I Finally Make My Report

What Ho Proles!

The last two days have been something of a loss to me. Last night, I went straight to bed after I’d returned home very very late and a damn well colder than when I set out. Yet, oddly, things had begun so well…

Noon yesterday saw the Honourable Jacob Peas Murgatroid deciding to follow the example he'd set himself earlier in the week by pressing the legs into action for the mile or more march into the village. I suppose a good walk is called a 'healthy choice' in the parlance of this prissy age, but I prefer to see a good ramble as an opportunity to find many desolate spots with a plentiful supply of stout sticks should you run into any of those fitness nuts who might try to get us running.

As it was, I made The Boar’s Tusk in good time and the innkeeper appeared pretty sharpish by the time the knocker had fallen for a fifth resounding time. I asked if the Professor was in and was directed to the church where she had apparently been at roost all morning.

Now, you might like to know a bit about the Church of St. Cuthbert on the Cusp before we get there, as it happens to be one of the oldest churches in the British Isles. We locals pride ourselves on having kept alive centuries of tradition by continuing to edge the bets of our forefathers by leaving a corner of the church dedicated to the pagan fertility gods. Where else could you go to see a christening and the sacrifice of oxen taking place at the very same time on different sides of a nave?

As for Saint Cuthbert, he was born somewhere in the area – peasant stock I imagine – and the legend of his encounter with the spectre of a voluptuous maiden is a popular folktale often portrayed on biscuit tins for tourists. It’s said that so seductive was the maiden that Cuthbert (doing his stint as a monk) was sorely tempted to bed her, only he was foiled in his attempts by his prayer beads which had become accidentally knotted around the horns of a wandering heifer. Try as he might, he could not deknot himself from the beast and was dragged across the county never to see the ravishing maiden again. Hence, Cuthbert is said to have been on the cusp of sinning but the fact that he kept his purity is now considered a miracle. For this reason, in the Catholic tradition, St. Cuthbert on the Cusp is the saint of all who have remained virtuous despite their best efforts otherwise. I suppose he was a medieval version of Peter Mandelson, if you see what I mean, but if you ask me, that heifer also sounds just a little too New Labour for my liking. Cattle should not be given the task of telling people how to behave. It’s a job that’s best left for us Tories.

That’s probably why I had a certain virtuous air as I entered the church. We Tories share a natural affinity with religious types on account of our possessing a wonderful ability to judge people. I know I’m never happier than when censoring a prurient prole. However, any willingness to be chirpy disappeared as soon as I heard laughter coming from a side room. The name ‘Murgatroid’ seemed to be at the centre of some jape that ended with mention of ‘generations of imbecility’.

From the tip of the toes on one foot to the tips of the toes on the other, I crept forward until I came to the heavy studded wooden door that led into the room used to store the church records. Inside, sitting at a table, were a small band of scholarly types. At their head sat the Professor, ruddy faced and looking like not unlike the proverbial feline in a vat of the semi-skimmed.

‘Room for one more to join your happy throng?’ I asked.

Professor Kipling glared at me with the acumen of a professional darts player going once around the board and ending with the bull.

‘You!’ she gasped. ‘What do you want here?’

‘Can’t a local member of the parish come and take a gander at his family history?’ I asked, stepping into the room. ‘And some of my people are boxed up down there,’ I added, with a stamp of foot on the stone floor.

‘So you’re suddenly interested in your family, are you?’

‘Oh, I’m interested in lots of things, if I’m honest,’ I replied. ‘They invented the word “nosey” for people just like me. I just can’t stop getting involved in whatever’s going on.’

‘You’ll find nothing here,’ she assured me. ‘But, of course, I know what you’re up to… You’ve come to see what we’ve discovered!’

‘We?’ I asked, looking around at the bright faces. ‘But we haven’t been introduced.’

‘My post graduates,’ she answered, shortly.

‘Oh, you’ve brought in troops,’ I said, pondering the proud faces.

‘These are some of the finest students in Oxford,’ she said.

