All right. I was not impressed. Perhaps I should have been, but after the tale of the television set that enabled its viewer to witness scenes of the past, the Brighton Zodiac seemed a bit of a disappointment. And, you might think, hardly something upon which to end a chapter.
But then, this is my account of the events that occurred and if I feel that that is where the chapter should end, that is where the chapter will end! And in the light of events that were soon to occur, please be assured that I know what I am talking about. After all, I was there!' 'The Brighton Zodiac,' I said. 'Well, blow me down.'
'You are singularly unimpressed,' said Mr Hugo Rune, 'but then you have yet to understand its significance.'
'Well.' I shrugged. 'I suppose I will have to take your word for it.'
Mr Rune sighed mightily. 'I am confiding in you matters,' said he, 'that I have never confided to another soul. I am doing so because in a future time, indeed, a far future time, you will write these matters down, indeed, compose them into a book that will become a bestseller.' 'Do you really think so?'
'I have no doubt of it. The past and the future are one and the same to me. I am Rune, whose name is legend. Rune who fathoms the unfathomable. Rune who makes the impossible a strong probability. Rune-'
'I hate to interrupt,' I said, 'but about this Brighton Zodiac-' 'Ah yes. The key to it all. Allow me to explain.' 'Please do.'
'Back in the nineteen twenties, there existed a notable lady by the name of Kathleen Maltwood. She was a native of Glastonbury and also a visionary. She had the gift of overview: she could see beyond the everyday, glimpse the bigger picture – a gift that I possess to overabundance. It was her conviction that imprinted upon the landscape about Glastonbury was a great zodiac, formed from the rivers and hills, the roads and the natural features. She studied aerial photographs of the area and she joined the dots, so to speak. She discovered the Glastonbury Zodiac.*
'Ten years ago, another lady, one Mary Caine, put forward her belief that if the Glastonbury Zodiac existed, then so too should the Kingston Zodiac, surrounding the area where the ancient Celtic kings were crowned. She studied the Ordnance Survey maps of the surrounding territories and she, too, found her zodiac*
'I am Hugo Rune,' said Mr Rune, 'and so it was inevitable that I, too, would find my zodiac'
'But what does your zodiac have to do with the Chronovision?'
'Good question,' said Mr Rune, and he savoured more port and stared through the window to where Brighton was going about its business. 'Go on, then,' I said. 'Tell me.' 'Shan't,' said Mr Rune. 'Not right now anyway, for I have told you enough. More than enough.' 'There is one other thing,' I said. * And she did – look her up on the Internet. * And yes, she did, too. Look her up as well.
Mr Rune yawned and blew upon his fingernails. They had recently been manicured at a local beauty boutique. I had seen the unpaid bill upon his desk. 'Hand job Ј10' it said. Quite expensive, for a manicure.
'About the Chronovision,' I said. 'Do you even know in which part of the world it might be at present?' 'Of course I do.' 'Would you care to enlighten me?'
'Young man,' said Mr Rune, 'enlightenment is my middle name. From the Vatican vaults I tracked its journey across Europe. It is presently here, right here in Brighton.'
'If you know this much, then why not seek it out straight away? All this piecing things together through a series of cases seems somewhat long-winded and overly circuitous.'
'You have no understanding of the situation. The felons who brought the Chronovision to Brighton are dead. They died in a freak accident involving concrete and deep water. But I shall have it. I shall have it before-' 'Before what?' I queried. 'Before he can lay his evil hands upon it.' 'Now who would this he be?' I queried further.
'My archenemy. Holmes had his Moriarty and I have him. He is probably the most evil man who has ever lived and were he to gain control of the Chronovision, then-'
'Yes,' I said. 'Doom and gloom and the end of Mankind as we know it.'
'And things of that nature generally.' Mr Rune had somehow finished the bottle of port now, without giving me a second glass. 'He is the most evil man who has ever lived. His name is Count Otto Black.'
The sun went in behind a cloud and a dog howled in the distance. 'The Hound of the Hangletons,' I declared. 'Buffoon,' said Mr Rune.
'All right, all right.' I rose from my chair and sought out the case of lager that I had secreted behind the sofa. 'Just let me get all this straight in my mind. A Benedictine monk invents a kind of television set that can tune into events in the past. He demonstrates it to the Pope. The Pope panics and has it locked away in the Vatican vaults. It is stolen. You track the thieves to Brighton, but they die in mysterious circumstances involving concrete and water and the present whereabouts of the Chronovision is unknown. But you are certain that it is still in Brighton and that through solving certain cases connected with the figures of a zodiac that you have discovered, you will be able to locate the Chronovision and destroy it before your archenemy, Count Otto Black, aka The Most Evil Man Who Ever Lived, gets his claws upon it and brings about the overthrow of Mankind.'
