Mr O’Doolite

[Nearholmer]

“Well, she ......” I was becoming increasingly irritated. “No. First we must get help for Mirry.”

 

I lifted the dog, cradling her in my arms. It was clear that there was nothing that could help her.

 

“See here: I’ve got a dead dog, probably poisoned by stuff left out for foxes by those blasted keepers at The Hall; my family is due home in an hour;, and all you are interested in is first provoking, then prying into the history of, the woman who is busily cooking their dinner! Have you lost all reason on your travels?”

 

“Go and lay-out the dog.” He almost whispered. “We will talk when you have done that.”

 

I obediently carried Mirry out, through the kitchen to the furthest potting shed, where I laid her down on a bed of straw and lay a sack over her. Then I bolted the door, to keep Dan, my second spaniel, and the children out. I returned, deeply troubled, up the garden path, which seemed far longer than ever before.

 

Albertina was not in the kitchen, which appeared to have been abandoned in the middle of food preparation. A large meat pie stood in the centre of the table, filled, and with the little pottery blackbird set, beak agape, in the middle, the pastry for the covering, part-rolled, lay on a flour-snowed board beside.

 

“She will have gone.” He half-announced, half-queried as I came into the study.

 

“Gone? Gone where? Why?”

 

“Where? Cambridge, almost certainly. Why?” He held up his plate with the remaining oatcake, tilting it toward me. “These delicacies were meant for me, not some dog; don’t you understand that?”

 

“She was not ‘some dog’.” Then I realised. “You mean?”.

 

“We need to be on our way. I’m assuming that he had a motor-cycle hidden nearby, and he has a head-start. Has your wife taken the trap? How many bicycles do you have? Get a paper and a pen!”

 

Again I obeyed, answering his questions with nods and single words. I was baffled as to why he was confusing Albertina with a man, but that was a detail too much.

 

“Now, write. My Dearest, I have been called away urgently, to the Birmingham Contract - problems with the motors. Old Parrock has taken Mirry out with his dogs, and will keep her until Saturday. Don’t let the children or Dan in the bottom shed - rat poison. Will miss you. Then sign off in your usual way.”

 

“But, what about dinner? Will the pie be safe?”

 

“Oh, certainly it will. He has only one mark, and I am fortunate enough to be answering you. Now, look lively!”

 

For a man of his years, Theophilus has remarkable energy, and he repeated the coat dance, in reverse, somehow swapping the plate from hand-to-hand in the process, so as never to put it down, and was ready to depart well before me. I gathered up the few things that I habitually take when travelling on my business, and, together, we want to where the bicycles are kept. Thankfully, the portmanteau and tripod were not to travel with us, but the plate came along, balanced delicately on the fingertips of his right hand, even as we rode along the lane. It eventually left us as we crossed the mill leat, sailing through the air and splashing out of sight.

 

It was a very warm afternoon, with a near certainty of thunder to come, and we both exhausted our initial energy very rapidly, so the pass slowed to a steady tread, sweat pouring down O’Doolight’s forehead.

 

“Take the coat off.” I panted.

 

He pedalled doggedly on, apparently oblivious to my suggestion. Then, appearing over a crest ahead I saw a pony and trap.

 

“The ditch! Get in the ditch!” He bellowed, and we dismounted, slid down the slope and concealed ourselves as best we could among the cow parsley. My family paraded cheerfully past, chattering away in the trap, oblivious to our presence. I wasn’t at all sure why I was hiding from them, and spying on them like this left me feeling deeply guilty.

 

Having clambered back onto the road, after a safe interval, I was determined to thoroughly interrogate Mister O’Doolight.

Edited June 1, 2018 by Nearholmer

[Donw]

When is the next instalment?

 

Don

[sem34090]

Ah, I see this affair has resurfaced, or so my friends on the board of directors for the Arundel & Portsmouth Canal tell me via my agents.

 

I expect I shall be seeing you with that O'doolight fellow around over the coming days.

 

Things are set to get rather interesting for you, Mr Nearholmer, and I shall warn you it may not be pleasant.

 

Good Day,

 

Missenden

 

Postscript: Oh, and please do not contemplate pulling a 'fast one'. Follow the paper trail and you shall remain relatively unscathed. If you do not then bear in mind that I have Birlstone surrounded and my agents are monitoring your progress with the greatest closeness.

[Nearholmer]

But, my determination had no bearing on the matter. He was up, mounted and setting the pace, allowing no opportunity.

 

At length, he was forced to slacken as we had reached the main highway, and his unfamiliarity with the locale got the better of him. We had come no great distance, but he had the advantage of riding my own bicycle, while I was mounted on my wife's machine and, having had no time to even consider making adjustments, was already suffering in the upper parts of my legs.

 

"RIght. It's about another three miles." I shouted, and again he was off, the tails of his voluminous coat flapping languidly in the humid air.

 

We arrived at the station on the Cambridge line in good time for the late afternoon train. We conferred, and decided to take the bicycles with us, and I booked tickets, making the extra investment of First Class, in hope of securing a compartment to ourselves. In this we were successful. At last I had Mr O'Doolite in an enclosed space, from which neither of us could depart, and available to be questioned.

