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  1. #1
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    Default Brenty Four 2013 - Chapter 22

    We had vowed never to speak of what happened to injure we three gentlemen that night with Lola Whitecastle but now it was a policeman doing the interrogating all bets were off.

    “Hello” he said with a chirpy Welsh accent. “I’m D.I. Thomas from Q Division and I’d like to talk to you about…”

    “I expect you’ll want to know what happened at Lola Whitecastle’s house and how we ended up with so many broken bones” I said quickly having broken down under cross questioning a little earlier than expected.

    “Well…” said Thomas, “I suppose so.”

    “I won’t deny that I would have caved in under pressure applied by an expert too, Dennis Brent, so I don’t blame you but the ease with which he wheedled it out of you means I don’t admire you either” hissed Francois Devine. I’d been expecting worse when he leant over as far as his confinement would allow to give me a hushed browbeating.

    “I think Francois Devine should go first as his part of the story is first chronologically” I said firmly.

    “Oh, very well” he sighed, secretly enjoying being the centre of attention, even if it was under the gaze of a hardened officer of the law.

    He cleared his throat as best he could without the safety net of a hand to intercept any stray morsels that might take their one and only chance to make a bid for freedom.

    “Well, it started with a telephone call from Whitecastle inviting me to her home to discuss my excellent proposition to write her autobiography using her fascinating treasure trove of documentation and unique research materials. I could tell she was keen so I agreed to attend. When I got there I found her home to be unnecessarily opulent but no more so than one would expect from a woman with the means to spend extravagantly and a long life in which to have done so. She offered me a drink.”

    “A glass of sherry and some nibbles would be extremely welcome” I said warmly.

    “The sherry I can do, I’m afraid I don’t have any nibbles.”

    “No nibbles?” I gasped.

    “You can nibble on me if you like” she replied nonsensically.

    “That doesn’t make any sense” I told her. “Kindly dispense the sherry and if you find anything edible en route I would be prepared to consider it.”

    I sat down on a snug two-seater sofa and tapped my fingers while she poured out a generous glass of sherry. She sat opposite and began talking.

    “Would you be more comfortable if you took your jacket off?”

    “I don’t think so. You keep this room at a sensible temperature. I trust that is a deliberate policy and not simply a result of your winter fuel payment being late coming through.”

    “I…”

    “Though I trust your priceless collection of documents is being kept at least five degrees cooler than this or they may have begun to perish.”

    “They are…” she began. I won’t tell you what she said after that just in case you use the information to burgle her before I begin work on my masterpiece.”

    I interrupted him.

    “Hold hard, Francois Devine, you haven’t got the contract yet. My own encounter with Lola Whitecastle was certainly encouraging and I would remind you that I am the only doctor of telehistory operating in the world and am therefore a much more sensible candidate.”

    “No you aren’t” he said childishly.

    “Yes I am” I replied honestly.

    “No you aren’t.”

    “Yes I am.”

    “No you aren’t.”

    “Yes I am.”

    “No you aren’t.”

    “Yes I am.”

    “No you aren’t.”

    “Yes I am.”

    “No you aren’t.”

    “Yes I am.”

    “No you aren’t.”

    “Yes I am.”

    “No you aren’t.”

    “Yes I am.”

    “No you aren’t.”

    “Yes I am.”

    “No you aren’t.”

    “Yes I am.”

    “No you aren’t.”

    “Yes I am.”

    “No you aren’t.”

    “Yes I am.”

    “No you aren’t.”

    “Yes I am.”

    “Gentlemen” interrupted D.I. Thomas. “Calm down can’t you?”

    “My apologies” I said.

    “Indeed” added Francois Devine.

    “You were saying” I prompted, “your little anecdote about Lola Whitecastle.”

    “Ah yes – I recall – I was drinking sherry and she was ridiculously suggesting I take my jacket off. Well, having refused that, I felt we were now on the same page. Unfortunately, we were also now on the same sofa as she moved over from her armchair and squeezed herself in alongside me.”

    “What did you do?” I asked, flustered on his behalf.

