BURROWINGS OF A BEADLE

5. - WOOK TO THE RESCUE!

Where were the pearls? Obviously, not in the Burrow, as Wooffie had been wearing them when he was taken through the lock, and they had vanished when Ben and I found him. Clearly they were somewhere on the lower reaches of the river, below the lock. But who had taken them?

While Poirot and Anticant debated what to do next, Farmer Wook suddenly called out to me “Saddle my trusty mare. I’ll go look for the goddarned things and bring the culprits to book. What you need here is a retired chief constable and deputy sheriff!”

I did as I was bid, and the intrepid Farmer leaped into the saddle and cantered off in the direction of the lock. In a surprisingly short time, he returned triumphantly waving aloft Dame Barbara’s pearls. “When I got to the lock”, he said, “the lock keeper’s wife hailed me and said her husband had just returned home with the pearls, which he found lying under a thorn bush a couple of miles downstream. She had no idea how they got there.”

So all’s well that ends well. But the mystery of how the pearls came to be entwined round Wooffie’s neck remained unsolved and was the subject of keen debate. Our baffled discussion was interrupted by Dame Barbara’s maid, who summoned the company to the State Chamber, where Dame Barbara reclined in the four-poster wearing a magnificent frilly tulle negligee.

In an unaccustomedly bashful tone she said: “I have a confession to make. While totally absorbed in my authorial labours, I became aware of Wooffie nestling at my feet. He looked so sweet that I clasped my rope of pearls around his neck. I regret to say that I then fell asleep. When I awoke, Wooffie had gone, and I have only just now recollected the incident. I would like to apologise to all concerned for any distress caused by my unjust suspicions. There – I feel better now! Please fetch me two large pink gins from the Snug, Ben.”

Farmer Wook said “Well, I’ll be danged.”

A crestfallen M. Poirot feigned relief that he would not have to carry out his customary masterly interrogation of all the suspects, and triumphantly reveal the culprit. He had, he said, formed some strong suspicions of some of the Snug regulars, but would perforce keep his thoughts to himself.

So ended my eventful first day at the Burrow.

BURROWINGS OF A BEADLE

4. WOOFFIE GOES MISSING

Agatha Christie Sleuths were unable to comply with Dame Barbara’s demand for the return of Miss Marple, who was engaged upon another assignment. Instead, they sent a dapper, wax-moustached spat-wearing Belgian gentleman, Monsieur Poirot, who swiftly assumed charge of the Burrow. Having ascertained that neither Ben nor myself had the absent jewels concealed about our persons, he deputed us to search the place from top to bottom with a metaphorical toothcomb, while he interrogated the inmates of the Snug.

He swiftly eliminated Wook and Zola from his suspicions, as they had arrived so recently, and proceeded to engage in intimate body searches of the others, all of whom had the capacity to conceal a rope of pearls – Lavenderblue in her lengthy and abundant auburn tresses, Merkin in his weird wig, Boldscot in his voluminous Sporran, and Trousers in the pockets of his self-supporting jeans. All yielded a blank, and M. Poirot confessed himself temporarily baffled.

At this juncture, Ms Melancholy arrived and announced that she was not only a therapist, but had clairvoyant powers. M. Poirot promptly co-opted her to his assistance, and asked her to interview Dame Barbara, who though now slightly less hysterical, was making heavy inroads upon the Burrow’s gin stock. After a short conversation Ms Melancholy emerged from the parlour saying “She doesn’t know whether it’s fish or Tuesday – nothing rational or cognitive about HER!”

Ms M was then invited by Poirot to exercise her clairvoyant powers, and went into a light trance from which she emerged muttering “brandy barrels, brandy barrels”. Ben suddenly had a flash of inspiration. “Where’s Wooffie?” he asked, and we realised that the amiable creature had not been seen for some hours. A search was then instituted and produced no sign of our shaggy friend, and as he was not in the house I set off along the towpath in one direction and Ben in the other. As I approached the lock-keeper’s cottage, I espied a pawprint in the mud and signs of a scuffle. Could Wooffie have been abducted by aquatic marauders? It seemed possible.

I hastened on to the cottage, and the lock-keeper’s wife – an observant lady – told me that a large dog with a rope of pearls around his neck had indeed passed through the lock about an hour ago in a dinghy rowed by a Yellow Duck. Summoning Ben on my mobile phone, we hastened towards the Yellow Duck Pond, only to find that it had been drained and filled in, and that the entrance to the Pirate’s Lair had been blocked off.

