In the dining room of Much Malarkey Manor, Inspector Spectre is standing beneath a magnificent standard lamp situated in the corner of the room. Some might say he is doing this for dramatic effect because there is nothing Kenneth the Phantomime likes better than being lit from his best side, but in truth he has managed to get his cloak caught on the ornamental wrought iron of the lampstand and is trying to work out how to free himself without a) drawing attention to his predicament and b) bringing the whole lamp crashing to the ground and smashing the Tiffany glass shade into a thousand tiny pieces. He is pretty sure his Inspector Spectre insurance does not cover him for antique lamp damage.
Mrs Miggins has adopted the mode of ‘being in charge’.
‘Can we get on with this quickly, Inspector Spectre?’ she says, marching to the drinks cabinet and pouring herself a large 7Up. ‘It’s Christmas Day, after all, and I’m sure you would rather be elsewhere. I know we all would.’
The other hens nod and cluck in agreement.
Inspector Spectre, to his relief, manages to free himself of the lampstand although he can see he has snagged a thread on his cloak which is rather irksome. And yes, he would indeed prefer to be elsewhere, preferably warm and Caribbean, but for now he has a paid gig to execute and, like all those employed in the performing arts industry at the moment, he can’t afford to turn down work no matter how naff the script and costume. He takes a step into the room.
‘Where is the other member of your household?’ he says. ‘I see four hens but I believe there is another resident at the Manor?’
The hens look at each other, puzzled. None of them wants to mention the absence of Lady Malarkey for although she has done a VERY BAD THING, they are all quite fond of her, and it’s usually her who does the Christmas Day washing up so they can’t be having her carted off to the clink. Not until Boxing Day at least.
‘Ooooh yes!’ says Mrs Pumphrey, suddenly and perhaps a little too shrilly. ‘You mean Ptolemy Pheasant, don’t you? He arrived just before the party. With cockle pies!’
The other hens breathe out. Clever Mrs Pumphrey!
‘I’ll go and fetch him!’ says Mrs Pumphrey. ‘He’s probably waiting upstairs for a spot of how’s your father. He likes a bit of how’s your father after a party. Did I say how’s your father? I mean toast. That’s what he likes after a party. Toast!’
And she scurries off, looking a bit pink and unnecessary around the cheek area. Mrs Slocombe emits a small tut. ‘How’s your father, indeed!’ she says.
Inspector Spectre isn’t sure he meant Ptolemy Pheasant, and he has no idea whose father has suddenly become involved in the proceedings. Perhaps she means Father Christmas? Who knows? He is still a bit distracted by the pulled thread in his cloak and he also doesn’t want to appear that he hasn’t a clue what he is doing so he chooses to ignore the euphemisms and plough onwards.
‘Yes,’ he says. ‘That’s who I mean. Mr T Pheasant. So whilst we wait for Mrs Pumphrey and Mr T. Pheasant to return, I shall begin my investigation of this most serious matter.’
'It's Mr P Pheasant, actually,' says Mrs Miggins. 'The P is silent...' (I'll let you make up your own jokes about that.)
‘I really don’t see that any of this is necessary,’ says Mrs Poo. ‘Surely Father Christmas is a myth, invented by parents in order to control the behaviour of their children during the year, or at least the months of November and December anyway? You know, all that ‘Behave yourself or Father Christmas will put you on his naughty list’ twaddle?’
‘Aaaah,’ says Inspector Spectre. ‘So you are a cynic, are you, Mrs Poo? You are denying this heinous crime of murder on the basis that you believe the victim does not exist in the first place?’
‘Stands to reason,’ says Mrs Poo. ‘You can’t kill something you don’t believe in, can you?’
‘You might not be able to,’ says Inspector Spectre, ‘but what if he was murdered by someone who DID believe in him? Eh? Eh??? Answer me that, young fellow-me-chicken.’
‘Have we slipped into an episode of ‘Dixon of Dock Green?’ says Mrs Poo. ‘And for your information, Inspector Spectre, I am NOT a lad. I am a lady.’
‘Just trying to be inclusive,’ says Inspector Spectre. ‘Don’t want to be offending anyone.’
‘Your very presence is offending me,’ says Mrs Poo. ‘Does that mean you’ll leave now?’
‘No,’ says Inspector Spectre. ‘But feel free to make a complaint to my superior officer.’
‘Who is?’ says Mrs Poo.
‘Chief Inspector Spectre,’ says Inspector Spectre.
‘Of course,’ says Mrs Poo.
Inspector Spectre coughs and turns his attention to Mrs Slocombe. ‘Do you believe in Father Christmas?’ he says.
‘Yes,’ says Mrs Slocombe, because although she might have been wavering on the side of ‘not sure’ she has decided she does now, having seen him in person asleep in the second best rocking chair in front of her Aga in the kitchen barely three hours ago. Unless he was one of those Santagrams, of course, come to sing a festive song and flash his festive boxer shorts. Like at the H.I (Hens’ Institute) Christmas Party 2019 when Mrs Bennet had to be revived after fainting when it was evident the Scottish Santagram really wasn’t wearing anything under his Christmas kilt…
Then, ‘No! No, I don’t…’ she says, realising that if she admits to the existence of Father Christmas she will, by Inspector Spectre’s reasoning, put herself into the frame as a potential murder suspect.
‘Make up your mind, madam,’ says Inspector Spectre. ‘You either do or you don’t. Let’s not muddy the waters by sitting on the metaphorical fence.’
Mrs Slocombe’s flusterment (Awarded ‘The Favourite Invented Word’ trophy for 2021) is growing at an alarming rate so Mrs Poo steps in for the rescue…
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