    “I asked her to move. She said she preferred it on the sofa with me. I would’ve developed my argument but she threw me by putting her hand on my thigh.”

    “What did you do?”

    “I moved it back onto her thigh.”

    “What did she do?”

    “Moved it back to my thigh.”

    “What did you do?”

    “Moved it back to her thigh.”

    “What did she do?”

    “Moved it back to my thigh.”

    What did you do?”

    “Moved it back to her thigh?”

    “What did she do?”

    “Moved my hand to her thigh.”

    “What did you do?”

    “Moved it back to my thigh.”

    “What did she do?”

    “Moved it back to her thigh.”

    “What did you do?”

    “Moved it back to my thigh.”

    “What did she do?”

    “Moved it back to her thigh.”

    “How long did this go on?”

    “Until I became a little confused and accidently moved my hand to her thigh and her hand to my thigh and she began to get the wrong idea.”

    “Oh dear.”

    “She lunged at me. She told me I was beautiful – which I am – and then lunged at me.”

    “What did you do?”

    “I told her, firmly but fairly, that I had eaten bigger baguettes than her and that – if forced to – I would toss her aside like a lightly soiled napkin or table cloth. This buttered no parsnips with her. She said she liked it when a man played hard to get, said something I refuse to believe about Captain Maitland from Adventures into Space and attempted to put her hand on my really quite upper thigh.”

    “How upper?”

    “As upper as a thigh can get.”

    “Disgusting.”

    “I saw that there was no way of talking my way out of this entanglement so I picked her up by the shoulders and sat her down on the arm of the sofa. She told me I was gorgeous – which is true – and that she wanted me in ways that no woman had ever wanted me before. I didn’t doubt her for a moment but said I was saving myself for her documentation. She said not to be so silly and that I could have both her and her papers if I really wanted to. I asked if it had to be in that order and she said I could have her in any order I wanted. I changed the subject rapidly.

    “I would like to talk figures” I told her.

    “You can talk about my figure all you like” she replied. I didn’t consider her remark added to the conversation so I ignored it.

    “Would £50,000 for my services be acceptable?”

    To her credit she sobered up – if drunk she had been – quickly when money was mentioned.

    “I understood you would be working for nothing” she babbled. “I wasn’t expecting to pay you. I thought you people wrote about things because you enjoy it in a weird way.”

    “What an almost amusing misunderstanding” I roared, laughing in her face and gaining myself a foot or so of personal space which I was rather pleased with. “I am not requesting payment from you – I am offering my services and £50,000 as what we shall call an archive access administration fee.”

    “You’ll give me £50,000 and write my book for nothing?”

    “I will.”

    “And you’ll come upstairs with me and end this evening with a bang?”

    “I will not.”

    I dashed over to the front door.

    “Fax me if my terms and conditions are acceptable.”

    “I don’t have your fax number” she called. “Come back here and write it on my body in lipstick.”

    “I’ll leave my card by the door. Good evening.”

    I dashed out into the cold night air, feeling confident that I’d done enough to earn the commission but also glad I’d seen the danger signs and escaped with my dignity. I shall leave the story at that point – what happened next is undignified and unnecessary.”

    “Wow” said Thomas. “That’s quite a story. Anyway, I’d like to ask Mr Brent…”

    “Oh if you insist” I snapped. “I’ll tell you what happened when I went round to Lola Whitecastle’s house but I warn you – it’s far, far worse than Francois Devine’s little story.”
    Dennis, Francois, Melba and Smasher are competing to see who can wine and dine Lola Whitecastle and win the contract to write her memoirs. Can Dennis learn how to be charming? Can Francois concentrate on anything else when food is on the table? Will Smasher keep his temper under control?

    If only the 28th century didn't keep popping up to get in Dennis's way...

    #dammitbrent



    The eleventh annual Brenty Four serial is another Planet Skaro exclusive. A new episode each day until Christmas in the Brenty Four-um.

  2. #2
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    Worse! How could having a W-O-M-A-N put her hand on your upper t-h-i-g-h get any worse!?

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