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nineveh_ukWhich is by way of a sequel to the aforementioned fic by ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
antisoppist, in which Peter and Harriet are consigned to a haystack on their wedding night.
Some time later that night...
Raggle-taggle
Mr Mervyn Bunter had slept in worse places than the front seat of the Daimler, with worse blankets than his Burberry and a plaid travelling rug. But he was out of practice, the night was a cold one, and he had smoked only half his cigarette before rolling up the window against the necessarily restrained, but still distinctly amorous murmurings emanating from the haystack on the far side of the field. Thus it was that he woke at daybreak not to the expected dawn chorus, but a mysterious scratching sound in the region of the driver’s side door, and was just in time to feign slumber as an unknown face appeared at the window.
The scratching stopped, to be replaced by voices.
‘Eh, there’s a bloke asleep in there.’
‘Let’s have a – you’re right. Gent, by the look of ‘im.’
‘What’s a gent doing asleep in the middle of the field?’
‘Come home smelling of roses once too often, I reckon.’
‘Reckon away,’ this last a harsher voice, ‘but get that door open. It’s getting light.’
Damn! If it were possible for the honeymoon to take a turn for the worse, the theft of Mrs Merdle – not to mention the port – and the stranding of the party in a field somewhere outside Paggleham was surely it. Given the lack of an attempt on the soft roof, the intent was evidently to steal the car without damaging her, and the obvious solution to shift at speed into the driver’s seat and make a break for it. It was unfortunate therefore that at an earlier stage of the night the keys had proved a source of discomfort and presently resided somewhere or other on the floor, and that the rug had wrapped itself tightly around his legs, preventing any sort of swift or unobstrusive egress. The knife that had done so well by the claret and foie gras lay in the hamper in the backseat, and his lordship considered tyre irons vulgar. He almost found himself regretting the invitation to share in the bridal haystack.
In any case, it was too late. The man with the picklock completed his work and stood back as his chief opened the door. As the cold air entered the car, Bunter allowed his eyes to flicker blearily, and affected a suitably protesting accent.
‘I say! Just what d’you think you’re doin’?’
The lined face broke into a sneer, accompanied by a highly implausible accent.
‘What d’you think you’re doin’? I’m taking your car, that’s what I’m doing. Now get out, and no funny business.’
‘My good man!’
‘Out. Hold him, Bill.’
Bunter disentangled himself from the rug, carefully kicking the keys far under the seat as he did so, and crawled across the seat, taking care to inadvertently brush the horn, which sounded with a startled “parp!”.
‘Oi! Watch that! Bill, I tole you once. Now you,’ as Bunter found himself in the firm grip of the man Bill, ‘where’re the keys?’
Bunter smiled. Not amateurs, he thought, but none too professional, not local, and judging by the difficulties the fourth man at the entrance to the field was having with the horse, definitely not the owners of the smart-looking caravan and its escort.
‘’Aven’t got them, mate.’
‘What?’
‘You think this is my car? Don’t be daft. Jim took ‘em. I’ve got the car, e’s got the keys. Neither of us c’n cross the other.’
‘Bloody hell. All right, Bill, get him out of the way and let’s have a look at her. Reckon you can wire her, Tom?’
‘No problem, boss.’
‘Good. Then get her away – take her to Frank and let him have a look - and we’ll get the keys off the other bugger when he comes - what?’
‘He was lying about the keys.’ They swung from the third man’s horny finger, gleaming faintly silver in the dim light of morning. Bunter slumped against the car. He’d faced worse odds, but the men looked big enough to be a problem, and whatever the inconvenience to her ladyship it was hard to feel sentimental about the seventeenth Mrs Merdle. He sighed.
‘All right, I know when I’m beaten.’
‘Wise man. When you tell Scotland Yard, make sure to mention it was Gypsy Reg and his gang as did you.’
‘I’ll do that,’ said Bunter, essaying a token struggle that nonetheless necessitated a man on each arm. ‘But before you go, one, your man Tom’s got his eye on your place, two, that’s not your horse and you’re not bloody gyppos, and three – thank you, my lord.’
‘Think nothing of it,’ said his lordship, swinging the young branch against the ground with a satisfying clunk. ‘Have we anything to tie these chaps up with? Harriet’s gone for the police. I don’t think we’ll bother with the other chap – I can’t see him getting far on that horse.’
‘Indeed, my lord.’
Half an hour later found the party ensconced in the police station at Great Pagford recounting their respective stories over a cup of tea.
‘Well, now,’ said the Superintendent, ‘you have had a night of it. But Reg Varley won’t be going anywhere for a while, and I’m grateful to you for that. So if you’re ready, we’ll go down to that new house of yours and find out where old Noakes has got to.’
antisoppist, in which Peter and Harriet are consigned to a haystack on their wedding night.Some time later that night...
