SAOS: Chapter Fourteen: The Good Silversmith Sven.

       Nics was waiting for him across the road from the building where she'd had her meeting. She was staring very intensely at a flock of pink plastic flamingos a hundred metres or so down the river from her. A single swan with one cygnet was swimming around in between them.

      "I thought I saw one of them move," she said, by way of an explanation. She sneezed suddenly, and across the river a hapless passer-by tripped and fell into the river.

      "How was the meeting?" asked Chas.

      "As always. Though at coffee there was discussion about this new show that's getting rave reviews. Theatre of the Absurd, it's called. It's supposed to be on tour soon."

      "Oh?" said Chas politely. Theatre did absolutely nothing for him; unless there were lots of car chases and explosions, he just wasn't interested.

      "Let's find some lunch," he said, in the hopes of diverting her before she suggested they go check the show out.

      They took the Tube to Camden town, Nics idly reading all the posters lined up along the escalator walls. One in particular caught her eye, an ad for a new musical on the West End, called "The Second Marriage, or, The Triumph of Hope (Over Experience)". From the pictures it looked like a Victorian melodrama.

      Chas's attention was caught, not by the ads, but by a small brown mouse that looked at him from the sidewall at the top of the escalator and wiggled its whiskers and twitched its nose at him. It opened its little mouth and quacked at him, just as the escalator took him out of sight of it.

      "That mouse just quacked," he said in surprise.

      "Must've been a ninja duck in disguise," said Nics absently, engrossed in looking at the posters for the latest films. There was a very large ad up among the usual movie posters. "London, City of Birds," it said. That was all.

      On the Tube she stared with a palpable hatred at a man wearing a bright red shiny satin zoot suit. He was carrying a trombone, and was totally oblivious to her stare.

      Chas poked her.

      "You're being rude..." he hissed.

      "He was in my dream," she said, scowling. But she stopped staring.

      Camden Town was busy, though not quite so busy as it had been the last time they were there, by virtue of it being a weekday rather than a Saturday. Still though, there were plenty of people walking around, most of whom would be classed as extremely funny looking, were they anywhere but in Camden Town.

      There were the punks with their studded leather and multicoloured Mohawks slouched idly against the railings on the bridge. There were people wandering around in platform trainers, wearing silver cat suits and with LEDs woven into their dreadlocks. There were people wandering around in full-length frock coats, men and women both androgynous and interchangeable.

      There were also lots of tourists. You could tell them, because they were the ones who were gawping openly at everything, the shops, the people, themselves. Japanese tourists viewed the market through the lenses of their cameras and camcorders, while Americans wandered the narrow aisles between stalls and clothes racks, dragging large suitcases on protesting wheels behind them, blocking anyone unfortunate to try and go anywhere behind them.

      Chas and Nics found a quiet bench and ate their lunch. Nics had sweet and sour chicken from a Chinese booth. Chas wolfed down the largest kebab he could find, and then finished Nics fried rice for her. A few opportunistic pigeons waited near them, beady eyes fixed on every morsel of food that could conceivably fall to the ground.

      In between mouthfuls he filled her in on his lack of success on the library research side of things.

      "It's alright," she said, wiping the sweet and sour sauce off the corners of her mouth. "Maybe this silversmith person can tell us something."

      It took them a while to find Pennybroke Lane, hidden as it was under the bridge and down another side street. The lane itself was tiny, overhung completely by the upper floors of the houses on either side. It was paved with tiny cobbles that were very uncomfortable to walk on in anything other than really thick boots.

      The door to the shop was old-fashioned and Victorian, the dark wood polished to a high sheen, and words in peeling gold leaf painted on the glass. It read:

            "Sven Jorgensson, Jeweller and Master Silversmith

                              And

            Jeremy Grandfather, Clockmaker"

      The bell attached to the door rang when Chas pushed it open.

      The shop was dark and gloomy, all heavy wood panelling, with a highly polished counter running the width of it. Every inch of wall space was taken up by clocks of all sizes, shapes and descriptions, from cuckoo clocks, to tiny watches, to huge grandfather clocks.

      The counter top was made from the same dark wood as the panelling, but had brightly lit display cases inside it, in which could be seen a beautiful array of gold, silver and gems.

      "Can I help you?" asked a wizened and dry voice that came from the wizened and dry old man who sat unnoticed in the corner behind the counter.