The journey is a sedate one, with a near-infinity of wayside stations, but I decided not to delay, in case he operated his well-practised habit of sleeping throughout.

 

"We have been friends for, what? Thirty years?" I began. He nodded, knowing full well that he owed me an explanation, perhaps several explanations. A tilt of my head and in inquisitive look was all the further prompting that was necessary.

 

"Calculations, Mr Nearholm, they are the root of all this. Always calculations. I have spent my entire life, since the age of twelve engaged in measuring and calculating, and, for the most part, my calculations have proven accurate, dependable." I raised my eyebrows ever-so-slightly. "With," he slowly enunciated, "the unfortunate exception of the independable subsoils of Shepherd's Port. But, that was the exception that proves the rule, and has nothing directly to do with my recent quest.

 

No, this is a graver matter, one that might affect us all, not merely an aged and discredited surveyor of ever-decreasing prosperity.

 

It relates, Sir, to heavenly bodies, more precisely to a particular heavenly body, one that is currently hurtling towards us across the empty voids of space at a velocity unimaginable to most men, and incalculable by all save those most practiced in these matters."

[Nearholmer]

He hunched forward, placing his hands on my knees and slowly drawing his face close to mine.

 

"What is at stake, my friend, is nothing less than the future of our civilisation."

 

"Which, so far as I can tell has nothing to do with my domestic help. And, by the way sounds more than a little .......". I hesitated, and sat back in my seat, watching the misty fields slide slowly past the window.

 

If Mr O'Doolite had, as it seemed, finally fallen prey to the brain-fever that I had always feared would result from his obsessive working-over of calculations, was it not my duty to an old friend to help him through this crisis as gently as possible? I decided to approach the matter from another angle, a logic which would have appealed to his trigonometrical view of the world.

 

"This, thing, this er 'heavenly body', can we see it with a telescope?" I asked.

 

"Not yet, no." He answered. "But, we may infer it's existence, its trajectory, its velocity, its mass even, by observation of the behaviour of certain, much smaller bodies, which make regular passage through our heavens, and are disturbed, to very small degrees, by its presence."

 

My scepticism was undimmed. I consider myself to be a practical man, impressed by solid evidence, and here I could discern none.

 

"Admitting for a moment, and a moment only mind, the possibility that what you say is correct, that there is some hitherto unseen planet, or star, which would be a worthy discovery for any man to make, I cannot conceive of it being of enough significance to put our civilisation at stake. Add enriching knowledge, make us more civilised, yes, but threaten the values that have made Britain the great nation that she is today, that is, how can I put it: inconceivable."

 

"Not British values, Sir, no, and why should I have exaggerated concern for them after all? You know full-well that the circumstance of my birth gave me no nationality, an absence of nationality in fact. No, no indeed. Britain has occasionally been kind to me, and occasionally cruel, and, by-and-large left me well alone, which is what I like best, but my concern is for Europe, the civilisation of Europe, not simply parts of a few Atlantic islands."

 

"That is still not an explanation. It simply enlarges the question. How can the discovery of some distant planet or star threaten the civilisation of an entire continent? Surely you aren't comparing your possible discovery to those of Galileo Galilei in its potential to wreak change!" At this point I feared that I had descended too far into mockery, and that he would retreat into his customary slumbers, but he continued.

 

"If it was a planet, or a star, it would be helpful to my personal standing, no more. I might become etoilated." He chuckled at his little joke, then snapped to deeper seriousness, his eyes becoming tight points of darkness.

 

"But it isn't either. It is some kind of meteorite, of vast proportions, and it is, within the limits of accuracy that my calculations permit, thundering towards Canterbury, or towards Lens, or, more truthfully, towards some indeterminate place, within a circle which has those cities at points exactly one hundred and eighty degrees in opposition upon its circumference"

 

"Admitting again of the possibility, what in heaven's name does this have to do with my cook?" It was out, the pointed question that I had been attempting not to press home, and I bobbed in my seat with frustration, both at my inability to contain it, and at his deliberate circumnavigation of a point that he surely knew full-well was gnawing at my mind all the while.

 

"Aha! Miss, or more properly I think, Misses, Albertina Endean. Yes, yes, yes. Why would she try to feed me an arsenic-laced oatcake, or two? Would that save Europe from a descent into literal and figurative darkness? No, it would not. In fact, it would quite likely guarantee such an outcome. And that is precisely the mission that she, or rather he, is charged with: to ensure that nothing, and nobody, comes between the Straits of Dover and several million tons of rock, ice and detritus, moving at something in the order of fifty thousand miles per hour."

 

"My cook? A simple woman from Staffordshire, rendered homeless by a falling-out with a feckless husband? And, why do you keep referring to her as if she is a man, which she patently isn't?"

 

This time he let his mirth runs its course, while I stared fixedly out of the window at a tree on the distant horizon.