‘What Ho scholarly types!’ I replied, cheerfully maintaining my élan towards faces that did not seem to know whether to sneer, scowl, or offer run-of-the-mill defiance. By this time, I felt that the general air of unpleasantness had gone on long enough and I turned a reconciling smile to the Professor. ‘Look here,’ I said, ‘don’t you think we’re in danger of overdoing it on the eggs and leaving the toast to cool? I mean, can’t we just have a quiet word and resolve this without any more trouble?’

‘I’m not open to bribes,’ Kipling bellowed and readjusted her woollen hat which had responded to her voice like an over eager spaniel sitting up on her head.

‘Perish the thought of bribes,’ I said, biting my cheek. ‘I meant to say we might cleanse the air with a bit of honesty. I’ve never wanted anything less than the truth.’

‘You ran from the truth the other night,’ she reminded me. ‘Then you refused to talk to me, trapped my coat in your car door, and ordered your man to drag me down the street!’

‘It was all a misunderstanding,’ I assured her. ‘A breakdown in the line of communication.’

‘And then that oaf of yours punched me.’

‘He punched you?’ I exclaimed, this fact having completely passed me by. I made a mental note to speak to My Man about it and, if it’s true, I’ll reinstate the shillings he lost after posting communist dogma on my blog the other night.

‘Listen here,’ she said, getting to her feet. ‘Listen to the truth, Mr. Murgatroid…’

‘It’s the Honourable if you don’t mind…’

That seemed to spur her on, and she rushed towards me and was soon poking me in the chest with large calibre fingers. ‘The records do not lie, Mr.Murgatroid. I’ve been on your family’s case for months and I intend to see it through.’

‘You can’t have proof,’ I sneered.

‘But I do.’

‘Nonsense.’

‘Would you like to see it?’

I could not believe she could be so naïve as allow the defence to see the prosecutions case so early. ‘Of course,’ I said, trying to so almost uninterested. The problem was, while I was trying to look calm, I should have been taking notice of the sly look that came into her eyes. She walked over to a door in the corner of the room. ‘Come on then,’ she said, and lead the way out to a set of steps, leading down into the darkness of the Church’s undercroft.

‘This way,’ she said, ‘and mind your head. Some of this stonework is a national treasure. Hate you to damage it with that thick head of yours.’

Which is, I know you’ll agree, a terrible way to talk of another national treasure: the Murgatroid brow.

At the bottom of the steps, she pulled out a large ring of keys, each the size of a badminton racquet. ‘Come on,’ she said, unlocking another heavy door. ‘Just through here.’

I stepped into a vault, which like most church vaults, lacks charm if you’re anything larger than a spider or you're into brass rubbing. Various stone tombs filled the place and my imagination was captured by the familiar sight of Murgatroids looking as though they’re lying in bed, waiting for their breakfast while they’re inspecting the racing form in the papers.

‘Funny place to find proof,’ I commented. It was then that things went pretty black, I heard the door close behind me, and a key turn in the lock.

‘Let me out of here at once you… you… you ruddy odd type!’ I screamed, though all I could hear were retreating footsteps whistling the theme to The Great Escape.

Unless you’d like to hear about how I came to appreciate and catalogue seventy three different shades of pitch bloack, there’s not much to say about the Hon. J.P. until sixteen hours later, when My Man finally located a well dressed body. By that time, the village had been roused to find me, but in the end, my rescue came down to the excellent work of Geoffrey, the Murgatroid bloodhound. Except for a bit of cold and a ravaging hunger, I was no worse for my confinement with at least three generations of Murgatroids buried in the vault beneath the church. In fact, they'd all appeared before me and had given me tips for the races. Only now in the clear light of day, can I admit that I was probably suffering from mild hypothermia and brain had cooled a little too much.

I can report, however, that the Professor and her students have left the village, though the police say there’s very little they can do to press charges. That must wait for another day.

I’m not planning anything for the weekend but the hope of some peace and quiet. Oh, 'Wally's Whallop' won the three thirty at Exeter today, just like great great great uncle Joshua said it would.