“Mumsie, the lies and deceit have gone on long enough,” the voice of Snetterton was hot and husky in her ear. “The truth will set us free, my darling.”
“The only thing I want setting free is the catch on this bloody bra,” Mumsie replied, struggling in a most ungainly manner with the stubborn fastening that was the last remaining bastion of decency between Snetterton and her magnificent bosom.
The large pine pantry table was playing host to what appeared to be an x-rated tea party; a discarded plate of cheese and herb scones upturned and scattered among the writhing, wrinkly limbs of the King’s butler and the Prime Minister’s mother. Mumsie certainly hadn’t intended to find herself in such a flagrant position when the amorous manservant first arrived in her kitchen. She had envisioned perhaps a cheeky snog whilst the scones cooled and the kettle boiled, returning to her duties once Snetterton had been sated by the small snack. But the butler could be wondrously charming when he had a mind to be and he had soon convinced her to join him at the table for tea and scones.
Things became a little hazy after that. Mumsie could not recall the sequence of events that led to her becoming reposed beneath Snetterton, who was wearing what appeared to be a pink catsuit that needed a bloody good iron. Before she knew it, all her clothes were on the floor and they were both singing ‘Hey, Mr Tamborine Man’ and wrestling with the industrial strength clasp on her sturdy brassiere. It was indeed puzzling, but her fuzzy head and giggly disposition convinced her that it was probably alright. Besides, dinner was already in the oven and she had some time to kill.
Just as Mumsie was beginning to suspect that Snetterton was not, in fact, clad in a crumpled catsuit after all, a sudden gunshot rang out across the pantry and a cascade of dust and plaster bestrewed itself from the ceiling and onto the dazed lovers beneath. Snetterton leapt up, grasping at a good sized side plate to preserve his modesty as he did so.
“Sorry about that,”
Wing Commander Tom stood apologetically brandishing his weapon, Chancellor of the Exchequer Ian Risk at his side.
“Christ, they’re at it again…” murmered Ian, covering his eyes.
“That’s the second hole you’ve put in my ceiling,” huffed Mumsie. “I don’t see why you have to fire your gun every time you come in here.”
“I wouldn’t have to, ma’am, if you two weren’t… carousing… every time I visit the pantry,” replied Tom, curtly. “It’s what you do when horses are at it. Someone told me.”
“Why is it that no one around here can keep their clothes on for more than five minutes?” said Ian, attempting to sound stern, but only managing disconcerted.
“I blame the scones,” muttered Mumsie, attempting to cover herself with a nearby tea towel. “I’ve never made savoury ones before. It must be either the herbs or the cheese.”
“Herbs..?” Ian was suddenly concerned.
“Yes, I found two huge packets of herbs stuffed at the back of one of the cupboards,” Mumsie explained. “I thought I’d better use them, they smell lovely.”
Ian felt his mouth dry and his throat tighten. They weren’t herbs. They were his stash, secreted about his person and stolen from the Botanical Gardens. He eyed the dishevelled remains of the as-yet-to-be consumed scones and made a mental note to dispose of them before anyone else could get at them.
“Never mind about that now,” said Tom. “Snetterton, you must get dressed at once. I have some urgent questions to put to you about the murder of Tony Blair.”
Meanwhile, in the Prime Minister’s bedroom, the general theme of nudity continued with aplomb through Boris, King of Oxford and his duster-selling sidekick Nigel Farage. To be fair, they were only half naked. Unfortunately, it was the bottom half. Lucy and her Minister for Good Ideas & Gin Dr Samantha Martens had successfully negotiated terms to keep their clothes on, although in order to achieve this, Dr Martens had capitulated to allowing Nigel a squeeze of her bum.
Dr Martens, the Prime Minister and King Boris were now perched on the edge of the bed, watching with grimaced faces as Nigel cavorted and gesticulated before them, waving his arms and bulging his eyes with encouragement.
“Okay, so it’s a film…” said Dr Martens for the third time. “Four words. Second word… cowboy?”
Nigel shook his head furiously and jiggled about in a most upsetting fashion. Lucy and Dr Martens were forced to avert their gaze, but Boris very much seemed to be enjoying the spectacle.
“Is it – The Lone Ranger?” Boris guessed with great enthusiasm.
“That’s only three words,” Lucy pointed out.
“The Lone Ranger Two?”
The door to the bedroom flew open and Cabinet Secretary Sir Edd Evans-Morley bowled through, immediately wishing he hadn’t once he surveyed the scene before him.
“Prime Minister!” he announced, his clipped tones rich with malice.
“Sssh, Eddie,” snapped Boris, waving him into silence. “Is it – The Magnificent Seven…” he counted on his fingers. “…Two?”
“Prime Minister…” Sir Edd tried again.
“The first word is definitely ‘The’, though?” asked Lucy, ignoring him completely. This was met by ferocious nodding from Nigel. Unfortunately, other appendages bounced in unity also.
“Bugger it, I give up,” sighed Boris, throwing his podgy hands into the air in exasperation.
“It’s ‘The Guns Of Navarone’!” exclaimed Nigel, practically on the point of explosion. “Bloody hell.”
“Prime Minister, what I have to say really is most important.”
“What is it, Sir Edd?” snapped Lucy.
“Prime Minister you must come at once to the kitchen. Snetterton has confessed to to the murder of Tony Blair.”
**NEXT TIME – THE KILLER IS REVEALED!!**