 

"Well now, there is a great deal to tell about your cook. Firstly, that she is, despite all recent appearances, without doubt a man. Second, and this should now come as no surprise, not a Miss Endean, but a Missenden, or more precisely THE Missenden, the man whose tawdry insults drew me into pursuit of him. The man who set himself, as a spider at the centre of a web, in the very place where he knew I must eventually come to him, and where he believed that he could dispense with me, like the persistently buzzing fly that his masters believe me to be. Thirdly, that his masters have much, oh so very much, to gain, and nothing to loose, if events play out as the music of the spheres predestins."

Edited June 2, 2018 by Nearholmer

[Nearholmer]

"I'm going to be frank with you Theophilus, because I fear that the time for excessive politeness has long passed. It has done no good, and it will do no good if extended." Even as annoyed with him as I was, it required all of my fortitude to force out what I said next, the strength necessary to injure the feelings of a great friend, in order to save him from greater, self-inflicted, humiliation. "This is all poppycock! You need to retire properly. You must sell-out the pyramid company, the premises have good value even if the rest of it is of little worth; you must tear yourself away from Shepherd's Port and that damnable hotel; you must stop calculating, stop measuring, put away all of that; you must permit your mind to rest! Contemplate ..... oh, I really don't know what ...... water voles or something ....... and I mean just enjoy the little fellows scampering about and swimming, not count them, or predict their population in seven and nine-tenths years, none of that!" As if to emphasise my point, a flash of lightning glared across the low clouds, and thunder crackled somewhere far away.

 

It was his turn now to watch a distant tree, and he did so for as long as it was possible to see whichever tree he had chosen, rising from his seat and leaning from the window, craning his neck to prolong his disengagement from our conversation. He was finally forced back Inside by a heavy squall of rain, pulling-up the droplight with a firm bang as he sat down again. Rain was now splashing in large drops through the opposite window, but neither of us moved to close it. The train halted at a station, but the ......

Edited June 1, 2018 by Nearholmer

[Nearholmer]

...... I was unable to see the name of it, because water was now sheeting down the windows on the one side, and no sign could be seen on the other.

 

"Less than ideal weather for a motorcyclist, I should imagine." Aired Mr O'Doolite.

 

"Assuming that there is one." I said grumpily.

 

There we sat, in silence, for the rest of the journey, wreathed in the odour of damp railway-carriage upholstery and the sort of gloom that can only exist when two friends have fallen-out.

 

At very great length we arrived at Cambridge, and retrieved our bicycles from the guard's van. The station, the entire town, glistened in post-storm wetness, dripping, and beginning to steam as the sun reasserted itself so far as approaching evening allowed. Outside the station, O'Doolite remounted my bicycle, and began to pedal away. My instinct was to go-about, return to the train, and be home for a late supper, but, as he turned a corner, disappearing behind a wall, I set off after him, maintaining a suitable distance. Our course lay through a series of terraced streets, skirting the more famed parts of the city, across the common, over the bridge to Chesterton, and up the shallow hill to the very edge of that place, where new-built houses give way to market-gardens.

 

Mr O'Doolite alighted, and I, two hundred yards behind, alighted. To the right of the road were small houses, to the left an untidy hedge, giving occasional glimpses to the fields beyond. My attention was momentarily distracted by a movement in an upper window of one of the houses, a curtain being drawn, and when I turned back, Mr O'Doolite, and with him my bicycle, had disappeared. I supposed that he must have ducked into a gateway in the hedge, so I scooted my wife's bicycle along, standing on one pedal, to where I had last seen him. No gateway, and no Mr O'Doolite. Neither was there an alleyway between houses on the opposite side. He had vanished.

[sem34090]

Ah, so I see your friend worked out my little plot...

 

Rest assured I am no longer under 'your' employment in Birlstone and Miss Endean took a rather unfortunate accident, I refer you to 'her' obituary in a local paper. Do not let this make you think I have disappeared - I see that the rain has subsided here in Cambridge.

 

Good night, Mr Nearholm

 

Missenden

[Nearholmer]

Somewhere, further along the hedgerow, a blackbird whistled down the sun, and behind one of the houses a dog barked. One or two houses already had lamps lit inside. A baby was crying in an upper room. Off to my left, I heard what sounded like the door of a shed closing, and the rattling of a lock being fitted to a hasp, then I sensed a person walking, just beyond the tangle of hawthorn, hazel and holly, perhaps only two yards from me. Instinctively, I remained perfectly still. Whoever it was moved on, parallel to the road, but invisible from it, in the direction that O'Doolite and I had been travelling. I remained exactly where I was, more out of indecision than apprehension, but within a few moments I had reason to be glad that I did.

 

About a hundred yards ahead of me, what I presumed to be the person that I'd heard emerged from the hedge, and paused at the roadside. The sun was now low in the sky behind me and it shone a bright light of heavy contrasts on a man wearing boots, a coverall, and a broad cap, carrying something in his left hand. He turned slightly and the sunlight glinted from just below his chin. Then he strode across the road, evidently making for a particular house, and a surge of combined recognition and revulsion pulsed through me. His bearing and gait were instantly recognisable as those of Albertina Endean. She evidently hadn't seen me, or if she had seen me, had seen only the silhouette of a man with a bicycle. She went directly to a front gate, entered the tiny yard, and paused for an instant at the door, before disappearing inside the house. I had just seen our domestic help, dressed in motorcycling clothes, in Cambridge, or rather a suburb of Cambridge. In short, things looked exactly as O'Doolite had asserted. Then, to my right I heard a clatter. I turned, to see that very man rising, like a phantom from a grave, from behind the low wall that surrounded one of the tiny front-yards. He stooped for a moment, levering my bicycle upright beside him, and came out of the gate as confidently as if he was the resident, dipped his head slightly in recognition, mounted, and coasted back the way we'd come.

