By Big M

Foodge steered the big Zephyr, down the main drag. He was a few minutes early, in spite of waiting for Emmjay and First Mate to dress. Foodge thought that the white dinner jacket, and black silk dress were overkill, but, he thought, can take the wardrobe manager out of the wardrobe, et cetera. There wasn’t a parking space to be had. The entire street was lined with Charlies, ancient Austin A-sevens and Morris Minors, a couple of Pleece cars, and a clutch of motor scooters. Foodge left the car with the nose in a clearway. He made sure that his “Private Investigator’ card was on the dash, although this was unlikely to impress a parking inspector. They crossed the road; ignoring the crossing that was only metres away, inciting angry horn blasts from motorists.

The Pigs Arms was full, but this was no party. Lambrettists and Angles were talking in hushed tones. A very distraught Granny was surrounded by Bowling Ladies, who were in crisis mode, that is, they were making acrid tea, ham and tomato sandwiches on day old Tipp-Topp with thick linings of margarine. The really disturbing thing was, not the absence of the hum of conversation, but the absence of beer. The Professor was carrying a tray of teacups, whilst Hedgie was topping them up with the battered old enamel teapot. Merv had changed out of his morning attire of pink shorts and fluoro yellow tank top, into his good suit, and sat with a more dazed expression than usual. Janet had abandoned the afternoon TV game shows to sit and support him, all the while rubbing her gravid abdomen.

There was the most unusual aroma coming from the kitchen. Foodge couldn’t place it, but Emmjay couldn’t help himself. “Curry, Foodge, they must have a new cook!” The trio wandered over to O’Hoo, who was sharing a bottle of Shiraz with his paramour, using real wine glasses, for a change.

“Cheers Foodge”. Both DCI Rouge and O’Hoo raised their glasses, as the pub became deathly quiet.

“What the hells going on.” Whispered Foodge.

“They’ve all decided to pitch in and help solve the Great Pig’s Arms Brewing Mystery, at least, that’s what we’ve named it.” Grinned O’Hoo. “Take a seat.” O’Hoo poured three more glasses of Shiraz, whilst various patrons presented themselves, shaking hands, or patting Foodge on the shoulder, pledging their assistance.

“Dinner’s ready.” Roared Gez, from the kitchen. The Bowling Ladies had already converted the billiard table into a dining table, and had gathered an eclectic mixture of crockery and ‘good silver’. Gez brought in a huge steaming tureen of something he called ‘booyabays’, but everyone thought it tasted like seafood soup. The new chef, ‘Vivienne’ who carried a matching pot of curried prawns, followed him.

Everyone tucked in. It was even better than the Chinese at the Rissole Club. Merv served a round of Pink Drinks, then, after the meal was over, all eyes were on Foodge and O’Hoo, the Pig’s own detectives (plus DCI Rouge, but, Foodge and O’Hoo really grew up here). Foodge stood up. “I’d like to, ah, thank you all, for, ah, putting in with this meal. Err, ah, I have been putting some thought into the problems of our brews.” Foodge nodded to Granny, who burst into tears, again. He looked away, slightly embarrassed, but could feel dozens of pairs of eyes boring into him. “While there may be some natural explanation for this phenomenon, and we’ll be calling on our scientific friends for advice.” Foodge nodded to the Professor, who bowed his head slightly in response. “There may also be malfeasance at play here.” Everyone in the room gasped. “There’s no need for alarm, if the Pigs Arms, or, Granny herself have an enemy, then ruining our brews is the full extent of the damage. No one here is at risk of death or injury.” His oratory was interrupted by a gasp from Beryl, who clutched at her chest. Hedgie was at her side, in an instant, whilst a dozen wrinkled old hands foraged in a dozen wrinkled old handbags then proffered a dozen Anginine tablets. Simultaneously a couple of Angles disappeared through the front door.

DCI Rouge, ever the voice of reason, stood next to Foodge, placing her hand on his shoulder. “Ladies, there is nothing to fear, Mr Foodge is simply outlining the various possibilities, like any good sleuth.” She paused to wink at O’Hoo, who missed the gesture, as he was busily mopping Burmese curry from his new silk tie. “I would like to add that, if this brewing failure is due to malice on the part of any individual, or, indeed, any group, then they will experience the legal consequences of their actions. The Pleece take a dim view…”

The entrance of Brkon and Andy, two of the Angles longest serving members, interrupted DCI Rouge’s address. “We have nitroush oxshide bottle. It is excellent nitric oxide doner! One shniff and der heart feel better.” Brkon brandished a small blue bottle, which he’d wrenched from his beloved 1967 super charged, Munch Mammoth. “Dis make big bike feel better, too!”

Hedgie stepped forward, with a small tear in his eye, as Brkon’s action was just like a mother taking food from her child. “It’s OK, mate, the Anginine’s already done the trick.” Beryl nodded, returning Hedgie’s little smile. “Look, I dunno, everyone’s upset, and emotional. We know we’ve got the best team in the world on this. I vote we should let’em get on with it.”

There was a rousing cheer, followed by toasts with teacups and a few wine glasses. A handful of Angles started to clear the table, whilst the Bowling Ladies hovered, trying to ensure that none of the ‘good china’ was damaged. Andy and Brkon made sure that Beryl couldn’t benefit from some ‘nitroush’, then went out to re-attach the bottle to the bike. A very nervous Merv and Granny approached the detectives, with faces like mourners at a funeral. “So, where are youz gunna start?”

Foodge was ready to launch into another long-winded explanation, when Rouge cut him off. “Foodge and my little Gerald.” She paused to look over at O’Hoo who had given up on the tie, as he had spread curry stains over his new white shirt. “Will examine this hotel from attic to basement, from front door to that stinking outhouse.” Her nose wrinkled at the thought. “I’d suggest that we co-opt Brkon and Andy. We can use their skills in microbiology and chemistry. Meanwhile I will personally search every person, or group, in the pleece database looking for any clue. We’re pulling out all stops on this one.” Rouge gave Granny a hug, pecked O’Hoo on the cheek, turned on her stiletto, and left.

Merv went around the back of the bar mumbling about. “Something special.” He re-appeared with a dusty bottle in one hand, and a clutch of whisky glasses in the other. He poured the amber liquid, handed around the glasses, and then raised his. “To Foodge and O’Hoo.” Then downed his in a single gulp. They all followed. Foodge took a second to examine the bottle, which was nothing less than Merv’s favourite tipple, ‘The Famous Grouch’, seventeen-month-old scotch.

Foodge shook hands with Merv and Granny. “Thanks for your confidence, we won’t let you down. Come on, O’Hoo, to the outhouse. No…hold on…we’ll start in the kitchen. No…Emmjay and First Mate are still wiping the dishes…to the attic.” Merv and Granny sat back to let the two detectives start detecting.