“So we touched something?” Jim sniffed at his fingertips.

“I have scrubbed your hands. But that I think must have been it. I placed my gloves beneath the microscope and lo and behold.”

“Lo and behold what exactly?”

“A rather lethal cocktail of mescaline, peyote and amphetamines.”

“What about the councillors? The lady in the straw hat and everyone?”

“I called an ambulance, and they’ve been dealt with. No fatalities.”

“But how?”

“How was it done? Remarkably simple. The drug was mixed with furniture polish in an aerosol can and sprayed onto the council table.”

John Omally shook his aching head. “But why?” he asked.

“I would have thought that was obvious. To sabotage Brentford’s plans to hold the millennial celebrations two years early.”

“But who?” asked Jim.

“Whoever was responsible for the pulping of Mr Compton-Cummings’s book. Ms Penn will tell us more, I trust, when she awakens.”

“But how?” asked Jim.

“We did ‘But how?’, Jim.”

“No, I mean how did they act so fast? To prepare this drug and spray it on the table just before we got there. They don’t mess around, this lot, do they?”

“Binding informed me that an unmarked van entered the car park an hour before we arrived. Two ‘cleaners’ in grey suits. He couldn’t describe them, said they looked totally anonymous.”

“But fish?” asked Jim.

“Pardon me?” said the Professor.

“Nothing,” said Jim. “I don’t think the drug’s quite worn off yet.”

“Hang about,” said John. “The lady in the straw hat never touched the council table.”

“The lady in the straw hat is barking mad anyway,” said Jim.

“Oh, right. But if I can ask one more question, Professor. How did these would-be assassins know that we’d all be at the council meeting this morning?”

“I doubt that they did. They were just being thorough. There would have to have been a council meeting to discuss matters sooner or later. They were simply putting themselves ahead of the game, as it were.”

“Well, they’re messing with the wrong lads here,” said Omally, flexing his shoulders. “This is Brentford and we have right on our side. Let them try it again and see what happens.”

Gammon knocked and entered with an ice-pack on a tray. “I’m sorry to trouble you, sir,” said he. “But I think you’d better take a look outside. The military gentlemen of yesterday have returned and this time they are erecting what seem to be barricades and border posts.”

“People of Brentford,” came the voice through the electric loudhailer. It was a military voice. Educated. Authoritative. “People of Brentford, return to your homes, go about your businesses.”

“Boo!” went the people of Brentford. “Boo and hiss!”

“These barricades and crossing points have been erected for your own welfare, to protect you from an influx of undesirables.”

Beyond the barricades, undesirables in the shape of news crews buffed up their lenses and went “one two” into their microphones.

In Professor Slocombe’s study the ancient scholar bolted his French windows. “They will certainly come for the scrolls,” he said. “You must take them to a place of safety.”

“He means you, John,” said Jim.

“I mean both of you,” said Professor Slocombe.

Jim’s hands began to tremble as they always did prior to a flap.

“Easy, Jim,” said John. “Where shall we take them, Professor?”

“To Buckingham Palace, perhaps. Or Ten Downing Street.”

“There’s a priest hole at the Flying Swan,” said Jim. “We could take them there.”

“Perhaps the British Museum,” said Professor Slocombe, “or the Bank of England.”

“I rather like the sound of the priest hole,” said John.

“Or perhaps they should be taken directly to Rome and delivered to my friend the Pope.”

“The priest hole has it then,” said Jim.

“My good friends,” said the Professor, “without the scrolls we have nothing. They must be authenticated by a panel of experts. And a panel that has not been compromised. I must confess that sending you both on a pilgrimage to Rome does have a certain charm. The possibilities for picaresque adventures are endless. But I doubt whether either one of you even possesses a passport.”

“I had one once,” said Jim. “But I lost it on my travels.”

“You’ve never been on any travels.” John Omally laughed. “You get airsick travelling on the top deck of a bus.”

“I never do.”

“You do. And you get a nosebleed.”

“It’s the altitude. And I have travelled. I’ve been to Margate.”

“Gentlemen, please. Take the scrolls to a place of your own choosing. I hate to say protect them with your lives…”

“Then don’t,” said Jim.

“But we will,” said John. “But what of you, Professor, and Ms Penn? They will come here looking for the scrolls, and will not treat you kindly.”

“I am well aware of that. I will make my own arrangements and contact you at the earliest opportunity.”

“Hold on,” said Jim.

“What is it, Jim?”

KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK, came a knocking at Professor Slocombe’s front door.

“It’s that,” said Jim. “I’m beginning to develop a sixth sense when it comes to that.”

“Out of the kitchen door then and away.”

“You’re sure you’ll be all right?” asked John.

Professor Slocombe made a mystic pass and vanished in a puff of smoke.

“I think he’ll be just fine,” said Jim.

They arrived at the Flying Swan just in time to see Old Pete being stretchered into a waiting ambulance.

John hurried over to the fogey. “What happened to you?” he asked.

Pete looked up with a dazed expression on his face. “What would you reckon the chances were of there being a one-legged lesbian shot-putter in the pub when I happen to be telling a joke?” he asked.

“Two pints of Large please, Neville,” said Jim, rooting in his pockets for the last of his small change. “And would you mind sticking this casket in your priest hole?”

“Not at all,” said Neville. “That would be the now legendary Brentford Scrolls we’ve been hearing so much about, I suppose.”

“It certainly would,” said Jim.

“Get out of my pub,” said Neville. “You’re barred.”

“What?”

“See who that is over there?” Neville pointed.

“A one-legged lesbian shot-putter?”

“No, next to her.”

“Oh my God.” Jim fell back in alarm. “It’s Young Master Robert.”

“Correct, damnable issue of the Master Brewer’s loins. Blight of my life. Bane of my existence. Would-be despoiler of my…”

“So what’s he doing here?”

“What does he always do here?”

“He tries to renovate the pub,” said Jim in a doomed tone. “Turn it into a theme bar or something equally hideous.”

“Exactly, and thanks to you he’s back on the case.”

“So what is it this time? No, let me guess, the Millennial Eatery, snacks in a space-age styrofoam bucket.”

“Nothing so tasteful. Here, peruse this before you take your leave.” Neville pushed a scribbled plan across the bar counter.

“Afternoon, Neville,” said Omally, breezing up. “Jim getting them in, is he?”

“Jim is just leaving,” said Neville. “And you with him.”

“What?”

“Peruse.” Neville pointed to the plan and John perused.

“By all the holy saints,” said John. “Where is he?”

“Over there,” and Neville pointed once again. “Next to the one-legged…”

“We can’t have this.” Omally plucked up the plan and stalked across the bar. “Good afternoon, my friend,” he said, extending a hand for a shaking.

Young Master Robert looked up from his light and lime. “Oh, it’s you, is it?” he said. “I remember you.”

“And I you.” Omally thrust his unshaken hand into his trouser pocket. With the other he waved the scribbled plan about. “I see you’ve been busy again. Brilliant stuff. I take my hat off to you.”

“You don’t wear a hat and even if you did I wouldn’t want you to take it off.”