[Anty Boisjoly 01] - The Case of the Canterfell Codicil by P. J. Fitzsimmons

Author:P. J. Fitzsimmons [Fitzsimmons, P. J.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Mystery, Humour
Amazon: B08K99ZWN2
Goodreads: 61687846
Publisher: Indefensible Publishing
Published: 2020-10-30T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER TEN

The Continuing Consequences of the Norman Conquest

Halliwell Canterfell, the honourable member for Fray, was wearing pyjamas.

He was sitting barefoot on the grassy grade that descended from the back of the Hare’s Foot to the treeline, and he was looking vaguely in the direction of the castle. He was every inch the Canterfell, from the aristocratically weak chin to the noble bald spot, but he had the carriage of a man who forgets to eat and that, combined with an infrequently exercised and randomly applied shaving routine, gave the parliamentarian something of the air of a hobo.

There was a pewter tray next to him on the grass with a full English tea, and he was forcefully blowing the steam off a cup that appeared to have long gone cold. It was a fanciful scene, and neither a March Hare nor a Mad Hatter would have been remotely out of place.

“Good afternoon, Mister Canterfell,” I said.

“Hello, young man.” Halliwell looked at me with a vacant smile and laughing eyes, and he wiggled his toes in the grass.

“I wonder if you remember me, sir,” I said. “Anthony Boisjoly. I was at school with your son.”

Halliwell nodded solemnly. “I knew your father.”

“I’m afraid he’s passed away,” I said.

“Who got him?” asked the honourable member, a confidential squint to his eye. “The fascists? Or the Knights Templar?”

Which was well within the range of the expected, for those who know Halliwell Canterfell. It’s broadly understood that the nation’s asylums are only able to operate as efficiently as they do because parliament is there to take the most acute cases off their hands. And it’s commonly known that a reliable measure of the depth of a man’s psychosis is the duration of his career in the House of Commons. Halliwell Canterfell had been returned to Westminster by the good people of Fray a record five times. On each occasion it was a landslide.

“Neither,” I answered. “Papa fell under an electric tram by Wormwood Scrubs.”

“Poor chap,” sympathised Halliwell. “They always get you.”

“Well, at least he died doing what he loved most,” I said, with Christian forbearance. “Stumbling drunkenly through Shepherd’s Bush.” I took the liberty of a patch of grass next to the tea tray. “Talking of foreshortened journeys, I take it you know that there’s been an unfortunate turn of events at Canterfell Hall.”

The honourable member nodded. “Sebastian’s been thrown out a window,” he said. “What an extraordinary thing. There must be a dozen easier ways to kill a man. I think, had it been me, I’d have poisoned him. Or run him through with one of Father’s swords. Or simply hit him over the head with something. A paving stone, for instance. Yes, a paving stone would serve very nicely.”

“It’s human nature to over-complicate simple things,” I said. “Might I ask why you’re here, Mister Canterfell?”

“Constituency business,” he said. “Meet the voters, count the badgers — makes a break from the affairs of the nation.”

“Of course,” I sympathised. “But I meant, why are you staying

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