 

This time I didn't allow him an interval. I swung the bicycle round, hopped on, taking advantage of the absence of crossbar, and pedalled after him. At the foot of the hill, he halted just as I drew level, and I almost pitched myself over the handlebars in my hurry to stop.

 

"So you see," he calmly announced, extending his arm in a slow sweep "this uninteresting terrace is where our man makes his quarters. Now, there is a temperance hotel that advertises accommodation for bicyclists, just along by the river, and if we are fortunate they may have vacancies."

 

In fact, they had one vacancy, in the form of a spartan room containing two iron beds, two pine chairs, a washstand, and a simple oil-lamp on a wall-bracket, the only concession to ornament being that the black frame of the text hanging above the washstand had some slim zig-zag carving worked on it. The text read: "Let us walk honestly, as in the day; not in rioting and drunkenness, not in chambering and wantonness, not in strife and envying.", the word 'drunkenness' being in a bolder face, printed in red, and heavily underscored.

 

We perched on the beds, facing one another, in a static reprise of the scene in the compartment of the train. The lamp gave a very poor light, but even by that I could discern that O'Doolite was far more tired than his energetic conduct suggested. About his eyes there were, naturally, the many fine creases that marked his age, but what concerned me was that the eyes themselves lacked liveliness. It was as if he was staring at a fixed spot, some two feet from him, in the space between us.

 

"It might be best if you were to save further explanation until the morning. I will see what supper is available, and we can turn-in as soon as we've eaten."

 

He didn't reply.

 

"You rest old chap, I'll be back with a tray shortly."

 

When I returned, he was already asleep, lying atop the blanket, fully clad, save for the voluminous coat, which was neatly folded across one of the chairs. His hands were lightly clasped on his chest, and if it hadn't been for the steady rise and fall of his breathing it might have been possible to mistake him for a recumbent monument, lifted into the room from a country church.

 

I ate as quietly as possible, and placed the tray on the floor in the corner, putting the cloth back over it with some notion in mind that O'Doolite's portion of the simple meal might be kept fresh enough for him to eat during the night, should he awaken. There was nothing else to do, nothing even to read except for the text on the wall, so although it was still early I dimmed the lamp and made ready for bed. Once in bed, I was unable to sleep. My mind recited the events of the day, which simply served to bring up questions that only O'Doolite could answer. My working hypothesis was that there was some ancient fued going on between O'Doolite and Missenden, nothing in the slightest connected with meteorites or mysterious 'masters', more probably some professional disagreement that had got out of hand on both sides, and that this had become entangled in the old man's mind with work refining calculations of the orbits of newly discovered minor planets, which I knew he had been commissioned to undertake by a professor at a university in Germany. Whether Albertina Endean actually was Missenden, I doubted. It seemed more likely that O'Doolite had made far too much of a slight similarity of name. But that didn't explain the oatcake episode, or why she had motorcycled to Cambridge, or even, thinking further, why she had secreted a motorcycle at all ...... very few women ride motorcycles but, for those who, do it is more a matter of pride than shame.

[Nearholmer]

I was awoken by cart passing in the road below the window, the pale light beyond the thin curtains telling me that the sun was barely up.

 

The monument to the memory of Theophilus O'Doolite CE remained in exactly the same position as when I had gone to bed, but I could see that he too was awake, apparently staring at the ceiling. There's e being few things that irritate me more than conversation after a poor nights sleep, I hauled on my shirt, trousers and boots hoping that he would think of nothing to say for a good, long while, but as I was drinking the last of the water from the jug on the tray, he asked me to pass him his coat.

 

This was my first close encounter with the coat, which was made of very tightly woven canvas of a dun colour, treble-stitched at the seams, and impregnated with some sort of oil or wax, which smelled awfully like mutton-dripping. Although the smell was, impressive, it was not as impressive as the weight of the garment, which made me wonder how O'Doolite stood, let-alone cycled, while wearing it. He sat-up and explored the folds of the coat, producing from somewhere within a slender screwdriver and a small, but long-handled spanner. These he proferred to me.

 

"If it wouldn't be too much trouble, I would be grateful if you could go and make adjustments to the motor-cycle."

 

I attempted to clear the haze from my eyes, squeezing them tight and opening them wide, and opened the curtains, allowing the light to assault me into greater consciousness.

 

"The motorcycle? Why?"

 

"Oh, you understand, adjustments to render it inoperative, that sort of thing. Nothing immediately obvious though; the sort of thing that could be mistaken for a malfunction, and will tempt him into tinkering before he gives up and looks for alternative transport. The sort of thing that wastes as much of his time as possible, in short."

 

I exhaled slowly, slowly shaking my head.