      "Hello, yes," said Nics, stepping forward. "We're looking for a Mr. Sven Jorgensson."

      "Yes?" said the old man.

      Nics and Chas looked at each other questioningly. Chas shrugged and Nics swallowed uncomfortably.

      "We need his opinion on a very old piece of silver that's come into our possession."     

      Silence from the old man. Nics tried once more.

      "A Mr Bradford recommended him to us. Is he here?"

      Silence for a moment or two more, and then the old man spoke.

      "I am Sven Jorgensson. Please, have a seat."

      With one wrinkled hand he indicated two high stools that stood against the wall at the far end of the countertop. Chas picked them both up, and brought them over to the silversmith, the pair sat down on them, Nics trying not to wriggle uncomfortably.

      "You have a piece of silver for me to view?" asked Sven.

      Nics flushed, she'd nearly forgotten, and tried to dig the locket out of her bag. It wasn't there. She started digging through the contents of her bag, looking very worried, until Chas placed the locket on the countertop and pushed it over to the silversmith.

      Nics sighed in relief. "Thought I'd lost it for a minute there."

      From behind them, a clock started chiming the hour.

      Sven took a jeweller's loupe from a pocket, and screwed it carefully into one eye socket. Picking up the locket with a very delicate touch, he lifted it to his eye.

      "Very badly damaged on the outside," he said.

      The clock that had been chiming sounded a bell three times.

      "I found it," said Chas. "At the seaside. It looked like it had been washed up by a storm."

      Carefully Sven set the locket down on the counter and opened it. He tsked when he saw the broken hinges, and carefully set all three pieces out in a line.

      The grandfather clock in the corner was next. Three sonorous bongs resounded through the shop.

      Nics sneezed, and the shop bell jangled glaringly.

      "Excuse me," she said, rooting through her bag for a tissue.

      "There's hallmarks on the inside of the piece without the photo," she continued, trying to be helpful. The old silversmith shot her a glance from one pale blue eye, and she quickly shut up.

      The hand that had been hovering over the half of the locket with the photo in it moved over to pick up the other half. Sven looked at it intently for a moment, then reached under the counter for a bottle and a cloth. A small bit of polishing by the cloth cleared away some of the tarnish, and he peered again at the locket half.

      "Sterling silver," he said, almost to himself, but with a quick glance at the couple to make sure they were still listening. "Made in 1935. Maker's mark is a duck, which I don't remember off the top of my head. Fairly average workmanship."

      A cuckoo clock chirped the hour of three o'clock.

      He put down the empty half of the locket, picked up the half with the photo in, and peered at it intently.

      "Engraving on the inside of the locket says 'Gloria Mundi'," he continued. "Outside very badly salt corroded, hinges snapped."

      He set the half of the locket down on the counter gently as a carriage clock on the shelf behind him rang a three note minor chord three times.

      "What it's worth, well, the silver alone is worth a few tens of pounds. Unfortunately, its condition is such that most collectors of such things wouldn't look twice at it. Unless you managed to find out who the woman in the photo is, and discover if her relatives or descendents would be interested in purchasing it."

     

      "We've been trying," said Chas. "No luck."

      Behind him an alarm clock rang, three short, sharp bursts.

      The jeweller lifted the piece of mother-of-pearl to his loupe and peered at it for the amount of time it took for the chimes to ring and hours to sound on five more clocks (Chas counted).

      When he put it down, it was with the utmost care. As soon as the mother-of-pearl was out of his hands they started shaking violently. He clasped one in the other, trying to hold them both steady.

      As if he'd just come to a decision, Sven reached out with one hand and tapped on the table - tap ti-tap tap tap.

      Nics hand were resting on the countertop as well. Her left hand tapped, as if in answer, tap tap ti-tap.

      A final clock sounded three, in tones that sounded like a duck quacking.

      "Have you told anyone about the locket," the silversmith asked, leaning forward with an expression of worried intensity on his face.

      Chas and Nics exchanged glances, confused at the sudden change in his demeanour from bored to terrified.

      "No," said Nics.

      "Yes," said Chas. "The old soldier on the train, and the librarian at the British Library."

      "And the woman in the chip shop saw it," chimed in Nics.

      "What did they see?" pressed the silversmith. "Did they see the mother-of-pearl?"

