“You must tell the Bugle the truth” wailed Francois Devine.

“Why must I?” I asked.

“Because it will otherwise remain a vicious smear on the good name of Devine. The Devine family name is a proud one and the only smears are those caused by the careless juices of meat and pudding. For Iain Devine to be forever branded a murderer is not only a slur against me but also against my entire family, including, but not limited to, my French relations who have recently embraced me to the extent of several million pounds.”

“What if I were to let you eat my lunch?” I offered.

“Ah, in that case you must satisfy your own conscience to the best of your abilities. Mmm – two of everything. Just the way I like it.”

“In that case I shall leave you and our luncheon to visit the offices of the Bendaton Bugle.”

“You intend to tell the truth?” he gasped, unable to quite believe he had managed to get what he wanted despite being bribed with a kitchen’s worth of food.

“I intend to place an advertisement for an employee. Dennis Brent, raconteur and research icon, is dead. Long live the Dennis Brent impersonator whose name I don’t currently know. I can’t imagine not having a name will be too much of a problem though. I can always pretend I am a method actor and insist on doing my business under Mr Brent’s hallowed name.”

I left Iain Devine in the company of fourteen Pork Pipers and made my way along the high street to the offices of the Bendaton Bugle – the newspaper formed when the Bendaton Probe and the Bendaton Bugle merged and combined their names in a show of unity.

“Good luck” called a passer by. Another one pumped my hand warmly and told me I was her hero. A third asked me to kiss his baby for luck (which I did and I rather enjoyed it – the infant smiled at me and made a curiously appealing ‘goo’ noise). Someone else asked me if I would sign a photograph, a group of boys invited me to join their kick-about (which turned out not to a trap involving a patch of grass coloured felt and a bear pit this time) and I impressed them by scoring a ‘goal’ when the ball rebounded off my satchel and flew into the ‘net’ after ricocheting off my moustache. They all hugged me and told me I was welcome to join their game any time I wanted to.

Best of all, an elderly lady (a real one not a troublemaker in disguise with poison-tipped knitting needles and the low morals to jab them in a southerly way) asked if I was the Dennis Brent impersonator she’d heard so much about. I said I was and gave her a warm smile.

“Yes – you’re very good at that horrible, smug, smarmy, cold, irritating, annoying, grotesque, ugly, soulless, insincere and faintly evil smile that he used to do before he was killed. Ten out of ten” she told me. This was the closest I’d come to being abused since emerging from my underground prison and I had half a mind to make my excuses and leave.

“I am in a hurry, old woman, and if you wouldn’t mind…”

“Only I was wondering if you’d like this” she said, holding out a Bargainsave carrier bag. “It’s a little something my old husband left behind.”

I feared it was the deranged gift of a widow who thinks other people will find nostalgic comfort from one her late husband’s trusses.

“What manner of little something…?” I asked cautiously.

“He worked for the BBC in the 1960s and accidentally brought these home one night a week for six weeks.”

“What are they?” I said, perhaps a little harshly under the circumstances.

“It’s something called ‘Pater Purves’ – I don’t know any more. He just said it was valuable and he made me swear on my virginity and that of my three daughters that I would never give these to Dennis Brent.”

‘Pater Purves’?

‘PATER PURVES’?

This had to be a dream. Or better than a dream. Or, more likely, a ridiculous hoax. ‘Pater Purves’ was a six week sit com starring Peter Purves as the father of six children (all female and with ‘hilarious consequences’), made between his “Doctor Who” and “Blue Peter” careers. It was a singularly unremarkable vehicle and has been completely forgotten today owing to the lack of anything even vaguely resembling footage from the series. I decided to treat this discovery with caution – only when I had checked the contents of the cans fully would I give thought to the announcement that I had unearthed them in some dank and dirty place. I owe ‘Smasher’ for the Mormon church story so I’d better make it a good one.

I thanked the little old lady for the carrier bag and she gave me a peck on the cheek. There was a moment when I feared I had been rumbled.

“That’s a real moustache – I was expecting a false one. You aren’t actually…” but I soothed her anxieties and proved I was merely a forgery by pulling a tuft of hair from my moustache and smiling through the agonising pain.

“Very strong glue” I winced, tears trying to force their way through my resolve.

“You’re such a professional” she cooed and gave me another peck on the cheek. If anyone had cause to complain about facial hair it was me – the woman was practically David Bellamy.

“Can I help you?” asked a bored office boy when I had successfully navigated the stairs of the Bugle offices.

“I’d like to place an advertisement please.”

“Just generally or did you have something specific in mind?” he asked.

“I was thinking of something like ‘Cultured local gentleman seeks assistance from keen and willing young man – no women please – in the undertaking of general personal duties, specialist research and the preparation of documentation relating to matters of historic interest. Salary is negotiable, the terms and conditions are extremely competitive and there will be a small amount of foreign travel. Martial arts skills an advantage, willingness to die for me is essential. Apply in writing, no time wasters or h-o-m-o-s-e-x-u-a-l-s. Definitely no Arabs.”

He noted it down, counted the words and shocked me to my very core.

“That’ll be seventy four quid, sir.”