Canards

 

The doorbell is ringing out the tune of ‘Love Shack’ by the B52s. Inside the Manor, a different sort of chaos from yesterday has taken over following the discovery that all of the ducklings have gone missing. Mrs Poo rushes to open the front door.

‘Good Morning! Happy Easter holibobs!’ says the visitor on the doorstop, for yea verily ‘tis none other than Kenneth the Phantomime himself!

‘Come in, come in,’ says Mrs Poo. ‘I don’t have time for niceties. We have a crisis on our hands,’ and she turns from the door and races back up the hallway, leaving the Phantomime to see himself in.

‘And season’s greetings to you, too,’ says Kenneth, but he follows Mrs Poo up the hallway anyway, because there is nothing a drama queen likes better than a bit of drama. Also, the urge to see if he can make it all about him is too strong to ignore.

In the Orangery, the hens and Mrs Hare are gazing at the open door and the trail of ducky footprints in the wet grass.

‘Who left the door unlocked, that’s what I want to know,’ says Mrs Miggins.

‘Well, it wasn’t me,’ says Mrs Slocombe. ‘I am very efficient on all housekeeping matters, as well you know.’

‘I don’t know why you are so upset about the ducklings being gone,’ says Mrs Pumphrey, turning on Mrs Miggins. ‘You never wanted them here in the first place. This is the answer to your so-called ‘problem’ isn’t it?’

‘Hardly,’ snaps Mrs Miggins. ‘Because SHE is still producing eggs,’ and she points an accusatory wing at Mrs Hare who is so bereft at the loss of her previous hatchlings that she can barely take comfort from the three…oops, no…four…wait a minute…five new arrivals who, having sensed something is not quite right, are now squished together for comfort in the pot holding the enormous Swiss cheese plant.

‘How dare you!’ says Mrs Poo. ‘That’s a cruel and heartless thing to say to Mrs Hare. You take it back immediately, Laetita Miggins…’

‘Or what?’ says Mrs Miggins.

Mrs Poo immediately delivers a slap to Mrs Miggins’ startled face.

Mrs Slocombe and Mrs Pumphrey gasp in shock. In all their years together, with everything they’ve been through and no matter how much they’ve annoyed each other, the hens have NEVER come to physical blows.

‘Don’t you hit Laetitia!’ says Mrs Pumphrey, stepping forward to defend her friend. ‘I’m just as bad for saying that this occurrence is the answer to her problems.’

‘And I should have checked the door,’ says Mrs Slocombe. ‘It is part of my housekeeping duties. I just didn’t want to own up that I forgot.’

Mrs Poo looks like she is going to deliver a whole basket of accusatory slaps.

‘Ladies, ladies!’ says Kenneth, deciding now would be a jolly good time to step in and take charge of whatever situation that is causing such rancour amongst a group of hens he has grown rather fond of over the years. ‘What on earth has happened to bring on this display of anger and recrimination?’

‘Mrs Hare’s ducklings have disappeared,’ says Mrs Slocombe. ‘They were here last night, all safe and sound, and now they are gone.’

The Phantomime pauses to take in the whole hare/ duckling thing, but chooses not to ask questions, what with it being Easter and, therefore, a reminder that miracles can happen. ‘How many have gone missing?’ he says.

Mrs Poo checks her Duckling Tally App. ‘Seventy-three,’ she says.

Suddenly, everyone is looking at the Phantomime like he is the answer to this problem. Normally, Kenneth enjoys being the centre of attention – he is the star, after all – but this time he feels uncomfortable with the fact that it seems they are looking at him to find a load of missing ducklings.

Come on, Kenneth, he says to himself. You can do this. This is your chance to show you are a thinker and a doer, and not just a frivolous piece of decorative fluff. He straightens his back.

‘Right,’ he says. ‘Let’s look for clues.’

He steps through the Orangery door and, with the hens and Mrs Hare close behind, follows the trail of duckling footprints down the back lawns and around the side of the Manor to the front gravel driveway.

‘Aha!’ he says, squinting at a particular patch of gravel next to a large tub of tulips. ‘Look!’ And he picks up a single, downy feather. ‘And look!’ he says again, pointing to a patch of dark grey. He picks up a piece of gravel and sniffs it. ‘Engine oil,’ he says. ‘I suggest that your ducklings haven’t merely run away. They’ve been stolen!’

The hens let out a gasp and Mrs Hare faints clean away. But not before popping out another egg (lurid pink).

Back in the Salon d’ Afternoon Tea, whilst Mrs Pumphrey tends to the fainted Mrs Hare and Misses Miggins, Poo and Slocombe slide into wails of self-recriminations for being so mean to each other, Kenneth the Phantomime is now in full Sherlock Holmes detective mode and is looking for more clues. He spots the bottle of prosecco on the dining table, put there in preparation for Saturday afternoon Easter tea-time.

‘Prosecco?’ he says. ‘I thought you girls were more gin and Baileys?’

‘Oh, that?’ says Mrs Miggins. ‘It was a gift. A new chap from the village brought it up a couple of days ago.’

‘How thoughtful,’ says the Phantomime.

‘He said he knows you,’ says Mrs Miggins. ‘He’s set up a fish and chip shop in your old antiques emporium. That’s his card on the mantlepiece.’

Kenneth picks up the card, reads it, and immediately the colour drains from his face.

‘Oh no…’ he says.

‘What?’ says Mrs Poo.

‘I think your stolen ducklings are in big trouble,’ says Kenneth. ‘I met this chap only briefly but I didn’t take to him at all. Something sinister about him. Therefore, I did some digging, because I’m nosy like that. Mr Carriot is none other than Mr Judas S. Carriot a.k.a ‘The Fridinator’ - eight times winner of the international ‘Frying Man and His Pan Championships.’ He’s famous in the global fried food community – innovative, experimental and very ruthless in his ambitions. He won his eighth championship recently with brand new recipe. Fried food aficionados can’t get enough of it. Prices are going through the roof…’

The Phantomime swallows hard.

‘Well?’ demands Mrs Miggins. ‘What’s this award-winning recipe.’

‘Fried Canards of Fresh Duckling in an Orange Whiskey Batter,’ whispers Kenneth.