And phone number: then you can sort of make an appointment so that it won’t be a wasted journey.”

“Okay. I’ll just pop for a coffee if it’s stopped raining. Do you want one?”

“What’s this? Trying to tempt me with the juice of the coffee bean? Should I wear a naughty little frock with my b***s hanging out for you? And yes, I’d love one, two sugars.”

He grinned at her. “Won’t be long,” he said, and started for the stairs.

© Peter Rogerson 03.10.21

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