 

"And I am to do this through the locked door of a shed?"

 

"Ah, yes, you're right, you'll need these too." He produced two small pieces of bent wire from another fold in the coat. "You do know how to use them?"

 

I repeated the exhalation and the slow shaking of my head. Yes, I had used picks before, but I had wish to use them now. I took them.

 

"Good. I'll arrange to have breakfast ready for us when you return."

 

I was about to hand the tools back to him, and suggest very firmly that he should get along and commit the felony himself, but the dawn light made me examine his appearance in a way that I had not done the day before. His boots were heavily worn, his black trousers and waistcoat were flecked with small stains, grey stubble sprouted freely all over the lower half of his face, and his white hair was attempting to flee his head in every possible direction simultaneously. He looked like what I strongly suspected him to be: an old man who was robust in many respects, but fragile of mind. He did not look at all like a man who ought to go breaking and entering.

 

The shed was barely half a mile distant, but I decided to take a detour so as to approach it not along the road, but across the market gardens. Even so, I met several early workmen along the way, and had to make some small pretence of being a drink-fuddled reveller, making his way back to his lodgings. Picking the lock took far longer than I would have liked, and I could hear the street coming to life beyond the hedge before I was able to slip inside the shed, and breathe the unmistakable scent of well-oiled machinery. There was barely enough light from the small, cobwebbed window to allow me to make my 'adjustments', but I succeeded in rendering the brakes close to unsafe, letting a good deal, but not all, of the air out of one tyre, and slackening connections in the ignition circuit in a way that I hoped might cause intermittent faults, which are always much harder to locate and resolve than any other. For good measure, I scraped a handful of dust and dead flies from one of the shelves and tipped this seasoning into the petrol tank. I was rather proud of the subtlety of my work; with luck it might result in the machine spluttering to a halt on the open road.

 

Back at the hotel, I found Mr O'Doolite seated in the entrance hall behind a large pot of coffee, looking cheerful, and slightly less dishevelled than previously, the coat on the chair next to his, and a plate of eggs and toast, which I took for mine, on the table in front of the third chair. We were on our way shortly after, back to the station, and onto a train, which, after much loading of parcels, departed on its weary way.

 

"Where would you prefer me to start?" He asked simply.

 

"Who, what, where, when, why, and how, that's what one of my old schoolmasters drummed into me, so perhaps you might start with who, then we can work our way down the list. Who do you suppose Missenden to be?"

 

"I suppose him to be what he is, which is an agent, a person who can be hired, by anyone who is able to produce the sort of very substantial sums necessary. To undertake discrete missions on their behalf. You hire a domestic servant; other, more powerful men than you hire an assassin, a spy, an influencer, a cultivator of false-impressions, or, most vitally in many respects, a man who can lay in wait, close to whatever or whoever is of interest, invisible while visible, and then act upon a signal. A man who reads The Times not for matters of record, but for the fine detail of an address given in an advertisement, which provides the prompt when required. A cab on the rank of crime."

 

I couldn't help but applaud this torrent of words.

 

"Bravo, Theophilus, bravo! Now, tell me who he is." Mr O'Doolite's crest fell slightly.

 

"In all honesty, Nearholm, I know nothing about his background, not even his real name.'Missenden' is simply what might be called a trade-name, the prominent a label on a bottle of sauce, the contents of which are known only to its manufacturer. You've seen yourself that he appears to be about forty-five years of age, is of middling-height, and, except for the eyes ..... you did notice the eyes? ..... of such plain appearance that he can pass for man or woman, somewhat older, considerably younger. Physically powerful, of course. Several languages. Skilled in multiple trades and professions. And, of course, he is a good cook."

 

"Not much there then, a sort of ''everyperson'."

Edited June 19, 2018 by Nearholmer

[Nearholmer]

The countryside paraded slowly by.

 

"A 'why' now, perhaps?" I asked.

 

He nodded.

 

"Why, if the meteorite to which you have referred exists, do some people, 'Missenden's Mysterious Masters', I think you said, believe that it can be stopped, or diverted from its course? What leads them to think that you, or anyone else for that matter, can 'stand in the way' of a meteorite, especially a large one? That was the phrase you used: stand in its way."

 

"Very perscpicatious! The 'whys' are always the best. In fact, they don't believe that I can, but what they do believe, and rightly, is that I intend to create a sufficient degree of alarm that some action will be taken to either literally divert it, or to ameliorate the effect of its impact. There are simple things that could be done, such as evacuating the populace from the predicted area of impact, keeping shipping away, the creation of mutual support arrangements between Britain, France, and Belgium, an extension of the entente. Regarding the possibility of diversion, I have already entered into correspondence with Mr Tesla, who intimates that he may be able to materially assist."

Edited June 3, 2018 by Nearholmer

[sem34090]

A cunning diversion, Nearholm.

 

Unfortunately for you I always maintain a pair of identical motorcycles for just such a time as one gets 'adapted' by my opponents.

