“Gentleman?” said Jim.
“Big fat fellow,” said the waitress. “Spoke with a posh voice.”
“Thank you.” Jim took the envelope, opened it and pulled out a small white piece of card.
On it was written, Come at midnight to my office. You may bring your companion. This is very important.
Jim turned the card over. It was a business card. A name and address were printed in elegant script upon it.
The address Jim recognized.
Also the name.
The name was that of Mr Compton-Cummings.
25
“Well,” said Jim. “What an unexpected occurrence.”
“My surprise exceeds your own,” said John. “When it comes to unexpected occurrences, this one is truly in a class by itself.”
“Are you taking the piss?” Jim asked.
“Yes. Weren’t you?”
Jim nodded, tore up the business card and dropped the pieces into the ashtray. “Compton- Cummings indeed!” he said. “Meet me at midnight indeed!” he continued. “As if there is any way I’m going to fall for that”
“What time is it?” Jim asked.
Omally turned back his shirt cuff and consulted his running gag. “Midnight,” he said.
Jim looked up at the moonlit building. “There’s a light on in his office. What should we do, just knock at the door?”
“That would be the obvious thing, yes. But are you absolutely certain you wouldn’t prefer spinning round in circles, flapping your hands, or simply running away to your cosy bed?”
“Are you implying something, John?”
“Oh no. Absolutely not. But would you just care to tell me exactly what we’re doing here?”
“We’ve come to see Mr Compton-Cummings.”
“But Mr Compton-Cummings is dead, Jim.”
“Yes, I know that. I’m not stupid.”
“You don’t feel then that the fact that he’s dead might make conversation with him a rather onesided affair?”
“I’m going to knock at the door,” said Jim. “And find out just what’s going on.”
Omally shook his head. “I don’t believe this,” he said. “I really don’t.”
KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK, went Jim. And it really does go KNOCK at midnight. A light came on in the hall. Bolts were drawn and the door opened a crack. The face of Celia Penn looked out. “I knew you’d come,” she said.
“There you are.” John grinned at Jim. “Logical explanation. She sent the card.”
“I did,” said Celia, ushering them inside and closing the door.
“So what is it?” John asked. “What’s up?”
“Mr Compton-Cummings wants to speak with you.”
“Ah.”
Through the outer office and into the inner. And there he was. Bulging away behind his desk. Mr Compton-Cummings, large as life. Well, larger really. And Professor Slocombe was with him.
“Ah,” said John once more.
“Stone me,” said Jim.
“Gentlemen,” said the larger than life genealogist. “Welcome. Pray sit yourselves down.”
Jim nodded towards the Professor. “Hello,” he said.
“It’s good to see you, Jim. All the broken bones thoroughly mended?”
“Temporarily.”
“Sit down then.”
Pooley and Omally took their seats by the door. Well, somehow you just would, wouldn’t you?
“You’re not dead,” Jim observed. “How do you account for that?”
Mr Compton-Cummings had a bottle of brandy on his desk. He also had five glasses. These he filled. And these he passed around. “A ruse,” said he. “A necessary one.”
“You certainly had me convinced.”
“And others, hopefully.”
John sipped his brandy. “Magic,” he said.
Jim sipped his. “I hope it goes down well with that champagne Neville gave you.”
“You didn’t drink any of yours, Jim.”
“Curiously I didn’t feel I deserved it.”
“Gentlemen,” said the Professor. “Mr Compton-Cummings has much to say to you. Do you feel that you’re up to listening?”
“Absolutely,” said John.
Jim made a sound which might have meant yes.
“Good. Mr Compton-Cummings, if you will.”
“Thank you, Professor.” The fat man put down his glass and interlaced his fingers over his ample belly.
“Mr Pooley,” he said. “As you must now be aware, you play a most important role in matters appertaining to Brentford and indeed the rest of the world.”
“Eh?” said Jim.
“When I traced your lineage and discovered the ‘great wind from the East’ passage, I also discovered what it actually meant: that one of your forefathers had murdered the monk and acquired the Brentford Scrolls.”
“Such is sadly the case,” said Jim.
“And as you also know, Ms Penn here encoded the location of the scrolls into my book. And you were sent the only unpulped copy.”
“Yes, but that wasn’t how I found them.”
“No, the Professor has told me about the time travelling.”
“He’s very good at it,” said John. “Well, going backwards, anyway.”
“Quite so. But whatever the case, it had to be you who found the scrolls. And you did.”
“Why did it have to be me?” Jim asked.
“You are the last of your line.”
“So why does that matter?”
“These things do,” said Mr Compton-Cummings. “Trust me, they just do.”
“I thought something really clever was coming then,” said John.
“I expect it’s being saved for later,” said Jim.
“Do they always do this?” the genealogist asked the Professor.
“They are individuals,” said the ancient.
“Don’t start on that.”
“Sorry, Jim.”
“It was necessary for me to fake my own death.” Mr Compton-Cummings tinkered with a Masonic watch fob which had escaped previous mention. “Certain dark forces, who do not want the millennium
