By process of elimination, Mrs Miggins knows that the time
has come for her to face the
interrogation of Inspector Spectre. She wonders, briefly, if it would
easier if she confesses to the killing of Father Christmas herself. She could
be a Christmas Day martyr to the cause. Maybe, in years to come, someone would
erect a statue to her in the grounds of Much Malarkey Manor. Something
tasteful, yet striking. Something along the lines of Brittania – the fine
figure of Mrs Miggins, draped in flowing bathrobe with a deerstalker on her head,
a toasting fork in one wing, dustbin lid in the other, flanked by an armadillo.
Yes, she can see it now – a magnificent tribute to her heroic sacrifice!
But no – she is an honest hen and is not in need of public
recognition. If she has done something wrong she will always admit it and
apologise. This murder most horrid is nothing to do with her. Yet she has been
giving it considerable thought, and the more she thinks about it, it wasn’t
really the fault of Lady Malarkey either. Okay, yes she did throw the gnome but
for what cause? For the defence of the Manor against sinister intruder, that’s
what. Her Ladyship was defending her home and the safety of all those therein.
It really was that simple. Unfortunate, but simple. A bit like Tango Pete.
Inspector Spectre, sensing the end of his investigations,
turns to Mrs Miggins.
‘Would you be kind enough to explain your relationship to
this man?’ he says, presenting the photograph to her.
Mrs Miggins studies the photograph.
‘None whatsoever’ she says, dismissively. ‘And if anyone
dares say otherwise, it’s lies, all damned lies. Yes, we met briefly at the
motorway services in Sandbach, and he tried to chat me up in the Costa Coffee
with promise of a cappuccino and raisin flapjack but I said, ‘No Boris, no.
You’ve got too much of a history and I have my reputation to think about. You
might be a hit with the laydeez, mate, but I have taste, morals and, also - I
don’t like coffee!’ And I walked away with my head held high. I think I heard
him let out a sob of despair as I left. Last I heard he’d hooked up with a bird
called Carrie…’
Inspector Spectre snatches back the photograph.
‘I can forgive your having a photo of John Barrowman upon
your person,’ says Mrs Miggins. ‘I mean, who doesn’t love a bit of Barrowman,
as long as he keeps his todger in his pants. But Boris Johnson? Bit weird, even
for you.’
‘Can we get back to my question?’ says Inspector Spectre,
shoving the photo back in his pocket and thrusting the Father Christmas one at
Mrs Miggins. ‘This man – what is your relationship to THIS man?’
Mrs Miggins shrugs.
‘He used to deliver presents at Christmas when I was a chick
until I realised I was a bit too old for all that. Around 43 years too old, if
I remember rightly. Saw him a few times in his grotto at the shopping centre,
too. And in a pantomime. He threw sweets into the audience. Concussed a small
boy with a Twix.’
‘Did you believe in him?’ says Inspector.
‘Yes,’ says Mrs Miggins. ‘If I can see it, I believe it. Generally.
Sometimes I see things I don’t approve of, or like, but it doesn’t mean they
don’t exist. I’m quite the realist.’
Inspector Spectre Is feeling uncomfortable. Mrs Miggins is
unflappable. She isn’t going to be an easy nut to crack.
‘Did he ever leave you disappointed with the presents he
left behind on Christmas Eve?’ says Inspector Spectre.
‘No,’ says Mrs Miggins. ‘I am a hen of simple tastes, and I
am grateful for whatever I am given.’
‘Did he ever frighten you?’ says Inspector Spectre.
‘No,’ says Mrs Miggins.
‘Was he ever rude to you? Did you ever doubt the magic of
his being?’ says an increasingly desperate-sounding Inspector Spectre.
‘No, and no,’ says the ever honest Mrs Miggins.
In a last attempt to break his final victim, I mean, suspect,
Inspector Spectre employs his pointy finger once more.
‘I put it to you, Mrs Laetitia Miggins, that you threw a
garden gnome at Father Christmas and killed him!’
And suddenly, the dining room swings open with a loud and
decisive BANG!
‘No-one murdered me!’ booms a voice of deep and resonant
tones, not dissimilar to Brian Blessed. ‘Father Christmas is alive!!!’
(I know! It surprised The Author, too. She is now feeling
the urge to go and watch ‘Flash Gordon.’)
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