'As near as makes no odds,' said Mr Rune. 'Toss me over one of those cans of lager, if you will.' 'I will not,' I said. 'I am taking them with me.' 'Where to?' 'Anywhere but here,' I said. 'To use the popular parlance of the day, you are doing my head in, Mister Rune.' 'And so you are thinking to depart?' 'I am not thinking about it, I am doing it.' 'And our contract?'
'Sue me,' I said. 'You never know, I might turn out to be the son of a noble household. Perhaps even a prince or something.'
'Mostly likely a something: said Mr Rune. 'But if that is your decision, then do what you must. I will be here when you return, in-' he drew out his golden pocket watch and perused its face '-precisely three hours.' 'I will not be back,' I said. 'You will,' said Mr Rune. 'Will not,' said I. 'All right,' said Mr Rune, 'I'll make a deal with you. If you do come back-' 'Which I will not,' I said.
'But if you do, then you must swear to assist me throughout all the cases that I have to solve in order to retrieve the Chronovision.'
'Oh yes?' I said. 'Then I will tell you this: if I do come back here, I promise, on my life, that I will do so.'
'Then it's a deal,' said Mr Rune. 'You will return and the case of the Hound of the Hangletons will be solved. All in three hours.'
'I will not be back,' I said, and went off to pack what few belongings I possessed into a pillowcase. 'I really will not,' I repeated as I rejoined Mr Rune. 'Not me,' I said as I made for the door.
'This is the last you will see of me,' I concluded, as I left the premises.
'Oh, and thank you once again for saving my life,' I added, popping back briefly, as it would have been most churlish not to do so.
'In precisely three hours,' said Mr Rune. But I did not hear him say it. And then he located an unopened bottle of twelve-year-old single malt, but I did not see him do that, either. I shouldered my pillowcase and pondered my options. I could head straight to the police station and do what I should have done three weeks before – report that I had lost my memory and find out if anyone had reported me missing.
Or I could have a beer or two in the alehouse next door to forty-nine Grand Parade, where I knew that Mr Rune still maintained an active open account with Fangio the barlord. Something to do with Freemasonry, I was given to understand. 'Beer first,' said I. 'And then the police station.'
The alehouse was named The Rack and Pinion. It was an automotive theme bar most pleasantly furnished with bench seats from Ford Zodiacs, which in itself had a certain charm, considering the con venation that I had just had with Mr Rune.
Within, Fangio the barlord, clad in his distinctive mechanic's overalls, always offered a cheery welcome, good beer at a fair price and was ever prepared to talk some toot and make free with the complimentary peanuts. I pushed open the door of The Rack and Pinion and entered the bar. Then I retraced my steps and looked up once more at the sign. The Rack and Pinion, it read. And then The Bucket of Bacon. I blinked, scratched at my head and re-entered the bar.
Fangio stood behind the jump, but at my approach he offered no cheery welcome.
'Good afternoon, Fange,' I said to him. 'No cheery welcome today?' 'Look at me,' said the barlord. 'Tell me what you see.' 'You have dyed your eyelashes,' I said. 'Very fetching.'
'Not that,' said Fangio. 'That is another matter altogether. I woke up this morning to discover that I have become a gay icon.' 'What is a gay acorn?' I asked.
'Icon: said Fangio. 'And that's another thing – these new false teeth are playing havoc with my diction.' He opened wide his mouth and I stared into it.
'I think you were supposed to take your old set out before you put your new set in,' I remarked.
'Ah,' said Fangio, pulling his new set from his mouth and hurling them the length of the bar. 'That's better,' he decided. 'So,' I said. 'Gay icon, is it?'
'Yes,' said Fangio, 'but that's not so bad. Now I can play my Judy Garland records really loud and if anyone complains I can accuse them of sexual discrimination.' 'Sounds like a dream come true,' I said.
'It is,' said Fangio. 'And some of my new-found friends and I are going down to the prom tonight, "straight-bashing".'
'The nineteen sixties are a great time to be alive,' I said. 'So why no cheery welcome?'
'I trust you saw the pub sign. I noticed you doing the old double-take.' 'The pub sign keeps changing,' I said. 'It's digital,' Fangio explained.
