Inspector Spectre is rather chuffed he has now identified
two suspects for the murder of Father Christmas. This gig is going way better
than he expected, even though he has yet to wangle a free drink out of it. Mrs
Poo and Mrs Slocombe are sitting at the dining-room table looking very
miserable and wondering how they can cause a distraction and make their escape.
Ptolemy Pheasant, in fact, is already edging his way doorwards. He has no idea
why he is here. He only came for the Christmas Party after all.
‘Mr Pheasant!’ says Inspector Spectre. ‘You’re not leaving
us, are you?’
‘Not at all,’ says Ptolemy, edging his way back into the
room. ‘I was just admiring the architrave around the edge of the door. In the
style of ogee, I believe, or is it torus? It’s difficult to tell sometimes…’
And he adopts the stance of an absorbed individual pondering
with fascination the intricacies of period architectural features.
‘It’s Wickes,’ says Mrs Miggins. ‘We had it redone during
the summer. Because of the woodworm.’
‘Ah,’ says Ptolemy, nodding sagely.
Inspector Spectre coughs. ‘Let’s get on, shall we Mr
Pheasant? I should like to ask you a few questions vis a vis the death of
Father Christmas.’
‘Ah well, you see that would be a bit of a waste of your
time,’ says Ptolemy, looking immediately shifty in the way only pheasants can
manage to achieve.
‘And why would that be?’ says Inspector Spectre, flipping
over to a fresh page in his notebook, having written absolutely nothing on the
previous page aside from ‘Mrs Slocombe might have done it.’
‘Well, I’m more of a Winter Solstice kind of bird,’ says
Ptolemy. ‘I’m not much of a one for believing in all this Christmas stuff. In
fact, I’m only here because of the cockle pies…’
‘And to see your beloved,’ chips in Mrs Pumphrey, batting
her eyelashes coquettishly and giving his wattles a coy tickle.
‘Of course,’ says Ptolemy, wishing that Tango Pete was
around to lighten the load of Mrs Pumphrey’s ardent and persistent attentions.
‘The Winter Solstice, eh?’ says Inspector Spectre. ‘I’ve
heard of it but I’m not wholly au fait with it. Would you care to elucidate? It
might help eliminate you from my investigations.’
(Those of you au fait with the plot of ‘An Inspector Calls’
will realise I am basing Ptolemy’s role very loosely on the character of Eric,
the flighty, drunken, immoral son of the Birlings. The Author always thought
Eric had an element of pheasant about him, what with all his comings and
goings, skittishness and wildly raucous proclamations…)
Ptolemy Pheasant assesses the situation and realises even he
can’t make a frantic run for it, and if you’ve ever seen a pheasant make a
frantic run you know that sometimes they manage it with great aplomb and
sometimes they get hit by a car. Ptolemy’s risk assessment is erring on the side
of ‘hit by a car.’ He decides to give a shot at brazening it out.
‘I’m a creature of the wild,’ he says. ‘Not like these
delightful but domesticated ladies,’ and he offers a bow to each of the
assembled hens. ‘So at this time of year, I like to celebrate the season with
the old and wild ways…’
‘…like clubbing in the ‘70s?’ says Inspector Spectre.
‘No, like in the ways of Nature,’ says Ptolemy.
‘Pity,’ says Inspector Spectre, who is rather partial to
rocking his boat and shaking his booty in his hot pants under a glitterball.
Ptolemy continues. ‘Yes, I am very much attuned to the ways
of the Nature. I live with the Seasons, work with the Moon…quite often I am at
one with the vibrations of the soil…’
‘That’ll be when he’s digging for worms,’ whispers Mrs Pumphrey.
‘So you don’t have much to do with Christmas, then?’ says
Inspector Spectre. ‘You don’t participate in the festivities of the 25th
December?’
‘Oh well, sometimes I do,’ says Ptolemy. ‘You know, to be
sociable with my friends. But I much prefer to commune with the Green Man on 21st
December, at the time of the Winter Solstice.’
(If you are interested, the Winter Solstice happens this
year at 3.58 p.m on Tuesday 21st December. After that, the hours of
daylight will be growing longer once more. My Mum will be pleased. She won’t
have to close her curtains so early.)
‘And what exactly,’ continues Inspector Spectre who has just
noticed a speck of something on his spectacles, ‘ does your Winter Solstice
celebration involve?’
‘Well,’ says Ptolemy, believing himself to be on the home
run towards freedom, ‘I pop off into the woods near to where I live…’
‘Which is where, exactly?’ says Inspector Spectre.
‘Just beyond the grounds of the Manor,’ says Ptolemy.
Inspector Spectre makes a note. ‘Carry on,’ he says.
‘…and I build myself a little fire, toast some nuts, have a
drink of hot chocolate, play my banjo and thank Nature for the bounty of the
year.’
‘Would that be a traditional coconut Bounty?’ says Inspector
Spectre, scribbling frantically in his notebook. Not important detective notes,
I’m afraid – rather a list of ‘Things To Do In 2022.’
Ptolemy frowns. ‘No,’ he says, refraining from adding the
words ‘you idiot’. ‘The fruitful bounty of Nature’s harvest that will see us
safely through the cold, harsh Winter. And I think with gratitude about the
lengthening hours of daylight and the return of the warmth of the sun, although that can
be a bit optimistic given the state of global climate change. But it’s always
worth a wish and prayer of thanks.’
Inspector Spectre looks up from his scribblings. He has just
added ‘Learn Mandarin’ and ‘Buy a Hoola-Hoop’ to his list.
‘Is this an activity you conduct on your own?’ he says,
waggling his pencil in an accusatory manner. ‘This hanging around in the
woodland undergrowth malarkey?’
Ptolemy nods. ‘Usually. Sometimes I am joined by a fellow
pheasant or two, but mostly I prefer to be on my own.’
‘And why is that, Mr Ptolemy Pheasant?’ says Inspector
Spectre. ‘Is it because there would be no witnesses to your nefarious
activities? Is it because no one would see you approaching the Manor under
cover of woodland foliage and with a stack of cockle pies as an alibi, in order
to cover up the your part in the heinous crime of murdering Father Christmas?’
‘I would have been three days too early!’ protests Ptolemy
Pheasant, his voice gearing up to full on pheasant screech mode.
‘Time doesn’t matter in this case!’ shouts Inspector
Spectre.
‘Why not?’ shouts Mrs Miggins.
‘Because I’m in charge and I say so!’ shouts Inspector
Spectre, sounding a teensy bit like Kenneth the Phantomime. ‘Therefore, Ptolemy
Pheasant, I put it to you and all here present that YOU killed Father
Christmas!’
Well! What an almighty ruckus and to-do that accusation
ignites! The Author is actually quite glad she isn’t there. Ear muffs or not.
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