 

As for your 'who' (Walls have ears, Mr Nearholm) I would prefer to have you pursuing the proverbial untamed poultry than to simply reveal my identity. The small settlement of Atherington on the South Coast, 1 1/2 Miles South West of Littlehampton (LBSCR) Station. You will find there a barn, 81 Yards from where the shingle meets the land, in which will be contained a series of packing crates. You are to open each one and solve the riddle therein.

 

But time is running short, Mr Nearholm, and I am an eternally busy man.

 

Farewell Cambridge!

 

Missenden

[Enterprisingwestern]

I'm glad you two know what the hell is going on, you lost me at post#1 !!!!!

 

Mike.

[sem34090]

Ah, Mr E. Western,

 

Glad you could join us here!

 

May I point you in the direction of Castle Aching for clues as to the ongoing case between Mr O'doolight and myself?

 

Previous commenting can also be found in what I like to call the "Pre-Grouper's Literary Corner'.

 

Kindest Regards,

 

Missenden

[Enterprisingwestern]

Ah, there you have the advantage of me, having not been pursuant to the outpourings of said thread.

Don't worry, not that you were going to anyway, there's plenty going on elsewhere that does my head in, so I'll leave you two consenting adults to carry on engaging in what seems to be harmless fun away from the bright lights of the more mainstream contributions.

Enjoy!

 

Mike.

[sem34090]

Nearholmer is the talent here, his literary skills being evident. He invented the deep character of Mr Theophilius O'Doolight and I merely helped prompt him to run with it. The 'Missenden' character originated from my username (Sir Eustace Missenden 34090, A Bulleid Pacific) and the use of it as one of the characters within the Castle Aching canon (as it is now known!). Somehow, can't remember how, 'Missenden' became the centre of an international criminal network with contacts across the globe... Enjoy the talent though!

[sem34090]

I suppose you ended up fallin' asleep on a fast service Dint'ya?

 

Ahem, errr, Yes Sir, and I'm afraid I don't have any money on me.

 

Where was i' yer wanned ter get too?

 

Erm, Chesham.

 

Righ', well I spose we can alla it jus' this wunce, alrigh'.

 

Much obliged sir!

 

Change a' Chalfont & Latimer.

 

And with that the board was put up on the platform at Verney Junction proclaiming that that the train, this time headed by a 'E' Class 0-4-4 tank, was to stop at:

 

WINSLOW ROAD

GRANBOROUGH ROAD

QUAINTON ROAD - change for WADDESDON ROAD, WESTCOTT, WOTTON, CHURCH SIDING, WOOD SIDING & BRILL.

WADDESDON

AYLESBURY

STOKE MANDEVILLE

WENDOVER

GREAT MISSENDEN 

AMERSHAM & CHESHAM BOIS

CHALFONT & LATIMER - change for CHESHAM

CHORLEY WOOD & CHENIES

RICKMANSWORTH

MOOR PARK & SANDY LODGE

NORTHWOOD

NORTHWOOD HILLS

PINNER

NORTH HARROW

NORTHWICK PARK

PRESTON ROAD

WEMBLEY PARK

NEASDEN

DOLLIS HILL

WILLESDEN GREEN

KILBURN & BRONDESBURY

WEST HAMPSTEAD

FINCHLEY ROAD

SWISS COTTAGE

ST JOHN'S WOOD

BAKER STREET

PORTLAND ROAD

GOWER STREET

KING'S CROSS

FARRINGDON STREET

ALDERSGATE STREET

MOORGATE STREET

MOORGATE

ALDGATE

 

As the train left Verney Junction at the start of its long journey to the city, Missenden smiled to himself safe in the knowledge that he would be alighting at his namesake, not Chalfont & Latimer as he had told the guard. He also knew of another fact he concealed from the guard, for he had not slept through the stations between Chalfont & Latimer and Verney Junction at all -he had not even been travelling on the Down Metropolitan service in the first place- for he had travelled from Cambridge that morning via the LNWR Line, hoping to shake-off his potential pursuers (One of his agents -a seemingly unimposing railway servant at Bletchley- had informed him of Nearholm and O'doolight were travelling in a Westerly direction along the same LNWR lines he had just left) by initially leading them towards Oxford by the LNWR, then pull a first move by making as if to take a short-cut to London via the Metropolitan Railway. His third trick was to slip off the train at Great Missenden (He liked the irony of the name) and hence proceed to the capital, and then to Sussex, by coach.

[sem34090]

Please note, I am posting as myself here!

 

I am rather concerned about the silence herein and fear I may have inadvertently put Kevin off writing further.

[DIW]

[ian]

It strikes me that as the dastardly Missenden has intercepted these communications our heroes must have decided to maintain radio silence rather than reveal their plans.

 

Perhaps a musical interlude is called for: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ot6IwL6-63A

[Nearholmer]

Spot-on, Ian.

[sem34090]

In my real-life persona I look forward to the next instalment and shall leave the evil and treacherous Missenden to quietly b*gger off somewhere and leave Kevin to write!

 

Very good music choice - shame the trains weren't pre-grouping A1's, as per my avatar!

 

I have also received a telegram...

