Dennis here. As you will recall, Grantham and I were struggling to get out of the underground complex when we heard approaching footsteps (which I have argued for many years could be modified to ‘feetsteps’ and be a more accurate word). I motioned for Grantham to stand in front of me (so I could keep an eye on him) and prepared to fight to the death. You could’ve knocked both myself and Grantham down with a feather when Miss Bobbins and Wicks came round the corner. Actually, you generally can knock Grantham down with a feather as he has a most amusing allergy which results in sneezing so violent that he regularly leaves his feet <g> It is, however, purely coincidental that I regularly wear my feather boa whenever Grantham comes round for a dinner party. Neither myself nor my wide circle of friends take any pleasure what so ever in Grantham’s disability. But I digress.

“Dennis Brent” blubbed Wicks, pleased to see his mentor.

“Wooooooo – Wicksy was wrongy. Flicky said there was nothing to worry abouty” said Miss Bobbins, her sing-song voice becoming ever more annoying. It was, in almost every regard, her fault we were in this mess and I wasn’t going to stand for any nonsense.

“You have to stand for nonsense with your sore anus” she added, almost as if she could read my mind.

“Leave my a-n-u-s alone” I snapped, the tube of cream from Doctor Flapjack being on my bathroom shelf, an entire universe away. “Where is Ian Devine?”

“We haven’t seen him” said Grantham.

“I know we haven’t seen him – you were with me” I said patronisingly.

“We haven’t seen him either” added Wicks, a little hurt that I had patronised Grantham. I apologised to Grantham for patronising him and added a friendly pat on the head to show how truly sorry I was.

“Then our first priority is to find Ian Devine. He may have vital information.”

“We have vital information” said Wicks.

“Later” I informed him. “It is the rules – we have to all be present before we can piece together our knowledge. I assume we each have one quarter of the plot and, when we put our three quarters together we will heroically work out the final segment. That’s how these things work and who are we to buck the sensible traditions of quality drama?”

“Well said Dennis Brent” said Wicks.

“Hear hear Dennis Brent” added Grantham.

“Woooooo – Dennis is Mr Popular”.

Suddenly, out of the darkness, an arrow flew past us an embedded itself in the wall.

“What a poor quality piece of bowmanship” I noted.

“That man needs his eyes testing” added Wicks.

“None of us are even grazed – the man must be a buffoon” agreed Grantham.

“Coooooo – there’s a note attached to the arrow” observed Miss Bobbins. She skipped (literally) over and removed it. She handed it to me as senior man and I read it aloud in my best Convention voice.

“Dear to whom it may concern” it began, “We have your colossal friend and will execute him at dawn unless you surrender yourselves to the full majesty of Bendaton Justice.” It was signed B and it sent a shiver down our spines.

We discovered later that the shiver was caused by the previously locked door being opened and a slight draft seeping through. The fate of Ian Devine was, on balance, not terribly important. We all secretly thought of him as the expendable member of the club – like Olag Gan, Katerina, Adric, K9, The Liberator and many other people who have laid down their lives for their friends. We made a silent pact to each dedicate our next book to the memory of Ian F. Devine. What more could we reasonably be expected to do?

“You could rescue him” said Miss Bobbins, again reading my mind. I was going to have words with her about that.

“My dear girl” I began, “how can we rescue Ian Devine? He’s bound to be well guarded.”

“We could dress up as serving wenches and take the guards drugged wine” she began, “and when they’re all asleep we rush in and rescue that nice Mr Devine.”

“Who? Oh you mean Ian Devine” I said, genuinely confused for a moment. “What an excellent idea – that’s the kind of sensible thinking that makes you a worthy member of…”

“Brent’s Seven” chorused the entirely team.

“Does anyone have any knockout drops?”

“Ah.”

“Um.”

“No.”

“Do we have a plan B?”

“I have a serving wench’s costume” mumbled Wicks.

“Then we shall do what we have always done – improvise” I said inspirationally.

“Hurrah!” they chorused.

With Wicks squeezed into his wench’s outfit and one of Ian Devine’s dreary technical lectures in Grantham’s hands we approached the place of execution. Wicks laid out his tray of sadly undrugged goodies and went towards the guards.

“Hello my dearies” he said in a convincing falsetto.

“Hello” said the first guard, picking up a Dairylea sandwich. The rest of the guards piled in and soon demolished the spread.

“I hope that wasn’t drugged” said the first man.

“It wasn’t” assured Wicks.

“No – a pretty little thing like you would never do anything so mean” replied the armed soldier. He pinched Wicks on the b-o-t-t-o-m and Wicks affected a girlish laugh.

“The initial edit of episode three of Four to Doomsday differed from the final version in eighty one distinct and fascinating ways” began Grantham, reading from Ian Devine’s script. Before he’d even reached reason nine, the guards nodded off. Well fed and dryly educated, the poltroons couldn’t keep their eyes open.

“Right” I said, to the bunker and the rescue of Ian Devine.

“Not so fast” said a masked man (What was it with masks in New Bendaton???)

“Who are you?” I demanded.

“I am B” he replied. He then removed his mask (Why bother wearing it in the first place???).

“Oh my dear Dennis you have been naïve” said Brian Creswell.