      "No," said Chas. "They all only saw the outside of the locket, or the picture of the woman. Not the mother-of-pearl."

      The silversmith leaned back with a sigh of relief.

      "Maybe, then..." he breathed to himself.

      "What's so important about it?" asked Nics.

      "You are modern people, yes?" asked the silversmith. "You believe in science and technology and such?"

      The two nodded.

      "Yes," said Chas. "But what has that got to do with it?"

      "Then," said Sven, "you would not believe me if I told you what this was, so I shall not tell you, or risk your disbelief. But let me impress on you, most strongly, that this is vitally important, and you must keep it hidden."

      Nics opened her mouth to ask the burning question that was on both their minds, "but why?" But, before she could do so, both herself and Chas jumped out of their skins as the door to the shop rang open.

SAOS: Chapter Thirteen: In the Library, or, Wagner Would've Wanted It That Way.

      To get to Whitehall, Chas walked past the Houses of Parliament. There was a protest happening outside, just a small one. The protesters were marching round and round in circles chatting quietly to themselves, carrying placards over their shoulders that were all completely blank.

      The receptionist at Whitehall had taken one look at Chas' t-shirt and jeans and had sniffily packed him off to the National Library. Chas just grinned at her, and that seemed to upset her very narrow sense of order even more.

      As he walked to the National Library, he was passed by another man in grey overalls carrying a flamingo shape, wrapped in brown paper and packing tape. A seagull, perched on a convenient railing, watched the removals man go past with one hard and beady eye.

      A librarian who looked like an owl showed Chas the section on military history. Spanning several centuries, and covering many yards of bookshelf space, it took him a while to find the section on World War Two, and even longer to locate a book which had the relevant drawings of insignias.

      Eventually, he gave up in disgust, and went back to find the librarian, in the hopes that he could help.

      Chas walked down many aisles between the bookcases, looking for the librarian's desk. He didn't find it immediately, but his eye was caught by the sight of a very large blonde woman wearing a horned Viking helmet standing in one of the alcoves. She had her mouth wide open, looking like an opera singer in the middle of her final aria, but not a single sound came from her mouth. Chas could see the flesh of her throat wobbling.

      A small distance away from her was an audience, arranged on chairs in a semi-circle around the soprano. It consisted of people carrying miniature sound recorders and notepads. One woman wore a trilby with a card saying "Press" shoved into the hatband.

      On the other side of the soprano was a greying man in a dirty lab coat with a pair of full ear headphones clamped over his ears. He was staring very intensely at a particularly Victorian looking piece of machinery that stood the size of a small writing desk in front of him, all knobs, dials and levers.

      The aria finished, and Chas could see the audience applauding, standing up and shouting bravo, and throwing carnations like darts at the soprano. She bowed, a smug grin on her face, milking the audience reaction for all it was worth. But at the same time, Chas heard nothing at all.

      He shook his head, wondering if perhaps his ears had got blocked, or he'd suddenly gone deaf, and walked away from the scene. But he could definitely hear his footsteps on the tile of the floor.

      He suddenly spotted the librarian, disappearing behind one of the many stacks of books ahead. Forgetting the silent opera, he rushed after him.

      It took them a good three hours to conclude that there was no record of any of the insignia or identifying marks on the locket woman's uniform. The librarian, who had started the search with good grace, grew more and more sour over the course of the few hours.

      Eventually, he shut the book he was looking in with what might have been roughness, for someone so used to venerating the tomes in his charge.

      "I'm sorry sir," he said. "But I'm afraid I can't help you with your search any more. Perhaps sir would like to try talking to some of the military history experts that reside in our universities."

      And he stood up, frowning.

      "I don't understand," said Chas. "How come there isn't any record of that insignia. Surely it can't be that hard to find references..."

      "Perhaps," said the librarian over his shoulder as he strode away in a huff. "Perhaps the lady in question was a spy."

      And he vanished round the corner, deep into the recesses of another stack of books.

      Chas looked at his watch. Time to go and meet Nics. He sighed, he really had been hoping to find something to tell her that would shed a bit of light on their little mystery.

      On his way out the door, the woman with the trilby and press ticket called to him.

      "Excuse me, this may seem a strange question to ask," she said with a disarming grin. "But you didn't happen to hear any strange noises in the library at all while you were in there?"

