December 17, 2012 by patrickpadget
Piaget wipes a tear from the corner of his eye and looks at Sir Walter. “Well Chief Inspector Bagshott-Gray, what do you think? Zis poor Princess has endured more than any princess can bear and, all ze vile living with Gilbert’s noxious nocturnal emissions!”
“Well Monsewer Piaget, I am not so sure. I know if dear Jane Marple was here she would know exactly what to do!” says Bagshott-Gray wisely.
“Fuck Jane Marple!” says Piaget, furiously twiddling his moustache. “She is an interfering old cow of the first order. Let Piaget make a suggestion. I see no reason to condemn this beautiful woman to such a gruesome fate but surely there is an obvious solution.”
“What is it?” exclaim the assembled crowd.
“Aha mes amis!” says the little Belgian smugly, “zat is for me to know and for you to find out!”
There is a sharp collective intake of breath “Sssssssssssssssssssssshite!” and something suddenly snaps in the group dynamic as, slowly and menacingly, they gather around Piaget and start to beat him, kicking and punching until he is barely breathing.
Down in the village, word has spread of the crisis at Downham Abbey and a kind of madness has come over the local folk. Overhead, a full-moon lights up the local pub, The Snarling Badger. A wild-eyed, rabid crowd of inbred villagers gather pitchforks, shovels and Ipads and head for The Abbey.
Suddenly the raging crowd of villagers is heard beating at the door. Gilbert opens it surreptitiously and the mob bursts in, howling for blood. It is as though years of pent up frustration and incipient public hatred of the smarmy, pompous and self-righteous little TV detective has congealed the assembled group into a single baying, barking entity like a monstrous hound. Gilbert sets on Piaget, like a maniac, with the poker and Lady Florence stabs him in the chest with her Faberge hat pin. Mrs Trundall beats him mercilessly on his bare bottom with Fanny’s tightly rolled-up copy of Women’s Weekly. Lord Cuthbert takes a log from the fireplace and smashes it down on the little Belgian’s skull. Young, virile gamekeeper Reggie Peacock points his huge double-barrelled weapon at Piaget’s limp body and lets him have it from behind as is his wont. Fanny Baxter whose massive brassiere is trapped under Piaget’s weight, tosses him off energetically. Eventually the frenzy dies down and Commissioner Bagshott-Gray, wiping the blood and bone fragments from his cheeks, observes sardonically: “Well goodness, gracious me everybody! Who’d have thought it? All these years, he’s the one who’s been fooling us! These little cells! They are not really grey after all. I can detect at least forty-nine different shades in here, maybe even fifty!”
TO BE CONCLUDED NEXT SUNDAY EVENING AT THE USUAL TIME…