Кирил Бонфильоли - The Great Mortdecai Moustache Mystery

‘And …?’ I murmured coaxingly.

‘ Sixth , I formed the opinion that Fellworthy is stark, staring fucking bonkers. Believed to be “suffering from mental abnormality,” as we say in the Force.’

‘Goodness, Holmes, did the Bucks. flatties tell you that, “in their own words,” as you say in the Force?’

‘Yessir. Well, they rabbitted on about our client’s general deportment and demeanour and I made the inference from the signs and symptoms described. I have been studying Forensic Psychology for my Inspector’s Examination, you see.’

‘I see.’

‘That’s if I ever get my sodding Sergeant’s stripes,’ he added bitterly.

‘Holmes,’ I said, ‘it is clear to the meanest intelligence that you are a man of destiny. If – in this order – I; the Chief Constable of Oxfordshire; the Warden of Scone; and Heaven have any say in the matter, those stripes shall shortly be glistering upon your sleeve like jewels in an Ethiop’s ear. Particularly since your own DCI will soon be bashfully taking the credit for solving not one but two fiendish murders, unaided by human hand such as yours and mine. I’m sure you follow me?’

‘Yessir,’ he said.

‘Now; the reasoning behind your inference that Dr Fellworthy is potty?’

‘Insensate rages, like I said; but switching instantaneously, at will, to calm normality and charm. Classic schizo and paranoiac pattern. Like, one moment a bloke is chasing his wife with a meat-axe, frothing at the mouth; next moment, when the police and doctors arrive, he’s relaxed in an armchair, offering sherry, apologising that his wife called them out and hinting that she’s having a bad menopause. Classic.’

‘Hmm. Particular examples in this case?’

‘Yessir. Stopped for speeding once; cursed and screamed at the motorcycle officer in a demented way. Patrol car pulls up and he greets the officers matily, offers to submit to the breathalyser (no reaction) and says that he probably was going a bit over the speed limit; thought the officer who stopped him was one of them Hell’s Angels. In court next week, perfect performance as a good citizen; had had a hard day, everything going wrong – you know – regrets if he expressed himself a little freely to the officer; sorry to take up the court’s time etc., etc. Not a dry eye in the house. Not a stain on his character. On the way home, stops at the greengrocer’s and froths at the mouth horribly because they haven’t got any fresh lettuce.’

‘Surely, you mean the chemist’s , Holmes?’

‘No, sir, it was a fresh lettuce he wanted, not—’

‘Sorry, go on. The image of a psychopathic personality does seem to emerge. Dip into the bag again.’

‘Well, that fence you seen on the side of his drive. Frenzied he was about that. Frenzied. His gardener reckoned that half the number of posts would do the work and look better: he used horrible language at the gardener, sacked him on the spot. Same evening, he goes round to the gardener’s cottage, gives him a bottle of Scotch and three months’ wages and hopes there’s no hard feelings. Gardener accepts the wages, rejects the Scotch (being teetotal) and tells Dr F. to F. off.’ Something stirred in the Mortdecai brain-pan, just the first faint ‘blup’ of half-awakened porridge but an unmistakable ‘blup.’

A second viewing failed to heighten my opinion of the Fellworthy mansion. Long and flat and immaculately featureless, it had obviously been erected by an anally retentive dwarf with a low-grade O level in Lego.

‘Never trust a gentleman who lives in a bungalow, sir,’ said Holmes, as we sailed up the drive, passing the hideous fence.

‘At least he’ll never be able to dress up as his dear deceased Mama and throw prowlers headlong down the stairs,’ I riposted, recalling the fate of the poor detective who took a tumble at the Bates Motel.

‘Very true, sir.’ Holmes was the ideal travelling companion, always bowing to one’s better judgement.

Beside the front door, a bronze plaque carried an inscription that seemed to confirm earlier reports of the somewhat schizophrenic nature of Dr Fellworthy’s personality. “W.W. Fellworthy, MD (Oxon), FRCP, FRS” it read, “Trespassers Will Be Taken Care Of.”

Before ringing the bell, I took the opportunity to spy through the spy-hole. I was met by another eye, spying back at me. The alien eye disappeared, there was the ostentatious sound of the unhooking of chains and the front door swung open while I was still bent double. The man who greeted us was as neat as a new pin, and nearly as lean. His face was so spruce that it might have been cleaned and scrubbed on a daily basis, employing only the spittle of young aristocrats. A pair of pince-nez was clipped onto a nose as sharp and ruthless as a kitchen appliance. But my eyes locked on to the feature that seemed to crawl along his upper lip like a worm dipped in soot. Never has a moustache been more like an eyebrow, and a well-plucked eyebrow at that. Had it been any skimpier, it might have doubled as a coastal footpath on an Ordnance Survey map.

‘How very good of you to come, Mr, ah …’ said the doctor, outstretching a well-polished paw. I watched as his eyes hovered in envy over my infinitely more luxuriant and manly meadow.

“Mortdecai,’ I said. ‘The Honourable Charlie. My father was er … yes … hmm …’ I sometimes feel it appropriate to drop the odd clue to my aristocratic credentials. ‘And this is my young assistant, Detective Constable Holmes.’

‘Come in, gentlemen, come in!’ Fellworthy made an elaborate display of wiping his spotless shoes on the doormat, even though he had not been outside. Holmes and I took the hint and followed suit. I watched as six brisk swipes of Holmes’s shoes saw hairs of brush fly all over the shop and great arid valleys of nothingness appear upon the mat. Holmes was a solidly-built man who clearly put his black belt in karate to good use in even the most mundane of household tasks.

Fellworthy appeared not to notice the absconding bristles as they jetted haphazardly this way and that, though I fancy I saw his wormy moustache slither vainly in protest, even as his mouth busily choreographed itself into an ingratiating smile.

I decided to set the man at his ease with a bit of idle chat. ‘I couldn’t help but notice that you have a moustache hidden on your face, Doctor,’ I began. ‘Just above the lip, if I’m not mistaken. May I ask you how long have you been attempting to cultivate it?’

Fellworthy didn’t miss a beat. ‘How very kind of you to ask, Mr Mortdecai,’ he replied. ‘I have been the owner of a moustache for twenty-three years.’

‘Twenty-three years,’ I sighed compassionately, ‘and still little bigger than a beansprout.’ I lovingly stroked my own great rainforest, now so luxuriant that a well-planned expedition into its interior might well have found Mr Kurtz and chums exchanging pleasantries at its very heart. ‘It might be time to start thinking of growing another one alongside it. The poor wee thing looks so very, very lonely. It could do with a little friend to keep it company. They could hold hands, sing songs and keep each other warm during those long winter nights.’

During the course of my sage advice, the doctor developed a nervous twitch that began to play havoc with his frozen smile. ‘You are, I believe, here on business, gentlemen,’ he twitched, removing his pince-nez and placing them on one of those tables best suited to hosting a TV dinner. ‘You will understand that my time is … er … limited. Not to mention, ahem, costly.’