Raggle-taggle
Mr Mervyn Bunter had slept in worse places than the front seat of the Daimler, with worse blankets than his Burberry and a plaid travelling rug. But he was out of practice, the night was a cold one, and he had smoked only half his cigarette before rolling up the window against the necessarily restrained, but still distinctly amorous murmurings emanating from the haystack on the far side of the field. Thus it was that he woke at daybreak not to the expected dawn chorus, but a mysterious scratching sound in the region of the driver’s side door, and was just in time to feign slumber as an unknown face appeared at the window.
The scratching stopped, to be replaced by voices.
‘Eh, there’s a bloke asleep in there.’
‘Let’s have a – you’re right. Gent, by the look of ‘im.’
‘What’s a gent doing asleep in the middle of the field?’
‘Come home smelling of roses once too often, I reckon.’
‘Reckon away,’ this last a harsher voice, ‘but get that door open. It’s getting light.’
Damn! If it were possible for the honeymoon to take a turn for the worse, the theft of Mrs Merdle – not to mention the port – and the stranding of the party in a field somewhere outside Paggleham was surely it. Given the lack of an attempt on the soft roof, the intent was evidently to steal the car without damaging her, and the obvious solution to shift at speed into the driver’s seat and make a break for it. It was unfortunate therefore that at an earlier stage of the night the keys had proved a source of discomfort and presently resided somewhere or other on the floor, and that the rug had wrapped itself tightly around his legs, preventing any sort of swift or unobstrusive egress. The knife that had done so well by the claret and foie gras lay in the hamper in the backseat, and his lordship considered tyre irons vulgar. He almost found himself regretting the invitation to share in the bridal haystack.
In any case, it was too late. The man with the picklock completed his work and stood back as his chief opened the door. As the cold air entered the car, Bunter allowed his eyes to flicker blearily, and affected a suitably protesting accent.
‘I say! Just what d’you think you’re doin’?’
The lined face broke into a sneer, accompanied by a highly implausible accent.
‘What d’you think you’re doin’? I’m taking your car, that’s what I’m doing. Now get out, and no funny business.’
‘My good man!’
‘Out. Hold him, Bill.’
Bunter disentangled himself from the rug, carefully kicking the keys far under the seat as he did so, and crawled across the seat, taking care to inadvertently brush the horn, which sounded with a startled “parp!”.
‘Oi! Watch that! Bill, I tole you once. Now you,’ as Bunter found himself in the firm grip of the man Bill, ‘where’re the keys?’
Bunter smiled. Not amateurs, he thought, but none too professional, not local, and judging by the difficulties the fourth man at the entrance to the field was having with the horse, definitely not the owners of the smart-looking caravan and its escort.
‘’Aven’t got them, mate.’
‘What?’
‘You think this is my car? Don’t be daft. Jim took ‘em. I’ve got the car, e’s got the keys. Neither of us c’n cross the other.’
‘Bloody hell. All right, Bill, get him out of the way and let’s have a look at her. Reckon you can wire her, Tom?’
‘No problem, boss.’
‘Good. Then get her away – take her to Frank and let him have a look - and we’ll get the keys off the other bugger when he comes - what?’
‘He was lying about the keys.’ They swung from the third man’s horny finger, gleaming faintly silver in the dim light of morning. Bunter slumped against the car. He’d faced worse odds, but the men looked big enough to be a problem, and whatever the inconvenience to her ladyship it was hard to feel sentimental about the seventeenth Mrs Merdle. He sighed.
‘All right, I know when I’m beaten.’
‘Wise man. When you tell Scotland Yard, make sure to mention it was Gypsy Reg and his gang as did you.’
‘I’ll do that,’ said Bunter, essaying a token struggle that nonetheless necessitated a man on each arm. ‘But before you go, one, your man Tom’s got his eye on your place, two, that’s not your horse and you’re not bloody gyppos, and three – thank you, my lord.’
‘Think nothing of it,’ said his lordship, swinging the young branch against the ground with a satisfying clunk. ‘Have we anything to tie these chaps up with? Harriet’s gone for the police. I don’t think we’ll bother with the other chap – I can’t see him getting far on that horse.’
‘Indeed, my lord.’
Half an hour later found the party ensconced in the police station at Great Pagford recounting their respective stories over a cup of tea.
‘Well, now,’ said the Superintendent, ‘you have had a night of it. But Reg Varley won’t be going anywhere for a while, and I’m grateful to you for that. So if you’re ready, we’ll go down to that new house of yours and find out where old Noakes has got to.’
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Date: 2010-07-22 11:25 am (UTC)