E-Book, Englisch, 400 Seiten
Fountain The Kit Pelham mysteries - Lies and Dolls
1. Auflage 2025
ISBN: 978-1-80336-559-6
Verlag: Titan Books
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 6 - ePub Watermark
E-Book, Englisch, 400 Seiten
ISBN: 978-1-80336-559-6
Verlag: Titan Books
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 6 - ePub Watermark
Nev Fountain, born Steven John Fountain, is an English writer, best known for his work as a staff writer on Private Eye magazine, and his comedy work with writing partner Tom Jamieson on the radio and television programme Dead Ringers. Fountain and Jamieson have contributed to many radio and television comedy programmes, including Have I Got News for You, 2DTV, The News Quiz, Huddlines Loose Ends, Big Impression, Newzoids, Strictly Come Dancing and Rory Bremner - Who Else? Their most notable work, however, has been for Dead Ringers in which Fountain occasionally made cameo appearances. The pair are also responsible for the historical comedy Elephants to Catch Eels and wrote 'Txt Mssg Rcvd', a 2005 episode of the BBC Three anthology series Twisted Tales. Fountain has written several audio dramas including several stories for Dr Who.
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Weitere Infos & Material
3
“Turn off the M11 and take Junction 14, you must. Follow the road for two miles, you will, and then the A428, you will take.”
Yoda guided them into the countryside, where the Lego landscape of identical housing estates gave way to misty flat-lands. They negotiated winding roads for miles until, at last, they reached the top of a hill where the fields were a patchwork quilt below them, squares of green and brown. Nestling in the middle, like an aged labrador having a nap, was Furley House.
They continued down the hill until they could see the stately home in better detail: the huge entrance framed by Doric columns, the stone walls peppered with tall, thin windows, the roof spiked with turrets and a single flagpole rising out of the roof.
“Reached your destination, you have,” said Yoda.
A man was waiting at the entrance. He looked like he had been carved out of the same mossy limestone as the house. He wore a green tweed jacket, waistcoat, plus fours and thick socks stretching up to his knees. He had thick wavy brown hair that had been wrestled into a side parting.
This was Archibald Pendragon, the eighth Marquess of Furley. Even though he was only in his early thirties, he looked like he was preparing for acquiring the appendage ‘old buffer’. He waved cheerfully as Kit disembarked from the motorhome and strode forward to shake her hand. His palm was warm and damp, and Kit resisted the urge to recoil from his grasp.
“Terribly good to see you!” the Marquess bubbled with enthusiasm. “Kit Pelham, I presume?”
“That’s me.”
“I hope your journey wasn’t too irksome. We are a bit out of the way here.”
It was awful.
“It was fine.”
“Good, good. Now, I gather from my PR girl Melanie you want an interview. I don’t have her here today as she doesn’t do Fridays or weekends, so I’m happy to give you any access you require while you’re here. As I said in the email thingy, if you want a chat, I’d be happy to oblige.”
“Thank you, Marquess.”
“Please, call me Archie. Everybody does. Apart from the servants of course. One has to have some boundaries.”
“Thank you, Archie.”
“I say, I like your hat. Very bohemian.”
With an air of insouciance evolved from centuries of breeding, the Marquess of Furley seemed utterly unfazed by her appearance.
He’s probably used to people wearing anachronistic clothes, Kit thought. Given he’s dressed like he’s about to wave his servants off to fight the First World War.
Archie’s smile didn’t flicker when Binfire poked his shaven head out of the driver’s side of the motorhome and leapt onto the drive, heavy boots crunching on the gravel. He was holding his army kitbag on his shoulder like he was being posted to a warzone.
“Aha!” the Marquess barked with delight, glancing at a piece of paper in his hand. “And you must be Benjamin Ferry. Honoured to meet you, Mr Ferry.”
Binfire stroked his chin and put on his best Alec Guinness impression. “Benjamin Ferry? Now there’s a name I haven’t heard in a loooooong time.”
Kit explained. “No one calls him Ben Ferry anymore. Everyone calls him Binfire. For lots and lots of reasons which quickly become evident the longer you know him.”
The Marquess chuckled. “How splendid! I do love nicknames. The chaps at school used to call me Winky. Couldn’t work out why. Finally found the courage to ask after a term or two. Turns out I looked a bit like another boy who once lost his shorts during rugger.”
He directed his attention to their mode of transport. “Oh my.” He gave out an appreciative whistle. “What a van! That is impressive. Such colours!”
Binfire’s motorhome was in the classic style, like the one Walter White used as a lab to cook his meth (Breaking Bad, 2008–2013) but Binfire had ‘pimped his ride’. Every inch was covered with murals. The side facing Furley House depicted a blaster-wielding man and a space princess surrounded by stars and galaxies.
