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PREVIOUSLY IN MY NAKED SHAME
I
“You know I’m an investigator, don’t you?”
“The Tabloid Detective, according to my sources.”
“Venetia Haven-Smythe, at your service.”
“Major Damien Harris-Argyll, at yours.” He saluted briskly, oblivious to the slender brush he still held, which sprinkled his grey hair with flecks of pink…
II
My mobile phone rang. It was noon, according to my bedside clock – who was crazy enough to ring me at this ungodly hour? “Venetia Haven-Smythe here.”
“It's a miracle no one has killed you.”
“Rowena, Hi. Look, I’m sorry and all that. But the truth must be printed. It’s the way it must be.”
“Sod the truth…” Her voice dropped to a stagey whisper. “No, a real issue has come along. A mega-issue. I’ve dropped my PR, because… he’s involved in a plot to assassinate a famous public figure…”
III
Carefully removing the papers from the briefcase, I accessed the wires which controlled the bomb. The timer showed that 10-seconds were left. Which left me with a familiar conundrum – which wire to cut? Red? Blue? 9-seconds. This was a worse colour-induced headache than the screensaver. 8-seconds. Mauve? Turquoise? 7-seconds. An image of Biscuit, my first pony, jumped into my mind. 6-seconds. His photo in my hall hangs against a turquoise backdrop. I cut the turquoise wire. The timer halted at 5-seconds... I called Scotland Yard and disclosed Bane’s address… I’m currently recharging my batteries in England’s Exmoor…
…and now the continuation…
SHOWER SCENE
I stepped out of the shower with a towel wrapped around my midriff, half expecting a knife-wielding psycho to attack me. Except that this was a rented room in a pub, in a splendidly sleepy Devon town. Red face for me! Really, me and my tabloid detective mind – it can be a headache. It does me well to remember that the world is not packed full of twisted people and salacious events. Small wonder I had decided to take a break. Major Harris-Argyll even said he may pop down at some point, to capture the wild moor on canvas.
This evening, I had agreed to join the local group which had rented the pub’s large room, which was down the corridor from my own. Thoroughly dry, I dropped the towel over a chair and padded along barefoot, to mingle with roughly twenty members of the group. The headband I wore for the occasion was a favourite.
“Brilliant Venetia, you made it,” enthused freckled, portly, chairman of the club, Oliver (Olly) Harland (38). “On behalf of the Red Lion Nudist Club, I hereby welcome you to our little gathering here tonight.”
“Thank you.” Everyone else, apart from the utter lack of clothing, was engaged in polite discussion in small groups, a drink in hand. Men and women distinguished only by their nudity. Few could be considered trim. We were in a room of old oak, the walls of which were resplendent with ancient weaponry. “Er, why does a nudist group meet indoors during summer?”
“Straight to the point. How delightful. You are about to have your answer.” A six-foot square panel in the wall slid aside, revealing a granite slab, which glided into the room noiselessly. Several weapons had been plucked from the walls, and were now aimed at me. “The answer,” continued Oliver, “is that we are a devil worshiping cult, who just happen to meet skyclad. Tonight the act of annual renewal is at hand. Or sacrifice, if you will, to pay our subscription. This way.” He gestured towards the altar. My stay at the Red Lion had gone from mild to bitter.
To be continued…