'Then all becomes clear. A pint of Old Brake Fluid, please.' 'We don't serve Old Brake Fluid any more.' 'I am appalled to hear it. A pint of Castrol GTX, then.' 'Nor that.' 'All right, I'll take a pint of Benzole Super.' 'Oh no you won't.' 'But then, you never did serve Benzole Super.'
'It was worth a try, though. Do you want to keep going or would you prefer to give up now and simply ask me what beers I presently have on tap?'
'That seems somewhat premature. I am certain that I could come up with some more really imaginative names for imaginary beers.' 'Not on the evidence so tar.' 'So what beers are you presently serving?' 'We don't serve beer,' said Fangio. 'This is a wine bar.' 'Oh,' I said. 'Since when?'
'Since-' Fangio raised his wristwatch to his blue-fringed eyes. '-Ah,' he said, 'half-past, we're now a pub again. Care for a beer?' 'I do not think I quite understand,' I said.
'It's a kind of alcoholic drink,' said Fangio. 'Brewed from hops.'
'I understand beer,' I said and I leaned my elbows upon the bar counter. 'What I do not understand is-' 'Off the bar, please, sir, health-and-safety regulations.' 'Are you feeling yourself, Fange?'
'How dare you! Are you having a go at me because I'm a gay icon?' 'No,' I said. 'I am not.' 'And are you gay?' 'No, I am not.'
'Then you'll have to leave the bar in half an hour. I'd get a beer in now, while you can, if I were you.'
'If you were me,' I said, 'you would punch you right in the race.' 'Look,' said Fangio, 'allow me to explain. You saw the pub sign, didn't you?' 'I did,' I said. 'Well, it's broken.' 'I assumed that.' 'It's not working properly and it's changing every half-hour. It's only supposed to change once a day.' 'Why?' I asked.
'The brewery's idea. It has long been a tradition in Brighton that if there's a really nice pub, where people feel comfortable, and the beer is good, and the management personable and friendly, and it's making a profit and everything, that the brewery will close it down, sack the management, rip out the fixtures and fittings and dump the good beer in favour of something called "Alcopop". Then they refurbish the place in "Brighton chic", which is basically aluminium with really uncomfortable high stools, put some Australian women behind the bar, employ the services of a teenage DJ to play really dreadful music at an intolerable volume, change the name to confuse cab drivers and-' 'Stop!' I cried. 'Please stop!' 'Exactly,' said Fange. 'Dreadful, isn't it?'
'Dreadful?' I said. 'I am a teenager, Fange – it sounds great to me.' Fangio fluttered his eyelashes. 'If that is meant to look fierce,' I said, 'it is not working.' 'Yes, well.' Fangio stamped his feet. 'Are you wearing high heels?' I asked, and I leaned forward over the bar counter. 'The brewery,' said Fange. 'About that beer,' I said. 'A pint of Esso Extra, please,' 'Coming right up, sir.' Fangio did the business. 'And put it on Mister Rune's account.' 'In your dreams, you hetro-fascist!' 'What did you call me?'
'Nothing, sir. I regret, however, that Mister Rune left explicit instructions. He said that he expected that you would come in here this afternoon, most probably carrying a stuffed pillowcase, hoping to gain free drinks on his account. He said that I was to politely refuse you. Then on second thoughts he said that I was free to insult you as much as I liked.' 'Very fair of him,' I said. 'Very democratic' 'That's what we fought the war for,' said Fangio. 'That and the silk stockings, of course. Not to mention the powdered egg.' 'The powdered egg?' I queried.
'I told you not to mention that. Kindly get out of my bar.'
I fished what little money I had from my pocket and placed it upon the counter. 'Just give me the beer,' I said, and Fangio did so.
'So,' he said, 'before I was so rudely interrupted, I was telling you about the brewery and how they like to desecrate decent alehouses. Well, generally their new-style bars last about six months, then go bust. The brewery then refurbishes them again in their original style, they turn a profit again, so the brewery refurbishes them new-style again and-' 'I am beginning to see a pattern emerging,' I said.
'It happens about once every six months on average in Brighton. So this brewery, the one that owns this pub-' Fangio looked once more at his wristwatch '-The Muff-Diver's Helmet, has decided that it would be more profitable all the way round simply to change the name of the pub and the theme on a daily basis. Get the best of both worlds and all those in between.'
'Things are always so simple once they are explained,' I said. 'What exactly are you doing?' 'Getting into my muff-diver's helmet.'