      Chas shook his head.

      "Like, say, an operatic soprano singing excerpts from Wagner's 'The Ring Cycle'?" she pressed.

      "No," said Chas. "I saw it alright, but I didn't hear a note. Thought I'd gone deaf for a minute."

      "Thank you very much," she said, standing back and making a note in her notebook.

       Chas hurried out the door. Any more distractions and he was going to be late. He just managed to squeeze out the door before the man in the lab coat and his arcane apparatus blocked it completely, necessitating lots of loud discussion and the use of a fire axe.

SAOS: Chapter Twelve: Platform 2B

      They would have lingered once the train pulled into the station to assist the gentleman-soldier off the train, but he waved them away with a smile. The platform looked totally unlike any of the platforms either of them had seen in that station before.

      Standing on the platform, waiting to get on the train was a curious looking bunch; three young women and a young man, all dressed up as if for a masquerade ball or some other event. The young man wore a kilt made out of PVC, while the other women wore curiously elaborate Victorian-looking clothes. One of the women, with dark hair, had graceful spirals painted in black around her eyes.

      "Are you sure we're at the right station?" asked Nics, trying not to stare at the group.

      "Everyone else looks like they know where they're going. We'll just follow them," replied Chas, with a confidence he didn't quite feel.

      Sure enough, the old-fashioned cobblestone platform soon gave way to more modern (and dirtier) concrete. An abrupt turn around a corner and the pair were in the station proper, its cavernous ceiling echoing with the footsteps of hundreds of people coming and going.

      Chas turned to look back the way they'd come. An old-fashioned wooden sign hung on the wall behind them, with a very faded painted finger pointing to the left, and bearing the inscription "Platform 2B" in an ornate, curling typeface. He promptly got distracted by a man in grey overalls who walked past them, carrying over one shoulder what looked like a pink plastic flamingo wrapped in several layers of bubble wrap.

      "Right," said Nics decisively. "Let's find the tube. I've got an hour to get to my appointment."

      They walked quickly through the crowd, dodging people hauling little suitcases on wheels, people carrying piles of parcels and handfuls of bags, and people talking very loudly into their mobile phones. One man bumped heavily into Nics. She gave him a filthy look and clutched her bag tight to her body.

      "Yeah, I'm at the station!" seemed to be a very common cry into a variety of mobile devices. Nics could have sworn she saw a small girl-child with a banana held to her ear like a mobile phone, talking animatedly into it. But she found herself far more disconcerted to see the people just walking around talking to themselves. Nics was never sure if they had one of those hands free kits for their mobiles, or if they were just plain crazy.

      Scrawny-looking pigeons skittered out of the crowd’s way, stopping at every opportunity to peck at pieces of paper, dust and cigarette ends, in the vain hope that they might be edible. Here and there a pigeon-scrum would develop around a carelessly dropped chip or piece of sandwich.

      The tube was packed with commuters all doing the thousand yard stare. Not an single one of them wanted to make eye contact for fear that they might be accosted by some person who might ask them for money, or even worse, try to talk to them.

      There was only one conversation happening in the whole carriage. A few feet away from where Chas and Nics were swaying with the motion of the train, a man in a black business suit was complaining bitterly to his companion, a man in a grey business suit, about how someone kept emailing him scanned pictures of squashed fruit. Bananas featured prominently in this tirade.

      They got to Nics' destination with time to spare.

      "I don't know how long this meeting could drag on for," she said. "So why don't you head off for a bit, and I'll meet you back here in time for lunch. Say, half one?"

      "Sure," said Chas. "Suits me."

      A thought struck him.

      "Give me the locket, and I'll go to Whitehall and see if I can track down any info about our mysterious lady-friend."

      "Good plan," said Nics, handing it over. Chas shoved the locket into his jeans pocket.

      They kissed, and Nics disappeared through the heavy revolving doors of the office building.

       

      Chas was walking back to the tube station when something caught his eye. From out of an alleyway on his side of the road, a duck's head appeared. It looked both ways carefully, then vanished back into the gloom. A few seconds later, it reappeared, followed by the rest of the duck and five other ducks. Calmly, trying not to draw any attention to themselves, they waddled off across the road and down the path towards the river.

