The Case of the Carnaby Castle Curse (Anty Boisjoly Mysteries Book 4) by PJ Fitzsimmons

Author:PJ Fitzsimmons [Fitzsimmons, PJ]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2022-07-28T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter 12

Purgatory’s Category of Vainglory Allegory

It seems entirely obvious, now I think of it, that of the seven terraces of purgatory the one into which Dante would bung the gluttonous would be in every way exactly like the Carnaby catacombs. I certainly couldn’t mount much of a defence accused of at least one other deadly sin — sloth, comes slowly to mind — but it only stands to reason that I would await judgement in a damp cellar without so much as a serviceable gin. Even Poe’s Fortunato had his snootful of Amontillado to take the edge off being bricked into a wall.

I’m not going to tell Dante his business. For all I know I had been given what passes for very roomy quarters in the gluttony wing of purgatory, but as near as I could tell in the more-than-total darkness, I had been bricked into a cell the rough dimensions of the telephone box at Burlington House . Not built for capacity, those telephone boxes, although I did once squeeze four other Junipers and myself into one at Paddington Station, for reasons which seemed, at the time, spiffing, but have since escaped me. I rely on my biographers to recall that, while he held a hard line on mixed cocktails , Anthony Boisjoly was always up for a lark.

I deduced that someone with exceptional night-vision, a grudge, and a stout length of wood had stunned me long enough to enclose me within the walls of the catacomb. According to my experience with masonry, this could have taken anything from twenty minutes to the rest of the season, but all four walls felt as solid as if they’d been standing unchanged for a century.

Musing on my limited options, a suggestion came to me through blank space. A whispered voice taunted me in the darkness, suggesting that I should “claw”.

“It may come to that,” I admitted to the void, “but I’ll wager you unto half my kingdom that it would be appreciably quicker if you’d just call for help.”

The voice only repeated “claw” with calm temerity, and in the instant I recognised the advice not as “claw” but “caw”. On its own and as advice, ‘caw’ wasn’t of considerably greater utility than ‘claw’ but it wasn’t advice — it was a beacon.

“Is that you, Buns old man?”

“Yaw,” he replied in the affirmative, and I felt a wave of hope wash over me commensurate with the depths of despair into which I’d descended. Buns’ call was coming from a direction, a geometric point in my heretofore mono-dimensional existence.

“Buns, say that again.”

“Caw?”

“Yes, that. It definitely bears repeating.”

Buns called out again and again, and I moved sightlessly toward him. Soon I realised that what I’d taken for an enclosed cell was a complicated fold of walls into which I’d somehow wandered in the dark. I negotiated a narrow passage and the call of caw grew louder and clearer and more distinctly positional. I followed Buns’ aria like a lodestar and within minutes I felt cool, damp, delightful night air and, lo, I saw a misty slip of moonlight.

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