'Very nice, too. I like the way the flaps come down over your ears.'
'If you want another pint of Esso, order it now,' said Fangio. 'I'll waive the rules on this occasion. Normally you'd only be allowed to drink cocktails during this half-hour. They all have very suggestive names, full of sexual innuendo. I believe they paid Frankie Howerd a king's ransom to come up with them.'
'What I would not give to be rich and famous,' I said, sipping at my Esso when it came and taking joy in the sipping thereof.
'But I thought that was why you'd joined up with Mister Rune.' 'Excuse me?' I said. 'Why, what have you done?' 'I mean, what do you mean by that remark?'
'Well, according to Mister Rune, you are his amanuensis, his Boswell, you are writing up his exploits into what will become an international bestseller.' 'He told you that, did he?' 'He did. And that you'd put me into your book.' 'That I cannot see happening,' I said.
'Well, that's what he said. I make my first appearance on page thirty-nine, and I do something really helpful in Chapter Eight, apparently.'
I shrugged and settled myself on to a bar-side stool. 'That was a decent bit of toot we just talked there,' I said.
'Always a pleasure,' said Fangio. 'So you're taking your leave of Mister Rune, then, are you?'
'The man is mad,' I said. 'You would not believe all the things he has told me. Ludicrous stuff. And the people he says he has met. The Pope. Oscar Wilde. H. G. Wells.'
'He once lent me a copy of The Time Machine, a first edition with a handwritten dedication in the flyleaf: "To Hugo for his inspiration", signed "Herbert"!' 'A forgery,' I said. 'That's not what the expert at Christie's said when I put it up for auction in their rare-books sale.' 'You did what?
'I told Mister Rune that I'd lost it. But I was only trying to cover my expenses. We may both be Freemasons, but that man is drinking my pub dry, and all on his "account".' I laughed at this and shook my head.
'Clever, that,' said Fangio, 'laughing and shaking your head at the same time. I can't do that. But I can do this' Fangio did this.
I stared in horror. 'Please do not ever do this again in my presence,' I said, taking out my bullet-scorched hankie and mopping my brow with it. 'What, this!' said Fangio. 'No, not that. This.'
'Sorry,' said Fangio. 'It's the way these flaps come down over my ears.'
A customer called out for service and Fangio tottered along the bar to serve him (or her – I could not be altogether certain which). 'Excuse me, mister.'
I turned at this to observe an unsavoury-looking character looking up at me and tugging in an urgent way upon my trouser leg. 'Please do not do that,' I told him.
'But mister,' said this ill-clad ne'er-do-well, a roguish tramp by the look of him, and one in sore need of a laundering at that, 'I heard the name of Hugo Rune being mentioned – do I take it that you are his associate?' 'Ex-associate,' I said. 'Please leave my trouser leg alone.'
'Oh, it's your trouser leg, is it? I had a pair of trousers just like those once – I thought for a minute they were mine.' 'Kindly go about your business,' I said. 'But about Mister Rune,' the wretch persisted. 'I no longer work for Mister Rune. Not that I ever did, really.'
'I've got the dog,' said the shabby, down-at-heel, veritable scumbag of an individual. 'And just because I've fallen upon hard times, there's no reason for you to have a go at me.' 'I was not,' I said.
'No, but you were thinking it,' said the low-life, no-mark, dirt-poor-excuse-for-a-human-being. 'There – you're doing it again.' 'I was not.'
'You were.' The filthy degenerate shook an ill-washed fist. 'All right, I was. Now, please go away. No, hold on a moment, what dog do you have?' 'The dog,' said the- The fellow paused. And I paused also.
'Thank you,' he said. 'The dog. The one that Mister Rune had me pinch from that house in Hangleton, which I was to deliver to him at his rooms this afternoon to impress some fellow called Rizla. Are you associated with this Rizla, by any chance?'
I all but fell off my bar-side stool. It was only through the exercise of supreme self-control – and having no wish to end up lying flat on my back – that prevented me from doing so.
'Are you telling me,' I said, 'that Mister Rune paid you to steal a dog from a house in Hangleton?'
'Well, he hasn't paid me yet. I came here because I forgot what number he lives at. What number is it, then, do you know?'
If I could have seen my own face at that moment, I feel certain that it must have been wearing a very broad smile indeed.
'What are you frowning at, mister?' asked the… erm… fellow. 'I am grinning,' I said, 'broadly.'