      About ten seconds after they'd turned the corner, Chas could hear a muffled thump, and a wisp of smoke escaped from the mouth of the alley. Another ten seconds, and a fire engine came screaming up. One fireman firmly ushered Chas to the other side of the road, while a pair of other firemen ran into the alleyway with a hose, sprayed water for a few minutes, then walked out again, with the smug air of a job well done. They got back into the fire engine, and drove sedately off.

      All this drama had taken no more than five minutes. Chas shook his head in bemusement, and carried on walking along the river bank.

      A pair of malicious and very wet eyes watched him go from the shadows of the alleyway.

      On the tube, a woman dressed in a nineteenth century hoop skirt with a large overcoat over the top, very pale makeup, unnaturally red lips and a huge bruise over one eye stood calmly chatting to a man dressed in a black frock coat carrying a shovel. The man too was very pale, with what looked like dried blood smeared at his temple.

      The lady caught Chas staring at her worriedly, and grinned at him. She reached into a pocket and pulled out a flyer, which she handed to him. It read:

      "Come visit the Chamber of Horrors! Tours start 12:00 noon and run every hour up to midnight!!"

      The lettering was done in such a tacky way that it looked like the letters were dripping blood. Below the lettering was a rather indistinct map. Chas shoved it into his pocket, next to the locket.

SAOS: Chapter Eleven: Travelling Tales, or, The Man Who Was Saved by a Prayer.

      Chas and Nics sat in the carriage of the train to London, staring out the window at the scenery as it flashed by.

      "Did you see the duck waiting on the platform for the train?" asked Nics.

      "No," replied Chas. "Got to say though, it's pretty unusual to have a steam train still in service."

      "Perhaps there's a rally or special show or something."

      "Could be worse," he said, grinning as he thought of something.

      "What?"

      "We could be travelling to London in Thomas the Tank Engine."

      Nics shuddered.

      "You're right."

      They watched the scenery some more. In the distance Chas thought he could see a herd of cows practicing some intricate dance moves, like synchronised swimming, but it was too far away to be sure.

      He rubbed his eyes.

      "I could really do with a coffee. Fancy anything?"

      "Herbal tea if they've got it. Water otherwise. Thanks," said Nics.

      Chas staggered off down the length of the carriage, the swaying motion of the train bouncing him from side to side erratically.

      A sudden blast of the Hallelujah Chorus from behind her made Nics jump a mile out of her seat. It was cut off abruptly, and a man's voice said, very loudly:

      "Hello? I'm on the train."

      Nics sighed and dug through her bag for a magazine. Her fingers touched the locket for a moment, and she felt it carefully, making sure it hadn't fallen apart in the bottom of her bag. It hadn't.

      Chas came back carrying a paper bag. He took out a paper cup of coffee, and a bottle of water, with the words "Good Water" printed on the label in a curly ornate script.

      "No herbal tea," he said. "But they do have two Las Vegas showgirls dancing the cancan in the dining car."

      Nics twisted the bottle cap open, and a waft of eggy-smelling sulphur drifted through the carriage.

      "Chas, did you just fart?"

      He looked at her in surprise.

      "Weren't me, babes. Nasty smell though."

      She lifted the bottle to her mouth to take a drink, and recoiled dramatically. The smell was definitely coming off the water. She quickly put it down on the table, and screwed the lid back on tightly.

      "Reminds me of the smell of the water from the hot springs in Bath," said Chas. "Full of sulphur."

      "Enriched with minerals and naturally occurring Uranium," read Nics from the label on the bottle. "And they expect people to drink this!"

      Holding the bottle carefully by her fingertips, she walked down the length of the carriage back to the buffet car, leaving her bag on the seat behind her.

      "Uranium was thought to be good for your health back in Victorian times," said the elderly gentleman across the aisle from Chas. The gentleman was dressed in full army uniform, with a vast array of medals and ribbons weighing down his fragile looking chest. He was almost completely bald, but made up for it with a long and flowing white beard that touched the top of his medals.

      "I'm sorry?" asked Chas politely.

      "Uranium," he said. "They didn't know what to do with it, so of course it had to have been good for you if you drank it."

      Nics was back, holding a can of diet coke.

      "I threw the bottle of water out the window," she said. "Well, to be precise, I sneezed and it flew out of my hand through the open window. I hope no one gets hurt by it. Oh, and the Vegas showgirls are now doing their musical rendition of the seven minute Hamlet."

