“Let’s go over it again, sir, shall we?” Detective Sergeant Walpole stared down at Peter’s statement, his patience sorely tried.
The complainant sat in an armchair with blanket around his knees, sipping a tiny glass of Madeira. He had not offered one to the Sergeant.
“I’ve already told you a dozen times,” Peter replied peevishly. “I really don’t see what…”
“Not much to go on, is there, sir?” Walpole scanned the sheet, “You were writing a poem, the doorbell rang. You opened the door and the step was on fire. As you stamped the flames out you found out it was a paperbag filled with ‘dog doo’.”
“I have been traumatised on my own doorstep,” Peter protested. “Shouldn’t you be canvassing the neighbourhood for witnesses?”
The policeman sighed. “Perhaps if we could establish some kind of motive?”
“Lunacy,” Peter rearranged the blanket about his knees primly.
“Can you think of anybody who’d have a grudge against you?” Walpole persisted, feeling he might soon join their number.
“No,” The poet was adamant, until it came to him. “Yes!”
“And who might that be?” Walpole clicked his ballpoint encouragingly.
“Rowan Smallpiece,” the poet’s eyes burned in his head. “It’s just his sort of twisted handiwork.”
“And why would…?”
“He picked his nose and ate it. During ‘Onward Christian Soldiers’. I had him thrown out of the choir.”
Walpole faltered over his notes, “And this was…?”
“First year of Big School,” came the prompt reply. “1973.”
“That’s a very long time ago, sir,” said the policeman, slipping his notebook back inside his jacket and getting warily to his feet.
“Ah, but if looks could kill, Sergeant,” Peter’s eyes bored into his, and then focused on a faraway place as Walpole, with the usual assurances, saw himself out. “If looks could only kill.”
The complainant sat in an armchair with blanket around his knees, sipping a tiny glass of Madeira. He had not offered one to the Sergeant.
“I’ve already told you a dozen times,” Peter replied peevishly. “I really don’t see what…”
“Not much to go on, is there, sir?” Walpole scanned the sheet, “You were writing a poem, the doorbell rang. You opened the door and the step was on fire. As you stamped the flames out you found out it was a paperbag filled with ‘dog doo’.”
“I have been traumatised on my own doorstep,” Peter protested. “Shouldn’t you be canvassing the neighbourhood for witnesses?”
The policeman sighed. “Perhaps if we could establish some kind of motive?”
“Lunacy,” Peter rearranged the blanket about his knees primly.
“Can you think of anybody who’d have a grudge against you?” Walpole persisted, feeling he might soon join their number.
“No,” The poet was adamant, until it came to him. “Yes!”
“And who might that be?” Walpole clicked his ballpoint encouragingly.
“Rowan Smallpiece,” the poet’s eyes burned in his head. “It’s just his sort of twisted handiwork.”
“And why would…?”
“He picked his nose and ate it. During ‘Onward Christian Soldiers’. I had him thrown out of the choir.”
Walpole faltered over his notes, “And this was…?”
“First year of Big School,” came the prompt reply. “1973.”
“That’s a very long time ago, sir,” said the policeman, slipping his notebook back inside his jacket and getting warily to his feet.
“Ah, but if looks could kill, Sergeant,” Peter’s eyes bored into his, and then focused on a faraway place as Walpole, with the usual assurances, saw himself out. “If looks could only kill.”
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3 comments:
Ah, the universal theme of burning dog poo on the doorstep again emerges! Tempting...very tempting.
Some themes transcend time, No One. As, in the words of the immortal Connie Francis............
" Dog doo on your doorstep
Told a tale on you."
I thought it was "jism on your blazer".
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