'Well, that's young folk for you. I can't tell the boys from the girls nowadays.'
'You really should try,' I suggested, 'or you might get yourself into all kinds of trouble.'
'More drinks, ladies?' asked Fangio, tottering back in our direction.
'Same again for me, and whatever my new-found friend here is having.'
'I'll have a pint of Diesel, please,' said my new-found friend. 'My name's Hubert, by the way.' 'Is that hyphenated?' Fangio asked.
'No, it's Welsh. It means "he who walks quietly to the cowshed and knows where the shears are kept".' 'Cow-shears?' I asked.
'It's one of the reasons why I left Wales,' Hubert explained.
'Put these drinks on Mister Rune's account,' I told Fangio. The barlord shook his helmeted head. 'Or I will pass on to Mister Rune that matter of the first edition that was recently sold at Christie's.' 'Coming right up, then,' said Fangio. 'And have one yourself.'
'That's most generous, sir. I'll just have a glass of the vintage champagne that Mister Rune suggested I order in, in case of a special occasion.' 'Knock yourself out,' I said. 'Is that compulsory?' 'No, it is just a turn of phrase.'
Fangio served up our drinks and repaired to the wine cellar, smiling as he went. 'What was he frowning about?' asked Hubert.
'Never mind,' I told him. 'Drink up and enjoy the moment.' The moment passed. And so did further moments.
These further moments passed to the accompaniment of drinking.
These moments became minutes and these, in turn, became hours.
'I'm really rather drunk now,' said Hubert. 'How about you?' 'I am very drunk,' I said. 'But happy.'
'That's often the way with drinking.' Hubert slid his beer glass up and down the counter, thereby bringing grief to Fangio who was a barlord who liked his counter clean. For health-and-safety reasons, obviously. 'If I tell you a secret,' said Hubert, 'will you promise to keep it a secret?' 'Will it still be a secret if you tell it to me?' I asked.
Hubert scratched at his head, raising small clouds of purple dust. 'Don't confuse him,' said Fangio. 'I like secrets.'
'This is a really scary one,' said Hubert, 'and all the more so because it is true.'
'Go on, then,' I said. 'I promise that whatever you tell me, I will not confide the details to another soul.'
'Nor me,' said Fangio. 'Unless the mood takes me, of course.'
'Right, then,' said Hubert. And he drew us closer to him. 'It's about rock stars and why they always die aged twenty-seven.' 'Do they?' asked Fangio.
'They do,' said Hubert. 'Johnny Kidd, out of Johnny Kidd and the Pirates, died aged twenty-seven. Brian Jones of the Rolling Stones. Jimi Hendrix, Janis Joplin, Jim Morrison, Gram Parsons from the Byrds, Pigpen out of the Grateful Dead. And Kurt Cobain, who hasn't been born yet, so we'll leave him out.'
'Hold on,' I said. 'Jones and Jimi, Janis and Jim, and Johnny, of course – they all died at twenty-seven?* Is this true?'
Fangio was counting on his ringers. 'It is,' he said. 'How odd.' 'Not odd,' said Hubert. 'Just the work of the Devil.'
'That's a bit strong,' said Fangio. 'I know that they call rock 'n' roll the Devil's music, but-'
'Listen,' said Hubert, 'I checked it out. I wanted to see where it all began, where it could be traced back to. And I have-' 'Go on,' said Fangio. 'Let me say something,' I said. 'Go on,' said Fangio. 'Go on,' I said. 'Eh?' said Fangio. * And it all is – you can check it out for yourself. * They really did. 'That is all I wanted to say.'
'Robert Johnson,' said Hubert, 'blues musician – ever heard of him?'
'Actually, I have,' I said. 'He wrote "Cross Road Blues" and "Me and the Devil Blues" and "Hell Hound On My Trail" and "Love In Vain" – the Rolling Stones recorded that one. Just about every rock musician today pays homage to Robert Johnson. They say that he started the whole thing, put it all together – the notes, the chord progressions, the lot.'
Hubert nodded. 'You're absolutely right. So let me tell you this. The story goes that Robert Johnson wasn't much of a guitarist, but he wanted to be the best, to be remembered. So he went down to the crossroads at midnight with a black-cat bone and sold his soul to the Devil. The Devil tuned Robert Johnson's guitar-'
'I remember reading this somewhere,' I said. 'From then on he always played with his back to the audience. Folk who looked at him from the stage side of the curtain swear that he had six fingers on his left hand.'
