"I don’t think so. Certainly I’ve never noticed any. And no one has ever mentioned it to me. So I think, on balance, I don’t."

"What about humanity?"

"Biologically, yes. There’s little or no doubt about it. Genetically I’m as human as the next man. Well, possibly not you or anyone else from this village but find me someone not from these parts and you’ll find we have a common ancestor. But if you mean morally then I’m in a grey area you see. I don’t see anything wrong in blackmailing people for a living. It is as natural to me as making shoes is to the son of a cobbler or fashioning metal to the son of a blacksmith. Or indeed a daughter in these strange and enlightened times. My father was a blackmailer before me, his father before him and his father before him. So taking money in exchange for hiding secrets is second nature to me."

"So you won’t waive the fiver then?"

"I only wish I could. Well, I could obviously but I won’t. Let’s say I only wish I could be bothered."

"Don’t you realise I am a poor man?" I said pathetically.

"Would that we could all suffer your particular brand of abject poverty, Mr Brent. I’d go down as low as £4.75 if I believed you. Lie to me again and I’ll make it five guineas a week."

I knew when I was beaten and I wrote him another cheque. I only hope the data Doctor Flapjack undoubtedly gathered will go some significant way towards remedying my unfortunate condition. I was booked on a three-day seminar on the different rates of yellowing affecting the full spectrum of paper sources used by the BBC script department between 1957 and 1974 and being able to sit comfortable (or even at all) was essential. I don’t think my reputation would survive being thought of as a man who has to stand through seminars on paper aging. They might think me rude or at the very least frighteningly radical.

"Do you mind if I stick around for a while? This has been a most profitable morning."

Without waiting for me to give the yay or nay, the blackmail man sat back in his chair and waited for me to do something disreputable. I went back to my shelves and studied the carefully ordered books. I changed a couple round after further careful thought and yet it still didn’t make me a happy Dennis. I gave half a thought to throwing the whole lot on the floor and starting again but the blackmail man would probably read something into that and pump me for more money. I was literally in a no-win situation. At least I had one comfort – he couldn’t blackmail me about being boring company because everyone in the village already knew how true that was (i.e. not true at all).

Eventually, the silence was broken when the blackmail man’s mobile telephone let off a ghastly wail. It sounded like someone had squeezed Jon Pertwee very hard in a very sensitive place just as he was about to perform a feat of marital arts. It then digressed into something about being a lady. I’ve since looked it up and it was from some comedic programme I’ve never seen and cannot stand.

"Hello?" said the blackmail man. "Yes… really?… it certainly does… I’ll come over straight away… yes… by postal order… cash is perfectly acceptable… no I don’t… goodbye."

"Wrong number?" I said wittily.

"An urgent call. An anonymous member of the community says he can hear goat noises coming from Mr Stoddard’s cottage so I’m going to pop home for the tape recorder and race round to Bell End as soon as possible. It could be extremely lucrative. Good day to you Mr Brent."

The blackmail man showed himself out and I wasn't in the least bit sorry to see the back of him.

"Has he gone?" said Francois Devine.

"He has" I confirmed.

"Good – I hoped that telephone call would do the trick."

"You drew the blackmail man off?"

"I did" he said, giving me an old school beam. Though his face was rather bronzed – clearly hedonism suited him.

"Then I will send you a letter of thanks in the next post. Always assuming I can ever leave my drawing room. I don’t suppose you’d mind holding the fort while I nip to my bureau to pen a short letter, pop to the post office to buy a second class stamp and yomp over to the pillar box to post it?"

"I fear I must decline" he said disappointingly.

"More hedonism?" I asked.

"Better than that."

"What is better than hedonism?"

"I don’t know but I have seen footage of it on television in the evening. It looks rather intrusive. But I have put hedonism to one side for now as I have a surprise for you."

"You didn’t rummage around in the loft and happened to find the even more severe portrait of my Uncle Gaylord?" I gasped.

"Better than that" he replied.

"That doesn’t help – everything is better than the even more severe portrait of my Uncle Gaylord. Even those evening television programmes you mentioned earlier."

"I’ve solved your problem" he announced.

"Go on."

"I’ve found an inspired solution to the hole in your wall and not only is it cheap but I can arrange for it to be done immediately."

"Are you joshing, Francois Devine?" I asked warily.

"I am not – richly comic though such a joshing would be – I have really solved your problem. Allow me demonstrate."