What to do? Just as we were thinking of returning empty-handed, we heard a plaintive bark, and espied Wooffie tied to a tree in the undergrowth. He was overjoyed to see us, and to be set free. But the pearls were missing. We trooped forlornly back to the Burrow and reported to M. Poirot, who twirled his moustaches and observed “Ah! Ze plot thickens……”

BURROWINGS OF A BEADLE

3. - A FISHY BUSINESS

Hurrying down to the landing stage, I descried a large canoe laden down with bulky packages, being steered towards me by a thickset bearded man in oilskins. As he alighted, a strong whiff of fish penetrated my nostrils. “Mr Zola, I presume”, I said. I am the new Burrow Beadle, Percival Flarge. You may call me Percy if you wish”.

“I shall do nowt o’t sort” snapped Zola. “I don’t indulge in familiarities with effing beadles. Fetch a trolley and unload this lot, my man. I have brought Anticant a fresh load of fish from Grimsby, where I landed this morning.” Although he was brusque, I detected a twinkle beneath his rough exterior, and decided not to dislike him. In fact, Zola and I became jovial sparring partners, and enjoyed teasing one another in a slily challenging fashion.

“Ah, there you are, Zola” cried Anticant. “Better have a shower before you join us in the Snug, or else Dame Barbara will twig that there’s something fishy going on”. When Zola returned, in somewhat more fragrant attire, discussion resumed on a new book featured in Stephen Law’s philosophy blog about ‘why is there something rather than nothing?’ In my simple way I thought that the obvious answer was “Because there is”, but this did not satisfy the budding philosophers of the Burrow. They tossed the question around and around until I was utterly out of my depth. In the end, I decided that the Big Bang was rather a damp squib, and went to see how Dame Barbara was getting on. I found her supine on the settee, snoring loudly, with three empty gin bottles on the floor beside her.

I returned to the Snug in time to hear the headless Trousers declare that everything was just a piece of cake. Lavenderblue, however, insisted that life is just a bowl of cherries, while Anticant glumly observed that life is what you make it, and he didn’t think this discussion was making much of it, as it all seemed as clear as mud to him.

Feeling in need of some fresh air, I decided to patrol the Burrow grounds. Strolling along the towpath I perceived a beautiful piebald horse approaching whose rider was a bald, smiling, gleaming eyed, rustic-clad farmer-like person. “Hi, pardner”, he exclaimed in a strong American twang, “let the folks know that Ol’ Farmer Wook has crossed the pond to see what goes on in this neck of the woods”. He dismounted and threw me the reins. I led his splendid steed to our best loose box, and saw it was plentifully supplied with oats and water. I then escorted Wook to the Snug. His entry was greeted with a delighted chorus of welcome – not least from Lavenderblue, who flung her arms around his neck and, in classic Mae West fashion, invited him to come up and see her at her Studio sometime. “Ah!” Wook replied, “I’m always forecasting the end of modernity. How nice to land up at a place where it hasn’t even happened yet.”

This cosy atmosphere was suddenly disrupted by the dramatic entrance of a dishevelled Dame Barbara. “My pearls – my precious pearls” she screamed, clutching at her throat. “They’ve gone missing. It must be one of you lot. Send for Miss Marple! Judge Anticant must convene a Burrow court immediately. Meanwhile, no-one can leave the building.”

Everyone looked at each other in dismay. Each felt under suspicion, knowing they were innocent. Who could be the culprit?

BURROWINGS OF A BEADLE

2. - SPRUCING UP - AND SOME VISITORS

Next morning, which was a cold, frosty one, I was up at the crack of dawn kindling the log fire in the Snug – which burns most of the year round, except in very hot weather. Then I polished the oak floor and, donning my green baize apron, helped Ben put a lustrous shine on the many brass ornaments which adorned the walls.

As we worked, Ben explained how the bar was stocked, and the wide range of beverages on offer. Half a dozen pumps along the bar provided a variety of esteemed local brews, and a vintage draught cider. Rows of spirits and liqueur bottles lined the glass shelves behind the bar. Some were rare and hard to obtain – a special brand of pure Finnish vodka being canoed in at dead of night by Zola, the Naked Kayaker, Judge Anticant resembling his 18^th century predecessors such as Parson Woodforde in not hesitating to turn a blind eye to the odd cask of contraband stored in the Burrow cellars beneath the courtroom.

Our labours were interrupted by a loud imperious rootle-tootle as a cream-coloured, gold-plated Rolls-Royce swept into the courtyard and from it emerged a vision swathed in shocking pink and ostrich feathers demanding to see Judge Anticant at once if not sooner. When he appeared, somewhat bleary-eyed, he recognised Dame Barbara Cartland, who announced that she had selected the Burrow as the ideal hideaway in which to concoct her umpteenth bodice-ripper, and demanded the four-poster state room for herself and more humble accommodation for her maid and chauffeur until further notice.