Hubert nodded. 'When Keith Richards first heard Robert Johnson's recordings – and he only recorded twenty-nine songs, all in a hotel room, with his back to the recorder – Keith Richards said, "Who's the other guitarist playing with Johnson?" because one man alone simply couldn't play all those notes at the same time.' 'Spooky stuff,' said Fangio. 'There's more,' said Hubert. 'Go on,' said Fangio. 'I was going to say that,' I said.
'Robert Johnson met with an untimely death,' said Hubert. 'Murdered by a jealous husband, they say. Or perhaps the Devil claimed his own. Perhaps he always claims his own.' 'How old was Robert Johnson when he died?' I asked. 'Twenty-seven,' said Hubert. 'Thank God for that,' said Fangio. 'Thank God for what?' I said.
'Thank God it's five o'clock,' said Fangio. 'I can take off this muff-diver's helmet now.'
'And I have to get off,' said Hubert. 'I have this enormous Russian spaniel outside in my van that has to be delivered to Mister Rune.'
'Ah, yes,' I said, 'the Russian spaniel. I am really going to enjoy the Russian spaniel.' 'That's Thursdays,' said Fangio. 'Thursdays?' I said. 'Bestiality Theme Night.'
'We are off,' I said to Fangio. 'I doubt whether our paths will cross again. It has been a pleasure to know you.'
'Don't forget to mention me in Chapter Eight,' said the barlord. 'And don't forget your pillowcase.' I did not forget my pillowcase. I followed Hubert around to the rear of forty-nine Grand Parade, where he had parked his van. And here I maintained something of a low profile, for there were several parked police cars to be seen and a lot of that yellow 'POLICE – DO NOT CROSS' tape draped all around a taxicab that had apparently crashed into the dustbins. 'Wait here and I'll get the dog,' said Hubert. And he did so. It really was a very large dog, for a spaniel.
'It's grown a bit since I put it in the van,' said Hubert, struggling to drag it along. 'It's almost the size of a Shetland pony now. I wonder how big these things grow. I heard this story about a pig in Henfield once. It seems that-' 'Follow me,' I said, and I grinned as I said it. I turned the handle and then kicked open the door. Mr Rune looked up from his doings, which were playing 'Love in Vain' upon his reinvented ocarina.
'My dear Rizla,' he said, 'you have returned.' And he took out his gold pocket watch. 'And right on time to the very minute, as I predicted.' 'You charlatan!' I cried. 'I have found you out.' 'Indeed?' said Mr Rune. 'Indeed?' 'I have the Hound of the Hangletons with me.' 'Then the case is solved, as I also predicted.'
'There never was a case. This fellow here-' I encouraged Hubert into the room. 'This fellow here-' Hubert struggled to ease himself past the Russian spaniel '-stole the dog at your behest. You scoundrel. You fraud.' 'Scoundrel and fraud,' said Mr Rune. 'Harsh words.' 'And too good for you.' 'You're piddled again,' said Mr Rune.
'I am,' I said, 'and proud of the fact, for I have done it at your expense.'
'I knew that Fangio would sell my signed first edition,' said Mr Rune. 'I trust that you enjoyed the champagne that I had him lay down for a special occasion.' 'Actually, I did. He shared it with me.'
'Splendid,' said Mr Rune. 'You can return the hound now, Hubert. Oh – and take this.' Mr Rune rose and handed Hubert an envelope. 'What is that?' I asked.
'My bill,' said Mr Rune, 'for the Orions, for the recovery of their dog. Make sure you get the money in cash, Hubert; don't accept a cheque.' 'But you had Hubert steal the dog in the first place,' I said.
'I was not employed by the Orions to catch the thief, only to recover the dog for them. That has been done, and I am therefore entitled to my fee. I see no flaw in this reasoning, do you?' 'I…' I said. 'I…'
'And you have returned, as I predicted, within three hours to the very minute. And so you must honour the oath you swore upon leaving, that should you return to these rooms you would remain in my employ until all the cases are solved. You promised on your life, did you not?' 'Yes,' I said. 'Well, yes, but-'
'But me no buts,' said Mr Rune. 'Everything has gone exactly as I planned it. Let us now go together to The Pillow Biter's Elbow, as I believe it to be called at this time of the day, and celebrate our success: a found hound, a fat fee and a partnership that will lead one day to you making a fortune when you publish the book of our exploits. I'd end this chapter here, if I were you.' And so I did.
The Curious Case of " the Centenary Centaur The Centenary Centaur