“You like it?” Binfire winked. “I tracked down the guy who paints fairground rides and got him to do it. I frokking love that style.” He pointed proudly at the figures. “You see that guy? You see his face? Half of it looks like Harrison Ford, the other half looks like Mark Hamill. It takes a special skill to achieve something that looks almost-but-not-quite like two different people at the same time.”
Archie nodded. “Yes, gypsies are so creative, aren’t they?” He clapped his hands. “Let me show you to your rooms.”
They entered the massive hallway of Furley House, then Archie took a sharp right and led them into a corridor where the way was blocked by two silver stanchions supporting a thick red rope. He unclipped one end and ushered them through.
“Shortcut,” he explained. “Saves us going the tourist route.”
He led them briskly along wood-panelled corridors, past dark oil paintings and grim suits of armour.
He gave a sideways glance at Kit. “I’m given to understand I’m in the presence of an ace detective? Reverend Bell told me you were involved in a web of mystery and intrigue in Brighton? And apparently you solved a murder?”
“Aha. Sort of.”
Binfire piped up, “Yeah, she solved it alright. I was honoured to be her loyal sidekick.”
“Well, that sounds terribly exciting.”
“Let me tell you, Marquess, man, it was frokking dynamite.”
Archie was bubbling with excitement. “What actually happened? Do tell!”
“Well, it’s a long story,” said Kit gravely. “I’m sure we’ll have time, and I’ll happily recount to you ‘The Case of The Fan Who Knew Too Much’.”
“The Fan who…?”
“I catalogue my adventures in my casebook. That’s the one I call ‘The Case of The Fan Who Knew Too Much’.”
“Goodness. And how many cases have you investigated thus far?”
“Just the one. But by cataloguing it now, it’ll be a lot less work if any more cases come up.”
Archie chuckled. “Well that puts a topper on an exciting day! I’m very excited, believe me. Not as excited as the Reverend, of course. But it’s so nice to see such enthusiasm for something in this modern age, even though it’s only a television programme. I expect you know my guilty secret.” He tapped his nose. “I’m not really a fan of Vixens of the Voids.”
Kit’s pedant monster awoke and struggled to break free, urging her to correct the Marquess and say Actually, it’s Vixens from the Void. To her own immense satisfaction, she managed to wrestle it to the ground and put it back in its box.
“No,” continued Archie. “It was more a passion of my father’s.”
They were passing by a section of corridor that was covered in framed photos and clippings, most of them in black and white, all of them featuring a fat man dressed in a kaftan, wearing John Lennon glasses and sprouting an incredible set of mutton chop whiskers. It looked like scientists had taken the DNA from a scatter cushion and spliced it with a walrus. Kit recognised who it was, of course: it was Archie’s dad, Roland Pendragon, the seventh Marquess of Furley, who had passed on three years ago.
One photo was of Roland in front of Furley House, standing by someone dressed as a giant crab. Another had Roland beaming with a young actress wearing Spandex and a cloak. Roland had snaked his arm across her shoulders and placed his hand shamelessly on her left bosom. The young actress was grinning, too, choosing not to register where his hand had parked itself.
“Father loved the show, as you can see.”
“Yes,” said Kit dryly. “I can see how much he loved it.”
“Anyway, you’ll find the museum just outside the east wing. Just walk around the house and you can’t miss it. Pre-meal drinks and canapés are there at six, proper nosh-up at seven thirty in the main hall.”
“Is Lady Tabitha at home?” asked Kit, in a way she hoped sounded like a casual question but suspected it came out like the gurgle of a hormonal teenager.
“Big sis?” Archie stroked his chin. “Oh, she’s definitely about. She wouldn’t miss it for the world. She owns one of the action figures, you know, bequeathed to her by Father. So, she’s got a stake in the enterprise, albeit a small one. She’ll definitely make an appearance at some point.”
“I’d like to interview her too, if that’s possible.”
He chuckled. “Yes, I’m sure you would. She’s quite the celebrity, I gather. She’s known as the Cosplay Countess. Though ‘Lady’ is more the correct term than ‘Countess’… Father was a bit of a showman and I think she got all those genes. Compared to the rest of my family, I’m a bit of a dull old cove.”
“So could I?”
“Could you what?”
“Interview her?”
I’m being utterly ridiculous. What’s the point of interviewing her? I already know everything about her. I know her favourite flavour is salted caramel. I know she’s allergic to citrus. I know her favourite song is ‘In the Year 2525’ by Zager and Evans. I know she likes tidy men who buff their nails…
“Well, I can’t promise anything. She is rather shy—”
“Stop ye curs! Go no further!”
He was interrupted by a shout from above. On a landing about forty feet above them was a slender woman dressed in an outrageous costume. She wore a silver tricorn hat, a big frilly white shirt over a black basque, huge flappy boots and a scrappy waistcoat. Her huge,...
