It is the day of the Not Forgotten Party - some point in the
middle of December, the Lady Author has quite lost track of time at this point
in proceedings. The local fish and chip shop – ‘Your Plaice or Mine’ – has been
forewarned and has stocked up on fish, sausages, potatoes, oil, salt, vinegar,
ketchup and, bizarrely, curry sauce, which is an abomination to the joy of chips
but there’s no accounting for some people’s taste. Mrs Slocombe has been
buttering bread for butties and making the biggest jam roly-poly this side of
the Atlantic, and Mrs Pumphrey has been descaling the tea-turn.
‘What time are the guests arriving?’ says Mrs Pumphrey.
Mrs Slocombe checks the schedule provided by Mrs Miggins.
‘Five thirty,’ she says. ‘We’ve got plenty of time.’
‘And what exactly IS the Not Forgotten Party?’ says Mrs
Pumphrey.
‘Well,’ says Mrs Slocombe, pausing mid-buttering, ‘it’s a
celebration for the members of the Not Forgotten Association who support
ex-members of the British Armed Forces who have been injured or disabled and can no
longer serve.’
(N.B This is a REAL thing in Great Britain. They are a registered
charity who provide support for those who are lonely or isolated by organising
entertainment, holidays, social activities and respite care. How good is
that??)
Meanwhile, Mrs Poo has been keeping guard by the front door
of the Palace. According to her impeccable source a.k.a the Grand Duchess
Yekaterina, the kidnap gang are planning to deliver their ransom note today and
Mrs Poo wants to intercept it before the Royal Postal Delivery and Sorter
footman finds it. She has taken up position on a not very comfy chair and is
contemplating a portrait of George III.
Meanwhile, the Granarchist has just completed the writing of
the ransom note and is carefully licking the sticky bit on the envelop to make
sure it glues down properly. Unfortunately, she sustains a paper cut on her
tongue and this doesn’t put her in the best of moods.
‘Couldn’t we have got some of those envelopes that have the
peel off sticky strip on them?’ she says, crossly. ‘Save all this licking business.
It’s not very hygienic, is it?’
Nick Louse shrugs. He does a lot of shrugging. ‘It was the
best I could find,’ he says.
‘I mean, it’s bad enough I’ve had to write the
ransom note on a piece of Royal stationery,’ grumbles the Granarchist. ‘Who buys envelopes without the paper to go with them?’ And she stares hard at Nick Louse, before giving the back of the envelope a good few whallops. ‘There!’ she says. ‘One
ransom note, ready for delivery.’ She hands it to Anna Kissed. ‘Be a love and
pop that round the corner and into the front door, will you?’
Anna Kissed rolls her eyes. ‘Moi? Pourquoi? Why can’t ‘e do
it?’ she says, pointing at Nick. ‘It is very wet and windy out. My Laboutin’s
will be ruined.’
The Granarchist sighs. Managing a revolutionary uprising is
proving to be very tiresome. ‘Oh, I’ll take it,’ she says. ‘If you want a job
doing properly, do it yourself.’
The King Phantomime, still perched on the throne, has been
fiddling with an odd little lever he's found just underneath the throne’s arm, and
thinking how peculiar for it to be there and does it have a purpose? His interest is
piqued by the ransom note, though.
‘I say, old chaps,’ he says, ‘what exactly are your
demands?’
The Granarchist glances across at him. ‘I suppose you might
as well know,’ she says, ‘given you’ll be directly affected. We are demanding a
hefty cash ransom because we need funding to continue our revolutionary plans.
And we are also demanding that the members of the British Royal Family
surrender all property, land and assets, and clear off somewhere else.’
The King Phantomime nods. ‘I see,’ he says. ‘And where do
you propose we clear off to?’
‘Oh really!’ snaps the Granarchist. ‘Do I have to think of
EVERYTHING?? I really don’t care, as long as it’s somewhere out of sight and
out of mind. Now, if you’ll excuse me…your Majesty…’ and she says this with a
barely disguised sneer, ‘I have a letter to deliver. Mwahahahahahahaha!!!’
There it is again, thinks Kenneth. That sense of knowing he has met this Granarchist somewhere before. He really can’t shake the notion of familiarity. It has been bugging him a lot. He settles back on the throne and watches as the Granarchist leaves the Throne Room.
Back by the front door of the Palace, Mrs Poo is just about
to give up her vigil to go and see if Mrs Slocombe has any Christmassy treats
for elevenses, when an envelope appears through the letter box.
‘Ah ha!’ she says, leaping forward and grabbing it.
‘Oi!’ comes a voice from the other side of the door. ‘Do you
mind? That almost took my fingers off!’
There follows a selection of mild expletives and then the
scurrying of feet across gravel. Mrs Poo whips open the door, but there is no
one to be seen.
‘Was that the post?’ says Mrs Miggins, appearing behind Mrs
Poo.
‘It was,’ says Mrs Poo. ‘We appear to have a ransom note.’
She opens the envelope and she and Mrs Miggins read the
contents.
‘They don’t want much, do they?’ says Mrs Miggins.
‘Well, it’s immaterial really, isn’t it?’ says Mrs Poo.
‘This is just evidence in case we need it for the police. We shall deal with
this problem ourselves.’
‘Crocodiles?’ says Mrs Miggins.
‘I think so,’ says Mrs Poo, looking suddenly determined.
For this is the plan…
…whilst the Palace staff are occupied with the Not Forgotten
Christmas Party, Mrs Miggins and Mrs Poo, under the guidance of the Grand
Duchess, will enter, like a pair of stealthy Ninjas, the Throne Room. The Grand
Duchess will have already prepared the King Phantomime about the pulling of the
lever on the throne to open the trapdoor into the crocodile pit. Mrs Miggins
and Mrs Poo will cause a calamity that will cause the kidnappers to run after
them. They will run across the trapdoor and, on the signal of the Grand
Duchess, the King Phantomime will pull the lever on the throne, open the
trapdoor and the kidnappers will meet their crocodilian fate.
Ruthless, but simple...
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