7. Vomit.

The Reverend Barney Pickle needs a shower...

“Man! Look to yourself! What an unholy mess you’re in! This is no way for a clergyman to behave in the presence of a superior!” roared Bishop Pyke, “and when you’ve decided to pull yourself together and stopped dribbling I want a full account of the mess you’ve got yourself into!”

The Reverend Barney Pickle was at a loss. If he replied all the stuff surging into his mouth would have an easy exit the moment he opened it and would most likely involve splashing all over the Bishop and if he remained silent it would be looked on as something between idiocy and silent insolence.

So he took a third option and swallowed as hard as he could. His face drained of colour as he did so and he slowly, unwillingly, slumped towards the floor until he lay there in an untidy clerical heap.

“Inspector!” roared the Bishop in a voice so loud it probably made the rafters shiver, “Come here!”

Inspector Glumpy heard from his seat in the general office where constable Dedbeat’s more junior companion during the drive to and from the prison was regaling him with an account of the journey with the unfortunate clergyman cum prisoner, making a few light hearted references to the colour of the man’s face every time the car went over some sort of bump.

Then he heard the summons from his office, and he grimaced before excusing himself and standing up.

“The buffoon thinks that he’d God almighty,” he grunted, “I'd best go to see what’s amiss before he shouts the building down!”

“Yes sir,” replied the Constable with an amused glint in his eyes.

When he arrived at his office and pushed his way through the door it was to be forced to a standstill by the inert body of the Reverend Barney Pickle prostrate on the floor with an unpleasant acidic aroma rising from him.

“Inspector!” roared the Bishop, “what have you done to this man? Why is he lying on the floor and is that vomit pouring from his mouth? Has he been poisoned? This is clearly a case for police investigation!”

Detective Inspector Glumpy found himself to be in an unenviable position being supervised by the renowned hater of all things to do with mankind with the enforced exception of his own wife, the Bishop Pyke, who was still sitting in his own chair in his own office and making no attempt to help the unfortunate Pickle who was still prostrate on the floor.

“What’s gone on here, sir?” he asked, sliding sufficient deference into his voice, or so he hoped.

The Bishop snorted. “What’s been going on, man? What’s been going on? I’ll tell you what’s been gong on: the wretched man lying at your feet is as good as deceased! That’s what’s been going on, and I want to know how a healthy clergyman has so rapidly been reduced to such a wretched state as he is obviously in!”

“I’m sorry, sir,” mumbled the DI, “he was alright when he arrived back from the prison. Constable Dedbeat assured me of that. I’ll call the MO. He’ll know how to bring the pure fellow round.”

“He better had, or the Almighty will want to know why not!” grated the Bishop, still remaining seated.

Inspector Glumpy reached over the still prostrate (though beginning to show some signs of life) Reverend Pickle and picked up his phone before shouting into it for the medical officer. The reply didn’t satisfy him because there was a rota of local GPs who made themselves available as a medical officer should they be needed, and the current one was Doctor Gloria Blanding.

He had history with Doctor Blanding that he really wanted to keep away from the ears of his wife because one or two little things might be open to misinterpretation, especially one occasion that had been terminated by the superintendent who had narrowly missed noticing that his trouser zip was undone. And anyway, Gloria was a very special lady with a genuinely helpful bedside manner when she was dealing with both the sick and the healthy.

It was very fortunate that she was on the premises at that time because the usual procedure was to telephone her surgery on the rare occasions when she might be needed, but this time she had called in to examine a problem that one of the male constables had found with one knee after chasing a thief round the town park, catching him before his knee finally gave way and handcuffing him.

So she had been called to tend to the unfortunate man’s knee and was consequently available to attend to whatever was going on in the Inspector’s office. The whole idea of attending to an issue involving Inspector Glumpy actually appealed to her, so with no more ado she set off to attend to him.

But her heart sank when she noticed that it wasn’t him lying on the floor but a rather battered looking vicar. She knew who he was, of course because news of the poor man’s arrest and incarceration in Brumpton Gaol on remand had swept though Brumpton like wildfire.

She looked at him, and nodded.

“Smells like Prison porridge,” she said, “so what’s happened to reduce the vicar to such a state of floppiness?”

“I wanted to see him,” explained the Biehop “and he was brought from the gaol so that I could. And this is how he arrived. Is it murder, do you think and if so, who did it? And can I phone my wife and tell her? She loves a good murder mystery!”

“The man’s in a bad state,” said the doctor in a sympathetic voice that went straight to the Inspector’s trousers. “He seems to have eaten something that disagreed with him, and then probably was put under considerable strain. Was it something you said, Bishop?”

Doctor Blanding was one of the few people on planet Earth who could address the Bishop in such a critical way. And she was one of the few women who intimidated him, probably because her very feminine good looks were the sort that intimidated most men.

“He just fell down,” explained the Bishop, “I can’t remember what was being said, probably me asking about the bit of bother he finds himself in…”

She bent down and looked closely into Barney Pickle’s eyes, which by then had opened, proving to the three of them that he was, in fact, alive.

“He needs a good bath or shower,” decided the doctor, “and then we’ll take a closer look at him.”

“There’s a shower in the prison,” advised Inspector Glumpy.

“I wouldn’t think that would do him much good!” murmured the doctor, “Don’t you have one in this police station? After all, you do lock enough men up for overnight rest and sleep, don’t you?”

The DI nodded. “But it’s not a regular thing at this time of the day,” he grunted, it will have been cleaned out by now.”

“Then before I take a look at him he needs to be made more hygienic,” she said, ignoring him. “Come on, we’ll help him down and get him out of his filthy rags. And don’t worry, I may be a woman but I am used to men. After all, it’s my job! If you help him down the stairs I’ll come with you. Come on, then, off we go!”

“Oh no,” groaned the DI, but he did as she instructed and helped the Reverend Barney pickle slowly down the stairs and towards the cells, where there was a small showering area.

Doctor Blanding followed behind, smiling to herself because she probably guessed quite a lot of what might be going through the DI’s mind

© Peter Rogerson 03.04,24

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