      "This gentleman," said Chas, indicating the retired soldier, "was just telling me how the Victorians thought Uranium was good for you."

      "They must've been mad," said Nics, shaking her head.

      "Pleased to meet you, miss," said the soldier-gentleman.

      Nics smiled at him. He reminded her of her grandfather.

      "Yes, the Victorians did lots of things that would be strange to us now," he continued. "But they'd be totally flummoxed by some of the things that go on nowadays. Why, when I were a lad, I remember that to get your driving license all you had to do was go down the registry office and pay a small fee. No test, no nothing, you had your license in your hand then and there. 'Course, the roads were a lot clearer then. Wouldn't want to drive now, the amount of traffic is just scary. That's why I take the train."

      "Are you going far today?" asked Nics politely.

      "Just into London," he said, "the regiment is meeting up for our annual get-together. Happens every year.

      "Although," he said with a sigh, "seems to be less and less of us each year. But that's the way it goes, I suppose. And I've had a good time of it, and a lot more than I could have had, if you get what I mean."

      Chas and Nics both looked at him, with identical expressions of puzzlement on their faces. Seeing this, the soldier-gentleman reached inside his collar and pulled out a chain, on the end of which was a thick silver medallion. It was oval shaped, and about the same size and the locket that lurked in the bottom of Nics' bag. But instead of being flat it had a very substantial and pronounced dimple in the centre of it.

      "My wife gave that to me," said the old soldier. "Back before she was my wife and back when I was first called up, in forty one. Neither of us knew when or if we'd see each other again, so she went and spent all the money she'd saved to buy her wedding dress on this. I remember well the day she gave it to me, she had come down to the train station with my mother to see me off to my training camp and off to wherever else I'd get sent.

      "The medal had the Lord's prayer engraved on the front, and a loving message from Mavis on the back. I always wore it over my heart, so I wouldn't forget her, and she'd always be close to me.

      "Well, it was that prayer and that medal that saved my life completely. I was in a foxhole somewhere in France when a shell landed just a few feet away from me and my mates. Shrapnel went everywhere, and not a man of us didn't end up catching some. But the bit of shrapnel that would've gone straight into my heart was blocked by this medal. I knew God was looking out for me that day.

      "'Course, it wasn't the only bit of shrapnel that headed my way. The surgeons had to dig another five pieces out of me, from various places, my arm, my side, my leg. And by the time I was back to fighting fitness the war was over completely. I married my Mavis just as soon as I possibly could after I got back home.

      "Forty seven years we were married," he said, staring into the past. "She was so beautiful." He stopped, overcome by memories.

      Nics smiled wistfully.

      "That's a lovely story, " she said.

      The door at the end of the carriage clattered open, and a heavy monstrosity of a wrought iron tea and coffee trolley started making its slow and laborious way down the aisle.

      On impulse, Chas dove into Nics bag, and pulled out the half of the locket with the picture in it. He handed it over to the gentleman-soldier.

      "You wouldn't happen to know anything about the uniform this lady is wearing, would you?" Chas asked.

      The old soldier sniffed, and carefully placed the medallion back inside his collar before taking a good long look.

      "Reminds me of my Mavis, she does," he said distantly. "But no, I don't recognise the uniform. Whitehall would know."

      Chas thanked him, and put the locket half away hurriedly as the tea trolley lumbered towards them.

      The soldier ordered a cup of tea, and two shortbread fingers. They came wrapped daintily up in a paper napkin.

      "None for me, thanks," said Nics, in response to the trolley lady's inquiring look.

      All three passengers fell into silence as the train chugged on through the English countryside.

SAOS: Chapter Ten: A Bloody Big Dream, Actually.

      They finished their picnic on the floor of the living room. Spud even came down to join them, muttering something about how his computer was misbehaving. Chas felt like he was getting lots of practise at changing the subject.

      They unplugged the phone after the first hour of phone calls that seemed to be coming from the speaking clock in Kuala Lumpur. Nics drank vast amounts of herbal tea and Chas tore the house apart looking for something with which to scratch inside his cast, with no success.

      It seemed that every channel on television that evening was showing repeats of Antiques Roadshow, with an emphasis on old silver and jewellery. Eventually they just gave up and went to bed.