 

Sir,

 

I will ensure that this 'Missenden' remains completely quiet whilst he awaits questioning... assuming that my officers catch said gentleman of course. We have close tabs on a gentleman who recently entered our County and appears to be trying to hide from all figures of authority. He travelled from Verney Junction to Great Missenden on Saturday and it would seem that he is to be travelling on to London from there. We are subverting said gentleman quietly and are monitoring his every communication, so you may assure your eccentric railwayac friends that they are to be protected whilst on 'my turf'.

 

Your Faithful Servant,

 

Chief Constable Major Otway Mayne, Buckinghamshire Constabulary

Edited June 18, 2018 by sem34090

[Nearholmer]

I warn you folks, this story is getting out of hand. Its even beginning to have a plot now! And, there is miles of it.

 

Anyway, Part the However Many It Is ..........

 

 

“Divert a meteorite? How? From what little I know, the core of a meteorite is composed of iron and nickel, there are fragments of such on display in the British Museum. You told me that it might weigh thousands of tons, and be moving at fifty thousand miles per hour. One might as well try to alter the trajectory of a cannon ball!”

“What profession do you belong to?” He was making no attempt to stifle a mischievous grin.

“I am not a stage magician, which is what seems to be required here.” I replied in kind.

“It seems likely that something fundamental has slipped your mind: the power of electromagnetism. Somewhat odd, since it is what allows you to meet your bills. But, I shouldn’t tease. Mr Tesla seems to believe that it will be possible to generate in the upper atmosphere a narrowly focused band, a beam almost, of magnetic flux, of sufficient strength to pull the meteorite slightly away from its natural course, causing it to come to earth in the midst of the ocean or in some uninhabited place, where it can do no harm.

Think of the immense eruption of Krakatoa, and imagine that, instead of occurring in the centre of a sea strait some forty or fifty miles wide, bordered on either side by lightly-populated country, it had taken place in a sea strait only twenty miles wide, bordered by the most populous nations of Europe ……… the magnitude of the impact that I envisage is similar to the magnitude of the explosion of Krakatoa, much greater perhaps ………. and an ideal would be to reverse what I have just asked you to imagine: to relocate it from the populous region to the unpopulous.”

“When we get home, I will show you something at my workbench. I have large motor field-coil, it has some short-circuited turns, but I decided to keep it as it is, because it still has enough power to impress the children, picking up smoothing irons, that sort of thing, and I want to use it to teach my son properly when he is old enough. We can energise the coil, and drop the flat-iron from a decent height through the resultant magnetic field. You will be able to see ……. Nothing. Its descent will not be altered from the normal by any appreciable amount, I guarantee it.” In fact, I had slight doubts about this; everything depended upon the strength of the field at the distance from the electromagnet at which the flat-iron passed through it. It was, just about imaginable that an immensely powerful magnet could, to some tiny extent, affect the path of a meteorite. What wasn’t imaginable was a magnet of such power, or, if one could somehow be made, what affect it might have on everything else within its field; it might become a cure worse than the ill.

“So, having heard as much as I have been able to understand of how a meteorite might be diverted, and scoffed at that, do you wish to proceed with your schoolboy’s list of questions?”

“Oh, alright then, it passes a tedious journey. You’ve covered the ‘where’, so let us have ‘when’, and then some more of ‘why’ and ‘how’. When will this bolt from the heavens strike? Sometime next week, I am tempted to hazard.”

“Now, now. We have three years, plus between about twenty and forty days, in which to make ready. The twenty-ninth of June, nineteen hundred and eight is the date at the centre of the distribution of probability. I am afraid that it is impossible to be more precise than that.”

“Well, we mustn’t fall into the sin of spurious accuracy, must we? What’s left? Ah, yes: who are these ‘Mysterious Masters’ behind Missenden, and why are they interested in your calculations?”

“You don’t want to attempt to work things out for yourself? These aren’t difficult questions ……. The answers flow directly from what I have told you already, very directly.”

“Very well, I quite enjoy a puzzle. Let me see ……. Who might benefit from a mighty disruption affecting at minimum England and France? A diversion of effort from the normal business of government and trade; a sapping of resource. Rivals of one or the other, of both perhaps.” I closed my eyes and ran through the list of possibilities. “Germany immediately suggests itself. Territorial claims in the Alsace, which might be pressed at a time of difficulty for Marianne, and matters of empire in Africa that could be pursued if John Bull was looking in another direction, But, a great deal hinges on the nature of what might follow from an impact. Do you envisage tidal waves, as with Krakatoa? Would they ripple out as far as the Frisian Islands, or even Wilhelmshaven and Bremerhaven? Perhaps German sea trade be disrupted almost as much as that of Britain and Holland?” He nodded very slowly, indicating that I was following a soundly logical trail, but perhaps not far enough.

“So, further removed then. The Austro-Hungarian Empire? No. I think not, it seems more interested in opportunities to the east, too blocked-in to take advantage in the west. America? No. Great potential within her own shores; no need to exploit the misfortune of others. I give up! A power-push by the Luxembourgers is my final answer.” I laughed at my own flippancy and waited, rather eagerly I have to say, for his response.