When the Dame had been escorted to her chamber, she at length emerged and was settled into the Day Parlour adjoining the Snug with a copious supply of pink gins. She proceeded to extract a large notebook and several coloured pens from her reticule, and commenced inscribing the title of her new opus. Looking over her shoulder, I perceived that it was All Passion Spent. I presumptuously asked Dame Barbara where the passion was spent and she replied “mostly at the races and on pink gins”. She added that she was mulling over yet another blockbuster, The Petulant Princess, whose heroine would be based upon her wayward step-granddaughter, the Princess of Wails, but she was hesitant to commit it to paper for fear of falling foul of her prized royal connections.

Meanwhile, some of the Snug regulars had started to arrive. First was a pair of Trousers with no visible superstructure above the waistline, although Ben assured me that this did not prevent him – if it was a him – imbibing copious draughts of Burrow Brew. Next came a leather-clad Merkin, wearing a strange sort of wig upon his bald head which, he announced, he had purloined from Paris. He was soon joined by a Bold Scot attired in the Advanced Highland style – kiltless, but with a large sporran for modesty’s sake. We felt it safest to keep these two out of the ken of Dame Barbara, but her attention was by now wholly preoccupied by the pink gins and her writing.

Finally, an elegant lady with long, flowing Lady Godiva-like auburn hair entered bearing an artist’s easel and paintbox. This was Miss Lavenderblue, the Burrow’s artist-in-residence By Appointment. Judge Anticant was installed in his favourite high-backed chair in the ingle nook, and a typical Burrow soirée was about to commence. All that was lacking was the elusive Zola, but my sharp ears discerned splashing noises of rapid paddling upstream…..

BURROWINGS OF A BEADLE

1. I ARRIVE AT THE BURROW

The Old Coal Road across the Wolds passes the highest railway station in England, and proceeds through glorious scenery. Savouring the wide horizons, I wondered whether my new post would be too windswept. However, the road dipped into a sheltered glade of mature trees, and there, alongside a swiftly flowing river, nestled Anticant’s Burrow – an old coaching inn with an arched gateway leading into an inner courtyard.

Soon I was presenting my credentials, furnished by my esteemed friend and mentor, Mr Bumble, to Judge Anticant and his sidekick Ben Trovato. Judge Anticant is a kindly though somewhat pernickety old gentleman, usually clad in a flowered dressing gown and surrounded by piles of books and several marmalade cats. Ben is a genial, jaunty young fellow who is in general charge of the establishment, and Mine Host of the Snug Bar, which is the social centre of the Burrow.

Having successfully passed their scrutiny and answered all their questions to their apparent satisfaction, I was offered the post of Burrow Beadle with responsibility for ensuring the safety and good order of the premises and its inmates and guests. I was proud to accept, and was then given a tour of the Burrow and grounds. Ben explained that, owing to its slightly off-the-beaten-track situation, the Burrow was largely spared the incursions of vulgar charabanc crowds and the type of unwanted intruder who roused the ire of John Fothergill [of An Innkeeper’s Diary fame] by enquiring the way to the lavatory, using it, and then departing without spending another penny. Also, the dining guests are generally well-behaved – unlike all of Fothergill’s, one of whom once yelled across the dining room: “Have you anything in this place fit for me to drink, Fothergill?” – to which Mine Host haughtily replied: “Poison!”.

I was then introduced to the Burrow’s resident St. Bernard, Wooffie, with whom I was destined to have many adventures, bearing life-saving brandy barrels to travellers lost on the snow-bound Wolds and even on one occasion in Northern Lapland where Santa’s reindeer had been grounded. Making my first inspection of the premises, I noted that the river bank, which formed the Burrow boundary on two sides, was vulnerable to unauthorised landings by audacious canooists and others, while the Burrow flagpole, bearing Anticant’s personal standard proudly aloft, was also adjacent to the river. A past experience as a young apprentice before the mast in a three-masted tea clipper, where I enjoyed two of the three pleasures memorably chronicled by the late Mr George Melly – lots of rum and concertina, but no bum because I was already, though still at a tender age, enamoured by the late lamented Mrs. Flarge – had commended me to Anticant and Ben, who were concerned about the incursions of a certain Naked Kayaker who apparently from time to time ignited intemperate bouts of knicker-waving in the Snug which they considered detrimental to the decorum expected by their more sedate guests, such as Dame Barbara Cartland and Miss Marple.

It was clear, from my initial interview, that I might well have my work cut out in preserving good order and decency, and as I snuggled down that first night amid the snow-white sheets I wondered whether I would have the stamina to meet the challenge of the Burrow. Only time would tell!