      Nics did dream that night. She dreamt that herself, Chas and Spud were walking down a maze of narrow office passages, all alike. The doors were numbered, but with nonsensical symbols. All of a sudden, Sam appeared in the middle of the hall, carrying in his mouth a bunch of bananas. The three humans followed him down the corridors until he led them out into an open courtyard where a man in a bright red zoot suit was playing the trombone.

      Horrible, mocking laughter echoed around the courtyard, jerking Nics from her dream in a cold sweat. Outside she could still hear the laughter, except now her awake brain could process it properly. It wasn't laughter, but a duck quacking very very loudly outside the window.

      She got up and strode to the open window. She could hear the sound of wings as the duck took off from the windowsill. But looking out she couldn't see anything. She closed the window firmly, and went back to bed.

      Chas rolled over and mumbled something that sounded like a question.

      "Just closing the window," she replied. "I don't want the ducks to get in."

      Outside, the dark shape that had been crawling spider-like up the wall hissed in annoyance and frustration. It turned, and crawled head first down the wall and disappeared into the darkness between the houses.

      The next morning, it being a Sunday, Nics went to church. She left Chas and Spud behind in the house, arguing over whether they'd be watching the football or the Grand Prix that afternoon. Chas had found himself a long piece of wire, a straightened coat hanger or something, that he had somehow managed to shove inside his cast as a scratching device. The look on his face as he finally managed to get that itch was nothing short of blissful.

      Nics tried to find her way back to the church via the little courtyard full of cottages, but couldn't. So instead she went the long way round, arriving just in time for the extra practise before the service.

      The sermon was all about reconciling God's plans for humanity with the whole thorny theological issues of free will and predetermination. Nics paid most of her attention to examining her nails, flicking through the hymn book and reading the memorial plaques embedded in the walls.

      It appeared that one of the parishioners, about a century before had been tragically killed in India by a tiger. And she wasn't sure, as the lettering had become very worn on another plaque, but did it really say that the death had been the result of a rain of fish? She resolved to go take a closer look once the service was over.

      The sermon dragged on interminably. Nics could see a number of the older members of the congregation nodding off. One, a very elderly gentleman with two canes, even started to snore slightly. He was roused by a sudden chorus of coughing from his neighbours. The sermon carried on, undaunted.

      Eventually it was over. Nics could practically hear the creaking of joints as people stood for the final hymn, surreptitiously rubbing backsides that had grown numb from sitting so long on the hard wooden pews.

      Perhaps as a response to the unconscious wishes of the congregation, the choir mistress fairly galloped through the final hymn, and then everyone was off out the door in no time at all, including Nics.

      The golden Labrador, Sam, was waiting for her outside the church. As soon as she had walked out the door he was straight up beside her, tail wagging cheerfully, and carrying a cream envelope in his mouth.

      He placed the envelope carefully at her feet, and sat down, waiting for her to pick it up. So she did.

      It was very nice stationary, with her full name, Nicola Spillard, written on it in black ink with a fine copperplate hand. No address, but in the corner of the envelope where the stamp would be in an ordinary letter was the words "by dog" and "personal".

      She opened it up to reveal a single sheet of paper, matching the envelope, folded in half. Unfolding it, she read:

      "Dear Miss Spillard,

      Please forgive the brevity (and one might even say, over-familiarity) of my first message. I understand that you must have many questions at this time, and may even be somewhat confused by recent events.

      I have been informed that you are intending a trip to London tomorrow and are interested in acquiring a new piece of jewellery. May I be so bold as to recommend Mr. Sven Jorgensson, international jeweller and specialist silversmith. His shop is in Camden Town, in Pennybroke Lane. His knowledge of the history of gems and jewellery is unsurpassed and he is very reliable, and, perhaps more importantly, very discreet.

      Should you wish to contact me, please leave a message with Sam. If he is not about, please leave a note in a milk bottle outside your front door.

                        I remain, as ever,

                              Your faithful servant,

                                    Mr J. Bradford (deceased)"

      "Well," said Nics, "This is a puzzle, and no mistake." Absently she reached down and scratched Sam behind his left ear. He leaned into her touch happily, showing off the thick black leather of his collar. There was a gold coloured name tag on it, with his name engraved and a small red gem. It hardly showed up against his golden fur at all.

