Inspector Flint peered down the shaft. ‘You’ll do no such thing,’ he shouted, ‘we don’t want her decapitated. We need her all in one piece.’
‘She is all in one bloody piece,’ came Barney’s muffled reply, ‘that’s one thing you don’t have to worry about.’
‘Can’t you tie the rope around something else?’
‘Well I could,’ Barney conceded, ‘but I’m not going to. A leg is more likely to come off than her head and I’m not going to be underneath her when it goes.’
‘All right.’ said the Inspector, ‘I just hope you know what you’re doing, that’s all.’
‘I’ll tell you one thing. The sod who put her down here knew what he was doing and no mistake.’
But this fifth attempt failed, like the previous four, and Judy was lowered into the depths where she rested heavily on Barney’s foot.
‘Go and get that bloody crane,’ he shouted, ‘I can’t stand much more of this.’
‘Nor can I,’ muttered the Inspector, who still couldn’t make up his mind what it was he was supposed to be disinterring; a doll dressed up to look like Mrs Wilt or Mrs Wilt dressed up to look like something some demented sculptor forgot to finish. What few doubts he had had about Wilt’s sanity had been entirely dispelled by what he was presently witnessing. Any man who could go to the awful lengths Wilt had gone to render, and the word was entirely apposite whichever way you took it, either his wife or a plastic doll with a vagina, both inaccessible and horribly mutilated, must be insane.
Sergeant Yates put his thoughts into words. ‘You’re not going to tell me now that the bastard isn’t off his rocker,’ he said, as the crane was moved into position and the rope lowered and attached to Judy’s neck.
‘All right, now take her away,’ shouted Barney.
In the dining-room only Dr Board was enjoying his lunch. The eight members of the CNAA committee weren’t. Their eyes were glued to the scene below.
‘I suppose it could be said she was in statue pupillari,’ said Dr Board, helping himself to some more Lemon Meringue, ‘in which case we stand in loco parentis. Not a pleasant thought, gentlemen. Not that she was ever a very bright student. I once had her for an Evening Class in French literature. I don’t know what she got out of Fleurs du Mal but I do remember thinking that Baudelaire…’
‘Dr Board,’ said Dr Mayfield drunkenly, ‘for a so-called cultured man you are entirely without feeling.’
‘Something I share with the late Mrs Wilt, by the look of things.’ said Dr Board, glancing out of the window, ‘and while we are still on the subject, things seem to be coming to a head. They do indeed.’ Even Dr Cox, recently revived and coaxed into having some mutton, looked out of the window. As the crane slowly winched Judy into view the Course Board and the Committee rose and went to watch. It was an unedifying sight. Near the top of the shaft Judy’s left leg caught in a crevice while her outstretched arm embedded itself in the clay.
‘Hold it,’ shouted Barney indistinctly, but it was too late. Unnerved by the nature of his load or in the mistaken belief that be had been told to lift harder, the crane driver hoisted away. There was a ghastly cracking sound as the noose tightened and the next moment Judy’s concrete head, capped by Eva Wilt’s wig, looked as if it was about to fulfil Inspector Flint’s prediction that she would be decapitated. In the event he need not have worried. Judy was made of sterner stuff than might have been expected. As the head continued to rise and the body to remain firmly embedded in the shaft Judy’s neck rose to the occasion. It stretched.
‘Dear God,’ said Professor Baxendale frantically, ‘Will it never end?’