“There is something that you haven’t factored. If the plan becomes firmly fixed on diversion, rather than amelioration, then the meteorite has to be diverted to somewhere, and here the calculated trajectory becomes of great interest. The path will follow a shallow angle through the atmosphere, approaching its landfall from East by South. Imagine a line plotted from perhaps London to Istanbul as a rough approximation. To avoid all centres of population, it has either to be pulled south, perhaps to fall in the Sahara, or North, perhaps to fall in the Siberian wastes. Other options exist, but are less feasible. Which takes us to those who might have proprietorial claims over either an empty desert, or an equally empty wilderness, and given that one of the nations that will be most directly impacted, literally so, falls into the former group, we are left only with the latter.”

“You believe that Missenden is in the pay of the Czar?!”

“Not believe, know, with certainty. Despite his best endeavours, I was able, during my recent absence from both Paltry Circus and Shepherd’s Port, to trace his routes of communication with officials of the Russian state, and to gain an insight into the brief to which he is working, which is really a very simple one. He is tasked with discrediting me so far as possible, so that as I bring my findings to the attention of those in places of influence, a difficult enough task given my background and the deeply unusual nature of the bad news that I have to convey, I will be viewed as nothing but a deluded old fool, an obsessive who has obsessed for too long for the good of his own mens sana. And, if any substantial possibility of me being believed emerges, then he is under instruction to quietly dispense with me altogether. My belief is that he has also taken up another commission, and that in his eagerness to release himself to fulfil that, he has decided to ‘close the O’Doolite case’ quickly, almost before it has begun. Hence the oatcakes.”

“But, as you say, Siberia is a vast wilderness. Why should The Czar care a fig whether a meteorite crashes into it, or not?”

“He probably doesn’t care, but some of those around him do. They would regard a huge lump of rock being dumped on their doorstep by ‘foreign powers’ to be a grave insult. Add to that the current unrest in the Russian Empire, where half the population seems to have one grievance or another against the state, and is keen to express it, and we are left with a situation in which a display of weakness, in permitting their particular wilderness to be used as a protective shield for others, would be very unwelcome, and a crisis outside of their borders would be a welcome distraction, and a possible source of opportunity in the long-term.”

It was almost certainly the a lack of sleep the night before, but I confess that this was all beginning to sound at least faintly plausible to me.

“I see. At least, I think I see. Have I exhausted my list of questions?” I ticked them off on my fingers. They had all been answered in as much detail as I was capable of understanding, even the ‘how’ that I hadn’t asked. “Yes, and I don’t think I could take-in any more, even if you told me it.”

We were so absorbed in conversation that we had become oblivious to the coming and going of stations, so that when I looked out of the train I saw that we were approaching Water Eaton Junction; we had come one stop beyond our intended alighting point. We retrieved our bicycles from the guard, who was bold enough to make some remark about our untidy condition as he wished us well for the rest of our trip, and were heading toward the exit from the station, when Mr O’Doolite made a proposal.

“Nearholm, I really do need to check on the state of the Paltry workshops, I’m concerned that, while I’ve been away, the gin company may have further encroached into parts of the place not covered by their lease. They are good about it in most respects, and will increase their payment proportionally, but their men are awfully careless in moving our patterns and equipment about. Would you possibly be able to accompany me …… I’d value your opinion on the condition of the place.” I knew that he had absolutely no need of my opinion, and realised that he was afraid. The bringing of the story into the open had made him feel exposed in a way that he had not when containing it.

There followed a lengthy and circular negotiation, during which I attempted to persuade Theophilus that we should return to my home, rest properly, then make a simple day-trip to London on the morrow. I was keen to see my wife and children, and I should already have got Mirry to a resting place, but O’Doolite refused resolutely. I believe that he knew that I wanted to get him to spend some time where my wife could observe him, so that I could seek her opinion as to his mental state. The resolution was an overly complex plan, whereby I hired a cab from the station yard, into which we loaded the bicycles. I wrote a long note to my wife, a combination of apologies, explanations, instructions, and protestations of affection, and this I gave to the driver, along with a substantial tip and the promise of more on his return. The man was clearly suspicious of our intent, but he eventually departed on his mission. We repaired to the station hotel for a luncheon.

The cab driver returned about three hours later, bringing Mr O’Doolite’s belongings and a travelling bag containing fresh clothes and other essentials for me. There was also a note from my wife, which the driver handed to me with elaborate solemnity, and I decided not to read until we were underway to the metropolis. This was a wise precaution, because my wife’s words were quite stern, reminding me of several tasks that I should be attending to rather than ‘gallivanting around the country looking at old pyramids’ (she was used to me accompanying O’Doolite on some of his more interesting repair and restoration projects), and I had to work hard to hide the shame I felt at my neglect of domestic and business matters. We arrived in London at a very busy hour, the trains that took us from Euston Square to Paltry Circus being crowded with home-going workmen and clerks, and horribly stuffy as a consequence.

[RedGemAlchemist]

Wow. The Castle Aching universe has taken a very science fiction turn hasn't it?

[runs as required]

It shuld now be revealed:

Wrenching this tale out from the CA thread has revealed T. O'Doolite/O'Doolight to be none other than a re-incarnation of The Third Policeman played by Brendan Gleeson.

dh