1pm

With great reluctance I took a deep breath and opened the door of Mr Wetfinger’s celebrated pie emporium. The man in front of me was asking if he could have "Íñigo Alonso de Montoya y Pérez de las Altas Cumbres" iced on top of a birthday cake and Mr Wetfinger was patiently explaining that there were two problems – firstly that the name was so long that some sort of bespoke, ad hoc or freakishly mutated cake would be required and that might take longer than half an hour, and secondly that he didn’t sell cakes because he was a pie man. The customer said he would seek the counsel of Greggs and left. Splendid – I do so hate waiting in queues and lines and identity parades.

"Ah Mr Brent. Nice to see you, sir" said Mr Wetfinger, the most perceptive and charming shopkeeper in all of Bendaton. Well, Lower Bendaton at any rate.

"Good day, Mr Wetfinger" I replied.

"What can I do for you, Mr Brent? Are you here on personal business or for… Mister Devine?" He savoured the last two words and patted a small statue which I initially believed was Buddha but turned out to be an artist’s rendering of a cross-legged Ian Devine.

"I am here to buy Ian Devine’s lunch" I announced. Mr Wetfinger pressed a button on the counter and two jets fired gold and silver glitter into the air. A cassette tape of upbeat brass band music played and Iandevina Wetfinger (Mr Wetfinger’s only daughter) shouted something about getting a "Play Station 3".

"God bless you, Mr Brent" said Mr Wetfinger, patting my hand and wiping a tear from his eye. He didn’t seem to care that all the pies on display were now covered with glitter. If I had entered at this point I would think this was a very h-o-m-o-s-e-x-u-a-l pie shop.

"It looks like something from the Eurovision Song Festival" I said, adding a charismatic smile to show that I was being amusing and not actually showing a liking for that particular annual abomination.

"Whatever" snapped Mr Wetfinger, "tell me what Mr Devine wants for his luncheon. Pies don’t box themselves you know."

"Ian Devine?"

"Yes."

"His lunch?"

"Yes."

I was playing for time. I could claim later that it was "comic timing" but I was actually fearful of playing Bignell’s joke. The steel in Mr Wetfinger’s eyes when he snapped at me was rather terrifying. As if he could snap at any moment and do something to me with a pie scoop that would make even a football supporter blush.

"Ian Devine asked me to tell you that he wants…"

"Yes?"

"He would really rather like…"

"Yes?"

"He just wants a green salad."

"Ak" he gasped and he fell behind the counter. I roared as Mr Wetfinger was obviously in on the joke. Bignell had double japed me and I had to give him his due – it was a very well planned pleasantry.

I laughed for five or six minutes before Mrs Wetfinger came down to see what the noise was. I had been banging the counter in my mirth and had set off a couple more bursts of glitter. Tears streamed down my face and I could see Bignell and Ian Devine rolling around on the pavement outside. To make the joke even funnier Bignell had rolled over a discarded ice cream and had probably done irreparable damage to his cardigan. Mrs Wetfinger bent over her comedic husband and for some reason didn’t join our laughter.

"He’s dead" she announced when she popped up again. I stopped laughing instantly. Or nearly instantly. Certainly within thirty seconds. My sides ached and my moustache was still quivering when I questioned her.

"Dead?"

"Dead. What have you done to my husband?"

"All I did was order Ian Devine’s lunch" I told her and an involuntary chuckle popped out. She looked ashen faced so I resolved to keep a firm grip on my mirth from now on.

"But he lives for Mr Devine’s lunch order. It’s the highlight of his day. He goes into a Brown study if Mr Devine goes elsewhere for his luncheon."

"All I said was that Ian Devine would like a simple green salad for lunch and Mr Wetfinger said…"

"Ak" croaked Mrs Wetfinger.

"Exactly and then he collapsed. I assumed it was a piece of physical humour and roared before you came… Mrs Wetfinger?" She had fallen behind the counter. Enough was enough – I walked round and saw her lying indelicately over her husband. "Mrs Wetfinger?" No reply was forthcoming. "I would like to buy a pie" I called in the hope that it could pull them back from the brink of death.

Iandevina Wetfinger bounced down the stairs to ask if Ian Devine’s order had been big enough to fund a b-r-e-a-s-t enlargement operation. She saw her parents lying on the floor.

"Are they at it again? I’ve like told them it’s well gross for them to be doing it in the shop but they’re all like ‘the smell of pastry gets me going’ and ‘I make so much money that it gives me the horn’ and I’m like ‘euwww – well too much information’ and like ‘so get a room or something’ and…"

"I must be going" I said, her syntax had frightened me more than the two deaths I had witnessed and I felt the need to go home, lie low and possible enquire later on if anyone had summoned the emergency services once I had established an alibi.

"Haven’t they packed Mr Devine’s order for you? That’s like not good pie shop service or something. What did he ask for?"

"It’s no bother – he only wanted a green salad…" I rushed for the door but heard an unmistakable "Ak" before all the sounds of the pie shop could be masked by the door’s opening and closing bell.

"That was deeply funny" said Bignell.

"They’re dead" I replied.

"Who is?" asked Ian Devine.

"Mr Wetfinger, Mrs Wetfinger and Iandevina Wetfinger."

"Dead?"

"I think so. They died of shock when I repeated YOUR joke" I told Bignell accusingly.

"Dead" repeated Ian Devine. "Dennis Brent – are you telling me that you’ve killed my pie man?"

"Yes" I said.

"Ak" cried Ian Devine and he fell to the ground. It was turning into a massacre. I had apparently killed five people in just under ten minutes. Rather satisfyingly the fifth was Bignell, crushed under the weight of Ian Devine so it wasn't a completely wasted trip.