With three murder suspects now on his list, Inspector
Spectre is wondering if he might be up for a promotion. He rather fancies being
a Chief Inspector Spectre, or a Superintendent Spectre, which would be more
appropriate because he is being rather super at all this. Wouldn’t quite fit
with the pun on the word ‘spectre’ though. Perhaps he could be Superintendent
Super? And then he remembers that he is, in fact, Kenneth the Phantomime, and
instead feels a bit smug that no one has yet seen through his cunning disguise.
The hens are in a huddle around one end of the dining table.
‘Just look at him,’ says Mrs Miggins. ‘Smug idiot. Thinking
he’s pulled one over on us with his thinly veiled Inspector disguise.’
‘Yes,’ says Mrs Pumphrey. ‘We don’t have to put up with his
silly Phantomime ways, do we? This is all a farce. A debacle. A hoo-ha. In
fact,’ she continues, rising to her feet and puffing out her magnificent
bosoms, ‘I’m going to call him out on this. I’m going to send him packing so we
can get on with enjoying our Christmas….’
And before the others can stop her, she pushes back her
chair and marches across the room to where Inspector Spectre is still caught up
in happy reveries of his cunning.
‘Look here, you,’ says Mrs Pumphrey, prodding Inspector
Spectre in the chest. ‘We all know you’re not a real police officer. We all
know you are Kenneth the Phantomime and…’
‘Madam!’ says Inspector Spectre. ‘Kindly unhand my person.
Can I assume from your passive aggressive approach to this investigation that
you have something to hide? Crucial evidence, maybe, that will put you directly
in the spotlight for the murder of Mr F. Christmas??’
‘Don’t be ridiculous!’ says Mrs Pumphrey. ‘I had nothing to
do with his demise. I am sorry for it, of course I am, but it was nothing to do
with me. I don’t even know who he is, save for the stories and myths that
abound at this time of year.’
Inspector Spectre pulls the photo once more from his cloak.
‘Are you telling me, Mrs Gloria In Excelsis Deo Pumphrey, that you have NEVER
met this man before IN YOUR LIFE?’
He thrusts the photo into Mrs Pumphrey’s face and narrows
his eyes in a detectorial kind of way to judge her reaction.
‘Oh him?’ says Mrs Pumphrey. ‘Of course I’ve met HIM. Who
hasn’t met John Barrowman?’
Inspector Spectre is once again forced into a blush of
embarrassment, having pulled out the wrong photograph again and at the same
time revealing his secret man crush to all in the room.
‘No, not him,’ he mutters, fumbling around and swapping
photos. ‘Him!’
And he shows a second photo to Mrs Pumphrey.
‘No,’ she says. ‘I can safely say I have never met, in
actual person, the man in that photograph.’ And she folds her wings across her
bosoms and sets her eyes with a glint of steely determination.
Inspector Spectre takes to slowly pacing the room again,
mostly to give himself time to compose his thoughts. He turns to face Mrs
Pumphrey, avoiding his natural inclination to swivel around in a wild and
extravagant way, even though he likes the way it makes his cloak spread out.
‘I’d like you to think again more carefully,’ he says. ‘I’d
like you to think back to the mid-1980s, in fact, to the time you ran the
‘Festive Frivolities and Fancies For All Your Cheery Christmas Celebrations’ agency.
‘Blimey,’ says Mrs Miggins. ‘There’s a blast from the past.
I remember you starting up that business. All that glitter and sequins. All
that fake snow and tinsel…’
‘It was a very lucrative business for the loadsamoney New
Romatic era,’ says Mrs Pumphrey.
‘It was indeed,’ says Inspector Spectre. ‘In fact, I would
even suggest that you turned into a bit of a capitalist during that time?’
‘And what’s wrong with that?’ says Mrs Pumphrey. ‘I earned money, yes, but I also used a lot of that money for good.’
‘Including the purchase of a Mrs Thatcher wig,’ says Mrs
Poo. ‘I remember that. Could block out a whole chandelier’s worth of light it
was so enormous.’
‘I’ve still got it,’ says Mrs Pumphrey. ‘Happy times…’
‘It wasn’t happy times for this chap,’ says Inspector
Spectre, drawing attention back to the matter in hand. ‘Don’t you remember that
he came to you for an interview for your Christmas Grotto back in ’88?’
‘Lots of people came for an interview for the Christmas Grotto in ’88,’ says Mrs Pumphrey. ‘I couldn’t give them ALL a job,
could I?’
‘Possibly not,’ concedes Inspector Spectre. ‘But times were
hard for all the Father Christmases that year. Lots of Father Christmases were
relying on that work to feed their families and keep a roof over their heads.
And yet YOU…’ and out came the accusatory finger again, ‘…YOU sent him away
without a bean, when he came to you for honest work to help him get through the
winter. YOU couldn’t even give that one job to one Father Christmas.’
Mrs Pumphrey’s beak begins to quiver. ‘But I didn’t know,’
she says. ‘I didn’t know things were that difficult for Father Christmases. If
I had known I’d have helped, of course I would…’
‘No, Mrs Pumphrey. For that year you decided to revamp the tradition of
the grotto, and instead of employing a Father Christmas, you employed a Hoteiosho
instead!’ says Inspector Spectre. ‘Who was sponsored by Kentucky Fried Chicken,
for heaven’s sake!’
‘A who?’ says Mrs Slocombe.
‘Hoteiosho,’ says Mrs Miggins. ‘He’s a Japanese god of good
fortune. I think she made a mistake with the sponsorship though.’
‘He’s Buddhist!’ wails Mrs Pumphrey. ‘I thought it would be
more inclusive!’
Inspector Spectre draws himself up to his full five feet and
four inches tall.
‘Mrs Pumphrey, I charge you with the murder of Father
Christmas in 1988. Strike 4!’
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