Mr Brent rushed forwards to see if he could see who had fired the arrow which had killed Mayor Penistone but he returned shortly afterwards and shook his head.

“There’s no one there” he announced. “But we have learned enough to make me very worried.”

“Excuse me” I protested, “I am the leader of Brent’s 7. If anyone is going to be worried it will be me. Just because you’re in charge of some tin pot little pressure group doesn’t mean you can take over the running of my club.” His face went red and twisted. “There’s no need to overreact” I warned him. “One must always act with extreme sensibleness at all times.” He carried on goggling. “I hardly think there is good reason to…”

“Dennis Brent” said Ian Devine, tugging my tweed sleeve.

“Shush. There is no need for you, Mr Brent, to look at me in such a… what is it Grantham?”

“Dennis Brent – look at him” said Grantham.

“I really think you ought to” added Wicks.

“Gentlemen – and lady – I cannot continue to discuss this fascinating demarcation dispute if you keep interrupting me. Now, Mr Brent, you are not the leader of my club and if you wish to apply for membership it will be considered by the committee. There is no need to fall on the floor.” But it was too late. Mr Brent lay dead at my feet, another arrow in his back.

“Is he unalive?” asked Felicity Bobbins. “I am grieved to learn of disalivement.”

“There’s a note attached to the arrow” noted Wicks. We all scrambled to be the one to read this fascinating memorandum.

“Dear to whom it may concern” it began. “Give up now – you will never penetrate our inner ring. We rule Bendaton and anyone who gets in our way will go down hard and get more than egg on their faces. We are not afraid to shoot people from behind. That is all.”

“Is it signed?” asked Wicks.

“B”.

“G for Grantham” said Wicks, mishearing and turning on his best friend. “Grantham is the killer. Sit on him, Ian Devine.” It was all I could do to stop Ian Devine from crushing poor Grantham there and then.

“Colleagues, colleagues, colleagues.” I reasoned. Clean out your ears before coming on our next exciting mission. Someone is playing with us. They could clearly kill us whenever they want to but they’re letting us sweat first. They want us to fall apart. But we won’t fall apart will we?”

“Nooooooo” wailed Felicity Bobbins. I thought she was being supportive but she was actually cringing as Ian Devine’s alpine buttocks descended on Grantham’s prone body.

“Anyone sitting on a member of this club will have his video tape archive handed over to Pamela Nash” I shouted. “If we fight like animals…” but my first threat had been enough. Wicks apologised to Grantham, Ian Devine apologised to Felicity Bobbins for scaring her and everyone was obviously going to apologise to Dennis for initially ignoring him but, after twenty minutes of silence, I pre-empted their apologies with a suggestion that we try to escape.

“Number one” I summarised, “Who can we trust?”

“We can trust each other” said Wicks, smiling at Grantham with a face beaming mutual forgiveness.

“Well, we can’t trust your brother – he thinks we’re terrorists” said Ian Devine.

“We can’t trust Mayor Penistone or your alternative universe counterpart as they’re both dead” added Grantham.

“We can’t trust the police because they are ignoramuses” proclaimed Wicks.

“Ignorami” corrected Ian Devine. There followed a fascinating philological discussion which concluded with us roaring with laughter when we had to admit that none of us could remember what the question had been.

Only Felicity Bobbins had remained silent. This was because she was smoking a funny smelling pipe.

“Right chaps” she said, ‘piping up’ (<g>) after a while, “it strikes me that we have a number of options. We have clearly been brought somewhere within the covert network’s infrastructure. One, we could explore here and see what we can find. Two, we could head for the town hall (assuming this isn’t part of that complex) and three, we could go and try to fulfil Mr Brent’s original plan and penetrate the exotic meat factory. One or possibly more of these venues is the key to the unknown syndicate’s power. I suggest we divide our forces along scrupulously logical lines. I propose Team A of Dennis Brent and Grantham, Team B of myself and Wicks and Team C which is Ian Devine.”

“Why am I in a team all on my own?” complained Ian Devine.

“Because Flicky said so” replied Miss Bobbins firmly.

“Um, ok” mumbled Ian Devine meekly. Blessed are the meek for they shall inherit Ian Devine.

“Right – Team A – to be known as ‘The B Team’ because I’m Dennis Brent and Brent begins with a B and I’m the leader of the team will remain here and explore. Team B – ‘Ficks and Wicks’ – will head for the town hall while Team C – Ian Devine – will infiltrate the exotic meat factory. I have taken the liberty of using my note pad and eyebrow pencil to produce a pass which will afford all-areas access to Ian Devine. Your cover will be that of an inspector from the Ministry of Food. Any questions?”

“Can I keep the pass afterwards and visit other areas of culinary interest?” asked Ian Devine.

“Any sensible questions?” reaffirmed Felicity Bobbins.

“No” I said, taking charge of the club once again.

“Then I suggest we split up now and – those of us who survive – will meet at Brent Towers in twenty four hours from now.”

“Those who survive?” gasped Ian Devine. Felicity stared at him with cold blue eyes and repeated herself.

“Those who survive.”