      With her other hand, she shoved the letter back into its envelope, and stuck the envelope into her bag. Then she started walking home, Sam trotting along beside her.

      She walked past a funeral procession heading toward the church. The coffin was being carried on the shoulders of eight men, and it was followed by a range of weeping women and children in black, and mournful-looking men. The undertaker in a full tailcoat, top hat and black gloves led the procession, silver topped cane in hand. It would have only been slightly unusual, except for the fact that the occupant of the coffin was sitting bolt upright in it, smiling broadly and waving to everyone they passed.

      She snuffled a bit into a hanky and sneezed, her cold was still there. A few feet behind her one of the women in the funeral procession tripped over a raised paving slab in the path and nearly fell flat on her face. She was caught by one of the men walking next to her.

      Nics came back to herself a bit more when she realised that Sam was leading her back to her house via the tunnel and the hidden courtyard. This time she looked up before going into the tunnel. There was a wall on top of it, and what looked like a privet hedge. A spray of water came splashing suddenly over the hedge, and she jumped back with a cry of alarm.

      A worried face peered over the hedge, a middle-aged woman with her hair caught up in a scarf.

      "Sorry!" she called. "I didn't splash you, did I? I'm just watering the garden."

      "No, it's alright," replied Nics. "You didn't get me." But just to be on the safe side, in case the hosepipe in the woman's hand decided to spurt water again, she dove into the tunnel.

      Inside the tunnel it was still raining. She ran through it at top speed, Sam bouncing around her, thinking that it was a great game.

      Someone had parked a skip in the drive directly across the road from her house. There was a duck sitting on top of it, apparently asleep.

      Nics opened the door and stood aside.

      "Coming in?" she asked Sam. To her surprise he wagged his tail and walked in politely.

      Chas and Spud were watching a video of car chases and explosions in the living room. There was a dirty plate with the remains of a triple-decker fried egg and mango chutney sandwich on the coffee table in front of Spud.

      "What, no football?" said Nics.

      "Antiques Roadshow Omnibus," replied Spud, his eyes glued to the TV.

      "And the radio seems to be determined to pick up Russian spy signals no matter what channel we try to tune it to," added Chas.

      He was very pleased indeed to meet Sam, making a big fuss of him, even down to offering him some biscuits and a bowl of water.

      Chas was not as impressed by the letter Sam had delivered to Nics though.

      "I dunno, babes," he said. "Not much of a recommendation, is it? For all we know it could be a daft wind up or something. We could be on Candid Camera, or one of those new reality TV shows or something."

      "Naah," interjected Spud. "Your lives aren't interesting enough."

      They both ignored him.

      "Well, I for one would like to start getting some answers about all of this. And this jeweller bloke might be the best place to start. I mean, it's not like we can really ask any serious questions of a dead guy."

      "If you think so, babes." This, said in a tone of profound uncertainty, was Chas code for "I think that's a bloody stupid idea."

      "Besides," she continued. "I've got to go down to London tomorrow anyway, so we might as well drop in and have a look. If we don't like the look of this character then we can always leave without saying anything."

      "London?" squeaked Spud. "You're both going to London tomorrow?!"

      "Yeah," said Chas. "Is this a problem?"

      "No, no, no, no, no" stuttered Spud. "Not at all."

      He stood up abruptly, a shower of crumbs falling from his lap onto the carpet.

      "Just remembered something really important I have to do," he said, heading for the stairs.

      At that moment the doorbell rang. Sam walked out to the door, and stood by it, wagging his tail.

      Nics opened the door to reveal a pizza delivery guy standing outside. Without even asking she turned and yelled up the stairs, even though Spud was standing in the hall beside her:

      "Spud, pizza!"

      He pushed past her, thrust some money at the pizza guy, grabbed the pizza and vanished upstairs. The pizza guy looked startled for a minute, then shrugged and left, and Sam stepped daintily out the door, turning to look back at Nics.

      "Bye then," she said. "Thank you for visiting, do come again soon."

      "Bye," said Chas, who'd come into the hall. "Nice meeting you."

      Another tail wag and Sam walked off down the path. Nics watched him go for a minute, then shut the door hurriedly. She'd seen a pair of Jehovah's witnesses coming down the street towards the house.

      "Right," said Chas. "I wonder if Antiques Roadshow is finished yet."