“Can I come in?” he chirped. “Someone is a very popular boy.”

Tiny Tom let go of my windpipe and scuttled back into his box to avoid detection. I allowed Constable Forkwitt to join me and he pushed a second cake into my cell. He surveyed the ruins of the first confection and scooped a chunk up and slopped it on his paper plate.

“I’ll enjoy this” he smiled. Once he had left me alone (as alone as one can be with two huge cakes, at least one of which contained a dangerous dwarf) I ploughed through the second cake in search of salvation.

“That is a very h-o-m-o-s-e-x-u-a-l place to put your hand” said Grantham.

“Grantham – I could kiss… shake your hand in a manly and sensible way.”

“I am here to rescue you, Dennis Brent” he explained.

“I was expecting Pasty Devine.”

“We tried that but he kept eating the cake. We’d have been here earlier but he went through Mr Wetfinger’s supplies like a locust. Wicks joked that Pasty Devine would feature in the revised version of the Bible.”

“Did you roar?”

“We roared and roared. Even Ian Devine saw the funny side. Anyway, they scraped together enough spare cake to encase me and sent me over here to rescue you.”

“I should warn you that Tiny Tom is in the other cake.”

“I have brought this” he brandished a gadget. “It’s a stun gun – Ian Devine bought it for book signings.”

“He’ll do anything to get people to attend his events” I said wittily.

“Wicks has already made that jocular remark” replied Grantham coldly.

“I shall send him my apologies.”

“Good.”

At that exact moment Tiny Tom burst out of the box and aimed himself at my neck. Grantham crept up on him after just over a minute of aggressive throttling and knocked him out with the butt of the weapon.

“Aren’t you supposed to pull the trigger to stun someone?” I asked on a matter of fascinating technical detail.

“Really?” He pressed the trigger and sent himself flying against the cell wall. He slumped, unconscious on the floor.

“Oh what a thundering nuisance” I sighed. I picked up the stun gun and waited for Constable Forkwitt to come running. He must’ve heard the commotion and, with cake on offer, he wouldn’t take long to investigate it.

I won’t implicate you in my criminal act of stunning one of Her Majesty’s police officers and will just say that I hid behind the door and stuck the weapon in his back. One soft press of the trigger and he was out like a light. I took his keys, poured a small glass of water over Grantham’s head and the two of us escaped. With remarkable forethought I added a note to Constable Forkwitt’s official pad to the effect that he had discovered that ‘Dennis Brent’ was in fact an impostor – a midget in disguise. I hoped he would fall for my cunning deception.

“He sent Tiny Tom to kill me” I explained to the group when we were safely back at Brent Towers.

“Blah blah blah, Dennis Brent” yawned Ian Devine. “How does this affect me and m’boy?”

“We are Brent’s Seven – all for one and one for all.”

“I think you’re mistaking us for four other glamorous telehistorians” joked Grantham.

“As if there are any telehistorians as glamorous as us” beamed Wicks.

“We are exceptional” grinned Ian Devine.

“I love us” said Felicity Bobbins, “even though I’m not a professional telehistorian.” She was in one of her sensible moods and was sorting through Adam Adamant telesnaps.

“I’m much too busy to worry about Tom Baker” announced Wicks, “I’m working on a fascinating article comparing the Miss World pageant with the annual Miss Firkinside contest. It’s for ‘Horny Nimon’ and will be a big hit with the readers who splash out on that issue.”

“Miss Firkinside?” I asked. I had my ear to the ground in Bendaton and had never heard of this event.

“It’s happening tomorrow, Dennis Brent” he informed me. “The most beautiful women in Shagford, Bendaton, Cymm and Nippleton gather in one place for the most sophisticated show in town.”

“Is it televised?”

“It is – every year there is a report on ‘Good Afternoon Firkinside with Tim Flimsy and Marion Frott’.”

“Good grief man – there must be production documents. How could I not be aware of this?”

“Anyone would think you don’t like scantily clad females” said Grantham wittily. We roared at the idea of anyone enjoying seeing barely clothed female bodies.

“I have a list of the entries here” said Wicks, “gathered as part of my researches.”

“That sounds sensibly thorough of you” I commended.

“It has been a most interesting assignment. I’m sure lots of people will get ‘Horny’ on a regular basis after reading this article” enthused Wicks.

“So which tragically unintelligent females are entering this ridiculous event then?”

“A bunch of senseless nobodies” scoffed Wicks. “No one of any consequ… oh my.”

“A fascinating technical detail?” I asked hopefully.

“I can’t believe it” he gasped.

“Don’t tell me you’ve found some rare production materials from an early version of the contest?”

“More amazing than that” he stammered.

“Not a brief clip of film thought lost for thirty years” we chorused.

“Look at this” and Wicks thrust the paper towards us. Sixth on the list of entrants for the Miss Firkinside Beauty Contest was someone called Tomsin Baker.

“There’s something going on here” I said determinedly “and I have every intention of finding out what it is.”